Chapter 1: End of an Era
“Your orders, sir?”
You shift slightly in your seat, eying the surrounding rubble that once used to be the commercial district of Honigstadt. It’s hard to make out the forms of friendlies through the slits in the cupola, but you manage nonetheless.
The loader looks up to you with a calm and ready expression, his lips a thin line.
Silencing him with a hand, you stand from the seat and rise from the cupola. It takes a moment to spot the conscript’s leader, but you wave him over as soon as you spot the distinct helm of someone actually a part of the Queen’s Guard.
“Sir?” he says, clambering his way onto the side of your tank. “We’re no more than three streets from Her bunker, they still have no idea she's there.”
You nod at the changeling, pointing to the sides of the street, of which are lined with crumbled businesses and dreams.
“Just keep our flanks clear, call out any golds you see, and we'll have her out within the hour."
Surprise and hope flashing through his black eyes, the changeling nods before offering a shaky salute.
You wonder exactly how young the lad is as he jumps down. Can't be more than a few years older than the rest, but that's saying fuck all.
They look fresh out of high school, if even that.
You glance back behind, where two other light tanks lay with a lowly grumble coming from their engines. Two men, a master and staff sergeant, await orders.
“Spearhead formation,” you call out to the two subordinates, “we're rolling out!”
The two tank commanders give brief nods before disappearing into their machines, the things pregnant with crew and high explosive.
Your mind wanders as you disappear down your own hatch.
Not about whether they would survive any fire, no.
But rather about if they would be able to cover you as well as they had in the clear fields surrounding the massive city.
…
Driver
……
It’s really quite the feeling, it is.
Your feet on the pedals, arms at the control sticks and eyes peering through the vision slit…
To think you’re spearheading the charge to save their queen.
“Hey,” you say, barely audible beyond the roar of the engine, “think we’ll earn any medals today, sir?”
You receive a punch to the shoulder from your right. The hull gunner’s eyes shine with bravado, his off-hand going to smack a rhythm against his escape hatch from just above.
“We fuckin’ better,” he says, doing a little swaying motion back and forth in his seat.
There comes a boot to greet his spine, followed by a chuckle from the loader.
“Shut the fuck up!”
The silence is almost immediate, the sounds of the engine and roaring tracks taking over interior yet again.
“Keep your eyes peeled and call out only if you see a gold, do I make myself clear?”
The crew’s response is deafening, instinctual, and one.
“Sir, yes sir!”
And so you return to your duty at hand, glad to see the driver waiting until the partisans were walking ahead to set the vehicle in motion
...It’s kind of nerve-wracking, really.
Fighting in the countryside and on the outskirts of the city was one thing. You had vision there, you could avoid the tallgrass and all the other potential ambush sites with ease.
But, now that you’re in an urban environment?
You’re counting on those partisans to cover the flanks as much as they’re counting on you to be the bullet magnet.
Calming yourself by glancing down at the picture of loved ones, of which you taped just below the left vision slit, you take a moment to steer the thing right.
...Huh.
This street’s a bit more intact than the others.
There are even a few buildings intact. And they’re not too bad looking, actually, but kind of quaint.
Kind of reminds you of the village auntie lives in—
“Contact!”
…
Chrysalis
…...
“I’m bored.”
He stares back at you, his beady black eyes showing nothing.
“Tell me a joke.”
His head slightly tilts to the side…
Ugh.
“Mooooom, Mr Yumyum is broken!”
…No response.
Getting down from your chair, of which lacked any sort of cushioning, you make your way to her thorne… thrawn? Thrown?
Whatever, her big chair.
Well, not her normal big chair, that was back home with everything else, but her big chair in this place.
Mommy doesn’t look so happy, though.
Kind of looks like she’s having a tummy ache.
“Mommy, are you—”
“Please, sweetpea, not now.”
You can only just hear her voice…
Oh, she must be thirsty!
Smile on your face, you make way for the food place—oh, wait, does this bunk... Bonker...?
Ugh, does this underground place even have a food place?
“Sounds like an adventure, Yumyum, c'mon!”
…
Hull machine gunner
…...
Despite having barely moved during the engagement, you’re left breathing like you’d just gotten beat for an hour straight by the drill sergeant.
“H-holy shit, man…”
Ragged panting and coughing come from all around, the heartbeat in your ears overpowering the grumbling engine.
