The Conversion Bureau: One Pony's Terrorist

Chapters

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
Chapter 5

Chapter 1

Lord hear me now
Junk boats and English boys
Crashing out in super marts
Electric fences and guns

Jack Beckett drove his old Jeep through the southern Indian streets, taking his time as the music played through the speakers. It was an unusually hot day out, bright and sunny enough to make him hate it.

You swallow me
I'm a pill on your tongue
Up here on the nineteenth floor
The neon lights make me come

He checked his phone one more time, making sure he had the time and date of the message right. He knew it was, it just never hurt to double—or in his case, quadruple—check his gear and information.

And late in a star's life
It begins to explode
And all the people in a dream
Wait for the machine
To pick the shit up, leave it clean

It read “Mike has a cold, cancel party. Meet at Scotty’s for his present.” He automatically translated it in his mind as he read it: “Mike group has been captured by PER, most likely converted. Meet me at Scotty’s for further details.”

Kid, hang over here
What you learning in school?
Is the rise of an Eastern sun
Gonna be good for everyone?

He sighed and put his phone away. He was planning to go out in the next few days with his fiance, Rachel Dorn, instead of fighting psychotic magical horses. He only joined the Human Liberation Front—he felt the word “liberation” was more rhetoric than description—to protect against the PER.

The radio station disappears
Music turning-

He turned off the car’s radio and stepped outside into the hot, sunny air and walked down the street towards the designated bar. He opened the door and stepped inside, only to be greeted by a loud argument.

“So Equestria is not allowed to defend its own citizens from outrageous human aggression?” a pony yelled at a human several feet away from him, stomping his hoof for emphasis.

“There’s a difference between ‘defense’ and ‘occupation,’ asshole,” the human countered.

“It’s not an occupation if they stay within their own borders.”

“Yeah, it takes all those troops to fight off riots. No ulterior motives there.”

“When you have those-”

Jack passed the arguing customers and sat down at the table his contact had. “Eric,” he started.

“Hey,” Eric replied, shaking Jack’s hand. “Here’s that present for Mike,” he said as he handed Jack a small box.

Jack stored the thin, rectangular white box in his pocket. “So,” he whispered, “basic rundown?”

Eric feigned interest in several women walking in through the door. “Scientist who worked on the original serum,” he answered. “Details in the box.”

“Turned?” Jack asked.

“No.”

Jack followed Jimmy, the squad leader, as he quietly led the fire team through the forest brush surrounding Jurisburg, a small Ohio town with a large Amish presence. It was a relatively peaceful town; there had been little resistance when ponies began to move in although it was rather tenuous. Luckily for everyone involved, the peaceful Amish residents kept to themselves, despite the uneasiness of having a different species moving in next door. Jack thought they were doing well, considering this was an entirely new situation. Unlike the rest of the first world, where fiction genres often fantasized about meeting new, alien species, this quiet culture was caught utterly unprepared. They did not know what to expect, they did not have any idea how they would act, they had not been mentally preparing themselves for a similar situation. Fortunately, they approached their neighbors with an open, albeit shaky, hand. Amish and pony alike realized that in some areas, they were not that different. They both yearned for a simple life, both abandoning the temptations of the modern human world.

This was, however, until they learned of the Turned, or “Newfoals” as called by the ponies themselves. To them, the body was God’s gift to a person. To harm it was a slap to God’s face, a sin. To give up, no, throw away that gift, to trample upon its essence and nature was one of the most vile actions one could commit. They felt that, in a similar manner to rejecting God, rejecting nature itself was not an act of making one’s self unworthy of paradise. It was to jump directly into the maws of Hell regardless of past actions. They felt was no greater mistake than to willingly reject God.

Jack wasn’t sure if he disagreed with that. He wasn’t a religious man himself despite almost being married to a strict Catholic woman, but he did have an innate sense of self-pride. Something about changing yourself into a different species and brainwash yourself for the sake of happiness made him uneasy. He just couldn’t put it into words.

Gathering his thoughts together, he pulled out binoculars and scanned the area, looking for the group of ponies they were tracking. A few hundred feet from the forest were the closest buildings of the town. Jack made a mental note to keep his shots tight if a fight broke out. He found his targets as he scanned past the buildings, by the main road that had several offshoots into the town. The four-man team crept through the brush until they reached a vantage point to properly view the pony caravan parked by the edge of the road, next to a large plain of recently harvested grain. They needed to make sure they were neutralized as efficiently as possible. There was no backup, only Jack’s three teammates and the sniper team hundreds of yards off in a nearby forest as support, indistinguishable from the surrounding flora.

The group surrounding the caravan was naked, as most ponies were, and each lacked the oblivious stares and glossy eyes of the Turned. He counted eight total outside of a large carriage, two inside. Three were unicorns, five pegasi, and two earthies. One was fiddling with a broken wheel while the others rested, oblivious to their surroundings. Several boxes were already taken out to make the roadside fix more manageable, many covered in a tarp rather than a solid top. A strong breeze rustled through the area, blowing Jimmy’s wide-brimmed hat away; luckily none of the ponies noticed. The same breeze also lifted a corner of one of the tarps however, gifting Jack a few seconds to view the contents before it died down. He saw glass vials of purple liquid.

“Objective?” one of his squadmates asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Guys are PER,” Jack answered. “I see potion bombs and I don’t like where my thoughts are headed. We need to take them out either way.”

“Good.”

Good? Ignoring the man next to him, Jack quickly pressed a button on his radio, sending a click to the sniper team’s radio. He received a click back. Jimmy received a nod from Jack, and made a signal to form up and began moving. They eased closer to the caravan and readied their weapons. Jack pulled the bolt of his M14 back slightly, making sure a round was chambered. He checked the safety and aimed his sights at one of the unicorns.

“Now,” Jimmy ordered.

The furthest unicorn’s head exploded into a shower of chunks, brain matter, and misty blood as the sniper fired his weapon. His team fired several shots off in the resulting confusion. Jack killed his target, and moved onto the next as three pegasi were neutralized by his team. The sniper fired again, killing one of the remaining pegasi while Jimmy took care of the other. Jack saw that of the two in the carriage, both unicorns, only one got out to fight while the other hid in the bottom. He quickly shot the former, leaving the last one for when everything calmed down. The two earth ponies were taken care of by his other two teammates.

“Beckett, carriage,” Jimmy said from behind him. Jack obliged, walking up to the vehicle and scanning the horizon with his rifle. His three teammates formed a semicircle around him, watching for any ponies that may sneak up on them. He lowered his weapon into a low ready position in case the unicorn tried anything.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m the scientist.” the unicorn said to Jack.

And here we are. “Who is my favorite author?”

The pony calmed down, but was still shaking from fear. “R-Ron Barlehue.”

“Objective here!” Jack yelled to his teammates. He looked at the pony’s magical ass tattoo—he refused to even think of the word “cutie mark”—and saw that it resembled a stylized double helix.

The pony shakily got onto all four hooves. “Name’s Gene Seed, I was one of the scientists working on the original serum.”

Jack dropped his rifle to his side, clicking on the safety. “Kinda curious that you’re defecting. I’d think that someone working on something like that...”

“Why do you think I’m defecting!?” Gene Seed burst out, causing one of the insurgents behind Jack to glance at the scientist. “Sorry. Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking the exact same. But right now, we don’t have time; the...” he trailed off as he looked behind Jack

-CRACK-

Gunshots came from behind him, his teammates forcing a recently arrived group of ponies into cover as they did so themselves. Jack jumped behind a nearby log as the unicorns of the incoming group launched magical lightning strikes at his fire team. Upon seeing shadows against the bright sky, he raised his rifle to the sky and let several shots off, all shots missing but forcing the ponies to retreat into relative safety. A magical bolt of energy from one of the unicorns struck Jimmy, charring his torso beyond recognition. Jack let loose a flurry of rounds onto the unicorns before ducking his head back down. He stayed as low as possible, staying out of the unicorns’ lines of sight.

He looked between the tall blades of grass, seeing several ponies run around the surrounding buildings while several more pegasi took to the skies. They threw potion bombs at him, but luckily his gas mask kept the mist from entering his lungs. He aimed his rifle at them, steadying the shaking from the sudden rush of adrenaline. He wrapped his rifle’s sling around his arm for better control and tried to steady himself again. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He fired his rifle twice, managing to hit one of the fliers in the wing and forcing it into landing.

Suddenly, he felt a tug at his rifle, along with a brownish glow. Perfect, he thought bitterly. The rifle lifted sharply into the air at an angle, bringing it towards the unicorn. However, the sling around his arm kept him attached to the rifle and the pony was forced to let go as the added weight was too much of a strain. Jack quickly got up from the ground before on of the unicorns could hit him with a blast of magic and ran at the offending unicorn. He tackled it to the ground and elbowed it in the face and detached his bayonet from his belt. He stabbed the neck of the unicorn, ceasing its struggling and allowing Jack to pay attention to the other ponies.

Jack clumsily pulled his pistol from its harness and shot at the remaining enemies, managing to get one shot on target, who quickly crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain. The remaining unicorn aimed at Jack and fired its magical lightning, but missed wide as it was cut down by the human fighters it turned away from. He got up from the ground and turned back to the unicorn he stabbed. The poor bastard wasn’t going to get to a hospital nay time soon, and he knew neither of his teammates would help it. He aimed his pistol and ended its pain.

Holstering his handgun, he walked over to where his rifle lay and picked it back up. It was then that Jack noticed the smell of burning wood. And the sound of a bonfire, followed by the sound of roughly a dozen screaming children. Shit shit shit shit-

He looked around the building, which was on fire from the unicorn’s missed attack.

This is bad.

He found no easy way in as he walked around the building. The only opening was the door, which was partly on fire and the surrounding wood was beginning to char. I’m not just going to let a bunch of kids burn to death, he thought as jumped through the weakened door. He looked around the room. There was a light blue female earth pony, her hair in braids and a scroll as her magical-ass-tattoo, that was staring at Jack with fear evident in her eyes. Surrounding what he presumed to be the teacher were thirteen or fourteen foals, ranging from six or so and what he assumed to be early teenage. Several of the smaller ones looked like they recently wet themselves.

Ponies, he thought bitterly. Why should I help them?

Because I’m fighting against racist assholes, he scolded himself.

He wondered why they were stuck in a burning building until he saw that the doorway he just went through collapse, bring down part of the roof and creating an even larger fire where it was.

“Did you try the windows?” he asked, turning to the teacher.

“Yes, but-” she managed to say before another portion of the roof collapsed, making a large crash and startling the children even more. “But some ponies came by recently and said they were putting in force fields on important buildings to protect them,” she continued, “in case a situation like this happened.”

“And you weren’t curious as to why they would prepare for a rather specific circumstance?” Jack asked as he turned towards a window at the farthest wall from the fire.

“They said they came with the authority of the princess.”

“Were they wearing Royal Guard armor?”

“Uh...”

“Of course not.”

“But ponies don’t lie about something like that,” the teacher muttered, her face contorted in confusion. “No-nopony would ever-”

“Alright, stand back!” he yelled over the din of the fire. He pulled out his rifle, set it on automatic, and aimed towards the window. Burned building, dead kids, human corpse...As he let loose a burst of rounds, the children shrieked and hid behind their teacher, stools, table, each other, and anything else they could find. Jack reloaded and fired again, this time causing a small floating crack in the air. Pretty clever set up.

Smiling at his progress, he took his knife out and stabbed it into the crack. After wedging it in until it became stuck, he bashed it with the butt of his rifle and widened the magical crack even further. He pulled his knife back out when chunks of the magical barrier began to dissipate, separated from the rest of it. He hammered it directly with the stock of his rifle, the metal plate smashing the glass-like surface.

