Operation Firework

Most ponies, when they see a unicorn teleport, witness a bright flash of light. You're no exception to that.

The flash of light you can handle. The flash of pain behind your eyes, however, is a lot less tolerable. Serves you right for overexerting yourself.

The world around you jolts, and your head feels like somepony thumped you with a hoof from the inside out. Suddenly, you're no longer in the harbour. Now, you're in the dark.

You bring both hooves to your temple, trying to settle the thundering pain. You can't even see, but you can feel the world spin under you. It's sickening.

It takes a moment to realise how hard you're breathing. You're already using all of your effort not to cry out from the throbbing. Sneakily teleporting onto a potentially villainous boat would be pointless if you just gave away your position by yelling.

A firm, supportive hoof touches your back, caressing up and down your spine to ease the pain away. You feel her presence beside you. Tempest Shadow whispers in your ear.

"Thank you."

It worked. You managed to safely teleport yourself over to, er, wherever you are. The boat's interior? You can taste the sea air, but it's stale. There's an ever-present, rhythmic creaking from the wooden walls and floorboards. Your hooves are wet. There's no light at all, not even a candle.

You try to cast a quick illumination spell. Instead, you get a stabbing pain ripple through your head for your efforts.

"Tempest," you ask. "I know I'm asking a lot, but could you make a light? Out of your... magic? Please, I'm probably not gonna be able to make one for a while."

The hoof rubbing your back stops at the word "magic".

"If you can send us across the horizon at a second's thought with your magic," she whispers slowly, "the least I can do is give you a little light to see. But if you laugh, I swear to Celestia I'll start swinging."

A low fizz of energy, similar to that of a matchstick being lit, sputters beside you. The smallest spark flickers through the darkness, before many more sparks congregate towards a single point, nestling in the shattered remains of Tempest's horn. Eventually, the sparks writhe and twist into a glowing, light-blue sphere. Thanks to this, Tempest Shadow's pretty, gaunt face is lit up against the black backdrop.

"That's... amazing," you say. Nothing wrong with complimenting Tempest.

"The mission," she hisses through gritted teeth. Only then do you realise just how much concentration it's costing her to keep that pseudo-lightbulb going. Short electrical bursts and magic fireworks are one thing, a steady stream of constant magical energy just to take advantage of its light is something else.

Not wanting to exert her any longer than she needs to be, you take a quick scan of your surroundings. It's a reasonably sized ship, probably a frigate. You're definitely inside the interior, at it's lowest possible level. The whole room dips in the center, with a greyish-green, opaque pool of stagnant seawater, about two foot deep, sloshing along with the ship itself. You remember reading something about this with ships: the water's there intentionally to weigh the ship down, acting as a ballast during uncooperative weather.

A few bags of grain and oats, perhaps just rations, are slumped in a corner. A few spare chairs and boxes are stacked against a wall. There are two hooks near the room's only door; presumably, this is where you'd put a lit lantern if you had any. But why aren't there any in this room?

That's when you notice the smallish barrels. Twelve of them, grouped together and securely fastened to the floorboards, preventing them from toppling over in the frigate's rocking. You have a good idea on what they could be. Trying not to cause any undue creaking in the floorboards, you gingerly make your way over to the barrels, unlatching one of them for your scrutiny. Undoing the top of the barrel, you open the lid and confirm exactly what you suspected; the sight and smell of gunpowder. The culprit is here.

Also, you've just realized you're holding an open keg full of gunpowder right next to Tempest, who's currently firing off thousands of sparks per second just so you can see. This is a thing you Elite Operatives like to call "a really gods-damn stupid thing to do". You immediately clip the lid back on and return the keg back where you found it.

You're just about to reattach it to the other barrels, when the whole ship lurches. Tempest only just manages to retain balance, costing her a small bit of her concentration; her light-sphere goes a little bit dimmer. You, on the other hoof, fall to your side. The loose barrel topples over with a wooden clatter, the lid thankfully stopping the spill of explosive powder.

"What was THAT!?" the muffled orders came from right above you. "A rogue wave!? Brothers! I will check the cargo, and make sure it's still secured. Keep the boat on-course! We're too close to risk any setbacks now."

A slow, heavy tapping of hoof-steps plod across the ceiling, followed by the creaking of a cabin door. Those same hoof-falls now start descending a staircase, drawing nearer.

You and Tempest exchange wide-eyed looks. You quickly hunt for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. Behind the barrels? That's a death-wish. Teleport away? You can't. You're still hurting from that, and will be for a while. That only leaves one choice left...

Tempest knows it too. She kills the improvised light-show just as the doorknob turns with a click.

