May 15, 8057 AD

Location unknown

Crash. Smash. Crunch.

Heavy fists pummel my stomach and face, over and over and over again. I can't move; one of the Shoro has a hold of my limbs. The Device dangles from my neck by the straps, but I can't reach it due to the alien's grip.

I have enough time between punches to take in my surroundings. The Shoro who's punching me, the yellow-chested warden commandant, has very bulky arm and back muscles, lending extreme power to the blows. The servant warrior is keeping me restrained, but it's quite wiry and thin. With a bit of luck and some intelligence, I might be able to break free.

We're in the centre of a medieval village. For the most part, the houses are quite small, with timber frames and thatched roofs. The crystal titanic seems to have some sort of fortress built into its branches, with a grand staircase leading up to the massive doors. It looks completely ridiculous, but as the fists crack my body armour I have no time to think about it.

I need to get out of here right fucking now.

I pretend to writhe in vain, eliciting a demonic, reverberating laugh from the warden commandant. It doesn't expect the incredibly stupid thing I'm about to do.

I use the servant warrior's fists for leverage and push myself forward as much as I can, driving myself straight into the next punch. The action horribly dislocates my left shoulder and shrapnel from my armour pierces my frontal scales, but I manage to startle them enough that I can get an arm free.

While the Shoro are just realising what's going on, I pull my raybeam emitter from the dark recesses of my armpit and sever the servant warrior's arms.

As I fall to the ground, one disembodied arm still clinging to my own and weighing it down, I take the Device and slip it into one of my countless inner coat pockets. Shooting a long, concentrated blast from the emitter, I quickly dissolve the servant warrior's head. The corpse locks up instantly.

I immediately spin to the other, shaking off the servant warrior's arm as I do so, and slice off the warden commandant's left foreleg with another accurate shot. It staggers backward, teetering on its three remaining legs, panting and gasping in a hollow voice.

I have a bit of time to think while it's distracted by the creamy yellow blood pouring from the stump of its lower shoulder.

My mind saunters toward the Device. It's its fault, I'm sure, that I'm here -- wherever I am. I have no idea how I could've simply popped from my world to this weird place, but the Device probably had a hand in it.

I might as well surge the cochlorophyne battery. I'll fire on the internal reactor until the fuel leaks out, poisoning and dissolving the Shoro when its helmet filters mix the gas with pure nitrogen. It's as fitting an end as any.

I slowly, theatrically lift the Device for the Shoro to see, ignoring the screaming agony in my shoulder. I place the emitter's barrel against it.

"This is for all the lives your friends have taken!" I shout, my voice dripping with infinite hatred. "Shorkah! Sol I! Arcturus VI! Alpha Centauri, I avenge thee!"

I don't know why I went all poetic there. Say nothing of it.

My finger closes around the trigger.

The Shoro straightens, its eyes growing wider and brighter.

Before I can react, it launches itself forward and rips the Device from my hand, burning my palm with the friction. It then slaps the emitter out of my other hand and kicks me down for good measure.

I'm half-blinded by the brilliant scarlet blood dripping into my eyes, but I limp forward regardless.

The roar of gravity repulsors fills the air. Blearily raising my head, I catch a glimpse of the Shoro flying away, cradling the Device in its hands. Within a minute it's nothing more than a speck in the sky.

I have no idea who or what lives here, but I know the Shoro believe that anything that isn't a Shoro is impure and must die. If the Shoro is given time to recover from its wounds... that's it. Everything will die, no matter how many billions there are to kill. At least, I assume so, given the medieval appearance of this town.

I have to stop that from happening.

My nemesis appears to have flown over a dense forest. My emitter's custom-made sensors should be able to follow the trail of repulsor exhaust for a couple of months at least. It's time to get moving.

I take a step forward.

I stagger and wobble.

No. I need to keep moving...

...need to sleep...

...can't walk...

Something's happened.

My God, I'm dying.

May 20, 8057 AD

Village hospital

"Don't know... scientifically... Princesses..."

Voices keep fading in and out of my mind. Some words seem garbled and quiet, but conversely, others seem to stand out like a moose in a hot pink sombrero. Somebody's started calling for a doctor... a woman, I think.

