Clash of the Legends

Scorch squinted in the daylight. After 24 hours in a cave, he had seen nothing but murk and gloom. As he checked his surroundings, he noticed the massive pool of blood that had been hardening in the grass. Good, that's where he landed. As he scanned the bushes for a box, a something pressed against his flanks. His ears pricked up, he blushed and turned to see Scorchette nudging his plot with her hoof.

"What is it?" He muttered as his cheeks practically melted from inner heat. His clone gestured to 'Soldier' Scorch-Mane, who was pointing in a bush. The helmet worn atop his head was covering his eyes, and his mouth was constantly expressing an angry snarl. He snapped his neck 90 degrees in an incredibly worrying fashion and directed his unreadable yet steely gaze upon Scorch.

"BOX." shouted Soldier Scorch, still jabbing a hoof into the bush, before pointing around the forest clearing at the other Scorches in a threatening manner. "THIS IS MY BOX. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME TO TOUCH MY BOX." he yelled.

"Cool down, I've got this." a voice came from behind him. Every Scorch clone in the area turned to look at the owner of the voice. "Casual-Mane is on the case." and with that, a clone stepped out from the crowd and casually walked towards Soldier Mane.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME, I DID NOT ORDER YOU T-" he was cut off by a swift backhoof to the snout. A gasp arose from the crowd, as Casual proceeded to buck Soldier in the head repeatedly. After some murmuring, a voice piped up as a Scorch jumped in the air.

"Oh, I GOT 20 BITS CASUAL KICKS HIS FLANK!" he cheerily yelled.

"No way." another shouted. "You're wastin' cash, kiddo!"

"Kiddo?" Pinkie Mane shouted back, as he bounced through the crowd. "I'm 3 seconds older than you!"

"Shut up!" yelled another as yet more fighting broke out. Original Scorch simply lay down on the ground, covered his snout and wept, being comforted by, er, himself.

"No wonder I'm considered bipolar."

That was when a crackle came over the radio.

"...every pony for themselves."

Scorch's eyes went wide. If teamkilling was allowed... He turned his neck and saw 254 clones glaring and snapping at him, some armed with makeshift clubs. He did his nervous giggle, and slowly got to his feet, edging carefully towards the box of equipment. If he could get the crossbow, he might stand a chance against himself. Wind whistled gently through the trees, making it all seem more standoff-ish. The sunset was burning the remainders of trust still held in the small army that may have remained when the message came over the radio.

All of a sudden, the clone at the front looked to his right. The bushes were rustling.

Somepony was in there.

Shining Armor cursed quietly, wiping off thorns that had stayed in his fur from the previous thorn patch. His armor was scratched to tartarus, he was cold, and beginning to regret ever bursting through the doors to save the princesses. Pulling out the last spike, he hefted the reassuring weight of his crossbow with his magic and stepping down from the log. He immediately resumed stalking the woods. He knew the princesses' team was breaking, according to a panicked radio message from Celestia, but he still had every intent of finding his team. He span around to check he wasn't being followed, before turning again. A sudden sound caused him to drop to the leaf covered forest floor and aim his weapon around. He carried on listening. It appeared again. A voice, and very loud.

"BOX." It sounded like Scorch-Mane, and the tiny bit of red he could see confirmed his theory. He sighed, and almost got up when he heard another voice.

"Casual-Mane is on the case." it also sounded like Scorch. Then came the theory-shattering thing; a maroon hoof pounded into Scorch's face. He wouldn't punch himself. He darted into a nearby bush, still watching the two Scorches, when a low snarl was heard behind him. He quickly span and expected to see a Manticore drooling into the bush, but instead saw at least another 250 Scorches in a small clearing, all glaring at one Scorch cowering on the ground. He didn't know which was real, and shifted his weight uncomfortably, rustling the bush.

The TV station manager was much happier this morning. Everypony knew why; the ratings of their broadcasting of the events involving the princesses and their guards had rapidly launched skywards. That, and the story given to them from a hospitalized blue reporter about Luna's time on the moon,  he would make millions of bits a day. He sighed happily, adjusted

his suit and tie, before smugly trotting into his office and pouring himself a glass of G&T.