The Adventures of Flesh and Bone

by Meep the Changeling

Rating: teen
Tags: Profanity, Violence, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Original Character, Adventure
Length: 86295

When he offered shelter to an especially unusual homeless mare, Tractor Pull had no idea how much that simple act would change his life. Will his new friendship change it for the better, or for the worse?

[Third Person] Alternating Perspectives

In a world shaped by the powers of magic and steam, where every nation is ruled by immortal god-kings and god-queens, there is an era of peace never before experienced by mortals and immortals alike. People grow, live, and die all without ever being attacked by bandits. Major wars are a thing of the past, with only small local skirmishes occurring in more primitive sections of the world. International trade allowed wizards and engineers to tame the world so all may experience a little luxury.

To many, life couldn’t possibly be any better. For those living on the far northern borders of Equestria, that peaceful world is but a fantasy. In the northlands, wild animals still roam the woods, even venturing into cities and towns. Farmers whisper of crop-destroying monsters lurking in the dark. Local sheriffs keep a wary eye on the sky, ever watchful for the first sign of a griffon hunting party. Wizards regularly ward the area around local communities, fearing the dark magic cast within these lands long ago might one-day resurface.

This is the world Tractor Pull grew up in. This is the world the young stallion longs to escape. To the southern lands of peace and plenty. All he needs is a chance. A chance which unknowingly comes to him when he meets a mare in a snowbank one frigid winter’s night.

Featured on: 4/11/2018 at 7:26 AM UTC :yay:

Published 2018-04-11 04:50:07 UTC
Last updated 2018-06-18 05:48:53 UTC

1 - Tractor Pull Meets a Homeless Mare

Author's Note

Hello everyone! I will be rewriting this story once it is completed to sell it as original fiction. As such I would vastly appreciate your thoughts on the story as it develops in the comments below. Most of you know my financial situation, and I really want this to be able to sell once it's transformed from ponyfic to original fic. Thank you.

If you want to contribute to getting this published one day you can help me save for publishing costs via PayPal donations, or by becoming my Patreon on Patreon.

1 - Tractor Pull Meets a Homeless Mare

Tractor Pull - 6th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

The six-fifteen from Detrot pulled into the station amid a frenzied flurry of ice and snow. A hundred and fifty tons of steel, naval bronze, and glass screeched to a halt, brakes protesting violently against the ice buildup on the tracks. A similar train road these rails every three hours, a fact which mother nature took as a challenge. Each train always had fresh ice to stop on. Such was winter in West Bloomfield, the northwesternmost town in Equestria.

A few hundred ponies began to bundle up as the train slid to a stop in front of West Bloomfield’s aging train station. Overcoats, shawls, and business jackets were replaced by bulky quilted winter clothing almost like clockwork.

Living this far north required winter gear which simply couldn’t be worn indoors for long. The hour and a half long ride to and from Detroit was an hour and twenty minutes longer than even the toughest could wear full winter gear for.

The conductors knew their passengers would need nearly ten minutes to get ready to leave. In the northlands, you simply scheduled disembarking time a bit longer in the winter. It kept the passengers happy and was good for the engine too.

Any engineer could tell you how good a ten-minute rest is for an arcane boiler. Keeps the thermal crystals from aging prematurely. An old crystal wearing out mid-trip is exactly the sort of problem which leads to one train hitting another, derailment, or stranding hundreds out in the middle of nowhere in weather which will kill even the most able-bodied pony in mere minutes.

Weather like the blizzard which raged outside the comfortably heated train cars. The blizzard which had coated the train in so much ice Tractor Pull could only tell the train had stopped at the station and not broken down because of the dull orange glow of the platform’s galvanic lamps.

The tall stallion stood up amid the other passengers who were quickly but carefully donning their winter gear. He towered over most of them. Trac had always been the tallest in his class. The strongest too, even when his classes had been nothing but other earth ponies from the farms around town.

Trac didn’t look strong. Strong stallions never do. The common misconception of a strongman having bulging muscles and a chiseled physique wasn’t something Trac had encountered until he had started going to college in Detrot. Out in the wilds, everyone knew what true strength looked like.

A bit of bulk, little body fat, slight definition to the muscles, and flesh harder than a brick. Trac’s body was the kind which came from a lifetime of hard work. In his case, working as a field hand on a wheat farm ever since his fifth birthday.

“Morning, son. It’s time you started working.” No happy birthday. No presents. Only work.

The city ponies who went to college with him often made fun of him for looking skinny. Trac never said a word to them. They were the kind of people who had sculpted their bodies in the gym. The kind of people who worked out to look good. They were not his kind of people. His kind of people worked out because they had too.

“Two minutes till unboarding!” A conductor called from the front of the train, her slightly shrill voice managing to pierce through the dull buzz of conversing passengers like a bullet.

Trac shook himself awake. He had hadn’t fallen asleep, merely gotten lost in thought. A common problem for tired stallions who had spent the better part of two hours sitting in a seat and staring out a window while mentally writing a term paper.

That’s not enough time to properly get ready, he thought to himself as he quickly retrieved his clothing from his rucksack.

Light tan fur, dust-brown hair, an old faded gray-blue hoodie, and leaf green eyes were quickly covered by thick quilted arctic clothing. None of which matched.

Gray coveralls. A bright blue coat with a wolf-fur hood. Brown arctic boots. A red and white checkered knitted scarf. A white rabbit fur cap. Brown leather and brass snow goggles.

His overalls and coat were both denim on the outside, the only mercy his ensemble took upon the fashionistas of the world. Fortunately, fashion mattered little to anypony in town. West Bloomfield’s citizens were a practical minded people, unlike the ponies in Detrot.

Trac remembered the first winter day he had gone to school. Over a dozen people had gone into hysterics simply because he wore fur lined winter gear. It wasn’t as if Detrot was that much further south. The city’s winters were as severe as West Bloomfield’s. Yet they had still acted like he had walked into the room and promptly murdered someone.

“That used to be ALIVE, you know!”

“Fur is not a fabric.”

“Cruelty is one fashion statement we can do without.”

Stupid rich city-folk… Not everyone can afford your fancy synthetic materials and comfort enchantments. Trac thought to himself as he shouldered his rucksack and disembarked the train. Ice just builds up on anything else. Even synthetic fur. It’s not like the animals went to waste. Pegasi need to eat too.

His boots thumped against the ice-covered boards. The biting wind, which found every last gap in his hastily donned clothing, had long since blown away the morning snow. There was nothing but wind-slicked ice as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t at all far. A safe, non-slick, walking surface might be a mere twenty steps away and Trac would never have known.

Of course, there wasn’t a safe patch of ground in the entire town during a whiteout. The moment a winter storm hit the sidewalks were not safe. It was just common knowledge in these parts. The roads were even worse.

Fortunately, Trac had planned ahead and had put the removable cleats onto his boots as soon as he took them off for the train ride. Doubly, he couldn’t afford a car and therefore wouldn’t have to try driving with razor-sharp ice crystals flying about like locus.

Many ponies in rural communities owned their own motor vehicles. Fertile land was rare in the northlands, even an earth pony skilled in the magical arts involving farming couldn’t make crops grow anywhere they wanted. As a result, towns could be as far as forty or eighty kilometers from the closer farms they served, with the furthest being up to a hundred and twenty klicks down the road.

No one wants to pull a cart that far. No one could afford to build railroads out to each farm for shipping goods. Bus routes, like you would see in cities, wouldn’t work for transporting eighty tons of potatoes to market. Subways were more expensive than railroads, and any wizard who could make stable portals would make far more selling their services to the military than farmers.

Therefore all manner of personal vehicles clogged rural streets as farmers came to town to sell goods or buy supplies.

Trac missed the roar of diesel engines, the soft chuffing of steam-powered cars, and the quiet hum of arcane engines as he slowly walked through town. The screaming roar of the blizzard was a poor substitute for the sounds of civilization.

Trac had a long walk ahead of him. Five kilometers through town, to the edge of Redleaf Forest, then a good way into the spruce forest to the log house Trac shared with his friend, Heated Retort. The log house was a fair way out of town, and a bit hard to find. Which is exactly why Trac loved living in it.

With each step through the town he couldn’t see, Trac’s thoughts turned more and more to home. Timber walls, trimmed with copper pipes which hid water lines and electrical cables. The warm orange glow of each room’s climate control runes. The oversized and overstuffed couch, draped in quilts. The fireplace in which Retort would already have a merry blaze burning away, with a small cauldron of alchemically enhanced coffee brewing away, waiting for his friend to return home.

I can almost taste it from here, Trac thought, smiling behind his scarf, immediately regretting opening his mouth as a gust of icy air forced its way down his throat.

Retort had always wanted to be an alchemist, but he’d never had the brains for an intellectual career despite being adept in the art of brewing potions. Retort could follow a recipe exactly, creating a perfect batch every time. But he simply had never been able to invent something new or mix elements from different recipes to suit his needs.

Instead, the shorter stallion had become a local deputy. The career suited him. He and Trac had become friends in high school. Retort wanted to stay on the baseball team, Trac liked writing history reports and could mimic other’s hoof writing perfectly.

Tractor Pull’s own talents lay in intellectual pursuits. A fact which had greatly disappointed his father.

“No son of mine is going to be some prissy bookworm!”

It was a shame his parents hadn’t embraced their son’s love of history. Trac’s mind was like a library. If he read it, the knowledge stuck in his mind forever. Every time he had gotten to go to town as a young colt, he had snuck off to Bloomfield’s tiny library and memorized books. Not for fun. Not for the sake of learning. But to escape the dismal place he lived in, and the terrible farm he lived on.

He’d read fantasy stories at first. If anypony had bothered to ask him Trac could recite over two hundred classical stories from memory, as well as any one of dozens of modern stories. But simply reading of someone else’s more exciting life wasn’t Trac’s style.

Eventually, he had turned to non-fiction. Histories. Engineering texts. Political manifestos. Everything someone would need to know to safely find, explore, and excavate ancient ruins. Ever since those days he’d spent hiding from his parents in the barn reading of ancient Roma, he had sworn he would one day be the one to find the lost city-state.

Now he was here. Walking home from college, halfway to having earned a Bachelors of Science in Archeology. He could have already been amongst the few brave souls who were exploring the remains of the Crystal Empire and other lands which never recovered from the Lich King’s reign of terror a thousand years ago. If only his parents had seen value in anything other than growing wheat.

I’ll be there soon. Two more semesters, then I can start looking for an apprenticeship, Trac thought to himself, smiling again despite what a bad idea it had been to open his mouth the last time. I wonder if dad will think differently of me if I wind up in the paper having recovered some one-of-a-kind ancient spell? Meh. Doesn't matter if he does. I’ll be happy.

A familiar wall of densely packed spruce and birch trees came into Trac’s view through the wall of ice shards which ripped and tore at his clothing like a sandblaster. Redleaf Forest. Eighty square kilometers of densely packed trees, bushes, and rare plants. Packed full of all manner of nasty critters, and even a few different species of monster.

Trac closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and unzipped his jacket slightly. The wind immediately plunged into the gap, making his entire coat billow and swell as frigid air immediately began to freeze his sweat.

Twenty minutes maximum. Don’t let yourself get frostbite again, Trac firmly reminded himself as he quickly trudged up the snow covered path.

The wind was far less severe once inside the forest. The tall trees absorbed and redirected some of the wind, permitting snow to remain beneath their branches and even on the well-trodden path to the scattered homes built within the forest.

It was still a solid forty below, and the wind was still more than agonizingly cold. Unzipping one’s jacket was suicidal. Unfortunately, so was leaving one’s jacket closed.

Trac’s eyes scanned the entirety of the dark forest, as he walked up the path. He looked between every set of trees, behind every rock, and around every snow drift. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone walking home in the evening had been torn apart by wolves, savaged by a bear, trampled by a moose, or worse.

Trac’s service pistol hung heavily in its shoulder holster as he nervously watched for predators. As a member of the National Guard, Trac wasn’t legally allowed to carry this particular weapon except on weekends when he was on duty. But Guardsmen were required to keep their full kit at home with them so they could be mustered quickly for an emergency, and guns were expensive. Especially anything semi-automatic, enchanted, or arcane in nature.

Guardsmen didn’t earn much. At least not those who served part-time like Trac did. He couldn’t afford another weapon. School, food, and train tickets ate up his meager salary. So Trac carried his service pistol every day and hoped police officers wouldn’t recognize it as a military weapon if he ever had to reveal he was carrying a concealed weapon.

Unfortunately, his misdemeanor did little to keep him safe from anything worse than a psychotic maniac looking for a victim or a pack of wolves which decided to venture close to Bloomfield in search of food. The small caliber weapons crack might scare off a bear, but it would more likely enrage the thing. To say nothing of what Trac’s true fear would think of a lone pony armed with a single low-caliber sidearm.

Trac’s senses had been honed from years of guard training. The ice-laden wind became a dull background humm as he focused on every little sound around him.

A few small creatures moved within the branches of a tree to his left. Squirrels, seeking shelter from the wind within the needled branches of an ancient spruce tree.

The soft crunch of snow slicing against snow. Not kicked up by an animal, or person, merely loose snow blowing over packed snow.

No heavy paws crushing the snow against the ice. No chuffing and huffing of an irritable bear awakened by the storm. No silken flapping of extra-large feathered wings. Only the endless howling of the blizzard.

Trac kept walking, never once letting his attention slip. He had never once failed to pay attention to his surroundings since that day twelve years ago. He knew he never would.

A sound pierced the wind’s wail. Trac froze, ears straining to pick up the new sound. He didn’t close his eyes to focus. Cosing his eyes could potentially be his last mistake. This could be a trap! One wolf pretending to be hurt so it’s mates can surprise me.

The cheerful melody drifting through the trees wasn’t the sound of a creature in pain. Trac froze and stared wide-eyed at a particular patch of trees fifteen meters off the side of the trail. Of all the sound he had expected to hear in the forest, a slightly digitized female voice singing in Old Equish was not one of them.

“Semper hic venti deserta gelidis perflant imbribus,
Sordet iam pediculosa tunica, madidus nasus est.
Saeve me umectat tempestas grandinibus cottidie,
Cur? Quod est meum tueri limites britanniae.”

Who the hay is out here in this weather sitting in the snow and singing ancient marching songs? Track silently demanded.

Shaking off his surprise, Trac began to walk towards the singing mare. He had no choice. He had to know who she was. Especially as her voice grew more clear, piercing the winds angry bellowing in defiance of the storm.

“Saxa cana ubique nubes obtegit caligine,
Cara in tungria est puella, semper solus dormio.
Quod dedit mi amoris pignus, perditumpst in alea.”

Trac narrowed his eyes, limiting his view even more than his goggles alone. That’s not Old Equish, that’s Romane!

The revelation would have made Trac’s tail stand on end in surprise if it were not tightly held down by his bulky coveralls. Romane was a dead language. Only snatches of words and phrases survived in Old Equish, along with a few songs and the occasional snippet of written text.

When the Lich King had made the city vanish at the end of the Renaissance he did a damn near perfect job of ridding the world of the first people to defied him. The only reason Trac could think of to know one of the songs was to be as much of a history dork as he was. As for singing one in the middle of the forest during a blizzard...

Maybe she’s drunk? Sisters… If she is drunk she’ll freeze to death out here, Trac thought with a worried frown, his pace doubling as he approached.

The snap and crack of breaking twigs brought Trac’s approach to a dead stop. His pistol flew from its holster nearly faster than he spun around to brandish his weapon. Nothing was there.

No large stallion with a club and a sack, creeping up on the poor sap his partner distracted. No moose who was irrationally angry at the sight of another living being. Only the ice, trees, and biting cold.

More twigs snapped. The mare continued her song. Trac turned back around, keeping his gun drawn, but pointing it at the ground to not appear too hostile.

He could see her now. She was wearing an oddly form-fitting hooded white jumpsuit made from a durable looking industrial material which wasn’t quite fabric. Trac almost mistook it for winter camouflage, until he noticed the bright orange stripes running along her legs and sides. As well as the text printed on the stripes at regular intervals.

Bio-Containment Suit

Trac’s training as a guardsman kicked in instantly. Within a few short moments, he fully inspected everything he could see of the mare’s suit, comparing it to the chemical warfare equipment he had trained in. Her kit looked to be far superior to the standard issue gas mask and clean suit.

That’s not a hood… That’s a built-in helmet. What the hay is somepony doing out here in a hazard suit? Trac wondered as he holstered his pistol.

The fur on the back of his neck stood up. Oh, Sisters! Was there a chemical attack? Do the Griffons even have chemical weapons? Of course they do… But would they use them on us? No. No, they want prisoners, not corpses. Don’t they?

The mare had continued to sing and break sticks while Trac analyzed her suit. As the stallion opened his mouth to call out to her and ask if he should be breathing the local air or running downwind fast as his hooves could carry him, the mare reared up.

The sticks she had been breaking had been arranged into a small pyramid, well away from any brush. A dull orange glow blossomed within her helmet, reflecting off her clear visor, making her face invisible while magic coursed around her body.

The mare gestured with her forehooves as if she were shoving a great weight upwards to a shelf above her head. The bundle of sticks immediately burst into flames, going from nothing to a proper bonfire in the blink of an eye.

As the flames blazed to life the mare changed her melody, taking it from smooth and gentle to something more appropriate for a heavy metal ballad.

“Heu! Puellum concupisco, desidero stipendium!
Ignis enim fermentum conlocabo.
Sumus quartadecumani, legio gemina
Aufer te! De via decedite!
Cornu sonat pedem inferre,
Milites romani procedite!”

The mare was clearly a pyromancer, as the fire responded to her song by dancing in a most unnatural way to the beat she created. They bent over to join her in her headbanging at what must have been the mother of all imaginary guitar solos.

Ah. Pyromancer. Got it.

Trac took a few more steps forwards and cleared his throat to announce his presence. Realising his polite a-hem had been entirely lost within the winds, Trac was left with no choice. He needed to shout.

“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you alright?” Track called, managing to be barely loud enough to be heard over the raging winds.

The mare gave no signs of embarrassment as she turned around to see who was addressing her. To the contrary, she seemed overly eager to see another pony, immediately offering Trac an eager and cheerful wave.

“Hail, fellow traveler!” The mare greeted her voice’s electronic tone now obviously the result of speaking through the microphone and speaker built into her suit’s respirator.

Despite the darkness the storm had cast over the forest, Trac could tell the mare wore a leather or rubber jumpsuit under her other suit, including a full face mask, hood, and goggles to conceal what little you could have seen of her through her visor.

It’s almost like someone dared her to go out in a blizzard while drunk and in fetish clothes, Trac thought as he crouched behind his scarf.

Despite his surprised silence being very brief, the mare took full advantage of the moment, gesturing for Trac to join her by her fire.

“You must be freezing. Come and sit by the fire. I was about to construct a lean-to to take the wind off for the night. If you help, you’re welcome to share my camp with me for the night.” She offered, her visor glowing with magic again as she conjured a small flame to form a simplistic yet highly expressive smile in the air in front of her respirator.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, and against his better judgment, Trac walked over to the fire.

“Thanks,” he said with a genuine smile of his own. I’ll only be here for a few seconds, but the fire is welcome. Also illegal. But I’m not really one to talk about breaking minor laws.

The mare sat across the fire from Trac. The roaring blaze managed to keep some of the cold at bay, but its fuel had begun dwindling rapidly without a pyromancer feeding the flames.

“What brings you to these parts?” She asked Trac conversationally. “For that matter, where are these parts? I’m extremely lost. A bear didn’t like me having a map and decided to eat it.”

“Soooo, you’re not here because the griffons decided to gas the town?” Trac asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “No… Why would you- Oh, it’s the suit isn’t it?”

“Yep. It’s a few grades above my equipment. I know it says Bio-Containment, but you can spray some real nasty biological agents on a town too.”

The mare shook her head, conjuring another flame-smile. “This isn’t military kit. It’s medical. I’ve got a rather nasty disease. It’s not the sort which easily infects others, but the suit ensures that won't happen at all.”

“Oh,” Trac applied, rocking from side to side nervously. “It’s not too bad, is it?”

“It’s pretty bad,” she replied with a laugh. “It’s one of those ailments some wizard decided to make even worse. Quite fatal, and most excruciating. But I’ve got medication to kill the pain, and a few more years left to enjoy. Do not worry, you won't catch it. I’d have to lick you or spit in your mouth. Something to that nature.”

Trac shivered. Okay. It's spread by fluid contact. She’s fully sealed in that thing. I’m safe.

“Well, I’m sorry you have it,” he said with an apologetic nod.

“It’s fine. We all die sometime, and we don’t get to choose when or how we do no matter how we might prefer going. But enough about me, how are you? This storm has me chilled to the bone… Oh, and I would still like to know where I am.”

“It’s deadly cold out, I’m probably feeling the cold less than you are. Unless your suit’s insulated. And you’re around a kilometer from West Bloomfield.”

“Where?” The mare asked, flames forming a confused frown for her.

Trac raised an eyebrow. “West Bloomfield. Small farming town. Border of Equestria and the Griffon Kingdoms.”

“Oh wow,” the mare said, a pair of fiery eyes forming in front of her goggles and widening in surprise. “I walked halfway across the continent. Whoops!”

“You… Walked across half of Equestria. Because a bear ate your map?”

“That’s the truth, I swear it. I was in the Spur mountains and intended to go to Manehatten. No particular reason. I simply travel where I see fit. How in the world did I manage to get that turned around for the last month? The sun rises in the east…” The mare muttered, resting her chin on her hoof before leaning back to look at the sky. “Oh, that’s right. It’s been overcast and snowing the entire accursed month! The young Crystal Princess must be fighting with Princess Celestia. And winning.”

Trac snorted as he contained a genuine laugh. “Sorry, ma’am. I understand you’ve got to be very frustrated, but you have to admit it is a little funny.”

“Laugh away, friend! It is quite funny. Fortunately, there’s no harm done. I’m certain your village is interesting in its own ways. I’ll enjoy my time here before trying for Manehatten once more,” she said with a large flame-grin and held out her hoof for Trac to shake. “I am Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. What do they call you, friend?”

Trac’s eyebrows shot up as she introduced herself. “Uh, come again?”

“Nice to meet you, Come Again,” Ameili greeted, shaking the air in front of her since Trac didn’t take hold of her hoof. “What brings you to the forest this… Evening? Night? When is it? I hate not seeing the sun.”

Trac shook his head and held up his forehooves. “Nonono! That’s not my name. My name is Tractor Pull, but my friend calls me Trac for short. I meant… Is your name seriously Romane?”

Ameili chuckled. “My apologies, Trac. You Equestrians have such an odd naming convention. Practically anything could be a name as far as I am aware. But yes, I have a proper Romane name, as do my parents, and their parents, ad infinitum. It’s a family tradition.”

Trac was quiet for a moment as he thought back to his history classes and every book he had read. Her name sounds familiar. I’ve heard one of those words before. What does it mean?

Unable to recall the word quickly, Trac decided to resume the conversation. Especially since the wind was starting to make progress and push back the fire’s warmth.

“Anyways, I’m walking home. I live a ways up the trail. You should seek proper shelter. If you head down the trail going the direction you’re facing right now, you’ll come into town right on Hay Lane. Take a right and you’ll see the motel on your left.”

Ameili shrugged. “Nothing doing, I’m afraid. I don’t have any coin for the innkeeper.”

“Bear ate your wallet too?” Trac asked, immediately putting a hoof over his mouth. “I’m sorry! That was very—”

“Funny!” Ameili giggled.

Trac sighed in relief. The last thing he wanted to do was make a stranded mare’s night even worse with a thoughtless comment.

Wait a minute… She’s broke, sick, and has been wandering the countryside for a month. Trac’s mind filled with images of him traveling around by train and enjoying a warm and comfortable bed each night as the winds howled and the snow fell.

Each image came to his mind side by side with this mare sleeping in her not-remotely insulated looking containment suit on rocks, waking up each morning to shake the snow off herself, get her bearings, and walk through the icy northlands.

“Are you— Do you have a place you could go? Like, a home?” Trac asked as he hung his head.

“Nope! Used to, a long time ago. But not anymore. I go where the wind takes me. Sometimes literally!” Ameili said, manifesting a winking eye of flame.

Trac took a deep breath as he fought off waves of guilt. It’s only right to work for a living, you need to earn your keep. But you should still help people who really need it. Yeah, she’s survived this long out here, but her pain medication could be the only reason she’s not aware of frostbite… She could have bits of dead flesh which dropped off rolling around in her suit and—

“Okay!” Trac exclaimed loudly to force that particular vision out of his head. “Miss Ameili, it’s below freezing. You’re not in winter clothes. You’re likely to die out here. You’re on pain medication, therefore you might not be able to tell if you are injured. Please come with me. You can stay with me overnight, and in the morning I’ll give you directions to the local clinic. They should be willing to check you for frostbite for free. After that, if you need more help and are not injured, my friend and I could use help splitting and stacking firewood.”

Ameili smiled. “My thanks, friend! It would be nice to have a bed under me for the night. Or a sofa should you not have a spare bed. But before I accept your invitation, you should know the extent of my ailment. This mask I wear isn’t for fashion’s sake.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“It is so you do not have to bear witness to rotting flesh,” Ameili answered calmly.

The wind groaned loudly in the silent moment the two shared as Trac debated his offer in light of this new fact. Despite his fears, there was still but one answer.

Trac shook his head. “It changes nothing. You’ve got that suit, and it’s not ripped or punctured, right?”

Ameili nodded. “I check it every morning.”

“Then I’m safe. Retort is safe. You should be safe too. Especially since our weather pegasi say there’s no way they can keep this storm above minus sixty-five tonight. Your suit might freeze and crack at those temperatures.”

Ameili sighed, seemingly annoyed. “A fair argument. Very well, Trac. Let me extinguish my fire and then let us be on our way.”

Ameili stood up, shaking the snow from her plot with a quick flick of her tail. Her suit featured a small tube of fabric which fit her tail like a glove. This little fact made Trac instantly jealous. He’d never seen any clothing with that particular feature, and while in rural communities it might be okay for a pony to walk about naked, it was not okay to do the same in larger more “civilized” regions.

The mare bent down and nuzzled the fire she had created. Her visor glowed as she animated the flames, shaping them into an attractive young stallion, or perhaps a mare Trac wasn’t certain.

“My love,” Ameili said to the fire-pony. “I am afraid I will not be enjoying your loving warmth and crackling company this evening.”

The fire slumped its shoulders and hung its head like a forlorn lover.

“Yes… I have obtained lodgings indoors for this night. Fear not, I shall call upon you tomorrow. Goodbye, my love! Until we meet again!” Ameili exclaimed, embracing the flames without any ill effect before waving goodbye to the fire and extinguishing it with the same gesture.

Trac bit his lip, trying not to laugh at Ameili’s antics. This time he succeeded.

Ameili turned towards Trac and offered him a wink. “I like fire.”

“Really? I thought pyromancers hated fire?” Trac teased sarcastically.

“I’ve always been the odd one out,” Ameili commented, the orange glow of her magic illuminating her visor once more as she levitated a large backpack out from behind a snowdrift and strapped it on.

Trac had assumed Ameili had belongings of some kind. After all, she had to have some way of carrying water, storing food, and so on. Indeed, there was a canteen lashed to the side of her pack. But it was the other two things lashed to her pack which made his jaw drop.

Pointing to the large curved rectangular shield lashed to the very top of the pack, Trac asked, “Is-- Is that a Legionnaire Scutum?”

The large shield was painted exactly like his books said they were supposed to be. A red field with golden lightning bolts forming an x with a line across it, and four pairs of wings with a large bronze shield boss in the middle.

Ameili nodded once. “Yes. And my blade is, in fact, a Mainz-Fulham Gladius. You certainly have an eye for history. Do you also participate in reenactments?”

Trac’s gaze turned to the blade. It was indeed a Romane shortsword. Polished wooden hilt. Bronze decorations on the pommel. A simple straight blade with a slight taper in, then a flare out, only to come to a sharp point. Her blade was sheathed in a wooden scabbard at an angle which would make it nearly impossible for Ameili to draw her weapon and cut her suit.

“Re…enactments?” Trac asked slowly.

“Yes. Do you not know?” Ameili asked, tilting her head. “There are groups of people who get together to play-fight and recreate historical battles. I’ve been traveling across Equestria from group to group to enjoy as much of the hobby as I can. As a dead mare walking I am entitled to all the fun I can get.”

“Let me get this straight,” Trac asked, rubbing his temples. “There are large groups who get together for fun, dress up as Romanes to stage mock battles, and I am only hearing about this NOW, as a grown ass stallion?”

Ameili nodded. “So it appears.”

Buck mom. Buck dad. They kept me from so much. I was practically a prisoner there. And for WHAT? Being afraid they’d lose me like we lost Bale? They got him while he was on the farm!

Trac took a deep breath to settle his internalized rage. “I would have had a lot of fun with something like that… I don't have time now. Weekdays are collage. Weekends are guard duty. Let’s get moving. Without the fire, it’s a bit too cold here.”

Ameili flashed Trac a playful smile. “It is a little nippy, isn't it? I suppose I will have to set the whole forest ablaze. That will show this storm whose boss!”

Trac shook his head, his scarf hiding his grin as he began to walk back to the trail.

“And also who is an idiot!” He added.

“Haha! It would indeed.”

The two walked up the trail for nearly five minutes, chatting back and forth the whole way. It was all small talk. Nothing major.

Trac told Ameili about the local community, the farmers who lived in it, and complained about ponies from urban areas not understanding how different life was outside the concrete jungle. Ameili mostly talked about her travels, the mare had been everywhere it seemed, and all on hoof. Most of what she had to say consisted of interesting things she’d discovered while walking.

As the two came to Trac’s log house, Ameili was in the middle of describing the remains of an ancient castle she had found many years ago in the far south.

“— and in the center of the chamber was a very odd sculpture. Imagine a fountain, only instead of raised pools to hold water, it had six small armatures at different heights on the central column to hold five spheres. The spheres were missing, which was a shame. The sculpture would have been quite interesting if they weren't missing. I imagine the arms once held gemstones polished into spheres.”

“That would line up with early Equestrian decoration,” Trac offered.

Ameili nodded in agreement. “It would also fit the stained glass windows and tapestries. Almost all of them featured five or six items within their heraldry.”

“It’s a shame you don't know the name of the forest you found it in. I could probably remember something about it,” Trac remarked as he pointed to the large two-story log home. “Here we are.”

The house was built primarily from logs. Each had been shaped, peeled, stained a nice dark color, weather treated, and stacked to form a large home. Overall the home resembled a log cabin in the same way a father resembles their young child. The only parts of the home one wouldn’t find on a log cabin were its green, corrugated-steel roof and the large glass windows.

The house was taller than most two-story buildings. It could have been three stories, thanks to the gargantuan windows on the south side which stretched two stories tall and were framed on the second floor. The three windows followed the shape of the wall, with the centermost one having a triangular top.

The windows looked in upon the living room and the small loft above it, the warm glow of the stone fireplace and galvanic lights inside cast a cheery light over the yard and the balcony. The balcony was large, as large as a porch would be on most houses, and even wrapped around the east and west sides of the home.

Below the porch was the main entrance, a simple door like one would find on any house. It looked as if a small log ranch house had a bigger, nicer house come and sit on top of it.

Ameili looked up at the warm glow, and a fiery smile formed upon her mask. “You have a lovely home, Trac.”

“It’s not mine, it’s Retort’s. He inherited it from his uncle. Poor guy never had a family, and his parents didn’t want the place because of the commute,” Trac said as he walked to the door.

Ameili followed along behind him, which reminded Trac of a simple fact. Retort had no idea he was offering somepony shelter from the storm.

I don’t think he’ll mind...Trac concluded as he took his key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and held it open for his guest. “Come on in.”

Ameili nodded and stepped inside. The instant she crossed the threshold she sighed contentedly. Trac knew why. A moment later and he too sighed happily as he crossed the invisible boundary between the bone-chilling cold of the storm and the enchanted warmth of his home.

“Thank goodness!” He said with a smile, quickly peeling off his winter clothing. “Hey, stay here for a minute. I’ve got to let Retort know I’ve brought someone over.”

“No need. I’m right here,” Retort said from the kitchen doorway.

Retort was a short stallion, but his small build rippled with athletic muscle. While he didn’t grow up on a farm, he had still worked out every day of his life. Not in a gym, but on sports fields everywhere, and in the skies above West Bloomfield.

Retort was a bit oddly colored for a pegasus. His fur was the same color as old red bricks, and his black and silver mane and tail would have looked much more at home on a unicorn thanks to its particular shades.

His family always insisted they were pureblood pegasi. Such harmless tribalism was common in the northlands, but for Retort’s family, it was clearly untrue.

Retort was still dressed in his uniform. Tan coat, forest green cuffs, collar, and chest pocket tops. Brown cowboy hat, with brass badge affixed to it. Brown leather belt with a stun-rod, a petrification wand, and a revolver loaded with rounds meant to punch through magical defenses.

His rustic look matched the interior of his home perfectly. Plush green carpets set atop oak floorboards. Paintings of landscapes hung on wood-paneled walls. Craftspony trim on every baseboard and stick of furniture in sight. Leather and brass upholstery. The house’s water and electrical conduits simply held to the wall by copper brackets, with each one of the copper pipes set flush against a ceiling or wall’s edge.

Retort’s wings were raised slightly. His cup of coffee shook slightly in his grip. He was nervous

“Oh,” Trac said in mild surprise. “Hey, Re.”

“Hey, yourself,” Retort replied, pointing to Ameili with an urgent look in his eyes. “Why the buck is she in full chemical gear?”

Ameili formed a fire-smile and held a hoof out to Retort. “It’s not a suit meant for chemical warfare, sheriff. This is a medical device. I have a disease which is spread through fluid contact, and also makes me smell most unpleasant. This suit ensures no one I come into contact with has even the slightest chance of becoming infected, and also prevents you from smelling necrosing tissue.”

Retort blinked twice. His wings flared open as he spun to face Trac, nearly spilling his coffee. “She’s got some kind of flesh-eating disease, and you brought her here?!”

“Well, what the buck was I supposed to do?” Trac exploded, throwing his hooves in the air. “It’s forty below! She’s got no winter gear. Yeah, she’s a pyromancer but that’s no guarantee of survival.”

“I assure you, sir,” Ameili cut in. “I am no danger to your health unless you were to ingest my bodily fluids. I fully understand people being afraid of me, and I did not want to stay here as I am aware of how my presence makes others uncomfortable. I can leave if you wish. I am certain I can avoid freezing to death.”

Trac shook his head firmly. “Like Tartarus, you will! You’re sleeping here. Re, she’s no danger to us, and are you really going to let a sick mare sleep out in this weather?”

Retort took a deep breath, puffing his chest to scream a reply, only to sigh wearily. The pegasus had been completely deflated. “I— No. No, I won’t,” he said, turning to look back at Ameili. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I had a long day. A bad day. I legally can’t talk about it.

“An arrest was made for some very bucked up reasons. I— I haven’t had a chance to calm down yet. I can be… Confrontational after work. Especially when work involves a dunge—”

Retort stopped himself mid-word, a look forming on his face as if he mentally slapped himself for nearly saying something he shouldn’t have. “You heard nothing. Forget it. It will be in the papers in a few weeks. You can learn about it then.

“As for you, ma’am, just… Make yourself at home. I’m going to ask that if you need to eat or drink that you do it outside and away from the house. Keep that suit on and you can sleep here.

“Trac, how long did you say she can stay?”

Trac closed the door behind him. The spells placed on the house might keep it comfortable in hot or cold weather, but it would burn more mana if the door was open to the elements than if it were closed.

“Well, she’s homeless and traveling the country on hoof,” Trac admitted. “I said she could stay the night here, that I would show her to the clinic to marrow so she can get a checkup, and that if she needed somewhere to stay after that she could stay here for a while if she helped with firewood and other chores.”

Retort closed his eyes, holding back a rant. “Yeah… Okay. That’s fine. But I get equal say. It’s my house.”

“Yeah, it is.” Trac agreed.

There was no real argument from him. Trac was only trying to do the right thing.

Ameili cleared her throat, producing an odd mechanical tone instead of the ‘ahem’ one might expect. “I’m sorry for bringing an argument between friends. My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Retort said, his wings folding against his sides as he calmed down. “I’m like this after any bad shift.”

Trac nodded. “He is.” Retort probably found another foal fooler… I’ve never seen this much hate in his eyes under any other condition. I hope he shot that bastard.

Ameili nodded. “I understand. Enforcing the law is a very stressful job. I once served as what you might call military-police.” She extended a hoof towards Retort. “My name is, Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. What may I call you, sheriff?”

“Deputy,” Retort corrected. “The name’s Heated Retort. Nice to meet you… Uh…”

“Friends call me Ameili,” the mare said, manifesting a flaming wink. “I know my name’s a mouthful for you Equestrians. It’s quite alright to shorten it.”

“Well, Ameili, let’s get you settled in the guestroom. If Trac says you’ll need the free check-up, you’re most likely broke. Which means you’ll be staying here till the weather clears at the least. We’ll go over some chores you can do in the morning.”

Ameili kicked the snow off her boots, not wanting to track snow all over the house’s thick green shag carpet. “I’m more than happy to earn my keep, Retort. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Retort nodded to Trac over Ameili’s shoulder. He wasn’t done being upset at his friend for this, but it was clear he would prefer to talk alone.

Trac sighed, hung his backpack and finished removing his winter gear, leaving on the old blue-gray hoodie he had on beneath his warm outer clothing.

Getting yelled at for bringing a total stranger home is worth that stranger not freezing to death. Trac decided as he relocated his shoulder holster to rest beneath his hoodie.

With his sidearm relocated, Trac trotted over to the spiral stairs and up into the living room. He could smell the coffee brewing on the fire, and despite the strange turn his night had taken, Track still looked forward to that cup more than anything else in the world.

Arriving at the stone fireplace, Track took one of the brass mugs from atop the mantle and dipped it into the small cauldron of steaming liquid which rested over the small fire.

He blew on it and took a sip. It was exactly as good as he’d hoped.

2 - Settling in for the Winter

Tractor Pull - 6th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Trac took a seat in the leather-backed armchair next to the fireplace. The warm cup of coffee rested nicely in his hoof, as its bouquet of dark roast, chocolate, and salt scents graced his nose. Normally this was heaven, the perfect end to an exhausting day which melted away all of the stress and anger he had built up over the course of the day.

Not this time.

Re’s pissed… How did I screw this up? Trac thought to himself as he took a sip of coffee. You can’t leave somepony out in the elements on a night like tonight. I don’t care if she’s the best pyromancer in the universe, windchill can kill you even if you have a fire.

He sat back in his chair and did his best to listen to the distant voices of Re and Ameili as Re would be laying out the house rules for her. Trac couldn’t hear them clearly enough to make out more than the occasional word, the faint hum of the galvanic current, thick walls, and the occasional groan from the house’s boiler did an excellent job of keeping sound isolated to a given room.

Fortunately, Trac didn’t care to know what they were saying. He remembered Re’s lengthy house rules speech well enough. He had heard it seven times after all. Trac was merely interested in their conversation as a timer. A means to gauge how long he had to work out how he screwed up.

Is it because she has a weapon? It’s just a sword. Not even a modern sword either. I carry a twelve-millimeter pistol, so it can’t be weapons. Although he does trust me… But he knew I carried a combat knife everywhere before I moved in. He’s also a deputy and knows it’s perfectly legal to carry a weapon up here and also all the reasons why someone would want to have one. Re deals with ponies who have guns on them all day every day. Someone being armed but not hostile can’t possibly phase him. Yeah, it’s got to be something else.

Trac took another sip of his coffee and pushed himself further into the chair, threatening to knock it over backward as he reclined. Re had installed lead weights in the legs of every chair in the house to combat Trac’s idle habit, and reduce repair bills for the antique furniture.

Looking up, Trac stared at the Geissler tubes mounted to the living room chandelier. The glass bubbles glowed with a soft yellow light, distinctly different from sunlight but still pleasant in their own way. Especially since their light didn’t ‘burn’ to look at, much like the flames of a campfire.

It’s because she’s sick isn’t it? Yeah that’s got to be it. I’ll explain that we’re safe again.

