The Mad Martian: Escape to Equestria

by Crumbling Sandstone

Rating: mature
Tags: Adventure, Violence, Main 6, Profanity, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Death, Alternate Universe, Princess Luna, Drama, Changelings, Original Character, Bat Pony, Science Fiction
Length: 22462

An egotistical, mildly senile alien and his mortal enemy find themselves in Equestria.

Korchikah Finsha isn't your everyday stranger. He's a Martian, an incredibly long-lived, green-scaled race with extreme muscle strength. He's seen everything from the twenty-second century to the eighty-fifties.

It should come as no surprise that alongside Martians and Terrans, there's a whole galaxy chock full of aliens -- including the Shoro, the most dangerous soldiers in existence. They've been at war with the Milky Way for three thousand years now. Korchikah is one of their most feared enemies.

What happens when Korchikah and a Shoro warrior -- two equally dangerous, not-quite-sane creatures -- wind up being magicked away to Equestria?

Find out here, in part one of The Mad Martian!

This story takes place in the early fifth season and ignores the Equestria Girls series. It is not a crossover with any published or copyrighted works; the sci-fi setting is completely original.

UPDATE as of 14/4/2019: This story is going on hiatus for a complete rewrite! It'll hopefully be going for a 'T' rating as well, so that a wider audience can enjoy it. Feel free to read what there is so far, though! I appreciate all sorts of critique.

Published 2017-05-09 15:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-10-22 03:33:51 UTC

Prologue - Jumping the Verses

May 15, 8057 AD

Trissite navy flagship Koh za in orbit of Shoro capital Harkonni homohowk

The sound of the Shoro phyx-batons echoes in the corridor. Sweat drips down my face as I sneak through the maintenance tubes in the walls.

I silently pray that my breathing isn't loud enough for them to detect me. I've only got one shot left on my raybeam emitter, so that's practically a zilch on defense, considering the number of Shoro aboard my ship.

I do some fancy maneuvers that would have made a contortionist flinch in sympathy to get onto the ladder in front of me. A single second stretches into eternity when my purple trousers snag on the hatch to the deck below, but I manage to remove myself without a sound.

Perhaps some introduction is in order.

I'm Korchikah Finsha, High Ghartah -- chief political and military leader -- of Triss'uaana, one of the largest superpowers on Mars, and I'm about to die.

Now, I don't say that lightly. I never do. We Marrissanse (that's my species) are a very durable and long-lived race. On average, we'll be alive and kicking well on our way to eight thousand years old.

As such, I was present when the Seventh Galactic Massacre began.

Three thousand years ago, the Shoro came out of hiding on their desert planet, known by them as Harkonni homohowk, and announced to the saner beings their schemes of galactic conquest. The declaration of war was signed by one Kulak Nevermore of Shorotara. We laughed at first -- ha ha, he thinks Kulak is such a cool word but it's actually Russian for peasant -- but then they destroyed Alpha Centauri.

By all rights, they should have won the war quickly. Their weapons were far more powerful than anything we'd seen before. The Trissites, however, are a huge spanner in the works, along with a few ragtag badasses like the Stok'staa, the Arcturans, and the Terrans. We're the backbone of the united fleets of the Milky Way.

However, my father, Shorkah Tai-cun, paid a massive price for spitting in the face of the so-called Holy Empire of Shoro Torn. I arrived at the execution stadium with the intention of saving his hide just in time for them to chain me up to watch as they ripped him apart and strung him through the trees for five miles around. Since then, I've pledged my rightful existence to making sure that no one else meets the same fate.

I'm punched out of my remembrance by the sound of heavy footsteps -- the unique clink-clonk of a Shoro's boots, made from strange alloys several hundred times stronger than anything we can mass-produce.

A haunting, operatic note rings through the hall and echoes into the vents. I think the Shoro's calling its buddies.

What are my options? I can continue up the ladder, but risk another snag. I don't think I'll manage complete silence a second time. Removing my trousers to prevent catching would also make too much noise -- but as it is, I'm mere inches away from a bloodthirsty Shoro, nothing between us but a thin steel wall.

If I stay, I'll be killed. They're getting ready to smash the barrier with a phyx-baton. Those things can electrocute an elephant with a single jab; who knows what they'll do to me?

There's nothing for it. I slowly pull myself up the ladder, being careful around the deck hatches. I'm a bit less distracted now, so I can calculate where my pants are going to be at any given moment.

I'm almost at the tenth deck's hatch, but I must have made a shuffle here or a creak there, because --

BOOM clatter clatter. The wall I was hiding behind a minute ago shatters with the well-placed jab of a phyx-baton. I frantically look downward, causing a great deal of pain to my tortured neck, and the hellish faceplate of a Shoro servant warrior looks back up at me.

We make eye contact, and my mind goes numb.

I begin to feel dizzy. My vision narrows to a tunnel. I see nothing but the eyes, the eyes, the eyes --

Snap out of it, pal. He's playing with you.

I wrest control of my rationality from the Shoro and hurry back up the ladder, forgoing any previous attempts at stealth. They've caught me. They think it's over for poor old Korchikah...

...but I might be able to change that.

My fist demolishes the hatch and I drag myself into one of the central-aft engine chambers. My muscles are screaming at me to give up, to give them a break. I never was that flexible, but you have to make do if it's the galaxy's life on the line.

I stand up, stretch my stiff limbs, and throw myself back on the floor as I hear something very, very loud beneath me.

A quick look down the tube offers me one of the scariest sights of my life. The Shoro is climbing. It's utterly destroying the tunnels around it because it's so fucking large -- it's an ungodly centauriform four and a half metres tall, and God knows how wide and long -- and its horns leave three-foot gouges in whatever they scrape.

I run.

The floor crumbles behind me as the Shoro pulls itself onto the deck and I force my devastated limbs into overdrive.

I pray for a bit of distance between us --

Dead end. I should have known.

I whirl around and take my raybeam emitter from my aching mouth. The peaceful thump-tump of the warp drive slows my heartbeat and helps me think clearly.

Take aim.

Turn the dial to maximum.

Shut off the recoil dampers to boost the gun's power.

Pull the trigger.

The Shoro's neck is instantly liquefied. The body is left standing while the head tumbles down, hitting the floor with a wet schlap and leaking obscene amounts of butter-yellow blood.

"That's for Shorkah, notchla'swon," I whisper to the head as its helmet's nitrogen supply runs out. It's going to asphyxiate in a minute or two.

Natch, make that now. I give it a hard kick to the breath pipes, severing them and breaking the pressurised seal on the helmet. The Shoro's eyes glaze over and roll back in its head.

Damn it. My emitter's dead; that last shot completely drained it. I need to find a way to recharge it, and fast.

My eyes wander over to the battery packs on the armoured suit, and from there to the warp drive.

Bingo. Take out the cables! The warp drive, I recall, was stolen by Deneb commandos from a Shoro warship and reverse-engineered. It uses the same tech as the batteries. I can hook my raybeam emitter up to it, and use it as a funnel to siphon the battery.

Korchikah, you're a genius!

I know I am. You make me blush, Finsha.

I take the battery and find a port. I rip it open and solder a wire to it. I do a lot of fancy shit that involves my right ring finger getting sliced clean off.

The Shoro are getting closer. I can hear them clinking and clonking toward the hole in the deck.

At long last, the LED highlights on my emitter glow green, indicating a full charge. It should be ready for about two months' use.

Job done, I straighten my back, working out a few kinks in my spines, and turn to the dead Shoro. Its armour, detecting that its wearer has died, has locked up so as to permanently stand to attention -- the way a good Shoro always stands.

It has all the standard gear of a servant warrior -- a full armoured suit with red markings, a plasma cannon embedded in the right arm, an incredibly bulky repulsorlift pack -- but there's another machine I haven't seen before attached to its wrist.

"What are you...?" I murmur, unstrapping the strange device from its arm. It's a small, nearly featureless panel, with three buttons and corresponding dials, which are labeled in Shorotala (their beastly lingo) as Slipstream, Velocity, and Reflective Energy. I've no idea what any of those mean, but it looks like a new piece of tech to plunder.

I start to hear a nearly inaudible rumble from the Device. I hold it up to my ear, and it thrums in a way I recognize -- and it's decidedly not good.

It's using a cochlorophyne energy source. It's more dangerous than a nuclear bomb. In its unrefined gaseous form, cochlorophyne will break down any and all organic matter it comes into contact with -- slowly. Once it's started, it never, ever stops. You can't cure it; your proteins will already be contaminated. It's like a prion disease in the way it spreads. It's an excruciating process.

I've seen firsthand many beings die from cochlorophyne poisoning, and it's how the Plutonians finished off my homeworld twelve thousand years ago. That's why it's the Red Planet, not Terra's Twin.

Cochlorophyne is the bane of all morality.

I clench my fist around the Device with a low growl, attempting to crush it. This specific form of the hazard won't poison me, but refined cochlorophyne can still be weaponized with devastating results.

That's odd. I'm putting all the force I can on it -- about four and a half tons, thanks to my augmented muscles -- but it's showing no signs of buckling or even minor weakness. It must be made of the Shoro's precious alloys.

I finally give up and pocket it. I can safely dispose of it later, but it might come in handy if I have to shoot its reactor anytime soon. That would easily kill all the Shoro in the vicinity, although it might take me with it.

Is that a double standard? Perhaps.

Do I care? Of course not!

I hear a dull thunk behind me and, with a feeling of dread, turn my head to look.

The Shoro have arrived, and not all of them are lowly servant warriors. There's one, sure, but next to him is a warden commandant with mustard-yellow markings on its armour, and somebody I hoped never to meet face-to-face.

It's the unholy trinity -- the servant, the warden, and the Kulak Nevermore. My father's executioner, and by extension the indirect killer of billions of Shoro, terminated by the enraged Trissites.

I only have time for an eloquent "oh, fuck my life" before he calmly raises his hand, palm forward. The permanent grin on his face, forced by hooks pulling back the corners of his mouth, grows just a little bit wider.

He thrusts his hand forward and I fly backward towards the warp drive at breakneck speed. The Device flies out of my hand and gets crammed between my head and the starboard fuel rod. It shatters the pipe and superheated vapour burns my cheek.

Somewhere in the chaos, the Slipstream dial on the Device is turned, and a tiny switch on the side is flipped.

The Kulak signals for his cronies to capture me. The thrumming of the Device grows louder and louder, accompanied by a quiet beeping.

The Shoro grab hold of my shoulders.

The Device lets out a mechanical whine and I disappear with the Shoro in a flash of light, leaving nothing but a solitary finger and the stench of charred flesh and cloth.

Timeless

No location

Where am I? There's nothing. I see nothing -- no light and no darkness. I hear nothing -- no sound and no silence. When I look around, it's like I've gone blind.

Am I dead? I don't think so. I still have a body, so it's a no on that, unless -- no. I'm not dunking myself into religious nonsense. I know I prayed back on the ship, but my mind was falling apart, okay? I had no idea the Kulak was telekinetic.

I'm swiftly losing awareness. Scratch that. If there's a god out there to apologise to, I'm sorry. Now get me the cr'ihk out of here.

No beans. I start to feel something on each of my shoulders.

Metallic, heavy somethings.

I know what they are.

The Shoro have followed me into this void.

I'm paralysed and trapped, and there's nothing I can do about it, so I metaphorically shrug and accept my lot in life. I have no idea how long I'll be in here, or if I'll ever get out, or if time even exists here. My mental clock has stopped ticking. Perhaps all these thoughts are happening simultaneously -- or not at all! Maybe I'm just a character in some fucked up storybook! There's something to amuse you post-modernist philosophers out there.