I don't know where I am. I'm in a bed, but that's about all I can tell. A bandage around my head obstructs my vision. I can make out faint silhouettes behind it, but nothing more substantial than that.

I must be... injured. Why? Why would I be injured?

The memories march slowly back into my mind, bearing grim images. I see a Shoro's head hitting the floor, staring up at me with dying eyes as its lifeblood pours out. A faded grey boot severs its nitrogen pipes and it ceases to live.

Further back, I see my mother, comatose for two centuries now. The hospital wants to take her off life support to make room for more 'viable' patients, but I keep bribing them not to.

I search further still as my mind sluggishly reactivates.

My father's head, hanging from a tendril of flesh tied to a web of organs and arteries in the trees, swinging in the wind.

Two bloodied eye sockets staring down into my soul.

Something in my mind clicks. I suddenly know what happened. The Shoro escaped.

The Shoro escaped!

I feel new life flowing into my limbs and I begin to twitch, eager to begin the hunt. My mind shoots into the present, letting go the dreadful year of 5370. My right hand clenches into a fist as I test my muscles.

One of my legs gives an involuntary shake and kick. A yelp sounds about two metres away from my left ear, followed by the sound of something metal crashing to the ground.

It's high time I got a look at my surroundings. I raise my hand, ignoring shouts of fear, and untie the bandage around my eyes. It's soaked with my blood, staining it a bright scarlet. That's alright; I have an advanced first-aid kit.

I rise, bending my torso forward in an admirable curl-up, a feat of abdominal awesomeness that leaves me in a lot of pain. I expect I'm injured there from the Shoro's absurdly strong punches. Normally, I can take multiple tons of force to that region, but the Shoro broke right through both the body armour and the reinforced scales.

I'm in a hospital. Hmm. Decidedly not good, but decidedly not unexpected. What worries me most is that the technology seems to be several thousand years behind the modern age. The crash of metal I heard earlier seems to have been an IV stand; I take the needles out of my limbs with disgust.

I don't believe I'm in very capable hands...

...or is it hooves?

I'm surrounded by equines. Brightly-coloured candy-barf equines. The closest one to me is a horned one with a lavender coat and a two-toned purple mane done up in a very obsolete Ganymedian style. It also possesses a pair of feathered wings that match its coat.

Its tail is long and coloured similarly to the mane. There's a mark on each of its haunches -- a six-pointed purple star with five smaller stars surrounding it. A tattoo? Some weird branding? Who knows?

The next one, who seems to be hiding behind Purple, has wings but no horn. A different species, subspecies, caste, or gender, probably. Its mane and tail are very, very long and of a soothing pink shade, but the calming effect of the colour is sharply offset by the fur: the exact same shade of butter-yellow as a Shoro's blood.

It also has a mark, depicting three pink, murderous butterflies. I will call this one Blood.

Remembering the words I heard as I awoke, I listen and hear them speaking an alien language that reigns with an iron fist over the oppressed world of vowels. I feel like I should be expecting spit to shower over me.

"Krah'du-Grah! Sharfa'hagh? Zhugailal du alien creature? Is that even possible!?" Purple exclaims.

Wait, what?

"This is amazing! Life as we know it could be iinklalak hetch! De'Grah, Hikharn opu Kathlakh, U'upersa!"

I can only understand some of the words, as I figured earlier.

The equines are about a metre high at the shoulder. As I think about height I'm suddenly aware that my legs are entirely off the small bed I'm on. A stool has been moved over to the foot of the bed to accommodate me.

I turn quickly to hop off the bed and put my weight on my left leg.

It's numb. Probably broken, too, considering the large cast around it. I overbalance as I try to compensate for the trip-up, and six hundred pounds of muscle, metal, and bone hit the floor with a resounding crash.

I hear frantic chatter around me in that strange alien language. Again, there's the occasional snatch of comprehensible speech among the Spitspray words. I think I would actually be able to pronounce many of the words; the equines' mouths must be more humanoid than they look.

The world fades back into view. A yellowish horned equine, with a well-styled brown mane and what looks like an ancient stethoscope around its neck, is looking down at me.

I stare back up with grainy vision. I expect this person is a doctor.