Believing he had landed upon the problem, Trac nodded to himself and leaned back a little more as he began mentally formulating the prefect speech to calm his friend down.

I know chemical gear when I see it. Re knows that. I’ll just tell him the truth. Her suit is going to keep anything in there in there. Unless she opens it up. Which seems unlikely because she’s a history dork like me.

He’ll probably accuse me of bringing a girl home because I thought she was hot. Joke’s on him! I brought her in because I thought she was cold. Heh heh.

Trac snickered at his own joke, sighed and sat up straight, taking another sip of coffee. She does have nice flanks though. You can’t see much of her under all that cloth but her flanks still bulge out and fill her suit nicely. I’d kill for a body like that. Everypony likes nice round flanks. I’d quintuple my dating pool.

Trac blinked, his ears standing up in alarm, a revelation filling his mind. Sisters above! Re thinks I'm going to buck her because she’s got a great ass! Okay, that’s simple to straighten out. No way am I sticking my dick in someone who has super leprosy. Wait, she said she had to get fluid in me to pass the infection… Would a condom prevent infection?

Trac humed and leaned his hoof against his chin, pondering his sudden, and stupid, question.

No. Definitely not. At least, not if you used just one… Huh, how would she have sex if she found someone who didn’t mind her looks?

Trac truthfully had no desire to bed his guest, but the simple yet crass question plagued his mind in the way only the stupidest of questions can immediately fill a mind which would very much love a distraction from much more serious troubles. His mind was aglow as he thought back through every science textbook he had read, connected many different strings of logic, and rejected dozens of hypotheses only to arrive at one conclusion.

Unfortunately, he got there at the same time as Retort walked through the living room door.

“That’s it!” Trac announced as he jumped up from his seat with an excited grin on his face. “If she’s into stallions they could simply dip their lower body in latex and let it harden to form a full barrier over all permeable membranes and keep all backsplash away from their person! It’s skin tight so friction would transfer through and get the job done for both of them.

“And if she prefers mares they could get away with leg-length rubber booties, the stuff normally used for household cleaning would— “

An irritated sigh cut Trac’s eureka moment off like a guillotine. “Did you just spend ten minutes trying to work out how to get with a zombie-girl?” Re asked as he gagged on the air.

Trac’s light tan face turned a beet red. “I, uh, no! I— I realized you were upset because you thought I brought her here to have um, a fun time and that would mean she could infect you because her suit would be off. That’s completely not true!

“But it made me wonder how you could do it with her safely if you could be okay with well, you know, looking at her out of her suit. And um—”

Re raised his left hoof and closed his eyes. “Say no more. I really don’t want to think about that. At all. Ever again.”

Trac reached up and rubbed the back of his head. “S— Sorry…”

“Besides, I know you don’t like mares,” Retort added, rolling his eyes.

Trac froze. His tail stood on end. “No! I like mares.”

“We’ve lived together for years, Trac. We also went to the same school. Do you really think you kept your relationship with Birch secret from the whole school? Everypony knew, dude! Well, not the teachers. We never told the teachers. They would have told your parents and… Yeah, everyone also knew telling adults wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Trac wanted to deny Re’s words, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not after it happened.

Retort pointed a hoof at Trac’s aging hoodie. “You also have been wearing his hoodie for six years now. Every day. Only taking it off to wash it or fix it. You were in love, I don’t need to be a detective to know that about my best friend. If Mint hadn’t caught you two under the bleachers having fun, I’d still know you two were a thing because of that hoodie.

“I also thought you knew I knew because you’re not an idiot and should have known that I knew where you got your hoodie from, and that it’s not reasonable to wear a dead friend’s shirt for years and years. So why, for the love of Celestia’s blessed sun, would you think I thought you would bring home a mare for carnal reasons? ESPECIALLY one with what amounts to super leprosy?”

Re stood staring at Trac accusatorily for several long seconds. Trac’s stone-faced expression remained strong for the first heartbeat, and the second, and the third, but then it shattered, revealing the devastated pony behind the mask.

“Never mention Birch again…” Trac whispered as he stared at the floor, shoulders slumping.

Re winced. “Sorry. I didn’t know that was so raw still.”

“And don’t tell anypony. Please. Dad might actually kill me,” Trac added.

“Okay,” Re agreed. “I’ll keep the lock on your closet for you.”

“I’m not gay,” Trac exclaimed his eye narrowing in irritation. “I like mares too. Just a lot less than stallions… Or maybe I just liked the one. I don’t know.”

I do know… But I’d like to be closer to normal. I don’t know how comfortable Retort is around guys like me...

Re raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I have NEVER seen you so much as look at a picture of a mare. Who did you like?”

“Spring Snow,” Trac replied, a small smile parting his lips as he remembered the tiny and energetic mare who had always played blackjack with Birch, Retort, and him at lunch.

Retort’s expression went completely blank as he stared at his old friend for another eternity.

“Spring?” He asked, his mouth widening into a knowing smile. “You had a crush on Spring?”

“Yeah. She was cute, and we liked a lot of the same things. Maybe I just like masculine traits in people? I’ve never met another tomcolt.” Trac said with a nod. “See? I like mares t—”

“Spring’s a guy,” Re said, biting his lip to prevent himself from laughing.

“No she’s not,” Trac said tilting his head.

“She’s a guy, NOW,” Retort clarified. “The after school job ‘she’ worked? Every penny was saved up for a wizard’s services. Got a full sex change. You had a crush on the transstallion!”

“W-well she was a mare when I liked her. Uh, him?” Trac stammered, falling back into the chair he had been sitting in.

“Yeah! The most stallionish mare ever. In both looks and behavior. A lot of people thought she was a kinda femmy dude… You should have spent more time socializing in school and less time reading every book you saw. You’d have known because Spring wasn’t closeted. Tons of people knew he was getting a change done as soon as he could. It’s just that this hick town is full of bigoted farmers who refuse to accept anything ‘unnatural’, so everyone called him a her,” Retort spat bitterly as he glared into the fire.

Trac’s ears fell flat against his head. “Hey, some of them are assholes but there's a lot of good people too!”

Retort nodded. “Yeah… But it’s hard to remember when you spend all day slapping cuffs on people for being irresponsible, cruel, evil, and/or vindictive.”

Trac offered Retort a slightly sympathetic nod. Even as far into the spot as Re had pushed him, Trac still couldn’t help but sympathize with his working conditions.

“Y— Yeah… But I still liked a mare at one point!” Trac protested firmly.

Re shrugged. “Depends on how you count it. Personally, I don’t think people are their bodies. If you do, fine, but the fact remains the only mare you ever liked was indistinguishable from a guy until you looked under their tail.”

“No, she wasn't! She looked like a—” Trac stopped talking as Retort held up his hoof.

The pegasi opened his wings and flew up to the top shelf of the easternmost bookcase and retrieved his copy of their high school yearbook. In but a moment he had landed and opened the page to Spring Snow’s picture.

“I think you’ve forgotten what he looked like, Trac.”

Trac frowned and looked at the photo. Oh, no… He’s right. She did look like a kinda girly stallion… I mean he did.

Retort nodded knowingly, Trac’s face saying everything he needed to know.

“Told you, bro,” he said with a wink, slipping back into the way he had spoken during his high school days to try and make the short sentence into a joke which would lighten the mood.

He failed.

“S— He still had mare parts!” Trac protested feebly.

“Ever want to use them?” Retort retorted.

“No. I just thought she was cute.”

“And Spring looked like a guy.”

“Right.”

“If so fact-o,” Re said, butchering the Old Equish to further rib his friend. “You liked Spring because your subconscious mind went ‘Hey, that’s a guy. Guys are cute.’ but you called him a girl because everyone else was, thus consciously seeing Spring as a mare.”

Trac had no response to Retort's witty summary. Retort had won this argument hooves down.

“W— Um, how did you know what she, I mean he did after high school? Everyone split up. Like, we’re the only two who stuck together,” Trac said, hoping to change the topic away from himself.

“Because Spring and I are friends? He may not feel okay living in more conservative places post-change, but we still keep in touch. Besides, I figured since he’s a guy now and you two got along so well— Let’s just say I know you plan on leaving this place behind one day and I was going to see about setting you guys up on a date.”

Trac recoiled into the chair, eyes widening as he looked at his friend, mortified beyond words.

“Y— I— Don’t play matchmaker with me!” Trac demanded.

The pegasi fluffed his wings and nodded, a triumphant smile on his face. “There. Now we’re even.”

The wheels in Trac’s head clicked into place. Trac jumped out of the chair, glaring at Retort.

“You brought up my orientation to get back at me for bringing a mare home so she wouldn't freeze to death?!” He growled through clenched teeth. “That is NOT okay!”

Retort shook his head calmly. “I didn’t intend to have any of this conversation. It happened because you had a weird sex thought and then told me you liked girls, which confused the hay out of me. I’m happy now because you’re feeling about how I was when you brought an armed stranger in chemical gear into my home.”

“Oh…” Trac said, the anger in his eyes leaking away.

“And sorry. I won't try and hook you up with anyone. I didn’t think it would bother you. Why does it bother you?” Retort asked with a genuinely apologetic frown.

“You may know what um, plumbing I like… But you don’t know the kinds of people I like. And it’s not as simple as straight couples. You can’t just mash any two people together.”

“Sure, but that’s because I can’t lift two ponies. Heh,” Retort giggled. “You probably could. If they were pegasi.”

Trac paused, his brain once more happy to find a nicely distracting question. Unfortunately, it was one he could easily answer. “Actually, I could do it with any two ponies who weren't overweight. But that’s not my point. Some stallions like stallions but only want to be “on top” if you get what I am saying. You need t—”

“There’s mare’s like that too,” Retort interrupted. “It’s exactly the same. Except for the parts match. But I get what you mean. I don’t know what kind of person you specifically like. That’s fine. I won't help you find a coltfriend unless you tell me. I was only doing it with Spring because I knew you two got along already. That’s all.”

“Good,” Trac said with a relieved sigh. “Now let’s never talk about this again.”

Retort pursed his lips and stroked his chin. “Mmm, no. One more thing. Do you like me?”

Trac blinked in surprise and turned to look Retort in his eyes.

“No.”

“Then, you don’t check me out?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Trac paused to think for a moment. “Well, we’re friends. That’s it. I just don’t think of you like... Wait, are you—”

Retort shook his head and sat in the chair opposite the fireplace from Trac. “Nope. I thought you’d know if I looked good. There’s a mare I like at a tea house downtown. She doesn't check me out either. I was hoping I could get her attention without resorting to flirting. Apple Fritter says relationships are best when the mare initiates them. I was hoping you could tell me what I’ve got to work with.”

“Oh. Well… You’ve got great teeth. Try smiling?” Trac suggested with a shrug.

“I’m not ugly, am I?” Retort asked with a worried frown.

Trac snorted. “No. You look good,” he said honestly.

“But you don’t check me out?”

“Nope.”

“Then how do you know I look good?”

“I can see you,” Trac deadpanned. “You look good, Re. But you don’t turn me on, so I don't check you out. You know what the difference is. Also, trust me, she’s not going to say a thing till she knows you're interested in her.

“You don't have to flirt or use a pickup line. Show up every day and show her you care about her by being extra nice and caring about her day to day stuff. If she mentions something, like going to see her sister soon, remember it and ask how it went later. That’s what mares like in guys.”

“It can’t be that simple,” Retort said with a shake of his head.

“It totally is. That’s what you were doing in high school to have a new mare every other week, isn’t it?”

“Nah. That’s just what comes with being a high school sports star. To be honest, those relationships ended because they wanted the popularity I could give them and figured I’d let them buy it with sex. I wanted a real relationship. Like what you had. I was a bit jealous, actually.” Retort admitted with an embarrassed smile.

This is getting really awkward… Trac lamented. Time to get things back on track.

“Well… You show her you care about her and she’ll ask you out. That’s um… What he did with me,” Trac admitted before clearing his throat and looking out the living room window at the raging storm outside. “Look, I’m sorry I brought Ameili home without any kind of warning. But it was an emergency. She would have frozen to death.”

Retort facehooved. “That’s right, I was going to yell at you about bringing her home,” he groaned. “Well… Wind’s kinda out of my sails now so I’m just going to ask one thing, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Why did you bring an armed stranger home instead of getting them a hotel room?”

The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat.

Is he serious? That’s his reason?

“Because she didn’t seem dangerous and home was way closer. Also it was forty below,” Trac answered with a raised eyebrow. Like I would walk through the forest twice in one night without a good reason too...

Retort nodded. “Sure. But lots of people don’t seem dangerous,” his eyes looked distant for a moment as the young pegasi recalled a particular workday. “They never look dangerous. An old stallion on a park bench, sleeping, clearly homeless. Unicorn, but not wealthy so obviously not a wizard. Clearly very hungry, starving probably. Thin, frail.

“Park’s not public. Privately owned. That means you can trespass. Lots of ponies don’t know the law. Tartarus, most ponies don't know any law. The second a property owner asks you to leave and you don’t immediately leave, you’re trespassing. Old stallion refused to leave. Insisted he wasn't committing a crime. Insisted he knew the law and his rights. They always think they do, but they don’t.

“He refuses to leave five times. He’s already a criminal and we have the full authority of the law to arrest him, but we gave him five chances to just go home, or down the road, or anywhere else. Five shots to avoid consequences. Now we have to arrest him. My partner took out his cuffs.

“But this stallion was really old. I thought I would give him one more final shot just in case dementia was scrambling his brain or something else like that. I offer to take him to a restaurant, get him a meal, and rent him a room for the night. He refuses.

“At this point, we have to haul the criminal in. The situation can’t be resolved peacefully, he’s made that crystal clear. My partner goes to put the cuffs on him. Stallion flips out the second one cuff touches him. Horn glows with the most disgusting vomit green light you’ve ever seen, he spits a few words at us with the most hateful venom in them, flicks his wrist, and BAM! The two of us are choking on a cloud of toxic gas.

“I was dying. I knew I was dying. You can feel it… When your organs start to shut down. All I could do was fall and gasp like a fish ripped from the water. He wasn’t finished with us. He cast another spell. Vaporized my partner with a bolt of lightning. He just went pop. No bits big enough to see went flying. Nothing like that. Just… Pop.

“I didn’t even know unicorns could summon lightning. I thought that was exclusive to us pegs. Then everything went black.

“I woke up in a hospital. I got lucky. A wizard from Canterlot was touring the local hospital when I was brought in. The old unicorn had turned me into a rat. The only reason I got medical help is a witness saw the whole thing. Told the medics I was a transfigured sheriff. If that wizard hadn’t been touring I would be dead today, because rats don’t live as long as ponies do when their lungs are half melted.”

Retort trailed off and stared into the living room's fireplace for a few minutes, idly chewing on his lip and fidgeting with his hooves.

Retort rarely went into detail about an incident he had been involved in which wasn’t funny. Trac didn’t dare say a word. He knew Retort wasn’t finished speaking, he simply needed a moment to collect himself before continuing.

“You can’t trust strangers at their word like you did with her, Trac. You just can’t. You should give them the benefit of the doubt but you shouldn’t ever let your guard down till they are not a stranger anymore. Because no matter how harmless they look, you can never really know what they are capable of.”

“That was the day you didn’t come home two years ago, wasn’t it?” Trac asked frowning.

“If you’re thinking of springtime, yeah,” Retort said with a nod.

“You’ve made a pretty good point, Re.”

“Glad you think so. It’s an important lesson you don’t get taught in school. They preach love, and caring, and friendship to you… But they never tell you there are people who reject those values and don’t care if they hurt others emotionally or physically. It’s like the powers that be think if we ignore the evil in the darkness it will just stay over there.”

Trac cleared his throat and sat up straight through. “There’s a problem with your plan though.”

Re raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I can’t afford to rent a motel room for someone for a night.” Trac reminded, hanging his head. “I didn’t have that option. I’m not like you. I don’t have a full-time job. Heck, I don’t even have a part-time job. I’m in the National Guard, not the Guard. I work one weekend a month and two in the summers. It pays exactly as much as you think.”

Retort frowned. “Dude, you afford the hundred bits a month you pay for rent and school. You could scrounge up fifteen bits for a motel.”

Trac shook his head firmly. “Nope. The Guard pays for my college. All of it. You get all of my monthly paychecks, every last bit. I save the two weeks summer training’s pay for food for the year.”

Retort’s eyes widened as his lips twisted. “You make that little?”

“Yeah.”

“Why the buck do you even do that?! You could pay for college on just about any real job!”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have time for school! We don’t have a college in this town. I have to commute. That’s three hours traveling every single day. If I worked a real job I would have to get like four hours of sleep at best to pull off classes and work on the same day.”

Retort shook his head. “That’s messed up… Trac, keep your bits. I knew you were poor, but not THAT poor.”

Trac opened his mouth to protest, but Retort stopped him with a raised hoof. “It’s only a hundred. That’s not much to me. As for earning your keep, you’ll still be doing your share of the chores here.”

Trac squirmed. “It doesn't feel right not paying rent…”

“Yeah well, you’re basically my little brother at this point, Trac,” Retort said with a smile. “Family shouldn’t have to pay.”

Brother… Trac’s jaw dropped. “You— Really?”

“Yeah. You let me stay on the baseball team by doing my history work for me. You helped me get my current job, which pays almost enough to make up for the bi-weekly descent into Tartarus it drags you on. You’ve bailed me out of trouble more times than I can count. You keep the house spotless. You cook me breakfast…”

Retort trailed off a mischievous look forming in his eyes as he looked Trac in the eyes. “Actually, are you sure you don’t like me? Because now that I say it out loud it’s kinda like you're my wife or something,” Retort asked with a playful wink.

Trac rolled his eyes. “I get the point… And I do those things because we're friends.”

“If that’s how you treat a friend there’s going to be some really lucky dude one day,” Retort said with a smirk.

“Well, thanks,” Trac said with a genuine smile.

A smile which quickly faded. “Uh… Wait, so can Ameili stay or what?”

“She can stay,” Retort said with a sincere nod. “Don’t tell the department but I always take a spare Truthseeker home with me. I’m as paranoid as you are. Only with seemingly harmless strangers instead of griffons.”

“You used it on her?” Trac asked, his stomach churning at the thought of mental magic.

“Yeah. Got consent first. She didn’t cast any counterspells, even took her pack off so enchanted gear wouldn’t give false positives. She was very compliant, no complaints, understood the reasons. Wish more people were like that, my job would be much less dangerous… Anyways, asked her two questions. She won't take off her suit around us. She has no hostile intentions. Told her she can stay as long as she needs too.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “You extended my invite? After getting that upset over it?”

Retort laughed. “Trac, I’m not upset you did a good thing. I was terrified out of my mind that she was going to attack us when we went to sleep and steal our stuff. Now I can trust her not to, so of course I let the mare dying of a terrifying disease I can’t catch have a place to stay.

“She can stay here till she dies if she wants too… I asked her about her face, how bad it was if she felt the need to use a mask. She asked if I would like to see her nasal bone. That galvanic voice of hers is probably because her vocal chords are gone. She’s probably got a month left. Poor thing shouldn’t be traveling around.”

Trac shook his head slowly. “Buck… I didn’t think about that. You’re right she doesn't have much time left.”

“Yeah. But she’s harmless, and I see enough bad things at work to know you have to make good things happen for your own sanity. So she gets the guest bedroom,” Retort said before suddenly shifting position in his chair, turning to look off to Trac’s right side. “Oh! Hey, stranger. Just filling Trac in on you staying here as long as you like.”

Trac turned his head, wincing at the sight of Ameili standing in the doorway. More specifically, at her masked face, and the small dimples in her cloth helmet where he hoped her ears were.

“Hey! Uh… How much did you hear?” Trac asked. I hope she wasn't listening in while we were talking about—

“Long enough to know you do not wish to discuss your preferences for lovers,” Ameili said politely, flashing Trac a fire-smile. “Fear not, my mandible is sealed. My family didn’t like my love either.”

Trac tilted his head at the mare odd turn of phrase. “That’s right, you’re foreign. The expression is “my lips are sealed.”.” He corrected.

Ameili laughed and nodded. “I know. But I have not had lips to seal in a very long time.”

Trac winced and began scrambling for any kind of proper apology. Fortunately, Retort came to his rescue.

“Your parents are also firm traditionalists? Trac’s almost didn’t let him go to school once he turned five. That’s the youngest the law lets children work on family farms.” Retort asked.

Ameili trotted into the living room and took a seat on the floor in front of the fire.

“I’ve got a Romane name. Which should tell you everything you need to know about my family’s ways,” she said, her fire-smile returning in an especially cheesy form.

“Point taken,” Retort chuckled. “It’s odd that I’m the only straight pony in the room when there are more than two people in it. This almost never happens.”

Ameili shook her head. “Oh no, you misunderstand. My partner is genderless.”

Both Trac and Retort looked at the mare and slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Make no mistake, I’ve found many attractive over the years. Stallions, mares, geldings, all of which would have been perfectly alright with my family. But you see… My father believed you should marry for power. To tie yourself closer to another family and strengthen the community’s bonds. My mother believed you should marry for wealth, to improve your social standing through what she viewed as a strictly legal agreement. A contract and nothing more.

“As for myself… While I have yet to find any nation which will permit my partner and I to marry, I marry for love. It just so happens I love someone with no property of any kind. My family is most upset over our private vows of partnership. Especially my father, because he despises puns on top of believing love is for concubines.”

Retort and Trac looked at one another in confusion.

“Um, puns?” Trac asked Ameili uncertainty.

Ameili looked up at the two stallions and flashed them a grin. “Would you like me to introduce you? Fear not, there is no other person wandering around with me. She goes where I go.”

“Color me intrigued,” Retort said, steepling his hooves.

Ameili’s visor lit up as she reached out with an arcane grip and gently plucked a burning coal from the fireplace. “Fear not, he will not burn anything,” she said before giving the burning coal the tiniest spark of magic. “Darling? We will be staying here a while, I would like to introduce you.”

The fire around the coal slowly grew and grew, taking on the shape of a pony somewhere between male and female, who was entirely featureless. Like the silhouette of a pony used on a bathroom sign which happened to be on fire.

Retort looked at the flaming mass with wide terror filled eyes. His wings flared, and just as he was about to jump for the fire extinguisher next to the fireplace he noticed the floorboards and carpet were not smouldering, nor even blackened by the flaming creature’s touch.

“What the hay is that!” Retort demanded, pointing to the thing standing on his rug, still quite afraid, but not as much as he nearly had been.

“It’s an elemental!” Trac said slack-jawed as he stared into the creature’s flames.

They bend and flex like strands of hair and fur! That’s so… Does it actively control those little flames or does its body just do that?

“I have so many questions!” Track and Retort said in unison.

Ameili giggled and nodded towards the Elemental she had summoned. “Say hello,” she instructed.

The fire-pony turned towards Retort and offered the surprised pegasi a curtsy as if to say “I’m charmed to meet you.” then turned to offer a friendly wave to Trac, clearly remember seeing him before.

“Tractor Pull, Heated Retort, this is my life partner. Her kind has no names of their own, but she likes the sound of Vulcan and will respond to it. Love, please do not eat any of their things. I’m certain they will feed you if you can not find me.” Ameili said as she stood up to nuzzle the fire elemental's shoulder.

Wait a minute… Trac thought, recalling her wishing goodbye to her fire and immediately getting the “pun”. Oh. My. Celestia! That is the WORST pun I have ever heard. On two different levels!

“You… You’re dating an elemental,” Retort said, his eyes partially glazed over. “Not only did you manage to FIND an elemental, one of the single most rare creatures in the world, and bind it too your service so you can summon it, but you’ve gotten it to love you. How powerful of a wizard are you?!”

Trac bit his lip, doing his best to hold in an outburst he knew would be rude.

Must. Not. Say. It… It’s so terrible Re will die! Just focus on the impossibly rare magical creature next to you!

Trac looked closer at the elemental. While mostly orange and yellow, as fire is meant to be, its mane and tail flickered, changing color to a light blue with pale green tips. The “hair” was styled in a simple long and loose natural mane, an “as it grows, let it lay” approach to hair care. Or fire tending in this case.

Its eyes swirled and flickered with a light other than what the fire provided. Something pale, blue, and kind. The eyes even held a shape within them, Trac could make out iriuses, purples, and whites, each made from different hues of flame.

It looks like a burning pony statue at first, but there’s definitely a unique appearance here. In fact the longer I look the more of it I can see… Trac realized as the elemental’s face suddenly stopped being a generic maniquine’s face and took on a youthful vistage which was still quite unidentifiable as male or female. Though it is cute.

But that pun is so bad… It’s maybe not even a pun… Ow...

Vulcan held a hoof up to its lips much like a schoolgirl giggling. A giggle which Ameili shared.

“I’m not a wizard by any means. I am only a pyromancer who is talented in her field. Vulcan isn’t bound to me, he loves me and follows me of his own free will. I have never once summoned her, I only give her form when she asks for it or I would like to be with him. We met while I was camping alone as a young teen. She liked my talent for manipulating flame and called it ‘impressively beautiful’—”

“Elemental’s can talk?” Trac asked intrigued by the idea enough to forget about a certain terrible joke for a second. Thank the sisters I didn’t mention the pun!

Vulcan nodded twice.

Retort looked at the odd couple before him with a baffled expression stamped on his face.

“You mean to tell me elementals are people?” He asked.

“I find that hard to believe,” Trac admitted.

Vulcan rolled its eyes and mimed speaking, its mouth moving for several moments, yet producing no sound. Next the elemental mimed listening for something, then gave an exaggerated shrug and twisted its face into a caricature of the very concept of stupidity before returning its form to normal miming speech once more, only to put a hoof to its mouth and giggle once more.

“... What did she say?” Trac asked suspiciously.

Ameili bit her lip. “It was a little rude, but not undeserved. He said “I’m a corporial person, look at me! I can’t hear it talk so it must be just an animal. Oh well. Dur dur dur!” Then he said “You don’t look that dumb. Please don’t be rude to me. I took the time to learn how to hear you.”

Retort winced and gave Vulcan an apologetic down. “Sorry. I’ve never met someone like you before is all. I mean, you’re not made of matter. We’re very different kinds of life.”

“I don't think I’ve even seen a photograph of an elemental before,” Trac added. “You’re a very rare cre— Sorry, person, Vulcan.”

Vulcan nodded and minded speech again, looking over to Ameili when it finished.

“He says it’s okay. He understands your point of view, and wasn’t offended. He just wanted to do something to prove he was a person.”

Trac nodded. “Makes sense. I wouldn’t want to be thought of as an animal either. So um, is it possible for us to learn to hear him? Or is that a pyromancer only thing.”

“Yeah!” Retort agreed. “I want to be able to chat. An immortal spirit of fire is someone I would love to talk to!”

“Yes,” Ameili confirmed with a nod. “She does have lots of interesting things to talk about, and I can teach anyone how to speak to any elemental. There is but one language for all elemental spirits. I can teach you if you're interested but that will take time…

“But I am in the middle of a story! As I was saying: Fire elementals take lifemates and they attract their mates with grand displays of fire. Vulcan adored the small-scale things I was doing, she’s not one for big flashy displays like forest fires. She asked if I was looking for a mate, and well, I had to say yes, as I was.

“She proceeded to take me on a wonderful walk around the mountain, doing his best to mimic the way he’d seen mortals like me attract mates. It was a most flattering gesture, but as a pyrophile it was completely unnecessary. We began dating, getting to know one another, and after six months, we vowed to be lifemates. We’ve been together ever since. She’s been a great help, boosting my pyrokinetic abilities, and all she wants is tasty carbon treats and cuddles.”

As Ameili finished the story, the mare and Elemental sat side by side, leaning against each other as all young couples do.

“The-pun-is-bad-though,” Trac finally blurted.

“What pun?” Retort asked.

Vulcan held up one hoof and conjured a lump of fire in the shape of a pie, followed immediately by a second which manifested as a pair of hearts hugging.

Retort frowned, still not getting it.

Oh, Sisters… I have to say it.

“Py-ROMANCE-r,” Trac groaned covering his face with his hooves. “It’s not just a bad pun, it’s a badly made pun…”

“It’s a good one in Romane,” Ameili giggled, squeezing Vulcan’s hoof.

Vulcan returned her affectionate gesture with a light shoulder nibble.

Retort snorted, a grin forming on his lips. Climbing out of his chair he held out a hoof to Vulcan, who shook it politely.

“Nice to meet half of a terrible pun. Don’t burn down my house,” he said half seriously half-jokingly.

Trac’s eyes narrowed. He… Liked… It… Wut?

Vulcan pointed to the rug it sat upon, showing their flame-body touching it while the rug remained perfectly intact.

“He has complete control over what he burns. If you ask nicely, he might envelop a room and vaporize the dust for you. But don't get your hopes up. Dust tastes bad,” Ameili said with a chuckle.

“I won’t ask then,” Trac said as he held out his own hoof. “Nice to meet you properly, Vulcan.”

The elemental shook Track’s hoof, turned its head to kiss Ameili on her visor where her cheek would be and vanished. A few crumbs of charcoal drifted to the ground where it had been sitting.

“I see, elementals need fuel to have a defined form,” Trac noted. That’s not in any book I’ve ever read. Considering how rare elementals are now, it’s not surprising.

Ameili nodded. “Yes. Though she burns things much more slowly than non-spiritual fire.”

“Why do you call Vulcan both he and she at random?” Trac asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It seems a bit rude.”

“Oh. Vulcan doesn't have a gender or feel like a male or a female. He just is. He told me he’ll use whatever pronouns I choose, and I’ve never been able to choose because nothing seems like a proper fit. Call him whatever you like.”

“Vulcan curtsies, that’s a girl thing,” Retort said with a nod to himself before looking at Trac. “She?”

“She,” Trac agreed with a nod. “I um, I guess I should get a little box of tinder for your room? So you two can be together when you want.”

“That would be most generous, thank you,” Ameili said with another smile.

“Well that was adorable,” Retort said as he sat back down with a smile. “Weird, but adorable.”

“Thank you,” Ameili said, small flame-blushes forming over her cheeks.

“Oh! Um, how long will you— I mean you two be staying with us?” Trac asked curiously. “Since Re said you could stay for however long. If you’ll be here long term we will need to figure out some way for you to eat.”

“There’s a flap in my suit for food and waste packets. I can’t eat solid things. I get nutrient slurries right into the guts. Don’t worry, there’s no reason for me to ever leave containment,” Ameili said with a soothing smile as she leaned back on her forelegs. “As for how long I’ll stay… No one’s been this kind to me in a long time.

“It would be nice to have some friends for a while. But I do like to travel… Could I stay for the winter?”

Retort nodded. “Of course. That’s a few months yet, and I doubt you’ll want to leave first thing come spring. I’ll give Trac some bits so you can purchase anything you might need. For yourself or for your room,” he offered.

“That’s kind of you. In the unlikely event I find employment, I will repay you with interest,” Ameili replied professionally.

Trac frowned. “Um, I can’t this weekend. I have work tomorrow and the day after that. Could you take her to the store instead?”

Retort hummed, stroking his chin for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I probably could call in a personal day. No one would blame me after today… And I could actually use one… You know what, that’s the plan. I’m not working tomorrow.”

Retort stood up, stretched out his wings and yawned. “I need to sleep. I’ve had an excruciating day. See you next week, Trac. See you in the morning, Ameili. Vulcan too if you’re up to…”

Retort paused, a look of pure confusion spreading across his face. The stallion, cleared his throat, quickly returning to normal as he looked at Trac.

Ordinarily, Retort wouldn’t have said anything so crass in front of someone who was not a close friend. But with the weariness of a long day, the lingering stress of a lengthy gunfight, and the shock of Ameili’s visit weighing down his mind, he made a small mistake.

“So um, remember what we were talking about just before I poked into your closet? How the buck do you think that work’s now?” Retort asked, wincing a moment later as he realized what he just said, and whom he said it infront of.

Trac paused, not knowing what his friend was talking about for a short moment. How does what work?

Then he remembered.

“Oh. OH!” Trac exclaimed. She’s made of fire. How on—

“Boys,” Ameili said with a playful smile and a wink. “Vulcan is tangible. It works like it does with anypony else. Only she never has cold hooves.”

Retort cleared his throat, an awkward blush forming on his cheeks. It was one thing to talk about such stuff with an old friend, but in front of a new acquaintance who was also a mare...

Trac joined Retort in his awkward blushing. Ameili formed a pair of flaming eye icons to roll them.

“I’m a soldier,” she said shaking her head slowly while still grinning. “Not some stuffy noblemare in need of a good proctologist. Barracks humor and low brow conversations are most welcome. I don’t feel at home without them.”

Retort chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll do my best to treat you like anyone on the force then. Good night.”

Retort yawned again and trotted out of the living room via the west side door, heading for his bedroom.

“I should sleep too. I have to learn a whole new system tomorrow,” Trac sad as he stood up, his chair creaking beneath him.

Ameili’s ears perked under her hood. “A new weapon? What is it?” She asked with genuine intrigue.

Trac shook his head. “Nah. I’m not an Infantry. I’m an Armor Crewman.”

“Oh! Do you repair armor and related equipment? My brother did the same when he served,” Ameili said conversationally.

Trac grinned and shook his head. “No, I’m not a Quartermaster. I drive tanks. Night!”

3 - Changing Lives

Tractor Pull - 7th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Today was a most unusual day for Tractor Pull. He had arrived at Falcon’s Hold at dawn as he always had, fifteen minutes early, alert, in uniform, and ready for duty. This time duty wasn’t ready for him.

The very minute he had finished checking in and walked through the gates to the training ground, a Sergeant had ordered him to the tertiary courtyard and await further instructions with the rest of the Eighth Cavalry Battalion. An odd order to say the least, especially since all reserve members had been given a full briefing on the J-P9 Bronco last weekend.

Trac did his best not to yawn as he stood at attention with the other six hundred assorted mares and stallions standing in the surrounding mud. Standing in the open air for half an hour would have been lethal off base. Yesterday's’ storm still raged on beyond the invisible dome protecting the base from the ice and snow.

The Hold’s tertiary courtyard was one of the worst meeting spots on base. It was located quite far away from everything except the proving ground. The sounds of a dozen different war machines moving, firing, and simulated explosions washed over it like a distant shouting match.

Cinder block walls nearly three meters high enclosed the courtyard, leaving only the four gates open to what little view was to be had. The soldiers inside the courtyard had the option to look at muddy brown paths, a muddy brown field, or a gray concrete wall in desperate need of a good wash.

The only object of note in the courtyard was the dais and podium on the north side. Equestria’s flag hung from a frame like a curtain, providing the only color to be had. Unfortunately, the pale blue sky, sun and moon device, and stars were too familiar to anypony present to be visually interesting.

They never tell you just how boring most of a soldier's life will be. Trac mused to himself. The recruiters always say it will be endless mares, exotic locations, fighting monsters, and defending our nation’s borders from what few enemies we have. But it’s really this. Standing about. Waiting for orders.

At least they climate control the grounds. We could be standing here in the cold. Magic one, technology… Probably also one. I’m sure someone could make a gizmo that could do the same.

Trac stretched slightly, doing his best to move as little as possible. None of the soldiers who saw him would snitch. They all had to do the same on occasion. But there was still the risk of a Sargent spotting him and deciding the Corporal could stand to do a few more push ups.

Fortunately, Trac’s quick three-second stretch went unnoticed.

I wish Retort was better at weather manipulation. It would be really cool if he could get a few friends together every weekend and keep our house in permanent springtime. Trac wished, focusing on his personal life to avoid thinking about his itchy shoulder. I doubt we would ever want to change it. It’s not like we would want to train troops in fighting in all weather conditions.

Trac’s shoulder always itched while he was on duty. His uniform jacket didn’t fit him properly, pushing the left shoulder seam of his jumpsuit against his skin every time he moved. Reserve members were not afforded the same level of care as full-time soldiers. If he wanted his uniform tailored, he would have to pay for it himself.

Trac had thought about getting his jacket tailored several times but had never gone through with it. A tailor wasn’t too expensive, but if they didn’t stitch the sleeve back on correctly, or even mildly altered the jacket’s lines a Sargent would notice and there would be push ups to do. Besides, Trac liked his uniform’s looks.

A gray-blue jumpsuit with plenty of pockets for tools, notepads, maps, and everything else a tanker could want. The light brown jacket with a built-in flak-vest in case something inside the tank (like its boiler) exploded, a main staple for a tanker.

A simple gray-blue tight-fitting helmet made of a mystery material which made even the hardest hits feel like a light tap (A most welcome feature for anyone driving a vehicle with hard metal protrusions sticking out everywhere in the cabin.) along with what Trac was certain was a set of tinted snowboarding goggles from a local chain store painted brown. Light brown boots with rubber soles to prevent slipping on grease and grime when navigating the cabin, and to prevent pain resulting from stepping on a loose bolt or other random small objects on the floor.

Simple. Understated. Function over form. Exactly the kind of clothing Trac liked.

If only it fit right. Trac growled at himself.

The sound of boots on mud reached Trac’s ears. The battalion immediately stiffened up, adopting the most rigid stance they could. For all command knew, that’s how everyone had been standing the entire time. Appearances were important in the guard.

It sounds like there are about twenty ponies coming, Trac noted as she strained his ears to listen for the steps. That means a Captain wants to talk to us. Weird… Unless we’re being sent into active duty?

Trac’s eyes widened in terror as the thought stuck in his mind like broken glass. I wasn’t listening to the radio last night or this morning! If we’re at war I wouldn’t have heard! Think, Trac. What did the Threat Level sign at the front gate say?

Trac closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to think back as the approaching ponies entered the courtyard.

Yellow! It was yellow. We’re not at war, just on alert, like we’ve been for the last two months thanks to the Griffons’ border side war games. But then why on Equis would a Captain be—

Trac opened his eyes and nearly yelped. Standing on the dais and behind the podium wasn’t a Captain. It was a Colonel.

Piercing gray eyes. Dark red fur. Gray-yellow mane. A horn with a large notch taken out of one side. Tall. Imposing. Wrapped in the formal dress blues and golds. Chewing on a thick cigar which seemed as much a part of him as his nose.

Colonel Ironclad, the one officer every single soldier at Falcon’s Hold knew by sight, sound, and smell.

Oh, sweet Celestia’s cake fetish! Why does the BASE COMMANDER need to talk to us?! What did we do!?! Trac screamed internally.

“At ease,” the Colonel said, his gravelly voice much different from the Command Voice Sergeant would use.

Trac shivered, managing to hide his fear as he adjusted his stance to a less rigid posture. Why does he always sound like dad when he was disappointed in me?

Ironclad looked over the battalion from right to left, then gestured for three of his attendants to start passing out papers. Each of them moved along the front most row of soldiers and handed them a large stack of papers along with a bundle of pens, instructing them to pass the papers out.

“Soldiers, your battalion has been selected for a special assignment,” Ironclad informed while the papers were being handed out. “You will not be deployed, but you will be listed as Active Duty personnel. I am aware your battalion is primarily composed of reserve members. Anyone present who is a reserve member will not be required to increase their hours. You will receive your active duty pay.

“In return, you will be expected to perform above and beyond your current level. You will show up fifteen minutes early to being fifteen minutes early, you will show up in the most pristine uniform possible, and you will put your all into even the smallest aspects of your duty.

“Previously I ordered your Sargents to allow you all a little leeway with protocols, punishments, and duty assignments. These orders have been rescinded. Slacking off will not be tolerated for the duration of this assignment. It is of paramount importance that your entire division functions by the book so closely that I could write a new book using you as the example.

“The details of this special assignment cannot be given until each of you has signed the oath of secrecy being handed out to you now. The document also includes an application for Top Secret Clearance. Should you refuse to sign the document you will be transferred to another battalion. Seeing as I command no other Armored Cavalry battalions, this means you will be sent to another base in Equestria.

“There will be no repercussions for choosing not to accept this assignment. Anypony who wishes to leave is one less pony whose heart will not be in the task ahead. All of you who wish to leave, you have three minutes to exit by the south gate. Sergeant Diamond will help you with your transfer papers.”

Trac’s heartbeat at a million miles per hour. Sister’s above, what could— No, don’t waste time. Three minutes to decide…

The guard would pay for my moving expenses, but I would need to go full time because I wouldn’t have a place to stay. I would also need to transfer my college credits, and they never let you transfer them all. I’d probably have to do basic classes a second time and maybe even take a few required courses the new place demands all students take.