When the hole in the barrier was wide enough, he smashed the window open with his rifle and turned to the ponies behind him. “Go outside and catch the kids,” he ordered the teacher. She hesitated, to which Jack repeated, but in a raised voice. She quickly relented and jumped out. With the teacher outside waiting, he grabbed the first foal, who struggled in his grip.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you,” he grunted, trying to get a solid grip on the small filly.

“My mommy said humans hurt ponies!”

“Fires hurt ponies too!” he yelled, paralyzing the filly with fear. He adjusted his hands and threw her to the teacher. He glanced at the fire, noticing that it was much closer, and gaining speed. There was little time left. He grabbed the next and threw it, the next and threw it, the next and threw it...

Jack awoke to the sound of voices. He tried to look around, but the bright sky hurt his eyes. He felt grass at his bare hands, and rocks digging into his head. How did I get outside? I was-

Oh, right.

Note to self: use mask’s air tank when in fires, he quipped to himself. He had the strangest feeling this little chapter of his life wasn’t quite done with him yet. He tried to get up, but he was too weak and dizzy. He turned his head to see a squat, four-legged creature.

Ponies.

“It’s alive!” one yelled. “Bring bindings!”

It? Pricks.

He was quickly tied up, and dragged across the field. As he was moved, he spotted a glimpse of the school building, but none of the former occupants. He also saw some of the local inhabitants, several dozen wide-eyed pony farmers staring at the spectacle. Wait, aren’t there humans in- His carriers eventually stopped and very roughly threw him onto a chair and tied him to it. Another pony came up to him.

“How do you live with yourself, human?” the gray pony asked, anger etched across his face. “Why does...”

Jack stayed silent as he thought of a plan of escape. He didn’t need to listen to the pony. He already knew what the damn horse was saying. Humans suck, ponies don’t. Ponies love and tolerate everyone—Jack suppressed a smile despite the irony of that thought—while humans blow up day cares for fun, have pony shooting sprees with all of those evil inanimate objects, tie maidens to train tracks and twirly those evil mustaches. Therefore, the only solution to saving humanity was to turn it into something that wasn’t humanity. He had heard it all before.

“... full of greed. You know, I’ve realized something. You humans are too stupid, selfish, and ignorant to know what is good for you. You humans refuse to take the obvious path to salvation.”

Jack subtly moved his feet. “Yeah, yeah, stupid and evil humans who twist everyone and everything to their will. That’s us.” They were tied together, but not to the chair.

The pony gave him a cold stare. Jack could reach the rope’s knot with his fingers.

“Listen, can we hurry this up?” Jack asked. “I was planning on burning down some homeless shelters later today when the orphan schools let the kids out.”

“ENOUGH!” the pony yelled, irritated. “You have stalled LONG ENOUGH!” It was enough for Jack. As the pony moved closer to Jack, his feet shot up and hit the pony in the throat. Jack pulled the knot loose, freeing his arms. He tackled the pony, smashing the syringe against the ground and spilling its contents into the dirt. He reached at his feet and untied them, and punched the pony and knocking him back down. Before Jack could get up and escape, he felt a sharp pain in his back, followed by another. A third syringe finally stabbed him in the abdomen before Jack fell unconscious from the exertion and potion entering his bloodstream.

“An ‘offensive defense’ as described by the Princess of Equestria has battalions of Equestrian Infantry soldiers stationed throughout western Africa, particularly in-

“Massive riots have broken out across western Africa in response to ‘an attempt to destroy our people, our culture, and our heritage’ as described by New African Dominion leader General Attah-

“We will respond to any threat against our people. It is unfortunate it had to come to this, but the issue has escalated it to a point-

“This is a blatant attempt to exert Equestrian control and influence in a land-”

Colonel Holt of the Third Special Forces Group stopped flipping through the news stations. “I’m sure you can see why I brought you here.”

“I guess leave’s cancelled?” The four-man squad’s demolition expert, Conan, asked.

Rambo, the squad’s marksman, sighed. “Shut it, C.”

“Yes, it is cancelled,” replied Holt. “The president doesn’t want them to just walk all over the globe like they own the place, but he doesn’t want a war either.”

Archer, their rifleman, raised his hand. “Any particular reason we’re going in alone?”

“A larger force cannot do what you men can without detection. I’m sorry, but this is the only option at the moment,” he answered sadly. He knew what they were thinking. Four men with no almost no support against thousands? “I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think you could accomplish this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Archer replied. How was he going to tell his family, especially his younger sister? They had been looking forward to him getting home for months. Simply waiting would crush her. What if he was injured or killed? Ponified? He knew what happened to his mother. He didn’t want his family to go through something like that again. “When do we leave?”

“Within the day,” Holt answered. He turned to exit the room, leaving the four Green Berets among themselves.

“Well, shit,” Conan muttered.

“You got that right, C,” Rambo acknowledged. He got up and headed out the door. “Shit, I’m going to relax while I still can.”

Chapter 2

Grassfeeder had tried to steel himself to the sight of the dozen or so dead ponies. He shouldn’t have been surprised; he knew what was going to happen as a member of the Ponification for Earth’s Rebirth. He knew he would see dead, murdered, slaughtered. He just couldn’t prepare himself for it. Wiping the last of the vomit from his mouth, he caught back up with the group’s leader, Lucky Leaf.

He had known Lucky Leaf all his life as a pony, ever since he was purified by the PER during one of their operations. He had resisted his purification at first, but soon learned he was better off. His revelation, his joy and happiness, it was too much! He just had to share it with others. Of course, most humans wanted to resist. He had, too. But there were some things that many people couldn’t find out for themselves. They would thank him later, just like he did.

He cantered over to the group of ponies who were outside of the burning school in various states of panic. He saw the teacher, a blue earth pony mare with a scroll-based cutie mark, treating minor burns and scratches on some of the foals. Most had gone to their homes by then, back to the loving embrace of their pony families. He envied them. He, as a Newfoal, was raised by humans. He had to not only live with, but be indoctrinated to that barbaric culture permeated with violence, dissent, unhappiness, and anger. He was better off now. Despite the site, his only regret was that there were no captured humans; no humans to share his gift with.

Grassfeeder looked around the vicinity, from the locals desperate to put out the flames before they were able to spread to the mess of pony corpses strewn about the premises. There were two dead humans as well; one with a burnt out chest cavity—evidence of magical lightning—and another laying on the ground a small distance from the burning school, as if he was trying to crawl away.

He turned away from the bodies. He couldn’t stand violence, even if done for the good of others. He preferred to let his comrades do it. The stench of burning the human flesh made him gag, forcing him to move back towards the rest of his group. When he was a human, he adored violence. He glorified it. He played violent games with others, attempting to get the rush of adrenaline from defeating and harming people. He played digital simulations, trying to get a feel of war. His entire culture pushed everyone from an early age into those horrible practices. Just thinking of it made him sick, now that he had since been enlightened.

Grassfeeder noticed a hint of movement in the corner of his vision. It was the human near the school. He walked up to it, and it moved again. “It’s alive!” he yelled to his comrades, “Bring bindings!” He knew how dangerous a human could be, how dangerous he was. Lucky Leaf wanted to purify any living humans they could find. And now they had one. Grassfeeder silently thanked Celestia for the opportunity.

As another pony came up to the camouflaged human and tied it with a rope, he put his hoof in the human’s armpit and pulled him towards a nearby rocking chair which had been abandoned during the earlier firefight. The human’s head turned, its groggy eyes trying to take in the surroundings.

“Don’t worry, everything will get better,” he whispered as he tied the barely conscious human to the chair. “I was like you a short time ago. You’ll be happier.”

With the human bound, a grey earth pony, Boulder Cutter, trotted up to it. The human perked up at the sound of Boulder’s hoof-falls, turning its head up slightly to get a better look.

“How do you live with yourself, human?” Boulder asked it. “Why does this have to happen?”

The human stayed silent.

“All your problems, all your woes, everything that caused ponification to be necessary is your fault. You are violent, you are short-sighted, you are arrogant. You believe yourselves so far above everyone that you can just murder them!"

"Your leaders, the ones who are supposed to bring the populace into a better tomorrow are corrupt, full of greed. You know, I’ve realized something. You humans are too stupid, selfish, and ignorant to know what is good for you. You humans refuse to take the obvious path to salvation.”

“Yeah, yeah, stupid and evil humans who twist everyone and everything to their will. That’s us,” the human mocked. How dare it? Boulder was saving the man, and in return he got insults?

Boulder was humorless. He stared back at the human, disappointment etched into his face.

“Listen, can we hurry this up?” the human asked. “I was planning on burning down some homeless shelters later today when the orphan schools let the kids out.”

“ENOUGH!” Boulder said forcefully, silencing the human. “You have stalled long enough.”

But before Boulder could purify the human, it snapped its legs up, catching Boulder in the throat. Weren’t those legs tied? Grassfeeder panicked, his hesitation allowing the human to pull his hands free, and jumped out of the chair and into Boulder.

No, no! Grassfeeder screamed in his head as he jumped at the human, which was rampaging like a wild animal. Gathering up his courage, he picked up a needle out of his saddlebag—everyone in his group had one—and stabbed it into the human’s back, causing it to freeze up long enough for two more ponies to run up and stab as well. He hated violence. He vowed to himself never to commit a violent act again. He was not human. He was a pony. He was better than that. Unfortunately, the damned ape had forced him to act. He could only hope Celestia would forgive him.

Breathing heavily, he eased in the purification serum from his syringe and turned to Boulder, who was just then getting up from the ground. “How long do you think it will take?” he asked, panting.

“Should be a few hours, maybe around midnight at latest,” Boulder answered. He removed the two extra syringes from the human. Too much serum had adverse affects; the human physiology had to be eased into its new form. Grassfeeder had learned this lesson the hard way. “Don’t worry, Grassfeeder, we’ll have a new friend so-”

Boulder’s leg shot out from under him as projectiles from those horrible, human weapons flew through him. More hit him in the head and neck, ending a once beautiful life. Grassfeeder wanted to run up to him, to hold his body as he passed, but his senses overcame him. He turned to run to cover as an ambushing group of humans fired at them, but was unable to make it before his insides were torn out. He hit the ground hard. He saw Lucky Leaf attempt to defend himself with his magic, but he was no match for the humans and their blasphemous technology. He was easily cut down, blood seeping into the ground.

Grassfeeder had multiple wounds in his abdomen from the initial flurry of rounds, but the bleeding quickly slowed; the wound looked non-lethal to him, thanks to his new pony form. He was glad for the natural advantages ponies had, such as relatively quick healing. It only made him want to help humans more. They had no idea what they were missing. He shuddered as he thought what might have happened were he still a human. The thought of him living, getting back to his new family, going back to the Princess, Equestria; the thoughts allowed him to stay conscious despite the horrible pain. He had to get up. He had to survive. He had to live. He had to-

A swift boot to the side of his muzzle cleared his thoughts, a new pain assaulting his brain. He looked at the offender. A rather tall human, in the same manner of dress as the one he tried to purify, with a large weapon pointed at his head. Another man walked up to him.

“Drag Jack over to Gene Seed. I’ll deal with this one,” it said, reaching for something on the back of its belt. The first human followed the order, not looking back at his superior. The new human regarded him for a moment before speaking.

“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” it said, bringing its arm back in front. In the human’s hand was a very large, very sharp looking knife.

Ryan Matthews briskly walked down the dark walkway of the half-asleep city. Toledo never truly slept; it had grown considerably but not quite to the extent of New York City and other high-bustle locations. Ever since the Cold Revolution decades ago it was a wonder how the city had not become Ohio’s new capital. It was strange to be back here after leaving for so long.