Still sweating like a pig, you keep your eye glued to the gun’s scope and scan the rubble once more, trying desperately to ignore the piles of gore and golden armor that adorn the concrete. Besides the twitching and writhing wounded, there street is clear.
You decide to back away from the sight as the partisans move onto the wounded.
Pawing at your side, you tear the canteen from your belt and greedily down its contents.
"Fuck me, never gets any easier."
Rubbing your eyes, the muzzle flash still burned into your vision, you hand the driver what’s left. He wordlessly takes it, a groan leaving him once he’s finished.
“...Should I order them to clear the bodies, sir?”
The commander, still looking all around from his cupola, issues you a hand gesture to pause. You can hear him mumble something about radios before opening his hatch and sticking his head out.
He calls over the partisan's CO before the two exchange hushed words.
While they’re busy consulting the next move, however, you examine your supplies.
Two drums left full, one of which is already in use.
“Hey,” you say to the loader with a tap to his leg, “mind passing me a few drums? Running low over here.”
“What?”
Oh, right.
Firing the three-incher for that long with it right next to your head?
You repeat the request a bit louder…
“What?”
Groaning, you smack your namesake before you and point at the drum.
He squints, tilting his head.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You reach by your legs and produce the last fresh drum. You take a moment to point at it before shaking it madly and doing a “gimme” gesture.
Recognition flashes on his face, to which he gives you a thumbs up. A moment passes before he gingerly hands you four fresh drums, the burly bastard idly massaging his forearms all the while.
No thanks are needed, only a brief nod before you turn to relax back into your seat.
You wonder how Sam’s doing back home…
Probably still complaining about her boyfriend and other stupid drama bullshit.
She better be passing her classes, though.
Entire reason you’re out here.
Good schooling is expensive as all—
“Alright, take a quick breather and a drink, we’re going forward soon as they clear those bodies,” the commander says, sealing his hatch. “Be ready for a counterattack at any time, though, we’re not out of it yet.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
…
Chrysalis
…...
“Hmm, see anything over there, Yumyum?”
Your best friend is silent…
Must be busy looking.
“I keep finding this weird stuff, no water.”
You tap one of the sticky, green blobs. It jiggles and looks funny.
“You… I don’t like you, green stuff, you smell bad.”
You go to smush it with a hoof, but it makes a sound when you do.
...Sounds like a fart.
“Pffft, hey, Yumyum, come look!”
And so you smush it.
Again and again.
“Pffft, hahahahaha!”
This is fun!
“Yumyum, hey, Yumyum, c’moooon!”
…
Gunner
…...
It’s really quite hard, it is…
“Forward, driver, steady as she goes.”
To look down at the piles of flesh and limbs that met were once people…
“Sir, yes sir!”
To wonder about just how many families you've ruined with each and every shell loaded—
“Keep your eyes peeled, we should be facing light resistance at the very minimum.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
You tug at your collar while all but smothering your usual vision slit. You don’t try and cool yourself off, but, rather, you grab a familiar set of beads that dangles alongside your dog tags.
“Dear Mother…”
The bodies are all young, some sickeningly so.
“Just as you have forgiven me for my sins, may you forgive the Equestrians and allow them entrance…”
They weren’t drafted, were they?
“We may be enemies now, but under your guidance, may we forgive each other and become family after we return to nothing…”
There must be two hundred, at the very least.
“And may you forgive me if I break my promise to come home... all glory be unto you, dear Mother.”
Offering a kiss to the beads, you finally calm your breathing.
And, for a moment, all is right.
You’ve driven past all the bodies.
It’s not so hot in here anymore, thanks to commander leaving his hatch open.
And, hey, you’re able to think of how Lisa’s doing. Hopefully good, as she's never to let one anything break past her good spirit and fit of giggles at every word from your mouth.
...She was bawling when you left, though.
That means she'll still be there when you come home, right?
…
Loader
…...
“Sir, we’ve nine drums left and twenty-seven HE shells, along with the five solid shot in reserve.”
The commander nods, downing another one of the small white tablets that he sometimes pulls from his pocket. He takes a moment to bite his knuckle before giving out a low hiss, a violent shake of the head followed by a low growl.
“Understood, carry on,” he says before sitting right up in his seat, eyes wide and breath shallow.
You shrug, turning back to your vision slit.
He’s taken that stuff ever since the first engagement, back before dawn broke.
That distant thought gets a small, humorless chuckle out of your raspy throat.
Seems like mere minutes ago you had motorized infantry to cover the flanks.