The soldier in front of Trac turned around, handing him the now much smaller stack of papers and a hoofful of pens. Track kept one of each and passed the stack back.

Guess I am staying for whatever kind of Tartarus this will be.

Trac wanted to look around to see if anypony was leaving, but the order to stand “at ease” was not permission to stand however he wanted. He still had to keep his eyes forward and stand still.

Ironclad looked over the battalion again, his piercing gray eyes daring anyone to leave. Three excruciating minutes later he turned to a Captain standing behind him.

The Captain was pegasus mare. Cream Coat, blue mane, gold eyes, one clockwork wing. Gale Force, Trac’s Battalion Commander.

“Not one quitter amongst the bunch. Outstanding work, Captain. I am glad to see you were ready for a large-scale command despite your rank,” Ironclad said to her with only a slight hint of pride.

“Sir, thank you, sir!” Gale replied with a salute.

Trac flipped his page over, reading it thoroughly. It is exactly what he said. Notice of a special assignment and a security clearance application.

He quickly filled the document out, then looked around to see if anypony was collecting the papers.

“Soldiers, pass those papers forward. They have to be in my hoof before any of you are allowed to hear the details of your assignment. Lieutenant, put a cone of silence over the courtyard,” Ironclad ordered.

The sound of six hundred soldiers passing papers forwards in unison drowned out the sounds of the lieutenant's spell casting as they erected a pale red force field around the courtyard. The sound of distant machines at work stopped cold.

Trac gulped again. Okay, now I have no idea what this could possibly be about.

A sergeant passed Ironclad the final stack of papers, and the Colonel quickly flipped through the sheets, checking to ensure each one was signed. Once he was satisfied, Ironclad returned to facing his battalion and wasted no time in getting to the meat of the issue.

“Your battalion has been selected for this assignment due to being the most typical example of an Equestrian Armored Division in one of her most remote bases,” Ironclad informed. “This is of critical importance as you will be the training division for a high ranking noble who wishes to train without political complications. Their identity will remain anonymous for now.

“If we hear so much as a rumor of a noble coming to Falcon’s Hold for training, we will find out who let the cat out of the bag, and they will be dishonorably discharged. Furthermore, your battalion will be required to return all of your Active Duty pay.

“The rest of the winter will be spent ensuring you can keep your tongues from slipping as well as playing intensive war games. These games will be scored by tank and by individual merit. Whoever proves to be the best of the best will be granted the honor of serving as our future trainee's crew.

“You are to take this assignment as seriously as possible. A fact that her Majesty, Princess Celestia wishes to ensure you remember.”

Ironclad reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed a parchment envelope bound shut with a ribbon and a wax seal bearing the image of the royal sun. Ironclad broke the seal, took the letter from the envelope, cleared his throat, and began to read.

“Dear Eighth Cavalry Battalion,

“I, Princess Celestia, thank you for your loyal service and regret that I must ask for more. The last eight years have brought much darkness to our Kingdom. Darkness which has been kept at bay primarily through the heroic actions of a few brave mares. When disaster has struck in the heart of our nation, the Guard has been nowhere to be found. This is unacceptable.

“I have personally inspected our armed forces and have discovered our troops are still amongst the finest in the known world. The blame for this incompetence does not lie with you, nor your commanding officers. The blame lies with the generals and commanders within the core regions of Equestria.

“When Discord escaped from his prison of stone and attempted to begin his reign of chaos anew, they failed to react. No troops attempted to contain Discord. No one ordered the Guard to begin evacuating civilians.

“When Tirek escaped Tartarus and laid waste to our Kingdom, not one of my generals organized any form of counter-attack, forcing me to rely upon my protege, who was at the time an unproven Archmage as our sole means of salvation.

“When Queen Chrysalis led her hive to attack our very capital, our Canterlot was saved by my protege and a few civilians who happened to be her friends. The commanders of the Royal Guard did nothing to help the situation, leaving my soldiers to operate at their own discretion. The day was won, but the casualties and damage could have been greatly reduced.

“When the Lich King Sombra returned from the void, it was not a regiment of guards and a rain of high explosives that sent him back to the land of the dead. It was my personal protege, Princess Cadence, and her husband who was still recovering from long-term changeling feeding at the time who saved us all.

“This pattern is unacceptable and can not continue. Nor will it. Our core is weak because our skin is made of iron. Over the last six hundred years, no army has made it into the core regions due to the discipline of soldiers in border forts like yours, and because your commanding officers understand what war is and how to fight it.

“The constant monster attacks, pirate raids, and occasional border skirmishes you fight shield Equestria from harm. This has proven to be a double-edged sword for my core region commanders have seen little if any battle in their life. They choke up under the pressure of battle. Their world is one of looking proper and acting with dignity.

“While all soldiers should know how to conduct themselves around the nobility, they should also know how to fight, seeing as that is their job.

“Unfortunately I can not simply transfer select border region commanders to roles within the core. That would weaken our border defenses and the griffons are still doing their best to make a show of force. The transfer would make us look weak in their eyes, and would also mean incompetent buffoons are responsible for guarding our borders.

“You might wonder why I’ve chosen to assign these nobles to border guards if all our soldiers, core and border are excellent soldiers. First and foremost, good commanders are taught by the example of excellent soldiers and great commanders. Fools train bigger fools. Second, this operation is classified. The core officers are not to hear of this to prevent potential complications, and if we trained the next generation in the core regions foreign diplomats could learn of the operation as well.

“The only option available to us is to train new commanders to replace every last officer in the Core regions with fresh officers trained in the Border regions. You are Equestria’s shield. It is your duty to provide the example of a proper Equestrian fighting force for whomever you are assigned to train.

“I wish you all good fortune and thank you for your service. Yours truly, Princess Celestia.”

Trac stared at the podium, his heart hammering away in his chest as the words of his Princess sank in fully. The battalion was silent. The creak of boots and shush of fabric moving over fabric filled the silence.

Someone to Trac’s right screamed in an odd mixture of terror and dread.

Right there with you buddy! Track thought with a wince. I did NOT need this pressure on top of having to do a term paper this semester!

The Colonel's head turned, his eyes locking on the soldier's own like a hawk who had found a mouse.

“Contain yourself, soldier! It’s a heavy assignment, but you can bear it. You had your chance to leave and you refused. You’re in for the long haul and I will not tolerate anything less than by the book conduct at all times,” he spat before turning his attention back to the rest of the battalion.

“As for the rest of you, the change over from the F1 Spitfire to the J-P9 Bronco is related to this special assignment. You will proceed with training on the new tanks this weekend. Next weekend the war games will begin. That said, we will also be scoring you on how quickly you take to your new equipment. Dismissed!”

The battalion left the courtyard in a daze. No one had expected this level of responsibility to be thrust upon them.

The trip to the proving ground was short, silent, and chaotic. The moment the soldiers were out of the courtyard they broke formation, doing their best to find their crew mates on the walk over to the proving ground. Getting used to working by the book would take more than a little doing; the book said each crew was to stand in formation alongside one another.

Border forts are not exactly known for following the book’s rules, Trac sighed as she searched the crowd for the other two members of his crew. We’re known for putting holes in hydras while following “field regulations”. I don’t know if the medals on my jacket are on right… Sarge said they were fine but is that fine for us or fine by the book?

Trac’s jacket had three medals pinned to it. None of them were ones his fellow soldiers didn’t share. A small bronze sun pin everypony got for passing basic, a silver sword for two years service, and a little iron shield given out to every tanker who served in Operation Titanfall.

The keyword being Served. Trac and spent exactly one week in the field and his tank hadn’t ever gone into combat. He didn’t even get to see any of the rock-golems which they had been deployed to slay. Heck, he had no clue who even sent the golems to attack the Equestrian border. As far as Trac knew, no one did.

But he still got a medal.

“Trac! Over here,” a mare’s voice called.

Trac turned his head to see his Tank Commander, Bunker Bunny, waving at him with her silver and brass clockwork foreleg from a few meters away. Why her parents named her after a slang phrase for a coward, Trac would never know.

Bunker was short which made many ponies in the battalion, including Trac, very jealous. She fit into nearly any space in a cramp tank’s interior like a hoof in a sock. Her fur and mane were the colors of grease and grime respectively, so she never showed any of the grunge which inevitably built upon a tank crew, and her stumpy horn fit neatly under an Earth Pony’s helmet. She would never wack it when going over rough ground and spend three minutes sobbing in pain like a stallion kicked in the family jewels.

The only part of Bunker nopony was jealous over was her clockwork left foreleg. The mechanical limb was a momento from the time she served as a gunner. Fortunately the guard decided it was their fault that legs could get caught in autoloaders and purchased the replacement for her.

Bunker had already found her gunner, who was also a rather tiny pony. Trac had always assumed Thunder Charge was a young colt who somehow managed to bluff his way into the army.

No other stallion he had ever seen was shorter. Thunder came up to Trac’s shoulder on a good day. The banana yellow pegasus had almost been discharged for his size but had managed to produce medical papers proving he was not a midget and could perform all the duties his job demanded.

Heavens knew why he had gone into the army instead of the air force. Thunder could fly better than anyone Trac knew. But he also could bullseye a pony-sized target two miles away in an old tank with a wonky turret.

Trac made his way through the crowd to his crew, greeting them with a nod. “So… This is a hay of a mess isn't it?” Track asked.

Thunder nodded. “Yep. But we’ll manage.”

“Like Tartarus, we will,” Bunker grumbled, her eyes narrowing. “I got a look at the new tanks before anyone else showed up.”

Oh, sisters… Trac groaned. “What’s the problem?”

“You’ll see,” she replied. “We’re nearly there.”

Trac wasn’t one to question his superiors. Bunker was a Staff Sergeant. If she didn’t want to say something, he wasn’t going to ask.

The army isn’t about equality. It’s about teamwork. A big part of teamwork is trusting your leader. It’s not the end of the world if she wants me to spot the problem for myself. I am her driver, I’d want to know my driver could figure out what’s wrong with a new rig t—

The line of J-P9 Broncos came into view around the hill. Two hundred of the new tanks had been arranged in a line, ready for their crews to inspect them inside and out. Despite the fact that this was one of the two times Trac had seen the whole battalion's vehicles all in one place, the grand display meant nothing to him.

Instead, his eyes locked onto the J-P9 Broncos, only to widen as his jaw dropped.

The tanks looked as one would expect a tank to look. Large, squarish, steel boxes with sloped sides resting atop two massive sets of tracks. Hundreds of thick armored plates, protruding rivets, all coated in a purple and charcoal regimental color scheme.

The Broncos were short and squat, unlike the Spitfires which had a tall and narrow build. This change allowed the Bronco’s turret to be much wider, and the extra space had been used to install not just one main gun, but two.

The Broncos featured a central canon which Trac judged to be a seventy-five millimeter, perfect for destroying heavily armored vehicles. Around the cannon a second weapons system had been built, a quad-barreled flak cannon. Assuming the turret traversed quickly, the Bronco would be able to engage airborne targets as well as ground targets.

The briefing on the Broncos had failed to mention the flak cannon and the main gun were mounted to each other. Everypony had been expecting the AA-weapon to be mounted atop the turret.

“Oh… no…” Thunder groaned as he caught sight of the dual-gun system. “That is going to be nothing less than pure dickcheese to maintain.”

“Yeah, that looks bad,” Trac agreed. “But that’s not the worst problem.”

“I know. I see it too,” the pegasus agreed.

The real problem with the tank was one Trac would have to deal with every minute he was at the controls. The Broncos were not just “bigger” than a Spitfire like the briefing had told him. They were easily four times as large.

The Bronco occupied a five by eight by sixteen cubic meter area, not counting the length of its barrels. Trac had never seen a Main Battle Tank in person before. The Spitfire was a light tank.

“We’re in for one huge learning curve,” Trac moaned. “How am I supposed to move that thing without knocking trees over? Stealth is still important in tank warfare!”

Bunker nodded. “Yep. It’s huge. It will be sluggish compared to what we know. But we’ll get used to it. Come on, we have two days to work out the kinks. I plan on winning that little competition.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “You think we have a shot?”

“We’ve got an okay commander, an excellent gunner, and a good driver. Our maneuvering will be average for our unit, but our shooting is in the top ten. We’ve got a shot, and you just know they won't let anyone below a Master Sergeant mentor a noble. If we win this it will mean a promotion for all of us on top of the prestige we’ll have earned. That means more pay and more respect.”

Thunder raised his foreleg and gave Bunker a salute. “I’ll do my best, Sarge, but those guns look like murder. Sisters forbid both systems have autoloaders… It’s going to be a real mess in there. I just know it.”

“Will it hinder your shooting?” Bunker asked with a worried grimace.

“For a bit.”

“More than a couple days?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Bunker turned to Trac. “What about you?”

“You've got my best too.”

“Think you’ll have problems learning that big girl’s ins and outs for more than a few days?”

Trac nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never seen anything that big, much less driven it. But they will all have problems too. Maybe a bit more than I will. I did grow up driving tractors. That’s almost heavy machinery.”

The three continued to debate their chances as they walked up to the line of tanks and were assigned one at random by a Master Sergeant. Bunker ordered a full inspection of the vehicle and several hours passed opening each hatch, checking every compartment, examining the boiler, going over each individual tread and tread pin, and fully inspecting the hull before the three went inside.

This was much more than any other tank crew had done. By the time Trac popped open the body hatch to slip inside the rest of the crews had pulled out from the parking area into the proving ground to begin learning the systems. This was quite normal. Bunker had always been extremely fastidious in her inspections.

The thorough inspection of the tanks’ exterior was matched as they went over the interior. Each compartment, seat, control, nook, and cranny was thoroughly explored by everypony. By the time the inspection had finished and everyone took their seats to begin proper training, everyone knew the tank inside and out.

There were several major problems.

First, the guns were over engineered as Thunder had feared. The autoloaders indeed made the gunner’s seat a mess of moving parts and machinery. Bunker’s clockwork leg was at the forefront of everypony’s mind, leading to Thunder leaving briefly to get a unicorn’s jacket in order to keep his wings held close to his sides.

Second, the tank was massive. A lot of the size difference sent into making each compartment bigger. While that made it more comfortable to operate, it meant everyone had further to move in the event of an emergency where someone would need to get to another station, stomp out a fire, or perform field repairs.

Third, the Broncos were horribly over engineered in almost every system.

But there was one upside to the situation. The Bronco’s had a bathroom. A first in tank design as far as Trac knew.

This had better not be another example of Core Region favoritism. If I served two years in a Spitfire pooping in a bucket while those city slickers were rolling around with a proper toilet in their rigs, I just might have to punch somepony.

“Okay, Trac. Fire her up,” Bunker ordered.

Trac nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Trac took a deep breath and buckled himself into the driver’s seat. The unfamiliar controls surrounded him. The periscopes may have been adjusted to his eye level, but their wider fields of view were very distracting.

Trac reached for the primer switch and flipped it. The tank hummed as the shields around the boiler’s fuel crystal retracted. The pressure gauge began to rise as the magical crystal radiated heat, and steam began to fill the Bronco’s capillary system, making the tank shudder and groan as systems began to spring to life.

Track opened the drive valve the second the gauge’s needle touched the green line. Their tank shuddered again, rumbling almost eagerly as Track grabbed hold of the control levers and released the parking brake.

“Good to go, Ma’am!” Trac called over the hiss of steam and the hum of pressurized pipes.

“Roll out!”

Trac pressed both drive levers, carefully moving them forwards. The levers didn't seem to want to move, pushing back against his magically increased strength.

Weird. This is taking way more force than it sho—

The tank began to slowly creak forwards, a loud pop echoed through the cabin as the pressure on the control levers increasing sharply as a safety Trac failed to remove gave way under his rough shove. The levers flew forwards amid a terrifying screech of metal and steam, slamming against the console.

The Bronco roared, leaping forwards in a way the uninitiated would never believe fifty tons of steel could. Before Trac would pull the levers back towards him to slow her down, the tank shot up and over the hill it had been parked behind, sending twin sprays of earth up into the sky as it charged forward.

“AAA! Sorry! He uh, he likes to run!” Trac called behind him as he brought the tank back under control.

“I saw,” Bunker laughed. “This thing may be big, but it can charge over a hill like a proper crusader!”

“Hey! That would be a good nickname for this overbuilt guy,” Thunder remarked excitedly. “Big, bulky, tons of armor, fast, and I can already tell we're going to stink to high heaven in this thing. They definitely forgot to put in an air conditioner. It’s going to smell medieval in here real quick.”

“Good points, Thunder. Trac, let’s see how well Crusader handles rapid direction changes first. Take us to the agility course,” Bunker ordered.

“Yes, ma’am!” Trac replied, pulling one control lever back to rotate the tank eastwards.

At least they aren't yelling at me for that goof up.

Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 7th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili sat in the snow outside Retort’s house staring at the setting sun. The cold winds washed across her suit, rippling its fabric and sucking what little warmth she had from her. Not that such things mattered to Ameili. The cold was of no consequence, she had much bigger problems on her mind.

Retort hadn’t been allowed to call out of work, pushing their shopping trip back by a day. That had left her with an opportunity to choose another path to follow. But was that the right choice?

Retort has not come home yet. Trac will be gone all weekend. If I leave now, Retort will assume I got bad news from the doctor and left. They can’t know I never went to them. The simplest way to prevent that would be to leave town.

Ameili sighed, her voice box transforming the sound into a melodious galvanic shushing sound.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Vulcan asked.

The Elemental was incorporeal at the moment but remained as always by their love’s side. Since an Elemental’s voice is silent to those who do not know how to hear it, to any passers-by, it would seem as if Ameili was talking to thin air.

“I’m tired of leaving people behind,” Ameili said quietly.

“Yet we must,” Vulcan reminded her. “Especially this time. Trac is well versed in history, if you stay with him for too long he is certain to connect the dots.”

“Yes, he is. But would that be such a bad thing? He may be a soldier, but he’s not an infantryman. If worse comes to worst, I can overpower him and escape. It shouldn’t come to that. He’s nice.”

“He would want to see your old home…” Vulcan warned.

Ameili flinched. “Yes… He would indeed. That would be a significant problem.”

“Then it is settled. We leave before Retort returns. If you write a note and leave it on the door it will be easy to make him believe you had to travel to say, Canterlot for specialist medical treatment.”

Ameili looked down to the gleaming snow, then turned her head to look at the warm glow within the log house’s windows.

“I could, but I need friends, Love. Everypony needs friends,” she sighed. “This life is depressing.”

“Sometimes I wish you were content to live with your partner’s company… But you’re not an elemental. I understand you have different needs,” Vulcan said sadly.

Ameili turned and reached out, wrapping a leg around where Vulcan’s shoulders would be if they had a body at the time. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, love. I do love your company, and I don’t ever want to leave you. But you are right. I am not an elemental. I need more than one other for company.”

“We could return to the southern badlands,” Vulcan proposed. “The bug people there already know who you are and were most friendly.”

Ameili laughed. “You just want to burn more of their… Honey? What did they call the green stuff they spit up?”

“I remember them calling it “Dross”, and yes I want to burn more of it. It is very tasty,” Vulcan said hopefully. “If we sneak aboard a freight train we could be there in but a week. What do you say?”

“No,” Ameili said firmly, but kindly.

“Why not?” Vulcan asked.

“The same reason I left their hive in the first place. I do not like living in a hole in the ground, Vulcan, even if that hole is a very nice one. Besides, there’s something about these two… They remind me of my old friends.

“I do not believe they are reincarnations, and there obviously isn’t any sort of resemblance physically… But they feel like they did. It’s been a long time, Vulcan… I get very lonely…”

Vulcan sighed. “Yes, it has been a long time… I’m sorry you will never seem them again. But you must remember that you are not indestructible. When they learn the truth it will almost certainly spell your doom… I don’t know what I would do if you passed on.”

Ameili shook her head slowly and looked up at the setting sun once more. “What am I supposed to do then? Continue traveling from place to place avoiding all I encounter for more than a day or so? Am I to remain isolated from civilization until the last eagle flies over the last crumbling mountain, so I can stand atop its peak and watch as the last moon is cast over the last morning and hope I too end with the world?

“No, Vulcan. I refuse to accept that fate. I will find a place where I can live, contribute my fair share, make friends, and obtain for you any treats you wish to have.”

“You could live with the bugs. They liked us.”

“I also refuse to live in any place which reminds me of a tomb.”

“Metal walls, paint, galvanic lighting, air conditioning, and industry are not what I think of when I think ‘tomb’,” Vulcan snorted. “It’s no different from any other corporal dwelling. Aside from being underground. Oh, and it is made entirely of metal.”

Ameili shook her head. “That is your opinion. But when I see small corridors with chambers at regular intervals, all of which are buried deep beneath the ground and have had corpses remain in them for ages and ages, I can only think “tomb”. No matter how nice the place has been made to look. I can not live there, though I will most certainly visit them again.”

“Okay, it was a tomb. But then the bugs found it, moved in, cleaned it up, and transformed it into a city. It’s not a tomb.”

Ameili chuckled. “Yes. It hasn’t been a true tomb for generations, but it reminds me of one, and that’s depressing. I have enough to be sad about, love.”

“Perhaps you could return home? It’s been so long. They might allow you to come back.”

“They sent me out here to die, Vulcan. It was a death sentence issued in politically correct phrasing. A fate I have thus far defeated. I will not let circumstance rule me, Vulcan. I am the master of my own destiny. Besides, if I return home, I will never be able to help them. They may have exiled me, but I am still a soldier. It is still my civic duty to protect and serve.”

“If that’s how you feel, why are you having a hard time deciding to stay?” Vulcan asked skeptically.

“Because… If I stay here— You know where this place is. Home isn’t too far away, it’s so sad to see Retort’s people failed to become their own nation. We protected them. In another world, they would have joined us one day. Perhaps the first to do so.

“I… I want friends, but this land holds many sorrows.”

“You can be sad because you are without any of your own kind, or you can be sad because of where you are. Choose,” Vulcan said sagely.

Ameili pretended to close her eyes in thought. Her eyes hadn’t closed in many years, but she found the make-believe helped her think.

Friends. I need friends. Security is not worth the pain of isolation, and there’s only so much Vulcan can do as my companion. We could both use friends, come to think of it. He may believe elementals need only their mate, but I remember when they would travel the land in packs.

“We stay for the winter. If they haven't found out by springtime, we move on,” she decided.

“And if they do find out?” Vulcan asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when it comes.”

Vulcan was about to reply when the soft flutter of distant feathered wings caught his attention. “Retort is back. It’s too late to leave today. Unless you say you just came back for your belongings.”

“We're staying, Vulcan,” Ameili said as she stood up, the sound of flapping wings reaching her own ears now.

Ameili turned to the west and looked above the treetops. Spotting the rather puffy form of an extremely well bundled up Pegasus in flight, she raised her hoof to give them a friendly wave. Retort landed in front of her a few moments later, his face hidden behind a thick ski-mask and flight goggles.

“What are you doing outside? The weather isn’t as bad as it was yesterday but it’s still below zero!” Retort scolded.

Vulcan smiled. “I like how he cares about you. At least they are nice to the you they know so far.”

“I went for a long walk to empty and then incinerate the contents of my waste-pouch,” Ameili lied, drawing on her magic to put a fiery rendering of an embarrassed blush in front of her visor.

Retort coughed and took a step back. “Oh. Uh, thank you. Let’s not talk about your… Um, leavings again. Unless, it’s some sort of emergency. Why don’t you come on inside? I’m cold and tired, but with some coffee in me, we can talk for a while.”

“More interrogation?” Ameili joked, manifesting a fiery wink.

Retort waved a hoof dismissively. “Nah, just the usual get to know one another chatter. I feel like boring someone with tales of outdated high school glory and hearing the horror stories a full-time soldier has. Trac’s got some great stories about evil drill sergeants and terrible coworkers, but he’s just part-time. You’ve got to have some better ones.”

Hmm, better not tell him a truly personal story. Not yet. He doesn't trust me as much as Trac… But he is less educated. Perhaps if I rephrase things a little... Yes, that will do.

Ameili chuckled. “That I do. Tell me, Retort, have you ever heard the tale of… Well in your tongue his name would be Cold Iron.”

Retort shook his head no. “Can’t say that I have. But out of curiosity, if your names translate into Equish, what is yours?”

“It would be Iron Rival, but since that translation is approximate please use my proper name,” Ameili said as Retort opened the door and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Oh! Thank you. Now then, let me regale you with the story of Cold Iron, the immortal warrior with armor made from wolf!”

Retort pushed his goggles up and raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t that be “a wolf” or “wolves?”

“Yes, but that sounds less awesome,” Ameili admitted, flashing a sheepish grin.

Retort stroked his chin then nodded as he closed the door. “Granted… Okay, so what’s the story?”

“A thousand years ago, Cold Iron sailed across the Trade sea, leaving behind Prance for the untamed wilds of the Equestrian north lands. Of course, they weren't a part of Equestria back then. Back then they were ruled by a host of dictators who quibbled over these lands. A host of dictators who fell like wheat before Cold Iron’s battleaxe!

“But there was one who did not fall, one who snapped up all the land Cold Iron conquered in the name of, uh, himself. Sombra, who would later be known as the Lich King. The two clashed head-to-head in many a glorious battle as Cold Iron forged a city-state through his conquests, one which Sombra could not take from him in his quest to rule all the north.

“Over the years, the wizard’s youth waned while Cold Iron remained strong, youthful, and only improved his skill at arms. This vexed the dark lord, and he spent many a year studying his rival. Those years delayed his ascension to Lichdom, buying the world precious time. But in time Sombra learned Cold Iron’s secret, the stallion was immortal!

“Nothing could take his life. Not age, not disease, nor the blade. Where this power came from I can’t say, but he had it, much like your Princesses do.”

“He was an Alicorn?” Retort asked with a skeptical eyebrow.

“No, that’s why I can’t say how he had that power. Yet he did. Also, I was under the impression an Alicorn can be killed. Cold Iron is historically documented as having been torn into quarters. His limbs returned to his body at the first opportunity, allowing him to crush the skull of his would-be-executioner with his bare hooves.”

“Ah. Well, as far as I know, an Alicorn can die. It would take a lot of magic to do it though,” Retort said as he finally started to take off his coat, having been engrossed in the story.

“Well, Sombra found the means by which Cold Iron’s immortality had been bestowed unto him and did what no warrior could have done. The next time the two faced off against one another, Sombra cleaved Cold Iron’s head from his body and cast a spell upon it before it could be reattached.

“He corrupted the magic which gave his foe eternal life and spat it back not at Cold Iron, but at those who called him King. Cold Iron aged to dust in the blink of an eye, and the fragments of his immortality were dispersed into untold thousands of ponies where they festered like a disease. All they loved rotted. All they cared for withered but did not die. The spark of their dead king sustained them, even as the flesh fell from their bones. That evil inflicted upon them served another purpose, Cold Iron could never reform until all who bore one of his fragments were destroyed.

“Perhaps they could have been saved, but Sombra was a very clever bastard. People call him insane, but he wasn’t. That was an act he performed. He was a genius in a fool’s costume, the larger nations treated him like any other warlord in the barbaric north until it was too late and ultimate power was his.

“Ultimate power with which he smote his rivals one last time. They were stricken from the minds of everyone who had known them. Their friends forgot them, as did their enemies. Maps suddenly lacked their nation’s place upon them. The world moved on. Help never came.

“They grew bitter, hostile, and hateful. Many degenerating into mindless animals. Now, anyone who ventures to the wrong part of the Northlands will be torn asunder by the walking dead. And that is the story of the birth of the undead kingdom.”

Retort shivered, not having expected that twist to the tale at all. “Yeah, I heard that Sombra invented necromancy… I’ve never that part though. Then again I was the guy who slept through history class.

“I uh, meant like personal stories. Not old military tales you knew. But that was cool!”

“Well, seeing as how I’m a walking pile of bones and rotting meat, stories about the undead is a little personal,” Ameili said, forming a fiery smile.

Retort blinked, smirked, then laughed. “You can joke about your condition? That’s actually impressive.”

Ameili shrugged. “Not to me. If you can’t laugh at your fate, you have no right to laugh at all. As for the personal aspect of my story, I collect stories about the undead. I’ve investigated quite a few myself. I’m always hoping to find genuine proof of their existence outside of a necromancer’s control. It would be interesting to see how one would treat me.”

“Mm, so you have a “For science!” attitude towards your death? I get it. I mean, you can’t have too long left, right? Might as well die for something if it’s inevitable,” Retort asked as he hung up his coat.

Ameili shrugged. “I could last for a few more years. Or just a few weeks. I’m not entirely sure, nor do I care. I want to have fun while I am here.”

“Then let's talk about something more fun. Come on, I need to go brew up more ginseng coffee.” Retort said as he walked towards his living room.

Ameili smiled and went after him.

Yes. Friends was the correct choice.

Author's Note

Hello everyone! I will be rewriting this story once it is completed to sell it as original fiction. As such I would vastly appreciate your thoughts on the story as it develops in the comments below. Most of you know my financial situation, and I really want this to be able to sell once it's transformed from ponyfic to original fic. Thank you.

If you want to contribute to getting this published one day you can help me save for publishing costs via PayPal donations, or by becoming my Patreon on Patreon.

4 - Unmasked

Tractor Pull - 10th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Frost covered timbers creaked as Trac wearily pushed the front door open. He stepped across the threshold, sighing in relief as the magical warmth washed over him.

If the moon is anything to go by, they might all be asleep by now. Trac thought as he took off his coat and hung it by the door.

“Guys? I’m home,” he called more quietly than he would have normally.

“Welcome home,” an unfamiliar galvanic voice greeted quietly. “Retort is asleep. I am in my room if you wish to talk.”

Trac frowned for a moment, nodding to himself as she placed the voice. Silly pony. You remember you have a new roommate but forget her voice… How the hay did I forget she uses a voice box? That’s pretty unique.

Trac quickly removed his winter clothing and headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. Retort’s grandfather organized the home well when he built it those many years ago. All the bedrooms sat along the north wall in a fashion somewhat like a motel's rooms, with the hallway looping around the home to the living room via a staircase on each side of the house.

The arrangement made the living room the central hub for the home but also ensured anypony could quickly and conveniently reach any part of the home without needing to walk very far. The unfortunate downside to the house’s design was sound carried through the home very easily.

Trac had helped Retort install soundproofing inside each bedroom’s walls several years ago. If Ameili’s voice could be heard, her door was open.

Good thing I can hear her. I have no idea which room we gave her.

Trac stepped through the quiet house, his ears twitching as he strained them. A few quiet scratching and clicking sounds echoed softly down the stairs as he climbed them. Their source became clear as he reached the bedroom closest to the stairs.

Ameili sat at an old desk writing desk which had been sequestered in the bedroom next door for storage, working on something Trac couldn’t see from the doorway.

Retort had evidently elected to simply refurbish some old furniture for the newcomer. An older wooden chair for the desk, a more comfortable brown leather armchair and a bookcase for reading, a small dresser, and of course a bed.

Trac recognized the old poster bed as Retort’s older sister’s from when she had lived here as a teenager. The red and gold curtains which it had been decorated with, as well as its matching bedding, were new. The red and gold theme extended to the floor which was mostly covered by a large red area rug featuring simple geometric gold designs along the edges. Ameili’s rug had matching curtains which hung over the window.

Ameili’s decorations complemented the dark wood wall paneling and contrasted nicely with the birch floor to give the room a warm “Old World” feeling. Trac’s own room had much the opposite effect, with the darker colors he had used creating a generally gloomy air. Retort’s room was little better, being almost entirely undecorated, as one would expect of a single stallion who spent his time in other parts of his home.

Huh… Maybe I should ask Ameili to help me redecorate when I can afford it. Trac thought as he stepped into her room.

“Hey. What are you up too?” Trac asked as he walked up to Ameili.

“A little tinkering,” the mare answered cheerfully. “I haven't had the convenience of a workbench in some time and I had a few bits and bobs in need of some tender love and care.”

Ameili moved her forehooves out of the way, permitting Track to see the small clockwork device she was working on. The brass and nickel assembly of gears seemed to be some sort of transmission with an odd mechanism, which to Trac’s eye looked as if it would invert the gears.

“What’s that for?” Trac asked leaning in to look more closely at the hoof-sized device. “Is it a transmission? Why would you want one that could switch between high torque and high speed?”

“Many power tools use that feature,” Ameili said politely as she returned to her work, which Track could now see was replacing a gear which had warped. “In my case, this will go back into my rear-left leg. It’s the hoof-actuator’s transmission. The one I am using now is high speed only, which makes certain tasks difficult. Anything requiring a lot of hind leg strength is out of the question.”

Trac’s ears drooped. “Oh, uh… Sorry. I didn't think you’d have prosthetic parts. I mean it’s obvious if you think about it, but—”

Ameili chuckled. “In truth, I didn’t need them, but they make up for a lot of shortcomings.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet they do,” Trac agreed with a nod. “I remember learning about the Princess’s clockworks in school. Her complete reversal of opinion on technology is proof of what limbs like yours can do.”

A small tongue of flame blossomed in front of Ameili’s respirator, forming into a thoughtful frown for a moment before vanishing. “Oh yes, Celestia has clockworks now, doesn't she? Sorry, I don’t think of her very much. She’s not my ruler after all.”

Trac nodded. “That’s fair,” he began only for his eyes to narrow mid-thought. “What do you mean “now”? She’s had them for a thousand years.”

“Sure, but she’s older than that. She had all her original legs before she fought Sombra. Now she does not. They were lost rather than never existing,” Ameili replied with a shrug. “I’m sorry if that’s an awkward way to phrase things. Equish isn’t my first language.”

I wish I knew more foreigners. It would help if I knew what language mistakes people are likely to make. Trac thought to himself. Especially if they can be that weird.

“It’s a very weird way to say it. I would only say it that way if it had happened recently. Next time don’t say the word now. You don't have to imply she had normal flesh and bone ones before.”

“Sorry. Still, I’ll bet her restoration helped solidify Equestria’s love of machines. Cog helping banish Sombra definitely made more ponies appreciate tinkering, but there’s only so much one hero’s influence can do. An immortal god-like being embracing his inventions had to be the real catalyst for lasting change.”

Trac’s eyes widened at Ameili’s words. By the Sisters! She can help me with my term paper!

Trac smiled, grinning nearly ear to ear. “I KNEW you were a history buff too! I uh, I can’t talk about why, but my job just got several times harder. Regulations more tightly enforced, lots more intense training, brand-new tank to learn… I’ve been worrying about school all weekend.

“I’ve got a term paper I need to have finished by the end of the semester which will be forty percent of my grade. The topic is on the influence Sombra’s defeat had on Equestria as a whole. I know a good deal of the history, but I know I don’t know everything and putting what I know into the right words is always hard. More so when my Commander demanded I read six books on tank warfare tactics by next weekend…”

Trac sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “I uh, I CAN read them by then, but that won't leave any time for working on my paper or reading books for my paper if I also do my other homework.”

Ameili nodded and turned to Track, conjuring a flaming smile. “I’m something of an expert on Sombra’s defeat. I’d be happy to help.”

Expert huh? Track thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. Always look for their credentials, Trac. That mistake will only be made once.

“Can I ask a question to learn just how much you know?” Trac asked skeptically.

Ameili nodded. “Of course.”

“How did Princess Celestia and Luna’s failed attack on the Lich King hinder the Dashing Rouges?” Track asked, straightening the collar of his uniform casually. Let’s see if she can answer that trick question.

Ameili answered Trac with a fiery smirk. “Please, if they had not wounded him badly enough to force him to spend several months repairing his corporeal form, and more critically leaving that open wound on his soul, six overly emotional ponies with attitude wouldn’t have been able to kill him.”

Not bad, but she’s still wrong. Trac frowned and shook his head. “Five.”

“Excuse me?” Ameili asked, flames forming a confused frown in front of her lips.

“The Dashing Rogues had five members, not six. Whirling Cog, Marble Slab, Golden Lance, Redfern, and Shining Aura,” Trac corrected.

Ameili conjured an eyebrow of flame and raised it. “There were six. Cog was a tinkerer. Marble was a sword master, Lance an expert flyer and jousting champion, Redfern was a farmer whose hooves could pummel anything and anyone that stood in her way, and Shining Aura was an Abjurer.

“Sombra’s throne room was extensively burned and his armor still bears scorch marks to this very day. Cog could have built a gadget which would have consumed a target in a fiery death, but he found killing with fire to be grizzly and cruel. He used a repeating crossbow.

“Liches do not burst into flames when slain. There have been others, you’ve certainly heard of them. When a lich dies it dissolves into ashes. Sombra’s magic, while unlimited in potential, was not applied universally. He focused on conjuration, transmutation, and of course, necromancy. While he could have easily dipped his hooves into evocation and rained fire down on his enemies, that was not his modus operandi.

“You will never find a historical account of Sombra evoking fire. Not one. You may even find a few records of him suffering from pyrophobia. Personally, I believe those rumors to be true. Sombra did not explode, nor light his own throne room on fire as the popular theory states. There had to have been a sixth member of the Rogues, another unicorn or a pony with a fire creating weapon of some kind.”

Ameili paused for a moment, looking up at Trac with a pair of understanding eyes burning in front of her goggles. “Before you object, recall Roam’s erasure from history. If a Romane had been a member of the Rogues, her part in the story would have been lost upon Sombra's death when his final curse took hold. Physical evidence would have remained of course, but all mention of them would have vanished, and with the Rouges all in such proximity to the epicenter of the curse, they forgot about their friend’s existence.”

Trac stroked his chin thoughtfully. A good theory, but I can see a hole in it. “Wouldn’t they have wondered who the random pony standing with them was?”

“If they had been in the throne room with them, yes. If they had been thrown through a window out of the tower headfirst into another tower shortly after screaming “By fire be purged!” while igniting Sombra’s regalia? No,” Ameili said, a twinge of pain entering her voice. “Imagine yourself in that situation. Forgotten completely. Spending weeks tracking your friends down to tell them you survived, only to learn they had completely forgotten you. The grief might kill you.”

Trac’s ears drooped. “Uh… Well, yeah that would be terrible and is plausible. But unless it’s true, and there are texts I can cite, I can’t use that in a paper. But you do seem to know a lot about the event.”

An unusually large amount about it, in fact… Take a note brain. She’s either a conspiracy theorist or as big a nerd as I used to be.

Ameili nodded and turned back to her project, her suit rustling as she moved. “There are a few accounts which you will find that version of events in, but they are not mainstream. Scholarly, yes, popular, no. It’s hard to gain ground when the heroes everyone remembers insisted they were the entire crew. They just saved the world, trust in their word was at an all-time high.”

At the very least listening to alternative interpretations of historical facts will help me write a better paper. Trac decided after a moment’s thought. “Can you make me a list of those books? It might be helpful to be able to present multiple views in my paper.”

“Of course. I’ll have one for you when you wake up. I need to finish this transmission, and I want to get it installed tonight. Retort asked me if I knew any takedowns. I do, but I can’t perform them with my leg as it is now.”

“Takedowns?”

“Martial maneuvers for capturing your opponent or bringing them down to the ground. As a peacekeeper, Retort frequently employs such techniques. I offered to teach him ways of dealing with a stronger opponent.”

“Cool,” he said as he trotted over to the armchair and took a seat in it. “Speaking of your leg, how much of you is clockwork or galvanic? I know your voice box is. It sounds very nice, by the way.”

Ameili giggled. “Thank you. I spent a long time tuning my voice. As for my body, I’m more machine now than mare. Too bad they can’t replace a brain with a few whirling cogs and some sparking wires. I’d be immortal.”

“You’ve lost that much?” Trac asked, his jaw dropping.

“Yes,” she replied finally finishing her work on her micro-transmission.

Trac shuddered, making the leather chair creak loudly. Poor mare. She’s definitely going to die soon. If most of her is clockwork constructs she’s probably just a brain, skeleton, heart, lungs and— Ugh I don’t want to think about it! Or how much her family paid for her medical care.

“S— Um, new topic. How do you tune one of those voice boxes?” Trac asked with a nervous smile.

Please don't go into more detail about your condition… Why did I ask about her mechanical parts?

