Chapter three

*Tha-thump*

The smell of rotting flesh and dried vomit fills your nostrils as a distant rumble of the earth below you sends goosebumps down your spine.

*Tha-thump*

A bead of sweat, complimentary of the humid area, trickles down your cheek at an agonizingly slow pace. Your current situation made it so that if you moved even an inch, that you were dead.

*Tha-thump*

Your heart threatens to hop out of your chest another time as a blast hits dangerously close to your foxhole, the earth shaking violently in protest as bits of dried dirt and plant roots patter down onto your helmet. You have only a moment to blink away the dust and fight back a cough as time runs out.

*Tha-thump*

Another set of violent explosions followed by a flare give just enough light to illuminate the sad little thing that has been your home for the past four days. Several dozen empty casings litter the floor, a familiar green stain to the furthermost corner greets you back with its putrid smell, and several bits of poorly buried excrement adorn the floor.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve been stuck in this hastily constructed foxhole.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve been flinching at every shell that lands too close to your home.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve had to go without proper contact about what’s happening.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, your only lullaby has been the distant rattle of gunfire throughout the nearby jungle and suburbs of the city.

*Tha-thump*

You snap out of another microsleep, your eyes darting about the dark hole with rifle at the ready. Though, after a rudimentary moment of silence and looking about, you shake yourself clear of thoughts of incoming hostiles.

You check the safety of the rifle once again, and then checking sure it was fully loaded, before giving a weak nod in satisfaction. You only had twenty one shots left, as you’ve counted many times in your free time in the night, but it’ll hopefully be enough.

Daring to take another peek out of the foxhole to scout for any signs of movement, you stop halfway through the action as you recognize that something is off. It takes you a moment to pinpoint exactly what, but your eyes widen when you do.

No more shelling.

Holding your rifle tight, you spare an precarious glance over the lip of your foxhole to look out in the fields of dead ground and torn bodies.

That’s when you see it.

This is the true beginning of the battle for Grupstag began.

Your eyes snap open as your body flinches involuntarily.

With hands trembling, you panic to get a good sense of your surroundings and away from the danger that the darkness holds. Darkness shrouds your vision to such a degree that you cannot even see any indication of your surroundings.

As you move to raise yourself from the lying position that you instantly recognize, you are met with a sharp pang in your right side. It doesn’t deter you all that much—you’ve had worse—but is still enough to to give you pause to breathe a bit heavy through clenched teeth.

Your senses are in a mess, and you feel sweat covering the entirety of your body, rendering you a sticky mess with soft sheets clinging to your skin as you try desperately to figure out what’s going on.

Though, before you can react further, your brain slowly processes the situation in a bit more of a critical manner as your heart beats through your ears.

Sheets? Laying down? A cold sweat covering your form?

“Oh god,” you breathe, “oh god, just a dream…” You let out a relieved breath when the realization dawns upon you just before slumping back into your sweat ridden bed.

Before long, you comfort yourself in the knowledge is all well as you wipe a load of sweat off of your forehead. The sensation of your facemask hugging your skin close lets your heart rest a little easier.

“God dammit,” the silent curse leaves your mouth without you even realizing it, “that’s the second time this week…” You let loose a growl of irritation at your mind’s irrational fears about the past and how you could’ve done things differently.

Finding yourself exhausted from the small bit of movement and thought, which is to be expected early in the morning after a nightmare, you lay down again with a light ‘pomf’ against the bed, which is somewhat damp from your sweat. Resting your off arm over your eyes, you let out a content sigh while trying to think of happier times and friendly faces.

And, with that, you drift into a dreamless sleep.

All is warm.

All is comfortable.

You gently nuzzle the warm pillow to try and get a better position upon it, your mind focused solely upon dominating the poofy thing for all its worth. Voraciously do you rub against it, searching for that perfect spot where it’s neither too hot nor too cold, for a seemingly unfathomable amount of time—which, in all reality, takes no more than a few seconds—before you find that spot that grants you ascension to a higher plane of thought.

A satisfied groan, though barely audible, leaves your dry mouth as you feel your muscles relax all at once. You don’t even bother to try and remove the sleep from your eyes, as your sore body eagerly calls you to slumber yet again.

Curling up slightly, you’re making to satisfy the request when something odd stops you.

That something being a sharp pang coming from your right side.

You kick involuntarily at the sudden pain, a small spasm going throughout your body all the while. Moving in a panic, you throw the covers off of yourself while desperately trying to rip your sleep mask off of your freshly peeled open eyes.

You are temporarily blinded upon removing the mask off, but you quickly adjust to the dimly lit room and it’s surroundings, all the while scanning for the aggressor who hit you in the side.

Though, much to your surprise, there’s not a soul in sight…

Matter of fact, that’s not the only thing that makes your head hurt.

Dark blue walls followed by a dark green ceiling serve as a stark contrast to your home’s wooden infrastructure, which is only accentuated by the chemical-esque smell that emanates from all around the place. No longer did the smell of dusty books or gun oil fill your nostrils to lull you into a sense of familiarity, but, rather, you’re stuck with a smell that you haven’t had a taste of since your time back in Aragon.

Your head swells with the whole situation, and you find yourself in a state of total confusion. Just what in the hell happened?

Leaning your head back while propping yourself upright, you manage to curse silently to yourself while scanning the room even more.

Indeed, you are the only one within this small cubicle. The only light for the place comes from a medium sized ceiling lamp that lets gentle splotches of yellow light trickle down from its bulb at a steady rate. The window to your immediate right, no more than seven feet away, sheds no light into your situation and only bears a dark image into the countryside.

The last thing you remember is heading off to bed after a night of drinking out with Greymane and Keen Spark at the local bar, of which went well except for the eventual fight near the end. Sure, you were tipsy after a number of shots, but you still had your mind about you the entirety of the night up until you plopped down into your bed.

Shaking your head at it all, you slowly reach down towards the tender spot that is your right side. Immediately upon making contact with a sore spot, your hand flinches back as a dull shot of pain runs through you.