You hope they’re doing well. That ambush sent everyone scrambling, what with the mix of shells raining down and people being burned alive.
The thought of it happening again sends shivers down your spine.
Silently, carefully, you reach inside one of your pockets.
It’s nothing much, really. Just a small pick me up that you managed to snag from the mess hall earlier this morning.
Your eyes never leave the vision slit as you unwrap the small candy.
...Okay, maybe for a moment.
…
Commander
…...
There’s something to be said about it all.
About how completely and utterly fucked the situation is…
But you’re not the one to voice it, you’re the one to lead these men out of here and back home in one piece.
Keep acting like everything is under control, and, to them, everything is.
“Driver, it's just around the corner,” you say, knuckles white against the cupola handles.
Sucking in a breath, you give a glance back to the leftmost tank, itself made distinct with the ad hoc armor, additional tracks placed all along the turret and crew compartments. Your eyes flicker all across it, inspecting it for any signs of damage.
Such a foolish man, to do this all for a friend…
“The partisans, sir, they’ve stopped.”
Hmm?
“I’ll deal with this,” you say, opening the commander’s hatch and standing up. Thankfully, the partisan’s commander is already at the cupolas side.
“Hostiles, s-sir,” he says, breathing as if he’d just ran a marathon. “Armor, hostile armor, a-about…”
Sighing, boot impatiently tapping all the while, you grab your canteen and toss him the half-full thing.
“Easy, lad, easy,” you say, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder, "just calm down and describe what you saw.”
His eyes, wide and glowing in that weird, ethereal way that changeling eyes do. His eyes flicker between you and the canteen now in his telekinetic grasp, his matchlock now slowly being set down as he closes his eyes to rest.
He gives a shaky nod.
“Yes, s-sir.”
You give him a smile of confidence, absentmindedly noticing that several eyes of the partisans are upon you.
“We’re nearly there,” you say, removing your hand after one reassuring pat. “Just describe the armor, and we’ll handle the rest.”
Finally calm enough to take a drink, he nods.
“Yes, sir…”
Just as the plastic thing graces his chapped lips, though, there comes a familiar rattle of gunfire. Both of your heads snap to see several partisans rushing back from the corner, a number of them dropping their rifles in the blind retreat as several fall down.
Their cries are muted by the sound of several autocannons and machine guns overheating their barrels.
…
Chrysalis
……
“Mommy,” you pant, “mommy, I got you some drink!”
You scramble up her chair to get on her lap, Mr. Yumyum in toe.
“Mommy,” you say, “mommy, water, drink up.”
It’s really hard to hold up the cup with magic, but you’re juuuust strong enough.
You shake the cup in front of mommy’s face for a minute. She doesn’t even open her eyes.
Kind of looks like she’s still having a tummy ache, but worse.
“Momma’s… busy right now, sweetpea, momma’s really busy.”
You nuzzle her. This gets you a small, tired groan.
She waits a moment before pulling you into a weak hug.
Is…
Is mommy shivering?
…
The Mad Emperor
……
The smell of burning metal and gunpowder…
“Sir, sir!”
The plumes of smoke rising from the enemy armor, one of which is still cooking off…
“Sir, get back inside, it’s not safe, sir!”
Now this is what gets you up and out of bed in the morning!
Shutting your escape hatch just behind you, you hop off the cramped machine and land onto the concrete below.
Taking in the sight, you give a sharp whistle while walking towards the fallen opposition, which, at a glance, look more akin to armored cars more than actual tanks.
There’s a roar and churn as the tanks make to follow you from behind, though you wave off the worried voices of the lieutenants as they stick their heads out of their cupolas. They go silent after a single flick of the wrist, their protests immediately forgotten.
“S-sir, her majesty is expecting you, right this w-way…”
You hold up a hand to silence the changeling that'd just made his way to your side. Your free hand gently rubs at your stubble.
They’re not armed with proper cannons, but small-caliber autocannons. Guess they weren't expecting anything beyond masses of infantry and the rare car, as they'd no doubt exclusively encountered on their march towards the capitol.
And, well, they weren't wrong, you think with a mirthless chuckle.
You always tried to warn Queen Cordyceps to focus more on her military instead of putting all her budget into those goddamned scientists. Though, if you remember right, they were on the brink of some breakthrough for their food situation just before the first gold crossed the border.
Shaking your head, you look back to the smoking recks before you, trying to remember where you were...