“You can’t tune a electrolarynx,” Ameili snorted, turning her head and conjuring a playful grin for Trac to see. “That’s the proper name of the common device used for unmuting someone. I had a very old and dear friend a long time ago who taught me how to create and alter machines. I built my own voice box instead, I can tune it to change how I sound should I wish to.

“I built my voice box using a vocoder as the core. When I speak, my thoughts are transmitted through arcane circuits into the vocoder, which processes the mana signals into sound waves. I did that because as you may know, an electrolarynx makes someone sound like a male automaton. Their voice is very monotone, deep, and sounds like anyone else who uses such a device.”

Trac nodded thoughtfully. “I see. You wanted to sound like you did before you lost your natural voice?”

Ameili’s flame-mouth stretched out into a huge and dorky grin. “No. I wanted to sound better than I used to. Also, I wanted to be able to have fun with my voice.”

“Fun?” Trac asked raising his eyebrow.

Ameili nodded and pressed a hoof against her throat, moving it in a very precise way, clearly manipulating some sort of control through her suit. A moment later she spoke, her voice having changed completely.

The galvanic undertones became overtones, giving her a much more robotic, deeper voice which had a strangely hypnotic music-like quality to it.

“This is the default sound of the Bode Vocoder. It sounds relatively close to the Moog Vocoder, but with more harmonics and dynamic range.”

Trac’s eyes widened. “Woah! What are those normally used for? Music?”

Ameili smiled again. “No. They are used for non-magical communication. There’s one in every mundane radio. You get a set, the first makes the sound into this, the other makes it normal again. It makes the signal easier to send. But musicians use them too. Mostly those who play galvanic instruments. Because—”

Ameili pressed down on her throat again, her voice deepening instantly to make a fully robotic sound. “— here’s how it sounds when I change the pitch from high to low. And—” a second quick manipulation of her voice box gave Ameili’s voice a much more melodious and electrified sound. “— here’s what it sounds like when you change the keys. Plug me into a keyboard and I’ll be in perfect tune with the melody!”

Trac couldn’t help but laugh at the mare’s excited playfulness. “Okay! I get it. I want to play with one now too. Though I think if I went mute I would want to use a spell or enchanted item to restore my original voice.”

Trac blinked as a thought popped into his head. “Hey, you’re a unicorn. You could have learned a spell for that. It would have saved you money. A machine like that has to be expensive.”

Ameili pressed on her vocoder’s controls again, this time raising her pitch and adding a slight echo to her voice.

“Analog vocoders are the best in sound. Compared to magic, they are number one, hooves down,” Ameili replied with a playful smile.

Her grin proved infectious as Trac smiled back. “You’ve made your point.”

“Imagine how I would sound with percussion and bass…” She reached up to her throat one last time and returned her voice to its normal feminine sound. “That’s why some musicians will use a vocoder.”

“And also why you use one?” Trac asked as he stood up from the chair.

“Yes and no. I also use one because I like machines. It's fascinating how much galvanic devices share with magic on the technical level. Especially in a vintage analog machine like this one. It’s also cool.”

“It certainly is,” Trac agreed with a yawn. “Sorry… It’s late. I should get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Trac,” Ameili said, turning to face the stallion and offering him another smile. “Sleep well.”

“You too, when you get there,” Trac said as he left the room.

It took Trac a matter of seconds to step three doors down to his own bedroom. Within a minute his uniform was neatly folded in the top drawer of his dresser, and the stallion was lying snugly atop his bed beneath his warm quilt. He was asleep a heartbeat later, but not without one final waking thought...

Maybe I can arrange a base tour for her sometime. Ameili would definitely love to see the tank museum. She’s a foreigner, but if her homeland is on good terms with Equestria I think I could arrange it since she’s dying.

Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 23rd of Snowfall, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Two weeks had passed since Ameili moved in with Retort and Trac. The mare proved a welcome addition to their household. The stallions did their best to keep their house clean and take care of the chores, but with only Retort having days off there was only so much the two could do.

Before Ameili moved in, Trac spent his mornings cleaning up, doing dishes, and chopping firewood for the house’s boiler. Now the house was spotless by the time he woke up. Ameili didn’t take all the housework from him, but she certainly did her fair share.

Floors were swept, waxed, and polished. Bookshelves were dusted, and organized with permission. Small household repairs were completed expertly after months or even years of neglect. Sometimes Trac even woke to find breakfast waiting for him.

Ameili cooked once each morning to ensure Trac ate something other than cereal, and once or twice a week for a family meal. While she lacked the skill to make anything fancy, she prepared simple meals her new friends enjoyed. Ameili wanted to cook more often, but she also didn’t want to butt heads with her new friends.

Retort handled most of the home cooking, and seemed to enjoy it, making asking for more felt like cutting into his hobby. Trac enjoyed cooking as well, and had established preparing breakfast as part of his daily routine. Ameili had no desire to take that from him. Not after seeing just how ingrained the stallion’s routine was.

Trac’s routine seemed to be all he lived for in Ameili’s eyes. She’d talked to Retort about their mutual friend, and while he didn’t completely agree with her assessment, he did admit that Trac had been very hollow since his boyfriend died.

The topic had weighed heavily on Ameili’s mind for the last few days. Grief and depression were issues very close to her own heart. Even as she polished the kitchen counters she couldn’t help but think of possible ways she could help Trac move on.

Trac wakes up, tends to the chores I haven’t done for him, eats something small for his breakfast, studies, cooks for Retort so he has something to eat when he wakes up later, goes to school, comes home, talks to us for half an hour, sleeps, and awakens to do it all over again.

No day is different for him. If he didn’t work as a soldier on the weekends you couldn’t blame him for not knowing the day of the week.

Ameili felt her metaphorical heart sink even further at the thought of living such monotonous life again herself. No one should be able to understand what most of my life has been like. Wake, wander, sleep. It’s maddening. Consistency is good, but you need breaks in your routine too.

The quiet moments at home that Ameili created for Trac were a godsend for the young stallion. Without the distraction of other train passengers or other students, Trac found himself able to focus clearly and the work went more easily, though sadly, not faster.

The change in Trac’s routine released a portion of the stress he had been under for years, a fact Ameili picked up on after only three days.

She felt proud of the results she had achieved, and yet…

I owe him more. Ameili thought to herself as she scrubbed a soup stain from the granite countertop. The last two weeks are some of the nicest I have lived in decades. I can understand using the time I have given him for work, but he needs something other than work.

He’s more of a robot than I am. Which is saying a lot given most of my body is mechanical.

Ameili stopped polishing the countertop and took a seat on one of the breakfast bars stools to think.

It’s worse for him than it was for me. My days looped from necessity. I did what I must to survive. He does it because he doesn't know how to do anything else. He lives only to study and work. That would be one thing if he was the kind of person who enjoys learning in the same way others enjoy play, but he is most certainly not.

He studies so he can leave this place. He yearns for adventure and fame. That would be one thing if he wanted such things for the normal reasons. But it’s more than that. He feels as if he can not have an identity of his own here. He needs to be an archeologist to have an identity.

Ameili’s thoughts hit the nail squarely on the head. She’d spoken with Retort several nights ago to ask if Trac had become depressed recently. The answer was no. He had been depressed years ago and never gotten over it.

The mare sighed and turned to look out the window. It was a nice day. Snow was gently drifting down to rest upon the world. The sun shone brightly, making the ice and snow sparkle like a field of diamonds. The green of the pine trees brought to mind images of warmth and life, amid the deathly gray birch trees.

I would be devastated if Vulcan died. I was devastated when Quirinus died. I can understand Trac’s pain. What I can’t understand is why it has festered in his heart for so long.

Ameili watched as a small Arctic hare hopped out from the treeline and quickly crossed the yard. The small creature moved like a bolt of lightning across the open ground, vanishing almost as quickly as it had come.

“That hare was very fortunate the hawk wasn’t looking,” Vulcan remarked.

“Brave too,” Ameili said as she nodded in agreement.

“Quite. It takes a great deal of courage to cross openly into dangerous territory.”

Ameili chuckled. “I swear you can read my mind sometimes, darling.”

“I wish I could. Perhaps then I would understand why you insist upon rubber for your skin instead of faux fur.”

“If I ever buy any of that synthetic mess I will happily get grease and grime on it so you can try washing it. It’s not as if anyone would be admiring me in it either.”

Ameili turned her head, looking once more at the countertop before her. It takes a great deal of courage to cross openly into dangerous territory. I’ve never been called a coward. Trac is my friend. He may be a new friend, but he gave me a place to stay out of the kindness of his heart and did not even think twice about it.

He is a true friend to me. At the very least, he is a truly kind pony, and deserves kindness in return. If I can understand why he is as he is, I can repair the damage done to him.

“Vulcan,” Ameili said, turning her head to look into the open oven where her special somepony was currently happily licking the caked on gunk off the oven’s walls to burn it down to vapor. “When Trac gets home tonight, remind me to ask him why he has not moved past his coltfriend dying.”

Vulcan’s form shifted, becoming a shapeless mass of fire for several seconds. “Y-you’ll need more courage than a hare crossing the territory of a hawk.”

“I know. But there must be a reason he feels as he does.”

Vulcan reformed and poked its head out from the oven to look at Ameili. “Yes… But can you help him? I know you once struggled with depression yourself, but your situation is very different.”

“Not really. I was dead inside because I lost my whole world when I was exiled. He is dead inside because he lost his entire world when Birch Bark died. If his reason for remaining depressed is even close to my reason, I can help him. If I can help, then I must.”

“You’re only obligated to help Romanes, Ameili,” Vulcan reminded, its ears drooping back with worry.

Ameili snorted and waved a hoof at her lover dismissively. “That’s the only part of the oath I never took seriously. Obligated to help… Vulcan, what do I do?”

Vulcan sighed. “You help everyone you can.”

“Because that’s the right thing to do,” Ameili said firmly.

“I will remind you… But I fear we will be homeless again.”

“I doubt he will get that angry.”

Tractor Pull - 23rd of Snowfall, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Frost covered timbers creaked as Track wearily pushed the front door open. He stepped across the threshold, sighing in relief as the magical warmth washed over him.

The sky overhead still held the last flecks of the sun's glow as Trac took off his coat. He was home a little earlier than usual. A gift granted to him by a new train engineer who was still working out exactly how fast the train could go before management yelled at her for wasting fuel and throwing off the schedule.

“Guys, I’m home,” Trac called.

Here’s hoping Retort’s got coffee ready.

“Hey, Trac,” Retort said, Trac’s eyes widening in surprise as Retort walked into the hallway from the kitchen with most of his winter gear already on.

“Uh, hey. Did you just get home too?” Trac asked.

“Nope,” the pegasus stallion said with a shake of his head. “I’m heading out. Remember that mare I said I liked? We’re going out. Also, Ameili said she wanted to talk to you about something personal, so uh, brace yourself. I don’t want to be here for that and there’s an early movie I can catch. So, um… Good luck!”

Trac watched wordlessly as Retort pulled on his ski-mask and goggles then slipped past him and into the snow.

Oh no… There is nothing about this that can be good. Does she mean personal for her? She has to. Please don’t be a last request. I don’t think I could handle that.

Trac did his best to not show any of the anxiety racing through his mind as he undressed and hung up his winter clothes.

As soon as he finished he walked to Ameili’s room. The door was closed, one of the very few times Trac had ever seen it closed since the mare had moved in with them. Raising his hoof he knocked three times on the door.

Hopefully you can hear the knock despite the soundproofing. We never tested that.

Trac stared awkwardly at the door for several long moments before Ameili opened it with a conjured blush burning in front of her cheeks.

“Heh heh… I yelled “come in” five times before I remembered the soundproofing. Thank goodness the stuff doesn't dampen impacts too much,” Ameili babbled, embarrassment making her voice crackle.

The strong scent of orange and lilac incense wafted from the room through the now open door. Trac could see a very old looking spell book open on Ameili’s desk, along with a few magic circles drawn in ash.

I wonder what spell she was practicing? I really want to get this over with… Maybe it will be quick and I can ask about her spell afterwards.

“Retort said you wanted to talk to me about something personal,” Trac said, cutting to the chase.

Ameili nodded and let go of the door, gesturing for Trac to come in and take a seat in her armchair.

“I do, yes… I want to apologize in advance. But I do need to ask,” she said as she took a seat in her desk chair and turned it to face the armchair.

Sisters… Please don’t need somepony to do something like look at you under the suit and tell you you’re beautiful before you die. I understand wanting to hear that but I’d throw up and that would make things so much more worse for your feelings...

Trac gulped, hesitated for a moment, then took a seat in the armchair “It’s okay. This… This is a last request isn’t it?”

Ameili shook her head. “No. I’m not dying soon. I want to know something about you, so I can try to help you. Is that okay?”

Trac frowned. Something about me? There’s not that much to know that she doesn't already know… Unless, she wants to hook me up with someone. That doesn't feel like something she would do. Maybe she wants to know about my family? Why I avoid them?

“Uhh, I guess so?” Trac said uncertainty as he grimaced slightly.

Ameili nodded to herself and after a short pause asked, “Who would you say you are right now?”

Trac tilted his head. “What is this, a changeling test?”

Ameili snorted. “Not literally. Uh, not physically literally. I mean as a person. Who would you say you are? I am a traveling tinkerer and pyromancer who likes helping others with a long and storied history. What about you?”

What’s she playing at? “That’s not really something I think about,” Trac said as he squirmed in his seat. “I’m a soldier, and a student. I guess.”

“You guess? Why don’t you know?” Ameili asked, cocking her head to one side.

“Because there’s not much too me really. I go to school and I drive tanks. There’s probably something more I could add to that but, well, I just don’t think about that. You know?”

Ameili nodded. “I do. Do you have any hobbies?”

“Not really. I don’t have the time. I used to like carving,” Track said with a shrug. Was that it? That can’t be it. It’s a very short and stupid question.

“Do you have friends besides Retort and I?”

“You know I don’t,” Retort sighed. “Why are you asking me?”

“You don’t think of your tank crew as friends?” Ameili pressed.

Okay, Trac. You know she’s got to be going somewhere with this, so let’s play along.

“No. They are coworkers. They are also full time guard. I’m just reserve,” Trac said, pursing his lips for a moment. “It would be… Awkward.”

Ameili conjured an eyebrow and raised it. “Your military pairs full and reserve troops in units? That can’t be efficient.”

“It’s not,” Trac agreed with a shrug. “But sometimes there aren't enough full time soldiers to fill out a crew or squad. Then they put a reserve member in to fill the gap. If there’s ever a real emergency, I’ll get paged via a magical crystal. Five minute portal notice. Mages will summon me directly to my commander. I’m less trained than my crew, but I’ll be there when needed.

“I’d also get bumped off the crew if a new full time guardsman enlists here as an Armored Crewmen. That’s why it would be awkward to be friends.”

“Because you could be broken up at any time… I understand.”

“Right,” Track agreed. “They live on base, they are fully a part of military culture. I’m not. It’s just a job to me. To them, being a soldier is their life. Theirs is a different… Culture. Kinda. Not really, but I can’t think of a better word.

“I’ve always worried about making them mad. I’m not a ‘real soldier’, as a few ponies have told me before. I don’t know if they look down on me for being part-time. I do my job, I banter with them a little, but I keep things professional. We only interact on shift.”

Trac sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Where are you going with this? Please tell me. You’re starting to make me nervous.”

Ameili paused and looked up at the ceiling as if wondering something.

“As you wish… Trac, I may have only been with you for two weeks but I can tell something is wrong. You live day to day, doing what you must do and little else. No changes in routine. No time spent on yourself.

“You don’t read for fun despite having a love of history. You don’t play games. You do nothing for the enjoyment of it. You also do not enjoy your school work. I haven't seen you at the helm of a tank, but I doubt you enjoy that either. From where I stand it seems as if you can’t enjoy much at all, if anything.

“I’ve been there before. For a very large part of my life. I know what depression is and what it looks like. It’s an old foe of mine. One I am relieved to have slain. I see it in you, Trac. I want to help.”

Trac sat silent, staring into Ameili’s goggles. Neither words nor thoughts taking shape in his mind. He knew what was coming, what she was about to ask. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Retort told me it’s nothing that happened recently,” Ameili said when it became clear Trac wouldn’t say anything. “You’ve been like this for years. I’m your friend. I want to help… I know what the problem is, but I do not know why it still plagues you.

“Please, Trac… Why are you not over Birch’s death?”

Trac’s left eye twitched as a heap of rage entered his heart. “You didn’t know him! You have no right to talk about—”

“I’ve lost a coltfriend before too. He was killed before my eyes when a mugger decided taking our coins was not enough and ran him through. I am a soldier today because of that moment. I know loss. I know pain. I know how it can shape our future. Please, share your pain with me,” Ameili pleaded, her hooves clasped in front of her.

Trac clenched his teeth. There was nothing he wanted to talk about less, but Ameili’s words latched onto his heart.

She knows… No one should know.

His ears sagged downwards. The fight melting out of him.

“Because… Because I know I’ll never be happy again without him,” Trac muttered, staring at something beyond the floorboards.

“Why not?” Ameili asked as politely as she could, inclining her head.

“He was everything to me,” Trac said flatly. “My parents don't see me as a pony, Ameili. They hate me because I left home. You turn five, you work the fields for life. They expect you to be a farmer till you die and never leave the family. They don’t offer anything. No pay, just food and shelter.”

Trac looked down at himself and sighed. “See this body? I never wanted to look like this. I’m not… I’m not a guy’s guy. I’m not girly either. But I never wanted to be a brick. I wanted to be slim, lean, athletic. That’s more attractive. I’m like this because I spent every single day since I was five doing hard labor.

“Did you know that a colt that young can pitch hay bales? Because they can. They feel every single muscle screaming in pain their entire childhoods, but they can.”

Ameili’s ears fell. She reached out and laid a sympathetic hoof on Trac’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. That is an experience I can not relate too. But I wish I could understand.”

Trac gave her a grateful look before continuing. “Celestia made homeschool illegal if both parents worked before I was old enough to go to school. It’s a good law. It means foals have to have a designated educator. Mom refused to stop farming. Dad refused to stop farming. They live to work. School was my only time for freedom.

“Birch was the first pony to actually love me. I had friends before him. Friends might say ‘I love you, dude.’ but they don’t love you. Real love is different. Friends just like you. Learning that difference changed everything for me.

“Birch supported me, helped me learn to think for myself. He told me that if I wanted to be an archeologist that I could be one and that I should go do it. He made me feel like a person instead of a piece of farming equipment. He even started saving up money to hire a wizard to get me a transformation spell so I could look how I wanted too.

“If it weren't for him, I would be a mindless farming drone. I did everything for him. He could have easily abused me this way. I would have happily been his slave. But he made me his partner.

“I knew my parents would hurt me for loving him. My older sister was beaten for dating a mare. Not because she was another mare, but because they couldn’t make kids. My parents only approve of things that will help the farm. There’s no room for love in relationships for them, only reproduction. They married because their farms were adjacent to one another and a single larger farm would make more money. That’s it. They almost never speak to each other if it’s not for business.

“When you work for someone, being paid in food and shelter and not being allowed to leave… That’s slavery. We were all slaves in their eyes. They hated that we legally had to go to school. My older siblings were all home schooled. They were right to do that. For their goals I mean. Because if I hadn’t met Birch I wouldn’t be free.”

Ameili’s facemask creased, what could be seen of it behind her goggles and respirator forming an enraged scowl.

Trac yelped, his eyes shooting open wide and his mane standing up in terror. WHAT THE BUCK! HOW DID THAT MOVE LIKE SKIN?!

“They DARED to procreate with not only no intention of loving their children, but seeing them solely as a source of labor?!” Ameili roared, jumping out of her chair forcefully enough to knock it over. “Blasphemy! Where are these monsters?! Vesta demands their heads!”

Holy bucking shit what have I unleashed?! Trac screamed to himself. “I— Uh— J— I’m not going to tell you. I don’t care if they die but I don't want Retort to put you in jail!”

Ameili took a deep breath, her voice box producing a rather terrifying static hiss as she did so. She let the breath go, a shaky, eerie sound which took most of her rage with it.

“You’re right. I am sorry. I do not know if you are religious, but I am. Know that if my people were to have discovered a nation which did to their children as your parents did to you, we would declare a holy war with the intent to liberate their children, and bring Vesta’s wrath upon their parents. That monstrous behavior is beyond immoral and unjust in my eyes.

“If you ever see your parents, and I am with you, do not point them out as I may not be able to prevent myself from obeying divine commands to ensure all children are loved and to put those who hurt them to the sword.”

Trac gulped. That’s a pretty barbaric religion… Good thing it’s on the side of— Wait a minute!

“Vesta? As in the Romane goddess of the home, heart, and family?” Trac asked, his jaw going slack. “There’s a nation out there still practicing ancient Romane religion?”

Ameili shook her head. “No. Just one with a lot of believers in it… That’s not important right now. What’s important is that I understand—”

Trac shook his head. “Like tartarus it’s not!” He declared, standing up. “There is NOTHING on that religion aside from the names of its gods and some of their basic roles. You PRACTICE it. You know it. HOW do you know it? How many people do? Where are you from? You’re the key to learning lost history!”

Ameili’s face softened, her mask returning to its normal not-expressing-an-expression state.

“And how the BUCK did your mask glower?!” Trac demanded, a fearful quaver creeping back into his voice.

“Some of my suit is fused to parts of me. I never take it off. I rot. I heal. Sometimes bits grow into things. I’m sorry if that scared you,” Ameili apologized, giving Trac a polite nod.

“Okay. Good to know. That made me almost pee myself,” he admitted. “So. Your religion. Where. Who? How many?”

Ameili smiled, her conjured flames looking more shaky than they usually did. “How long has it been since you cared about something like this, Trac?”

“Years. Roam is a place I promised Birch we would find together. I’m going to honor that promise and his memory. WHERE ARE YOU FROM!” Trac demanded almost angrily, his eyes narrowing.

Ameili sighed. “I’m from the far north. It’s griffon country now, but it used to be its own kingdom. Roam’s religion survives in us because some Romanes lived there when the city fell. Most of their own memory of their culture were lost, but the holy texts remained intact. We do not share them for fear of never seeing them again. I disagree with our isolationist policy for many reasons.

“I can’t take you there because I was exiled. They will kill me and anyone with me if I return home.”

Trac winced. “Because of your disease?”

“Yes. The disease is why you will be killed if you go there.”

Trac raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “I thought you said you couldn’t pass it to others without fluid contact.”

“There is absolutely no chance of you being infected by me, Trac,” Ameili said as she looked Trac directly in the eye. “But my countrymen do not care about such things and will kill you for being with me, and will kill me for returning. Nor will I tell you the way so you may go on your own, as there is a chance you might mention me to them, and they would fall upon you, tearing you from limb to limb. I do not speak in metaphor, Trac. My people would draw and quarter you, then burn your body.”

Trac gulped and sat back down. “S— sounds like a bunch of nice people.”

“They were once,” Ameili said as she used her arcane grip to stand her chair back upright.

“What happened?”

“The disease happened,” Ameili muttered.

“I’m telling you something personal, you should return the favor,” Trac pressed, steepling his hooves.

“You’ve told me half of what I asked for,” Ameili countered, her tail flicking worriedly.

Aha! I’ve got her! If I say she’ll owe me a full answer in return then… Then… Then tell….

Trac’s eyes grew distant as he thought about that day so long ago.

Can I tell anyone… I can’t. I just can’t. Or…. She’s dying. She lost a loved one to violence too...

“I will finish if you promise me two things,” Trac said softly. “First, you don't tell anyone else what I tell you. You take it to your grave. Second, you tell me the truth about your disease. If there’s a magic plague in the griffon’s kingdom, Equestria needs to know. That could be why they are playing war games on our border. They could be getting ready to invade to secure medical supplies.”

“You’re oddly worried about griffons attacking. I can hear it in your tone. It’s okay. Your princesses trade medicine freely to all, even those hostile to them,” Ameili said soothingly.

“Not enough to treat… Whatever you have,” Trac countered. “They would need everything we have if you died in a city’s water supply. Do you promise me?”

Ameili thought for a few long silent moments. “Only if you too take my secret to the grave. I swear to you it is of no harm to anypony. Know that my condition is very common back home, and while they are a threat to those who stumble upon them, I am different. I am sane. I am peaceful.”

“Unless someone abuses foals,” Trac said reflexively.

“Yes,” Ameili agreed. “Do you promise?”

Trac nodded once and held a hoof over his heart to swear an oath. “I promise I will keep your secret. But I will tell my commanding officers any security threat your secret presents. I will inform them the source wished to remain anonymous and did not give me their name.”

“Good enough,” Ameili said with a worried frown. “I trust you, Trac. You’re a kind and honest stallion. That’s why I want to help you slay your own depression. I promise I will tell no one.”

Okay… I can do this. She’s hiding something about Roam. I can talk about Birch for his memory’s sake.

Trac took a deep breath. “Birch came to the farm sometimes,” he began. “My parents let him come over because he would work while we talked. They didn’t know we were in love. My siblings were nice enough to not tell on me… They knew he and I would sneak off for uh… Fun.

“At least I think they were nice. They could have been afraid if they snitched on me I would snitch back. We all knew everything the others did… T— twelve years ago… Our farm was attacked by griffons.”

Trac stopped talking for a long moment. Ameili conjured a sympathetic frown. “I don’t remember any invasion a decade ago. Was it a bandit raid?”

Trac shook his head. “They are not bandits. They are privateers. We all know it, but no one can prove it. Every border town is hit once a decade or so. Celestia won’t do more than send more troops to the local fort without proof… The High King insists they are bandits, and promises to move his own troops to ‘patrol more’. It’s an excuse to put more soldiers on the border. We all know that too.

“But they have airships. Good armor. Guns… They came from the sky, silently. Ponies are used to shadows of large flying things. You see one and you think ‘A pegasus is flying over me.’. We had no idea… They just dove…

“We tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. We ran anyway. But they had tranquilisers. That’s the sick thing. They don't kill you. They swoop down, put you to sleep and take you back home as a slave… Some have escaped to tell the tale. The griffons work you to death as livestock, then eat you. It’s their culture, their biology, their instinct.

“Griffons are predators. They are carnivores. They can’t eat plants at all. They hunt. Some feel they need to hunt people… Enough for them to hold political power and keep what they do legal.

“Their king insists they only hunt intelligent prey in their borders, and even then only condemned criminals. But that’s a lie. We can’t prove it’s a lie, but it is. They come here to hunt us and they are doing it legally!”

Ameili nodded once. “I know. I’m sorry. I would stop them if I could.”

“Birch… Birch and I were… We were… He was on me when they came,” Trac whispered. “He realized what was happening. Pushed me deep into a haystack. Surrendered. Made them think he was napping on the job. He saved my life…”

Ameili stood up and wrapped her forelegs arround Track in a tight hug. Trac hesitated, then hugged her back. The two embraced for a minute before Ameili let go.

“That’s horrible. I understand why you’re still depressed now. I also understand why you carry that gun in case of griffons. You want revenge, you need it, but it is also out of your reach.”

“I don’t want revenge,” Trac said shaking his head. “I want it to stop. I can’t do more than protect myself and anyone around me when it happens again. That’s why I can’t… He died for nothing. They will come back for me again and again.

“If I leave, they will come back for others. I want to find Roam not only because I promised Birch, but because if I did, the historic site would attract more attention to the northlands. The Princesses would send nobles here. Then the next time the griffons attack, someone who can actually talk to the Princesses directly will tell them how it really is. Then they will send the Elements. That will be the end of their monstrous sport!”

Ameili’s ears fell as she hung her head. “That… That won’t work, Trac.”

“Yes it will! The Elements stopped Lord Tirek, they can beat anything!” Trac insisted, crossing his forelegs over his barrel. “Maybe you don’t get news of them in griffon territory. Or maybe you think it’s propaganda, but it’s not.”

Ameili laughed, a bitter hollow sound. “I’m not questioning the Element’s power, Trac. I’ve seen them. I have seen them in action. The discovery of Roam is the problem. It would not bring archeologists up here. Your battalion would be dispatched to wipe it from the face of the world.”

Trac’s jaw dropped, the specific details of her words lost on him under the weight of one realization.

“You know where it is!” He exclaimed.

Ameili nodded. “I do… You promised, Trac. You’re very emotional right now. Do you remember your promise?”

He nodded twice. “I do! But tell me, where is it? How do you know?”

Ameili sighed and turned around, staring out her window at the snow, an air of fear surrounding her. “I wanted to drop hints through the winter. Have you come to understand slowly. Retort too. You would accept me if you knew who I am was before you learned what I am. Roam lies to the north by a week’s march. It is not in Equestria, it’s in griffon territory. I was born there.”

“You’re Romane?” Trac asked, his eyes still wide. “There are modern living Romanes?! Sisters above! We forget you when you leave! The curse is still working. We think you’re all dead because no one can remember you after the fact!”

Ameili laughed bitterly, her posture shifting from one of fear to readiness, though her back remained turned. “I wish that were true… May I unzip my suit’s hood? I promise I will not spit or do anything to endanger you. You will need to see… And unfortunately I expect you to attack me.”

“I uh… I do not want to see your rotting flesh,” Trac said flatly, his stomach churning.

“You won’t see any of that,” Ameili promised.

What’s she playing at? I thought I understood her but now… She’s Romane! This changes everything I thought I knew. Mostly. She’s still nice, helpful, and a bit of a dork. But she’s so much more important than I ever thought!

“Okay,” Trac said nervously as he squirmed in his seat.

Ameili reached up to her throat and slowly unzipped her hood. Trac winced, bracing himself for the stench of rotting flesh, but none came. Instead the scent of machine oil and warm latex filled the air.

Her suit’s hood slipped off with a rustle of fabric, hanging limply from the back of her neck, and revealing a second hood underneath. This one form fitting, like a second skin, with a high quality wig attached to it to form a mane.

“You… Use a latex bodysuit and a wig to look more normal?” Trac asked as Ameili turned around and took off her respirator, letting it too hang from her neck.

His question wasn't answered the moment her mouth was visible. The black laytex wasn’t skintight, it was her skin. It had molded lips, a proper nose, and beyond it Trac could see pale white craft foam serving to pad the skin out like fat would. A few glints of silver beneath the foam in her nostrils revealed metal present in what had to be a prosthetic face.

A few small glowing amber lines trailed down her face from her temples, across her cheeks, and to her throat. The mana-circuits which interfaced with her voice box. A voice box Trac could not see despite knowing it was on her throat.

Or maybe it’s IN her throat… She said she doesn't eat with her mouth anymore.

Ameili spoke, her open mouth revealing her skin to move exactly as one would expect real flesh to, her teeth to have been replaced with silver, and the inside of her mouth and throat had been replaced with hot pink silicone which Trac was fairly certain had come from a sex toy of some kind given the rubbing inside her mouth and throat.

“I made this… Skin in the vain hopes I would be accepted with it on. I identify as this now, but the real me is deeper in. On another layer. There are no zippers or seams for this part. I will have to cut it open. I will hurt myself doing it. Please do not stop me. This is necessary.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Trac said immediately. “You don’t have to show me anything. If you say this is what you look like, then this is what you are… Honestly I can’t blame you for wanting to look whole again.”

Ameili snorted. “I’ve been lying to you, Trac. My ‘condition’ is worse than I have told you. You need to see. I would like it if we remained friends after this. I have enjoyed having one again.”

Trac winced and slid back further into his seat. No one says that if a real doozy isn’t on the way.

“My greatest fantasy is for there to be living Romanes, Trac,” she said, her face moving like living tissue again, twisting into an expression of grief Trac knew well.

My heart made that face when Birch died… Whatever it is, I won't hate her for it. We’re in the same boat. Trac decided. Then his heart skipped a beat. Wait… Living. But she’s living? Oh. OH! OH!

She’s a Romane built construct! The theory!

Trac’s eyes widened as a mixture of terror and wonder shot through his veins. Ameili’s horn glowed a pale orange as she reached out with her magic, took a small sewing kit from her backpack, removed the seam ripper, and stuck the tool into a seam in her latex skin.

The moment the sharp tool pushed into the latex Ameili hissed in pain. She pushed the tool down the seam to open her ‘hood’, whimpering, hissing, and moaning the entire time the tool was at work. “Ow! Ow… Ow! Why did he make it… So we feel… Things… Like we had a— OW! Real body? Bastard deserved… More fi— BUCK! Fire! If he ever comes— OW! Back to life… And I don't get to set him on fire again… There will— Ahhh! Be hell to pay.”

Trac jumped to his hooves and reared up, gesturing for Ameili to stop immediately. “I know what you are! You can stop! Don’t hurt yourself!” Trac begged.

“The seam is open. You’re going to see,” Ameili growled. “I refuse to cut myself for nothing.”

Ameili took a deep breath, reached up to her head, and took off her goggles, revealing a pair of star sapphires instead of eyes. She blinked. Trac waved a hoof. The star shapes within the gems tracked his movement.

Yep. I expected something like this. Nice choice of gems. Her builders had good taste.

Ameili set her goggles on her desk, gingerly grabbed her latex and foam skin, then pealed it away from her skull. Her hollow, organic, albeit silver-metal plated, skull. A part of her spine was visible as well, metal plated vertebre hiding behind clockwork augmentations. Stand ins for muscles long decayed.

“There are no living Romanes. We are all dead,” Ameili said matter of factly, her jaw moving despite lacking any connecting tissue.

Or linking servos.

Or magical circuitry.

The jawbone moved on its own. Her skull was held up because she willed it to be.

Trac was looking into the face of an undead.

5 - Deja Vu!

Tractor Pull - 23rd of Snowfall, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Wide leaf green eyes stared into lidless gemstones. The polished glittering orbs moved as one would expect the eyes of a frightened person too. Pale yellow six-pointed stars widening exactly as a pupil would.

With her suit’s hood down, Trac could hear the soft click and whir of clockwork components as Ameili moved. Her shoulders hunched. She rocked side to side. Actuators poking out from the synthetic skin of her neck retracted as she shrank back.

Trac stared into her eyes for several long moments. “You’re not a construct.”

“No.” Ameili shook her head.

“You’re undead.”

Ameili nodded. “Correct.”

“Then, your knowledge of your culture is firsthoof? Not implanted summary?” Trac leaned forwards before rocking back on his hooves.

The patterns in Ameili’s fleshless sockets widened until their yellow stars consumed the gems. “You’re not afraid.”

Trac waved a hoof in dismissal. “If you wanted to hurt me I’d have never woken up this morning. Forget that triviality,” Trac’s mouth widened into a full grin as he sat back down. “I have so many questions!”

Ameili’s jaw dropped. “You should be afraid. Or mad I deceived you!”

Trac waved another hoof in dismissal. “Yes yes, we can get to that later. So, is it true Roamanes invented indoor plumbing? I’ve always doubted that fact’s validity. Given the extreme utility of a proper sewer system and the obvious advantages of not having to dig a hole outside to poop in... It raises too many questions.”

Ameili stood still for several long moments. She raised a hoof to point at her bared skull and spoke slowly to make sure Trac could watch her jaw move. “I’m a skeleton walking around with a consciousness attached to it.”

“Yes. A consciousness who used to be a Romane Legionnaire,” Trac nodded. “As far as I am aware, your military also served as civil engineers. You would have helped maintain the sewers at some point.”

“But— I— You should be afraid! EVERYONE is afraid!” Ameili stamped a hoof against the floor. “Why aren’t you?”

Trac rested a hoof on his chin then shrugged. “Too curious? I’m not joking. I want to know if your people invented the sewer system.”

“Yes! We invented the modern concept of a dedicated, person-accessible, city-wide sanitation system,” Ameili flung her forelegs upwards and turned her back to Trac. “Other sewers existed before. Ours pumped clean water about too. That’s it.”

Trac’s ears drooped as Ameili turned her back to him. “What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be excited to find someone who isn’t afraid of you? You’re obviously a person. Despite being, well, undead.”

“You have no frame of reference. You look to be around twenty-five years old. You think that’s a long time. I’ve spent so long walking from place to place hoping for acceptance and friendship. I have seen nations rise, fall, and be replaced.

“You have no idea how old I am. One thousand and fifty-six years a mere number to you. You haven’t lived it.

“The last twelve years of your life. Take that feeling of loneliness and live through it eighty-eight more times. Every time you reach out to anyone it ends with a new notch in your bones, arrows in your cloak, and spells flying your way. Best case scenario: someone you cared deeply about calls you a monster and runs away sobbing.

“Then, at the end of that loop, you find a nice nerd whose reaction to you revealing your true self is ‘Cool. How did your sewers work?’ Perhaps then you'll have an idea of why I am angry!”

Trac frowned. “Um… You never thought to find a scholar before now?”

A loud thunk echoed through the room as Ameili’s left eye fell out of her socket. She reached down and picked up the gemstone, turning around to make Track watch as she pushed the shaped stone back into her socket.

The star shape flicked and twisted, adjusting itself to match Ameili’s other gemstone-eye’s pinprick-like pupil. “I. Have.”

“Did it fall out because I made your eye twitch?” Trac grimaced.

“Yes. My skin suit helps hold them in... I don't need them. They look pretty.”

Trac cleared his throat, stood up, and wrapped his legs around Ameili’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you’ve gone through all that. But I can’t change how I feel. I don’t care what you are physically. You’re a fun mare who happens to know everything about something I want to know everything about. Why wouldn’t I be excited?”

Ameili covered her eye with her hoof. “Because everyone attacks me or runs in terror! Why do you think I’ve lived most of the last century as a leper? Then after modern education made up a story of a magical illness, I donned the hazmat suit?!”

“Well, I’m not everyone!” Trac’s face curled into a frown. “I don’t understand why you're mad. I’d be thrilled to find someone I could be real friends with after a thousand years with only an elemental for company!”

Ameili growled. “Pretend I have ears that can lay back in irritation,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I can't right now, and they would be, because— Ugh! Look, I’m not mad at you. I’m absolutely livid! I just found out the last millennia of my unlife has been an unending cycle of isolation, when surprise, there actually are people like you in the world!”

“Oh,” Trac nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. You’ve got more reasons to be happy than angry though.”

“It’s one and one. I have a friend who knows what I am. I also wasted so much of my time getting here that I am glad I don’t have blood pressure anymore.” Ameili’s horn glowed a dull orange as she conjured a frown of flames in front of her bare teeth. “And I forgot I could have made flame-shapes to have ears to lay back…”

“True,” Trac smiled. “But you’ve got me in a good mood. That’s something you wanted, right?”

Ameili’s flames scrunched into a frown. “Wait… Do I?”

Trac rolled his eyes. “I’m sitting in front of someone who LIVED in a place I’ve been longing to discover for years! Maybe I will fall back down into the pit of despair after we’re done talking but right now I’m definitely excited.”

Ameili looked Trac up and down for a moment then pulled the foam and latex skin hanging from her neck up like a hood. The moment the synthetic materials were in position the magic took hold. Synthetic materials mimicked the way skin and muscle moved, forming a smile. “I guess I did.”

Trac nodded. “You did. At least for a bit. Anyways, next question, how do you make your costume move like that?”

Ameili tilted her head. “Costume?”

“Yeah, the foam and stuff. It moves like a real face would. Is that the spell you were working on earlier?”

Ameili shook her head. “That’s not my doing. The curse on my people is meant to be a form of permanent torture. We still feel everything as you do, except for heat or cold. We’re immune to those, heavens know why. For anything else... If you stabbed a sword between my ribs, I would scream in real pain despite the blade cutting only air.

“We… I felt every moment of my body rotting away. Even worse, we feel every bump, scrape, bruise, and squishing. If our skeletal forms move in such a way where our former flesh would have been damaged, we feel pain. Brushing my bones against something hurts as much as it would hurt you if I pushed a broom handle into your leg until it touched bone.

“The pain will persist despite no real wound for as long as it would take us to heal in life. We also tend to forget about that while we’re doing our day to day activities, even though we know it happens. That’s why my people went mad. Or at least, one of the reasons.

“I avoid that pain by making a body slightly thicker than my original one. My bones do not touch things now, and I do not hurt. The curse believes this is flesh, but it has already rotted me to nothing. The curse is rather crudely crafted. It can only rot animal products, hence why I do not use leather in my body.