I think I'm in pain.

Oh, shit! Yes, I'm in a lot of pain. It's like my soul is being ripped in two, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it.

It's stopped now. Blissful relief flows over me. I'm not even thinking about the Shoro.

I'm no longer blind. The world, or lack thereof, around me is illuminated softly with a blue light. If I listen, I can hear a quiet breeze. It's something aside from the Shoro that exists, so I'm pretty stoked about that.

The light grows brighter, the wind grows stronger, and I'm inexplicably aware that I'm moving through space.

I have surroundings now. A strange grey fog permeates the place, but I can make out shapes in the mist. A small house here, an utterly massive tree there.

I hear a sound like the entire universe is being blown apart, and the light goes out. I can move again! Hip, hip, hurrah! Let's go party! Except there's Shoro here! Never mind! I'm going crazy!

Okay, now that that little lapse in mental stability is out of the way, the fog is growing thinner. An admittedly beautiful purple sky is fading into view above me. The massive tree I saw earlier, about nineteen metres to the left, is blue and appears to be made of crystals.

Good God, it's gigantic. Its size could even compete with the titanics that grow in Triss'uaana's underground settlements.

WHAM!

Pain flares in the back of my head and I see no more.

Author's Note

The hiatus is finally over, and here's the revised prologue! Man, it feels good to be writing again!

Feel free to give me your harshest criticism. I'd love to hear it. :yay:

Chapter I - Like a Fairy Tale

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! :twilightsmile:

Chapter II - Mourn for Me

May 20, 8057 AD

Tashla Estate, City Nosh -- capital of Triss'uaana

Quiet chirps fill the air as Terran birds flutter around the courtyard. A beautiful ebony robin soars down from the branches of a polar titanic and perches on my shoulder, eyeing the tablet in my hands suspiciously.

"Step off, Ebna'rausch," I tell her, giving her a gentle poke. She glares at me and deposits semi-solid, snow-white waste on the bench before continuing on her merry way.

The blue-grey stargrass that grows in patches around the polar titanic produces soft chiming sounds in the warm twilight breeze. The sun is setting over a partially terraformed atmosphere, throwing blues and purples discordantly into the dusty Martian sky. If I squint, I can just barely see the shimmering force shield over City Nosh.

I'm working outside tonight; it's quite peaceful in the courtyard, in direct contrast to everywhere else in Tashla Estate. Today and the next four days mark San-muen-ya, one of the largest holidays of the Trissite working year.

It might be wartime, but it's been wartime for nearly as long as most of us can remember, so we've adjusted to celebrate our longest holidays with the same incredible gusto we always have. Just thinking about how loud it is in there could give me a headache if I'm not careful.

A car engine rumbles over the distant ruckus. I look up to see a white limousine flying into Tashla Estate's massive hangar. My head servant has returned from holiday shopping.

The hangar doors close behind the car as I set down my tablet. As always, the servant will come out to meet me.

Sure enough, in a few minutes she appears at the extravagant doorstep. The hulking blue-caped maid seems to float down the stairs, the movement of her legs completely concealed by her large yellow skirts.

I glance at Ebna'rausch, who has returned to her favourite perch on the polar titanic, and then back to the maid, who is already close to the gazebo I'm in. I swear, she almost seems to teleport.

"Good evening, HIikana," I say with a smile, rising from my seat and shaking her hand with two fingers, as is the custom between a mistress and her servant. "How did the shopping go?"

"Very well, my lady. I was able to acquire everything except the farthis berries; the cashier suggested glazed almonds as a substitute. Your cousin's maggots are very healthy, and the oldest will soon be metamorphosing."

"Good. See to it that cakes are sent to them. Could you pass the tip for the almonds to the cooks, please?"

I look up at the grease chimneys, which are currently spilling copious amounts of blue smoke. "Also, please remind them not to put chiimas in the grease boiler," I add. "We don't want a repeat of the Incident of '49."

Don't ask about that. If you do, all you're likely to get is sidelong glances, suspicious looks, and maybe a few stifled giggles. We don't talk about it around here.

"Yes, mistress," Hiikana says with a bow. "I will do what is asked of me."

"Thanks, darling."

"Also -- forgive me, my lady, but you need your rest. You should cut back a bit. It's the holidays."

She floats off in her eerie way. I sigh and look back at my work. Several hundred pending requests, proposed restrictions, petitions, hate mail, death threats, fan mail, and love letters -- the latter pairs often go hand in hand -- and the disappearance of the High Ghartah looming on everyone's minds.

My servants are already swamped with similar paperwork, and I can't let myself just sit back and wait for them to handle it. I can't 'cut back'. I have far too much responsibility for that.

I'm Faeliar, the third-order ghartah for Triss'uaana's legislation branch. In the Trissite government, there are three branches -- command, legislation, and judicial -- each run mainly by a Council and headed by three ghartahe. Going from highest ranking to lowest, there is the third-order ghartah, the second-order, and the first-order. All three branches are ultimately led by the High Ghartah, the supreme political and military leader of the country, at present Korchikah. The honorific title of 'Finsha' was awarded to him after the start of the war and his base-breaking election as a ghartah.

In another week, we'll probably be appointing a new High Ghartah from the third-orders. The mere thought troubles me. No High Ghartah has been as effective as the Finsha since Korchuu'tash, who resigned in the twenty-second century.

Korchikah might not be the nicest or most levelheaded person you'll meet in day-to-day life, and his appointment was a wildly controversial one because of that, but when he gets serious, he knows how to do what he knows he needs to do.

I complete a law for dairy regulation by placing my signature at the bottom with those of the other two legislation ghartahe and veto a potentially privacy-invading bill that only a couple of people in the Council of Law wanted.

After a few hours my head starts to hurt, even in the quiet dusk of City Nosh. Maybe I should get some rest. I should listen to Hiikana more often; she's a sweet girl.

I open a new program after setting my work aside. The tablet shows the logo for Alpha Centauri Nightly, named in honour of the star system the Shoro destroyed to mark the start of the war. It's a news outlet well-known for its distinct lack of bias, and it's used by nearly all the major leaders of the Galactic Federation, which of course includes me and the other ghartahe.

After twenty minutes of talk about potential Shoro battle formations -- they even brought on a retired Venusian admiral to talk about war tactics -- their most popular reporter, Linra, appears, wearing his trademark eye camera and microphone.

"We're on the third deck of the Koh za right now, and the Finsha is still missing. The ship has been towed to the Ganymede Complex for retrofitting. We can't review the footage on the security cameras that were active in the battle; some of them are melted completely, but we've found a few that seem to be intact. It'll be about two weeks before they're repaired, though, so hang tight.

"Searches for bodily remains are ongoing, but nobody's expecting much by now. We can't check the tenth deck yet, since it's flooded with alpha radiation, so we're still holding out hope that he might have survived in a saferoom somewhere.

"We've got a big group going through the maintenance ducts right now -- it's a bunch of weapon developers called Polaris Interpretations. They were hired by Cosmus Arts and Sciences. They're studying --"

I close the stream. Nothing new. Korchikah hasn't been found. We really, really need to find some trace of him, or confirm his disintegration or even unlikely survival. If not for anything else, then at least for closure; to declare someone dead without the most concrete evidence possible is one of the greatest dishonours in Trissite culture.

The reconstructed security cameras will tell us everything we need to know, I'm sure. Until then I have to hope that he is somehow, somewhere alive.

I yawn and stretch my five-foot arms. The thought of a warm chair in a soundproof room is incredibly tempting at the moment.

I gaze across the horizon for a few minutes more, admiring the sparkling City Nosh. A small smile adorns my face as I think of what Korchikah has achieved here.

I'm confident that if he's dead, we'll choose the best person to carry on his legacy.

But if there's any chance, any at all, that he's still alive, I won't rest until I find him.

I would rip the universe apart if it meant saving my little brother.

May 20, 8057 AD

Small village in Equestria

My head aches like all hell. I'm staggering through a medieval town at midnight, as fast as my broken leg will allow. I managed to rip a plank off the side of a hospital, so I have a new cane. That, at least, is good.

Not so good is the group of small winged horses chasing me. I duck under one and beat him out of the air with my plank, trading it for his spear. I don't need it as a weapon, but it's good for the intimidation factor.

The small crowds remaining at this time of night part before me, and I leave panicked screams in my wake. The soldiers pay no heed, hunting me ruthlessly.

I decide to test their efficiency in a distracting crisis.

I punch out a support beam on one of the more haphazard-looking buildings. An old lady at the window screams bloody murder before crying for help.

A couple of the soldiers peel off from the main group to evacuate the building, leaving about half a dozen chasing me.

Okay, so they acknowledge the size of their group. You'd be amazed how many people don't do that. Now, can they fight?

I limp to a halt and turn around. They scowl at me, looking like sitting ducks before me. A large bat-winged pone stamps forward, snorting air from his nose and whinnying before speaking.

"We are the Equestrian Lunar Guard! Stand down in the name of the law, drop your weapon, and come with us peacefully!"

I raise a brow. "I am Korchikah Finsha, the Devil of Mars and the Master of Cunda'marriss. Stand down, drop your weapons, and let me leave in peace."

I have to hand them this: they don't look remotely scared. I move forward slightly, taking a stance that emphasises my muscular limbs and the scarred glare on my face. One of them in the back looks a little put off, but none of them do what I ask.

"That wasn't a request," I growl quietly. "For your own sakes, obey me."

I deftly spin the spear in my hands and slam it into the ground to punctuate my threat. A few guards shift uneasily and tighten their grips on their weapons.

No biggie. I could take on these sons of bitches with a hand behind my beck. Check that -- give them some heavy-duty Thofar suits and I could still kill them with ease.

"This is your final warning," Batwing says. "You have several charges against you of physical assault, resistance of arrest, wanton destruction of private property, attempted assassination of Equestrian royalty, and disturbance of the peace."

Eh, could be worse.

"What's my sentence?" I ask, feigning interest. "Should I hire a lawyer?"

"The conditions of your sentence are to be determined at the Moonlight Court before Princess Luna Starsong of the Equestrian state. A lawyer will be provided."

Aha! Now I know the name of another one of their rulers. I can't stop myself from asking my next question.

"I keep hearing about princesses. Princess this, princess that. Who's the queen?"

Batwing stares blankly for a moment.

"Forget it," I say. I shouldn't be messing with them. I have a Shoro to catch.

I turn my back for a moment, and everyone rushes me at once.

I leap with my right leg, causing a couple to charge straight past me. My spear crashes down on a guard's helmet and he falls, clutching his head. Three of them throw themselves at me, battering me with their hooves. They, too, are soon concussed.

Three left -- no, five now. The others have returned. I can hear a house crashing down in the distance.

I let my self-control down. This fight has to end pronto.

Three are felled in one hit. They're all good fighters, mind you; they simply can't withstand my vastly superior strength and reflexes. My species was originally bred as a warrior race. We know all about fighting.

Batwing's two remaining buddies are easy prey to broken jaws. Only he is left conscious. His spear is held in front of him, and his face is defiant. We both know I'm going to destroy him.

So be it.

"Last chance," I tell him. "Step aside."

He waves his spear a bit and gives two stamps with a rear hoof. Odd, but I think nothing of it.

He paws the ground as if to make his final charge, and I brace myself for impact.

A dozen hooves crash into my back at Batwing's stamping signal. Another surprise attack. These guys aren't very creative, but they're certainly effective.