Ah, right.
These armored cars, probably Equestria's finest, that acted little more than close range target practice for your boys.
Celestia always a smart one, smarter than you in a league of ways, but this is one of the few situations where you hold the upper hand.
"I never once won any of those games of chess, Celly, but I think this just made up for it."
Pulling out a cigar, you walk to the back of one of the destroyed vehicles. Fuel tanks still burning, you light the thing then and there.
No, you don't taste putrid smoke as you suck in the first breath.
No.
You taste victory.
…
Commander
……
“Anonymous, you stupid bastard…”
You watch the man in question, now flanked by several changelings, descend into the ground under a select pile of rubble. An illusion spell.
Naturally you'd be more than worried about those changelings following him, but you've done your homework. The plumes on their helmets, while akin to the Royal Guard's standard issue, is a sickly green, marking them as the nation's finest: Stalker Brood.
Rumor around the base was that Queen Cordyceps had a fondness for the Equestrian Lunar Guard, and this was her most sincere form of flattery... give or take any number of rumors about genetic alterations and manipulated growth.
"Orders, sir?"
You blink, realizing you'd gone into another fit of daydreaming. The subordinate tank commanders look to you with professional looks, military bearing still kept in case the Emperor was still in your presence.
“Take a street and kill the engines, lay an ambush if at all possible... and you!” you say to the partisans, pointing at the dead Equestrians that litter the streets, “Grab some actual rifles while you’re at it, we can rest when we're dead!”
They look up, canteens stolen from the dead still held up to their lips.
The two commanders give a nod before ducking back into their cupolas, but it’s then when something weird happens.
You take a closer look into the eyes of the partisans.
...No, not partisans.
Not soldiers.
You see fear, exhaustion, and desperation in the eyes of these civilians.
They’ve probably watched their world crumble around them these past few days, their previous lives ripped apart by the horrors of war.
You?
You’re here to get medals and stories for the grandkids.
But these people are fighting for their lives, and, if rumor was to be believed of how prisoners were treated by the golds, the future of their race.
Sighing, you rub at your temples.
“Nevermind, carry on,” you say, “we’ll handle this.”
The relief and joy that passes on their faces is almost tangible.
Almost.
Cursing, you go to shut your own cu—
“Oh, and hand us a few canteens while you’re at it,” you say, “we’re fucking baking in these things.”
There's a wave of half-grateful, half-exhausted groans from all the partisans as they have the first moment of proper rest in probably what feels like days.
Hearing a handful of grateful groans from down below, you shake your head.
Your recruiter never mentioned shit like this.
Author's Note
Just something I thought of one day and jotted down... this was the result of God knows how many wasted hours. Heavily inspired by "Sins of the Mother" by Duffman18, of which I'd heavily recommend. Might make something short out of this, might weave a grand tale, still undecided.
Chapter 2: Blood and Banter
This…
“This isn’t really what I’d expect out of you, Cordy.”
You gesture all about the dark and damp bunker, your low chuckle echoing throughout the place.
“I’d expect at least three statues, three dozen servants with bottles of aged Antivan—”
Much to your surprise, though, there’s no poised laugh. No deflecting wave of the hoof, no warm eyes, and no embrace to be had.
“Who’re you?”
Your eyes flicker to the small nymph from held in her forelegs, her all-too-large eyes staring back up at you.
“What’re you? You look funny, but not in the 'Hahaheheho!' type of funny.”
She takes a moment to levitate some stuffed animal before making her way to you, almost falling flat on her face as she jumps down.
“Why're you all clothed up... wait, do you say it like cloth, or clothe?” she says, her muzzle scrunching up as she goes to scratch her scalp.
You take a moment to glance at one of the Stalker Brood that flank you. Sadly, he’s maintaining military bearing better than you ever could. Your smile goes to waste on his facade of steel.
“No, seriously, how do you say it?" she says, the little one doing a haughty little stomp on the ground with her forelegs. "Or, or, or... do you say it like 'clawthed'?"
Her eyes go wide as if she's experienced nirvana.
"What else have I been saying wrong my whole life!?"
And, just as quickly as she'd scuttled up to your boots, she makes for some random hallway, faint echoes of "Dikshunary!" emanating from the darkness.
...Huh.
Cordy always sent letters about her new kid, "My pride and joy," she always wrote, but you're unable to get the image of Cordy dropping her on her head. Repeatedly. Down the stairs.
You disregard the little one with a chuckle, shaking your head.