“I’ve made many over the years. This is my favorite one so far. This ensures I cannot reach for something and slide my leg bones along the edge of a table. An event which would wake everyone for a half league as I scream bloody murder. It also makes me look cute in my mind... I have odd tastes in beauty.”

“But how does that allow you to smile like a fully fleshed pony?” Trac asked with a frown.

“A side effect of the curse is any flexible materials I attach to myself act like my original body parts did. They move, provide the same sensations, and… That’s it actually. Which is why I need clockworks. The magic which animates me is slower and weaker than an adult pony. Without my enhancements, I would be as a foal.”

Trac watched her face as she spoke. Despite her skin being made from black latex, she felt alive. The way her lips moved, the way her cheeks pulled, her eye’s blinked.

Which is why the open seam of her hood made Trac’s stomach churn. The glints of silver beneath the opening... Flaps of foam and latex hung open to create a line where life stopped and inanimate matter began.

Trac winced. “C— Could you sew that seam back up please?”

Ameili raised an eyebrow. “My bare bones don’t bother you, but an open seam in my skin suit does?”

“Yeah. It’s like that time Retort came home from breaking up a nasty bar fight and all his stitches came undone. He had a flap of skin and muscle just... Hanging. He couldn’t feel it because he was still under a soothing spell. I had to point it out and… Look, this is the same thing. Please fix that.” Trac squirmed in his seat, avoiding looking at the opened seam.

“You’re a weird pony, Trac.” Ameili slowly shook her head.

She reached out with her magic and took a pre-threaded needle from her sewing kit. The needle when to work seemingly of its own accord. It flicked through the open seam faster and with more precision than anyone could have done by hand.

Ameili winced each time the needle plunged through her skin. “Ow… I wasn’t expecting things to go this way you— OW! I hit bone on that one…”

“We’ll wait for you to finish,” Trac winced.

The mare nodded and quickly finished up her self-stitching, clenching her teeth hard all the while. As soon as the thread had been knotted, she took a small leather strap from her bag and bit down on it before cutting the loose thread.

Trac’s eyes widened as the mare screamed through clenched teeth. Ameili panted for several seconds before removing the leather piece from her mouth. With a final whimper, the mare packed up her needle and put her sewing kit away.

“S— So… Why did that hurt?” Trac said as he looked at the now invisible seam. “Oh, right. They provide a sense of touch.”

Hopefully it doesn't hurt her to brush dust off herself. Is it that anything at all which touches her becomes a part of her?

Ameili nodded then reached up to fluff her mane back into position. “That’s right. Anything I attach to me becomes a part of me. I just cut off a body part. I could have moved that like a little tendril if I wanted too.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “You can just glue bits to yourself, and they work?”

Ameili beamed Trac a delighted smile, the pink silicone lining her mouth and throat visible for a moment. “Yes. I've played with that aspect of my curse somewhat. I prefer remaining a normal-ish pony to anything exotic I can make myself into. The modern era has made life much nicer for me. So many synthetic materials that are more durable or better suited to my uses. When my skin was linen, I would feel it abrade away as I moved… Also, silicone is wonderful!”

“About that… Um… This might be inappropriate to ask, but um… Never mind.” Trac cleared his throat and looked away for a moment.

Ameili snorted. “Yes, my mouth is made from parts of an adult toy. It was cheap, shaped right, and I enjoy being close to anatomical correctness. I’ve got a few other parts from similar toys too. Why wouldn’t I? I’m an undead cyborg who wants to have a normal looking body, so I made a body as close to natural as I can be.”

Trac frowned at the sound of the unfamiliar term. “Cyborg?”

That cannot be Equish. I don't know what the components mean. Cy? Meaningless. Borg? Sounds Germane. It's not a Romane word either... She travels a lot. Ameili must know more than Romane and Equish.

“Is Cyborg not an Equish word? I’m sorry. I picked it up from a hive of insect people far to the south. They speak a mix of Equish and their native tongue. What is the Equish word for someone who is part machine?”

Trac raised an eyebrow. Interesting... She must be talking about Changelings. The rumors of a hive deep in the Badlands may be correct after all. If they have a word for people who are part machine, then they are familiar with modern technology. Unlike Queen Chrysalis's swarm.

We are fortunate her Swarm relied on magic alone. It's remote enough to be unaware of how easily mages can disable other casters magic.

You need both hardware and sorcery to win a modern war. Pure magic can still do significant damage. Regardless, technology doomed her. Chrysalis would do her best to learn about it, if she survived.

“We don’t have one. We would say ‘Haybale has clockworks.’ Frankly, it sounds a little mean to have a word for them. It’s singling people out as different. Plenty of ponies, hay, plenty of Equestrians have clockwork parts. Workplace accidents, monster attacks, wear and tear… Things happen to many people, and Magically created body parts cost a Princess’s ransom. You’d be alienating a large group of people.”

Ameili shrugged. “Perhaps… But I would say they cost more than a Princess’s Ransom. Celestia herself never had replacement legs. I seem to remember her wheeling herself around in a chair. She covered her body with a blanket so no one would have to look at her wounds.”

Trac nodded. “Well… Yes. It would have been bad enough if her legs had been severed. Plenty of ponies would be too empathetic to go about their business if she had left four stumps on display.”

“You can hardly call what she had stumps,” Ameili shivered. Her eyes dilated as she remembered the sight for herself. “I saw her, you know. Sombra ripped her legs off with telekinesis. He didn’t cut them.”

“Is that why her flanks are covered by her clockworks?” Trac frowned and put a hoof his chin. “I heard those were for structural support.

“No. Those would be for symmetry’s sake. She has a pit where her left hip should be, and half the bone will be gone. I know that for certain. Sombra kept it as a trophy in his throne room. I attempted to return it as my companions had not thought to do this… But no one remembered me. I never got it too her. Bone doesn't last too long, you know. Not without treatment. That is why I dipped myself in silver... I do not recommend you do it. I was screaming for ages.”

Trac felt his stomach churn again. “Um, can we get back to Roam?”

Ameili rolled her eyes, shook her head, and smiled. “You’re a bookworm. I hope you realize this.”

Trac snorted. “I’ve got a book stamped on my flank. But please, I would love to learn more about your homeland! We’ve covered the sewers… Did you practice combat in the form of a sport?”

“We did. My younger brother was a great Gladiator,” Ameili puffed her chest and looked off to the side for a moment. “He won fifty-eight matches out of sixty-five.”

Trac tilted his head. “Wait… How did he lose more than one?”

“Easy. Gladiators never fought to the death. What’s the point in that? It makes for a bad sport if one loss means a fighter will never be seen again. Sport is a story. A champion should be able to reclaim their title after a loss. It's just more entertaining. What's more, a nobody who loses, then turning the tables and winning is a triumph of the spirit.”

Trac bit his lip. “I uh, I suppose that is true.”

Ameili nodded eagerly. “Of course it is! But the Gladiators were not boxers. They were more than martial artists. They were also performance artists. After all, a real battle with theatrics and a storyline behind each match is far more entertaining. It’s like one of your soap operas, only the wimpiest guy in an episode gets the crap beaten out of him at the end!” Ameili rubbed her hooves together as she grinned.

“Uh…” Track stared wide eyed at Ameili, not certain of what to say.

“Let me give you a taste, this is how my little brother started his matches,” Ameili cleared her throat and reared up, adopting a combat stance more appropriate for a comic book barbarian than a real fighter.

“The name, is Ayom! It rhymes, with doom! Annnnd you’re gonna be hurt’n… All… Too… SOOOOON!” She roared, pumping her forehooves up into the sky at the pinnacle of soon.

Ameili dropped back onto all fours as Trac’s jaw went slack as he processed what he had just seen.

“Gladiators... Wrestled? As in, Professional Wrestling wrestled? I thought they fought with armor and weapons in an arena,” Trac stammered staring wide eyed into the space in front of him.

Why? Why must the truth hurt so much?

Ameili snorted and shook her head. “It was nothing like stage-fighting. These were real fights with pre-fight theater. They did fight with real armor and weapons. Elaborate costumes and props, but quite functional for their intended use as protection or offense. All fights were to first blood or surrender. The occasional death happened, of course. Nothing will ever be perfectly safe. As I understand it, your version of boxing has a short fatality list too.”

Oh thank goodness! Trac blushed and looked up at the ceiling, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry… But I pictured your people as loving their bloodsport.”

Ameili snickered. “No. We loved gambling. Fights to the death make for terrible gambling—“ Ameili swept her foreleg like an announcer and deepened her voice— “In this corner, Kill Gore the Bone Eater, winner of twenty straight fights! And in this corner, Chopped Liver, a newcomer to the ring!”

“That makes sense,” Trac’s ears drooped back. “But uh… Still, sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. I’ve read recent-ish history books on my people. I know how little is known and how much of what is “known” is wrong,” Ameili’s eyes grew distant for a moment. “I can’t help you with your paper.”

Trac frowned. “Why n— Oh. Your information doesn't match what is known, and to use your information as a primary source worth a damn—”

“I would need to step forward into the academic community,” Ameili finished.

Ponyfeathers… That throws a wrench into things. Trac slumped in his chair. “Will you—”

Ameili laughed. “I like seeing you invested and happy. I would like to help you in a more practical way through. Not to suggest helping mitigate depression isn’t practical. Perhaps I should have said tangible?”

Trac nodded. “Yes. Tangible is what you want there. Don’t take this the wrong way but I don't see how you could help me more than you do now. Freeing up my mornings is letting me make progress with homework before more piles on.”

“Ah!” Amelia's eyes lit up, a light orange glow coming from within as she flashed Trac an excited smile. “That is where you are wrong. I recall you mentioning you are competing in war games for the winter and your team is hard-pressed to win them.”

Trac frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. Did I tell her that? I can’t remember if I did… I’m normally so tired when I get home. Interacting with them is mostly a social obligation. Wow, that’s pathetic! Ameili’s right. I do need to try to pull myself out of this quagmire.

“I’m not sure I should have told anyone that. The details of the games are classified,” Trac said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I can’t tell you more about them.”

“I don’t wish to know more. You mentioned their classified nature when you told me last week. You complained your new tank’s drive systems, saying they were not a classified detail.”

“Of course not. The military always loves letting our enemies know when we have new bigger toys. The problem is the Bronco is a piece of over-designed junk,” Trac rolled his eyes and slumped down in his chair. “I have no idea what its designers were thinking! It uses an arcane boiler for power generation. That’s fine. So do many older successful tank designs.

“But its drive system isn’t piston powered or galvanic powered. It’s using a turbine of some sort to create mechanical motion. That's right. It’s all geared! The system can jam up easily and needs to be lubricated liberally daily. That adds a whole ten steps to daily maintenance for us. Even worse, it adds a heaping pile of horseapples for the logistics guys to deal with.

“Setting aside the issues we have with lubrication, it is surprisingly delicate. Sure, every tank’s weakness is itself. Yes, the Spitfires diesel engines lacked ponypower. A shell exploding in the ground three steps from the tanks shouldn’t knock a gear loose and cause one of the wheels to lose all power!”

Ameili shook her head slowly. “I know nothing about vehicles. Even I can see that is a major design flaw. There must be some reason these are built as they are.”

Trac sighed and closed his eyes. I think it’s okay to tell her this much. “In theory a geared system would provide the tank more pony power as there would be minimal energy loss. In practice mass production of enchanted items and components is not up to the task to create thousands of gears all to prefect spec with each other. At least not ones which hold enough of a charge to work as part of a several dozen ton war machine.

"I wouldn't put that system in a tank. The only people who would... Are people who want the absolute theoretical best but have no field experience with what they design. It's obvious that Broncos were not designed for Guardsmen. You see, the Bronco’s insides are large enough for Celestia herself to fit in. I think she is worried about core region safety and asked for a tank she could fit in to be commissioned.

“Then she slated it for regular army use. You know, in case she has to lead the Guard herself without being visible to the enemy. So they put every last bleeding edge fancy component they could into the tank, tested or not, simply because Princess Celestia may use any given tank in the future.”

“Why would her being visible be a problem?” Ameili asked tilting her head. “It’s always wonderful to see your king upon the field of battle!”

“She’s a priority target. If she’s seen, the enemy focuses on her. All battle plans have to work around this. If an enemy commander sent a small detachment to flank, while committing the bulk of their forces to distract us, they could obliterate most of a Guard Battalion. The Princess is but one pony. One pony, no matter how powerful, cannot win a war. They can win a battle, but they can’t be everywhere, and they can’t save everything. Wars can be won without ever winning a battle if you’re especially clever and take out the enemy nation’s supports before getting defeated.”

Ameili nodded. “You speak truth. Though anyone who would use such tactics in place of capturing or killing an enemy head of state is a fool in my mind. I see more utility in her being able to take personal command of operations of a clandestine nature. Black ops, or wanting to make an attack look less important than it is.”

“That too,” Trac nodded. “We got here by saying you wanted to help me. I can’t see how you can help me with my work. Unless you want to enlist and help keep the stupid tank from falling apart as we use it.”

“Given a day and a junkyard, I could fix it. I may not know vehicles, but I know clockworks and gears,” Ameili said with a proud smile. “Though I didn’t intend to do such a thing. Instead, I can offer you advice of a tactical and strategic nature. It may help you win your tournament.”

Trac raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” Ameili said.

“How? You admitted to knowing nothing about vehicles.”

“I don’t know vehicles, that is true. But I do know tactics. What’s more, tank warfare isn’t much different from my own mode of combat as an exercitus dux magum.”

“You were a battlefield mage?” Trac asked, his eyes glowing for a moment as he added twenty questions to his list.”

“No. An Army mage. As a— Wait, that’s the same thing. I’m sorry. Yes.” Ameili grinned sheepishly and walked over to her backpack.

She rummaged through it for a few moments before removing an ancient helmet. It had a simple design. A dished skull cap, a flap of plates to protect the neck, and two large hinged plates to protect the sides of the head. The helmet was open-faced and sported a large plumed red crest giving the helmet the look of a mohawk.

Ameili held the helmet out for Trac to see. “Know what this is?”

“A legionnaire’s helmet.” Trac nodded.

Ameili shook her head. “No. It’s a Centurion's helmet. My helmet. You guys have it backward. Legionnaires crests mount transversely, Centurion's crests mount longitudinally. They also come off and are for parade dress only.”

Trac nodded, taking mental note then snickered.

“What?” Ameili raised an eyebrow.

“I like how you struggle with common words but know what longitudinally m—” Trac’s eyes widened. “You were a centurion?! That means you lead centuries, right? How do you know armored warfare tactics? If you think they are the same then maybe you can help!”

“I’ve been reading up on them. Retort was kind enough to check books out for me at the local library. Given that a tank is much like a unicorn in it can move while shooting and can shoot in a different direction than its heading, many basic tactics still apply. What’s more, I have trained many mages in warfare. While our warriors' tactics are as your history books describe, our mages were much more like your tanks. I could teach you a thing or two.”

Trac nodded, then paused, raising a hoof. “But I’m the driver. Not the commander. I don’t dictate where we go and what we do.”

“True, but you do decide how you move there, correct?”

Trac nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then we will begin by teaching you movement tactics, when do you work next?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Then we should get started. I’ll get dressed in case Retort comes home before we are finished with tonight’s lesson.”

Ameili reached for her goggles and put them back over her eyes. A moment later and her respirator was back on, and her suit’s hood once more covering her face.

“You know, you look nice without that on,” Trac commented.

Ameili manifested a flaming eyebrow and raised it. “I thought you were not into mares.”

“I’m not. But I still know if one looks pretty. It’s a shame you need to cover up. We should find a way to let Retort know so you don't have to stuff yourself into that thing.”

“I’ve been dropping hints slowly. I was hoping you two would discover me on your own. That I could force the confrontation and see if our friendship survives. With you on my side, perhaps we can convince Retort. But that is for the future. For now…” Ameili took several steps back and conjured a flat sheet of red flames at the rough height of a tabletop.

The flames warped and stretched, forming a somewhat bumpy field. With a crackle of light several mounds of earth, piles of stone, and a few ruined walls appeared on the field. A second later little blue flaming ponies sprang to life on the field, followed by one ghostly-green pony shape.

“... we learn,” Ameili finished. “The green pony is you. Blue are opponents. Yellow lines will represent attacks. Orange will mark directions of travel. Understand?”

Trac nodded. “Sure. It’s a lot like the battle simulations we sometimes watch.”

“Good. While I speak, this image will move to illustrate my point. I recommend paying attention to it as seeing is believing. Rule number one, never move at less than full speed.”

“What?” Trac asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Never move in battle at less than full speed,” Ameili’s horn pulsed, setting her figures into motion. “In the attack run— Er, drive as fast as you can. At slow speed, you can see and shoot only a little better than at high speed. But you are much more likely to be hit when moving slowly. In battle, there should be only two speeds: Half speed over difficult terrain, and all-out forward at all other times. This is the basic principle of arcane combat.”

“But what about taking cover? Tanks can take cover,” Trac said tilting his head.

“Cover is a good strategy, but in battle, you must advance and control the enemy's movement. You will use cover when your enemy is able to control your movement and force you to stop. In a defense or security mission, you want to remain moving. Motion is the best armor.

“When you must use cover, defend aggressively. Force the enemy to stay put or fall back. The longer you sit in one place the sooner someone will bombard your position. In modern warfare they don’t need a wizard for that, I have seen mortars and rockets. This advice is more for a gunner than a driver. Let us move on.”

The fiery illustration progressed. The blue ponies fired spellbolt after spellbolt at the green pony, who ran full tilt in a loose zigzag as it returned fire. Most bolts missed the green pony who scored a few hits. The illustration looped, with the green pony moving more slowly from cover to cover.

As the pony sought cover, the blue ponies began to shoot for the green pony’s next destination. Their shots were able to find their target more often as the ponies could tell where their target would go next.

“Okay,” Trac nodded. “I’m listening.”

Even if these don't work, at least I’m learning ancient Romane mage tactics!

“Staying alive is never as simple as running full tilt. How you run is important. We will start with how to present your narrowest profile to the enemy while maintaining a randomized course towards your objective.”

Tractor Pull - 25th of Snowfall, 08 EoH[/mono

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader’s hull trembled as a series of six shells detonated six meters to its left. Plumes of dirt and rock flew skywards as the magic shells sensed they hit only soil and exploded. Had they hit the tank they would have disabled it for a short time and painted the hull a shameful opaque couché. The ugliest color in the world.

A pack of six tanks on an unofficial team had chased them into a clearing containing a mock-farm.

Bunker rotated her seat, peering out from behind the rocky ditch via the periscope. She had ordered them to take cover in the ditch. There had been nowhere else to go.

“It doesn't look good, boys,” she sighed. “I can see three of them, no sign of the other three.”

Another six shells rocked the ground. A sharp ping rang through the cabin as a sensitive drive component popped out of alignment.

“If you can see them, maybe I can hit them,” Thunder said as he rotated crusader’s turret clockwise, searching for their attackers.

“She can see three. If you take them out there is still another three,” Trac groaned, leaning against the controls.

I feel so helpless… And stupid. If only I told Bunker that by refusing to team up with this pack at the start of this bracket they would hunt us down. Ugh, why didn’t we think this through? Of course, most people will play dirty and form temporary truces. Tanks live or die on their squadron’s performance. We’re not meant to work alone.

“Yes, but if we fail to get two more kills this match we’re going to be bumped down a bracket. We won't recover from that. The prize will be out of our reach.” Thunder shouted over the crack-crack-crack of the next volley being fired.

The shells hit the ground. Rocks pinged off Crusader's hull as a shower of gravel flew skywards.

“If we stay here they will shake us to pieces. If we move for a clear shot against everyone we’re a sitting duck!” Bunker slammed her hooves against her legs in anger. “Buck! This is it. We’re beaten. It’s attrition and cowardice or a noble last stand. You know what I am for, but I’ll put it to a vote.”

We wouldn’t be here if we had chosen to run for the tree line instead of this ditch. If we stayed mobile the chance of being hit by their barrage would have been low. We were at their extreme range.

Wait a minute… Ameili’s advice!

Thunder took a deep breath and straightened his helmet. “I want to take one last shot. What about you, Trac? It’s two to one, but—”

Trac turned his seat around to look up into the turret at his squad mates.“If we’re going out there, may I take the lead?”

Bunker tilted her head, then covered it with her hooves as a shell exploded a bit too close for comfort. “BUCK! Might as well. We’re dead mares walking. What’s our plan?”

They trust me instantly? Trac’s eyes widened. His heart swelled in his chest. I’ve never asked anything like this before. Do they respect me? Am I their friend? Sisters, how much of an ass have I been to them?

Trac cleared his throat. “Tanks are a lot like unicorns. They can move one direction while shooting another. I’ve got a friend who pointed that out to me. She’s been tutoring me in battlemage tactics since the basics can apply to armored warfare.

“If we can find where the other three are, I can theoretically move us into a firing position while keeping a minimal profile towards the enemy. If we do that, drive in a randomized zigzagging path at top speed, and shoot the entire way, the odds of us getting hit are minimized. We will only sacrifice minimal accuracy.”

Bunker frowned and looked down at Thunder. “Can you keep a straight shot with us zigza—”

Three shells whistled loudly as they plunged down to punch deep craters into the ground. The whistling was unmistakable. The shells had rained down from above.

“— Buck me in the ear! They’ve found a way to get these things to do indirect fire!” Bunker yelped her eyes widening.

“They must be on the far side of the hill to the northeast! Nowhere else will give them the elevation to pull this off.” Trac swiveled back to face the controls and threw Crusader into top gear. “I know where to go! Thunder, get ready to fire.”

Thunder smiled and shook his head. “So many positive waves. Maybe we can’t lose,” he chuckled.

“Hit it!” Bunker cried.

Trac yanked the control levers towards him. Loose gears protested with a violent screech. Crusader lurched backward just in time. The next volley of shells blasted a crater half as deep as the tank which had been there not half a second ago.

Trac counted to six then threw the left lever forwards. Crusader spun in place, whipping around to face the three Broncos Bunker had sighted. He kept rotating another few degrees then slammed the other lever forwards. Gears crunched. Crusader trembled. The turbine screamed a metallic warning. The tank launched forwards despite its mechanical injuries.

Okay… Random vectors on one trajectory. You can do this!

Trac pulled the left stick towards him for a half second before shoving it forwards. Crusader turned, its hull groaning under the strain of the quick rotation at top speed. The enemy broncos fired, their three shells whistling by.

Three seconds till they fire again. The other three will move when they radio in we’re on the move.

Trac kept moving for two seconds then pulled the right lever for just a moment, then the left. Trac finagled into position, making Crusader trundle along at three-quarters its full capacity. I know she said full speed always but—

The Broncos fired. Their shots went wide, passing along were Crusader would have been if they had continued at full speed.

— modern warfare demands you train troops to lead shots!

Thunder laughed as the shots went wide and turned the turret to bear on the leftmost enemy tank. His hooves squeezed the trigger. Crusader roared, belching forth a column of fire as it trembled under the might of its own cannon. The shot connected.

A flash of bright pink light illuminated the enemy tank. The shell’s specialized magic penetrated the tank's training-level wards, switching it off. A ripple of tar brown filthiness washed over the tank. Its crew would have to repaint it in regimental colors by sunrise tomorrow.

Trac pulled both levers backward. Crusader moaned as it went from full speed ahead to full reverse. The remaining two tanks fired. Twin geysers of earth erupted from the ground centimeters ahead of Crusader’s left track.

Thunder rotated the turret and fired. Another hit.

The remaining tank rumbled as its engine kicked into high gear as well. The driver pulled ahead, turning left to make a break for the treeline.

“Holy Sisters, we can do this!” Bunker’s eyes twinkled as she grinned devilishly. “After him, Trac!”

“No can do!” Trac grit his teeth and rotated Crusader to the right.

“Buck! I had a shot, Trac!” Thunder pulled his joystick to the left, tracking the turret around to take his next shot.

Trac ignored his comrades and threw Crusader into full speed again. Thunder fired his shot grazing the enemy bronco’s hull. In a real fight, the hit would have bounced off. In practice, the flash of pink was seen for the third time.

Bunker swiveled her periscope to see why her driver had disobeyed orders. Her eyes widened as she saw the other three tanks crawling around the farmhouse into firing position.

“Celestia! Thunder, point the gun ahead!”

“Point it to one thirty-five degrees!” Trac grunted as he spun Crusader again, veering off to the right.

“Screw it, we gave him command. Do what he says.”

Thunder nodded and rotated the turret into position. His eyes widened as he saw the assembled firing line they were rushing towards via the sights, then narrowed as the window passed. “I had a shot!”

“Hold on! We need twelve seconds for three shots,” Trac said as he twisted the levers once more.

“The hay we do!” Thunder smirked and leaned forwards shifting his grip on the firing controls.

The three enemies fired a loose volley. Three loud booms one after another. A shell whistled over Crusader, detonating against a tree behind them. The other two went wide, blasting more craters into the field.

I’m so glad I’m not the earth ponies paid to make the field nice and level after each game. Trac thought as he pulled the right lever back completely.

Crusader began to rotate. The enemy Broncos fired, aiming for where it would be in but a moment. Trac yanked the other lever back, throwing the tank into reverse.

The damaged machine did not like this.

A sharp crack echoed deafeningly through the cabin as one of Crusader’s drivelines snapped. The tank shuddered. Its treads locked up for a moment, sending the tank sliding across the muddy ground parallel to its point of aim.

“HOLY SHIT! We’re drifting a tank!” Bunker exclaimed wide-eyed.

Trac’s ears stood up in alarm as he frantically switched the tank’s systems to the secondary drive train. Let’s let them think I meant to do that…

Thunder bellowed a wordless war cry and squeezed Crusader’s secondary trigger. The flack cannon’s opened up with a deafening howl of machines, fire, and hot mana. The sliding tank moved parallel to the enemy’s firing line, peppering them with dozens of flack rounds.

Pink light flashed and sparkled amid black clouds of smoke and ash, painting a line across the enemy. The flack shells would have done little more than blind the enemy in a real battle, but here, a hit was a hit.

Crusader slid to a halt just at Trac enabled the secondary drive. It didn’t matter. The abused turbine sputtered and died. Trac swore under his breath as his control panel lit up with a dozen different cooling warnings.

“Drive’s offline. Multiple overheats. I’ll get us moving again ASAP!” He said as he jumped out of his seat and picked up the toolbox he kept beneath it.

“WOOO!” Bunker cried throwing her hooves up in the air, a huge grin plastered on her face. “Why the hay didn’t you find a tutor sooner, Trac? That was the best driving I’ve ever seen from you!”

Thunder nodded in agreement. “That was better than any other soldier in the battalion. A Princess couldn’t have done better!”

Trac blushed a bright red. “W-well I don’t know about that. I didn’t even mean to drift there. I was going to spin across them.”

Bunker shook her head, still smiling. “Dude, who cares! That worked out great. I’ll have to update my strategies now that I know you can drive like that.”

Crusader’s radio crackled, interrupting their conversation as Captain Cream Coat made an announcement. “Today’s match is over. Scryers report the last tank standing is Unit Thirty-Seven, Crusader. Well done. All disabled tanks are now enabled. All units return to the FOB for debriefing.”

Thunder’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “We were in the last seven?!”

“You mean we won this match?!” Trac shook his head in disbelief.

Bunker cleared her throat, straightened her jacket, and popped open Crusader’s turret hatch.

“Trac, take us around the field for a victory lap. I’m going to sit on top and be all smug about this,” she said, grinning as she unbuckled and stood up, resting her forelegs on the hatch’s rim.

“Yes, ma’am. But it will be ten minutes till I can get the turbine spinning again. It's probably scraping the wall.” Trac grinned sheepishly.

Bunker laughed and shook her head. “Thunder, help him. I’ll pop the outer panels and make sure nothing critical broke. It would be a shame if we won this only to have to be towed out of here.”

Crusader, at last, came to rest at the FOB three hours later, towed into a repair stall behind three Spitfires. Its crew road proud atop the turret, pride stamped on their faces. Yes, they had to be towed in, but they had won fair and square, in a tank which was broken before their stunt even began. Everypony in the Battalion knew that now.

The trip back had taken so long their debriefing had been done over the radio. Whispered rumors were already circulating. The leading theory being Unit 37 had been issued experimental magic to test during the war games. How else had a nearly failing crew suddenly jumped up two places in the ratings by pulling off a stunt which should have been impossible?

Trac smiled proudly as Bunker and Thunder gave him a shoulder bump before jumping down to the ground. If I didn’t belong before, I do now.

Two days of tips and demonstrations from Ameili and a bit of real happiness let me do this. I wonder what a month can do? If I can keep this up we may win this thing after all. Thanks, Ameili. I owe you big time.

Trac frowned. I wonder what undead like to do for fun… I can’t exactly take her to a nice dinner. Ah well, I’ll figure something out.

Thunder looked up at Trac and frowned as well. “What are you frowning for, hero?”

Trac blinked and looked down. “Hero?”

“You saved the day,” Thunder replied with a smile and wink. “That makes you the hero.”

Trac laughed and hopped off Crusader. “I’m just trying to think how to repay Ameili for the help. She’s got more to teach me too.”

Thunder blushed lightly and only for a moment. “Uh, well… Maybe I can help you with that? I’m off this coming Moonsday. How about I come over in the evening, we have dinner, my treat, and we can talk about things?” He said, shuffling his hooves nervously.

“It would need to be late, probably night. Sometime around ten. I commute by rail to school, the train doesn't get in till then,” Trac replied with a shrug. “It might be nice though. A good break from the routine.”

Thunder looked up at Trac and nodded. “West Bloomfield Train Station at ten pm on Monday. I’ll see you then. Later!”

“Later!” Trac called after him before turning to walk towards the base’s entrance.

I think that’s the first time anyone other than Retort wanted to hang out with me in years. Can one mare really change a guy so much so quickly?

Thunder Charge - 25th of Snowfall, 08 EoH[/mono

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Thunder trotted briskly away from Crusader, moving as quickly as he could into the crowd of soldiers and engineers which were gathered around several tanks which required serious repair. A few Broncos had been damaged far beyond what Crusader had endured, much to the engineer's displeasure.

"Celestia's teats! Oakleaf, look at this drive sprocket."

"Did they sheer every tooth off the drive gear? For the love of... Why isn't this a worm gear?!"

"Buck if I know... Oh! Oh— We need to remove the whole thing. Look at this, the drive shaft friction-welded to the transmission!"

"How are these things expected to handle battlefield conditions? These have to be prototype models. This can't be a finished design. These are the opposite of soldier proof!"

To be fair, even we know these things are a piece of junk. Thunder sighed.

The moment he entered the crowd he broke out into a run, heading for the barracks.

Bunker never goes anywhere but the barracks after a shift. She’ll be there. I need to talk to here. What the buck did I just do?!

The short pegasus ran the quarter mile to the Hold’s barracks, forgetting in his panic that he had wings and could have flown instead. The moment he walked through the armored doors he doubled his speed, bolting up the staircase to the third floor, ignoring his comrades lewd remarks.

“Looks like somepony’s getting lucky tonight!”

“What’s the rush, short stack? Everypony knows short stallions only last ten seconds!”

Thunder reached his floor and rand to room six-thirteen. The room he shared with Bunker. An unusual arrangement due to their sexes, but one the Hold had to make for space reasons. Even with two soldiers sharing a single one-room ‘apartment’ with communal bathrooms and kitchens for the entire floor located elsewhere, space was at a premium in most borderland fortresses.

Living in such close proximity wasn’t something most people could handle. Bunker and Thunder could, primarily because they went back even before the military. Though even for them living in a single room on a base which banned room dividers (fire hazard reasons) was a challenge.

Thunder threw the door open, stepped inside and slammed it shut, leaning back against it wide eyed, chest heaving, and hooves shaking.

In front of Thunder sat a small room. It contained a couch with a fold out bed, a nightstand, one regular bed, a bookcase, a radio, and a mage’s mirror. Two footlockers beneath the bed held the entirety of their belongings.

With a such a small space, it was impossible for Bunker to miss her friend barging into the room even with her headphones on and music turned up to block out the sounds of the elevator behind the wall to her left and her full attention on a honey and oats flavored snack bar.

Bunker sat bolt upright on the couch and ripped off her headphones, her snack bar dropping to the floor. “What’s wrong?! Some mare try to pin you down in the showers again? Wait, there hasn’t been enough time for—”

“HELP-I-ASKED-HIM-OUT!” Thunder yelped, his eyes staring directly into Bunker’s own.

“Huh?” Bunker tilted her head.

“Trac! I asked him out! I don’t know what to do. HELP ME!” Thunder wined, slumping down onto his butt, back still against the door.

Bunker rolled her eyes and retrieved her snack bar. “Finally. You’ve been calling him cute behind his back for years. Besides, he seems to be out of that emo phase. About time if you ask me.”

That was the one thing keeping me from doing anything more with him that just having a crush... What do I do if he was only having some sort of amazing day? I should have waited to see if this was a permanent change! I really bucked up, what do I do now?

Thunder raised a hoof. “But—”

“Thunder, you’ve been on dozens of dates. This one is no different. Except you’ve got a crush on the guy. Just be yourself.” Bunker’s lips pulled into a grin as she shook her head and resumed munching on her snack bar.

“But I don’t know if he’s into guys… Or… you know... geldings,” Thunder whimpered, his ears drooping.

Most stallions treat us like mares… Even if we’re cancer survivors. If that’s how he is, it will crush me.

“Did he agree to go out?” Bunker sighed.

“I asked him to dinner and he said yes!” Thunder said, smiling despite his anxiety.

“Then he likes guys. You’re fine.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head in Thunder’s direction.

“But most stallions expect ponies like me to be, well, bottoms. I’m not…” Thunder explained, tapping his hooves together.

Bunker closed her eyes. “You gonna screw on the first date?”

Thunder’s ears flicked. “No! That’s cheap and trashy.”

“Cool! It doesn't matter what he thinks of guys like you because he’ll have time to develop feelings. All you need to tell him is the truth, ‘I was fourteen and got testicular cancer, I’m not one of those really weird dudes you may have run into in larger cities.’ Now shut up with this girly talk so I can enjoy my snack and ride out this victory high!” Bunker reached for a wooden cigar box on the end table next to her, and lit it with a spark of magic.

She took a deep drag on her thick cigar, exhaling a ring of smoke. “Smell that, Thunder?”

Thunder grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

I wish she wouldn't smoke in our room. Or that the Commander would implement a no smoking policy. Or I could find a wizard willing to curse her so all her smokeables explode.

“That’s the smell of improbable victory. Today’s a good day. Things went our way despite them wanting to go the opposite. You do this every time you go out with someone new. Maybe this time is different for you. Just remember, today is the day we kicked probability in the dick! You’ll be fine.”

Thunder’s ears perked up. You know what, she’s right. If Trac can finally smile a bit and be as cool as he is cute I can be hopeful enough to just go on a normal date with him.

Thunder squirmed as the pungent smoke began to fill the room, pushing clean air. “Thanks, Bunker. I needed that… Can you smoke outside?”

“Can you fap outside? It would be about as embarrassing. Mare’s aren't supposed to like cigars. Much less the Commander’s brand,” Bunker grunted irritably.

Thunder blushed a bright red and slowly turned to open the door. “Uhhh… No… Base regulations… Hygiene… I’m going to get dinner!” It’s amazing how she can create awkward situations to avoid social issues… I wish I could do that.

“Bring me back some hayfries!” Bunker called as Thunder slipped out of the door.

7 - An 80's Montage Fixes Everything.

Author's Note

Hello everyone! I will be rewriting this story once it is completed to sell it as original fiction. As such I would vastly appreciate your thoughts on the story as it develops in the comments below. Most of you know my financial situation, and I really want this to be able to sell once it's transformed from ponyfic to original fic. Thank you.

If you want to contribute to getting this published one day you can help me save for publishing costs via PayPal donations, or by becoming my Patreon on Patreon.

7 - An 80's Montage Fixes Everything.

Heated Retort - 2nd of Midwinter, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield Sheriff's Office - Equestria

Ageing wooden floors creaked as Retort stepped into Sheriff Justice’s office. The dim light of a single lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered room. Retort’s eyes did their best to make out the office’s details and failed. To him, it was a dim mass of filing cabinets, framed photos, a desk, and two chairs.

The eyes of Sheriff Hard Justice had no trouble piercing the dim veil. This was his office, the light was turned to his personal level of comfort. The imposing and mysterious atmosphere it afforded him was a pleasant bonus.

Retort cleared his throat and knocked on the open office door. “Sir? I’ve finished the case report. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather have someone else do it? The suspect lives with me, there’s a conflict of interest.”

The sound of leathery wings sliding across a creaking chair filled the room as Hard Justice turned around. His bright orange eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, holding a fatherly warmth as they looked into Retort’s soul.

“I trust you, deputy. That trust has never once been abused. All other deputies have full caseloads this week. You and I both know everyone hates it when you make them trade a case with another.”

“I still believe someone else should have handled this, sir,” Retort set the file on the Sheriff's desk. “Do you want a verbal report?”

“I would appreciate of a quick summarization of your investigation. There is a lot of paperwork for me to read by the end of the day.” The Sheriff inclined his head towards a box of file folders behind him.

Retort nodded. “I proceeded to Silly Beetle’s hardware as instructed. Missing items equated to approximately one-eighth of all materials on display within the storefront. Excluding lumber which went untouched. The estimated value of the missing goods is seventeen thousand bits, which would have retailed for thirty-three thousand bits. Um, approximately. The full number is in the report.

“No property had been damaged during the theft which occurred during the first fifty minutes the store was open. The sole employee on duty at the time was the morning shift manager, Sweet Stuff. Her account is highly suspect due to her having been under the influence at the time of the robbery. Forensics show she was on a mixture of LSD, Ecstasy, and Alcohol.

“However, her description of the perpetrator as an “alien robot” brought to mind my roommate—”

Hard Justice raised an eyebrow. “Your roommate?”

“Yes, sir,” Retort chuckled and shook his head. “She’s a foreigner visiting Equestria on a travel and medical visa. Ameili has some sort of condition which necessitates she lives inside a bio-suit. Furthermore, her vocal cords have necrosed necessitating her speaking with the aid of a galvanic voice box. She keeps her face covered at all times to prevent you from having to look at her. She looks and sounds like something you might see in a science fiction film or play.

“I doubt there are any other people who look like an “alien robot” in town, and there were no other leads. I would have called it a cold case due to insufficient evidence, if I hadn’t remembered I told Ameili we had a hardware store in town. She was extremely excited about it, leaving the house to camp out overnight at the store.”

“Did you fine her for loitering?” Hard Justice folded his hooves in his lap.

Retort shook his head firmly. “No, sir. Statute Seven-Forty-One-B Section Two of the Civil Code allows citizens to wait in front of public offices and stores for as long as needed if they are there to perform business of some kind.”

The Sheriff smiled, his fangs glittering even in the low light. “That's why I trust you, Retort. Unlike most of my Deputies, you remember even the most obscure laws on the book. I trust you also know there’s no law against me assigning any given deputy to any given case. I know the conflict will not have impacted your judgment.”

Retort cleared his throat. “Uh, I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when I confronted Ameili she had assembled a large prefabricated shed on my property. She intends it to serve as a workshop, and it's storing everything she took. This made me more than a little angry. I was determined to book her for it.”

“Is she in custody?”

Retort sighed and looked down at the floor for a moment. “No, sir… I used a truth charm on her. As it turns out, Sweet Stuff told her she could, and I quote, “Come on in. Just take whatever you want. It’s on the house.” It is against company policy for Silly Beetle employees, managers or otherwise, to authorize discounts on merchandise. But Ameili committed no crime in taking what she wanted as she is protected under the court ruling resulting from Rarity Belle verses Flim-Flam Co. Wherein the courts ruled that if any customer is told they may take an item or items from a store as gifts, or otherwise are informed they do not need to pay, are protected from legal action. Any damages must be covered by the company or its insurers. This includes foreigners and other non-citizens. The ruling defines customers as quote, “anyone within the store who might make a purchase”.”

“In other words, no crime was committed other than public intoxication on the part of Sweet Stuff.” The Sheriff smirked and leaned back in his chair. “Is Sweet Stuff in custody?”

“No, sir. That offense is punishable only by a fine. I wrote up an appropriate fine for a first-time offense of seven hundred and twenty bits.”