Looking down, you spot the offending spot and immediately pale at the sets of bandages adorning the right side of your ribcage. They were stainless, but a hot flash like no other wracks you completely at the sight as you can feel a few things off about your side.

Four things off, to be exact.

And not four things, to be exact, but, rather, four holes.

Feeling your bits of flesh and skin being distorted never was the best feeling, and, naturally, you find yourself breathing heavy as you make to get off of the bed. Sure, the wound hurts, but you can still move around fine of you don’t aggravate the wounds too much.

Or, at least you thought.

With a growl of surprise and pain, you flinch backwards and lean back onto the bed after feeling something extremely painful around your sensitive areas.

Namely, the catheter that you’ve involuntarily ripped out.

Giving another angry growl of embarrassment and pure agony, you kick the thing to the side while trying to regain your composure. You try to ignore the putrid smell of the thing as you kick it away, and, in doing so, you give pressure to your right side and are forced to lean on the bed once again.

Wait…

Catheter?

You take a look around, and, sure enough, you confirm your suspicions that this place is a hospital. The stereotypical IV rack lies just to your right, followed by several expensive looking doohickeys that adorn a small table to your left, along with something that made you scrunch up your face in confusion.

Several bouquets of flowers lie on the desk exactly behind you and next to the head of your bed. You count ten total heads of mourning white roses, among other types you don’t recognize, which are flanked by one head of bright yellow flowers.

You blink at that. Aren’t yellow flowers supposed to symbolize joy, or something of the sort?

Shrugging off the thought, you follow the flowers down to their vases where you can see several cards of heartfelt messages and encouraging words, more than a few running the stereotypical “Get well soon” message in bright, bold letters. Each is handwritten, though, and each card is of a different style and color, each one more unique than the last.

You manage to turn yourself around easily enough to pay more attention to these little cards. Your attention was shifted utterly from the task at hand—finding out what exactly happened—to seeing who would actually care enough about your well being, besides Greymane of course, to send you flowers and a card.

Reaching down with your right arm,—your left one is currently helping your balance by leaning on the bed—you slowly reach down towards one gray colored card that sports some odd stamp of bubbles at the cover…

A sudden pang runs through your head at the image. You rub your temples for a moment, giving out a dry curse at the random and all too acute pain, before resuming your task.

You tentatively grab the light grey card in your hand and hold it up to your face, silently reading the bold, yet elegant, letters.

Get well soon

Short and straight to the point. You snort at that while absentmindedly wondering who exactly wrote this one. You can’t remember any of your close friends having anywhere near this level of flair and precision within their handwriting.

Flipping it open with a flick, you begin to read silently to yourself as your shallow breathing makes itself known as the only noise within the room.

Dear Anonymous,

despite us never being formally introduced, know that you are not forgotten, nor unwept for, within that hospital. Indeed, if it weren’t for your brave actions on that night, then many more might have landed themselves in the hospital, if not the morgue.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your service and all you sacrificed for us.

You know, I hear the rumor about the town being more than a little negative about you. But, upon meeting you that one evening, I knew that all the rumors were just that.

Dinky speaks very well of you, in fact. All throughout the night, up until her bedtime, she would speak with wild gestures and wide eyes about your deeds, the myriad of impressive pictures adorning your walls, and how you just had ‘that’ look in your eyes that let her know you aren’t afraid of anything.

Needless to say, I’m probably going to have to dissuade her from trying to be a Hunter…

She just wouldn’t stop asking me about you and why I never ventured out to meet the towering Hunter that lives on the edge of Ponyville. And, truth be told, I couldn’t find a way to tell her that I was just somewhat scared.

When you come back around, know that you’re always welcome at the Hooves household. Come by anytime for a cup of coffee when the weather has you down, or when you merely want to pop in to say hi to Dinky. I know she wouldn’t mind.

With that in mind, remember that, no matter how estranged you feel, you’ve always got friends within Ponyville.

Until next time,
Derpy Hooves.

As you finish reading the name at the very end, you are hit with the realization that sends you wide eyed.

Greymane died nine years ago, just before you left for the eastern nation of Aragon, and you’ve just been hired to deal with that horrid monster on miss Applejack’s estate the other night!

You see splotches of white in your vision at the abruptness of it all, and you steady yourself on the small desk as a nauseating feeling shoots through you.

There’s a gut wrenching amount of emotions flowing through you as the past several years rush past your mind, each one more numbing and disorientating than the last.

Finding the world too exhausting all at once, you decide to take a gentle seat upon the bed before shakily setting down the letter back where you found it. Your eyes linger on the several letters and bundles of flowers under a new light as you’re now able to guess at least one more person who wrote a letter.

Finally getting your breath under control, you gingerly rub your temples with a spare hand before leaning in on your good side’s arm. A groan of exhaustion forces itself from your mouth as your eyelids begin to gain exponentially more weight than they have any right to bear. You attempt to fight it for a moment with a gentle tap of the foot and several attempts to slap yourself awake, but, in the end, your body gives way to the day’s events.

And, with a defeated swear, you lay back on the bed and cover yourself with what little covers that you can be bothered to pull over.

There is no sound, no smell, nor want besides the primal desire for sleep’s sweet embrace.

And, just after blinking away the maddening fluid at the corners of your eyes, you are whisked away into an all encompassing darkness where reality is no more than an afterthought.

…

……?

Too cold.

You throw your body on your left side before crawling deeper into your sleep ball, with an arm steadily placed under the pillow while the other huddles close to keep your dear midsection nice and warm.

You hadn’t been left to your bed for more than a minute, and already you feel as if it’s winter back home. Long nights full of fitful sleep, with one extra layer of blankets being either too cold or too hot, followed by lazy mornings where you would think of your dreams while enjoying the pleasant feel of your worn mattress.

Pulling up the covers closer to your face, you shudder at the feel of momentary bliss as you huddle close into yourself.

Though, before you have the chance to get some actual sleep, something permeates through your eyelids without regret or mercy.

That something being a bright light, and not the one of the artificial light produced by magic.

“Oh hell no.”

And, with those famous last words muttered, you attempt to save your sweet face from the invading rays of sunlight coming from one of your windows…

Wait.

You don’t have windows in your bedroom.

