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.