However, it wasn’t time for reminiscing. He had a job to do. A captive pony from a previous operation had finally broken, giving details to the HLF about where they were getting the serum from, but not where it was weaponized. Several names and locations had been given, but the Front was as careful as it was ruthless. They did not, contrary to popular belief, just go and kill ponies and sympathizers. They were fighting time, and fruitless operations cost a good amount of time. They didn’t really care about maintaining a good public image; it was bad enough by virtue of not being ponies. Furthermore, people who didn’t buy into Equestria’s propaganda often needed little convincing who was really on their side.

Corber, his handler, wanted him to find out what they could about not only the listed target, an earthie named Royal Riff who was the general manager of the local Conversion Center, but also every Center in the region. He needed anything he could get. Names, addresses, times, anything that Riff wouldn’t have thought to burn or otherwise destroy. But that was his secondary objective. The captive gave the Front the date for the next pickup by the PER. He was to place a tracking beacon inside one of the crates before they shipped out, where it would be carried to wherever it was weaponized into a gas.

Eventually, he made it to the front of the habitation building. It was rather small for this part of town, being only eight stories with a very tall fenced area for pegasi to practise flying, but was much wider with a neighboring building connected over a street by the wall as though it was a single building with a tunnel. Across another street was the conversion center itself, connected by a narrow sky-bridge. It was even shorter, at three stories tall.

He walked into the front door of the hab building, the sound of the revolving door scraping the ground waking a stout pegasus mare who was working the front desk. “Hello, I’m here to see someone.”

“It’s kind of late for that, don’t you think?” she replied, annoyance edging into her voice.

Shit, this might not work. “My friend told me to stop by as soon as I could. I couldn’t get off of work until half an hour ago.”

“Hm, alright. Just please try to come earlier, won’t you?” As Ryan nodded, she pulled out a clipboard. “What is your friend’s name?”

“Manya Strotski.”

“OK, and yours?” she asked, flipping through a page until she found the name.

“James McLahn.”

“ID?” she asked, to which Ryan produced a forged driver’s license. “And Mrs. Strotski’s childhood pet’s collar color?”

“Blue,” he responded, getting annoyed with the questions.

Raising an eyebrow, she set the clipboard down on the table and called over a night guard, who looked like a civilian in a navy blue, pony version of a police uniform. “Skimmer, would you be a dear and take this man to room 3-16?”

The guard simply nodded before leading Ryan over to the stairs, right by an elevator which had a “OUT OF ORDER” sign in front of it. That struck Ryan as odd. Why was the elevator not fixed? Surely they could afford the odd repair or two seeing as they were paid for by the Equestrian throne itself. Come to think of it, why did they not have a computer? They were virtually cheaper than food. And why, he thought curiously, were there no light bulbs, and instead a series of candles hung along the wall?

Before he could further ponder the ponies’ reasons, the guard turned to Ryan. “Sorry about the little checkpoint up front there.”

“No, it’s alright,” Ryan answered. “In fact, I’d be worried if you hadn’t had some security.”

“You’re right. With groups like the HLF around, we don’t know what to expect.”

Ryan climbed the last step leading to the third floor. “Group of human supremacists or something, right?”

“Yeah,” the guard answered, a grimacing forming on his face. “Remember Des Moines?”

“Yeah,” Ryan replied. In fact, I was there.

“That was them,” he informed. “Just went in and shot up a bunch of ponies and left.”

Horseshit, those were PER about to put potion bombs in the storm drains and let the vents take care of the rest.

“My brother was a victim,” the pony guard muttered before he reached the top of the stairs and pointed down the hall. “Eighth on the right.”

“Thanks.”

As the guard climbed back down the stairs, Ryan went into the room where the undercover operative was waiting. He walked in to find her holding a backpack containing everything he would need and a set of dark navy clothes, the latter of which he quickly slipped into and the former he tightly strapped to his back. He walked to the window and peered out, seeing how far away the sky bridge was. It was above the first window and over the next one, easily within reach. Thinking of how he would get across, he noticed several small beams going the length of the bridge, where the support struts connected to the bridge.

He quickly put on a belt and attached a small rope to it, the end having a d-ring attached. He climbed out of the window and stretched to the side. He grabbed the support strut for balance and looped the rope over the beam, doubling it back and connecting the d-ring to the rope. He then grabbed the beam and began hand-over-hand climbing across, taking stops to attach the rope when the beam connected to the bridge above.

He reached the end and let the rope dangle below him, pulling himself up so his feet were on the beam and his hands holding the steel brackets of the window. He used his new footing to climb into the roof of the bridge, and then onto the rocky asphalt of the building proper.

He reached into his backpack for his blueprints of the facility. He was looking for the storage room where he was told the potion was being held before being shipped off to who-knows-where to be weaponized. He found it and went to the opposite edge of the roof, above the large factory-style windows.

But he needed a way in. Similar to the bridge, he wrapped the rope around a ventilation pipe, clipping the d-ring back on the line. He crawled over the edge and right above the windows. He held tight to the rope and took out a small snake camera which was attached to a screen on his belt, peeking it over the edge of the window, only to get a screenful of black except for a small light source. Unfortunately, the commercial-grade device was hard to use in low light without an infra-red or light-amplification mode that more expensive and military-grade cameras had. Whoever provided the gear had skimped.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled the camera back with his only free hand and used it to adjust the contrast and gamma settings until he had something workable. He eventually got it after a few minutes. It wasn’t proper night vision, but it was enough where he could make out the individual shapes of the boxes from the light provided by the lone candle. He was about to put it away and enter when he heard a steady rhythm of light smacks against the ground.

The sound of pony hooves on a polished wood floor. It was an interesting sound. Pony hooves were not like earth horses. Instead of what was essentially a very thick toenail, there was a very calloused stump that could be hardened or softened at will or by sudden impacts, such as bucking a human spy in the arm during his escape from a successful attack on the head of a PER cell. His arm had luckily healed since then.

He kept the camera at the window’s edge, waiting for the pony to come into view. After a few moments, an earth pony in a uniform similar to the security guard he saw in the habitation building. It cantered into the the room, using a lantern to lighten parts of it as he looked around. Satisfied, it set the lantern down on a short table before pulling up a to a table and sitting down.

Shit. Ryan would need to either sneak past the guard, which would be nigh impossible as it was positioned in a way where it could cover the only stairway through the open door which he would have to go through, or neutralize it. He chose the latter. He put the camera away and eased open the window, which were closed to keep out the chilly night air. He detached himself from the line and slipped in, closing it almost all the way so the guard wasn’t hit by a sudden blast of cold air.

He slowly crept up behind the pony, deciding exactly how he was going to take it out. He couldn’t shoot it. Although his pistol was magnetically accelerated, which eliminated the need for worry for both the sound of gunpowder combusting and the surprisingly loud click of the firing pin, the blood left over would alert whoever was picking the boxes up.

He couldn’t use his knife, which had the same problems as his pistol, and he didn’t have a garrote either. He would need to talk to someone about that. This left him with one method left: his bare hands. He reached the pony and lifted the chin up with one hand, shattering the windpipe with the other. He then covered the neck in the crook of his elbow, making sure to close off the major blood vessels, and dragged him away from the table which would generate a lot of noise if tipped over. With humans, it would take around fifteen seconds until the target fell unconscious. With ponies, about five to ten longer as their stronger hearts could slip blood past the blockage.

This was especially true with earth ponies, whose magic gave them greater passive abilities such as strength. Especially strength. He had to make sure the pony couldn’t fight him off, letting it run downstairs and alert others, another way of tipping off whoever was picking up the crates. However, he only had to hold on for a few more seconds, and it got easier as time went on. The pony in his arms finally stopped moving, to which Ryan held it for a short while longer. He couldn’t chance it waking up while he was still around. In fact, he couldn’t chance it waking up at all.

Once he settled it down on the side, he grabbed the chin with one hand and held down the shoulder with the other. He turned the head around 180 degrees, keeping the neck down on the ground and not letting it twist properly to accommodate the new head angle. He heard the sickening crunch that was too familiar to him; the neck was snapped. He dragged the corpse into a nearby closet, making sure to grab any keys he could find, and snuck over to one of the crates of potion.

The crates were on platforms with wheels with small loops at the front. Because of a pony’s lack of hands, which made it hard to grab the boxes, and odd aversion to electricity, which prevented them from using forklifts, they had to pull cargo along the ground using ropes. This, fortunately for Ryan, left the underside exposed by a few inches. He pulled out a tracking device, a small disk as wide as his palm and thin as his pinkie, and slipped it under, tiny blades stabbing into the wooden underside at the touch of a button. He repeated the process with two more random platforms with his remaining devices.

He pulled his wrist up to his mouth and pressed a small button, which activated a small microphone. “Corber, first objective complete. Trackers planted.”

“Good,” his handler said through his earpiece. “Once you complete your second objective, head north two blocks. You’ll have a pickup in a blue Jeep.”

“Got it.”

He poked his head through the doorway and, upon seeing it was clear, went through as silent as a mouse. He reached the end of the hallway, a door with the words Toledo Conversion Bureau Director - Royal Riff stenciled on the glass. He pulled out the key ring, trying each key on the lock until it opened. It eased open on the fourth try to reveal a very tidy office, not a paper or pencil out of place. Before he went in he turned on a flashlight to get a better look, searching the sterile room for anything that could prove him to be a PER collaborator. Almost instantly he found something: a blank envelope on the ground several feet from him, looking like it had been shoved under the door from the outside. He grabbed, folded, and stuck it inside a pocket of his trousers. He could look over it later.

He stepped around the room, careful not to leave anything out of place. He didn’t know how paranoid the pony was, but he didn’t want to chance it inspecting every last trinket in the building, no matter how unlikely that was. Any person, human or pony, involved in this type of business worth their salt was paranoid, as it was often justified. Looking around the room, he couldn’t find anything. He looked through the desk drawers, he searched the filing cabinets, even under the rug. Nothing. He turned back to the immaculate desk. It was perfectly organized, the stack of blank paper was perfectly square, the stationary were in neat lines, the inkwell without a misplaced spot of ink.

It was too perfect. If he touched any of it he doubted he could get it back to prime condition. However, that was a risk he had to take. He set down the flashlight on the table to free his hands. Placing a soft fist on the top of the stack, he eased up the edges and slowly flipped through, careful to not rotate any of them out of place. Nothing. Just blank white. Except-

He thought he saw something on the paper when it was in front of the flashlight. He repositioned the flashlight to shine directly on the paper and flipped to that part of the stack again. There it was: invisible ink. He couldn’t really make it out, but it was there. He carefully eased the pressure from his fist and pulled out the sheet. Smart bastard. Anyone else would have just put it in a locked drawer and be done with it.

“Corber, I’ve got the secondary.”

“Roger, proceed to extract. Let’s see how good that Beckett guy I keep hearing about is.”

Jack awoke. He blinked open his weary eyes to find nothing. All around him was black, there were no light sources as far as his eyes could see. Despite all that, he could see himself clear as day. There were no shadows, even withing the folds of his own clothes. He looked down at the ground. An impossibly smooth surface, as black as the deepest void utterly barren of color, stretched infinitely across the horizon. Or, rather, he imagined it infinitely large as he couldn’t see the surface he was standing on, let alone any sort of horizon.

He took a few steps and the scenery remained the same. He heard no echo from his footsteps. the only sound in existence came from him. All around him was nothingness. There was not even air, but he somehow still lived, just like he could see even though there was no light. “Hello!” he requested to no one in particular. He felt dismayed from the lack of response, but not surprised.