I don't make a sound as I'm thrown down and cuffed. The metal of the cuffs feels weird -- it's like a constant stream of static electricity. They're also too strong to be steel, considering that they work on me. There's no point in putting up a fight now that they've captured me.

I'm a roller coaster, aren't I? I don't care. Logic has now taken hold.

The guards drag me with considerable difficulty to a metal cage built into a carriage. More people have poured out of their homes, and I hear terrified speech around me as the crowd's staring follows us.

A stallion gets a bit too close for comfort and I whip my head round to him, roaring in his face like a rapid tiger. A large group scampers away instantly and the shaft of a spear hits me lightly in the head.

Two of the bat-winged pegasi -- for the sake of storytelling, I'll call them thestrals -- stick me unceremoniously into the cage and harness themselves to the carriage. The door is slammed shut and they take to the skies, miniature prison in tow.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Not flying, please, no flying! FUCK!

The cage rocks around a bit as if it's about to fall. The soldiers can't hear me yelling over the wind; if they can, they ignore me.

Okay, I might be a bit of a hypocrite. Broken bones everywhere? No problem! Highly dangerous Shoro servant warriors? Big fat hairy deal.

Extreme heights? FUCK! Irrational phobias can be incredibly strong, okay?

I calm myself down and take several breathing exercises. It's okay. The cage must be extremely well-secured, considering that I'm not plummeting to my death right now.

The guards weren't too kind to my leg. How inconsiderate of them. All I was doing was concussing them.

I take this moment to look through the bars over the strange world I've appeared in. We seem to be flying away from the village and -- damn it all -- the forest the Shoro flew over. We're going in almost the opposite direction.

I try to snap the cuffs again. No beans. Whatever they're made of, they can take four and a half tons of force in opposing directions.

After a few hours, a mountain range appears in my field of vision. Nothing special... until I squint and look closer.

A fucking city is build on a fucking mountainside four fucking miles above the fucking ground. This had better not be where this 'Princess Luna Starsong' lives.

We fly toward the city and gradually descend. Fuck my life, it is where she lives. The thestrals start to move their hooves, ready to start trotting the moment they hit the pavement.

The city is admittedly beautiful. Ivory towers topped with golden spires pop out everywhere around it, and waterfalls and rivers glint across the mountain and flow in canals through the city.

Most of the city proper is surrounded by a similarly-built castle, but there's a large entryway with a well-kept path leading up to it. Several equines are milling about near the gates -- judging by their uptight stances and fancy clothing, I'd wager a guess that they're nobility of some sort.

We go over the drawbridge and pass a few official-looking zeppelins bearing a blue flag that shows two winged unicorns in a circle around a stylised sun and moon.

My face is pressed between the bars as I try to take in every detail I could possible use to my advantage. There's a distinct smell of lilac in the air as we pass a garden fit for royalty.

The carriage suddenly jolts horribly. We've hit the ground, and we're rolling along at a decent pace. The front left wheel of the carriage squeaks every fourth rotation.

I breathe a sigh of relief that we're on something solid and stable.

Except we're on a cr'ihking mountainside.

No longer calm, no longer calm -- settle down, pal. If this city lasted long enough to be completed, it'll last a little bit longer.

Yeah, I guess it probably will.

That's the spirit.

At peace with the voices in my head, I sit back, noting the pain in my leg. My abs start to ache again and I lie back on the uncomfortable floor of the carriage, shifting to minimise negative feedback from my wounds.

The clip-clopping of hooves on stone slows to a halt. I hear garbled Spitspray speech and then the cage door creaks open.

A tall, slender creature looks down at me, slowly and gracefully stepping closer. She's a lot like the other equines I've seen but, as I've said, her body is much taller, and she more closely resembles Terran horses than they do.

Her coat is a beautiful midnight blue, but probably the oddest things about her are her mane and tail. They're huge, transparent, and sparkling, and they seem to wave in a nonexistent breeze. She also has a horn and wings like Princess Sparkle, but hers are a lot larger.

"What is this creature before us?" she breathes, her eyes filled with wonder. "We were told 'twas alien, but we had never expected the likes of this."

Batwing replies. "'Twas incarcerated by my fellow guards, having been discovered assaulting others, my lady."

"Forsooth, it is astounding."

Their speech sounds vaguely Elizabethan, although I'm no expert on Terran history. All I know is that it sounds quite silly.

"Pray tell, what is thy name?" she asks, leaning closer.

I somehow manage to pull myself into a semi-standing position, although I'm a bit uncomfortable about the fact that I have to be on my knees to do it. "Korchikah FInsha," I say. This time I don't bother with titles, aside from that of the Finsha. I don't think this is the type of person who's easily intimidated.

Assuming she's the Princess Luna Starsong I've heard so much about, I explicitly refrain from bowing. "Nice to meet you."

"Unbind his hind legs. We wish to speak with him away from the prying ears of the public."

The thestral guards step forward without question and unlock the cuffs around my ankles.

I feign fear and confusion as I shakily rise to my feet, and then I dramatically fall back down in a bid for sympathy. Luna looks on me with sadness. Ick. Spare me your feelings, horse.

"Please, uun'kal di froZhin neigh-sqre," she says, looking over her shoulder at one of her thestrals.

"Repeat that," I interrupt.

Luna doesn't seem to understand what I said at first. After a few seconds, her face lights up with realisation and her horn glows a bright blue.

A directed beam of what-the-fuck is emitted from her horn, striking first herself and then attacking my forehead. I can feel a lot of strength behind the beam, but not enough to knock me over or hurt me. Something in my body seems to resist and reject the beam, but it's quickly silenced. I get the same subtly electric feeling the cuffs gave.

"Ahem. We apologise. Princess Twilight's magic must no longer have been effective. She is quite attached to her old ways of unicorn magic, we fear. Her methods lack power."

I give her a weird look. "What do you mean?"

Luna gives me a weird look.

"What do you mean, magic?" I clarify.

"Dost thou lack the knowledge of such a power as fundamental as magic?" she asks, concerned. "How can this be!? The smallest foal of Equestria knoweth the face of magic! A translation spell hath been cast betwixt us, for us to speak through and comprehend the other."

Well them, I must not have been educated very well! Stupid bastard horse and her magic. Please.

"I know what magic is," I state. "There's no such thing."

Luna's right eye twitches slightly and she shakes her head, bemused. "Please, procure for this stallion a long pair of crutches."

'Poor stallion.' Heh. Real cute, Princess. Fuck you.

"Thine orders shall be followed, Mistress," one of the guards says with a bow. He gallops off, leaving the other thestrals in a defensive formation around Luna, all watching me suspiciously.

If they're trained like the ones I fought earlier, they should drop pretty fast. Princess Luna, however, is another story. I don't know anything at all about her capabilities. I decide I shouldn't risk it just yet.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Luna studying my alien physique. I lock eyes with her at one point as I straighten my torn and dirty bowtie, coated with mud after the great chase. The Shoro ambushed us at a shipwide celebration, so I'm still dressed in my admittedly tacky formal wear.

I look away, scanning the surrounding buildings and alleyways for anything I can use. There's a few gutters here and there that could probably hold my weight, but the thestrals could fly after me quite easily. There don't appear to be any large enough entrances to the sewers. The broom in one alley, with a snapped handle, is immediately ignored.

We appear to be stopped in front of a large palace, which I assume belongs to the Princess.

Several more minutes of awkward quiet. Luna draws breath as if to speak on a few occasions, but she appears to decide against talking until I've got my crutches.

At last, I hear somebody galloping closer.

The guard stops next to Luna and deposits a large pair of humanoid's crutches from his back.

"We thank thee, our faithful bodyguard," she says, giving him a motherly pat on the head. "Thine actions shall be commended."

Luna gives the crutches to me. "These aids were constructed for injured minotaurs," she informs me, "but we have faith that they shall be adequate for thine own body."

Minotaurs? Well, I guess nothing is too far-fetched for such a strange world. 'Magic' is just ridiculous, but the creatures here obviously have telekinesis, possibly along with telepathy or similar abilities, which would explain the 'translation spell'.

Luna gently unlocks my handcuffs. What a lady.

I take the crutches with a brisk nod of gratitude and carefully get up. Luna offers a hoof to help me step out of the cage.

I take a moment to catch my breath and then turn to Luna, a businesslike expression on my face.

"I have criminal charges which you have not yet recognised," I tell her. "Get it over with."

She holds up a hoof. "Hold thy tongue for but a minute. We shall prosecute thee to the fullest extent of the law, and in good time, but we require tellings from both our guards and thee. We do also desire to ask of you many questions. Come with us."

Princess Luna leads me around the palace, taking several turns and detours until we reach a small, quiet courtyard. At least three spears are at my back; nobody's taking any chances. If only my body armour was intact, I'd be able to fight my way out. I'd be well on my way by now.

Ah, well. It's no use crying over spilled milk -- well, spilled milk is an absolute tragedy, so it's no use crying over spilled beer. As it is, all I can do is walk behind Luna, so that's what I'll do.

She stops and, noticing this, I do the same, although much more abruptly. The guards, not expecting my sudden halt, don't stop as quickly, and the points of their spears nearly pierce my father's coat.

If they do anything like that, I'll let the Shoro kill them. That coat is my most treasured possession.

Luna turns and sits down, motioning for me to do the same. I cast my eyes around for something that would accommodate my leg.

The Princess's horn flashes and a comfy-looking red armchair randomly appears in front of me, with a raised stool for my leg.

WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM!?

Startled, I reel backward before tripping over with a shout of surprise when one of the guards isn't fast enough. I land on him, breaking both my fall and his helmet. After a few seconds of incoherent swearing on both our parts, Luna untangles us and levitates the guard gently away from me.

She tries to help me up as well, but it feels like a live wire when the aura goes around me, and the light from her horn flickers.

"No, don't do that!" I say quickly. She nods and lets go, dropping me softly back down. With a bit of planning and movement, along with grudging assistance from a thestral, I get to the chair and plop myself into it.

So she can assemble matter into specific objects. I've never heard of telekinesis on such a fine level, but I guess it isn't entirely out of the question. Also, she can't influence me as well as she can other things. Very interesting.

"As for our first --"

"How the fuck did you --"

We stop awkwardly for a second.

"Our sincerest apologies. Ask thy question."

"How the fuck did you make that chair appear!?"

"Magic."

"Fuck you."

A guard slaps me upside the head.

Luna takes a breath. "As for our own question, whence did thou appear?"

I sulk for a bit before answering. "The Milky Way galaxy," I say angrily. "Alternatively known as the Home Circle or Mutter's Spiral. I hail from a planet known as Sol III, Mars, or Cunda'marriss. Where am I?"

"Thou art in the gleaming city of Canterlot, which stands in the centre of Equestria. Dost thou imply that thou art from a different world altogether? And how --"

"One question at a time. Yes, I believe so. Who's your queen?"

"No longer do we have a queen. Our sister relinquished the title on the summer solstice four years ago to become our equal. In what fashion and by what events did your arrival come to be?"

I open my mouth, and then close it. How did I get here?

I'm not sure how I want to play this. Either way, she's going to need a lot of context, so it'll be a long story.

I tell her my tale, beginning with the basic background of the galaxy, what major governing structures exist and so on, and then I move to the start of the Seventh Galactic Massacre.

I soon reach my father's grisly execution.

Do you really want to tell her this?

No, I really don't. The memory is as raw and fresh in my mind as it was three thousand years ago.

Can't you skip it? Do you really have to tell it?