You were worse back when you were a little shit, if the stories mom told you were anything to go by.
Back to the situation at hand...
“Cordy,” you say, each step of your boots echoing throughout the bunker, “Cordy, you alright? Came soon as I could, there were some failures with the engin—”
There are no words.
Only a gentle glow of the tall, jagged horn. You’re given a feeling of weightlessness before being pulled into an embrace.
...Well, embrace wouldn’t quite describe it, considering how she’s barely able to get her limbs over your shoulders, her breaths coming out as ragged and hoarse.
“Tired…” she says, her voice weak and husky.
“Just… be still for a moment, hun... You can do that for me, right?”
You don’t even need to nod, instead pulling her close and giving a wistful smile as she rests her head on your shoulder. A tired, grateful groan is your reward.
Guess she must’ve been hard at work with that whole ‘hivemind’ thing.
Drawing a few circles in her carapace, you give a low hum.
...
Twenty-seven days since the first Equestrian crossed the border, and already so much has happened.
The Queen’s Army lay in tatters, itself only being able to muster a half million by the war’s start against the Royal Guard’s one and a half million...
Recruiting offices with lines stretching across corners as posters sympathetic to the changeling cause fly off the machines, all the while thousands of tons of foodstuffs, guns, and medical aid are being sent in via the Imago Railroad System. Even now your veterans from the Reclamation Wars are pouring into the country by the thousands.
Three nations, once close friends that helped one another where they faltered.
No longer does man come to Equestrian lands, offering schematics from your own design to help in bolstering their power to better be prepared for the Storm Empire's inevitable expansion north.
No longer do your people receive the much-needed grain and foodstuffs from Equestria, the people struggling to feed their young after generations of sustaining themselves off the lumber-grain trade that was so deeply ingrained into the culture.
No longer do you look forward to meeting Celestia, Cordyceps, and Luna around the dinner table come the Gala.
Like tears in rain, the good days have passed.
Now there is war for the three nations, an unspoken pact of steel, forged from over a decade's suffering and jolly cooperation, has been tossed for scrap.
Quite a lot to happen in a month's time.
And here you thought September was going to be the month where you invited Celestia over to come and see what progress you've made out of the lands liberated in the Reclamation Wars.
…
Gunner
……
It’s hard to pray, knowing that your sins are great, the number of sons torn from their mothers already too great to count.
Harder yet when the man besides you decides to shift in his seat, finding the commander’s absence reason enough to rip ass.
Instantly, there comes a furious response in a flurry of curses, mostly from you, but some from two sitting in the forward hull as well.
Much to your annoyance, he only laughs it all off, waving off the air in front of his face. He cracks open his escape hatch, still laughing, his thumb and index finger clenched around his nose.
“Cocksucking mongrel—”
He waves off your words, still smiling like an idiot.
You offer his shoulder a punch in response, your voice now audible that the engine’s been shut off and the only gunfire within earshot rings in from other districts of Honigstadt.
“—I hope you have a fucking stillborn, you cumrag, you-you fucking assh—”
The tank is soon filled with laughter as the driver and machine gunner watch your attempt to throttle the loader.
…
Commander
……
“...hole... You think you can just...!”
You give a curious glance back at your tank, warily eyeing the open hatch on the loader’s side. Another slew of curses and threats are followed by merriment and full belly laughs.
You shake your head, idly rubbing at your temples.
They deserve a bit of a break for all they've been through, you suppose.
Turning back to the two men in front, you continue on where you left off.
“Currently, we’re here, just on the border of the commercial district and the governmental district,” you say to the two men peering over your shoulders to get a sight of the map. “The changeling partisans, militia, whatever you’d care to call them, are holding the northernmost section, the residential, along with the help of whatever men they could muster from the actual Queen’s Guard—”
“Do you think they actually have a chance?”
You look up, raising a brow at the middle-aged man.
“The cheese legs, I mean,” Staff Sergeant Fowler says, his grin not wavering for a moment, “what with how their army’s getting routed at every battle.”
To that question, you shrug, for once not having an answer ready for him.
“They should be able to bounce back now that Anonymous has thrown his hat into the ring,” you say, “though we’re definitely going to be carrying them through the fighting to c—”
There comes a shrill noise, soon realized to be a young changeling’s voice.
“Incoming!”
There’s a sharp hissing noise and a violent impact before you’re violently thrown to the ground.