Popping open a tired eye, you spot several bouquets of white roses followed by one clump of yellow ones.

“Oh, right,” you say nonchalantly while remembering it all. Eye shutting back closed, you further shove your face into the warm pillow, adamant on milking the soft thing for all its worth.

…

Your face scrunches up as your lips purse up, and, with eyebrows furrowed, you slowly crack open both eyes and lift your head to look at the bouquets yet again.

“Oh shit,” is all you can muster to say as the realization comes back to you. No calm morning followed by a bit of coffee and leftovers for breakfast, no getting to work early to try and make that one mare—one which you know has a good heart underneath that callous exterior—laugh in order to make her day at least a little better, and, worst of all, there’s no way in hell you can manage to have a normal day.

Cursing another time, albeit under your breath, you find the strength to ignore your favored notion of going back to sleep before sitting up proper in the bed.

Sitting for a long while, devoid of any thought that isn’t vulgar or coherent, you stare out blearily eyed at the wall in front of you. Several different lines of thought fight for dominance within your mind, ranging from what happened last night at Sweet Apple Acres all the way to how hungry you are, before one eventually dominates all others and asserts its rule with an iron fist.

Namely, the urge for the bathroom.

Hey, catheters only solve half of the problem. And not pleasantly, at that.

Gently removing the covers—and by that you mean nearly throwing them on the floor—you slowly sweep yourself from the bed while rubbing the sleep clear from your eyes.

Leaning slightly on your left side, you stand and audibly crack your neck while scouring the room for the restroom. You’re more than slightly surprised at how loud—and painful—the pops are, but you ignore them altogether as you spot the room’s laboratory.

Despite your entire body feeling stiff and somewhat sore, you make your way to the promised land soon enough and, with a great sigh of bliss, relieve yourself.

Finding yourself in front of the sink and mirror, you naturally give into your great thirst and slake it with a healthy dose of lead-supplemented tap water. Once you’ve received your fair share of the sweet clear liquid, you think you’ve just overdone it as a sudden flash of nausea sweeps over you.

It passes over quickly enough as you spot yourself in the mirror, though.

“Oh god,” is your immediate response as you notice the abomination that is your hair. Spread out in every direction, the once proud thing is now a disgrace to all that is holy.

And so after several minutes spent in front of the mirror tidying yourself up, you find yourself returning, albeit with a slight limp and a grimace every time you put too much pressure on your right side, to the sepulchre that holds the flowers and cards.

Balancing yourself upright on the bedside, you merely settle for staring at the cluster of flowers with your mind a million miles away. Your eyes look past the sentimental—albeit obligatory—gifts and sentiments as your mind drifts to last night.

You can’t remember anything beyond finding that one… thing somewhere within the orchard. If only you could remember it…

Blinking at the thought, you think for a moment before exactly wondering why you can’t remember exactly what went wrong.

Your bursts of nausea, the slow responses to change, a general feeling of terrible, and memory loss? You’re no doctor, but you’ll be damned if your high school’s football coach never pressed the symptoms of a concussion into your thick mind.

You smirk at that. Apparently the overaggressive manchild was actually good for something after all?

Letting the wistful look eventually subside from your mug, you find your hand slowly inching towards one light yellow card with a familiar stamp on the cover which is followed by choppy, childlike handwriting that is just barely legible and looks like it was done hastily. The obvious crayon coloring is enough to scoff at it all, though.

Hi AnonemousHi Anonymos Hi Anonymous!

How are you? Are you alright? Applejack won’t tell me what happened, like everypony else, but I’m not worried, I know that you’re alright.

You’re a Hunter, and Applejack says that Hunters are the best of the best, they can’t be beat! Granny Smith was even telling me how you used to help keep the farm safe when you first came here some nine years back, how you would help keep out Timberwolves and the like just because she asked. She’s really kooky sometimes, but she remembered you helping around the farm and helping big brother Macintosh with his math homework when he almost failed eighth grade.

Seriously, why doesn’t anyone tell me these things? Heck, everypony only talks about you all quiet like, with hushed words and low hanging heads. You’ve been nothing but helpful, I reckon!

I don’t know what’s happening, but come back soon! You gotta tell me what happened, and why Applejack’s being so weird about all this.

Apple Bloom

By the end of it, you’re left with a goofy smile that you can’t help. Like most people, you have a soft spot for little ones and their endearing stupidity.

“I’m surprised the old nut remembers me helping her,” you chuckle out with a look of nostalgica overtaking you, “I’d be lying if I said that I don’t miss her apple fritters, though…”

Letting the memories flow through your freshly awoken mind, you smile broadly at the thoughts of happier times and good company. Long since have those times died and withered, but you still hold their memories close to your chest.

Besides your hunts and trying to make that one mare at your early morning shift at your secondary job laugh, the memories were crucial in keeping you going when times get tough.

Giving out a small laugh as you remember a specific instance of your idiocy upon Sweet Apple Acres far before it became home to one of the Element bearers, you all but drip with gusto as the memories begin to come in like a tidal wave. Stories of old come back as if they happened yesterday, and, for a moment, all is perfect.

That moment is broken all too soon, though, when you hear the sound of one door several feet behind you open.

Leaning your head back just enough to get one of your peripherals on the door, all is silent as your sensible chuckle dies in your throat while your mouth goes into a thin line.

There, just in front of the now open door, stands one Equestrian just as bleary eyed and confused as you are. You two lock eyes immediately, your eyes matching the shock of his light blue ones, and you both are still for several moments as you eat up the other’s form.

You can eagerly say that you’ve never seen this one bloke, that’s for sure. His slick hairstyle, one of a greasy combover that looks suspiciously like a fake head of hair, leads down to an oval pair of glasses that sit precariously on the bridge of his light beige muzzle. But, most striking about him is that dominating horn that sits just above his eyes with an almost tangible aura of power about it.

Truth be told, you’re not paranoid about unicorns.

You just know what they’re capable of.

Raising an unimpressed eye, you set down the card back on the table with an audible ‘clack’ in its upright position while maintaining eye contact with the Equestrian all the while.