Then he heard it behind him, or rather felt it. They were scurrying. They were clawing. They were biting at the air, trying to eat his scent. Rats were swarming towards him from as far as his eyes could see. There were skinny, skeletal ones with the barest of clothes almost as happy to trample other rats as they would rip into him. There were fat, greasy ones with finer suits swarmed and carried by others who looked at him like a resource to be harvested for their master.

Leading the charge were dozens of the beasts with their attention solely on him. They moved as one, carrying sharpened sticks on their backs as if their horrific teeth and claws weren’t enough. Their dark and patterned clothing partly concealed them amongst themselves, making it difficult for him to watch them closely. But the worst part was their eyes. Not bloodthirsty like some. Not greedy and lazy like others. There was no emotion but the intent to kill him and utterly wipe him from existence.

He felt for his sidearm but felt an empty holster. He was defenseless. His lungs seized up as the hordes of diseased-ridden, savage, and hungry rodents were getting closer. He tried to run but tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground with a thud.

“F-fuck!”

He tried to scramble back, clawing at the glasslike surface in an effort to prolong the inevitable. The monsters came closer and closer, and all he could do to protect himself was hold up a quivering arm in front of him. Not out of defiance, but of fear. But before one of the horrid beasts could touch him, a huge pillar of pure white descended from above to directly in front of them, in between them and their prize.

A golden wall rose around the pillar, slowly but steadily expanding and pushing the horde back. It was sheer enough for him to watch the rats scurry and flee in fear. The few who tried to fight and resist were quickly vaporized upon touching the wall. As he looked around he saw that the barrier formed a circle around him, with three other pillars making a square.

He felt better. His hands had stopped shaking. His vision was no longer tunneled. His mind was not hazy, his head not light. He took in deep breaths as he got back to his feet, delicious air filling his lungs. He examined the pillar in front of him, his eyes following it upwards into the bright sky and right into Celestia’s warm smile.

Chapter 3

“Anything else, Miss?”

“No, thanks,” the woman answered, waving the waiter off.

Eric motioned for a glass of water, which the waiter left to retrieve for him. He turned back to the woman before him. “Interesting place to meet.”

“Under a streetlamp and reading a newspaper while wearing a trenchcoat would be a little suspicious, don’t you think?” she replied with a smirk, garnering a chuckle from Eric.

“True,” he answered. “But back to business: you had something to offer me, Miss...”

“Layla. Sarah Layla. I have... sources throughout the Equestrian government,” she informed, taking a small sip from her wine glass. “Troop movements, secret deals, any dirty secret you want and there’s a chance I can get it.”

“Makes one wonder how you could get a spy network on one of the most xenophobic organizations I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Not all ponies agree with how Celestia is dealing with the situation. More than you would think.”

Eric nodded. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I will just need some of your people for a pet project of mine.”

“Is there a time frame I should be aware of?”

Sarah shook her head. “I will tell you when and where as it becomes relevant.”

Soubre, Côte d'Ivoire

Captain Stormsword pounded his table in front of him, snorting in anger. “What do you mean they just appeared!?”

“Sir, they just appear out of thin air and kill us. It’s as if by magic,” came the calm reply despite the urgency of the situation.

Stormsword sighed deeply. He was a captain of the Equestrian Infantry, second only to the Royal Guard itself. Such an outburst was unbecoming of him, despite the rather dire circumstances. Brazenhead brought up an interesting situation however. How do these reports make sense? Humans were poisoned by raw magic. Magic used for healing poisoned humans; possessing it themselves to such a degree invisibility would be possible?

However, the “why” and “how” of the situation would have to wait. Only the “what” was the concern and how to deal with it. “Get several pegasi to tell the general what’s happening,” he said to his lieutenant. “And tell Brazenhead and Wind Hound to get their flanks in here!”

The two officers, a burly earth pony and stout pegasus, arrived. “Brazenhead, get the soldiers into turtle positions. I want unicorns holding an anti-magic shield around the formations.” He turned to Wind Hound. “I want Wraith squadron’s pegasi in the air with an anti-infantry payload, searching in a scatter formation. Attack on sight. Get Banshee squadron to cover those pegasi I sent earlier!”

“Sir!” the two ponies saluted, turning to exit the command hut. As they pushed aside the door, it exploded inwardly and killed the two immediately. The guards not caught in the blast reacted immediately, aiming spears, crossbows, and whatever else they had at the opening.

And nothing.

Stormsword was confused. This was obviously a result of human explosives, but there had been no detection of them inside the camp. They weren’t close enough to attack him and any human presence this close would have been detected, invisible or not. Unless... Stormsword shuddered at the implications.

“Lights out, asshole.”

Stormsword turned around to see the barrel of a human weapon pointed at his head and the slowly materializing form of a human soldier.

* * * * *

“Target neutralized,” Archer spoke into his headset as the bodies of the four ponies fell to the floor. The three remaining guards were shot by his teammates who were set up outside of the shoddy wooden shelter. He didn’t kill his target, but shot it with a paralyzing dart from an attachment on his coilrifle, which had downed the pony faster than he had expected. He didn’t know whether or not it would be conscious, but it didn’t matter to him as most non-vital movement had ceased.

Thank God for augmented reality, he thought to himself. It made their jobs much easier. Using his helmet’s camera and a passive sensor system built into his gear that detected a multitude of life indicators, the system drew a red outline of the ponies and superimposed them on the team’s eyepieces, virtually allowing them to see through walls. He glanced over the important-looking documents on the table and walls, his camera recording all. Battle plans, troop strength, it was a gold mine of information.

“Good job, Archer,” came Lead’s voice over the radio. “Squad, regroup on me. Overlord, we need extract, over.”

A moment later, a voice answered. “Roger, coming in from the north.”

And with that, he hoisted the unconscious pony over his shoulders and exited the structure. The Falcon, an evolution of the Black Hawk better designed for the deployment and extraction of special forces, came into view. It swooped in low and hot, blasting its chin mounted, computer-controlled rotary cannon at any pony brave—or stupid—enough to poke their head out. This was largely unnecessary, however, as the Equestrians had little to no anti-air and would rarely dare to attempt anything. After a single pass it lowered in front of the team, hovering a foot off the ground.

Archer and the high value target got onboard first, the three other Green Berets following one by one. The strapped in themselves and their captive and then Rambo pounded on the cockpit door, signalling for takeoff.

As they lifted into the African sky, the team’s heads-up display lit up to reveal the face of Colonel Holt. “Gentlemen, I have some bad news.”

“Try me,” replied Conan.

“The Equestrians are getting serious. They’re abandoning their plan of ‘help’ first, shoot last. Serious, lethal military hardware. Cannons, primitive tanks, you name it. Not this potion business or riot suppression anymore. It’s not simple peacekeeping like they’ve been bullshitting the UN with.”

“Aw, shit,” Rambo replied. “You think this woulda happened if we just stayed out?”

“End result would be the same: a gradual conquest campaign in the name of protecting their citizens.”

“They can’t just move them behind the barrier? Into the safe mainland?” Archer asked.

“Now you’re getting it,” Holt replied. “But first things first; we can worry about interspecies politics later. General Stafher wants them crippled and he doesn’t want the US caught up in a political shitstorm the size of The White Bitch’s ego. Discretion, gentlemen.”

Lead sighed. “So he wants us.”

“Precisely. I’m sending you the coordinates now. But first: rest up for a few. You’ve earned it,” Holt finished as the link was cut.

“War. Outright fuckin’ war.” Exasperated, Rambo threw his hands up in the air. “Why can’t those Spetznaz guys deal with this? They love this kinda shit, risking world wars and all.”

Conan shook his head. “Anything above zero-C is too hot for ‘em.”

“Damn straight, C. Damn fuckin’ straight.”

He wasn’t a pony. Jack sighed in relief. He flexed his fingers and reflected on the dream. He had been almost swarmed by rats, hungry vicious rats dressed up as cruel caricatures of humanity. What was that? Was that how all ponies saw humanity? Perhaps just the brainwashed Turned? Perhaps that was how the potion brainwashed people. Doesn’t just make them into docile thralls, makes them want to be.

He opened his eyes, getting up from his bed. He reached for his lamp-

His arm struck a wall, jamming a finger and garnering a small grimace. Although his eyes were hazy he could tell this room looked nothing like his apartment. He tried to remember where he had seen such a place, but he couldn’t tell. Suddenly he flinched as the room suddenly lit up. Someone had opened up the window shades. Blinking, Jack cleared up his vision enough to recognize the man standing in the opposite corner of the room.

“You’re one impulsive son of a bitch, you know that?” Eric scolded. Stifling a sigh, Jack turned towards the HLF agent idly staring outside. “What the hell was that out there?”

“What do you-”

“What do I mean? How about you almost killing yourself? Twice!” Eric hissed.

“What was I supposed to do, let a bunch of kids burn to death?” Jack yelled back.

Eric opened his mouth to talk, but closed it and redirected his thoughts. “Jack, you are a very useful soldier. I can’t lose an asset like you from stupid bullshit like this,” he finished calmly.

“Alright, I get it!”

“Listen, Jack. If it wasn’t for Gene Seed you’d be Turned. You are extremely lucky to be here right now.”

Jack sighed in defeat.

“You were out for three days while he saved your ass. Be thankful. He also wants a follow up to make sure whatever spells and medicine he used on you are working properly. His address is on the nightstand,” Eric finished before turning to leave the room. Almost as an afterthought, he said “By the way, someone’s here to see you.”

“JACK!”

Jack’s eyes went wide with terror. “Oh, hey Rachel,” he muttered weakly.

* * * * *

She was on the verge of tears. She was overjoyed. Spending the last two days in that room, the last two nights on the couch, the last forty eight hours in a constant state of worry of whether or not the man several feet away was going to continue existing. As soon as a pony came out of his bedroom and told her he woke up, she bolted off of the couch she was sleeping on and ran towards the bedroom where her future husband laid. “Jack?” she managed to choke out.

Calm down, she said to herself. He’s alive. She took a deep breath, not letting all of the “ifs” and “would-haves” get to her. Her throat cleared up, she stopped running, and she stretched her abdomen and limbs, a nervous tick she had developed years prior in high school sports. “Jack?” she said as she reached for the doorknob. Her voice was more confident, but still full of worry.

Before she could touch the door, it quickly opened and a tall, bearded man came out. “By the way, someone’s here to see you,” he said into the other room.

She caught a glimpse of the man she had been sick with worry over. The man she thought she might never see again. The man that had caused her so much pain over the last few days. “JACK!” she yelled this time, shoving the door open and walking angrily to the bed.

“Oh, hey Rachel,” Jack said quietly to her.

“Don’t you ‘Hey Rachel’ me!” she wailed. “I’ve been stuck here for the last two days because of you! I’ve been worrying my ass off for five days for your dumb ass!”

“Listen, I-” Jack tried to say, but Rachel cut him off.

“No, you listen! I’ve been at my home, at work, with friends, not knowing anything’s happening, and then I get a call saying you were almost turned into a fucking horse?”

“It’s not what you-”

“It’s not what I think? That’s the best you have? I knew you were fighting those fucks, but holy shit! You’re going off on adventures playing fucking superhero! Damn fucking straight it’s not what I think!”

“But-”

“But what, you going around to save the day? You thinking you’re the God damn Batman? What in Hell were you thinking?!”

Jack stayed silent as Rachel paced the room, hands running through her hair. She stopped and turned to him.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, immediately changing her tone. “I’m sorry. It’s... it’s just been stressful.”

“It’s fine. Let’s just go,” Jack replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“No, it’s not fine,” she said as she grabbed Jack’s arm and helped him to his feet. “You’re almost converted and I’m pissed instead of just being happy you’re still here. I’m sorry.”

“Rachel, it’s fine,” he restated. Rachel nodded her head and put his arm around her neck as he was still dizzy.

“Tell you what. When we get home, we can do anything you want...”