I... yes. I have to tell it. It's been too long.

My second mind says no more.

Luna notices the falter in my monotone, and then my little hiccough as I try to bring myself to say out loud what I've never said before. It's always been common knowledge that my father was Shorkah, I'm Shorkah's son, Shorkah was executed, and I don't like to talk about it. I've never had to explain this; that's usually a history teacher's job.

It feels so strange to talk about his execution with my own words and mouth. It hurts so much.

A tear drops off my face, and I cough loudly in the middle of a sentence to cover up a sob.

The midnight princess steps daintily forward, waving away the guards, and puts her left wing around my shoulders.

I no longer care what anyone thinks of me. I don't care about the hardened exterior I've built up over the years. I don't care that there's a good half dozen thestrals watching, or that I'm hugging the ruler of a nation like a child hugging his mother.

Her comforting feathers tickle my face and I almost break down in tears.

I've always vented what grief I had through raging against the Shoro. I've never let myself cry about it. This... this is different. After all this time... it feels good to cry.

My body is racked with silent sobs and I lean into her wing, grateful for the chance to hide my tears. The Princess moves a little bit closer so I can return her hug. Her fur is incredibly soft and pleasantly cold.

I rise from the chair, throw my arms around her, and cry my heart out.

In my moments of weakness I've always been alone. Companionship now is new and wonderful.

This will be a hard story to tell.

I want you back, Papa. I miss you.

Author's Note

Don't you worry; Korchikah will get justice very soon! I just thought I'd humanize (Martianize...? 🤔) him a bit before I got into the real action.

Toodles!

Chapter III - To the Dungeons

May 26, 8057 AD

Cosmus Arts and Sciences research lab 7, formerly Trissite flagship Koh za

The silhouette of the research station is outlined only by occasional green running lights; I have to fill in most of the shape with my imagination. It'll be a while before we move out of Saturn's shadow.

"Terran Council bus number twenty-eight requesting dock," the driver says into a microphone, sounding inextricably absorbed in his boredom.

"You're all clear," a guard tells us on the intercom.

Our bus moves in closer to the disgraced bastard child of nearly every major shipyard across half the galaxy. I've seen pictures of the Koh za before; she may have been powerful, but she was ugly as sin.

The station's hangar opens, a strange patch of light in otherwise uninterrupted darkness. The driver shuts off the impulse engines and takes us inside on thrusters, landing us perfectly.

"Last stop," he says in a monotone, pulling a housekeeping magazine from God-knows-where and putting his feet up on the dashboard.

I take my briefcase and hop off the bus, followed quickly by a short Arcturan woman with a half-eaten jhala cake between her teeth. Her deformed right ear twitches as she looks around.

"Would you like me to take your pack, Kromah?" I ask her.

She nods and gratefully hands me a heavy bag, and then finishes the jhala cake. "Thanks," she says, rubbing her sore wrists. "I don't think I packed as light as I ought to have."

"No worries," I reply as I shoulder our bags. "We should have enough room."

"Mister McCalligan, a letter for you," somebody says to me as he passes.

"Just Jallir, please," I call after him.

I open the old-fashioned envelope, take one look at the message inside, and rip it apart.

"Was it Linra again?" Kromah asks me as I pocket the paper scraps.

"Yup. Let's get moving."

My mood soured somewhat by the letter, I take our things into the elevator. Kromah pushes the button for the eighth deck, and we wait.

At the fifth deck, a Lunarian telepath sidles carefully in, carrying a box of spanners. Tenth deck, please, he says, swishing his tail slowly. The Overseer wants these pronto.

Kromah pushes the requested button and the elevator continues its ascent. It's so finely-tuned I don't even notice that we're moving until it stops at deck eight.

We step off the elevator, leaving the Lunarian to deliver his spanners, and make our way down the hall.

You might be wondering what's going on. Who's the Overseer? What's Cosmus Arts and Sciences? How come we're on a research station retrofitted from a former battleship?

I hear your questions, and I'm going to answer them.

Kromah and I are members of Polaris Interpretations, one of the leading names in the fight against the Shoro. We send a bunch of people after major battles to scour the battlefield and search for Shoro technology. We can then reverse-engineer it and try to figure out what might work against it; as it stands, Shoro weapons cut through our strongest force shields like a raybeam through butter. (I would say a hot knife, but since a raybeam is absolute overkill, it works here.)

The Overseer is a special kind of law enforcement officer who attends such ventures and ensures that everybody's doing it legally. We haven't met our assigned Overseer for this project yet, but I hear Major Tom Hunter is one of the Enceledan Police Force's best men.

Cosmus Arts and Sciences started out thousands of years ago in the late 24th century as an enterprising robotics corporation founded by renowned cyberneticist Thompson Kelskey. After Kelskey's unexplained disappearance in the 2410s, they began to branch out into warp science and terraforming until they became the jacks-of-all-trades that they are today.

"Excuse me, Mister," a Stok'staa janitor says, broom in hand.

"So sorry!" I exclaim, stepping out of his way and following Kromah down the hall.

"Here's our room," she says, gesturing to a door with the number 8-29.

She opens the door -- it's a sliding entrance that makes no sound at all -- and reveals a shining, grand, utterly plain gray cabin.

Kromah whistles. "Looks like it's a good thing I packed my photos," she comments, looking around at the blank walls. "We've got some redecorating to do."

I nod in agreement and thankfully drop our luggage on the floor. "I'll check out the bedroom."

She pulls out a picture of her dozens-strong family and thinks about where to put it while I go into the next room.

It's a cute little place -- well, it will be once Kromah's done with it. It has two beds and a large nightstand between them. Each bed has a dresser near the foot, along with a computer alcove in the wall. It's completely symmetrical and pristine... just the way the Trissites liked it.

It hits me like a brick. Real people slept in those beds for months. They called this cabin their home. They lived, they laughed, and they died here less than two weeks ago.

I feel slightly sick to the stomach. This is my first deployment in Polaris Interpretations, so I haven't had a chance to become desensitized to this sort of thing. I can't stop thinking about how a recently deceased Marrissans used to sleep in this bed.

I get a hold of myself and bury the feelings. It's only natural that I'll encounter this in my line of work; I might as well get used to it.

I sit on the bed and test it. It's a little bit bouncy, but incredibly soft. Perfect for holding a full-grown Marrissans... one who died on this ship...

Stop it, Jallir. Get on with your job.

"How are the beds?" Kromah asks, entering the room with a plaque of some sort under her arm.

"They're quite comfy," I say, bouncing a bit to punctuate. I don't mention my moment of lucidity.

"Very good. I've got the bathroom looking half-decent, by the way, but may I borrow your photo of the Oriana Borealis? It matches the toilet seat cover."

"Sure, go ahead," I reply, distracted by a stray green scale in the corner. It must have flaked off one of the naval officers.

"Thanks, Jal. You're a darling."

She happily rummages through my bag until she finds the desired photograph and takes it to the loo.

My phone vibrates insistently in my pocket. I pull it out with speed rivaled only by a quick-draw professional and check it.

It's a text from the Overseer himself. Urgent evidence found. P.I. employees, meet in tenth deck central-aft engine room at 17:00. Tenth deck engine room, 17:00. Urgent evidence.

"Kromah?"

"I got it, too!" she shouts from the bathroom. "We've got half an hour. Suit up."

She takes her bag into the restroom to change into her P.I. uniform, and I move my pack from the main room to the bedroom to do the same.

I lay out the uniform on my bed and strip down before putting each item on one by one. Gray pants and shirt, with a white jacket and purple kneepads. My rose epaulets look very nice, if I do say so myself.

I fasten the final button and go out to the main room to wait for Kromah.

"I'm ready, I'm ready!" Kromah says as she hustles out of the bathroom while buttoning her cuffs.

With only ten minutes left after repacking our tablets and notes and all kinds of study implements we might need, we hurry out to the elevator.

The Lunarian we met earlier is back, this time texting on the phone in his hand. Fancy seeing you back here, he says without looking up. Are you in 8-29?

"Yep," Kromah replies, calling the elevator as we reach it. "How about you?"

8-31 next door. The High Ghartah's old quarters, I'm told. He left it quite a mess.

The elevator opens at last and we step in. The telepath hits 10 and we start going up.

The name's Kutarn. I've heard about you two -- the first Imperial officers in the ol' P.I, huh?

"That's right," I state. "You should have seen my uncle's face when I said where I wanted to work!"

We share a good chuckle over that, and then the elevator chimes to deposit us two decks higher.

The engine room is located at the end of a large antechamber, with massive pipes leading to and from it. Periodically, it emits a loud clank and a hiss from somewhere in the plumbing. The heavy bass of the warp core is audible even out here; it's being used as a secondary power generator, so the normally quiet thumping is much louder than usual.

A group of fellow tech scavengers is heading toward the engine room, so we join them and walk in.

I stop short the moment I take in the state of the room.

A gigantic, jagged hole is left in the metal wall, which seems to lead from the maintenance decks several decks down. Green caution tape has been set up around the gap, warning curious onlookers away.

A wide fuel rod on the side of the warp core is broken completely in half; it takes a lot of effort to do that, even for something like a Marrissans. The whole thing is coated with lead tape, presumably to keep in the dangerous alpha radiation emitted by the warp core's uranium reactor.

In the middle of the room stands a decapitated Shoro with its joints locked up. The owner's severed head lies at its hooves on the floor, surrounded by chunks of roasted flesh and dried yellow blood.

Somebody gags. "Why hasn't this been cleaned up!?" he exclaims.

"I can answer that," a firm and quiet voice says from behind.

We turn to see an incredibly tall Terran in an Overseer's uniform stepping into the room, his hands behind his back. His knee-high boots are exquisitely shined. His black hair is slicked back so well it might have been made of plastic. The left side of his jacket is coated with medals of recognition.

Major Tom Hunter stops in front of the battlesuit and wordlessly picks up the head by its antlers, looking into the lifeless eyes with a sad frown.

"I don't want to say this, but you deserved it, old man," he mutters, just loudly enough that Kromah and I can hear him.

We exchange glances. Kromah checks to see if Hunter is looking and then makes a looping motion by her ear.

"Nobody's been here since the attack," the Overseer says in a heavy Mendalish accent, dropping the head on the floor and turning to us. "The searchers were ill-equipped for its radioactivity. After acquiring the appropriate protection, we sealed it safely.

"I have reason to believe that this room, previously unsearched, contains evidence as to the whereabouts of Korchikah Finsha."

The assembled scavengers start muttering among themselves.

"I'm not done talking," he continues with an edge to his voice that shuts everyone up. "I would like to catch you up on a timeline of speculated events.

"On the fifteenth of May, at 8:03 AM, a small Shoro attack force dropped out of warp directly next to the Koh za and boarded the ship. A battle ensued, and four hours later, the computer noted a breach in the engine room."

He points to the gigantic hole in the wall and floor. "You can tell what seems to have caused it," he says, nodding to the headless Shoro. "I believe it was pursuing someone who took shelter in the tunnels and found their way here."

He begins to pace as he speaks.

"The Shoro might have cornered them, or perhaps they had a standoff, but whatever happened, the Shoro has been executed with a concentrated raybeam blast, implying the High Ghartah by virtue of his uniquely modified weapon."

He toes the head, which is now lying sideways on the ground. "The Shoro's breath pipes were destroyed, either by impact with the ground or by the Finsha himself."

He walks over to a pile of debris near the warp core.

"The trail ends here with this."