You chose to simply tune out the Equestrian as you slowly turn towards him while purposefully dusting off your loose fitting hospital gown. You only realize that the gesture has little practical use as you finish it, but you decide not to cry over spilt milk for too long as your eyes snap up to meet the Equestrian’s.

“So, doc,” you say evenly while trying to hide the slight grimace as you stand straight, “mind telling me exactly happened last night?”

The doctor in question—one easily identifiable by his generic white overcoat and stereotypical stethoscope wrung around his neck—gives off a flash of anger on his face before wiping it all away with a gentle facade.

Silence soon reigns king in the room as he sizes you up, a bit of trepidation visible under the mask of kind understanding as he muses the thought of telling you upfront. The silent game continues on for a moment too long, and your patience with the Equestrian snaps as you don’t care to maintain the pretense of amicability.

“Oi!” you bark with a few snaps of the fingers to get his attention back to the situation at hand, “Did you hear me, or are you just brain-dead?”

That snaps him out of his daydreaming, that’s for damn sure.

“Of course I heard you, sir,” he says with a glower now plastered upon his face as he doesn’t dare to hide his annoyance with you, “it’s just that… Well, perhaps you should take a seat. My names Dr. Horse, by the way.” His voice has some bite at the end, but all you can feel is sheer bark as you merely shrug off his needless requests.

“I can take whatever you throw at me,” is all you have to say to Horse while you cross your arms in a no-nonsense manner. Your lips go thin again as you give a barely perceptible nod to the Equestrian, ready for whatever news he may perceive as troublesome.

If something truly bad happened, they you’d already be dead.

“If you insist, sir,” he secedes the point before shaking his head and meeting your eyes, “if you must know, I’ll start from the beginning…”

The good doctor looks up to you with mournful eyes as he finishes his tale at long last, his eyes just having the thinnest layers of tears visible on them. He looks as if someone just kicked his puppy, if the lowly held shoulders and depressed eyes are anything to judge by.

And, of course, you were right on your presumption of this one. He’s your stereotypical unicorn: one of substantial power, but with mental capacity equivalent to your shoe.

You’ve just learned that Caramel was killed by the same beast that left you with four surprisingly small holes in your side. Horse goes on to say about how the damage was mostly superficial, the wound only going about a full inch into you, but the toxin within the beast’s claws nearly did you in, as it was released directly into the bloodstream in four separate points in large quantities.

If someone were to ever ask why you wore so many layers of padded cloth in your hunts—you were often more likely to die of heatstroke than any other risk—then you would refer them to situations like this where several of your organs were saved by the thick layers of padding and camouflage.

But, worst of all, the Equestrian before you expects you to care about the death of Caramel.

You raise an eye at the Equestrian before giving out a haughty scoff at just how much this one is caring for his compatriot. He actually expects you, a recluse from the town who spends his days fetching game in the forest, to care about the death of some nobody farmer who you’ve only ever met a handful of times.

Oh yeah, and there’s the fact that you’ve been sleeping away the past four days. That was nice too, you guess.

“I’m more worried about how you preluded to the fact thought that there were two sets of tracks around the body rather than anything else,” you say aloud while tilting your head slightly. “Matter of fact, have we even identified exactly what we’re up against here?”

The immediate impact of your scoff and words are quite amusing, to say the least.

After blinking away his tears—it seems as if this one was particularly fond of the dead fool—, Horse makes to scowl at you in a way that you haven’t seen since your last encounter with Keen Spark several weeks back. You can practically taste the loathing in his glare and the hatred that is now flowing freely through his body.

You smirk knowingly at the Equestrian before waving him off and pointing at the door. “Please, good doctor, go see if you can’t fetch up my release forums so I get out of your hair before you say anything you regret, hmm?”

Horse’s eyes twitch slightly at this—something which only gives you cause to scoff and raise your eyebrows in amusements—before he follows your wise words and makes way for the door.

As the door slams shut, you’re left to your thoughts and the sweet letters yet again.

Even if your day doesn’t turn out that good, you’ll still have this moment to look back upon and smile.

And so you continue to look down and continue to read the letters which, admittedly, make you pause and question the intentions of the writers.

Specifically one Applejack, as her is particularly self-deprecating and worried about your state.

It takes you a moment to wonder why you should even care about her and why your first thought was one of wanting to debunk her suspicions of worry. You’re sure that she doesn’t even like you—what with your botched first introductions and whatnot—and that this all might just be a well crafted hoax due to some Equestrian obligation with their hatred for all things associated with death.

Maybe you’ll say hello to her on the way back home, though. If nothing else, you’ll get to say hi to the Apples again.

Maybe there’ll be apple fritters?

Ooooh man, now there’s a thought to get a smile on your face!

Several hours have passed since your humorous encounter with the good doctor, and now your thoughts are all in a scrambled mess as another pang flares up from your side after putting just an ounce of excess pressure upon your right leg. You only grimace at it, as opposed to earlier curses when you were indoors and in private, as the thought of embarrassing yourself with a slip of the tongue is exponentially worse than any pain your flesh wound may bring.

Thankfully, you’re now back in a set of familiar clothes that fit perfectly on your form.

Sadly, you’re using said clothes in a trip down to see your superior, Lieutenant Damascus of the Royal Guard.

A primal—and often dominant—part of you votes to ignore the obligation altogether, but a smaller part of you demands that you just get it over with.

Well, it more has to do with the fact that the Royal Guard station lie just in the direction of your house than anything else. You’re a sucker for convenience, after all.

The soft orange glow of the sunset bathes Ponyville’s buildings and crowds in a gentle orange light, letting a sleepy feel overtake the otherwise lively town that is always filling to the brim with rural antics of the youngins or other prepubescents.

Several handfuls of Equestrians remain throughout the town at this hour, some of which you actually recognize, though you’re quick to catch onto the glances and hushed conversations before even the whispers even leave their mouths. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that you’ve been the talk of the town—as well as what happened on the orchard—for the past four days.

Keeping your chin high, you continue on your way, nonplussed about the several pairs of eyes that flicker to the back of your skull as you try desperately to not irritate the wound.

One thing that you notice, however, is the appearance of a guardsman on each corner.