*******

Creaaaak.

The hooded figure, garbed in robes of foggy grey, stands in the doorway. A pale hoof grasps at a lantern, which waves back and forth through the pitch-black room. A solitary keg of gunpowder rolls across the floorboards, stopping just short of the door itself.

The hooded equine carefully places the lantern down, safely away from the explosive. He scoops up the barrel and slowly trots toward the rest of them. With a steady hoof, he slowly reattaches the keg to its latch on the floor. What a tragedy it would be, to have an errant wave result in setting those off, so close to their ultimate goal.

Wait, what was that?

His head whips toward the pool of seawater ballast in the middle of the cargo hold. The lantern is still by the door, so it's not perfect visibility, but did the hooded one just see a hint of movement within the opaque ballast?

He stares into the liquid murk for the longest time. Waiting. If there truly was anything in that water, how long would it be able to hold its breath, he wonders?

Uttering a few ancient syllables in Old Ponish, he waves his hoof. The surface of the water turns to thick, colourless ice.

He waits. No struggling, or hooves banging against the frozen sheet.

Hmm. Perhaps it was nothing.

The hooded figure turns around to leave, just in time to see two armoured unicorns pile on top of him.

*******

Tempest Shadow leaps ahead of you, like a tiger pouncing on its prey. Her hoof covers the figure's mouth before he can scream for help, and by the time he's wrestled to the ground, he's completely silent and helpless in a sleeper hold.

You pin down any loose, flailing limbs of your suspect, while carefully trying to shut the cargo hold's door with magic; too much noise could attract more of them. It still stings a little to use magic, but the adrenaline rush stops you from caring.

"Did this guy really think we were hiding in that gross water?" you quietly muse to your partner. "Hiding behind the door was so much easier."

The robed, ice-magic using culprit's struggling ceases, as his eyelids drift shut. You think, perhaps, he's just given up.

Suddenly, the figure's eyes flick open. Two bright pinpricks of light shimmer behind two pools of blackness. Slowly, you feel the hooves pinning him down start to go cold and numb. Painfully numb. The icy sting starts to creep up your forelegs, but you try to persevere. The longer you keep holding him down, the further the relentless icy touch travels. Once the cold reaches your shoulders, you start to falter.

Tempest still has the culprit in her sleeper hold, her teeth bared and eyes scrunched in pain. She has more physical contact with him than you do, and every second you spend trying to hold him down is more aching bitterness. You can't even imagine what she's going through.

"L-let go of him. I've g-got this." You try to shiver as little as possible, putting on a brave face.

Tempest Shadow can't even respond with words. She simply shakes her head in denial, and squeezes the hold tighter. The culprit almost looks like he's about to pass out. Almost.

The magic behind his eyes intensify. A new shock-wave of ice shoot straight through you, from hoof to horn. Ever-so-briefly, you even find yourself losing vision.

You can't take it anymore! You step off the unnatural equine's limbs, no longer able to bear the frost. Tempest still won't release her grip, despite the shivering that wrecks through her whole body. At this point, you're certain he has a grip on her.

"Please! Just drop him, it's not worth it!" you plead. You attempt to pry Tempest off, but to no avail - she's just as cold as him.

Though the pain, her eyes meet yours. Tempest tries to say something, anything, or scream... but it all comes out as silent, misty breath. Her vocal chords are shocked from the cold. In her last gasping moment, her eyes glaze over. Her forelegs drop from their hold. She stops shivering. Her whole body goes limp.

The robed, hooded thing calmly picks himself up from the floor. Tempest remains motionless. Damning the consequences of rushing past the cold demon that stands between you and her, you rush to the poor mare's side. Strangely, he doesn't stop you. Perhaps he knows you can't touch him without meeting a similar fate.

You cradle Tempest's bitterly chilled form in your hooves. She's so icy, but you can just barely feel a pulse. You know she's breathing too - her body is so cold, there's a thin trail of condensation coming from her blue lips whenever she exhales.

You close your eyes as tightly as possible, and visualize Vanhoover harbour in your mind. Try as you might, you're still too weak to teleport. Too weak. Too far. Too soon after your last attempt. Cursing, you beg, in Celestia's name, for the power to bring you both to safety. Your prayers go unanswered.

The icy fiend doesn't seem to care. "Brothers!" he calls out. Almost immediately, the unnatural sounds of hoofsteps can be heard from above. "Polish our most extravagant shackles!" The figure turns to face you, his very eyes visible from under his hood giving you a sense of frost-burn. Cold mist seeps between his teeth, jagged like icicles. "We have unexpected guests."