He grabs a holoprojector from a table next to him and scans a small object. It appears several times larger than life in front of us.

"A single ring finger, apparently sliced off," he says. "I've matched the scale patterns to those of the Finsha. The marks at the base of the finger imply a piece of serrated metal, a theory supported by this discarded Shoro battery pack."

Said pack appears next to the sickening appendage. It's been torn and gutted, with several wires hanging out.

"I believe the Finsha needed to recharge his raybeam emitter. Lacking any of the required implements, he improvised, using the warp drive to transfer the battery's charge to his gun. He handled the battery pack clumsily, severing his finger on the razor-sharp edges."

A Veganite raises her hand. "If all this is true, then where did he go?"

The Overseer smiles grimly. "I spoke with the board directors of Cosmus Arts and Sciences about this. Our new task is to find out what happened to the High Ghartah of Triss'uaana."

"Well, this should be easy, right?" a Lesathi says. "We'll just check the security cameras."

He walks to the wall and looks up at a scorched slab of metal.

"Therein lies the problem," Hunter says with a humorless smirk. "The Shoro shot every camera they could find."

Then how are we going to find the High Ghartah? Kutarn inquires.

"The old-fashioned way -- investigation and speculation."

Tom Hunter begins to assign us tasks amidst uncertain conversations.

May 20, 8057 AD

Canterlot -- capital of Equestria

Luna whispers cliché comforting phrases in my ear as I cry quietly into her wing. She even nuzzles me once or twice. Her body is incredibly cold, but that's a feature rather than a bug in the hot midsummer air.

I eventually break up the hug and, through shaking breaths, tell the story of my father's execution. First of all, the flaying, which took an hour. The Princess shudders as I describe the way rusted metal hooks were used to rip his eyes straight out of his skull.

I slowly retreat back into my shell and the dull drone in my voice returns. I make no mention of any sort of sappy hug. Tears? From my eyes? Shut your fucking mouth.

"After three days passed, they finally killed him," I state hoarsely. "I was almost happy to see my father put to rest at last. No more pain. No more screaming."

A tear slides down Luna's cheek as she widens her eyes in horror.

My voice gains a steel edge as anger builds up in my heart.

"I've dedicated my very existence since then to making sure no one else gets that fate. Three thousand years later... just five days ago, in fact... I was in my new flagship. She was called the Koh za -- that's Old Trissite for Thunderbolt, I think. She was beautiful. Ran more smoothly than any other ship in the galaxy."

My fist clenches automatically. "The Shoro couldn't let it last. Two months after our maiden voyage, they ambushed us to recapture their homeworld. We were in the middle of a wedding reception -- two of my best crew had just married. They were also the first two to die.

"I did what I could, but they slaughtered us all. I was the only one left. One of the Shoro pursued me into a dead end, and I killed him with pride. He had some weird device on his arm, though.

"I decided to stop running and start being an idiot. I took the Device off his arm and said 'You're probably not going to harm me. I'll take you.' I dallied so much the other Shoro caught up to me. But it wasn't just low-ranking mooks -- oh, no, they sent the fucking leader."

Luna shivers despite herself.

"I had no idea he was telekinetic," I say offhandedly. "He just raised his hand and fucking whoosh, I went flying! I broke my ship's propulsion system, and the broken pieces did something to the Shoro Device."

I wait a few seconds before continuing so I can seethe in peace.

"It transported me and two of the Shoro into some strange void. We ended up in a small village about six hours' flight from here."

"Ponyville."

I go stiff and look up at her slowly with the most incredulous, most disgusted face I've ever made.

"Ponyville?" I repeat with rage. "Seriously? Who the fuck named that!? That's the most boring name I've ever heard in my life! It's even worse than the 'City of the Purple Terrans' -- at least that had a story behind it! That name is like..."

Drop the subject, pal. It doesn't matter. Just take a deep, deep breath.

I obey Rational Finsha. I always do.

There you go, champ.

He's probably the only thing I like around here.

I go back to my story. "Anyway, we ended up in" -- I blanch with disgust -- "Ponyville. The Shoro took hold of me and badly injured me, but I managed to kill one of them with my gun." I pat the coat pocket containing my trusty weapon.

"Its head fell right off, easy-peasy. The other, however..."

I trail off and take some time to control my anger.

"It lost one of its arms, but it managed to steal the Device. It flew over a dense forest, and I fell unconscious from one injury or another. One thing led to another, I woke up in a hospital, yada yada, I punched the Princess of Friendship or something, kayoed a nurse, and now I can't save the world because your bitchy guards got all up in a huff about it."

"What... what hast thou done!?"

"Say what? I hit a princess in the face," plain old Korchikah says before Rational Finsha can stop him. What an imbecile.

"She was in my way," I continue as Luna's face gets redder and angrier. "She wouldn't let me leave the hospital. I bet I cracked her skull real bad."

The thrill of mouthing off to royalty sets in as Rational Finsha silently screams. A twisted grin grows on my face. Plain old Korchikah feels like it's time for Luna to see his darker, bloodier side. Idiot.

She takes some wary steps away from me and turns to Batwing. "Sir Midnight, how many hath he injured?"

"Thirteen, my lady. This monster did also bring about the destruction of an elder's home through vandalising a support beam."

And you were doing so well.

Shut up. I know.

Luna turns away from me and takes a breath.

"Initial trial in three weeks' time?" she asks.

"Thy wisdom knows no bounds, my lady."

"Soundproofing barrier?"

"'Twould be wise, my lady."

"Keep him in the dungeons until the eve of Autumn."

"Yes, my lady."

They nod to each other, and then she spins back to me. Her horn lights up again and a shimmering blue bubble is inflated around us. The thestrals place their hooves over their ears.

Luna's face almost literally burns with rage... and when she speaks, she speaks with a thousand individual voices at once. It's so loud I can feel the ground shaking.

"By decree of Princess Luna Starsong, Mistress of the Moon, thou art under arrest on the charges of attempted assassination of Equestrian royalty, thirteen counts of physical assault and battery, and deliberate destruction of sacred house and home! To the dungeons with thee, foul monster! Away!"

Fuck.

Run for your Goddamn life, moron.

Author's Note

Korchikah's in biiiig trouble now.

It's been a while! I had some personal issues, but I'm back in full swing -- at least for another chapter or two, I know.

Just so y'all know, I imagine a Mendalish accent sounds pretty similar to a Scottish one, in case you want to know what Major Tom sounds like.

Have a good one! :twilightsmile:

Chapter IV - Our Tree of Memories

May 27, 8057 AD

Tashla Estate

My employer, mistress, and friend paces stressfully around her room. Sweat glistens on her brow and she mutters quietly to herself.

I keep telling Faeliar to cut back a bit. She hasn't had a respectable rest in at least four years, and the situation with the High Ghartah isn't remotely conducive to her health.

As it is, however, I'm standing stock still with my back to the wall, in accordance with Trissite maid's etiquette. If she needs me, she will call for me. That is what I have been taught.

But the problem is that she doesn't always realise when she needs me. I sometimes try to hint at my feelings on any given matter, but my mistress doesn't generally catch on.

"Hiikana, I just can't stand it!" Faeliar exclaims, plopping herself on the large bed and nervously twirling the hem of her cape in her fingers. "Korchikah has to be alive! If he was disintegrated, there would at least be some trace of a weapon discharge! He can't just die and leave no corpse whatsoever! I have to look into this!"

I shake my head slightly despite myself. This will only add more to her overfilled plate of work.

"I can't leave my duties behind, but I just... I need to investigate this! Hiikana, are any of the other ghartahe able to assume my responsibilities right now?"

It's my business to know the work state of each ghartah. The second-order is probably available, but I don't know if it's a good idea to tell Faeliar. I war with myself until one side finally wins me over.

"Yes, mistress. Julikal isn't very busy this week. I expect she could take over for up to six days, but -- forgive me, mistress -- I implore you to reconsider! At least wait another week for the security camera footage."

Faeliar lets out a breath and stares at the ceiling. She's weighing her options; I recognize that distant, dreamy look in her eyes and the slight parting of the lips.

After several seconds, she sits up. "No," she tells me. "I have to know as soon as possible. I think I'll take leave for this week. Thank you, dear. I don't tell you enough how much of a help you are to me."

She gives me a grateful hug that could crush a whale. She's always been a bit of a cuddle bug around others. I return the embrace with a small smile. I want to support my friend however I can.

Faeliar lets go and does a short twirl of excitement. "Hiikana, would you prepare my car, please? Also, inform my chauffeur; she's a much better driver than I am."

I bow to her and exit the room while Faeliar begins to pack a week of outfits in a suitcase.

The grey jubilee of the Holy Kulak Decaying

Temple of Dust, Harkonni homohowk

"Great Kulak Nevermore," he said as he knelt to Us, the Twisted King.

He wore nothing, save the vision-enhancing mask, the braces around his waists and knees, and the gauntlets without which his fingers would fall apart. His nudity represented his honesty; his tail lashed reverently.

We raised Our armoured, gemstone-adorned fist for him to kiss. He did so hungrily, yearning for the praise of his Kulak.

A painful smile curled Our lips upward. We saw his hearts beating out of turn. We saw his shredded lungs compress and split with every broken breath.

A starved animal's growl sounded from the shadows around Our throne. Our servant shivered.

"Akorra, High Vicar of Dust."

We cast his name into the darkness of Our ancient and holy temple. The warden did not flinch as superheated air flowed across his sensitive antlers. We have trained him well. No pain, no fear, not a scrap of compassion. An utterly ruthless force is the key to victory. Other armies shudder when they hear the holy name of Shorotara, the Kingdom of Shoro Torn.

"Akorra, High Vicar of Dust, may Shorota bless your name, give us your tidings."

The mangled soldier rose like a puppet, although his head remained bowed to Us. His vocoder clicked into the slit in his throat so that he could speak again.

"The sister of the Finsha is setting out for the Koh za in search of her brother. Forty men and women stand at the scene of his disappearance, searching for his body. I come for your guidance, O Holy One. What shall we do when they discover the rift? Surely it is fixed into the warp drive."

We sat in silence, Our fingers steepled. A smirk spread across Our face as the High Vicar of Dust slowly became nervous. We saw red-hot adrenaline spiking in his veins. We saw his hearts beating so fast.

We saw he was afraid.

The animal by Our throne began to whine, and Akorra cringed away.

At last, Our little game ceased to amuse Us. We spoke to him. "Should they find the jump-rift, we will use them to our advantage," We said. "This could be an opportunity for new knowledge. We know not how the rifts function. Send a drone to monitor their studies. Perhaps even we can learn from them."

Akorra shifted uncomfortably. "How could one as high and mighty as You learn from the Impure?"

We glanced at his brain, at his shattered, twisted nerves, and We saw that he was sincere in his confusion. A perfect success in upbringing and indoctrination.

"You need not know," We replied quietly. "It shall worry the Kulak and the Kulak alone. We have told you what we wish you to do. Obey Our commands."

Akorra jolted as if struck by an electrical shock, such as the ones used for infants' instinct training. He groveled at Our hooves and shambled at great haste from the Temple.

We watched him go, and a short, childish giggle escaped Our lips. We enjoy the fear of Our servants; it has always brought a smile of laughter to Our face.

A dusty chandelier, sent swinging by Akorra's clumsy exit, cast light briefly on the beast chained to Our throne. It began to scream with Our voice.

"You shall have your fill soon enough," We crooned to the malnourished creature, stroking its antlers. "You and We both."

Our mind gradually turned back to other things, and We devoted Our energy once more to maintaining the mind web We call Shorota.