After a moment of thought, Jack answered. “Cuddle?”

Chapter 4

“Nervous, kid?” Ryan Matthews asked.

“A little, I guess. Excited.”

“Excited?”

Ryan got shrugged shoulders in response.

“Think you can kill?”

“Well, yeah.” His shoulders shrugged again. “I’m here with the HLF, aren’t I? Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could shoot a damn horse.”

Great, another fucking dumbass who probably thinks this is like a video game. Can’t these morons be screened out?

“Here’s a tip: center mass,” Ryan told the twenty-year old before him in the back of a random welding company’s van. “This isn’t the movies. Heads are harder to hit, and the target’s probably going down no matter what.”

The lanky young adult nodded his head in confirmation, slipping a modified welder’s mask onto his head—visor—up as the driver banged on the ceiling to get their attention: almost there. He rolled his neck and shoulders, emitting a series of cracks from numerous joints.

“Here. Fabrique Nationale Five-seven.” Ryan handed him a short, black pistol with a suppressor attached. “Silencer isn’t magic. It’s still going to be loud, but it will take the edge off and disguise the sound’s direction.”

Ryan observed his pistol, a military-grade coilgun, and made sure it was set to fire below the sound barrier. Unless the air pressure changed dramatically in the next hour or so, it shouldn’t sound very different than a bow and arrow. He checked the safety and put it into a holster under his thick leather welding jacket. He put his mask on in the same fashion as his compatriot.

The truck stopped and the driver gave him a thumbs-up. Nodding, Ryan opened the back of the van and hopped out, carrying his bag of welding tools over his shoulder. As his partner purposefully followed, they were hit by a wall of heat. He wished he didn’t need to wear the jacket. He was already getting hot. What is with Ohio? It’s late fucking September.

The building they were heading for was across the square, which his target was scheduled to be meeting someone in. He scanned the crowd, which was luckily only about one fourth ponies. There he was: Royal Riff. The sneaky bastard who saw fit to supply a terrorist organization. Riff sat in front of a restaurant talking to another pony. Ryan pulled out a small phone, discreetly taking a picture while pretending to recieve a text. He compared it to the profile he was given. Match. He nudged his partner, briefly showing the screen, receiving a nod and smirk in response.

He diverted his course slightly to get closer to Riff. The pony was talking to another, and getting angry at that. Harsh whispers were exchanged before the other got up and walked away. Ryan saw Riff stay put, idly putting a few leaves of a salad in his mouth. Ryan raised his hand up to his mouth, pretending to scratch his cheek. He spoke into his wrist-mounted microphone, “Is Beckett’s team in position? I can take out the guy Riff was talking to.”

“Yeah, the compound won’t be alerted or anything.”

“And if he’s not PER?”

“Better safe than sorry. Do it.”

He and his partner, who nodded that he received the order too, pulled their visors down. Their visors obscured their identity from anyone who would be looking. Instead of a standard mask, the viewing plastic was widened and did not block out enough light to hinder vision. In unison, they pulled out their pistols, firing into their two targets. His partner hit Riff three times in the chest, who immediately went down. Ryan shot at the other pony, missing the farther away target with the first shot but hitting it the next four times.

Confusion erupted. People ran, doors closed, any occupied cars tried to speed away. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt. The crowd obscured his sight of the pony, forcing him to move to get back into view. Enough people finally cleared out, allowing him to see his prey.

He didn’t kill the target, which shouldn’t have surprised him. Earth ponies had remarkable durability. The miserable thing tried to crawl away as blood pooled and trailed behind him. He was soon halted by a fifth iron-cobalt round, this time lodged in the spine. The back legs immediately went stiff, and the left foreleg had a round in the knee. It turned to face him, eyes full of fear.

“P-ple-ease...” it croaked, coughing up a large splotch of blood. Ryan said nothing. He leveled his pistol and ended the creature’s misery before turning back to his partner who was standing over the corpse of Royal Riff. He walked closer but the rookie showed no signs of noticing him. The welder’s mask was transfixed on the lump of gray and red on the ground, the body still as a statue.

He walked up behind his partner. Ryan watched the young man for a second, noticing the occasional tremor on his back. “Let’s get out of here before the police show up.”

“Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”

As the pair turned to leave, Ryan opened his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. He knelt next to Riff’s body and placed it where it wouldn’t be stained with blood. Written on the envelope there was a message:

A profile of Royal Riff and his dealings with the Ponificatication for Earth’s Rebirth.

With love, the HLF

Fucking kids, he thought to himself as he headed back towards the van, whose driver was already done removing the company logo from the sides and replacing the license plates.

Sarah took off her light coat—the weather had cooled off considerably once it had gotten dark—and stepped from the Manhattan street into a dark apartment building. She quickly ascended the stairs to the sixth of seven floors and opened the leftmost door, to the living are she had set up for her guest. The television was turned off, several empty bags of powdered doughnuts were strewn across the floor, and music was quietly playing in the room over.

“Good evening, Gene Seed,” she called out.

“Hi, Sarah!” came the reply. “Just a…” Gene Seed called out before Sarah heard a faint crashing sound and the muttering of a few pony curses. “Second!”

He came through a door at the other end of the room. “Is everything alright?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, yes. Just working on the reverse potion.”

“Is it coming along well?”

“Of course. I worked on the original. But the problem is I’m a geneticist, not a mage. The serum is very, eh, unique. It’s almost as much magic as it is genetic. The viruses mutating the genetic material do all the work, but the magic speeds it up, ensures it works for near every cell, and keeps the body together as it transforms.

“Normally, the magic would be lethal, tearing apart the body like any other radiation. Thing is that their new pony body can handle it. That’s why I can’t just make them humanify their DNA. If one would turn human, the magic their former pony bodies generated and from the potion itself will kill him or her within a day.”

Sarah went over to a chair and sat down. “I see. How long will this take then?”

"I’ve already got the delivery system, so about, eh, let’s see… Three or so years.”

“We don’t have three or so years, Gene Seed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch,” she waved him off. “Is there anything you can do soon?”

Gene Seed nodded. “I can make some sort of vaccine for it with Tanya's help. Shouldn’t be that long.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Gene Seed replied, to which Sarah turned to leave. “Wait!”

“Yes?” Sarah answered and turned around.

“Can you, uh, make sure my family is OK? They’re still in Equestria.”

“Why would they need any sort of overwatch?”

“I’m technically a deserter,” he answered. He breathed deeply in an effort to relieve tension. “I just don’t want anything to happen to them as a result.”

“You think the crown would harm them for your actions?”

“Well, no, but with everything going on with them... Especially in Africa.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know. Everything’s on the table now. The PER might not be too happy either.”

“Very well. I will make sure no harm comes to them.”

“Thanks.”

Jack Beckett just remembered why he didn’t re-enlist after his six years. It was hot and buggy, doubly so under the oppressive weight of his ghillie suit. He had been lying on the wooded hillside eight hundred meters from the target for the past two days, he and his spotter watching the PER weaponize the conversion serum into the gaseous form commonly used in their hit-and-run attacks. It was a hastily set up compound next to a large creek, each building made from wood and each featuring wide open windows. There were also several fire-pits with artificial rain clouds to absorb the smoke. Inside were were roughly a dozen ponies of various shapes, sizes, and races sleeping in their beds ignorant of their fate, several insomniacs milling about or tending the fires.

He had evaded several patrols on the way to his vantage point, several times almost stepped on. His spotter still smelled like piss from one of the encounters. He really hated the fact that he couldn’t kill any of them; avoiding the circling pegasi was hard enough without their earth and unicorn eyes on the ground. If one of the pegasi spotted candy colored corpses, the whole mission would be jeopardized; they would easily kill or ponify him and his partner and prepare for the actual hit team. Luckily enough, once he got past the chokepoints of cliffs and dense brush into this area of the forest, the patrols had died off, the pegasi moving to and from the camp with supplies and to relieve the patrols being the greatest threat.

It was night time now, leaving his only concern to be the squad of riflemen converging on the enemy encampment. They had arrived by the creek the ponies had been using as a water source, swimming under the surface with compact rebreathers. He aimed his rifle, a military-grade coilgun instead of his usual M14, throughout the camp, making sure there were no guards near the squad’s position. It was the middle of the night, so of course there were no alert guards up, but it never hurt to be sure. Ponies had no concept of asymmetrical warfare. Equestria’s military was pre-medieval by human standards even ignoring their tactics, and that was a compliment. As long as the humans kept their advantage, everyone was going home tonight.

“Hey, Jack,” his partner whispered to him.

“What?”

“I heard what Rachel said a few days back when you woke up. How the Hell did she let you back into the field?”

“Sniping,” Jack replied with a quiet chuckle. “Special forces-type jobs are actually some of the safest if you know what you’re doing. You’re always on the offensive, deciding when and where shit happens.”

“True.” His partner took a bite from a strip of jerky he had been nibbling on, formerly stored in a pocket of his suit. “So, as far as what Rachel said at the end...”

“Just went to sleep together, more... uh... cuddling than anything.”

“That’s it?” his spotter asked.

“I was tired as hell. And honestly, she likes sex more than I do.”

“And do you?”

Jack answered, “Not usually, no. Just straight screwinging never really-”

“Hold up. There they are,” his partner interjected. “Right on schedule.”

The HLF squad silently rose from the water as one, waiting a few seconds to let the water drain from the barrels of their weapons. They crept up to the campsite, steering clear of the light from the fires.

Let’s see how long the plan lasts. He activated his microphone, “Alpha-1, this is Bravo-1. Radio check. Over”

“Five by four, Bravo-1. Over.”

“Roger. Proceed. Over.”

“Wilco. Over.”

“Roger wilco. Out.”

At least that was pleasant. Former military, gathering from the accurate and fluent use of radio etiquette. They were lead by professionals; the job would get done quietly and quickly. The squad stacked up behind a shack as a pony wandered their way. Steven-1-1 signaled for Jack to fire. Jack waited until the pony to enter into the shadows before calmly depressing the trigger. The base of the pony’s skull disappeared in a flash of sickly black and the rest of the body soon fell to the ground.

The squad leader motioned for his squad to move up, aiming his coilrifle down range to cover them as they moved into positions outside of the first building. One of the riflemen sneaked up and eased open the door, slipping inside and the rest followed suit. Although he couldn’t see what happened, the sound of bullets impacting flesh coming through his earpiece told him everything.

“Alpha-1. Sitrep. Over.” he whispered into his microphone.

“Four tangos neutralized. Found map. Over.”

“Useful? Over.”

“Negative. Topographical. ‘You are here’ marking in this clearing, nothing else. Over.”

“Roger. Proceed to second objective. Over.”

“Wilco. Over.”

“Roger wilco. Out,” Jack finished, muttering a quick prayer of thanks to whoever—or whatever—might exist and was watching over his team. Never hurt to play it safe.

And with that, they moved out of the hut to the second of the two, clearing it out as before. Again, nothing of value. The third objective was a large pile of crates stacked four high, ready to be loaded onto a carriage like Jack had seen at the Amish town nearly a week ago. The squad’s demolition expert came up to the pile, taking out a small box and opened it to reveal a three-by-three inch number pad jerry-rigged onto a small pasty-brown hunk of plastic explosive and a series of wires.

He connected several wires together. “Explosive armed.” He turned his attention to the keypad, pressing a short series of numbers. “Bravo-2, this is Alpha-3. Confirm trigger. Over.”

“Affirmative, Alpha-3. Over.” replied his spotter, whose phone had activated to show a green circle and a slide-button, which would activate the explosive and vaporize everything within a twenty meter radius.

“Roger. Out.”