…
The Princess
……
It’s really something, it is.
“And to the dissenters among us who would hate me and call me a warmonger…” you mumble to yourself, eyes scanning along the newspaper with rapt interest. “...Must I remind you of those cowardly satyrs, who, knowing we were busy waging a just and righteous war against the lizardmen, swarmed across our borders, pillaging and raping as they went?”
Your lip goes thin as you briefly remember those frantic days.
It’s not like you didn’t want to help, far from it, but Equestria was wary after the sacking of Yakistan and the reports of extermination that came with it. Kind of hard to think that it'd been two years since his plans for expansion came to fruition.
“Who came to our side? Not the Equestrians, no, they sat in their golden cities, our requests for help falling upon ears made deaf by gluttony and decadence.”
And, though many of your little ponies had proven skeptic of the Mad Emperor after several smaller nations fell to his armies, you knew him as an old friend.
“But, rather, the changelings came marching, ready to die for us as if we were their own!"
An old friend that was many things—brutally honest, compassionate, and a great listener to name a few—but he was loyal to a fault.
“We would be less than dirt, less than those satyrs, if we were to let them suffer a moment longer!”
Every agreement between the Empire of Man and Equestria ended with great success for both sides. For simple work forces sent to help the upstart empire of recently unified city states back when it was peaceful, Anonymous paid in kind with wonderful new technologies, far outweighing anything that was sent to his northern borders. Part in due to your relationship with the man, part in due to the fact that he saw the growing threat of the Storm Em—
“Your majesty!”
You tear yourself away from the newspaper, blinking at the newcomer before you.
“News from the front, directly from Marshall Armor,” says the young Royal Guardsman, manila folder held aloft in a spell.
Offering a weak, if not forced, smile, you dismiss him before opening the thing.
Hmm…
You let loose a small sigh, shaking your head all the while.
The city’s to be under control by tommorow’s end. Hopefully it'll all be over before things get too unpleasant.
But, despite your reassurances that you tried your hardest to delay the mobilization, you still can’t help but feel that sinking feeling in your stomach.
Why did it have to go this way?
Why did the council vote in favor of Blueblood's proposal?
Why?
Why!?
WHY!?
…
The Private
……
Pain…
It racks your mind, forcing each limb to writhe uncontrollably.
Pain…
It’s nearly paralyzing, every fiber of your neck crying out in agony.
Pain…
Eyes closed, you desperately try to raise a hoof up to press against the wound, only to have your leg betray you by going limp.
Pain…
It’s all consuming, all encompassing.
The earth below shakes from the continued shelling, your ears only registering a faint, dull ringing.
Your left eye’s gone completely black, your right one filled with tears of pain as you try to reach for the wound.
Just as you begin to think of mom, though, there comes a familiar face from above.
You…
You remember him.
The nice man from the tank.
His eyes are wide as his mouth hangs open for a moment, but, just as quickly as you’d noticed him, it disappears as a look of confidence overtakes him.
He takes off his garrison hat and presses it against your neck, his smile only interrupted by the repeating of two words, over and over again.
You can’t hear him, but you read those lips through a teary eye after a moment’s pause.
“You’re okay,” he says, repeating it several times, smiling all the while. He stops for a moment to look up andshout at someone before returning his attention to you.
The earth still shakes from all around, but you’re no longer thrashing on the ground. Only mild spasms hold you now, the growing coldness slowly being stemmed by the pressure being put on the wound.
You look up to him, trying to formulate words, but he shakes his head in response.
“You’re oka—”
His eyes slightly narrow, a pained look overtaking his features. And, without a word, he collapses onto you.
Eyes wide again, you feel your breath turn into the panicked state from before.
Deaf, half-blind, and slowly bleeding to death you lay, the sensation of ever-growing coldness coming back as you feel blood begin to leak anew from your neck.
You want to scream, to call out for mom to come save you, to yell in primal fear… anything, really.
Try as you may, though, nothing comes except tears and gasps for air as the body pins you down.
…
Chrysalis
……
“This game’s bad, I don’t like it.”
Though you can’t see it, you feel Mr Yumyum give a nod from atop your head.
“Mommy, how’s this even a game?”
You put your focus into trying to move the blindfold with a bit of teleka-whatever it’s called, but you hear a terrifying sound. Mommy’s sigh.
“Seetpea, remember what I told you?”
You groan, feeling her take to the air.
“Ice cream and a new toy when it’s done…” you say, grumbling the last few words while trying not to fall off her back.