I look between a stethoscope, whose design was rendered redundant over five thousand years ago by more effective tech, the surgical instruments on a table by the bed, and the fallen IV stand.

Fuck this shit. I need my own first-aid kit.

I pull myself back up, feeling a huge bend in my left spine. It's not broken, but damn, it's painful.

I motion to Purple and indicate writing with my finger. The equine gives me a weird look.

After a lot of embarrassing pantomime madness, I finally convince it to give me some sort of parchment, a feather quill, and a bottle of ink, produced from a saddlebag. I quickly sketch my first-aid kit and shove the parchment in Purple's face.

Its horn lights up and the drawing levitates, enveloped by a pinkish aura.

What the fuck?

Purple shows it to Doctor. The latter stares at it for a few seconds, and then nods and trots out. Meanwhile, I manage to get myself back onto the bed and sit, my right leg swinging slightly.

Purple, who seems to be sweating with anticipation, turns to me and clears its throat.

"Hello," it says with a female voice. "My name is Twilight Kr'alyagh'Kathlakh huu'Zhoze Equestria."

"Please repeat," I say simply.

A grin slowly spreads across her face. The kind of excitement you get when you make first contact with a sapient species -- I know the feeling -- amplified a hundredfold. "My name is Twilight Sparkle," she repeats. "The Princess of Friendship in Equestria."

I mull over her words, staring at her as I do so. Her grin falls slightly and she takes a tiny step back; my stare is well-known for being unnerving.

"My name is Korchikah Finsha," I reply. "High Ghartah of Triss'uaana and the Master of Cunda'marriss. Some call me the Devil of Mars, and others simply the Shoro Butcher. Nice to meet you, Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship."

I might have had a bit of a mocking tone, but who wouldn't? Princess of Friendship. This is like something out of a toddler's favourite bedtime story. Princess Sparkle takes several slow steps backward, fear present in her expression. Blood shivers and slinks away to the door.

The Devil of Mars is not impressed.

Doctor returns, levitating my first-aid kit. I snap my gaze to him.

"Give that to me," I demand, beckoning with my fingers.

Doctor stops in his tracks and his jaw drops.

Sparkle takes the hinged box from him and gives it carefully to me, handling it like a bomb. I grab it and put it on my bed.

I've got a broken bone that hasn't any time to heal. My abdominal muscles are almost certainly injured. I also have what feels like a primitively-treated concussion, and my right ring finger is completely missing. They seem to have fixed my shoulder, though.

I won't be able to repair anything particularly well, since all I've got is what can fit in a small box, but it just needs to make my body functional, not relieve my pain entirely.

Firstly, I take my medical scanner and let it do its thing.

I do indeed have the injuries I guessed, along with bruising practically everywhere. The scanner also detects a strange, anomalous energy permeating my cells. None of the readings look remotely familiar.

Sparkle creeps forward. I didn't even notice her moving. She looks askance at my scanner.

Hmm, it seems safe enough. I can always pop off her head if she tries to break it. At least I haven't lost my hands, or my strength.

I have it over to her. It should keep her occupied while I patch myself up. She thanks me and then rattles off a very long, extremely excited string of Spitspray which culminates in a squee that most certainly did not bring a smile to my face. Totally. No smilies here.

I stifle my poorly self-denied grin and pull a scalpel out of my kit, along with a bottle of anesthetic spray. It's time to get to work.

I can't do anything for my abs at the moment with my limited resources; they'll have to fix themselves. I can stand walking in this state.

I place a hand against my back and force my left spine into position, avoiding a scream of agony only through several centuries' worth of endurance conditioning. At last it makes a loud crack and I fall onto the bed, startled by the suddenness of the shift in my back.

Crap. Blood is back. She looks concerned at the pain on my face.

Nope. Get out of here. I don't want to see that hellish colour as long as I live.

I give her a low growl and a glare that would put a Krazzish minnow to shame. (Those things are damn terrifying.) Blood squeaks and flutters away.

Doctor is lying prone on the floor, and nurses are gathering around him to take him away. He must have fainted. One of the nurses draws a curtain around the area.

Come to think of it, I should probably leave the premises of the hospital. Considering that I'm about to cut open my leg and attach a metal brace directly to the broken bone, I don't think they're going to stand by this peacefully. They'll try to stop me and do more harm than good, but I don't want to be treated with this ancient set of tools.