“Retort, you just might be my best deputy. You've served ten years on the force without any major incidents. And yet you’re still worried about a conflict of interest even when you know the law better than everyone save me.”

Retort blushed lightly and scratched the back of his head. “Well, it’s not too hard. I’ve memorized thousands of recipes. Laws aren't that different. You just need to read the books slowly.”

“It’s more than that, Retort. You wanted to bring someone in who had angered you personally. You could have booked her for theft, but you didn’t. We both know some of your colleagues would have been unaware of that ruling, and several of them would have ignored it to make the arrest. Not you. Though you could force her to move if you’re still upset.”

Retort shook his head. “No, sir. I’m over it. I can simply tear the shed down in the spring and hope it didn’t ruin my garden’s soil over the winter. Ameili won’t be alive for much longer.”

The Sheriff nodded and took the case file from his desktop, tucking it away in one of his desks’ drawers. “A pity. I hear she’s an excellent Pyromancer.”

Retort frowned. “You know her?”

“Of course. You got her a job with the fire department. The Chief and I are friends by necessity. He would have told me about her even if I didn’t have to authorize her work papers and check her ID. At any rate, I believe you have a beat to walk. That will be all, Deputy.”

Retort paused, memories of Ameili’s twisting mask entering his mind. “She… She has an ID?”

The Sheriff nodded. “Yes. It’s foreign, not from a country I recognized, but did I find it in the reference manual. Why do you ask?”

“Where is she from?”

“Why don’t you ask her? It’s not my place to give out private information.”

Retort frowned for a moment then sighed. “Sir, please. She avoids talking about her personal past. I have reason to suspect she’s not who she claims to be. Nothing critical yet, but… Parts of her story don’t add up.”

The Sheriff paused, resting his hooves on his desk while he stared into Retort’s eyes for several long moments. “Is it a similar hunch to the one which led you to that Changeling scouting party a few years back?”

Retort nodded. “It is.”

“In that case, strictly off the books, Miss Cyprianas is registered as an honorary citizen of Phoenix. I’m not at all familiar with it, but they are recognized by the Crown as a trade partner of Zebrica. There has been some preliminary diplomacy. I can’t tell you anything other than we have their ID’s validation protocols, because that’s all we have. Her ID was valid.”

Retort raised an eyebrow. “What’s an honorary citizen?”

“It means she wasn’t born there, nor holds residence there.”

“Then how can she be counted as a citizen?” Retort asked, his face twisting into a confused frown.

“I don’t know. As far as I know, only the diplomats involved with initiating contact would have an idea. Honorary Citizen is a valid class of citizen for a nation we recognize. We can confirm your friend has the legal protections of a nation we do not yet know.”

Retort bit his lip in thought then nodded once. “Sir? Would it be possible to get some documentation on her? Find out where she’s been over the last few years? Ameili claims she’s been traveling Equestria for the last few years. On hoof, not via train. But there must be a paper trail. You don’t walk around in a bio-suit and get overlooked.”

“Do you think she might be a spy?” The Sheriff asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s possible, sir, though that wasn’t what I was thinking. I want to know if she is actually ill. She doesn't appear impaired by her condition in the slightest, and I suspect she isn’t eating anything at home. I’ve also seen her mask move, and she claims to be missing most of her facial tissue... I’m thinking she might be some sort of con artist.”

The Sheriff nodded and sat up straight in his chair. “Your last hunch saved lives. I’ll put a file together for you. But remember, good police work is about evidence, not hunches. Don’t rock the boat at home unless you have that evidence, Retort. Especially since it may take a few months to get the papers together. I’ll need to make calls to every sheriff's office and police department in Equestria. You may not see any evidence in her history until the end of winter.”

Retort nodded. “I understand, sir. And I’m only suspicious, not certain. I— I don’t like suspicious people.”

“I’m not going to fault you for it. Not every deputy goes through what you did. Fewer still survive. But remember, if she is a con artist, keeping her in sight until you have your case is the best approach. You can’t arrest someone you can’t find. Furthermore, you are just a hair paranoid, Retort. You could be chasing ghosts.”

Retort snorted and shook his head. “I understand, sir.”

“Then why the snort?”

“Well, it’s the expression. ‘Chasing Ghosts’. We still use that one even though ghost hunting has been an actual profession for the last seventy years. I have an uncle who banishes ghosts for a living. It always makes me laugh when someone says “you’re chasing real things that are not real.”

Hard Justice smiled and shrugged. “Language is an elegantly clumsy tool. You understand what I meant, right?”

Retort nodded. “I do, sir. I won't treat Ameili any differently without evidence. All I want to do is confirm I can trust her without using a truth charm without authorization.”

I used one on her without authorization once already, but that was an emergency. I needed to be certain she wasn’t an axe murderer. This is a nagging feeling. Besides, they can always refuse to answer the question when you use one. There are many ways to fool lie detectors.

“Excellent. Now, attend to your duties.” The Sheriff turned his chair around, returning to the case file he had been reading when Retort walked in. “As I recall, there is a young mare in a bagel shop near the end of your route waiting for you.”

Retort blushed a bright red. “Uh, y— yes sir!”

Retort turned and walked out of the office, his thoughts turning away from his pending date with Dewdrop to how in the world his boss had found out about it.

Tractor Pull - 6th of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader rolled to a stop behind the barn. The tank was hardly concealed by the set-piece. Several shells had blasted holes through the thin plywood walls during the battle. That mattered little, for Crusader had not stopped by choice.

Trac swore as he saw a yellow light blinking on the dash. “Overheat! Boiler Overheat! The drive shaft locked up!”

Bunker slammed her clockwork leg into the side of the hull. “BUCK! Thunder, power down the autoloaders, switch to manual.”

“Roger!” Thunder went to work immediately.

Steam hissed as he pulled the manual disconnect lever. A hundred gears ground to a halt and pistons creaked as pressure released.

“Done!” Thunder growled. “We have one shell and fifty flack till reload.”

“How’s our heat, Trac?” Bunker asked as she began to switch off every non-essential device in the commander’s pod.

Crusader chuffed faintly as the arcane devices powered down. The boiler pinged and creaked, its fuel crystal sighing with relief.

“This is my fault,” Trac moaned as he watched the heat gauge drop. “If I didn’t push Crusader so hard we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“We wouldn’t be ranked third place either,” Bunker laughed. “These things are a piece of shit. It’s not you, Trac. It’s the machinery.”

“Incoming!” Thunder cried as he looked down the sights. “Two hostiles. They are dueling. We have a shot!”

Bunker stood up, gripping the Commander’s hatch with her hooves. “I’ll take one on with the bolter.”

The hatch creaked open, Bunker stepped into the hoof-holds as she mounted the heavy bolter. The two enemy tanks raced towards them, spiraling towards one another in a deadly duel. Crusader’s turret began to swivel as Thunder took aim at the tank currently towards their left.

Bunker reached past the gun’s ammo-box, over the belt of bodkin bolts, and pulled back the charging handle. The arcane weapon hummed as manna ran through its intricate systems, creating an immaterial bow near the muzzle.

Crusader jerked to the left as Thunder fired the main gun. A cloud of black smoke obscured Bunker’s vision. Her hooves tripped the bolter’s trigger. The cloud cleared. The enemy tank was in sight. She squeezed the trigger, and a burst of heavy crossbow bolts launched forth, propelled by the magical bow.

Her shot went wide, streaking past the other tank’s turret. A turret from which their commander was also operating their bolter. A turret from which tier commander noticed Crusader firing on them.

“Thunder, get another shell in there!” Trac cried, watching through the driver’s periscope.

“The loader didn’t disengage properly, the whole gun is jammed!” Thunder punched the breach and yelped as the hot metal singed his foreleg. “Aaah!”

The enemy's turret continued rotating. Their barrel dipped down, getting ready to fire on Crusader’s position.

Bunker cursed and pulled the trigger again. Another five bolts flew silently towards their target. The volley connected, striking the side of the tank. Sparks flew, the bolts bounced off the hardened steel, leaving behind only scratches in the paint.

“The bolts aren't target-rounds?! HORSEAPPLES!” Bunker slammed her hooves against the turret.

Trac closed his eyes to hold in his anger.

The enemy tank fired. Crusader shook violently as the shell slammed into its hull. The fight was over. Crusader dropped to sixth place.

Tractor Pull - 7th of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Trac trudged through the snow towards his log home, each step causing his duffle bag to swing and smack him in the side.

“Stupid tank,” he growled through clenched teeth. “It can’t even run at top speed for five minutes before starting to overheat. How did the engineers not see this?!”

Bunker had made a few back-of-the-envelope calculations. Crusader needed one-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty kilo-horns of power to run at full speed with all systems on for more than a few minutes. After four matches Trac had worked out exactly how much power the boiler’s crystal could produce before overheating. Nine-hundred-and-thirty kilo-horns.

“It’s like the stupid thing has asthma,” Track grumbled as he rounded the trail’s final bend.

A large prefabricated shed sat in the front yard some ways away from the log house. Trac blinked. The structure didn’t vanish. Trac groaned, resting his face against his hoof for a moment.

I’m so pissed I forgot she got that shed. He sighed and did his best to push his anger aside. Ameili must have some idea of what we can do about this.

Trac increased his pace, heading for the front door. As he drew near the shed he saw its door was open slightly, and the yellow-orange light of flames danced within. The pungent smell of burning wood and oil wafted faintly from the open door.

The fur on the back of his neck stood up. Trac broke out into a run, crossing the remaining yard in a heartbeat. He threw the door open, expecting to see the impromptu workshop in flames.

Fasteners, pipes, and raw materials occupied most of the space in the shed. A small workshop including a forge, an anvil, and a tool covered workbench had been set up in the corner near the door.

“Close the door please,” Ameili said, not looking up from the lit forge she was carefully tending.

Trac’s eyes fell upon the large brick forge and the burning wood, coal, and oil within it. The heat radiating off the forge hit Trac like a wall. The heat teamed up with his thick coat to make him immediately begin to sweat buckets.

“Oh thank Celestia! I thought your shop was on fire.” Trac smiled at Ameili and started to close the door.

Then he hesitated. Trac stepped into the workshop, closing the door behind him. He slipped out of his coat and set it atop one of the many piles of random hardware.

With his coat off the heat became almost bearable. Fortunately, almost bearable was enough for Trac to stay for a little while.

Trac crossed the short amount of bare floor to join Ameili at her forge. “What are you up too?”

Ameili turned slightly, glancing at Trac out of the corner of her eye. “Oh! Trac. Hello. This is precision work. I can’t talk yet.”

Trac nodded and took a step back to stand next to the shop’s workbench. His butt hit something, and that something fell, taking many more things with it. Ameili didn't even flinch as brass, wood, and electronics clattered to the floor in a mini-avalanche.

“Sorry!” Trac yelped, looking down to see what he had knocked over.

The floor was now covered with a small fortune in smoke detectors. Or rather, halves of smoke detectors.

Track looked back up at Ameili. “Uh… Why all the smoke detectors?”

“Palladium. Needed one point five grams,” Ameili murmured, continuing to stare into the heart of the forge. “Shh!”

Trac nodded and began to gather the fallen detectors up, arranging them back into a pile roughly where they had been before. By the time he had cleared most of the floor, Ameili nodded to herself.

“There we go,” she said calmly.

Ameili’s horn shimmered as she carefully levitated a small crucible out of the forge. That Crucible was her entire world as Ameili turned to her left, facing her workbench. A small blue crystal carved into the shape of a heart awaited her.

The heart had silver plates attached to it via a small frame. Each plate at first appeared to have been scratched up by a belt sander. In truth, they were carved with thousands upon thousands of tiny runes. Only a mage’s telekinesis could produce such fine detail.

Trac watched as Ameili slowly moved the crucible over the crystal and tipped it over. White-hot metal oozed from the stone vessel, dripping down into the dip between the heart’s two halves. The metal flowed into a channel carefully carved into the crystal itself. White hot-lines spread out through the crystal, creating a pattern much akin to blood vessels.

“What are you making?” Track asked as Ameili set the now empty crucible back into the forge.

“A heart. It’s been a millennium since I had one. They are crucial to spell casting. Fortunately, a golem's heart can perform the functions I need. This is my third attempt. I only know how to repair war golems. Creating them was considered a waste of a battle mage.”

Trac tilted his head. “Sure, they are critical, but... You’ve been managing just fine without a heart. Haven’t you?”

Ameili watched the hot metal as it began to cool, fading to orange. “The basics. A little fun with natural fire or Vulcan. Cheap tricks. That I can manage without a heart. You got me thinking. Not right away but over the last week. I need to have my full power at my disposal.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “What did I make you think about.”

“Griffons. They hunt here. Your army failed to protect everyone. Your citizens failed to protect themselves. If it happens again, I need to be able to help. So I decided to make a heart.”

Trac nodded slowly. “That’s a good reason to make something. There’s one problem with it though.”

Ameili tilted her head. “What’s that?”

Trac nodded at the crystal. “Who's going to enchant it for you?”

Ameili conjured a fiery smile and winked at Trac. “I already did. Modern pyromancy is exclusively about controlling material fire. We focused on the spiritual aspects as well. Have you ever heard the phrase “the fire within”? I can influence that as well. Though I am limited in what I can do there. I lean towards the physical aspects of fire. But I can stoke the flames within my heart.”

As she finished talking, the molten Palladium solidified. The cherry red glow seemed to dim as the crystal began to shine with its own bright cyan light. The silver plates began to bleed white light from their runes. Within mere moments the shop was light by bright white light.

Ameili smiled behind her mask. “There we go! It didn't crack in two. That means it's good to go. I think.”

“Damn!” Trac whistled, squinting in the bright light. “How many horns is that putting off?”

“If my math is right…” Ameili paused and tapped a hoof to her chin. “About six thousand kilo-horns.”

Trac’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?! My tank doesn't even draw that much! There’s no way a unicorn needs that much power behind their spells! The frigging unit is named for how much power one average mage can produce—”

Ameili laughed and set a hoof on Trac’s shoulder. “Trust me, I need this much. A normal unicorn lives for around two hundred years. I have all eternity laying before me and I do not know when I will have the chance to replace it.”

Trac frowned, tilting his head to one side. “Wait, do you mean kilo-gallops? Horns are for measuring peek power. Gallops are for measuring power over time. The difference here is six thousand kilo-horns is roughly the amount of power Celestia uses to move the sun. Six thousand kilo-gallops would mean the heartcan produce a total of six thousand kilo-horns over the course of the adverage pony's lifespan, with uh... A few dozen horns of peek output per day. Maybe a couple hundred? I'd need to know the specs for that Heart to say for sure. So, which is it? Total power available, or power over time?"

Ameili paused for a moment as if she wanted to say something. That something never came. “Let's not get bogged down in the technical. Suffice to say, this heart could power my spells for fifty lifetimes… Or something big for a few hours.”

Trac’s ears perked. “Something big?”

Ameili conjured a fiery smile and a winking eye. “I have plans. Plans to protect my friends. My first step, now that my clockworks are upgraded and I have a heart, is to forge some proper armor. Yes, yes. I have my old Centurian equipment, but that is rather obsolete for modern warfare, wouldn’t you agree?”

Trac laughed and nodded. “Just a little bit, yeah. Though… I’m not certain how you’d make good armor to protect against bolters and spell rods. You’d need to be an especially strong earth pony to wear enough plating to be protected and still be fast enough to fight.”

Ameili winked. “Leave that to me. I was Whirling Cog’s student. I’ve got his old journals and blueprints. Let’s just say some of his inventions went un-built due to well, material science restrictions of the era.” Ameili’s smile vanished. “Retort is home… Can you keep watch? I need to install this heart.”

Trac nodded. “Sure.”

Trac stepped to the side and opened the shed’s door a hair to keep watch. Ameili unzipped her suit, pulled back her hood, and opened the suit down to her chest. With her suit open, Ameili took a strip of leather from her workbench, stuffed it into her mouth and bit down hard.

Trac did his best to ignore Ameili’s muffled screams as she cut into her chest. He couldn’t. Every few seconds Trac found himself looking at his friend, cringing at the sight of her knife cutting deep into the foam covering her rib cage.

Ameili’s self-surgery lasted for nearly ten minutes. Her muffled haunting cries as she wedged the heart into place and welded it to her metal-coated bones echoed in Trac’s mind while Ameili stitched herself back up. The heart’s light vanished stitch by stitch until it was hidden deep within her chest.

Ameili removed the leather from her mouth with a hoof as she pulled the last stitch taught with her magical grip. “Well, that was horrible,” she groaned, swaying slightly on her hooves.

“Is it even working?” Trac asked, his ears planted flat against his skull. “I’d hate to think you did all that for nothing.”

“I need to connect my mana to it still,” Ameili conjured a shaky flame smile for Trac despite her hood still hanging from her neck.

Trac smiled and shook his head at Ameili. “You could, you know, smile for real.”

Ameili blinked, the flames in front of her face went out. “So I could… I’m not used to being undressed. One minute, let me hook this up to myself, and we can chat. I imagine you came in here for more tank lessons.”

Trac nodded. “I did… Isn’t it already connected to you?”

“Physically, yes…” Ameili said closing her eyes tightly.

Her horn began to glow a dim orange. Then bright orange. Then blinding orange. The orange became more and more intense until her horn shone pure white. Trac closed his eyes as the light became painful.

Ameili made a soft happy sound. Trac opened his eyes in time to see a ripple of cyan light wash over her body, turning orange as it reached her extremities and vanished. Ameili’s star-sapphire eyes brightened, a soft warmth coming from within the gems, making them appear natural and alive despite remaining gemstones.

“It’s been so long!” Ameili smiled, pure joy held within her delighted expression.

“Congratula—” Trac yelped as the forge-fire flared up, brightening unnaturally.

The orange light became something more. Still, orange, still flickering, but more sharp, more focused, more… Alive.

“What in Tartarus is that?!” Track took a step back from the forge.

Ameili laughed. “It’s okay, Trac. The fire is just happy to see me.” Ameili reached out and gently patted the flames, holding her suit within them for several seconds.

When she pulled her hoof out of the fire, her suit was untouched. “Yes! I’m back.”

Ameili turned towards Trac and smiled as she put her hood back on in preparation to zip up her suit. “Now what was it you needed?”

Trac pursed his lips, debating whether he should ask what Ameili could do now that she couldn’t before. No. We’re so close to dropping out of the top ten. I need to focus on myself for now.

“Crusader can’t maintain full speed for more than a few minutes at a time. If we push him too hard, he overheats and for SOME REASON the first thing to fail is the primary and secondary drivetrains.”

“You become a sitting duck if you overheat?” Ameili conjured a fiery mouth, dropping its jaw.

“Yep! So the mobility game isn’t as good as it could be. That was working great for us for a while, but other teams have found counters—”

“Teams? They are still teaming up?”

“Yeah, it’s almost always to your advantage. Bunker refuses to team up because she thinks it will look better on our overall score if we perform alone. I disagree. Your squad is everything in tank warfare. Though Thunder did point out they are looking for the best individual tanker team…

“Uh, anyway, I need a new strategy. It’s like Crusader has asthma. What does a battlemage do when they need to take a breather?”

“We use shields,” Ameili sat down on a toolbox and rested her hoof on her chin for several long moments. “I think I have an idea. It might be difficult to do in such a large vehicle. But if— Oh, are you comfortable in this heat?”

Trac shook his head firmly. “Not even close…”

“Then let’s adjourn to my room for tonight’s lesson.” Ameili reached out with her magic and pulled the forge’s lid down, covering the naked flames. “I’m trusting you to stay put in there. I’ll need you in a little while.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “Pyromancy can’t possibly be that easy,” he said as he put his coat back on.

“It can be,” Ameili chuckled. “Forget about magic for the moment. Let’s go fix your tank problem.”

Tractor Pull - 15th of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader’s engines roared as the tank shot over a hill. Its tracks left the ground, and for a moment, Crusader knew the joy planes felt. Then gravity smashed it against the bottom of the gravel pit Trac had driven it into, and Crusader’s suspension screeched in agony.

The gravel wall ahead of Crusader exploded as a shell connected with the earth. Shards of rock flew everywhere, pinging off the hull like the pellets of a claymore mine.

“This had better work, Trac!” Bunker grit her teeth and gripped her crash handles.

Thunder leaned hard against the turret controls. Crusader’s barrel swung around, nearly scraping the ground. “Ameili’s tricks always do!”

“Usually do,” Trac said as he took hold of his own crash handles. “Depress and fire!”

Thunder nodded and angled the barrel to aim at the ground just in front of the Bronco barreling down on their rear. The thick plate of steel the cheating crew had welded to the front of their tank gleamed in the afternoon sun. Marred only by scorch marks from prior hits which had dented the improvised shield.

Bunker raised her clockwork hoof. “Hold…”

Their enemy continued to advance…

“Almost…”

The Bronco began to depress its barrel, taking aim at poor “stuck” Crusader.

Bunker pointed her hoof forward. “Fire!”

Thunder squeezed the trigger. Crusader roared, spitting hot lead at twice the speed of sound. The shell lanced through the air, speeding for the hard-packed earth. Crusader’s shell hit the earth, twisted, and skipped off the packed dirt. The ricochet sliced through the air, flew under the Bronco’s shield, and smashed into the tank’s underside.

Pink sparks raged beneath the Bronco as it slid to a halt, disabled.

Crusader’s crew cheered. Trac pulled back on the control sticks backing Crusader up until it began to climb the side of the gravel pit.

“Thunder, one ramp, please,” Trac said cheerfully.

Thunder nodded and swiveled the turret around to face forwards once more. He took aim at the opposite side of the pit and fired, hitting near the top of the wall. The wall vanished in a spray of earth, becoming a ramp. Trac pushed the control levers forward and Crusader climbed out of the pit and into fourth place.

Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 15th of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili raised her hammer and struck the steel upon her anvil. She had to work during the day when Trac and Retort were not home. Not due to any need for secrecy, but to protect their hearing. When her hammer hit steel, sparks flew, metal shifted, and her anvil rank like a bell.

A very big bell. A bell designed to warn a small village of approaching danger.

It rang under the force of unnatural blows. Each of Ameili’s strikes hit as if the mare were an industrial power hammer. Her clockwork limbs hummed as she worked, their overdrive state triggered the moment she picked up her hammer. Yet the mechanical limbs were not the true source of her strength.

Her true strength was her own, restored to her by the unbeating heart within her chest.

Vulcan hovered around her forge, watching his lover work.

“Why are you starting with the plates? Isn’t the old armorer’s saying “Build the skeleton and the rest will follow”?” Vulcan asked with a smirk. “Aren't you doing this backward?”

Ameili turned to face her love and put on her most serious and professional face. “But darling, I am the skeleton.”

There was a long moment of silence during which Ameili’s face transformed into an expression of pure mirth.

Vulcan moaned and held his head in his hooves. “Sometimes I hate you…”

Ameili laughed and held the skull-shaped face-plate with her tongs, turning it to inspect the forged shape. “This will do. On to grinding.”

Tractor Pull - 1st of Lunardusk, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Rain fell from the heavens, as if the gods themselves wished to flood Equestria. Every qualified Weather Pegasus on base had been called out to create the downpour for the day’s special arena condition. Including Thunder.

“We just had to be down our gunner,” Bunker growled from the gunner’s seat.

“Sarge… Stay focused,” Trac pleaded.

Crusader rested in a deep muddy gash in the ground at the bottom of a hill. It had slid there moments ago, nearly rolling over as the wet earth gave way under the tank’s weight.

“Then you forget this thing weighs five times what a Spitfire does!” Bunker clenched the trigger firmly in her hoof, her eye twitching as she kept the barrel trained firmly on their target.

Crusader’s sights were trained on another tank, this one almost a kilometer away. It too stuck deep within the muddy ground, its rear half held fast by a sinkhole.

Trac closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “I thought we could make it up the hill! I messed up. I’m sorry!”

“We’re going to lose this one. We’re second place and we’re going to lose!”

Crusader groaned as the gale force winds rocked its hull, pushing it even deeper into the mud.

“Not if you’d just shoot him already!”

“I can’t remember how to account for wind!”

“So what?!”

“This is the last shell!”

“BUCK!”

Bunker twisted the joystick, rotating Crusader’s turret fractions of a degree to the left. “Their turret is down. Let me take my time to get the shot.”

The enemy tank’s turret moved for the first time in five minutes. Thirty tons of steel slowly rotated to face Crusader.

Trac’s eyes widened. “They’re not disabled. FIRE! FOR THE LOVE OF CELESTIA FIRE!”

Bunker closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Crusader spat forth fiery death. The enemy's cannon thundered in unison.

Two shells hurtled through the air, smashing aside the curtain of water falling from the heavens. The wind continued to pulverize everything in its path. It blew Crusader’s shell off target. The very same wind blew the enemy’s shell on target.

Trac yelped as the shell hit Crusader’s hull right above his head. A metallic ring like a hammer on an anvil resonated through Crusader’s entire hull, marking their defeat.

Trac growled and slammed a hoof down on the console. “BUCK! I’ll do better next time, Sarge.”

Bunker sighed and leaned back in her seat. “It’s fine. You didn’t have your stallion here to motivate you.”

Trac’s cheeks flushed. “Uhhh… You’re not going to tell command about us, are you?”

“Nah. You’ve had, what, three dates? It’s not serious yet. Besides, the crew is supposed to act like family. Why not be family?”

Trac snorted and raised an eyebrow. “Because I don't really like mares?”

Bunker smirked. “I’m Thunder’s pseudo-sister. That could make me your, uh… Sorta-marefriend-in-law one day. We’re a family waiting to happen. Maybe.”

Trac leaned down into his hooves, wishing Crusader would get shot again. The metallic ring and crunch were at least better than Bunker’s stupid jokes.

If Bunker had only missed that one shot, everything would have been fine. Their rank would have stood where it had been. But Bunker hadn’t been a gunner in many years. Of all fifty shots, she only made three. Crusader’s ranking fell to sixth place.

Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 1st of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili stood in front of her workbench. An engine hoist had been added to the bench. A skeletal, half-built set of armor, hung from the hooks. Though few ponies would recognize it as armor. To most, the collection of steel, brass, copper, and acrylic parts would look more like a sculpture. Or perhaps a golem of some exotic design.

Ameili sighed and peeled the grease off her visor with her magic. “Vulcan, did you see what failed?”

The elemental nodded, its crackling body simply burning the oil which had splashed over him away. “Yes. You didn’t use a petroleum-based oil. That’s why your snack dispenser is full of poor tasting oil.”

Ameili stared blankly at Vulcan for several long moments.

Vulcan flashed Ameili a grin and leaned down, pointing at a small section of copper piping near the armor’s left rotator cuff. “This pipe fitting failed when you pressurized the system, the explosion knocked the oil-line loose.”

Ameili leaned in to inspect the part for herself. Her well-trained eyes inspected the scaled-up clockwork limb system. “Yes, that would appear the case. I soldered the pipe poorly. I can see it in how the shoulder broke free. Is it ironic that I find it easy to work on these systems when they are compact but find them difficult when scaled up?”

“Not at all. This pipe is under more pressure than your limbs will ever be. Besides, they lack your magical touch. Those clockworks are your legs as far as your soul cares. After all, your enhanced strength works through them.”

Ameili reached up and rubbed her chin. “You make a good point. This armor may not work properly unless it’s connected to me. We’ll have to cross that bridge later. For now, we need the hydraulics working. Then the clockworks. Then we worry about any potential linkages.”

Amili reached down and picked up a blowtorch Retort had purchased for her. She smiled. “Why don’t I try using this?”

“Because you can replicate its effects with your magic?” Vulcan smirked.

“True, but it’s always fun to try new tools. Besides, I did the joint which broke with my magic.” Ameili pressed the button and ignited the torch. “Pass me some more four-millimeter copper piping.”

Vulcan nodded and handed Ameili a fresh coil of copper refrigeration tubing. A small setback would not prevent her from achieving her goals.

Tractor Pull - 15th of Lunardusk, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader roared down the center of a rocky ravine sending twin plumes of dirt flying as its tracks cut through the dirt. Five other tanks raced along with Crusader, the echo if their guns almost like the braying of a pack of hounds.

Trac smirked as he listened to their lead flinging howls. If they were a team, this would be perfect.

Track jerked Crusader to the right to avoid one of the eight disabled tanks in the ravine and continue his random zigzag path.

“Tell me why you had us drive in here again?” Thunder called over the roar of Crusader's flak cannons.

The volley of bursting shells connected with one of the five remaining tanks. Pink sparks danced across its hull like flames.

“Because a possible ambush is well worth the cover of—”

“We drove right through a knife-fight-range, melee!” Thunder laughed, traversing Crusader’s turret to line up his next shot.

“How the buck do you two have time to talk?!” Track demanded as he focused on keeping Crusader out of everyone’s line of fire.

Bunker squinted through the commander’s periscope, keeping an eye on the pack of madness they had just driven through. “The melee is breaking up. Change heading to two-thirty-three!”

“The river?” Trac turned his head looking through the left driver's periscope, taking note of the terrain between them and the deep river cutting through the ravine.

“Damn straight. Ford it. Thunder, fire at will!”

Crusader’s main gun roared. One of the tanks fleeing the melee shuddered as the shell smashed squarely against its side. The enemy tank rolled to a halt, disabled. “Which one’s Will?”

“Go buck yourself, bro,” Bunker laughed. “No but seriously, we’re going to die.”

Trac growled and pulled the control sticks, forcing Crusader to spin in place, rotating them to face the enemies. “If we're done for, we’re going out in style. Screw the river.”

“That was an order, Trac!” Bunker narrowed her eyes and quickly adjusted the periscope. “We use the river to slow them and maybe take out one more before—”

“That’s a stupid plan! There’s no cover over there.” Thunder exclaimed, staring up at Bunker with a stupefied expression.

Bunker sighed. One of the enemy's cannon’s thundered. A shell whistled past Crusader’s hull, nearly slicing a line across the starboard armor.

Thunder grit his teeth and rotate the turret around. Trac cursed himself and threw Crusader back into motion, charging at the group of enemies before them.

“They are sitting ducks while they untangle themselves. We charge!” Trac narrowed his eyes as he pushed Crusader into top gear.

“Fair enough, we lose either way,” Bunker said, her gaze softening.

Crusader rolled forward. The tank which had fired at them before tracked Crusader with its turret, treading another shot.

Bunker saw it’s barrel spin in their direction out of the corner of her eye “Thunder! Second from the left. Fire!”

Thunder nodded, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. A burst of flak shells spattered the enemy tank’s side. He turned, spinning their turret to the right. The main gun roared, blasting the second tank squarely in the back of the engine compartment.

Two shells struck Crusader on the nose, ending its glorious charge in a shower of pink sparks. Crusader launched, nearly knocking everyone out of their seats as it came to a screeching halt.

Bunker reacted to their defeat immediately. “Five. That puts us at five kills in this match. I didn’t think we could do that many!”

Trac turned around to look up into the turret. “Is that good? I know it’s good for an individual match, but what about the tournament?”

“It’s probably extremely good! I need to check.”

Thunder hummed. “She started taking this super seriously three weeks ago. I found her notebook.”

“That’s because we’ve got a shot… Or we had. Our last match dropped us below the top ten. I didn’t think we'd score enough to make it since the finals are next week. But if no one else got more than five kills this match… I need to make a call!”

A notebook and pencil came out of Bunker’s pocket. A field radio came out of the commander’s glove box. “Command, this is Bunker Bunny. Crusader is down. We have five confirmed kills and three potential kills. What’s our status? Over.”

“This is Command, standby,” a stallion’s voice instructed.

The three paused, listening intently for their score. “Crusader? We’re reading five more active tanks. Neither of which has anything approaching your seven hits this match. You’re going to top the charts for confirmed kills unless one of those tanks takes out three others. Over.”

Bunker, Thunder, and Trac shared a silent moment of glee at the sound of seven.

Seven! We hit two of our three guess shots into those trees. Thank you, Lady Luck!

“Understood, Command. What is our ranking overall factoring in our kills for this match? Over.”

“Two of the remaining five went dark. Your kill count can no longer be outmatched for this round, Crusader,” Command informed. “In light of that, you’re ranking in at fifth place overall. Good luck in the finals next week. With your skill and assuming your luck holds, you’ve got a shot at the gold. Command over and out.”

Trac jumped with joy, a cry of “YES!” on his lips.

His head hit Crusader’s ceiling with a coconut-on-rock thunk. The stallion went out like a light.

Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 15th of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili leaned against the left thigh plate, putting her full weight against her pneumatic riveter. The tool rumbled, hammering the second to last rivet into place.

She set the tool down and stretched her forelegs. Not our of any need, but out of habit. The moment her stretching was complete, Ameili reached down and inspected the rivet.

“Looks clean. Another rivet, Vulcan,” Ameili said with a smile.

Vulcan stepped over to the box of rivets and picked one out at random. “At this rate, you may finish by the day after tomorrow.”

Ameili took a step back from her project to look it over. The armor was taking shape. It was a little bulky for her tastes, but it did have to fit the armor’s steam and clockworks beneath its plates in addition to her body.

Despite the bulk Ameili felt proud of her design. The internals felt solid, and the plating was functional. But most importantly, the plates had been shaped to give her the appearance of a metal skeleton wearing Equestrian plate armor.

If I ever use this thing in battle, I hope I fight until it’s destroyed. That way I can rip off the helmet and be like “Beneath this skull is... Another skull! Cool, huh?” Hehe, that would be great!

“That would put us on track to test her out this weekend. I like your thinking, hon.” Ameili took the rivet from Vulcan and pushed it into the pre-drilled hole.

Her work was almost finished. Though Ameili didn’t know it, the day she would need the armor was approaching.

Heated Retort - 15th of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield Sheriff's Office - Equestria

Retort sat at his desk. It was a small desk, in a small cubicle, next to Pine Grove, but he didn’t mind. Retort was rarely at his desk. Most of his time was spent on patrol.

Unfortunately, every deputy needed to do paperwork eventually and today was Retort’s paperwork day.

Retort’s ears perked as a hoof knocked quietly against the fabric wall of his cubicle.

“Knock, knock, deputy,” Sheriff Hard Justice smiled at Retort through the cubicle door.

Retort frowned. The Sheriff didn't like to walk into the well-lit parts of the office. Like many Thestrals, and other subterranean peoples, the Sheriff had adapted to the near-lightless conditions he had been raised in.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Retort looked down to the Sheriff's other hoof, fearing seeing a folder full of extra paperwork.

There wasn’t one.

“Nothing bad. I got off the radio with the Manehattan PD just now. That file you requested has been compiled and is being mailed to us. It should be here by the weekend.”

Retort blinked. “File?” His eyes narrowed as he tried to remember requesting any particular information. “Oh! Yes. I remember. Ameili’s file. I’d completely forgotten about that. Did it really take all winter to round up the paperwork?”

The Sheriff shook his head. “No. Apparently, the case interested a Private Eye on contract with the MPD. He took it on as a passion project… There must be something worth knowing, because the package weighs in at just over a kilogram, and it’s all paper.”

Retort blinked. “What?”

“That’s around two hundred sheets of paper, Retort. Keep me posted,” the Sheriff said as he turned around and walked down the hall.

Retort frowned and stared out the window at the snowy courtyard. I don’t understand. What could Ameili possibly have done to have an entire book worth of stuff written about her?

8 - Tallyho!

Tractor Pull - 20th of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Everyone had assumed the final war game would begin with a little pomp and circumstance. A prize was on the line, ten contenders had emerged, and another twenty or so underdogs might be able to squeeze a win out from under the more obvious candidates noses.

No one had expected to be made to stand at attention with their crews on the parade ground until eight in the morning.

Everyone had expected the base commander to make an appearance given the importance of the final game. A speech would need to be had, things everyone already knew reiterated, but this time with an official flavoring mixed into the facts.

No one had expected the commander to take the stage, open a sealed envelope and announce:

“By the order of Princess Luna, all crews participating in these war games whose statistics place them below the top thirty are hereby ordered to act as a singular team and oppose all crews still in the running for first place. This team shall be designated “Meteor Hammer”. Meteor Hammer shall deploy in advance of all other crews by one half of an hour.

“All crews which are not a part of Meteor Hammer are to form an alliance. This alliance shall be designated “Swordbreaker”. Swordbreaker is to oppose Meteor Hammer as individual units, squads, or a collective team. Swordbreaker is to fight among itself if and only if Meteor Hammer has been defeated.

“Should Meteor Hammer emerge victorious, the best performing crew with Swordbreaker will receive the prize as they would have before these orders were issued. However, the entirety of team Meteor Hammer will receive bonus pay equal to ten percent of one month’s pay.

“Our intent behind these orders is to ensure only the best of the best can emerge victorious, as a battle royal between individual Ace crews and normal troops will only sort the great from the average, not the greatest from the great. May the victor receive their due, and may those who lose this day force them to earn it.”

That half hour had come and gone. Trac, Bunker, and Thunder had spent it sitting in front of their tanks with the other twenty-nine contending crews. A half hour spent listening to a hundred and seventy tanks moving into position had put everyone on edge. Especially since the commanders had to improvise their battle plan and discard the last week of preparations...

“Do we have ANY idea of what to do here?” Trac asked Bunker quietly as the mare returned from a quick huddle with other tank commanders.

Bunker twisted her lips and shrugged. “No. Not really. The best we can come up with is…” Bunker gave her friends a hurt look and sighed. “No easy way to say it. Ten of the crews here are here because they played dirty. But that will help us today.”

Thunder’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Dirty, how?”

“They’ve got geomancers on their crews. Not professionals, hobbyists. But they were able to disable incoming rounds with showers of flint shards, make barricades and so on. That’s not against the rules per-say as they state crewmen are to act to their fullest potential, but it’s a very unfair advantage. One we’ll use to put as big and thick of a stone wall in front of our group as we pull out of here.”

“Then what?” Track grunted as he looked over the terrain. “Thirty Aces versus a hundred and seventy is still terrible odds.”

Bunker snorted. “No, shit. The whole plan hinges on our geos. We’re going to split into lances of three and watch each other closely. Each lance will be escorting one geo to the western canyon. They won't expect us to go there since there’s only one entrance and it would trap us. We will be taking the lead of a lance consisting of Halberd, Crashy McSplodey, and us.”

Trac nodded and looked wearily out over the expansive battlefield, his eyes focusing on each bump in the rolling plains. “Okay. They’ve had half an hour to get ready. They know we will be leaving here. We’re going to see a ton of ambushes.”

Bunker nodded. “Mhm!” She looked down at the watch built into her clockwork leg and nodded. “Time to start the pre-battle check. Everyone pile in.”

The three quickly climbed up the tank and entered through the hatch. Trac’s eyes narrowed immediately, as did Bunker and Thunder’s. Crusader smelled wrong. The oily, singed, metallic scent was gone. Replaced by the scent of fresh leather, brass, and the faint whiff of ozone certain sorcery leaves behind.

“Strange… It smells like they replaced most the internals,” Bunker noted as she took a seat in her chair and immediately frowned. “And bucked with my seat…”

Bunker began to fiddle with her seat’s adjustment levers, working it back into position.

“Personally, I’d overhaul every single one of these before the final game,” Thunder mumbled as he plopped into his own seat. “Pieces of junk should be half rebuilt between uses.”

Trac nodded in agreement and took his own seat. “Oh for… My seat’s messed up too. The least they could have done is remembered the seat’s positions before reupholstering them.”

Thunder nodded in agreement. “Yeah… So, sis? What’s the plan for avoiding a hundred and seventy guns bombarding us the minute we pull out of the parking lot?”

Bunker finished adjusting her seat and pulled the commander’s controls towards her. “We are going to scatter like cockroaches and head along different routes to the western canyon. While breaking up, the lance’s geo will keep creating barriers for us, but stop once we’ve dispersed. The idea is each lance will be as stealthy as possible. We'll lose a lot of tanks, but much less than if we tried to move as one huge obvious target.

“Once at the canyon, if the surviving tanks have any geomancers crewing them, we dig in, make a fortress and weather a siege. If we don’t, we use the natural terrain to force them through the canyon mouth and fight till the end. It’s the best we can do on short notice.”

Trac tapped a hoof to his chin in thought. “If that’s the case… Can I plot our course, Sarge?”