“That’s right, sweetpea, but you must follow mommy’s instructions!”
She nuzzles you, to which you laugh and return the favor.
“I guess that sounds good!”
There’s another moment of warmth before you’re levitated up before being placed in her hooves. She holds you close to her chest.
Warm.
Smiling, you cuddle her some more as she descends into something before taking a seat.
You wonder what happened to mommy, and how she suddenly got not-sick.
Hmm…
Hey, when did you get so tired?
Hey, wait, you didn’t even have time to use the little nyph’s roo—
And, with a snore, you’re out like a light, gently sighing against the all-too-warm chest of your mother.
…
The Queen
……
Aww.
Poor little thing must’ve played herself tired after looking for that dictionary.
“All good down there?”
You look up and through the strange contraption atop the vehicle, Anonymous’ face peering down at you with equal parts worry and care.
The affection you feel when his eyes land on Chrissy sleeping is almost intoxicating after the day’s exhaustive work.
“Well, it’s a bit cramped, but don’t worry about us, hun, it’s much better than waiting in that bunker, I’ll tell you that much!” you say, waving his worries off with a dismissive hoof.
To this his smile turns confident again, his familiar facade of bravado returning in force.
Just like old times.
“Trust me, Cordy, you won’t find a safer ride on the entire god-damned continent, ain’t that right, boys?” he says, lightly stomping on the vehicle’s top.
It’s really quite surprising how the mood of the crew can change so rapidly from dour to eager and ready. And, as such, you’re quite grateful that you’d cast that spell on Chrissy earlier which made her have ears for you and only you for the near future.
“Sir, yes sir!”
Anonymous gives off a sense of pride at that, the man giving off a satisfied nod.
“Alright, carry the fuck on and get them back to the FOB, dismissed.”
He gives a rather young fellow with reddened eyes a sharp salute, to which is immediately returned.
Then, as Anonymous hops off the thing, you can feel a wave of emotion flood the vehicle.
Doubt, anger, mourning, among a myriad of smaller and less concentrated emotions and thoughts. There comes a number of questions, but those too are suppressed as an engine roars to life from behind you.
“Driver, get us moving, I want out of this hell.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
With a start, the metal bunker begins to trundle forward before picking up speed, the roar of engines and grinding metal having the pleasant side effect of keeping your mind in the here and now. Keeps the thoughts of how you could have done things differently at bay.
Sighing, you relax back into your seat, mentally preparing yourself again to communicate with the hivemind.
Such is the burden of the Queen.
…
The Prince
……
You were right all along.
“The cars are helping us push them out, but the progress is still slow, milord.”
They were working on something. Something powerful enough to wipe out two battalions of armored cars and three of infantry within an hour.
“We suspect to have them pushed back out of the city proper by day’s end.”
You give a curt nod, idly chewing on your bottom lip.
“Very good, Shining, very good.”
Shaking your head, eyes set on the commercial district where the enemy’s super weapon now lay, you take another sip of coffee.
“Air Marshall,” you say, calling the aged stallion over, “what’s the count of our airships again?”
Badger, with surprising grace for someone who has two wooden legs, comes to your side with tired, yet challenging, eyes.
“One ship of the line, three destroyers, and about twenty scout planes, rest of them are lined on the southern border, why?” he says, cracking his neck while breaking into a toothy grin. “Finally realize that you’ll need more than just bayonet charges and overwhelming numbers to win this war?”
You want to, in all honesty, glass him with your mug. But, alas, you can only shake your head at the old acquaintance. Always loved pissing everyone off, Badger did.
“I want all available ships to drop altitude enough to provide direct fire support,” you say, gently rubbing your chin, “from what reports indicate, we’ve found that ‘wunderwaffe’ that Cordyceps was pouring all her resources into.”
He nods, giving a sharp salute before taking his leave.
And, quiet as he is when he grumbles gentle curses or insults, you’re able to hear his words lingering in the air.
“So there’s a reason for this war after all?”
Author's Note
Hope I'm not shoving too much lore or wordbuilding down your throats, just thought it'd be a nice little change instead of "POW POW PEW PEW!" that was the first chapter. Was also pondering the idea of having longer chapters, Ie 5k-6k words, would that be more convenient than these bite-sized updates?
Either way, thanks for reading, will have the next chapter out by next Friday—got one... three... four other stories that I need to get cracking on 
—so, until then, have a good one.