The squad moved onto objective four: six enormous tanks, each with a spigot at the top, the diameter of the ends to be a close match with a series of vials on a nearby table. Also on the table were a set of orange gems with identical runes carved into each. If Jack had to guess as to how they fit together, the vials were attached to the spigot and a unicorn channeled its magic through the gem into the serum-containing tanks, turning it into a gaseous form capable of mass-conversion in crowded areas. His stomach churned at the thought.

“Explosive armed,” came 1-3’s voice. “Bravo-2, confirm trigger. Over.”

Sure enough, the spotter’s phone lit up again, this time with a second circle. “Affirmative, Alpha-3. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

The squad quickly exfiltrated the way they came, leaving no trace of their presence. His spotter turned to him. “Let’s watch the lightshow and get the hell outta dodge.”

Chapter 6

“Into the breach, you dogs!” the New African Dominion officer yelled. “Into the breach!”

Abasiama gripped his AK-12 tightly and jumped through the smoke of the burning hole that was once an Equestrian gun emplacement. A dozen men followed through, and many more of other groups climbed through similar openings throughout the fortified line of the enemy. The tanks hundreds of meters behind him, acting as makeshift artillery, fired again and various pony war machines were blown apart by the tank shells.

He was immediately met by the sight of a hundred bronze-armored ponies aiming their spears, crossbows, daggers, and whatever else they had at them. He stopped for a second, taking the sight in. There was an elaborate trench system a hundred meters back, lined with sharp spears and dotted with primitive machine gun emplacements. After a moment’s hesitation, the Equestrians opened fire on him. He ran towards a nearby crater and another soldier followed, while most others tried to get behind large pieces of debris.

Many didn’t. Equestrian machine guns, rather slow firing multi-barreled machines that reminded the soldier of Gatling guns, tore apart the human soldiers as they breached the initial defensive emplacements. Meanwhile, whatever Equestrian soldiers were around stayed behind their carefully prepared fortifications. Abasiama was reminded of a quote from an old war book, which stated the required ratio to successfully siege an enemy. Three-to-one at least, if he remembered correctly.

Another round of fire from the Equestrian gun emplacements came, tearing apart the dirt, rock, and human soldiers unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Abasiama wiggled and squirmed his way further into the dirt of his crater. Rounds from the emplacements turned the pressure-hardened clay near his feet into a form with the consistency of a mound of feathers. Whoever was manning that gun eventually gave up on him and focused elsewhere. The other soldier with him, a short man who looked rather old in comparison with the rest of the Dominion’s foot soldiers, peeked over the top for a scant second before plopping back into the dirt.

“Do you have any grenades on you?” the man asked. “I must have dropped mine.”

Abasiama nodded his head. He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced the small explosive. “Here.”

The soldier nodded his thanks and peeked over the ridge of the crater. He ducked back down under cover.

“Grenade!”

He threw the explosive over the top towards one of the emplacements. After several seconds, Abasiama heard an explosions and the sound of several ponies screaming that sent a chill down his back despite the hot air around him.

“The machine guns reload!” someone behind him yelled. “Forward!”

Without thought, Abasiama took the opportunity and climbed out of his crater and took off on a dead sprint towards the next piece of cover before the machine guns started up again. A wave of spearponies surged towards the human soldiers, but were quickly cut down. Abasiama saw one get through long enough to gore another human, and he slowed his run for long enough to empty half of a magazine into the pony. He hit his target twice.

The Equestrian machine guns spewed lead once more and tore into the advancing infantry. Abasiama jumped behind the burning carcass of an Equestrian tank, which was more like a rolling box with machine guns than the human variant, and thanked whatever god or gods were out there that a good portion of his fellow troops made it to safety.

He looked back at the unlucky ones who didn’t make it, but immediately regretted it. He suppressed a gag and turned around towards the burning hulk, taking quick peeks through holes in the wreckage. Body parts behind littered the compound, soaked in a mixture of their blood and that of fallen ponies. Those torn up by the machine guns tended to die relatively quickly, losing consciousness from a severe lack of blood or, in the case of the lucky ones, being so torn up that the body immediately ceased functioning.

The less fortunate men, taken by the spearponies’ weapons, crawled on the ground in agony. Some still had wooden shafts sticking out of them, while many bore horrific gashes where the spear didn’t quite go through. Others had wounds from crossbow bolts throughout their bodies from entrenched ponies. The medics were unable to tend to the stranded due to the machine gun fire which indiscriminately cut down anyone caught in no-man’s-land. Most of the wounded, who were otherwise easily treatable, would die by nightfall and most others would die by the end of the campaign.

The report of the Equestrian machine guns, which at that point were so constant Abasiama unconsciously filtered them out, finally ceased once more.

“Reload!” the officer bellowed a second time. “Cha-”

The ground exploded around Abasiama, leaving him dazed and temporarily deaf. The smoke and dust receded, but his vision was still hazy. And purple. He froze in fear. He intellectually knew what the sight meant. He knew what he should do. He knew what would happen to him if he didn’t. But he couldn’t; his fingers were frozen in a death-like grip around his rifle and his eyes fixed directly ahead.

His shoulder was violently shook, and he snapped out of it. He turned his head to find the face of the soldier from the crater, partially hidden behind an opaque air filter and transparent goggles. “Soldier! Gas mask!”

Abasiama came to his senses and held his breath as the thick purple mist closed on him. He fumbled with straps on his belt and produced his gear. As practised during basic training, he expertly slipped it on and secured the straps. After a quick but thorough check for leaks he picked his rifle back up and looked back towards the other soldier.

“When the captain warned us about this...” the man muttered under his breath. He looked back towards Abasiama. “I just found it hard to believe that would actually happen.”

“Stop firing! Stop firing!” the radio screeched, and the tank crew quickly obeyed. Jeremy Stevens, an imported tanker from Israel who emigrated there from the States as a toddler, opened the hatch to the old Abrams bought from the formerly crumbling United States and pulled his binoculars off from around his neck. He brought them to his eyes and studied the cause of the break of fire. A large purple-pink cloud encompassed the battlefield in front of him, and halftracks ferrying troops across the lush savannah stopped short of their destination.

“Tarib!” he called to the gunner. “Is that fuckin’ pony juice?”

“Looks like it, sir,” came the reply from near Jeremy’s feet. “I thought the Crown didn’t like the PER.”

Jeremy slammed his fist into the turret’s hull in a flash of anger. “They like ‘em enough to use their weapons!” He brought his binoculars back up to his face and looked at the cloud again. A flash of reflected sunlight suddenly caught his eye. He steadied his elbows on the turret and zoomed in on the anomaly. “Bloody Hell.”

“Sir?” the driver asked.

“Bloody pegasi carrying bloody bombs. MOVE!” he ordered. He ducked back down into the safety of the tank, securing the hatch, and grabbed the radio. “All units, this is Captain Stevens! Equestrian fliers above the cloud, carrying bombs! Repeat, Equestrian fliers above the cloud, carrying bombs!”

“Roger, Captain,” came a reply a second later, with others following in suit.

Jeremy leaned over in the cramped interior of the tank and tuned the radio to the general command frequency. “General Attah?”

“What is going on down there, Captain?”

“Bloody horses got smart on us! I need any anti-air you have. Our fifties won’t hold them off for very long.”

“The wind storm they cooked up is still there. Our helicopters can’t enter without being in danger of their machine guns and unicorns. The helicopters can’t raise out of their effective range, so they’re useless on the offensive.”

Jeremy sighed. “You did bring them, right?”

“Of course. How long until the enemy fliers reach your tanks?”

“Minutes at best. I need anything you have to bugger them until the choppers are ready. Anything will help.”

“Got that. The helicopters will take ten minutes. I will have all half tracks and fast attack vehicles go to your location for additional support,” the general informed.

“Try to keep a supply of infantry for the scrum in the cloud. The boys down there need what help you can give. My tanks can take a hit if they need to.”

“Understood. Good luck, Captain.”

“Same to you, General,” Jeremy finished. He opened the top hatch and grabbed the handle of the mounted M2 .50 cal. He aimed it towards the ranks of fliers before him and opened the radio to his tanks.

“Open up on my command. The sooner we take these buggers out the sooner we can get back to our job. The general is sending reinforcements and air support. We hold out for ten minutes and we all survive this. Good luck.”

“And here we are,” informed Lead as the carriages stopped their movement. “We need to find that artillery. The satellite photos had it to the west side of the camp. Drop now.”

The three other Green Berets let go of the underside supports and slowly dropped, making sure not to make a sound.

“Cloak up.”

Archer complied, opening a patch on his harness. He pulled out a large, rather thin cloth-like material laced with carbon nanotube fibers, which had various buckles around the edges. It wasn’t quite square as it was designed to fit around him and his combat harness and leave as little uncovered as possible. He fitted it around himself, buckling and snapping it at his extremities and major joints. He pressed a small button on the side of his helmet and was rendered nearly invisible.

It wasn’t perfect invisibility, of course, but the process the cloth and his coilrifle’s finish used to refract the light through itself was very effective. The only visible sign of his presence was a slight shimmer in the air that would only be visible to a casual observer were he to move quickly in the line of sight. He pulled the cloak’s hood over his helmet and secured it. He looked back at his teammates and saw that they did similar. The only obvious indication they were there was a faint green outline superimposed onto his goggles by the helmet’s computer.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“East corner of their base where the artillery cannons are,” Lead answered.

“Oh, shit,” Rambo remarked. “I can see the barrels of those things from here.”

Archer turned to look at the carriages they rode in under. “They’re unloading the cargo. Looks like shells for the cannons.”

“Wait, some have symbols on them. It’s an arrow with a circle around it.” Lead observed. “Let’s get a move on. Rambo with me. Conan and Archer, go towards the cannons. I’d prefer if the guards aren’t touched. Archer and I will find a spot to cover you.”

Conan nodded. “On it, boss.”

He ran through the purple air. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go. He had long since gotten lost. When the purple mist had first hit he panicked. He didn’t think the Equestrians would actually do that. He thought that the Equestrian crown had condemned forced conversion. He thought that the general’s order to bring gas masks was just paranoia. But all around him, fellow human soldiers who weren’t fast enough choked themselves unconscious from breathing in the mist. Those injured by pony spearmen who seemed to appear out of nowhere sometimes had their masks ripped right off.

He gulped nervously. The silence amplified every noise, driving him to paranoia over the smallest things because they could easily be a pony sneaking up on him, or possibly a crazed human who was shooting everything he saw. It was much quieter than before the ponifying mist hit. The occasional report of an AK-12 was heard, or the cry of pain from soldiers of both species as they were mortally wounded. But the worst sound was the coughing. He knew what it meant. He had briefly considered shooting some of the unconscious, maskless men on the ground, but he decided against it. They were gone already. Shooting them would only be murdering an innocent pony.

He was alone. He had lost all contact with his squadmates and could only assume they were dead or being converted. He wished for heat vision goggles. He couldn’t see more than ten meters in front of him. The only thing to do was wander aimlessly and shoot any smoky forms that didn’t look human. Luckily the heavy and dense mist quickly coagulated the blood, so it couldn’t get into his bloodstream if he was injured. It had to be inhaled, or ingested in its liquid form.

There was a crunch of wood behind him. He turned around quickly with his rifle raised. The sight of three misty silhouettes of ponies greeted him. He didn’t hesitate this time. He learned his lesson, and so had his enemy.

“Hold up. Technical. Let it pass.”

Archer listened to Lead’s advice from the earpiece and hid behind a stack of crates. He knew that he shouldn’t be surprised at how slow the work was, but he was getting impatient. He was within a football field of his objective but he had to stop and wait for what seemed like every ten feet for a pony to walk past, finish his piss break, turn his head a degree to the left, or finish whatever it was that would have otherwise compromised his position.