A plan began to form. It took shape in Our mind and was molded by every Shoro's unconscious desire to help Us. Shorota connects us and binds us, and it all bows to Us.

We decided. We will send an agent.

We will bring forth the Infected.

May 20, 8057 AD

Canterlot

I don't manage to run very far. That's no surprise, considering my broken leg, but it's still a bummer. The pain is almost unbearable, and I fall, but I try to crawl away before Luna can catch me.

It's no use. She shouts and telekinetically pulls me back. Several guards pile over me, binding every inch of my body with metal cables that feel stronger than Arcturan iron. Somewhere in the fray my raybeam emitter slips out of my pocket, barely noticed by anyone.

The Princess looms over me, her eyes a blinding white.

"Be still and silent, insolent fool! Do not resist!"

I am irresistibly compelled to obey. I don't know why, but every muscle in my body stiffens and ceases to respond to my commands. Even without the cables, I'd be completely paralysed. All I can do is breathe.

Luna Starsong glares down at me, growling deeply.

"Take it away to the dungeons," she spits. "We shall speak to our sister of what hath occurred here."

"Yes, my lady," Batwing says.

She nods and steps furiously away, allowing the soundproofing barrier to collapse.

The big kahuna spins around to me and the other guards. "Evening Light, Shining Star, are the two of you together able to carry it?"

"I think so," one of the thestrals, Evening Light, responds. "He looks heavy, but I think we can manage it, yes."

He prods my side with a hoof. "That's solid muscle," he says quietly with surprise.

Without further ado I am hoisted onto the guards' backs by four other thestrals bearing ropes. My carriers strain under my weight, and I silently hope their knees buckle.

No beans, but their grunts of exertion are satisfying. At least I'm causing them a great deal of inconvenience.

We make our slow way across an earthen path, crossing a small stone bridge over an artificial creek. I think we're still in the palace's courtyard area, but I'm just guessing from the looming buildings I can see above me, so I'm not sure.

At last, we come across a grand prison, insufferably ornate, which lies behind the palace. Most of the front is taken up by a pair of sturdy metal gates which shine unnaturally. Two gargoyles sneer down at me from the buttresses.

A pair of equines, a thestral and a pegasus, stand guard at either side. The pegasus wears shining, gold-plated armour rather than the thestrals' smooth, shadowy suits. His fur is a warm shade of white.

"Our Entrance is sanctioned by Princess Luna Starsong, Steward of the Night," Captain Moon says to the prison guards. "An initial trial for this monster is to be held in three weeks' time. Inquiries are to be made directly to the Princess."

The guards salute and move their spears to let us pass.

The entrance hall's left wall has murals on it depicting ponies in chains standing before a pair of winged unicorns, heads bowed in shame. The words Abandon thy evils are repeated every now and then. On the opposite wall, another mural shows the same characters, now smiling with their chains broken, with the words Forgive thine enemies. Pretty sappy.

The guards walk on, carrying me through the dark, musty hall. The entire place is made from worn basalt bricks. Eventually, we reach a smaller passage, which branches off on each side into dozens of little cells, a few of them barely large enough for someone like me. Thick metal doors mark the entrances, with heavy iron bars set in the windows.

At long last, we stop. Captain Moon opens a large cell to our right, and Shining Star and Evening Light stuff me inside, slamming the doors shut behind me.

The head honcho looks at someone among the guards. "Shadowmane, use your magic to unbind him," he orders.

A pitch black unicorn slinks to the front of the crowd. They seem to back away slightly in fear. Yellow eyes gleam at me.

This man looks very dangerous indeed.

"Yes, sir," he says, only slightly above a whisper.

The static-electric feeling returns at full force. The cables spin and twist artfully, slowly but surely parting themselves from my body. A rich lime green aura surrounds them, lighting up the cell.

The cables fall to the floor, and Shadowmane and I stare at each other through the barred window.

"It would be easy to escape, you know," I say casually, looking around. "Stone can be quite fragile if you handle it right."

The corners of Shadowmane's mouth turn upwards in a chilling smile. "You go on," he replies quietly. "I'd love to see you try." He bows his head to show me his horn, which I now see is filed to a lethal point.

"Your first trial will be held in three weeks' time in the Moonlight Court," Moon states. "Until then, you are to remain here. You are not to disturb others with loud song or uncouth manner of speech. You are not to harass your assigned guards. You are not to attempt to escape. You will be given two meals a day, along with water."

"Alright, sure, whatever."

"What are your nutritional needs?"

Let's spice things up a little. You can't eat anything but medium-rare steaks and rich gravy, with a glass of milk on the side. How about that?

I think I'll follow Rational Finsha's advice. Nothing so obvious as that, of course --

Oi! I'm right here, you know!

-- but maybe I can make a little bit of this work in my favour. Now, these guys are horses, so they probably eat grass and flowers and weird shit like that. I know for a fact I can't eat those; I've tried. Pebbles are tastier.

"I'm unable to digest many types of plants," I tell him. "Grass, flowers, leaves, ferns, things along those lines. I can't eat them. Artichokes are way out. I need a diet very rich in protein, so you might want to acquire some kind of meat. A steak would do nicely."

My bullshitting skills have improved since the last time I was arrested, that's for sure.

"I also require a large amount of calcium -- these old bones didn't build themselves, you know. I would recommend milk or other dairy products to that end."

Well done. We'll be having some fun tomorrow.

I can taste it already. For the uninitiated, lactose is to us what alcohol is to Terrans.

May God have mercy on my livers.

"We'll see what we can do," Captain Moon says. "Until then, I bid you a good night."

I scoff as the guards file away, leaving Evening Light and Shining Star to stand by my cell.

A torch on the side of the wall slowly burns down over the course of three hours. Evening Light leaves to replace it, and Shining Star yawns.

I settle down in the corner next to some kind of torture implement and let my chin fall to my chest, although my species doesn't sleep. We can get knocked unconscious, yes, but we don't sleep, per se.

It's going to be a long night. I fold my arms over my chest and let the quiet snores of the other prisoners take me into a peaceful state of mind.

The world swims before me.

I'm running through a rainy forest, leaping and vaulting over fallen branches and logs. A smile spreads across my face as I let raindrops from the leaves above drip onto my outstretched hands. I need no water. I need no breath. I simply run, faster and faster and faster, never stopping, never tiring.

The trees blur together from the sheer speed at which I move. I sidestep and dodge anything in my path effortlessly. The smell of rain and wet vegetation fills me with happiness. I am in paradise.

Suddenly, a voice compels me wordlessly to slow down. The voice is gentle and a little bit nervous, it seems. Whatever it is, I think it's okay to humour it for now.

I let my legs carry me to a gradual halt. At last I stop in a large clearing, about forty metres wide. In the middle stands a strange tree. Its trunk is incredibly thick, and some of its roots sprawl away toward the edges of the clearing. It looks like a Martian titanic, judging by its size and the bark texture.

Curiosity replaces the utter euphoria I felt earlier, and I move slowly forward. The ground is shrouded by post-rain mist, although it's thicker than any mist I've ever seen. I can't even see my boots.

I stoop by the titanic and examine it. Simple designs are carved into the bark, going further and further up in a single-file line.

The first picture is a humble little carving of a Marrissans maggot. After two minutes of contemplation, I realise that it's me. I remember my lower jaw was slightly lopsided when I was a maggot, which is a feature shared by the carving.

Excited and not knowing why, I look at the pictures above it. They seem to represent milestones in my early life -- my first day of school, me and my family sitting around a cozy fireplace, my mother laughing while holding me in her arms.

I smile sadly. Life was so much simpler as a child. I had a father. There were no Shoro. My biggest worry was my favourite show's mid-season hiatus.

The next picture up shows the shell of a metamorphosing Marrissans. I know from the prior carvings that it's probably me.

I don't know why, but I can see the higher carvings clearly, despite their distance. The next one is similar, but it shows a four-fingered fist punching a gaping hole from inside the shell. I am depicted curled up within. The pictures grow more realistic and detailed as they go on.

I skim past the next few -- the pictures of my father are like a bullet to the heart -- but my eyes stop moving when I come across a horrible day that I've tried not to remember for a long time.

My big argument with Shorkah. The worst things I've ever said were said to him. It was brought about by my conversion to atheism, I think. Shorkah was a Methodist Christian. It was so long ago I can't really remember what the tipping point was.

Shorkah said he was ashamed to call me his son. I said I was no longer proud to call him my father. We fought.

I had thrown one final heart-shredding insult at him as I stormed out the door. This was all thousands of years ago, but Marrissanse have a deserved reputation for grudges.

Above this depressing account of events, the tree splits in two. Another trunk grows from the side of the first. The one still going straight up shows the expected interpretation of my journey through life, but the other tells a more disturbing tale.

One one trunk, I'll see a happy experience with a group of friends, like the time I got roped into an outlandish country metal band. On the other, the staging and poses will be similar, but instead of shredding the electric banjo, I'm cowering and shielding myself from a hideous monster.

It continues like this all the way up the trunks, showing regret for the argument on one and utter hatred for Shorkah on the other. The second trunk grows darker and more rotted as it goes further up. The main one looks a lot healthier, but the decay is reaching it, too.

Finally, a change occurs in the shape of the tree. At some point, the rotten trunk bent back toward the stronger one, rebalancing the tree and allowing branches to grow properly between them.

I squint at the carving at the point where this happened, and gasp in spite of myself.

It's my father's execution. On the first trunk, I'm crying with rage and devastation as my father's head swings from a rope.

On the second trunk, I myself am ripping him limb from limb, grinning sadistically all the while. I avert my eyes in horror.

I know what the rest of the carvings will be like, so I stop looking at them and instead search for anything to distract myself from what I've just seen.

The leaves of the tree glow faintly, and greenish veins, also glowing, run down from the highest branches to the topmost carving, which is me crying into Luna Starsong's chest.

I then remember the voice that told me to stop in the first place. I hear a shuffling behind me.

I turn around, automatically shifting my hand to my raybeam emitter's pocket.

My fingers brush against a smooth undershirt and nothing more.

I look down with a yelp and see that my father's coat is gone, as are all the things I keep in it. I'm left with only my trousers and shirt. I look up into the shadows of the forest and see something moving into the clearing.

A tall, quadrupedal silhouette steps quietly toward me. A faint blue light surrounds it.

It's Princess Luna.

She walks into view, her head bowed in respect. She coveys somehow that I have authority in this place.

Where am I? I ask.

She takes a breath and lets it out. We are in thy mind, she replies.

I stare blankly. What do you mean, 'in my mind'?

This is a representation of thy thoughts, thy memories, and everything that defineth thee, she explains. We hath discovered at great length a way to take thee here, to the Astral Plane. 'Twas very difficult. Thou hadst no dreams to manifest! Thy species knoweth not the joy of sleep. We hath never laid eyes upon a creature like thee.

The Astral -- what? Explain this in a language I can understand.

Suffice it to say, we have connected with thee through thy mind. Across this link, we may speak to each other.

Okay, then.... How do I know you aren't some weird hallucination?

We will send thee back to there thy body lies, and we shall give thee a feather from our wing, to prove to thee that what we speak is truth.

The forest shimmers and fades.

My surroundings change gradually. I'm back in the cramped, dark cell with two disinterested guards outside. My good leg is numb from being sat on for at least an hour. I shift it and stretch, and then I look at my hand.

Sure enough, my fist is clutching an azure feather. I slip it into one of my pockets.