Your only reaction is to shrug lightly at this. The last, and only, time that you’ve seen this occur was directly after Nightmare Moon’s return some couple of months ago. And, even then, with all their pomp and shining armor, they were completely forgotten during the chaos of that night and were left to keeping the townspeople from panicking.

Walking—and somewhat limping—past all of them without as much of a thought, the entirety of Ponyville proper passes by in a blur as you think about the current situation.

Was the good doctor in his right mind when he said that there were two sets of tracks? Just what in the hell did you shoot? And, least of all, what happened to Baron?

Before long, you find yourself smack dab in front of the over-glorified Guard station. Made entirely out of concrete, and bearing a great number of banners alongside all of its walls—undoubtedly there are several to the false gods—which nearly drape down to the ground from the third, and final, floor of the massive complex.

You scowl at the sight, memories playing through your head at that one infamous day along the coasts of Griffonstone, before cracking your neck and entering the station. If nothing else, the place is warm enough to give shelter from the biting cold of October.

The talk with the mare at the front desk goes by without a hitch, and before long you’re ascending the fourth, and final, level of the building. The stairs make it an arduous journey, one filled with momentary stops to let your wounds cease their sizzling pain, but you find yourself before the all too familiar door of one Damascus.

Sure, she didn’t have supreme control of all that happens within Ponyville proper, but her word still carries significant weight within the close-knit command structure. And, more importantly, she was the one who signed your paycheck.

The Hunters, while technically not a direct branch of the Equestrian military, are still required to report to certain members of the Equestrian Military Police, lest it all devolve into chaos.

Shaking your head away from all the incessant, haughty chatter from your brain about who lies beyond the door, you give two brief knocks that are met with a gruff, yet familiar, “Come in!”

You straighten yourself to a respectable position before nodding silently to yourself and letting yourself in. Immediately, you are hit with the scent of tobacco and cheap beer, which is accompanied by the sight of two unwelcome and detestable Equestrians which makes you internally scowl.

The door closes with a soft ‘thud’ from just behind as you now stand in the center of the office, eying the dominant figure of the two, of which has a poorly rolled cigarette held loosely between her chapped lips. You recognize this one instantly, an aspiring guard from Manehattan with one hell a poker face and a horn much sharper than she.

“Oh yeah,” the aforementioned mare says aloud with a broad smile, “you’re still alive, oh how good for you!” Her staple white fur gives way to dark bags under the dark blue eyes which stare into your own with mild amusement and loathing. A few strands of fading blue hair reach down to the corners of her eyes, something you’d learned that she only does when around good company.

Taking it all in stride, you merely ignore the second figure off to the side entirely while absentmindedly cracking your knuckles.

“Yeah, it’s what I tend to do, Damascus” you say with your tone turning slightly condescending, “now, can I get a report on what happened these past four days so I can leave this place? I’d love to stay and chat with you, but god knows I actually have things worthwhile left to do before sunset.”

You can almost smell the alcohol behind her yellow-tinged teeth as she guffaws at the rebuttal. She shakes her head in faux-amusement before snapping to attention at you, eyes narrow slits as she attempts to stare you down.

“I should be asking you why someone died on your watch, Anonymous,” Damascus says with voice low, in its best attempt to be menacing. Her posture changes from one sitting loosely behind the desk to one with a foreleg draped over the worn wooden desk, her head tilted slightly downwards as to really push for the effect of something dire truly going on.

“You seriously think that I let it happen?” you say aloud with a wry grin. “Please, you know that I’d rather avoid all the paperwork that comes with another dead Equestrian, along with the mandatory visit to this pisshole that you call a ‘workplace’.” Your arms are wide open come the end of your explanation, gesturing to the room as a whole as you circle in place to emphasize the point.

Her eyes don’t bulge in the slightest, though.

You give a quick ‘Ha!’ at this before continuing on with a lopsided grin appearing on your face, “I know that you’d have given the order for my head if you even had the smallest bit of evidence against me, so don’t think that you know something that I don’t.”

It’s then when you hear the gentle voice that sends chills down your spine. A voice so calm, so restrained and such a far cry from its normal disdain, that you can’t help but feel extremely uncomfortable, if only for a moment. The last time he’s talked to you was nine years ago, just after the Silver Stallion Incident nine years ago.

“Why don’t you calm down?” the garnet colored stallion says with a singsong voice before taking another swig of his bottle. Your eyes meet his green ones as you give him a sidelong glance, your upper lip reeling in disgust, before you make quick to let him know his place after mustering your courage.

“I didn’t come here to make chatter with you, Keen Spark,” you remark with an accusing finger pointed at his smug face, “now why don’t you make like a tree and shut the fuck up?”

The stallion in question merely gives you a warm smile before going back into his drink with gusto, his eyes flashing something akin to knowledge as he tilts his head back to let his magical grasp on the bottle lift it high.

Turning back to Damascus, the aspiring lieutenant, you lock eyes with her before the whole situation seems to settle.

You’re not sure why the two are sitting around and having a grand old time like they’re old friends, but you don’t intend to find out.

The staring session between you two lasts for several moments, bordering on a minute, before the mare scrunches up her face in anger before her horn lights up in a shade of grey magic. An audible ‘pop’ is heard before you feel something flat and lightweight hit your chest.

Forever dexterous, you catch the folder without breaking eye contact with Damascus.

“I don’t need your shit,” you can hear her grumble as you turn on your heel to leave, “little shit coming in and killing my buzz…”

“I’m older than you,” you blurt out before closing the door, just a moment before something hard hits it and violently shatters. The sound of liquids dripping against the floor and glass pattering away on the ground is enough to greet you out, which makes you smile in the small victory.

Well, if nothing else, you can at least sleep happy later tonight knowing that you’d gotten the last say.

While walking home, you realized something. Something very important, something that you’re surprised that you’ve neglected for these few fleeting hours of realizations and newfound pain.

That something is your appetite.

You take a whiff of the strong smell of vegetable grease and savory meals being prepared by slow roast within the restaurant. The slick, white walls reflect the magic lit light bulbs strung about the place’s ceiling, illuminating the nearly three dozen tables and accompanying seats in a healthy amount of warm light.