Bunker nodded. “Do it. But make sure our lance blades can keep up with you.”

Trac nodded and reached up to the compartment above his head for the map-book. Taking the book in hoof, Trac paged through until he found the maps he was looking for and spread them out across the dash to read them.

There are a few routes which will provide us with significant cover. But everyone knows that. They may not know the destination, but our opponents know tanks can move in those areas unseen easily. They will be watching them or using them. We can’t use an open area for the same reason. We need something in the mid…

A riverbed on the map caught Trac’s eye. He began to sketch a quick route, his pencil tracing over the map in a rough—

Trac’s eye saw a gauge he’d never seen before. “Wait… The hay is this?” Trac squinted at the gauge, doing his best to read it in the dim lights. “Bunker? Can you turn on the cabin lights?”

Bunker nodded and flipped the switch. The cabin immediately filled with soothing white light. The gauge read Harmonic Stability.

“Sarge? We have a new gauge on the dash,” Trac lifted the map up to inspect the rest of the console, immediately spotting a new set of controls below the gauge, as well as several modifications to the hardware he had come to know.

“Uh, are you certain we—” Bunker stopped mid sentence as she found a wax sealed envelope tucked into a compartment of the commander’s station.

An envelope marked as being for the commander’s eyes only. “One sec, Trac.”

Bunker opened the envelope, removed a single letter, read it, and grew white as a sheet. She bent down, made certain her crew wasn't watching her, then folded the letter into a small square and ate it.

Bunker cleared her throat, getting her crew’s attention, then held up the now empty envelope.

“According to this, the engineering crews found out Crusader was missing some systems. Like, this heap rolled off the assembly line missing parts. They had the replacements finally come in four days ago and put them in.”

Trac turned around, having missed his Commander disposing of her orders. “But—”

“It’s nothing critical. We got this far without them. Let me know if anything is screwy. Like if the new controls are in the way of anything.”

Thunder turned around and gave Bunker a look. “I know these tanks are terrible, but Crusader rolled out with a whole system missing? That sounds like ponyfeathers to me.”

“Well, that’s what Command said in their note,” Bunker reached into her pocket and took out her notebook. “I finished my checklist already. I’m going to go over our stats. See how many tanks we need to down to win this thing. You guys finish getting your stations ready.”

The three did their best to get Crusader ready to go. The unfamiliar controls didn’t interfere with Trac for long. They seemed less confusingly laid out, and the new systems controls slotted neatly into odd gaps which had been in the old console.

“Huh… We really were missing components,” Trac said as he finished the last item on his checklist.

Thunder nodded. “Yeah. A few gaps in my controls have been filled up. I knew these were pieces of shit but… Where were these built? Some quality control guy is getting fired.”

Trac nodded. “Especially since we have a Hostile Detection System. But I doubt we’ll be able to even power that on with how little energy these things have to spare.”

Thunder’s jaw dropped. “These things can detect each other?! No wonder we were having problems hiding.”

“Apparently,” Trac shrugged. “Bunker’s right though. We got this far without them.”

Bunker nodded. “Right, and I agree with Trac. We won't get to turn those on. Not with how hot Trac makes Crusader run.”

The mare sighed and looked down at her crew with weary eyes. “Guys? We can't lose focus. We’ve got a hundred and seventy tanks to fight. Finish the checklists.”

Trac turned and gave Bunker a salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

Princess Twilight Sparkle - 20th of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

Sanctum Solarium, Canterlot - Equestria

The gold topped spires of Canterlot gleamed beneath the first light of dawn. Pillars of white marble tipped with fire, reaching up to the heavens from an ancient mountainside. A more magnificent sight did not exist within Equestria’s borders. Truly Canterlot deserved its title as a wonder of the ancient world.

Twilight sat within the city’s central spire. The Sanctum Solarium, the tallest tower in the palace, and therefore the city. The morning sun rose above the window, bathing the room in a stream of golden light and providing a view of the entire southern half of Equestria’s core regions.

Most sovereigns would have made such a palatial space their personal chambers. Not Princess Celestia. This tower served as the palace’s secure room.

The room’s walls and ceiling were covered in gold leafed plaster. A net of fine copper mesh lay beneath the plaster and the floorboards. The mesh had been crafted by the finest galvanic engineers in the kingdom specifically to block all galvanic communications.

The Faraday Cage was but one of many such protections. A litany of runes blocked magical eavesdropping, remote viewing, teleportation, gateway opening, and every other means of magically accessing, listening, or viewing the room.

Mundane means of preventing sound from traveling had been taken into account as well. The walls were extra thick and lined with enough foam, stone, and other acoustic materials to prevent even a thestral from listening in.

The door was equally as secure, weighing in at two tons. It took Celestia significant effort to push it open.

Twilight’s ears perked as the massive door creaked open, pushed not only with Celestia’s telekinetic might but her hooves as well. Neither of those forces could open the door on their own. This room was for Alicorns only.

Celestia’s four clockwork legs hummed loudly as they drew even further on her magical reserves. The platinum plated limbs were shaped to match the feminine ideals of the ancient times in which they had been made, giving the Princess a regal, statuesque look which came through even as she did something as simple as push open a door.

“My apologies, Twilight. Morning court had a pressing issue which I could not ignore,” Celestia said as she entered the Solarium.

Twilight stepped forward and took hold of the door, closing it herself. While Twilight had no clockworks of her own, she knew Celestia’s hip and shoulders ached when she had to use her full strength. Modern replacement limbs had no such problems, but Twilight wouldn’t dream of telling the ancient princess to abandon something a long dead friend had made for her.

As the door clicked shut, Celestia cast a quick spell upon it. Golden light from the room’s hidden runes began to glow as the Solarium checked itself and its occupants for recording devices and spells. Finding none, the room closed the windows of its own accord, and turned on its lights.

“It’s alright, Princess,” Twilight said with a polite bow, her horn nearly scraping the floor.

Celestia rolled her eyes. “There is no need to call me by my title. We are of equal station.”

Twilight looked up, offering a sheepish grin before she cleared her throat. “Old habits die hard, P— Celestia. Don’t worry, it’s not quite eight yet. There’s still time for you to abort the test if you want.”

Please want to abort… This isn’t a good idea. At least, I don’t think so. Did I forget something about her plans? Why so many nested plans? It’s impossible to keep track of.

Celestia nodded and looked Twilight in the eyes. “Hopefully we do not need to. Has anything unexpected happened?”

Twilight shook her head. “No. Everything is proceeding according to plan. Um, as far as I can tell. That is. Falcon’s hold will begin its final war game in around forty minutes. I have prepared several contingency plans in case the games are interrupted, but your— I mean, our agents tell me the griffons have only been observing and show no signs of preparing for covert operations.”

Celestia nodded once, satisfied. “Then the plan worked. Were you able to replace the old tanks on time?”

Twilight nodded again. “Yes. As far as anypony can tell, the griffons suspect nothing. After all, with how many spare parts the prototypes have cycled through in the last few months, smuggling in the real tanks piece by piece was trivial.”

At least that plan was well thought out. When I was little, your plans all seemed so perfect and wise. Are you getting to be foolish, or am I more perceptive now?

“Good! Hopefully they buy our ruse.” A triumphant smile overtook Celestia’s face only to be quickly replaced with a distant look. “Preparing for a war you know will happen is so difficult when your preparations could cause another war… I miss the days before instant-communication, Twilight. It’s the worst double-edged sword.”

Twilight bit her lip and shuffled her hooves against the floorboards. I need to say something. The tech-gap is huge. She can’t really understand what the difference will be. But I can’t call her on this outright! She’s Princess Celestia!

Twilight frowned and quickly pulled together the most diplomatic phrasing she could. “With all due respect, what makes you think developing a new class of tank would provoke the griffons into open conflict? They have a very long history of saber-rattling by war gaming on our border. What we see happening now is almost identical to—”

Celestia raised a hoof, quieting Twilight. “It’s not the tanks. It’s not testing them near the border. It’s more complicated than that. International politics is not yet something I expect you to understand fully. Suffice to say, the aggressive trade deals I cut with them last year, combined with our increase in military production, the planned replacement of our core-region commanders which we know they know about, the upcoming Alliance Negotiations with the Zebricans, our creation of a brand-new line of tanks, and of course your recent ascension… Well, it all sends a clear message to the High King.”

Twilight frowned. “But… If we make it look like that new design is terrible it won't seem like we are preparing for war against them?”

Celestia shook her head. “No. It will. It will also tell the High King that Equestria isn’t invulnerable. He will be less worried. I believe the peace of mind will be more than enough for him to choose not to preemptively attack. Especially once we begin circulating the story that our latest super-tank is a bust in public news channels.

“All of Equestria will believe the JP-9 Bronco was an experimental design which failed. We will then inform the public that the design has been stripped back to be functional and unveil that JP-9a as a tank made expressly not to waste the money spent developing the JP-9. The 9as will be exactly that, and with how much public attention the project will have gotten, the Griffons will believe we failed completely and wasted significant resources. We simply conceal the existence of the JP-9b, using the 9 and the 9a as camouflage. We don't need very many of them, it won't be hard.

“That WILL prevent war. The High King knows Equestria wouldn’t attack them without provocation and several aces-in-the-hole, as it were.”

Twilight nodded twice. “I understand. But what will you do about the JP-9b? I designed its Harmonics and Observer. Rainbow helped with the turret bearings. Everything is frictionless, stabilized… The fake models don’t even compare. They will very obviously be out-preformed.”

Celestia smiled and winked at Twilight. “That depends entirely on how the ten production models handle in today's’ test. Yes, they will have different systems and capabilities, but I am confident that it won't be more than what can be attributed to an excellent crew who has finally mastered their vehicle.”

Twilight sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hooves. But then, the tanks, will not, look, like, junk!

“Princess, the 9bs will outperform the 9s in every last category. The Griffon’s spies will notice the change and be suspicious.”

“No they won’t,” Celestia shook her head firmly. “You forget that I’ve observed the entire development process. The Harmonic system is the most visible of all modifications. Yet, you cannot see them at work for more than twenty meters. To any spies watching, it will seem like the less talented operators are simply poor shots.”

Twilight raised an eyebrow. Is that what she’s banking on? That might work. “Well, that is possible… But I’ve seen the blueprints for each variant. I checked the arcane systems for you in each of these prototypes. I know what they can do compared to the intentionally sabotaged variant. If the griffins have a spy in the tank crews, the whole plan is lost.”

Celestia nodded. “Yes. But nothing is risk-free, Twilight. My agents informed me that none of the battalion are spies.”

Twilight humed. “Well, you have a point. If we don’t put faith somewhere, we’ll never believe anything will work.” But we could have a much better plan. Is there still something I’m missing here?

Celestia nodded and trotted over to a desk along the wall to pour herself a glass of wine. “It’s a flawed plan, but so are all plans. You can only plan around what you know, and you should always know that you can’t know what you don’t know. Refusing to act due to the unforeseen is how you lose a kingdom. There is a risk, but if we must fight the griffins as a stepping stone to putting the Dark Lord down once and for all, so be it.”

Twilight bit her lip. “Celestia, I understand your side of the debate, but from where I stand, this is an enormous gamble. We can still abort the test. The ten tanks we’ve replaced are in pieces on the train. We can abort, put them back together and proceed with simply selecting her trainers after a ‘mechanical failure delay’ lets us reassemble the 9s we took apart. We could then test the full systems later on. Afterall, you’ll still get those high quality crews to use as trainers out of this. The operation wont be for nothing.”

Celestia shook her head, finished her glass of wine and set the crystal glass back on the desk. “No. We need the real data on the Broncos. He’ll be back soon. I can feel it.”

Twilight sighed and looked down at the floor. “I— I’m sorry. I wish I had ascended faster. I could have been ready… But I have to ask, what do you expect tanks to do against Sombra when he returns?”

Celestia snorted. “Nothing. I expect them to cut through his defenses and allow Luna and I to access his palace without getting injured and draining our stamina. How do you think he won last time? Proceed with the test, Twilight. Do not worry about the Griffons. Luna has a contingency plan for them. A little twist on the championship match. If they don’t believe our best pilots will be giving it their all… Well, suffice to say I’ll have vastly overestimated their intelligence agency’s intellect.”

Twilight frowned and looked towards the door. “She didn’t tell me anything about that! Where is she? We need to—”

Celestia laughed and gave her former student a hug. “Twilight, relax. Let’s adjourn to the scrying chamber in my room and watch the test unfold.”

Twilight took a deep breath then returned the hug. “Alright, but if we go to war over one of Luna’s pranks, I get to slap her!”

“A fair arrangement. Now, lets see if all of this has been for something, or nothing.”

Tractor Pull - 20th of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader’s radio crackled, emitting an ear-piercing burst of static. “Swordbreaker, this is Command. Start your engines.”

Bunker nodded down to Trac. “You heard them.”

Trac nodded and began the six step process to start Crusader’s reactor and power up the drive system. The moment his hoof pressed down on the ignition switch a loud click echoed from deep within the tank. Milliseconds later a soft hum began to build up as the engine’s turbine began to spin up.

“Uhhhh, that’s not right,” all three ponies said as one.

Trac turned his attention to the boiler’s gauges, not noticing the Harmonic Stability gauge slowly twitch to life and display a full charge.

“Where’s the rumble?” Thunder glanced down at the deck beneath him with an uneasy frown. “You’d better not be melting down…”

Bunker picked up her radio. “Command, this is Crusader. Our engine sounds wrong, we suspect there may be a malfunction.”

“This is Command. Standby, Crusader,” a mare’s voice said calmly.

The three sat in the tank, glancing up at the hatch as Crusader quietly spun up, clicked, and maintained a consistent quiet hum. No rumbling, no groans, no tank-shaking vibrations. Only the quiet hum of the arcane boiler.

“Crusader? We read you as functioning within normal operating tolerances,” Command reported.

Trac shook his head. “No way, I don’t buy it! I refuse to drive this thing. I’m shutting her down.”

Bunker quickly pressed down on the transmit button. “Command, my driver refuses to drive unless we’re given an explanation.”

A few quiet second passed before the mare spoke again. “Crusader, your tank was refurbished last week. You were to read the full report out to your crew. According to the record, Your boiler’s crystal was not properly aligned and your turbine wasn’t properly balanced. These problems have been fixed. The sound your hearing is how a Bronco is supposed to sound. Command over and out.”

Bunker hung the radio up on its hook and looked down at Trac. “Satisfied?”

Trac nodded sheepishly. “Well… Um, I mean Crusader does sound like it’s not in pain anymore.”

“Yeah, now that I think about it this is how an engine is supposed to sound,” Bunker admitted with a blush.

Thunder closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Flim-Flam Co. They bought these from Flim-Flam Co,” he moaned.

Trac shook his head. “No way. The Princesses wouldn’t ever contract them. So it’s worse. Flim-Flam Co’s QA policies are spreading.”

“Swordbreaker this is command,” the radio interrupted. “Commence exercise.”

Trac grit his teeth and gripped the control levers, ready to move as soon as Bunker gave the order. As soon as we leave the lot they will fire… I can’t see them, but they had time to dig in and camouflage. We could have up to sixty tanks with line of fire to the end of the parking lot.

The radio crackled again. “Swordbreaker, this is Oddball. We rank number one and will be commanding this operation. Geomancers, prepare to erect the wall. All lances, the second that cover pops up, roll out.”

Bunker grabbed her radio and flicked over to the squad channel. “Halberd, Crashy, we’re going into a triangular formation. I’ll go down the slot, Halberd on the left flank, Crashy on the right flank. Keep it tight and don’t break it up till I give the word.”

“Halberd here. Acknowledged.”

“Crashy hears you, Crusader. As soon as I got the barrier up we’ll be on your right.”

“This is Oddball, Geos, GO!”

Thirty slabs of stone rose from the earth in near-unison creating forest of stone. Not a wall. No two slabs were close to one another, let alone lined up to form a wall.

“BUCK!” Oddball’s engine roared as its driver gunned the engine, screeching towards the field of stone. “We don't have a second shot, surprise is key, ignore the piss poor coordination go, go, go!”

Trac growled and threw Crusader into high gear, charging into the stone forest. Halberd and Crashy remained still for a split-second before rolling out, falling into formation on Crusader’s wings.

The three tanks charged the scattered barriers. The sound of fifty guns thundered. The fury of Tartarus raced to meet them.

Swordbreaker hit the barrier field one second ahead of the bombardment. As the thirty tanks swerved around and slipped between the barricades in search of a place to begin their routes Meteor’s attack fell from the heavens. A rain of shells poured down, one after another. Each of the fifty tanks firing slightly after another. Constant fire arced up and over the hills from the treeline to reduce the starting point to a smoldering crater.

The barricades were useless. Every shell plunged downwards, threatening to pierce through turrets and engine decks alike. Swordbreaker’s numbers should have dropped like flies.

Shells fell in strain line paths, only to twist-midair and slide along new routes, hitting the ground and exploding with flashes of fire and showers of earth. The Broncos were caught in the middle of the bombardment, too worried about their headings to pay attention to the ripples of dim prismatic light occasionally popping into existence around ten of the tanks.

Crusader’s Harmonic Stability gauge dropped down and down with each hit. A small thing Trac didn’t notice due to the chaos all around him. The radio cracked and popped with curses, screams as shock waves threw crew out of their seats, and the constant gut punches from the high explosive shells. Shells which simply slid off target every time they approached Crusader’s hull.

Unfortunately, not every Bronco had a Harmonic Resonance Field. Tank after tank was consumed by pink sparks, each disabled vehicle forming obstacles for the others, trapping Swordbreaker in a stone an iron prison and deadly rain.

Trac swerved around a Bronco and at last found a way through the madness. He jammed the sticks forward and Crusader raced towards the opening. Crashy turned with Crusader, making it a full six meters before a shell smashed into its turret and sparks danced across its hull.

“Crusader, Crashy’s down. We’ve lost our Geo,” Halberd shouted over the radio.

“Good! They bucked us right in the ear!” Bunker growled. “Trac, do your thing, this team is dead meat!”

Trac nodded and narrowed his eyes as he tuned out everything save from Crusader, the ground ahead, and the route he had planned. Crusader lurched forward, sliding past the final stone barrier, scraping along the granite and leaving a trail of sparks. Trac turned left, following the hills rise to avoid any possible line of sight the enemy might have.

The shells continued to rain down over the battleground’s entrance. Thunder swiveled Crusader’s turret, checking their six for their wingmen. Halberd rolled along on Crusader’s heels, covered in dirt and flecks of stone. Crusader was entirely clean.

Crusader shot across the hillside at top speed leaving an ever-increasing gap between Halberd and itself.

“We’re leaving our wingman in the dust!” Thunder called over the bombardment.

Bunker grit her teeth. “Halberd, ahead full! “

“We are! How in Tartarus are you hitting that speed?”

Trac frowned and glanced down at the speedometer. Eighty-eight?! Crusader’s never gotten past fifty-six before. Celestia’s mane! Is that how screwed up the power plant was?

Trac took a quick breath. “Do we slow?”

“No! Stick to the plan, full throttle. Our team is screwed, we do what we know best.” Bunker leaned into her radio. “Halberd, we’re not slowing down. You’re on your own. Our plan is to follow the riverbed. Good luck.”

“Roger, Crusader.”

Bunker took a deep breath and complied with her secret orders. Her hoof reached for the sensor suite and flicked it on. A small crystal screen glowed as mana flowed into it, giving Bunker a view of Crusader from above, as well as an abstract map of blue and red dots.

Crusader raced across the planes, turning towards the enemy and cresting a hill. Normally Crusader hopped a few centimeters when cresting. This time it jumped a full three meters.

Red lights flicked on in the cockpit as Crusader became airborne. Trac caught sight of one light reading “inertial dampening active” before Crusader slammed into the ground with a metallic thud… And no impact whatsoever for its crew.

Trac frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?! How does ANY set of shocks—”

A bush moved, flung aside as an enemy Bronco broke concealment to finish off what had to have been an immobilized Crusader. But Crusader kept rolling, its engine humming almost melodically.

“Hostile, three-o'clock!” Bunker shouted.

Thunder swiveled the turret and fired. The movement was smooth, swift, and surprisingly accurate. The shell smashed into the Bronco’s side, arcane sparks flying across its hull as it slid to a stop. Trac swerved left, steering around the downed tank before correcting Crusader’s course.

Thunder’s wings flared beneath his jacket, nearly pushing the jacket’s hem into the auto loaders. “WOAH! That was so smooth! I almost missed. If I hadn’t fired on reflex when the sight—”

“Enemy, four-o'clock!” Bunker warned.

Trac turned, used to having to change course to help Thunder bring the barrel on target quickly. Thunder rotated and fired, the shot going wide thanks to Trac’s course change. The enemy fired back, their shell screamed over the grassy plains towards Crusader’s nose, only to be shunted aside by the Harmonics.

A plume of earth erupted behind Crusader as the shell exploded. Thunder spun the turret onto target and fired. Sparks blanketed the enemy tank and Thunder shook his head in disbelief.

Thunder laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. The gun is so fluid now! Trac, don’t steer me on target. Keep us moving towards the canyon.”

Trac nodded and turned right to avoid a deep gash in the ground ahead. Crusader almost nimbly zipped around the obstacle with no groaning or complaining. It was Trac’s turn to shake his head, mouth agape. “New systems my ass, this is a new tank! This is NOT a Bronco!”

Bunker winced. “It’s a Bronco, Specialist.”

Trac’s eyes widened as he was referred to by rank. Oh shit! Something classified is going on…

The radio crackled to life as Crusader jumped another hilltop. “Swordbreaker, this is Oddball. We’ve lost two-thirds of our group. We have two geos remaining. Stick to the plan.”

A new voice crackled to life on the radio. “Swordbreaker, this is The Monarch. The enemy is using a pincer formation. Watch the east and west! Jet Stream, prepare to fire east. No one can defeat The Mighty MONARCH!”

Bunker flicked the radio over to the team channel. “Roger that. Is Halberd still active?”

“Halberd is down. The bombardment got them.”

Bunker bit her lip. “Guys, one to ten. How confident are you that with the tweaked systems we can do some real damage?”

“Completely,” Thunder said.

“I could run circles around a Bronco in this thi— Uh, Crusader,” Trac nodded to himself.

Bunker nodded and turned her attention back to the radio. “This is Crusader. Everyone head to the north-east. We’re going to buy you some breathing room.”

“Roger that, Crusader. Swordbreaker, move for the window,” Oddball ordered.

Bunker glanced at her scrying mirror. “Trac, divert east and get ready for close quarters.”

Trac raised an eyebrow, but turned eastwards. “What about the plan?”

“We let Halberd down. This is a team match now. We’re going to make up for being a dick.”

Thunder nodded. “Understood.”

Crusader raced towards a thin stand of trees. Despite being only a few meters thick, the birch trees blocked all view of anything on the other side.

Six red boxes slid into view on Bunker’s monitor. “Six contacts at twelve-o’clock!”

Thunder frowned. “How are you— Wait, can we run that detection thingie?”

“Yes! Fire at three degrees, elevation minus one!”

Thunder twitched the barrel carefully into place and fired. Crusader’s shell blasted through the trees, punching a hole through several trees before exploding.

“Give them flak, shred those trees. Make noise. We’re here to draw aggro!”

Trac grit his teeth and scanned the terrain ahead, quickly coming up with a route to run along. It’s way harder when you can't see the—

Crusader’s flak cannons roared, shredding the thin stand of timber in mere seconds. Crusader vanished inside its own flack cloud a second later. This time the shimmering prismatic shield didn’t go unnoticed.

Trac’s jaw dropped. “We have a Celestia-damned WARD SYSTEM?!” That stuff is only found on battleships and palaces! How did we get it in a tank?

Bunker shook her head. “No, we have a Twilight-blessed ward. It should have been there the whole time. Keep an eye on the Harmonic Stability gauge. If it gets under twenty we lose the shield.”

Trac glanced at the gauge. It read forty-one, and was dropping fast. “It hates this flak!”

Crusader burst through the other side of the cloud, emerging almost atop the six enemy Broncos. Three of the enemy gunners had excellent reaction times, firing the instant Crusader became visible.

The Harmonic system deflected their shots, each shell taking another eight percent of the ward’s power. The gauge dipped under twenty. A high-pitched alarm began to screech within Crusader’s hull.

Trac didn’t need to be told what the alarm meant. He spun Crusader to the right, racing along the enemy’s front line, a mere twenty meters separating them from the enemy. Thunder spun the turret clockwise and opened up with the flak cannons again, sweeping a line across the enemy formation.

Crusader’s faster sprint threw off his timing, and the line swept across only two of the enemy. The remaining Broncos rotated their turrets, preparing to fire. Trac felt their counterattack in his guts and spun Crusader to the left. Four cannons thundered. Four shots went wide.

Thunder narrowed his eyes and brought Crusader’s gun back online. The main cannon took out one enemy, and another burst from the flak brought down the remaining three.

Trac let out a breath he didn’t know he had held. “Buck me, that was close!”

Bunker’s eyes remained glued to her screen. “That lance was the vanguard. Twelve incoming, seven-o’clock!”

Trac nodded and threw crusader into reverse, sparing a second to glance at the Harmonics gauge. Nineteen… Good, it recharges. But slowly. Got it, don’t rely on the shield.

Thunder brought the gun to face seven, and spared a second to check the auto-loaders feed. “We’ve got thirty shells remaining, Bunker. How many tanks do we take on here?”

“We fight till we’re down to three shells.”

Twelve Bronco’s engines roared in unison as they crested the hill behind Crusader. They rode in formation, a wedge with four tanks on each arm, and a bar of four at the rear of the wedge. A wall and archers.

Thunder winced as he saw the battle-formation. “This is it!”

Bunker closed her eyes. “We needed wingmen…”

Trac pulled one stick towards himself, directing Crusader into a serpentine path.

Thunder fired the main gun. His shot hit the left lead tank, covering it with bright sparks. One of the tanks in the bar collided with it a second later, but that was hardly enough. Crusader’s flack cannons chattering was drowned out as all ten remaining tanks fired.

Four shells went wide, flying past Crusader’s flanks. Two slid off target, shunted aside by the Harmonics before the shield collapsed. Two detonated in the clouds of flak Crusader spit at the enemy in defiance. The other two found their target.

One shell hit Crusader’s rear-left drive sprocket, the other burst against the turret. The cabin lights went dead as Crusader’s systems shutdown, throwing everyone against their seat belts as it lurched to a sudden stop.

Bunker smiled bitterly and sighed to herself. “Well, we tried.”

Trac sighed. “Yeah, we went down too early to win. What was the Princess thinking? Changing this from a battle-royal to a skirmish? Was that some type of joke?”

Thunder’s hooves remained on the flak’s trigger, a smile splitting his face ear to ear. “Guys…”

Bunker looked up from her console. “What?”

“They are passing us. Look out a window.”

Trac swiveled one of the driver’s periscopes, searching for the enemy. The remaining Broncos rolled past the disabled Crusader. Trac couldn’t help but smile as the six tanks rolled by.

They weren't the enemy, they were his brothers in arms. This was all a game, and Trac felt proud that the weakest of his battalion could crush techno-arcanly superior forces.

They may not have been Equestria’s finest crews, but they had a tanks’ true weapon on their side. Teamwork. Trac leaned back against his seat. That was Princess Luna’s point, wasn’t it? A harsh lesson on teamwork. She saw these games were ignoring the most critical factor of tank combat and wanted to remind crews like us to not get a swollen ego, and remind everyone else that individual skill isn’t the most important thing in a team effort.

Not bad for someone whose been gone for a thousand years. No wonder she was incharge of the military back in the old days.

Bunker watched the tanks drive by through her own periscope. “What about them?”

Thunder’s smile widened to its largest possible size. “There were six.”

Trac blinked as what Thunder really meant finally clicked. “Wait, then you took out half of them?!”

Thunder began to giggle manically. “This turret is AMAZING! It’s so smooth and fluid; it’s almost like firing a bolter! I can just paint an area with flak, they all drove into the cloud I made and I saw sparks! That counted! I thought it would just annoy them, but it counted!”

Thunder’s grin spread to Bunker and Trac. Bunker reached into to her pocket and whipped out her notebook. “Six here, six before, then those two driving here…”

Bunker scribbled in her notes, checking her math several times. Trac unbuckled and walked over to the bottom of the turret.

“There’s no way we did it. Someone must still be running and—”

Crusader’s lights flicked back on. The turbine clicked and began to spin back up. The radio crackled and a mare’s voice filled the cabin. A voice everypony knew.

“The game is over,” Princess Luna informed. “The purpose my sister organized these games for is a noble one, but I found fault with the message her tournament was sending the troops. Swordbreaker lasted for twenty-two minutes against a properly organized force.

“Individual skill is important, and ensuring our best train our leaders is the key to a properly functional military. But make no mistake, individual skill is NOT our best weapon. Teamwork is. While much has changed since I was in command of our military, that much is still true.

“It is time Swordbreaker knew the truth. Meteor Hammer was briefed on this lesson three days ago and was acting under the direction of Colonel Commander Gale Force with my full authority to provide a most humiliating defeat. I have always believed that a warrior’s true skill and character shines the brightest when they are in a no-win situation. Our performance under the conditions I have created today do not invalidate my sister’s testing, they enhance it. A fact I mention because I know you were watching today’s match, Tia.

“This changes nothing, other than making the winner stand out clearly among the rest of these fine warriors. There we are. Now they’ll understand why I changed— Huh? Oh. Yes. Sorry!”

The radio went silent with a click.

Trac sputtered. His heart skipped a beat. “THE PRINCESSES WERE WATCHING?! I would have done so much better if I knew they were watching! I could have driven around that flak-cloud and then our shields would have let us take that battle-line!”

Bunker nodded, her face burning red. “They saw me abandon our wingmen… And the clusterbuck of a start…”

Thunder smiled again. “They saw me go full badflank and take out twelve opponents!”

The radio crackled and Gale Force’s voice came through the speaker. “All forces, return to base for debriefing. The winner of this tournament will be announced formally at a ceremony on Moonsday. If you won you’ll be contacted shortly for a special debriefing.”

Trac turned and walked slowly back to the driver’s seat, dropping heavily into it. His hooves gripped the control levers. Crusader began to turn around to return to base. The radio crackled.

“Crusader, this is Commander Gale Force. Your final score is fifty-three kills to four deaths. You rank third for best kills to death ratio. Your maneuverability score is the highest in the battalion. Crusader’s command score places eighth in the battalion. Over all your score puts you in third place. Well done.”

Bunker, Thunder, and Trac shared a look of confusion.

Trac tilted his head. “But… Third isn’t first?”

Thunder nodded. “Yeah.”

Bunker picked up the radio and pressed down the transmit button. “Sir, this is Sergeant Bunker Bunny of Crusader. With all due respect, third place is not first place, sir. I was under the impression that the winner was to be contacted.”

“That’s exactly what I am doing, Sargent,” the Colonel said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

“But… Third?” Bunker asked, staring at the radio in shock.

Trac and Thunder’s eyes joined his commander’s in staring at the radio.

“Yes. Recall her Majesty's comment on character shining brightly? While you did leave your wingman behind, given Crusader’s greater speed and the chaos of the bombardment, that is understandable if not forgivable. You have been selected as the winner because you chose to sacrifice yourself to allow your teammates a chance at victory.

“If this had been real war, I would be issuing the three of you posthumous commendations for valor. Minor commendations, but commendations nonetheless. In light of that, the Princess has decided that victory should be awarded to you. Remain where you are. I am on the way. As is your trainee.”

Trac’s eyes widened as Bunker and Thunder erupted into cheers.

Trainee… We’re responsible for a whole future generation now. I’ve got to make the rest of my time in the military as perfect as I can. It’s an ethical responsibility.

“Trac! We did it!” Thunder squealed as he wiggled out of the gunner’s seat.

Thunder wrapped his forelegs around Trac.

I never thought we would win. In fact, we shouldn’t have won! The Princess fudged it. I mean… For good reasons? But… Oh, Celestia… If I buck this up, it’s not just a few people who could get hurt. We could lose a whole city if I train them poorly.

Visions of possible futures flooded Trac’s mind, and the weight of possible worlds forced tears from his eyes.

Bunker smiled as she saw the tears, thinking they came from a place of joy. “If dad hadn’t push-upped all my tears out by my fifteenth birthday, I’d be crying too. We did it! The Princess doesn’t think I’m a coward, and we did it!”

Trac shook his head. “N— No! I’m not—” He paused, taking a deep breath. “N— Nevermind. It’s nothing. Just… If I don’t do something right with this, tell me immediately, okay? I’m not a professional soldier. I’m part-time. I shouldn’t be here.”

Thunder frowned and let go of Trac. “What? You are too professional. You’re paid to do this. You’ve got extra free-time. So what? You still fight with us.”

Bunker nodded and slipped out of her seat to lay her clockwork hoof on Trac’s shoulder. “Relax. You’re as well trained as the rest of us. We wouldn’t be here without you. Don’t think you’re not a real part of the team because you don’t live on base.”

Trac looked back and forth between Bunker and Thunder for several seconds. “You— You guys don’t— But a lot of guards look down on the reserves.”

Thunder nodded. “Yeah. They’re jerks. Everywhere has jerks. Don’t let them get to you. I was upset at being short for years because of jerks. Buck, jerks!”

Bunker snickered. “Don’t buck jerks. Bucking is nice. Instead, force jerks into permanent chastity. That’s what I did!”

Thunker snorted as he held in a laugh. “That’s right, you got expelled for that.”

Trac frowned. “Um, what am I missing?”

“I locked a chastity belt on a stallion in high school. He was bullying my little bro,” Bunker said with a proud smile.

Thunder giggled and gave his sister an appreciative look. “Then she used a spell to weld it on.”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “Uh, you mean shut?”

“No. On. I fused it to his skin. That’s why I was expelled. Anyways, the point is you’re a soldier and a damn good one. If I catch you thinking you're not really a part of my team again—” Bunker gave Trac a playful punch on his shoulder. “I’ll punch you into next week. Understood?”

Trac looked at his friends and smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

The rumble of a combustion engine interrupted Trac’s thoughts as a tank approached Crusader then drew alongside.

Bunker gave Trac one more sympathetic look, noting his tearstained eyes. “Well, this is it… You want to stay inside, Trac? We can say you passed out form excite—”

Trac shook his head and quickly wiped his eyes dry. “No… No. I’ll be okay.”

Thunder gave Trac a quick kiss on the lips before turning around and climbing up the ladder to the hatch. Bunker followed immediately behind the tiny pegasus, leaving Trac behind. Trac took two seconds to catch his breath, straighten his uniform, blink his eyes clean, and then followed them up the ladder.

As Trac’s head cleared the hatch, he frowned. The vehicle which had pulled alongside them was a small, squat, eight wheeled mobile command post. Not exactly the sort of vehicle a noble would be ferried out to the field to meet someone in.

Crusader’s crew disembarked and stood at the side of their tank, backs to the track. The three immediately stood at attention. The mobile command vehicle’s rear ramp hummed as its hydraulics lowered it gently to the ground. Hoofsteps echoed as Colonel Gale Force disembarked and walked to a spot in front of the three soldiers.

Bunker raised her hoof in a salute, her crew following along a split-second later. A bit too shocked at their victory to follow proper protocol.

The Colonel returned their salute, then looked Bunker in her eyes and chewed on his cigar for a moment. “Master Sergeant Bunker Bunny—”

Bunker’s eyes widened at the rank. Two above a Staff Sergeant. Far more than she had been expecting.

Gale Force turned to look Thunder in the eye. “— Staff Sergeant Thunder Charge—”

Thunder’s wings flared under his jacket. “T-two sir?”

“Two. Political reasons require the lowest ranked amongst you be a sergeant,” the base commander confirmed with a nod before turning to Trac. “Sergeant Tractor Pull. The three of you are hereby officially appointed as the personal training crew of our newest recruit.

“The Princess’s orders for your assignment are crystal clear. Your trainee is to be given no special treatment. You will not use her title save for cases of emergency like war. During such times and ONLY such times her noble rank will outweigh her military position.

“You are to protect her at all costs. Not only from potential enemy action, but from occupational accidents and mishaps with equipment. She’s fresh from basic training and will need to acclimate. Aside from that, she is to be treated like any other soldier in your battalion.

“One last detail. Sergeant Pull, we will respect your reserve status and enrollment within an institute of higher learning. However, you will be expected to show up on any day of the week special training is arranged for. We will give you advanced warning, and our college will be informed to excuse your absence for national security reasons. Are we clear?”

The three snapped a salute. “Sir. Yes, sir!”

The firmness of their voices made it clear they understood perfectly. Gale Force’s eyes glowed with pride.

“Outstanding!” Gale turned towards the mobile headquarters ramp. “Private, disembark the vehicle and say hello to your instructors.”

Heavy yet graceful hoof-falls clinked against the metal ramp. A towering unicorn’s shadow slid across the ramp, then the ground. Then she rounded the corner, coming into full view.

Dark blue fur. A long slender horn. Green tinged eyes. Large, elegant, graceful wings. A mane and tail which rippled and shimmered like the night sky.

Princess Luna disembarked and walked over to Bunker, Trac, and Thunder, giving them a salute and a smile. “So, I hear you’re the best tank crew trainer’s we’ve got.”

None of the three ponies standing before their princess had ever seen an alicorn before. Much less been within a hundred kilometers of the beings who moved the sun and moon across the heavens.

Thunder’s jacket tented as his wings opened all the way in panic. The little stallion’s face rapidly shifted between awestruck and confused. “Um— Uh— Well— Maybe?!”

Trac stared at the Princess of the Night, his eyes bugging out of his head, grateful that his scream of abject terror had remained internal. Even as he was horrified, his reaction to meeting a Princess was to completely lock up and stand as stiff as an iron rod.

I’M TRAINING A PRINCESS?! HELP! SOMEPONY HELP! THINGS CANNOT POSSIBLY GET WORSE! THE SLIGHTEST SCREW-UP AND IT WILL BE MY JOB, AND MY FUTURE JOBS! EVERYONE IN THE KINGDOM WILL KNOW I BUCKED UP A PRINCESS’S TRAINING! HELP!

Bunker’s mouth pulled into a wide smile. Her left ear flopped down. Her right ear perked up. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Bunker’s eyes rolled back, and she went limp, face-planting into the ground.

Trac winced. Aaaaaaaand Bunker’s first impression is fainting in front of the Princess. Things cannot get worse!

Luna smiled softly, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Wow. I didn’t believe learning someone who was living on the moon for the last thousand years has no idea how modern warfare is conducted would be so great a shock.”

Trac groaned quietly. She’s a prankster… NOW it can’t get any worse.

Barron Murcrow - 20th of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

HMS Majesty, West Bloomfield - Equestria

The HMS Majesty floated high above the city of West Bloomfield. She was a sleek ship, all Griffon hunting ships were. Not just any airships could hover near the upper edge of the stratosphere beyond the arcane sight of unicorns and well above the visual limits of even the highest flying pegasus.

Her balloon was armored with ultra-light metals. Her speed and lift greatly enhanced by the “feathers” in her wings and their arcane engines. Her bow sported a colossal ram, shaped something like a griffon’s skull. Talon-like landing gear rested in a folded position beneath her belly. Many blister-like turrets covered her hull.

All in all, the Majesty looked like a three-hundred-meter long sick griffon, dressed for war. Her outside was ugly. Terrifying to a small degree. A true pirate vessel if one ever sailed the skies.

But her inside…

Inside the Majesty was only finery. Exotic hardwoods. Gold leaf. Expensive portraits. Plush carpets. Finely crafted steamworks. All enchanted, of course. Even the silverware was a bit magic.

A true nobleman’s estate, if one ever sailed the skies. Barron Murcrow’s estate, to be precise.

The Barron wasn’t a large griffin by any means. He was quite average. His rusty red plumage and piercing gold eyes marked him as a member of the Red-Tail clan. An ancient noble line.

Barron Murcrow sat at his desk, dressed in a freshly laundered safari outfit. Beige shirt, tan pants, polished brown vambraces, steel talon-caps. The works. All of it new, and all the highest quality.

A knock upon Barron Murcrow’s cabin door took the older griffin’s attention away from cleaning his custom-made Hallux-and-Hallux double-rifle. The Barron set the high-powered hunting rifle down on his mahogany desk and fixed his cold gaze upon the door.