I snap back into the forest. Luna is standing next to me again. We lock eyes.

I give her a nod. What are you doing in my mind? I ask her.

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she paces uncomfortably, walking round the tree and staring warily at something I can't see.

I open my mouth to repeat the question, but she speaks before I can do so.

We hold concern for thy safety, and for thy future.

I frown. What do you mean?

Thy past is broken. Thy memories are corrupt. Two stallions reside in this stallion's head.

I look involuntarily at the tree, at the place where the trunk splits in two. Unnerving connections are made in my mind.

Two stallions reside in this stallion's head.

Show yourself, coward, she calls into the darkness with her thousand voices.

I look sharply up at her. Who are you talking to? Have you brought someone else here?

Nay. Thou hast summoned him unto thyself.

Are you looking for me?

I watch, afraid, as someone else shambles into the clearing.

It's me.

At least, he's shaped like me, and he sounds like me, but his scales are charred and blackened, and his eyes are sunken and bloodshot. His fingers are very, very long. All he wears is a tattered brown cape. A massive, bloody wound gapes at me from his chest. His spidery fists clench and unclench.

Hello, Princess, Rational Finsha says, grinning and waving a skeletal hand in greeting.

I jerk awake, hitting my head on the wall. My guards jolt and turn, brandishing their spears.

"What's going on?" Shining Star asks me.

"Nothing... just -- just a nightmare..." I mutter, breathing hard. I expect they'll buy the excuse, since they don't know I don't sleep.

They look at me suspiciously for a few seconds more and the move back to their original positions.

I sink lower to the floor, shivering. Hours blur past as I dwell on the charred man who stood in my mind. I keep seeing his fingers flex, over and over again. The way the muscles parted in some places to reveal burnt bone disturbs me to no end for reasons I can't explain.

Before I know it, someone is coming down the hall with breakfast.

Author's Note

You could say the language in Korchikah's mind is a little...

*dons shades*

...colorful.

Ironically, this is the longest he's ever gone without swearing.

Chapter V - Jailhouse Blues

May 21, 8057 AD

Cell 48, Canterlot dungeons

I eat my lunch in silence. I'm not sure what to make of my dream/hallucination/bullshit magibabble. I'm trying to convince myself that I was hallucinating -- it's happened occasionally since I swallowed a bad batch of some weird Terran drug about ten years ago. Sure, there's a small part of my mind that protests, but what do I know? I really don't want to think about Luna's feather.

The guards have rotated since breakfast. Now I'm accompanied by a young mare named Persnickety Cricket, fresh from the training grounds, who wears the shining gold armour that I've learned is a trademark of something called the Equestrian Solar Guard.

Alongside her is none other than Shadowmane, the psycho unicorn. It's obvious from Cricket's body language that he scares her just by sitting there. She doesn't seem too pleased with the guard postings.

I set down my empty tray and lean against the wall, resting my arm on the huge rusting chains next to me. "You know," I begin in a conspiratorial tone, "if you let me out of here, I could really -- "

A low growl emanates from Shadowmane's throat, causing Persnickety Cricket to jump slightly and quiver in fear. "Sweet Empress above, give me strength," he prays, shuddering irritably. Cricket moves a little bit to the right, away from him.

" -- I could just stay right here," I finish in light of Shadowmane's anger.

Nobody says anything for three hours. I'm itching to start hunting down the Shoro, but I have no idea how strong or threatening Princess Luna is, and I seem to have gotten on her bad side. I hope she sees reason soon; her entire fucking world is in danger!

The Shoro probably has a head start of about a week now. If I break out soon, I should be able to find it eventually; repulsor discharge is pungent and lingers in the air for months.

There is, however, the problem of Princess Luna. She might be dangerously powerful, and, of course, there's the fact that she commands an entire army. I might be able to take on a few dozen soldiers at a time if I'm lucky, but if she puts everyone she has on the case I'll be in some deep shit.

Be that as it may, here I am, digesting a tall glass of milk and a delectably juicy manticore steak. I've no idea what a manticore is, but hot DAMN do they taste good. This isn't the worst prison I've been in, not by a long shot.

I keep my mind constantly on guard. I don't know why -- after all, what I experienced last night simply had to be a hallucination -- but it just feels proper to do. I don't know what's here, or what could be trying to break into my thoughts. Telepaths most certainly exist; I've experienced an Enceledan's wrath before, and believe me, it itsn't pretty. I head headaches and auditory hallucinations for the next three weeks, two of which were spent in a mental hospital.

Regardless, I allow myself to sit back and relax, staring at the ceiling in a half-drunken stupor. Words exchanged between other prisoners and their guards blur together into a muffled mumbling. I let out a silent hiccough, livers burning with the effort of processing lactose. I never was good at holding my dairy.

Three days pass without incident.

May 24, 8057 AD

I finish my post-meal business (kind of hard when the toilet is low down, your leg's broken, and your asshole is halfway up your back) and refasten my father's coat before washing my hands in the dented basin.

A conversation in the hall draws my attention to the front of my cell. I take hold of the window bars and peek through. Winter Gale, one of my current guards, is speaking to somebody who's just entered. It isn't time for guard rotation yet; who, then, is this?

"Good morning, Sprout!" the pegasus says happily. She's by far the cheeriest guard I've had. "What can we do for you today?"

"I, uh, I'm here to measure Prisoner 48 for his new uniform. That -- that's okay, right?"

Sprout is incredibly, incredibly nervous. I wonder if I can use that to my advantage somehow?

"Oh, yes, of course! He's still got two and a half weeks 'till trial. He needs one until then! Please, feel free."

She unlocks the cell door. I peek round to the prison's entrance and notice Shadowmane standing guard there. That's odd; he usually comes here after lunch.

I could probably take on most of these guards easily, but something about my old friend here seems... off. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but he sets off every alarm in my mind and then some.

I lay my broken leg on the stained granite bench and sit passively as Sprout measures me. He shivers fearfully as he does so. The tape doesn't shake, however; he's good at his job.

Should I try to give him a hard time? Do a bit of trolling?

You don't want to mess up his measurements and get a poorly-fitted uniform, do you? I doubt they'd give you another.

Rational Finsha's right. No, I don't. Phooey.

I sit quietly, making constant eye contact with the tailor, just to fuck with him a bit. He can't seem to bring himself to look away from my chronically bloodshot eyes. At last, he wrenches his attention away to his measuring and gets back to work.

After several minutes of measuring and scribbling with a levitating notepad, Sprout packs up his things and, shaking horribly, moves out of the cell.

"Thanks so much!" Winter Gale calls behind him, fluttering her eyelashes. "Try to make sure it gets done quickly, please!"

Sprout leaves the dungeon, placing his tapes in a saddlebag. Shadowmane doesn't acknowledge him except to raise his spear and let the tailor through.

"What does the uniform look like?" I ask to kill time. I can't see any of the other prisoners from where my cell is situated, so I haven't seen the outfits yet.

"Oh, it's just a standard orange jumpsuit," she replies. "You'll have your name, cell number, and your trial date pinned on it. If you're sentenced here after your initial trial, we'll make sure you get the same cell to save time on tags. You'll look good in it, I promise!"

"I can't wait," I say distastefully.

I ponder my options. I can still escape anytime I want, I hope. I don't know how badly these guards were trained, but they didn't even check my coat. I have plenty of gizmos in there that I could probably use as weapons -- and, of course, I could punch through the wall.

However, there's still the matter of the presumed army of guards, both Lunar and Solar, beyond the confines of prison, and I seem to have lost my gun. I still have some nails, though. If I throw them right, they could be used as long-range weapons.

After making sure Winter Gale and Spearhead (my other guard) aren't looking, I discreetly check my nail pocket and frown. Only fifteen left. I'm sure there's a lot more than that who are going to fight me.

The thwap of a spear hitting flesh jolts me out of my thoughts, and I immediately rush forward and stick my head between the bars to catch a glimpse of what's going on.

"Stand down in the name of the Princess!" Shadowmane yells, standing over a strange creature I've never seen before, his pointed horn held at its neck.

The assailant looks vaguely equestrian, but it's jet-black and shiny, with a carapace like that of a beetle's. Even stranger, it seems to be riddled with open, festering wounds, showing off ocean-blue meat. Its massive compound eyes are a luminescent blue. A Solar Guard's armour hangs off its skeletal frame.

A curved, sharp horn on its forehead sporadically fires bursts of green light that bounce off Shadowmane's helmet, careening into the walls and gouging deep holes. The fur on Shadowmane's muzzle is singed, but he largely manages to avoid the luminescent pellets.

"What the fuck...?" I whisper to myself as even the amiable Winter Gale charges at the bug, screaming bloody murder and channeling the rage of hell with spittle flying out of her mouth.

They're distracted. Get your ass out of here!

Without a second thought, I obey Rational Finsha and punch straight through the steel door, slowly ripping a hole wide enough to climb through. I take a fallen spear and use it as a walking stick to hightail it out of the prison, sneaking past the guards, all of whom are focused on the strange arthropod.

Fate is finally giving me a break, it seems.

I break out into bright sunlight and vault over an unconscious Solar Guard. Canterlot's a lot prettier in the sun, I think vaguely, looking at the sparkling ivory bricks and golden accents everywhere. However, I haven't any time to admire it. I need to get the fuck away before Luna catches wind of my escape.

I drop the spear and jump, digging my claws into the wall of a tower. Something falls from one of my pockets as I scale the building, but I don't stop to catch it. It's probably not important. I need to keep up some triage here.

At last I reach the tower's conical roof and cling to it, looking over the city to get my bearings. Only the general area of the dungeons seems to be on high alert.

From here I can see everything, and nobody can see me. The world has a serious shortage of people who look up. The feeling is wildly empowering. A primal exhilaration fills my heart.

Voices drift upward.

"Where did he go!?"

"Prisoner 48 has escaped! Shadowmane, Cricket, with me! Gale, take a squad and search the towers!"

Oh, shit. The matter with the horse beetle seems to have been resolved. They're out here now, looking for me. I swing round to the other side of the roof, peeking around it to look down at the prison.

Ice settles in my heart. They're assembling a pegasus search team, led by Winter Gale. The soldiers are unfurling their wings and flapping them experimentally.

It's time to fuck off.

A pegasus swoops around the tower and decidedly does not see me.

I look down to examine the window I slid into. I'm hanging in mid-air, clinging to the sill with my sharp fingernails.

The room I'm in seems to be a library of some sort. Bookshelves line the towering walls, crammed with books on magic or some other mystical bullshit.

Arcane Divinity: Withe Foreworde ande Commentarie by Queene Celeste ande Princesse Luna.

A Queen? Luna mentioned a sister who used to be a queen. That sister must have been this Celeste.

The Principles of Crystal Magicks - Have you ever wondered about the emotion conversion abilities of the Crystal Heart? The source of the Crystal Ponies' impenetrable coating? Or how about the nefarious focusing power of Lord Sombra's crystal arrays? Wonder no more, with this handy travel guide kept close to the heart of every Crystal Empire tourist!

Crystals this, crystals that. I once met a lady in downtown Seattle who told me she could mend my spirit with mystic crystals.

Pyromancy for Dummies

Holy fuck. For the sake of my compromised sanity, I'm going to stop reading.

My eyes wander downward and fall upon someone I've seen before.

"Oh, fuck my life," I eloquently interject.

Princess Twilight Sparkle is staring up at me as if she doesn't believe her eyes. Her jaw is heavily bandaged, and I note with a little bit of satisfaction that her head is still mildly bruised. A thick book hangs from a luminescent aura, glowing soft pink along with her horn.