I place my things back in the kit and look around the room. Is there anything in here that could be used as a crutch? A leg of the bed? The IV Stand? Blood's skeletal system and a bit of tape? The curtain rod? Anything?

If I rip apart the bed, I could use its frame to build a rudimentary crutch. I can use my emitter to cleanly cut it into smaller pieces, and I should have some nails in one of my coat pockets.

Speaking of my coat, it's horribly scuffed and dirty. I'm going to have to clean it if I want to look sharp while saving the world. It's over three thousand years old -- made of the finest Plutonian tardigrade leather, so you know it's going to last a while -- and it was given to me by my father, so I'll have to be careful.

I've made up my mind. I doubt these creatures will have any medical equipment designed for bipeds, so I'll have to do it the hard way.

I get off the bed, making a good effort of balancing on my right leg. Sparkle whirls around and stares, awestruck by my height. She also seems a little bit shocked -- after all, I'm tearing up a perfectly good bed that never did me any harm.

Hey, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I need this bed to save the world.

The Princess of Friendship is protesting extensively. I'd really love to understand what she's saying just to get a laugh out of it.

I set my emitter to the lowest setting and slice the wooden planks evenly, and then I grab some nails and hammer them in with a rock-hard fist.

Bingo. I've got myself a horribly uncomfortable but functional crutch. Now it's time to get out. It doesn't matter who or what sees me; given the circumstances, I'll gladly throw my first contact procedures straight out the window.

"Out of my way, Sparkle," I say, making as if to limp past her.

"What are you doing?"

I growl softly. "I haven't got time to explain. I said, out of my way!"

Sparkle doesn't move. She's determined not to let me leave, it seems. I suppose she doesn't think it's wise. Something something safety.

I understand why she's doing this, but fuck her. I give her another growl and a snarl, but she just plants herself more firmly.

That does it.

My arm works before my mind does, and my impromptu crutch slams into the side of her head. She squeals and falls, her hoof held up to her bleeding mouth. I look down at her, sobbing quietly on the floor, before moving on.

Something crashes into my cranium and I'm thrown on the ground with Sparkle. I let out a muffled oof and roll over, fists raised.

My crutch cracks as it hits the floor. Damn it! It was so beautiful and now it's broken!

Blood is hovering over me, pure rage on her face. She's... actually kind of frightening, I'm not afraid to admit. She focuses her gaze and I feel a profound change in my already questionable mental state. All my anger and sense of purpose is replaced with utter, primal fear. It's like I'm locking eyes with a Shoro.

I don't know how, but Blood is undoing every tie I have to rationality. I want to submit to her, like a good beast should. I want to run and nurse my wounds. I want to tuck the tail I don't have between legs I can't use. I never want to anger her again.

She really didn't strike me as such a brutal type.

I have to run, I think with difficulty.

Get your ass off the fucking dirt and fight!

My mind collapses and something breaks. I'm still afraid, but something else is there. I begin to see her as more abhorrent than a Shoro.

Unbridled anger and savagery possesses me, and I lunge forward, screaming like a jet engine on drugs. Blood screams and her hold on me breaks, but I'm not done yet.

I tackle her to the ground and slam her head against the floor. She goes limp, concussed and bleeding.

I find myself being bound with ropes by a horned nurse. Nope! I jerk my arms and the ropes snap. Fist meets bone and I'm on my way again, pulling myself up with the wall as a support and limping quickly out.

I have the biggest headache. The pain in my leg flares up, almost sending me back to the ground. I've had enough interactions with floors for one week, thank you very much.

Another tackle from behind. Seriously, can't they get some originality in their attacks? This, however, is different. I can feel much more strength behind it, although it's still comparable to that of a dust bunny when set next to my own.

My hand chops behind me and I hear a satisfying clang-snap.

A vase shatters uselessly over my head, followed by a not-so-useless armoured hoof. I think I've broken yet another bone.

Two vivid sentences are generated by my agonized brain:

Not again.

You really must wear a helmet.

Author's Note

This chapter's revising took longer than expected, but I think it's worth it.

As always, your harshest criticism is appreciated!