He peeked over the edge and watched as column of what passed as tanks to the Equestrians, a behemoth metal box on wheels with various gatling-type machine guns sticking out of the side, slowly slid across a worn-in dirt path. Along the sides were several squads of infantry, proud-looking ponies sporting bronze armor and spears about two meters long.

The ponies passed and Archer took his chance, silently sprinting across the path and behind another stack of crates. He poked his head above and, upon seeing that he was clear, got back out and came up to an artificial depression in the ground that contained his target. It was littered with empty cannon-sized shell casings that had that strange symbol on them. At the cannons themselves the loading ponies toiled endlessly, firing and reloading, firing and reloading.

He squatted down a good twenty yards from the ponies, his and Conan’s coilrifles focused on the artilleryponies. “Lead, should I take them out?”

“There’s a guard watching. I can take him out.”

“Hold off on that,” Archer responded. “There’s four cannons total, correct? I can’t see much from my position.”

“Affirmative.”

“Alright. Proceed with the plan.” Archer turned towards Conan, who was a meter behind him. “I got the close left.”

He aimed a weapon at the pony and presses a button near the trigger, making a thin green line appear on his HUD from the tip of his wepaon’s barrel to where it was pointing and sent a signal to his teammates’ HUDs to also show his weapon’s trajectory. After a split second, it settled on the head of the pony picking a cannon shell from the crate. Three more suddenly appeared, Lead’s and Rambo’s with a downward curve to show the bullet’s projected path when the pull of gravity and bullet’s speed were taken into account.

“On your go,” Lead informed. His teammates’ three coilrifles, now linked to his, would automatically fire when they received the signal that his trigger was pulled. He squeezed his finger and the two closest two ponies immediately fell, followed by the other two a split second later.

Archer turned towards Conan. “Get the charges set.”

As Conan went towards the cannon, Archer opened the link to Lead. “Horsey notice the gun stopped firing?”

“Negative. But they will soon. You’ll need to get away as soon as you hit number four and most likely be going loud. I’ll cover you until then.”

Archer looked towards his next target in anticipation. “Affirmative.”

The pony’s wounds had long since coagulated, but Abasiama continued his assault regardless. His hands fared no better. His bloody rifle had long since been kicked away by the pony after he wounded it. The edges of the pony’s helmet cut sharply into his hands as he repeatedly slammed them into its head. Blood dripped along the sides of his face, falling onto the broken form of the pony below him. He wasn’t sure what blood was his and what wasn’t anymore. The only important task was ending the threat underneath him. It hadn’t moved in several minutes, but he kept up his assault. Earth ponies were tricky like that. They could take a beating and then spring back up like nothing ever happened. He raised his fist and-

“Soldier!”

He turned around to see the sergeant running towards him out of the pink smoke.

“He’s dead, he’s dead! The battle’s over!”

He paid him no mind. He continued his assault, earning another tear in his flesh as he scraped an edge of the pony’s armor. Before he could strike again, his arm was grabbed by the other man, and more came to subdue him.

“Calm down, we need to get this out of you!” came a shout from a voice he didn’t recognize. He struggled for a few seconds, kicking his feet wildly in the dirt and pony, but relented once he came into a right state of mind. Then he looked down. The voice repeated, “We need to get that spear out of you!”

He studied the wooden construction that was stuck a meter through his torso. He was laid on his side and another human, a medic going by his armband, put one end of the spear on his bent knee. “We need to shorten it to take it out,” he explained. “This may hurt.”

The medic took a saw, about as long as his forearm, and began to cut away one side of the spear. It did hurt, but luckily the adrenaline hadn’t worn off completely. The vibrations the saw made on the wooden shaft were remarkably calm, and it was easy for Abasiama to ignore it for a few seconds. The end was soon sawn off and the medic moved to the other side of him.

“This part will hurt a little more.”

He grabbed the remaining shaft and slowly pulled, causing Abasiama to clutch and scratch at the dirt, grit his teeth, and tense his muscles in pain. It was out in seconds and the medic immediately doused the wound in several medicines, one of which thankfully was an anesthetic. Abasiama slowed his breathing, relaxed, and got his first real sleep in weeks.

It was evening by the time Abasiama was released from the medical tent. The battle had started early in the morning when the sun was in the enemy’s eyes and lasted only a few hours. After being tended to by the battalion’s medics he laid in the infirmary most of the day and had just been released. Despite being stabbed through the torso, his wound was actually relatively benign as the spear hadn’t torn anything important, and he could walk all right albeit with a limp. He gave up his cot for another wounded man’ he didn’t need it. He just needed some fresh air.

Well, that’s what he told the medic, anyway. He needed to see something, and had been scouring the former battlefield for at least an hour before he finally found it among the dead bodies. The Dominion Army had cleared out the structures of the compound and reestablished it as their forward base, which contained the medical tent and infirmary. He watched the nearby armed patrols and wondered if he should wait until they were further away so he didn’t appear to be looting, but decided that neither he nor they would really have cared after the day’s events. Everyone was too exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

He fell to his knees in front of the body. It was the one he had beat senselessly before he was pulled away. He needed to see what it looked like without the bloody haze he had from combat. He needed to see what he was fighting.

And the sight wasn’t pretty. The flies and maggots had already gotten to it, digging away at the soft flesh of the eyes and mouth, and birds had already picked away at the vulnerable eyes and nether regions. The hot, humid African air greatly accelerated the decomposition process, leaving a horrid smell and a skeletal corpse that resembled a zombie despite being less than twelve hours old.

He had done that to the pony. He had done that to another sentient being. He resisted the urge to look away. He had to know and understand the consequences of his actions. He did not regret what he did and understood their necessity, but he did not want to lose sight of the reality of his reactions. If there were eyes perhaps he would have closed them.

Then he noticed something. It was a small spot of white in the brown and bloodied cloth that held the bronze-colored plates together. He reached into what was apparently a pocket and grabbed the folded-up slip of paper. He opened it and saw that it was a letter. Curiously, half of it was in English, and the second half in the native Equestrian writing. Although his first language was Swahili, his relatives worked with American charity organizations and had taught him the language. The writing, despite being covered in a large splotch of blood, was not impossible to read.

Dear Lyra,

Figured I would practise my human writing considering we’ll all be seeing it around for Celestia knows how long. Anyway, we just set up the base a fair bit from the human town Parakou in a country called Benin. The protests are getting very intense here. Fortunately nopony no one has actually been seriously injured, pony or human. But I don’t know how long that will last. The New African Dominion is getting very testy. I heard they’re moving troops near us, but maybe they won’t do anything and are just a show of force in case we want to go anywhere else.

It’s unneeded, but understandable. We have been given no orders that indicate or suggest anything beyond keeping the peace. All we’re doing is setting up a safe area for local pony residents. But I can see that it looks more than that considering all the hardware and troops we have. I would be freaking out too, maybe.

I guess Celestia just wants to make sure her ponies are safe.

I hope to see you soon. My unit is going to be replaced in a month and I should be home by Hearth’s Warming Eve. It’s the end of my term and I don’t plan on reenlisting. Tell Tongs that he’ll get to see Daddy soon.

Love, Hammer Strike

Abasiama folded the letter back up and put it in his pocket. This “Lyra” may not see her husband again, but she would at least see his last words.

Chapter 5

“Princess Celestia has this to say on the recent up-scaling of the Equestrian presence in western Africa:

‘This is not a conquest. This is not a show of strength. This is a response to a threat to my people, to which I take genuine concern. Colonies, granted permission by local human governments, have come under attack by the human populace. Peacekeeping forces that I had ordered to secure the area to protect both ponies and humans have fallen under attack, most recently with the assassination or capture of an Equestrian Infantry captain. We have been forced to take action until a reasonable solution can be made.’

“The New African Dominion could not be reached f-” the reporter said before Rambo cut the news feed from his eyepiece.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he radioed to his squad, holding onto the bottom support brace of an Equestrian Infantry carriage as it cruised through an overgrown savannah. “Called it, guys. Word War III on our hands.”

Archer sighed. “You know how it works, Rambo. This would have happened either way.” He tightened his arms, narrowly avoiding a sizable rock. “If anything, we’re giving them a reason to go instead of waiting for them to come up with an excuse.”

“That’s still bad.”

“Except we’re the proactive ones. All this shit going on? It’s on our timetable. If we waited for them to get it on we’d be chasing their tails.”

“Have a point there,” Rambo replied before his carriage took a sudden turn, causing him to curse under his breath when he almost slipped off.

Lead’s radio chimed in, “Just a few more klicks to the objective.”

“Thank God,” Conan replied.

“Yeah,” Rambo agreed. “Horsey’s not a very good infil method.”

Rachel grunted as she loaded the wooden crate into the truck. Thankfully, that was the last one. She was getting tired despite herself. It was worth it, however. Each box was filled with assorted goods: canned food, toiletries, clothing, anything that would help the impoverished these were being shipped to. She closed the door to the pickup and locked it, and went around to make sure the straps holding down the crates were secured properly.

She waved for the driver to leave and went back inside the Parish Center of her church. It was not a large building, just a little larger than the church proper. It amazed Rachel that the building was there at all. The number of parishioners, and therefore donors, had gone down considerably over the past few decades.

“Rachel?” a voice called from a nearby tent, which at the beginning of the day was stacked with boxes. “Your husband’s here!”

“I’m not married yet, Father,” she reminded the priest. “Still a few weeks.”

“Ah, close enough. Anyway, you can leave now. The brothers and I will clean up.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not that old, Rachel. Anyway, there’s only a few tents that we should’ve taken down after the rain yesterday, and a few folding tables. We can handle it.”

“Alright, then. Bye!” Rachel replied, waving as she plucked her coat from a nearby table and went towards the other side of the parking lot. Waiting for her was an old, black Jeep that she and her cousin had personally helped refurbish with a hydrogen fuel cell engine, tire-wheels, consistently working air conditioning, and a multitude of other features the vehicle didn’t have when manufactured in 2020.

The driver waved hello to her and she smiled back. “Hey, Jack!” she greeted as she got into the passenger seat. “Thank you so much for driving me.”

“No problem,” he acknowledged, nodding. “Oh, by the way, found your medal,” he informed as he pulled out of the parking lot and into the street. He pulled a small silver chain out of his pocket and handed it to Rachel.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you thank you!”

“I didn’t know it was that special to you.”

“It- It was a gift from Mom.”

“I thought she… you know.”

“It was before that. She got me the medal as a birthday present a few months before we knew she had cancer. Then she went to one of the conversion centers. You know the rest.”

“Wasn’t she like a huge asshole about being atheist though?”

“No, that’s Dad. And it’s only gotten worse since what happened to Mom. It’s... he thinks religion is brainwashing, like potion.”

“Maybe he’s just concerned. If you were Turned I wouldn’t want anything to happen to any future kids we might have.”

“But just believing in something isn’t even close to converting!”

“I understand that. I’m just saying that the basic feeling is valid.”

“Oh, so it’s fine that he’s ostracizing me for an opinion?”

“I never said that. Just that his intentions aren’t necessarily bad.”

“A lot of people have good intentions, Jack. The road-”

“I know, Rachel. I’m not stupid.” Jack took a deep breath and looked at her. She wasn’t even looking at him, just staring angrily out the window. “Let’s just get you to your place first. We can deal with it after I visit Gene Seed tonight.”

She didn’t move.

“Does this really matter? It’s not like I’m suddenly going to start treating you any differently.”

No response.

Jack sighed in defeat.

“So, why are we here, exactly?” Corbin asked from his seat. He was facing a map of the eastern United States, which was displayed onto a large dry-erase board from a laptop-mounted projector bulb. Around him sat numerous squad leaders of the Tri-State and northern South Atlantic cells. The leaders of Steven and Andrew from the Tri-State, and Zach and Rob groups of the South Atlantic each had seats.