Nearly all of them are empty, save for a solemn few which are scattered about at equal intervals, usually among the window-seats.

Doing your best to ignore them, you approach the cashier with a steady gait and a chin held high. Sure, it’s been several weeks since you entered such a place for anything more than a good milkshake or similar treat, but you just can’t be bothered in cooking anything tonight.

“Good evening,” you say to the young stallion manning the cash register, of whom gives you a polite smile and ‘hello’ back, “I’ll take the number seven today, no flowers, thank you very much.” The transaction goes steadily enough, with you handing over a small handful of bits and telling him to keep the insignificant change, before you’re left to your machinations to wait for the order to finish.

You find an isolated table—thankfully it’s one in a corner with a nice window view of the sunset—and plop down before resting your forehead against the impromptu pillow that is a pair of folded arms. And, before you can even blink, you give into exhaustion that your wounds have created in the past hours of lenient physical activity.

…

……

There is a faint ‘clank’ as something metallic and heavy is set in front of you, but, by god, the smell is enough to let you know what it is.

“Thanks,” you say only with a slight slur, unable to move your head from the comfortable creases in your arms that some call elbows. There is a faint response, one of a generic ‘no problem’, before you hear the sound of hoofsteps against the wooden floor slowly grow fainter until they cease altogether.

And so, with a great sigh, you force yourself to look at the meal before you with a voracious and steady gaze. For using fake meat within their patties, these Equestrians know damn well how to make a meat-free burger that isn’t half bad.

Sitting up with a brief yawn, you lazily begin to enjoy the meal of one burger and a side of potato wedges. The calm nature of the evening and a gentle chill in the air makes it all the more comfortable as you open your mouth to take the first bite…

And then your eyes absentmindedly snap to the front door to your far right opening.

“Well I’ll be damned,” is what you would’ve said if your mouth wasn’t filled with freshly prepared burger. Instead, it comes out as a rather crude amalgamation somewhere along the lines of trying to say the Pledge of Allegiance and gurgle sulfuric acid at the same time.

There, walking in with tired eyes and a carefree filly with her book bags still strapped on, stands Derpy and her child. The mother stands as a nice bit of juxtaposition to her babbling and smiling foal that has eyes contently locked onto her carer’s expression as they move towards the front desk.

You keep your eyes on them for a moment longer while enjoying the slow-cooked meal, not sure exactly to react.

You’re too far to hear anything, but you can all but feel the excitement coming from young Dinky as she prattles, presumably, about what she had learned today at school to her slightly weary mother. The filly doesn’t notice, not in the least, as she moves to circle her mother as they walk forwards, in a little show of her energy and speed.

The mare, on the other hand, looks completely drained. Even from this range, and with your not so spectacular vision, you can clearly see the slight bags under her eyes, which are followed by a slow gait and a head slightly hung due to the day’s events.

Hm, so that’s what being a parent is like.

Truly, life is hell.

Gulping down the first bite of the chow, you give out a small chuckle at the droll display before reminiscing back to your own days of youth. Yes, back before you grew estranged to all, you were quite the talkative child who would often seek his parents’ wisdom and guidance through the world. In fact, you would never shut up.

Memories rush by of forgotten faces and detestable people as you reminisce of times long past with your jaw slowly having at the meal. Though, before you have time to truly ponder the sad thing that was your childhood, you’re caught off guard amidst a thought-filled sip from your fruity drink.

That something is a little blur of bouncing blonde in your peripherals.

Raising an eyebrow and glancing at the odd vision, you’re met with the tight-lipped, yet beaming, Dinky Hooves who manages to hold her head just above the table by supporting her front hooves against the table’s edge, which reminds you of a disobedient dog from time’s past. The eyes of the same shade of light yellow meet your skeptical ones as you continue to sip, forever unfazed, from the complimentary straw, pinkie eternally raised in the traditional fashion.

Several long moments pass with your drinking being the only notable noise as you two continue to lock eyes through the several moments that dare to drag onto minutes. You don’t dare break the eye contact—or the drinking, for that matter—as the situation is half-entertaining, half-alien to you, as it’s been quite some time since someone’s sought you out for reasons other than your skills.

Though, thankfully enough, you’re not forced to act as a certain mare comes to your rescue from just behind her foal. Her approach was soft, so soft that you didn’t even notice until she was in your peripherals, though her voice is slightly strained when she speaks.

“Sorry,” Derpy says with a sheepish chuckle that is followed by a rub to the back of the neck, “you know how it goes, look away for a moment and then they’re gone…” A small smile forms on her face before she looks down towards her child and shakes her head at the young one in a playful manner.

“It’s fine,” you reassure her with a dismissive wave of the hand, “she wasn’t a bother, in fact, she hasn’t even said anything to me. She’s just kind of… stood there and stared at me expectantly.” Just after the words leave your mouth, you and the mother both look down the see the little one realize she was the topic of discussion, to which her eyes go wide and her vision flickers between yours and her mother’s.

A nervous smile now on her face, she descends from leaning on the table for support and lands back on the floor with a soft ‘clop’ that echoes throughout the silent restaurant. Now it’s time for her to utter a nervous laugh, though much higher in pitch, that forces the corners of your lips to curl upwards in amusement.

“Like mother, like daughter,” is all you can say at the scene before you. And, thankfully enough, the other two find it humorous enough to give out a good laugh at it, to which you join after a moment’s hesitation.

“Come, come,” you utter after regaining your wits after suddenly being forced into social contact and overdoing your innate fears, “take a seat and forget what ails you.” You gesture openly towards the two seats opposite of your own, and, with smiles, the two accept and take their places.

Both of them show clear interest in you and are expectant of something, some sort of explanation, as the two sets of blonde eyes are fixated upon you. The child tilts her head in anticipation while the mother merely relaxes in her seat, seemingly grateful for the small break from the day’s events.

Not being one to disappoint, you lean back in the chair before bowing your head in slight resignation while lifting up a palm as your lips begin to move. “So, I presume that you two are slightly curious about the whole situation…?”