We go into a sort of rudimentary staring contest.

"This is awkward," I comment.

Her face slowly morphs into a fierce scowl.

"I, uh, I'll be going now," I say, pulling myself partway through the window and looking around for watching pegasi. "Uh... it-was-nice-meeting-you-BYE!"

My leg is encased in magenta light and my body is yanked down. I turn, affronted, and glare at the Princess.

She yanks again and my fingers fail me, sending me plummeting to the floor.

May 27, 8057 AD

Cosmus Arts and Sciences research lab 7

Jallir, hand me the forty-micron spanner, will you?

I toss the requested tool over to Kutarn, who clicks his beak in thanks and starts dismantling the dead Shoro's arm brace under Hunter's watchful eye.

"Very good, officer," Hunter says as Kutarn hands him the brace. His manner of speech is a bit odd when he gets into 'the zone'; he starts speaking militaristically, even referring to people with such terms as 'officer' or 'Lieutenant'.

He labels the arm brace and places it carefully next to the broken battery pack and the High Ghartah's dismembered finger, and then he straightens his back stiffly.

"Kromah, Kutarn, McCalligan?" he calls, beckoning us to him with what looks like a piece of scrap metal in his hand.

"Yes, sir?" I answer, mildly annoyed by the use of my surname. I ignore my irritation and listen.

"There's a shipment of tools and, uh... perishables waiting for me in the fourth deck antechamber. Could you bring it up here, please? I think I might be able to salvage something from this camera if I can get my hands on a baryon probe."

Right away, sir! Kutarn says as he leads us to the elevator, his rocky tail wrapping around his shoulder to hit the button. The doors slide open and we board the lift, Kromah calling the elevator to deck four.

A mildly uncomfortable ride begins as grating muzak starts to play.

Finally, Kutarn breaks the silence. So... where in the Empire are you two from? he asks as the lift descends.

"I'm from the Farrl," Kromah states. "It's pretty rural. Well, it's on Altair VI, so of course it is, but it's rural even by their standards."

"Parqanto itself for me," I say, thinking back to the capital of the Empire. "I'm Countess Rukah's grandson."

Nobility, huh? That's cool. I'm the son of Lord-President Fitark of Mare Tranquilitatis -- not that that's saying much, considering the other thousand people who can say the same.

Kromah laughs. "What got you into P.I?"

My mother's a member of the 51st Garrison. She's inspired me all my life to help the cause, so here I am, stealing Shoro tech and turning it against them.

"The 'Damned 51st', huh? That's quite impressive," I comment as the elevator doors open. "Aren't they an all-cyborg legion or something?"

Used to be, until the Human Purity movement started throwing hissy fits about it. Either way, she's amazing. I think she's stationed in the Ogma system right now.

We enter the antechamber to find a neatly-stacked pile of small, heavy crates, most of which are labeled as coming from either Mintaka IV or Mendale. The Mintaka packages contain the Overseer's tools; the Mendale packages contain jar after jar of Sinistran salsa.

"Good Lord, who needs all this salsa!?" Kromah exclaims, backing away from the crate in disgust. "It's like a drug cover or something!"

Kutarn crawls onto the crates and sniffs them. I can't smell any drugs. They ought to be fine to transport.

Kromah blanches with disgust. She's hated all things spicy since I first met her.

"Help me out with this dolly, will ya?" I call to them from the supply closet. "It's stuck."

Kutarn comes over and pulls the hand truck out of the closet, toppling a couple of badly placed brooms.

All right. Let's get this junk loaded up.

Ten minutes of lifting and rearranging later, we're on our way back up, crates stacked on the dolly and in the corners.

The elevator shudders slightly, and we hear a muffled clunk from above. The floor indicator freezes halfway between decks six and seven. The muzak stops mid-beat.

Oh, stars above, what now? Kutarn says with a sigh, looking at the ceiling. If this damn elevator just broke, I swear to Halshoni...

"I'll call the maintenance crew," I offer, interrupting Kutarn's oath to the Lunarian constellation and dialing the number on my phone.

The dial tone goes for a few seconds as the phone on the other end rings. I get hopeful when the call is answered.

"This is Chief Orotez Kaudus of the Koh za engineering team. Unfortunately, we aren't available right now, but be sure to leave a message and a ticket for your issue! Have a good day."

"Oh, damn," I comment as I hang up. "They haven't got the new maintenance crew in yet." Chief Kaudus was killed in the battle over Harkonni homohowk, I'm pretty sure. I swallow my feelings of horror at hearing a dead man talking.

I've got the Overseer's number. I'll just give him a text real quick.

We wait for a moment as Kutarn fires off the message.

One moment becomes one minute, then two, then five.

He's usually quicker than this. Maybe he didn't hear.

Kutarn texts Hunter again, only to be met with the same silence.

Damn this. I'm checking up top. Keep up the calls, guys. Jallir, I'm going to have to climb on your shoulders.

Damn elevator. The lifts back home never acted up like this.

I reach from my vantage point on the tall Terran's shoulders and try to push aside the maintenance panel up top.

It's stuck. I think something heavy's lying on it, but I've no idea what it could be.

Brace yourself, Jallir, I tell him. Something's on top of the panel.

"What the crap, what the crap..." Kromah whispers nervously, beginning to pace. She strikes me as the claustrophobic type.

I put a lot more strength behind my pushes. Jallir grunts and wobbles, but he thankfully doesn't fall.

Just one more shove.... There! The panel finally yields, and Jallir's knees buckle, leaving me hanging by my claws.

Thanks, pal. Sorry about that.

He gives me a weary thumbs-up from the floor.

I clamber up and find myself on top of the metal pod, looking around at the mid-deck partitions. I can tell the elevator shaft used to have walls here, but something's punched them out. I can see straight to the fusion reactor in the aft section.

This isn't right. For all its ugliness, the Koh za was built to the highest possible standards. It shouldn't have exposed wiring like what I'm seeing hanging everywhere.

The cable pulling the elevator upward is shaking furiously. Rods on either side of the lift are keeping it in place; they must be some sort of safety mechanism.

"What do you see up there?" Kromah calls up, her voice quavering slightly.

I'm not sure. The walls of the elevator shaft have been punched out; it might have been during the Shoro attack, but we'd need to investigate closer. I can't see any of the standard partition barriers. It's like a giant crawl space, nothing but the upper deck supports. The fusion reactor's lighting up the place real nice.

"The fusion reactor!?" Jallir exclaims.

The fusion reactor, I confirm, deadpan.

"What about the thing on the door? Is that still there?" Kromah asks.

I squint. It's pretty dark, but there's something bulky in the shadows over in one of the partitions next to the shaft.

I'm checking it out now. Hang tight.

An orange light winks at me from the hunk of mystery in the shadows. It stars to whir.

I creep closer, dropping to all fours due to a sudden feeling of dread and a pressure weighing on my mind.

A pressure indicating somebody very close by, and one that I can tell isn't Jallir or Kromah.

The flickering of the safety lights around the shaft finally reveal a horrific silhouette.

The severed upper body of a Shoro warrior drags itself closer, sucking air in with a wet rattling sound. Its talonlike fingers scrape on the metal floor, and its mangled torso follows suit with loud creaking.

I stare, transfixed by its one working eye. It pulls me in, drowning me in its yellow-orange light, driving out of my mind thoughts and feelings and decisions and memories.

"What do you see up there?" Kromah calls, snapping me out of the Shoro's trance.

Its integrated arm cannon charges up and it spews yellow blood across the floor.

STAY THE FUCK DOWN!

The cannon shoots and my body combusts.

May 24, 8057 AD

Palace complex in Canterlot

"Oi! Lemme go! Let me go! Fuck you, Princess!"

Sparkle marches determinedly through grand hall after grand hall, dragging me behind her by the collar of my father's coat. I scrabble uselessly at the floor as she pulls me along.

"Hey, if you just put me down, I'm sure we could come to some sort of agreement!"

No beans. She keeps going without giving me a second glance.

"Seriously! I won't bother you again! I'll give you my first aid kit, I can patch you up better than your doctors can -- ow! Ow! Ow! OW!"

Thankfully, the staircase isn't very long.

The Princess still won't respond. She takes a right, then a left, and then we stop.

There's a pair of Solar Guards on either side of a grand set of gold-lined French doors, holding their trademark spears and wearing gilded bronze.

They bow to Sparkle. "Princesses Celestia and Luna are convening privately," one of them says. "I'm afraid we can't let you in until they're done."

She nods and sits. Apparently, she's content to wait.

I lock eyes with the younger of the guards and grimace. He remains stock still, breaking eye contact and looking straight ahead.

Twilight keeps a strong grip on my father's coat. I wouldn't dare to make a break for it; she might tear the upper cloth layer apart. I need to find a more subtle way out of this.

My keen hearing picks up on an unfamiliar voice behind the door. It belongs to a woman, and she sounds quite full of herself, but that's about all I can tell.

"Don't worry, sister. The dungeon guards are well-trained; I'm sure they have everything under control by now. I've just received a report that the changeling was captured and arrested."

"That is but a small comfort, Tia," an all-too-familiar voice replies. "I, too, am keeping tabs on the action. The Finsha has escaped."

"I've heard, but surely he can't get far. Search teams are working as we speak. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if he were already captured!"

Fuck you, lady. Whoever you are.

"I know, but... he disturbeth me, sister. Never hath he seen the wonders of sleep. Never doth he rest, and neither doth he dream. I see him before me with mine own eyes, and yet he is absent from the Astral Plane! He is an impossible creature, and I understand him not."

"Modern speech, Luna. Don't forget that. But I understand your concern. He's a wild card, a rogue element. We can't know what he might do next."

The voices are growing closer. I wonder idly if I should be concerned.

You ought to be. Miss Moon's probably going to kick our butt.

Even Rational Finsha's scared. Yeah, I'm worried now.

God, I'm really fucking worried.

The clicking of horseshoes on stone gets closer and closer until the doors glow gold and swing open.

"Just speak with me if you need anything else, sister. Until then -- "

The stranger stops mid-sentence when she sees me.

If I had to use one word to describe her, I'd say 'radiant'. Her fur is pearly white, as are her wings. Her mane and tail float like Luna's, but instead of the night sky, they look like the most vibrant fucking rainbow you could possibly imagine. She wears a crown, a necklace, and shoes made of polished gold.

Holy fuck, she's garish.

"Luna... is that the creature you spoke of?"

"Yes, sister," the Moon Woman says, not taking her eyes off me.

"Twilight, what is the meaning of this?" the Rainbow Fuck asks Sparkle.

"I caught him hiding in the east tower," she mumbles through her bandages. "I don't know how he got there, Celestia!"

Aha! So that's her name. It looks like I've finally met Luna's sister.

Celestia glowers at me. "Guards, take him to the prison tower. Make sure he's supervised by no less than eight sentries at all times. Twilight, come with me."

The Princesses march away, leaving me to the tender, loving care of the Equestrian Solar Guard.

This is going to suck.

Author's Note

Finally finished! So sorry about the half-year delay. I've been ridiculously busy -- worked at a summer camp for a couple of months, had my wisdom teeth removed, sprained the same ankle four times in one week... there's been a lot going on, but I'm back at last :pinkiehappy:

This chapter was a nightmare to write. I knew I wanted some exposition for Jallir and co., but I could never figure out how to do it. I'm glad I found something that worked for me!

Oh yeah, and as per the usual, Korchikah's screwed. I wonder how he's getting out of this one.