“Mopping up, mostly,” Eric replied. “We’ve tracked PER personnel using the Baltimore Center to get back to the mainland before, and sources say it’s the same deal this time. I don’t know if the Center knows they’re PER or not, but they are allowing them to use the boats. Probably think they’re just regular workers returning home.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“We’ll hit them while they go through the one in Charleston, West Virginia,” he answered as pointed to the target city. He then pressed a button on the computer and brought up a floor plan of a too familiar building. “This is the Charleston Conversion Center. Two fire-teams of two, two of four.” He drew a series of circles and arrows on the board through the image, marking them A, B, C, and D.

“Alpha and Bravo, the four man teams, will assault through the front doors of the business building and go up to the top floor, killing anyone associated with the PER. I will hand out info on them later. Charlie will follow and make sure no one leaves through the front while Delta storms the back and holds there. We’ll discuss team leaders and other details next time. I want minimal pony casualties. The main objective is dead PER. Any questions?”

“What about pegasi?” the leader of Andrew asked.

“None of the targets are pegasi. If any take off, it’s their lucky day.”

“I think he’s asking about any cargo they may have,” another piped in.

“Again, it’s their lucky day. Any survivors will only help the PER, and probably the Bitch herself, realize what they’re dealing with when they tell everyone what happened. But only if we’re precise and in control.”

Zach’s leader raised her hand. “Better safe than sorry if we’re unsure about a target?”

“No. I want as precise an operation as possible. No unnecessary casualties,” he again stressed. “PER being tracked to a specific location and specifically hunted down will send a clear enough message. Public may not get it, but the bad guys will.”

“You’re in a lot better shape than when I first worked on you,” Gene Seed observed.

Jack gave him a queer look. “First worked on me? As in, more than once?”

“Yes. The process took almost three weeks.”

Jack got off the examination table—a simple wooden construction with a thick blanket over the top—and examined the apartment more fully. It was rather shabby. When initially walking in he did not see anything that looked like it was designed for sleeping, and there were almost no furnishing. As he looked again, he saw that the few objects in the room either looked like they were just moved in or they were equipment for whatever project the pony scientist was working on. He didn’t know much, but he did know that this apartment wasn’t the pony’s. “What exactly did you do?”

“I negated the magic of the serum. I managed to target the artificial viruses that change the body’s genetics with a spell I commonly use to break apart and study cells. It certainly helped that I was familiar with the substance.”

“So how did that not kill me?”

“I used a very low dose over a long period of time,” Gene Seed explained. “Magical radiation is very different from nuclear. It dissipates rather quickly when used for tasks. It’s only when items are purposefully bound, called enchantments, or some kind of magical battery, for lack of a better term, that it lingers. But for common spells the energy is gone once the user stops casting the spell.”

“What about my dream?” Jack asked.

“How the body deals with being rewired. The magic convinces you to want conversion. It makes you want your quasi lobotomy. Once your brain is open for remolding the magic does its job. Unfortunately, the higher the dose, the faster and sloppier it is. At conversion centers the dose is only a few ounces of liquid. When in a gaseous form it takes even less, which only makes the PER’s job easier. I’ve seen some newfoals that were utter zombies after being converted by the bastards.”

A sharp chill went up Jack’s spine, and he took a breath to calm himself. “How close was I?” he asked.

“What do you last remember?”

“I was being chased by a bunch of rats, which I assume the potion was trying to make me associate with people, and then Celestia saved me from them. Like Celestia was saving me from humanity.”

“I’m not sure you want to know. Very close is all I will say. But that is peculiar,” he mused. “Other man in your squad inhaled potion and fell unconscious within minutes, similar story to yours. Didn’t receive that much weaponized serum. It shouldn’t have progressed so far in the time it took for us to get you somewhere safe. Why?” Gene Seed quietly paced around the room, eyes up as if the answer was written on the ceiling. “This raises numerous questions, none of which have pleasant answers.”

Jack nodded as another small chill passed through him. “Right, thanks.” As he got up to leave, he stopped for a second as a familiar tune came over a pair of speakers which rested in a corner of the room. “Wait a minute. Tchaikovsky?” While he preferred music that was more orchestrated and harmonious than most made in the past century or so, he was never too interested in classical. However, it was impossible not to recognize the 1812 Overture.

“Yes. I’ve grown to like your species’ music recently. Your culture is very fascinating. It’s just so much like ours, especially the piece playing right now, yet a different path of development and composure.”

“Funny. Kinda the same with me. I enjoyed that Octavia piece for example, experimenting with guitars. I’d have never thought to use them like that.”

“No Strings Attached, I believe it’s called. You’re the last person I’d expect to enjoy something like that,” Gene Seed replied, suppressing a chuckle.

“It’s their government and terrorists I hate, not the people. Dad’s family’s from England and Mom moved from Spain when she was twelve, and she’s very traditional. Don’t have time to focus on artificial crap. Better to focus on the people than what they do or look like.”

Gene Seed nodded in agreement. “I wish more people thought like that.”

Jack grunted in agreement as he opened the door to the apartment stairwell. He suddenly stopped and rubbed his forehead with his hand. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I just… mishandled a sensitive subject with Rachel,” Jack answered. “And by mishandled I mean I tried to justify her father treating her like shit.”

Gene Seed blinked in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t try. I just don’t think before I do shit.”

“But you still did, though.”

“Well, yeah. I said that her father had a point. He went too far with it, but was somewhat justified. Not what I meant, but pretty much what I said.”

“Hmph,” Gene Seed grunted. “Well, good luck with that then.”

“Right,” Jack acknowledged as he closed the apartment’s door and walked down the stairwell to his car. He pulled out his phone and sent a short apology to Rachel, and that he could talk more when she calmed down. But for now, he had a microengine to work on for his company. He had to make money, after all.

General Isaac Attah was proud. Eager. Ambitious. But most of all, angry. He had not lead the New African Dominion through years of brutal war just to lose it all now. Not for him, but for his people. He had spent half his life uniting most of central and eastern Africa under a single banner, bringing true prosperity and aid to an impoverished people. Warlords, gangs, drug and weapon cartels, all gone. While Europe collapsed under their fraudulent and wasteful spending, he had grown.

He did not feel sorry for his northern neighbors. Not only had they brought it upon themselves with shortsightedness and concern over image—two qualities he absolutely despised—but they were the reason there was a mess for him to clean up in the first place. He did not blame it on the slave trade. The African people were as much at fault as the Europeans, and they weren’t the only ones who practised it as well. It was not the colonization, Africans would have done that themselves if the positions were switched.

No, it was their help which tortured an already scarred nation. They divided the continent up by arbitrary boundaries in a faulty attempt of ‘civilizing’ them, causing conflict among deeply rooted tribes who had lived on the land longer than most European countries combined. They sent aid, only to let it be hijacked by selfish and evil warlords, making the problems they were trying to fix even worse.

But not any more, he had personally seen to that. The people of Africa were strong once more. But after all that, there was still one more challenge: Equestria. His new neighbor infuriated him. Their princess insulted humanity. She believed herself above humanity. She believed herself the rightful owner of the earth and its people. She believed herself above his species for the simple fact of not being human, and this Isaac could not stand. Unfortunately, nothing could really be done to someone so pompous at the moment. But something could be done to preserve his people’s future.

He stepped out of the tent that composed his command post and into the harsh sunlight to be greeted by a magnificent sight. Battalions of soldiers filled the plain. Columns of tanks ready to do battle rested alongside the infantry. Endless convoys of trucks bringing in materials such as food, water, and ammunition reached across the eastern horizon. He could not be more honored to have lead such men here. After decades of brutal civil war, after many families destroyed, after many fine young men killed, he had produced the single finest military in that side of the world, and soon to be the most peaceful and prosperous nation. He was not proud of himself. He was proud of his people. He was simply a means to an end, that end being the cessation of the suffering of millions.

To the west, the front lines of the Equestrian forces. Huge, stretched formations of infantry, emplacements with heavy weapons, large metallic structures resembling primitive tanks encompassed the horizon. He would be damned if a bunch of horses defeated him, taking away all he had worked for. He looked up to the sun. An hour from sunrise; it was time. He stepped to the edge of a large cliff face. Seeing him, the entire camp quieted, turning to their leader, their father. Isaac considered that an apt comparison. He treated them as his sons and daughters, and they treated him as their father. They followed him not out of fear, not out of an assurance of safety, but of love and respect, to which Isaac paid back in folds.

There was a small, bare table in front of him, upon which sat a single radio box. He set it to transmit and leaned over to speak into it.

"You see our enemy over there, men? I pity them.

“Our foes outnumber us three to one. They have spent more time training than you've been alive. They're fast and they're mean, and by the end of the day today every single one of them will be dead.

“You see men, our opponents are probably the strongest and most agile creatures in the known galaxy, but they are no soldiers. They live in harmony with their planet's ecosystem. There is no pollution, no wars, no disaster and no famine. This bond between them and their planet has formed them into mighty creatures. They believe mankind is impure and our philosophies are completely monstrous. They believe that, with the power of their natural prowess and their spirituality, they can wipe humanity from existence.

“They are dead wrong.

“While they have been sitting around eating food that virtually fell into their laps, we have been stabbing our best friends in the back for a scrap of bread.

“While they have been singing tales of the harmony and magic of nature, we have watched our children wither away to husks from a bloody plague.

“While they have sat sunning their wretched furry hides in open calm meadows, we have clung desperately to survival in frozen tundras and barren deserts.

“Our suffering has become our strength. Despite the best attempts of nature, God and even our fellow man, humanity stands strong. Humanity can endure anything, a fact that those sorry fools don't understand.

“Let us enlighten our foes to the unyielding spirit of mankind. Within all of your veins flow the blood of generals, soldiers, and murderers. Shred their bodies with a storm of lead! Tear their organs out with your bayonets! Crush their skulls underneath your iron boots!

“SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!"

* * * * *

Private Straight Arrow of the Equestrian Infantry stood proudly among his squad. He studied his spear one last time, admiring the craftsponyship of the weapon. Each was made by hoof, unlike human weapons which were crudely mass-produced in factories. His armor, sporting the bronze shine of the Equestrian Infantry, shined proudly among his peers as opposed to that of humans, shoddily put together in an attempt to hide from their enemies rather than fight with courage.

The Infantry’s gear was not the only thing expertly crafted. He, and a large portion of the Infantry, came from noble families dedicated to serving the Crown. He and others served with honor and pride. The traditions of the Equestrian Infantry were thousands of years old, stretching back to the beginning of the Princesses’ reign after they wrested control from the tyrant Discord.

The humans, on the other hand, were largely made up of whoever signed up and trained for several months at most. They sent unprepared children into battle. Their standard of battle was cowardly. They were so afraid to die for their nation they hid in the terrain, taking potshots at their enemy.

He would show them soon. The Equestrian Infantry would show them how to wage war. They would show them how to fight with pride, honor, and glory. At the end of the campaign, when the Crown’s borders were safe once more, when his battalion was back at their barracks singing tales of their accomplishments, the flag of this New African Dominion would be hung in the lounge as a trophy, right next to the Gryphos Third Army’s banner.

“What is that?” one of the other soldiers asked, pointing his hoof at what the humans passed off as war machines. “Are those humans using fire signals to communicate?”

Arrow followed his fellow soldier’s hoof off into the enemy’s lines before drawing his last breath as a High Explosive Squash Head tank shell decimated his auto-rifle emplacement, turning him and his squadmates into little more than blood stains in the sand.

Author's Note

Thanks to Anon from /mlp/ for the speech, and multiple users for prereading.