Dinky nods her head furiously while her mother settles for a quick, and much more calm, one that is interrupted by her daughter.

“Yep!” the young Dinky blurts out with a raised hoof, mimicking the generic classroom behavior.

You expect her to continue on with her question, but she looks on expectantly with a look of interest within her eyes, hungry for knowledge like all children are. Though, before long, she realizes her faux pas and gives out a nervous giggle before getting on with it.

“Are you okay?”

That catches you a bit off guard, you’ll admit that much. You expected something to be asked about how you “beat the monster” or what happened, something of that childish nature.

“Me?” you say aloud to buy more time than anything else as you point weakly to yourself in disbelief, “I’m invincible, kid, so don’t worry your little head about it.” A little pang shoots to your spine as you gently pat your side, but nothing else as your staple, cocky grin returns to your mug, “I’ll be good as new come next week, trust me.”

Wonder is evident on the filly's eyes, but the mare is a bit more skeptical, and rightly so, at your bravado concerning the wound. She raises a skeptical eye at you, one to which you respond with a roll of the shoulders.

“It’ll take a lot more than… whatever that thing was to take me down for good,” you dismiss with another flick of the hand, “but, yeah, I’m not dead yet, thanks for asking.”

With another bashful motion of the palm, you lean back even deeper into your seat as the situation dawns on you that, despite your usually quick mind, that you had no idea how to actually hold a conversation with the mother and her foal. And by that you mean that you have no idea how to break the ice, nor what they would be interested in talking about.

“I hope the hospital wasn’t too bad.” And, thankfully enough, you’re not too pressured to speak first as the weary mare does so first, and with a welcoming tone that you haven’t heard in quite some time. It’s almost as if she actually worried about how your stay was, or even cared for that matter.

“Actually, I just woke up earlier this evening,” you state matter-of-factly with a finger pointed upwards, thoughts of previous moments now all forgotten as you look the mare in the eye, “I was completely gone for the past four days, slept like a baby and had a brief session of concussion-induced amnesia, funnily enough.” There was a moment of silence as you break eye contact to look out of the window to see the glorious sun setting over all the lands before mumbling to yourself, “That’d make a pretty cool story, actually…”

“Did you read my letter, Mr Anonymous?” blurts out little Dinky, which gets your attention to snap back into the situation at hand, “I was kind’a hoping that, you know, since you seem like a nice person and all…” Her words die in her small throat, however, as she leads onto the end, eluding to something that you once read that made you very, very confused.

“Of course I read it, thank you by the way,” you say with a slight scrunch of the face, “but I’m rather baffled as to why you’re so interested with Hunters all of a sudden. As of now, you’re the only one who’s really shown even a smidget of curiosity with us,” your words are rather vague, unwilling to fully go into depth about her request that settled oddly with you when your eyes originally read her words.

The young Dinky looks not dismayed by your words, however, but only excited as she sits up in her seat with eyes wide. “Nobody ever really speaks about them, they’re like a modern day… enigmer? Enigmeh?” She fumbles with her words for a moment, but, thankfully enough, her mother whispers the right word to her daughter, which defuses the confused look of Dinky which turns into one of excitement yet again.

“Enigma, yeah!” little Dinky says with eyes filled to the brim with childlike jubilation, “I didn’t even know Hunters were a thing until Apple Bloom told me about them last Monday just before we went to grab you!”

Her eyes slightly dim as she realizes something, though, but only for a moment before she speaks again. “Like, nobody speaks of it, but Hunters are just as important as the Royal Guard,” Dinky says with forearms gesticulating wildly as she stands on her seat to allow for such movement, “Royal Guard keep away the bad people, and Hunters keep away the monsters.” She ends her little speech with clanging her two front hooves together, as if having two little hand figures duke it out.

Though, before you have time to respond properly, two trays and drinks are set down by the waitress to your right. The mother gives off her thanks, while little Dinky merely grabs the oversized milkshake before her and begins to suck furiously from the terribly inadequate straw.

Huh. Apparently you aren’t the only one who enjoys the burgers after all.

“To answer your question,” you say while grabbing a potato wedge and waving it about idly, “it’s because we Hunters don’t get golden armor and, generally speaking, aren’t of Equestrian blood. You can see how it would hurt the national pride of Equestria to hear about griffons, or a creature like myself, defending you all rather than another Equine clad in enchanted armor who bears your colors.”

And, much to your surprise, the two still give you their undivided attention as you shed some light unto the situation. Just as you blink, though, you catch confusion by the one that you wouldn’t expect.

Well, at least Derpy lives up to her name. You lock eyes with her and raise an eyebrow in question, giving a silent nod to prompt the question in hopes to slake her curiosity, and give rout to her doubts.

“I think I know the answer already,” she says with a short pause to take a sip of her water, “but, why are Hunters mostly foreign people?”

You wonder if she truly wants to know the answer, as Equestrians are usually skittish as all hell about The War and all facts concerning it. Hell, you’d found out soon after returning some several months ago that people knew very little, if anything at all, about it besides the sides and the war crimes which are so well written about.

“Equestrian education and culture focuses on the 'magic of friendship' and other such ideals that run opposite to what us Hunters do: keeping people safe by other means." Ever so idly do you lean back in your seat while lifting up a potato wedge between your fingers before plopping it in your mouth and continuing, "Naturally, it's not that desirable of a lifestyle over anything else that your everyday pony can get here, especially when the next closest thing is serving Celestia herself with the title of Royal Guard. My upbringing, as well those of griffons and minotaurs for that matter, varies drastically in terms of what life is sacred and how you exactly one should see violence as a means to an end, among a myriad of other things."

“And,” you conclude while slowly relaxing in your seat and raising your drink to bear, “that’s why the other two Hunters here in Ponyville are griffins who also live on the outskirts.”

Derpy gives out an understanding nod before she looks down to her meal, and begins to delve into it with only moderate enthusiasm.

You don’t fail to catch the sight of Dinky watching you all the while, though. And, as usual, there’s a hint of recognition and curiosity within her eyes as she continues to suck in some milkshake through the straw that gives only air.

“Why hasn’t Miss Cheerilee taught us about The War yet?” little Dinky says after releasing her vice grip upon the straw, her blonde eyes now looking up towards her mother for some guidance.

A flash of apprehension crosses Derpy’s face before she wipes it away and looks down to her child, her mouth full of potato wedges. “You’re a bit young, sweetie,” she says after swallowing the load, “but you’ll learn about it, trust me.” And, with that, her eyes have a placating and caring nature about them as she smiles down at her child, not wanting to break the child’s reality apart and introduce her to the real world just yet.

Little Dinky, however, merely purses her lips and darts her eyes off to the side before grumbling something to herself before biting down onto her straw.

You give off a light chuckle at the child’s antics, and are soon joined by Derpy who also is able to enjoy the brief moments of levity. And, just as your merriment reaches its apex, the little one looks up with an indignant spark in her eyes before pouting.

“I’m twelve, that should be old enough for anything!”

There is a clear moment of silence as you look straight at the little filly, eyes of which are currently flickering between you and her mother's, as you manage to hold a poker face. Soon, as you find out, Derpy isn’t nearly as skilled as you with the art of deception as she manages to burst out into another fit of laughter soon after one rather long session of eye contact between her and little Dinky.

Soon enough the whole table is enveloped with a deep laugh of all three of you—Dinky most likely is just laughing because you two are—that dies down all too soon.

The meal passes in relative silence after that, with the small talk consisting of what little things about the town that you’ve missed during your little nap, how Ponyville now has an unspoken schedule where the streets are empty come eight, and the increased guard presence within the town.

It was all interesting, but nothing truly noteworthy in its own right.

When the last bit of meal is scarfed down, you all lean back in the chairs and merely enjoy the late evening feel of the place as the gentle sunset bathes the restaraunt in a nice orange. So nice, in fact, that you feel yourself begin to drift off into something resembling a food coma, though, before anything of the sort can happen, Derpy’s voice fills your ears and kills all notions of sleep.

“Oh shoot,” she says while looking to the window to your side and then to the large clock on one of the establishment’s walls, “time really flies, huh?” With that, she gives an unintentional flap of her wings to get them moving again before standing from her seat and wiping her mouth with one of the many napkins provided with her meal.

Upon realizing what she was so surprised about, you too feel your face fall, if just a little bit, as you had plans for the time after this meal. Namely visiting your neighbors down in the acres, but, as Murphy's law would dictate, nothing ever goes right for you.

“Well,” you say while straightening your back and getting out of your seat while handling the trash of all three as a courtesy, “that went by faster than I thought possible.” You quickly fill out the garbage and return the trays to the young cashier just before catching up to the two as they wait by the front door for you.

“Thanks,” you say aloud, just noticing how Dinky is having much more success with her milkshake now that it’s not pretty much frozen, and how Derpy holds the door open for you and insists that you be the first one out. Another set of thanks are given before you all stand outside the establishment with heads held high and one little filly sipping noisily from her creamy treat.

“I’ll see you two around town, I guess?” you say with a nervous chuckle, not entirely sure about how to go on with the departing.

Though, thankfully, the mare holds her own in the terms of socializing skills as she comes to your rescue with a warm smile and a dismissive wave of the hoof.

“Of course, of course!” she says with a flick of the hair, “Thanks for keeping us company in there, it was really good to fina-”

And then that’s when you all realize it.

You’ve never actually introduced yourself to either little Dinky or her mother, Derpy.

You rub your neck nervously at that before putting on a sheepish grin and giving a quick bow of the head to both of them. “Sorry,” you say with eyes flickering between the two, “never got to properly introduce myself.” You take a step back before dusting yourself off and doing a steep bow that lasts for a few solid seconds. You raise to your full height with a cocky grin now upon your face, the calm and collected facade returning in full force.

“Anonymous Unknown, at your service.”

Derpy, for the most part, looks a bit taken back by this. Though before long she manages to catch herself and, with a shake of the head, she too gives a bow before looking up with a sheepish smile.

“Derpy Hooves,” she says before gesturing towards her smaller compatriot, “and this is-”

“Ditzy Hooves!” blurts out the little one as she smiles broadly and gives you an enthusiastic wave while she holds her milkshake aloft by a gentle purple aura, one which she immediately returns to after the words have left her mouth.

“Thanks for talking with me and mom, Mr Anonymous,” she continues after relenting from the drink for another brief moment, “You’re a really cool guy, and way more smart than anypony gives you credit for.”

You’re taken back when you hear this. It’s been some several months, give or take a few, since you heard something so complimentary without it being forced or being said with a hint of some ulterior motive behind it.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t we?” Derpy says to her child, once again filling in where you pause. She leans over to give little Dinky a rub on the head, one which she leans into and giggles with joy.

Shaking your head and clearing any thoughts of doubt or fear, you jab a thumb back at the direction of your house and speak without being able to meet their eyes.

“Yeah, thank you and all that, but it’s getting kind of late, and I’ve yet to even talk to my boss about what happened,” there is a moment where the wind picks up and whips everyone’s hair about the place, yet you don’t blink as you continue your farewell. “It was fun, until next time, you two.”

Dinky settles for another enthusiastic wave followed by an energetic bounce—no doubt due to the milkshake which is now half empty—while her mother settles for a kind smile and a small wave.

And, with your own lips curling into a small smile, you turn heel and begin to make your way home as the sun sets just to your right, keeping a solemn light over you as your battered and bruised body limps home, eager to be away from the day’s worries.

After the whole situation, though, there’s one thing that you can’t shake off, no explain.

It’s the giant smile plastered on your face as you think of the two and how they actually cared about how your day was.

Author's Note

I'm tired, I haven't done a lick of work for two major, major assignments due at the beginning of next month, and I'm going to homecoming in two weeks with an actual grill for the first time.

And how do I decide to spend my time?

Writing about ponies, naturally.

I hope this chapter wasn't too sporadic, but I want to put something out before leaving for a couple days. As per usual, let me know what you think within the comments, ~~it seriously means so much to me, guys, like I can't articulate my appreciation,~~ and all that good stuff!

Until next time, don't be a stranger.