“Enter.” His voice was warm, robust, refined. A proper gentleman’s voice.

The gold door knob turned, and a short hen with an osprey's plumage and absurdly green eyes entered. She was dressed in a formal red-black-and-gold military uniform which rippled as she bowed low.

“Pardon the intrusion, M’Lord. Our changeling friends have confirmed the Equestrian war games are over.”

The Barron’s beak tipped forwards. The griffon equivalent to a smile. “Have they, then? Splendid! Splendid! I take it they no longer have all those pesky weather pegasi whizzing about below us?”

“The skies should be clear within three days, M’Lord. I’m fairly certain they will restore the proving-ground’s natural weather within that time frame. Of course, we could always have some Hawks occupy them while we hunt, incase they don’t clear off soon enough.”

The Barron gave his rifle an affectionate look, tracing the carved silver lock-plates with a talon. “You are quite right. We can face some weather pegasi if we must. It’s those pesky tin-cans with their flak cannons that would have given us a spot of trouble. I expect the ponies will be keeping those in a garage for quite some time. The ghastly things will need to be studied after their little test.”

The hen nodded twice. “Absolutely, M’Lord. The Broncos will be offline for two weeks while their engineers study them. I believe they want to salvage what they can from the project.”

“Two weeks is plenty of time. Though I suppose we might have to upgrade this old girl if we want to hunt again next season.”

“The Majesty will be fine, M’Lord. Her hull and balloon wouldn’t be damaged by flak of that size. But your Hawks and hunting partners would absolutely be shredded by them while you were in the air. I can contact your enchanter and fetch you a quote for shielded hunting jackets for next year, if you wish, M’Lord.”

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” The Barron laughed. “Do get on with that. It would be a shame to let my favorite prey outfox us after centuries of our sport.”

The hen nodded once more. “Yes, M’Lord.”

“Indeed. Well if that will be a— Oh! I nearly forgot to ask. Have any unforeseen circumstances arissen?”

The hen nodded slowly, a worked look forming on her face. “Yes, M'Lord. Our changeling allies also report Princess Luna has chosen this town's fortress to train at.”

Barron Murcrow glowered at his messenger, his eyes holding a look of unmatched cruelty within those yellow orbs. “That’s something you should have opened with. It’s just the tiniest bit important, wouldn’t you think?”

The hen fidgeted nervously with the hem of her jacket. “Well, yes, b— It’s not as dire as you think, M’Lord! She’s still a princess, with royal duties to attend to. They can not be suspended for years at a time to accom—. Training isn’t her job, she won’t be there at all times.”

The barron’s eyes softened. “A fine point. A Princess certainly will not be sleeping at a remote fortress, nor abandoning her public duties. Can you think of a date and time she will be absent? I would hate to make you the one who must deal with the bureaucrats when I require an extension on my hunting permits for this year.”

The hen gulped, beads of cold sweat pooling on her forehead as memories of her last trip to the Office of Fish, Game, and Sport. Weeks of waiting. Extensive background checks. Being routed between two offices in two different cities. Cold, drafty, lice-infested rooms in which applicants were required to stay for the duration of the application process.

Hunting permits were not something a High King could ban. Not while keeping their head attached to their shoulders. Although, if the currently reigning High King disliked the Greatest Game, they could make getting the permits a living hell. Of course, most nobles didn’t care what their servants had to endure to perform tasks in their name, as was their ancient legal right since time immemorial.

“The princess will be required to make a public appearance at Canterlot for the upcoming Zebrican Ambassador’s visit five days from now, sir. Furthermore, I have confirmation that she will not be sleeping there and will be hosting the Lunar court every other weekday, starting with Moonsday.”

The Barron nodded to himself and opened one of his desk drawers, retrieving his Letter of Marque and hunting permits. “Five days hence? I do hope we will not have to return home and make the fish and game department happy with fresh permits. I've been postponing this hunt for long enough.”

He scanned the documents for a few moments then dipped his beak forwards again. “Ah! Five days will be acceptable, it is before the end of the season. Back to the bridge with you, young miss. Let me know the moment the skies are clear so I can dispatch my scouts for the hunt on the fifth at say, ten in the evening. I feel like some nighttime adventure, dont you? Oh, and do make certain every one of my Hawks are ready. Nothing spoils a hunt quite like a poor start.”

“Yes, M’Lord.” The hen bowed once more and left the cabin, closing the door behind her.

“Well then, I suppose I had best get properly ready.” Barron Murcrow stood up from his desk and crossed his caben to his hatstand.

Barron Murcrow paused along the way to admire his taxidermied-earth-pony mounted to the wall above a portrait of his grandfather. Perhaps this year he would at last find another tan earth pony so the portrait could be framed on either side with an impressive trophy stallion.

The Barron plucked a pith helmet from the stand, exhaled on the bronze family crest fixed to its font to give it a quick polish on his sleeve, and smiled. “Tallyho!”

9 - The Greatest Game (Part 1)

Heated Retort - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Retort’s eyes stared blankly at his bedroom wall. His desk chair creaked as he shifted his weight absently, a futile attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth. Ameili’s file sat on his desktop, neatly re-stacked. Just like it had come.

Retort turned to one side and accidentally tapped his left hoof against the desktop. His mind whispered of danger, someone grabbed his hoof!

Retort jumped, almost knocking over his chair. “Shit!”

His eyes flicked around the empty room. Nothing. It was safe. Glad no one had seen him panic, Retort sat back down.

The file caught his attention again. It had taken him a week to read everything. A week of sitting down every night, pretending everything was normal. That everything was fine.

Retort pushed back his desire to remain sequestered in his room. I have to do something. I’m a deputy. It’s my job to ensure public tranquility. I can’t not act.

Retort turned to look out his window at the snow capped trees glittering beneath the setting sun. He ran a hoof through his messy mane and closed his eyes.

These were not accusations to take lightly. Or to act upon before reading everything there is to know about them. But… Now that I have, what do I do?

Ameili’s file went back a long way. Longer than anyone would have expected. The appearance of a biosuited mare who wandered the nation occurred a little over fifteen years ago. Hardly a long time, or unusual. Heavens knew why Detective Glass took interest in Ameili, but if he hadn’t…

Before the biosuit, there had been a mare in thick clothing with a surgical mask who claimed to be suffering from a magically enhanced form of leprosy. She frequented all the same locations the biosuited one had. Ever wandering clockwise around Equestria, seen in a given community perhaps once every fifty years.

That mare went back a hundred years.

Before her, there had been a leper clad in the traditional bandages. Same M.O.. Same path. Of course the sightings from this era were much less documented. Most of them were myths. Yet the core of those myths remained the same, and the odd museum had a few artifacts allegedly attributed to a wandering pyromancer who died a leper.

That mare went back to the beginning of the Solar Era, the time of myths, legends, and heroes. She went back to a mere thirteen years after the fall of the Dark Lord. To the very year Nightmare Moon emerged, and Princess Luna had been lost.

My mom told me stories of the Wandering Flame when I was little, Retort thought as he stood up and walked to his window. How was I supposed to know those were more than folktales? Real things have proof. Statues, monuments, paintings, relics. I don’t need to believe in monsters, I can see them at the zoo. I don’t need to believe in Dark Lords, I live close enough to the north to see the scar one left in the night sky.

They are not inconsistent stories where sometimes the wandering hero is a unicorn, and sometimes they are an alicorn, and sometimes they are a sick Princess Luna searching for the part of her soul the Nightmare stole from her.

“And they never mentioned a fire elemental companion…” Retort murmured into the glass.

The sound of a bench grinder polishing metal reverberated faintly through the glass. Ameili was at work on her armor, as she had been all winter. Retort’s ears flicked, pointing towards the opposite corner of the room, aiming themselves towards her workshop.

“I could confront you,” Retort said quietly. “You’re over there. On my property. You’re many things. One of those things is a liar. Another is a hero.”

The file contained hundreds of accounts of this individual stepping in to stop disasters. Bandits plaguing the roads, monsters lurking in the dark, corrupt nobles, enemy soldiers sacking villages during several wars. All slain with bolts of unnaturally fast-acting flame. All without ever asking for anything in return. Always explained away with the nonsense phrase, “Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis.”

Well, I thought it was a nonsense phrase… Retort turned to look at his door, the fur on the back of his neck standing up.

Upon learning the Wandering Flame was a historical figure, Retort asked Track what it meant. “Thus I always bring death to tyrants.”

Retort closed his eyes again, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “It’s her. There’s no doubt about it. She’s not a criminal, she’s so old the Statute of Heroes would apply to any of her deeds… But she’s still a killer. A dangerous one.”

Retort began to pace back and forth, weighing his actions carefully. “You’re not who you claimed to be. You are one of three things: an immortal unicorn, an alicorn, or some type of undead who retained their personality.

“It’s unlikely a unicorn found a path to immortality. If one had, there would be many others. That secret couldn’t be kept. It would be tortured out of them, stolen, or replicated independently.

“If you are undead, you must be a lich. You can talk, you have a mind of your own… It’s impossible for you to be something a necromancer animated. Besides, you have a lot of control over fire. More than anypony I know. And I know plenty of mages.

“But that could mean you’re an alicorn with a link to fire too. Your suit is bulky enough to hide wings. Heavy enough to keep them from moving too. But I don’t know why you would hide being a goddess… And you are pretty short for an Alicorn, if that’s the case. Though I hear Princess Twilight is short.”

Retort sighed and turned to his bedroom door. There was either a friendly lich or a reclusive alicorn in his yard. It was time to confront them.

Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili’s workshop had become quite cluttered over the winter. The initial state of piled materials had been her system of organization, as incredulous as that seemed to her friends. Wizards have no need to physically reach things to retrieve them, making piles on a grid into one of the best storage systems available.

Those piles were long gone. Ameili’s armor had consumed them. Not in its construction, but in the chaos of its construction. The hulking silver plates hid months of ugly rapid-prototyping, amateurly fashioned devices, and pieces of clockwork which made Ameili glad her mentor and friend wasn’t alive to see.

Despite looking ugly beneath the beautiful, and quite effective plate armor, each system functioned. At least, they functioned independently. Ameili had yet to take the finished suit off its engine hoist and power it up in full. There was need of one last finishing touch, particularly since the plates could be reused even if the clock or steamworks needed a bit of work.

The plates were Ameili’s pride and joy. She had studied very hard to make armor suited for modern combat. Every plate curved to deflect bullets and give the armor more effective thickness. Each joint was fully covered and retained the full range of motion permitted by the substructure. Best of all, the split along the back to get into the armor was nearly invisible. The only thing the plates were missing was some paint and a little embellishment.

Ameili hummed happily to herself as she burnished her freshly inlaid pauldron. Since Trac knew her secret, Ameili had felt there would be no harm in putting her family crest on her armor. It’s not as if the common pony knew what an Aquila was, let alone the significance of one resting atop a wreath of olive leaves.

Vulcan rested atop Ameili’s forge, enjoying its warmth and several lumps of coal. “You do know Trac only knows where you are from, and not who you are from, right?”

Ameili snorted. “He thought our gladiators fought to the death. This will look like a military emblem to him. It’s not like our soldiers didn’t have a version of it on their shields.”

“Fair enough,” Vulcan yawned. “What if he knows?”

Ameili giggled and switched off her bench grinder. “Then he fanboys again.”

Vulcan nodded, seemingly content. “So long as you don’t mind I— Wait, someone is coming. I feel their warmth.”

Ameili frowned behind her mask. “Retort?”

“I expect so.”

“I hope we’re not making too much noise.”

Ameili spared a glance at her now gleaming family crest. She levitated the pauldron into place, nodding as it locked in place with a loud click. Ameili turned her attention to the door. “Hey, Re! Vulcan heard you coming. Come on in. Nothing dangerous is in the way.”

The door creaked open as Retort pulled on the handle. The stallion wasn’t dressed in his usual winter clothing, despite the chill in the night air. Instead, he wore his uniform: beige shirt with rank stripes, olive green pants, brown faux-wool lined jacket, brown ranger’s hat with brass badge, and a gun belt.

With all the tools of the law enforcement trade. Including the standard issue HC Mercy bolt-pistol.

Ameili conjured a pair of flaming eyebrows, raising them as her friend stepped through the doorway. “Uh, did I break the law? Some kind of noise ordinance? Oh! Is there a permit required for the possession of certain grades of armor?”

Retort paused, and shook his head. “No… I felt I might need protection. And a way to show you I’m serious.”

Vulcan repositioned himself, subtly moving in a way which would make it easier for him to pounce. If the situation called for it.

Ameili nodded once. “You found out… Good. I’ve been worrying about this. Let’s get it over with.”

Retort’s shoulders tightened, his left hoof pulled back, instinctively reached towards his pistol before he stopped himself. “I— I don’t know exactly what you are, but you’re not who you claim to be. I know you’ve been around for a thousand years. There are three options. Which one are you?”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Retort. Not if you don’t hurt me first. Relax. We can talk about this like civilized people. Remember my first night here? You used a truth spell on me? I said I was no threat to you.”

Retort laughed nervously. “I use those for work. I know how much wiggle room there is in them. If you meant you wouldn’t hurt me then, it would come back valid. If you meant ‘I won't hurt you, because my weapon isn’t me’, it would come back valid. Yeah, you said ‘I mean you no harm’. That’s pretty solid. But you could change your mind.”

Ameili sighed. “With how nervous you are, one of your three conclusions must be that I am undead. What are the other two?”

Retort took a deep breath and focused his eyes on Ameili’s helmet, doing his best to put on an intimidating air. “Why not just tell me the truth, right now?”

Ameili slowly pointed to a pile of oil-soaked rags which had accumulated over the winter near her workbench. “I can. I would rather understand what you’re so worried about me being, so I can help calm you down and you don’t fire your weapon into a shed full of volatile chemicals.”

Retort’s eyes widened. He shifted to one side, turning his shoulders away from the rags, but keeping his eyes on Ameili. “You’re either a unicorn who made herself immortal in a way nopony can replicate, an undead someone bound a soul too, perhaps a Lich, or an alicorn. I can’t imagine a spell of immortality would stay hidden for a thousand years. The department classes on fighting necromancers tell me it’s believed to be impossible to make an intelligent undead.

“A great detective one said ‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ You’re either a lich, or an alicorn. Either way, you’re very, very dangerous, and clearly don’t want to be found out. But— But I have to do something! I’m an officer of the law. I protect people. I need to know what you are and if you’re really safe and you lied to me!”

Ameili nodded, her ears drooping back. “Yes. I did. I am sorry, but I have to lie. I’m not a normal unicorn. People attack me on sight if I don’t lie.”

Retort nodded, his forehead wrinkling as he went through the options once more. “Then we’re down to two options, and I can’t think of why an Alicorn would hide for a millenia. Unless I am missing something, and I probably am, you’re a lich.”

Retort bit his lip and reached for his pistol for a second time. “So… Where does this go now?”

Ameili snorted and waved a hoof in dismissal. “I’m not a lich. Besides, if I was, do you really think your gun would pierce my wards?”

Retort nodded, an air of confidence surrounding him as his hoof gripped his sidearm’s cherry handle. “I do. It’s loaded with disrupt— Not?” Retort’s eyes shrank to pinpricks.

He blinked several times and shook his head “But— Then you’re— Who the hay would attack an alicorn on sight? That’s how you get your soul stuck deep into a pit in Tartarus!”

Ameili looked at the babbling stallion and facehooved. “O caritas est— Retort, first off, Alicorns are not deities. They may be absurdly powerful, and have command over an element of nature, but they do not have any dominion over our souls. Well, unless there’s an Alicorn of Death… There’s been a LOT of different alicorns over the years. Maybe one had that power. But they still wouldn’t be a god.”

Retort flinched as he realized he was still holding his gun and let go of the weapon. “Uh, well… P— Princess Celestia literally moves the sun. If she decided to, she could wipe out all life in the world either by freezing or burning us all. That’s god-like, at the very least. She’s also wiser than anyone else. Smarter too. Physically better than anyone else in every respect, including looks… That sure feels supernatural.”

Ameili nodded. “Yes. But she was not there when the world was forged from Sol’s placenta. She did not witness the birth of life, nor take part in it. Celestia is a mortal who became something more, just as many have before her and just as many will after her… Assuming something manages to kill her. After all, so far, every alicorn has died eventually.”

“E— Every?” Retort shuffled his hooves. “So uh… I know there are four, now that Princess Twilight ascended. How many have there been?”

Ameili levitated a wooden stool over to her and sat on it. “A few hundred. All of them now long dead.”

Retort’s jaw dropped. “H— Hundred?”

Ameili nodded. “Yes. The royal line of Roam was mostly Alicorns. We wouldn’t let someone sit upon the throne if they had not ascended.”

Retort slumped forwards and shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re stalling for time. Probably so Vulcan can disable me while you run away.”

Ameili threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Retort. If I wanted to get away I wouldn’t need his help. I’m not stalling. I’m telling you about my homeland, a place nopony remembers. Roam. We too were ruled by Alicorns. Or at least—”

Retort pursed his lips. “You’re Romane? As in, the civilization Sombra erased?”

Ameili nodded quietly. “Yes.”

“You had hundreds of Alicorns, and you lost to him…”

Ameili shook her head firmly. “No, we had two by the time he came to power and one of those two was busy dying from poisoned wine. Amazingly it wasn’t assassination that time, it was an accident. The others… They were not accidents. Infighting. Monsters. A ‘stray’ javelin. Curses. None of ours lived for more than three hundred years.”

Retort frowned. “But if Alicorns can die like anypony else, how have the Princesses lived for so long? Princes Celestia is thousands of years old, Princes Luna is her twin, Princes Cadence is five hundred, and Princes Twilight is… Um, thirty one? I think.”

“Ours were... Different,” Ameili said hesitantly. “It’s possible that of all those to ascend, Celestia and Luna were the first to do so properly. See, Equestrian culture is— No, No, I have to start with us. Our entire culture was centered around instilling the correct virtues within us, so we might one day ascend. Most did not. The Royal Family was not by blood, it was by the adoption of those who ascended. Every last one of us spent their entire lives trying to become the next heir.

“There may have been hundreds of us, but well… That’s hundreds from over a thousand years of an entire culture trying to ascend. It’s clear that not everyone can do it, and of those who do, the power gained by it varies wildly. Some of them could fly, others wings were useless. Some gained an incredible boost in magical power, others did not. Though they all had a bond to some element of nature, usually it was something simple. The wind. The rain. Corn. Water. Fire. Nothing like the sun, love, the moon, or you know, magic!”

“Are you saying Romane alicorns were… Prototypes?”

Ameili shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. I’m not a wizard. But I suspect the term “pseudo-Alicorns” would fit better. Even if it hurts my national pride to say it.

“Our approach to ascension was… Flawed. In my opinion. We balanced the Elements within our hearts, understood the bonds of friendship to their fullest extent, and invoked the deep magic within those things to become something more than we once were. But we did it for the power.

“Celestia and Luna are the strongest alicorns I know of. My grandmother, a priestess, taught them the virtues, spells, and the rituals for the ascension. No one believed they could, as we trained from childhood to do it, but they were grown mares. They did it. Within four months.

“When they emerged from the temple, it’s said the sun went dark, and the moon rose in front of it as if bowing to their masters. Their power was incredible, and nothing like this had ever been seen before. They ascended for the sake of others and got a much greater reward. It’s clear intent matters. There may even be such a thing as pseudo-Alicorns. I don’t know. Perhaps there’s some truth to the old legend and all but the current four failed.”

“Legend?” Retort tilted his head to the side. “What legend?”

Ameili shrugged. “Oh you know the one. Old Pony’s tale. In the ancient times before ponykind learned to forge tools of bronze, it is said there was once an entire nation of Alicorns. They went to war with one another until all but six were slain. The bloodbath was so terrible the gods formed modern ponies from the blood soaked earth, giving each tainted soul a chance to redeem itself by regaining its original form. Or so the legends say.”

Retort nodded and sat down on the shed’s floor. “So… You’re an alicorn. Or at least, something close to one.”

“I never said that,” Ameili said.

“You didn’t deny it, and you know a lot about Alicorns, apparently.”

Ameili smiled behind her mask nodded. “True. I do. Would you like to know the full story of your Princesses ascension? It happened long before my time, but my grandmother helped them achieve their current forms, so they could stop Discord.”

Retort slammed his hoof on the floor. “Don’t distract me! Are you, or are you not an alicorn?”

“You do know there’s more options for what I could be than the three you gave, right?” Ameili asked as she conjured a fiery smirk which flickered unsteadily.

Retort’s lips pursed. “Like what?”

“I could be a construct, or a ghost, or a monster shaped like a pony. I could be a changeling Queen, they too live until an external force kills them. Or I could be a unicorn who is immortal due to a potion which can no longer be produced as its key ingredient is no more.

“I could also be a combination of things. I could be an undead alicorn, or a lich who was in life an alicorn. It’s possible that I am a construct created to mimic the appearance and personality of a long dead wizard’s life which is so convincingly realistic that I am best thought of as a unicorn. Or, I might be something even more bizarre.

“But whatever I am, I am your friend and I wish you no harm.”

Retort’s voice was like iron. “Then stop dancing around the bush and tell me what you are!”

Ameili paused and turned to look Retort in the eye. “If I do, will you promise me one thing?”

Retort hesitated, his lips sliding across one another. “What?”

Ameili tipped her head forwards to put herself on Retort’s eye level. “Promise me it will change nothing between us. I’ve been in near-isolation for a thousand years, Retort. I am tired of it. It hurts. The last few months have been the happiest times I can remember for the majority of my days. I wish to remain here with you.”

“I—” Retort closed his mouth tightly and took a deep breath. “You… You’ve had all the time in the world to hurt Trac and I. You have not… Okay. I promise. UNLESS, what you are carries a clear and present danger to those around you!”

Ameili nodded. “I do not.”

“Then what are you?”

Ameili stood up and to Retort’s surprise, took a bow. “I am Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas Regis Filia; the younger daughter of Lucius Tarquinius Priscus Rex, he who was appointed Steward of Roam by Our Undying Lord, Cold Iron, upon pridie Mensis Martius one thousand seven hundred and tenth since the founding.”

Retort stood up, his face burning red as he glared into Ameilie’s goggle covered eyes. “You said the royal family was made of anyone who ascended. You’re an Alicorn! You gave me that entire horseapples speech when you’re a bucking—”

Ameili cleared her throat. “First, the adoption rule was true before we became very rare. The Crown Princess is an Earth pony. The Crown Prince is a pegasus. My family line no longer necessitates having both wings and a horn.”

“You said ‘we’!” Retort insisted. “Why do you dance around the issue so much?! Afraid people will worship you?”

Ameili’s left eye twitched. “No! I’m not an alicorn. Not any more.”

The mare’s ears collapsed. She slumped down on her stool.

Retort stared on in silence.

After a long moment, Ameili began to speak. “I am an undead clockwork hybrid which was very briefly an Alicorn. Or maybe a Winged Unicorn… I don’t know! It’s complicated!”

Retort stared blankly for a few moments. “You can… Uh, how did you revert?”

Ameili stared down at the floor.

Vulcan shifted atop the forge. “Sombra captured her, and cut her wings from her body. He also reverted her magic to its previous state. All to enhance himself further. He failed.”

Retort winced, his ears sinking with sympathy. “Ow…”

“Then my entire people were cursed with a living undeath, and my best friend made me clockworks to help me get around. That includes wings, but they don’t work. They don’t even look right,” Ameili muttered. “I’m NOT an Alicorn. I know what one is. I know what it feels like to be one, and I am NOT an alicorn. I am an undead unicorn who happens to be about fifty percent clockwork parts, forty percent craft shop supplies, six percent silicone, and three percent bone.”

Vulcan smoldered atop the forge. “The remaining one percent is well-hidden angst.”

Ameili shot Vulcan a glare.

Retort narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Craft supplies?”

Ameili sighed wearily. “Yes… I’m a skeleton. If something touches me, it feels like I’m still alive. Hit a bone on a table edge, feels like I cut myself to the bone. I found a loophole. I can wear a body made from well, stuff. It keeps me from feeling that pain. It also makes me less frightening to foals… I love foals. They run from me now… Even with my costume. It’s not like I can look lifelike…”

“Craft supplies?” Retort repeated.

Vulcan chuckled. “Take off the suit, dear.”

Ameili’s horn glowed as she unzipped her hood and slipped it off her head. Retort’s eyes widened as he took in Ameili’s latex skin, gemstone eyes, and padded lips.

“Trac’s seen this much,” Ameili said, looking away from Retort at the floor.

Retort blinked, shaking himself to refocus. “Wait, he knew?! Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I asked him not too. Though… He doesn't know what I once was.”

“Because you don’t have wings anymore.”

Ameili’s cheeks burned as she looked even further away. “Well, I do. Useless clockwork ones. When Sombra’s curse took effect the space where they had been was effected just like any of my bones were. I’ve worn the clockwork ones ever since. It’s easy to hide them beneath baggy clothing. I meant I didn’t completely undress for him.”

Ameili’s arcane grip took hold of her suit’s zipper and pulled it the rest of the way down. Her suit slid down her sides, pooling on the ground as she stepped out of it. Her brass limbs glistened in the light of the forge, her wings shimmering as she unfolded the fairly crude appendages for Retort’s inspection. “See?”

Retort stepped forwards and leaned in to examine her wings. He looked them over for five seconds before nodding. “Yeah, you wouldn’t be flying with those. Insufficient range of motion, no channels for mana field creation, and you’re missing feathers. If you want to fly again, get a modern set. Pegasi wing replacements have been functional for thirteen years now.”

Ameili grit her teeth. “You can scream. You don’t need to pretend to be nice.”

Retort raised an eyebrow. “Scream at you? Why? Because you’re undead? I know that now, but I also know who you are. You are correct. If you meant to hurt me, you would have. You didn’t. You’re the person I knew. A friend.”

Ameili stared at Retort blankly.

Retort rolled his eyes. “Also, you’re clearly something different from the Princesses. You don’t feel like they do. I saw Princess Celestia once. You can feel her, in your heart. You know she’s something more… Besides, you don’t look scary. Weird, yeah… And uh… Well, I’m not gonna lie. I’m digging the body suit look.”

Vulcan’s flames blazed brighter. “She’s MINE, mortal!”

Retort held up his hooves defensively. “Woah! Easy! I’ve got a marefriend! I’m just saying she looks nice, but weird.”

Vulcan slid off the forge as a formless mass of fire. He oozes across the floor only to spring up around Ameili as she folded her prosthetic wings tightly against her back. The fire elemental reformed his body, wrapping a leg around Ameili’s shoulders. “Mine!”

Retort cleared his throat, smiled shakily, and nodded. “Yours.”

Ameili shook her head and smiled before nodding to Vulcan. “His.”

Vulcan nodded in satisfaction. “Good.”

Ameili smiled and gently rested her head on Vulcan's cheek. “You just like me because I was once bound to fire.”

“You still are,” Vulcan said. “Your power may be gone, but fire still knows its mistress.”

“I don't feel it, Vulcan. Not like I once did.”

“Your flames are still hot.”

Retort raised an eyebrow. “Temperature, or sexy?”

“Both,” Ameili and Vulcan said in unison.

Retort rolled his eyes. “Whatever… Look, Ameili, your story makes sense. The Sisters had to become Alicorns somehow. They’re on public record as having been born normal ponies… Now that I think about it, they never said how they became Alicorns. Alright, I’ll trust you on this. A Romane helped them, so they themselves don’t know how they became what they are and therefore don’t mention it to the public. That’s not impossible.

“I understand why you’ve hidden in the past. You existed before those materials did. Why are you hiding now? You don't look scary, you could claim to be a burn victim, or even live openly in some communities. The suit is not needed in this day and age. Especially not if you told Princess Celestia what you told me.”

Ameili sighed. “I tried. She didn't remember me, she thought I was lying. Knowledge of my people was erased…”

“Oh, right…” Retort frowned. “But what about, say, Ponyville? All sorts of weird things happen there. No one seems to care about them. I’ve even heard a dragon lives there.”

The mare shrugged and turned to face her forge. “Some of it is habit. This body is very new to me. For most of my life, I was obviously a monster and could not possibly pass for a mare in a suit. I sent foals screaming into the night, and often felt arrows pierce my absent flesh.

“But there’s another problem. If I take these wings off, I risk horrible pain. If I keep them on and my clothing off, someone will notice. If the public knew potentially anyone could become an Alicorn, many would try. Almost all of them would fail, but perhaps one in a few million would succeed. That would destabilize the—”

Ameili’s eyes widened as she realized she had just failed to keep a crucial secret.

Retort snorted. “Give me more credit than that. I want to grow old and die. I also understand exactly how much chaos a fresh crop of pseudo-alicorns would cause. I’m a peacekeeper.”

“I… THINK I trust you,” Ameili nodded slowly. “Yes. I trust you. Not a word of this.”

Retort nodded. “Not one word. Although…” The stallion stroked his chin in thought, then nodded. “Yes. It’s for public safety. I can justify it.”

“Justify what?” Ameili asked curiously.

“The department uses medallions of transfiguration for disguise purposes. They can be adjusted to temporarily hide body parts, or create non-functional versions of them. I can get one for you which would hide your wings. Then we simply—”

A sharp crystalline ringing filled the workshop as Retort’s mage gem responded to an urgent call.

Retort yelped and reached into his left breast pocket, fumbling the quartz stone into his hoof. “Deputy Heated Retort speaking.”

A loud crack emanated from the gem, the sound of gunpowder propelling lead. The Sheriff's commanding voice followed it. “Retort! Praise the Moon! Get your plot down here, we’ve got Griffon raiders. I can’t raise the guard, communications are jammed. I didn’t think a signal could reach you way out there. We’re on our own. All hooves on deck, and bring the big gun!”

A mocking laugh cut through the gem’s transmission. “It would seem I didn’t feed enough power to the jammer. I do hope your reinforcements are substantial, prey.”

The gem went dark, like a candle somepony blew out.

The metaphorical fur on the back of Ameili’s neck stood up. Griffons! Hunting ponies for sport no doubt.

Ameili reached for her suit with her telekinetic grip and pulled it onto her body, hastily zipping it up, but leaving the hood down.

Retort stuffed his gem back into his pocket. “Thank Celestia this didn’t happen when Trac was in tow— OH, SISTERS! His train should be pulling into the station now! Stay here! I’ll be back. ”

“Not a chance! He’s my friend too,” Ameili insisted as she hit the lever to release her armor from the engine hoist.

The suit slammed into the floor with a shed-shaking crash. “And I’ve prepared for this day.”

Retort shook his head. “You won’t make it in heavy armor in time. I have to go now!” Retort backed through the open door, unfurled his wings, and with a single jump and flap, took off into the night sky.

Ameili gestured at Vulcan. “Get my sword and shield.”

The fire elemental nodded, and flew up and out of the building, slipping between the gaps between the shed’s boards.

Ameili reached out with her magic and pulled on the internal latches inside her armor. The backplates hissed and creaked as the hinged open, revealing the internal cavity where she would sit.

Ameili climbed up atop the side of her armor to step in. It creaked, groaned, and sank under her weight. The mare shifted, ducking her head into the armor’s neck hole and squirming her way inside.

Ameili’s magic went to work, poking at valves, pulling tiny levers, and igniting the armor’s micro-boiler. Flames excited the magic-infused crystal. Mana raced into water, transforming into a potent fuel. The armor began to hum and vibrate as its systems pressurized. Ameili reached back and closed the armor’s back plates.

A flash of fire filled the doorway as Vulcan returned, gladius and towershield in hoof. “Here you are.”

Ameili smiled behind her helmet. Her goggles lenses made the skull’s empty sockets appear to be dark voids. The warlike visage groaned and creaked as Ameili moved even slightly. Vulcan’s ears drooped back.

“Um, hon? Maybe you—”

Ameili reached out to take her sword. The armor shirked as steam pressure reached critical levels. Ameili yelped and recoiled. The armor had enough. A thunderous roar shook the shed as stressed pipes and tubing ruptured. The armor’s substructure thrashed, shaking Ameili about. Plates fell off. Gears went flying. Clouds of glowing steam filled the air.

As the chaos cleared, Ameili picked herself up, the shreds of her biosuit falling from her slightly ripped body.

“Ow… Ow…. Bucking… Ow…” Ameili whimpered, her head still inside her helmet.

“Why did you think water would play nice with fire?” Vulcan said as he gently took Ameili in his legs, helping her to her hooves.

“Whirling Cog made my legs in a dungeon. From scrap. This was his design. It should have worked.”

“I’m sorry, darling. But you’re not Whirling Cog,” Vulcan sighed. “What do we do now?”

Ameili closed her eyes, glad tears couldn’t fill them. If I got to town now, everypony will see me for what I am. If I stay here, far more will die than if I remain hidden…

Ameili raised a hoof to her helmet, then hesitated, deciding to leave it on. “Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis.”

Vulcan’s mouth stretched as the elemental smiled. “I knew you’d say that.”

Ameili lashed her shield to her left foreleg and strapped her sword onto her waist. She spread her newly scratched wings wide, then reared up onto her hind legs. “Vulcan, GO!”

The fire elemental shook off its pony form and latched onto Ameili’s non-functional wings, shaping itself into a full set of blazing flight feathers. Ameili jumped with all her might, the residual magic in her soul worked in harmony with her mechanical legs, sending her soaring into the air with Vulcan on her back.

Vulcan gripped Ameili’s wings tightly and focused, burning as hot as the ancient being could burn. His orange flames brightened to a dazzling white. With a quick adjustment, all of that heat was focused away from himself and his mate and the duo shot forwards on wings of fire.

Their sky-blazing couldn’t truly be called flight. They had no control. No form. No lift. They flew as a trebuchet bolder flies.

Up, across, down, land, jump. Ameili and Vulcan raced through the forest in a series of arc, each completed as fast as Vulcan’s thrust and gravity allowed. Each hop taking them closer and closer to West Bloomfield.

Retort screeched and nearly fell out of the sky as a blazing ball of white-hot fire blew past him like he was standing still. Ameili scarcely noticed her terrified friend. Her eyes were focused on the burning town.

Fire engulfed many buildings, blazing infernos reaching up to the sky like death’s teeth. A large airship hovered over the town, looking something like a sick griffon in full armor. She could see griffons in form-fitting plate-armor whizzing about the air around their ship, fighting pegasi, bringing bound captives up to the ship’s hanger, or diving to the ground with fresh supplies in their talons.

Ameili narrowed her eyes, her wings shook in Vulcan’s grip. “Silver Hawks. What pirate can afford their services?”

“An extremely wealthy one,” Vulcan answered.

The ground raced up towards Ameili. She braced herself for the impact. Her hooves hit the ground, a jolt of pain shot through her bones. Ameili didn’t care.

She looked to her left. A pair of griffon sorcerers stood in rune-circles, chanting arcane prayers. The school in front of them burned. The flames slowly oozed through the hallways and into rooms, chasing terrified ponies into corners to hide from their deaths.

Ameili looked to her right. A pair of Silver Hawks swooped down, landing next to a griffon dressed in a dark green hunting jacket. The griffon shouldered a single barreled rifle and fired. His shot missed.

The hunter cursed and snatched the package the Hawk had brought him. “Blast! You, Hawk, have a magus set a wall up four streets down. This mare is a cunning thing.”

The griffon slid his rifle into a strap on his back and began to run down the street. The Hawks took off into the sky without a word.

Ameili felt something in her snap into place. The mind of an ancient world’s warrior had come back to her in full.

This was war. She was a warrior. The enemy was evil. She was good. All actions required to slay the evildoers were therefore just, noble, and demanded of her.

Ameili pointed to the hunter with her sword. “Vulcan. Eat him.”

The flames around her wings launched forwards like a missile. He fell upon the hunter in a flash and sank into his flesh. The hunter screamed as Vulcan cooled himself down to just the perfect temperature to make flesh blister and bubble as it melted.

Ameili turned her attention to the two sorcerer's. She could feel their flames, the magic twisting them into unnatural shapes. She could see their faces, the glee of a predator on a hunt. She knew there were people inside that building.

Ameili’s horn glowed brightly beneath her helmet as she drew upon the full extent of her magic. The golem heart in her chest began to glow until it’s light could be seen beneath her chest. Ameili reached out to the sorcerer's fire.

The flames reached out for Ameili, seeking freedom from their shackles and revenge against the unworthy who had dared seize control of them. Her helmet’s horn sheath began to glow as her magic ignited beneath it. First red, then orange, then white, then molten metal ran down her faceplate as her magic reached is full strength.

Full strength she lent the flames, that they might break free from their shackles.

The griffon sorcerers shirked as their rune circles exploded beneath them, sending fragments of stone slicing into their undersides. The blazing building before them seemed to shudder as their flames rushed back through the halls and fell upon them. A heartbeat later, there was but a small bonfire, the stench of roasting feathers, and a smouldering school.

A pair of Hawks watched the sorcerers burn and dove, drawing a pair of pistols each as they prepared to fire on the—

The Hawk screamed a warning. “Alicorn!”

The Hawks rolled, veering off in different directions to dodge an impending barrage of arcane blasts.

Ameili pointed to the Hawk on her left. “Vulcan!”

Vulcan’s ears manifested and perked at the sound of his love’s voice. Seeing the threat to her, he let go of the wheezing, skinless, sizzling hunter and flew upwards, tackling one of the Hawks from the sky.

Ameili smiled behind her helmet and asked the stones beneath her to politely combusted. The ground erupted into a sea of blue-white fire which slid up Ameili’s legs and across her body, covering her in an ever denser layer of shifting blue flames as she prepared the fire for battle.

We will purge many wicked people from this world tonight, my friends.

Ameili spread her rear hooves out, focused her magic, raised her sword-hoof as if she were throwing a ball, and sent a bolt of flame whizzing through the air. “URO, HAERETICUS!”

The fireball smashed against the other Hawk’s visor and seeped into his armor by the cracks. A smoldering, blackened, suit of armor hit the ground, oozing thick, oily, tar-filled smoke.

Barron Murcrow - 21th of Lunerdusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Barron Murcrow hunched over the kicking and screaming form of a young pegasus stallion who had run directly into one of his snares. The griffon held a rag soaked in chloroform over the struggling ponies mouth, smiling as his prey’s screams and kicks grew more and more feeble as consciousness slipped away.

A Hawk slammed into the ground next to the Barron. “M’Lord, I—”

“Just a moment!” The Barron said chipperly.

The Barron waited for a few more moments until the stallion went limp. He stuffed the rag into an airtight belt pouch, retrieved his hunting knife, and with one swift flick of his blade gelded his catch.

The Barron flicked the blood from his knife and took hold of one of the pegasus’s wings. “There! That will take the fight out of this one. Hold him still as I clip the wings, would you?”

The Hawk winced behind his visor, and did his best to push his disgust aside. It wasn't his place to question the high-born, nor did he have the right to disobey. His ancestors had lost that in battle long ago. “M’Lord! The ponies have deployed a pyromancer. They are either equipped with a flight-pack, or are an alicorn. Given their skill with slinging fire, I’m going to say Alicorn, sir!”

The Barron looked up, a surprised yet delighted look on his face. “An Alicorn you say? And yet our ship remains in the sky. It must be the young one! She will make a fine trophy. Take this one to my chef's butcher block, please.”

The Barron drew his rifle from its holster and opened the breach to check the shells. Two master crafted disruptor rounds glittered within the rifle’s twin barrels. “I’m going to see if I can bag the trophy of a lifetime.”

Author's Note

Hello everyone! I will be rewriting this story once it is completed to sell it as original fiction. As such I would vastly appreciate your thoughts on the story as it develops in the comments below. Most of you know my financial situation, and I really want this to be able to sell once it's transformed from ponyfic to original fic. Thank you.

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10 - The Greatest Game (Part 2)

Tractor Pull - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

The ten-thirty from Detrot steamed down the rails, running unusually late. Despite being named for the time the train was due to arrive at its destination, the eleventh hour was rapidly approaching and West Bloomfield was still hidden behind the rolling hills bordering its shorter edge.

The train’s delay had not been explained to her passengers, but Track knew why they were running late. It didn’t take a genius to feel how slow and shakily the train was riding this evening to understand something had broken down.

Trac sighed and turned to look out the window for the millionth time. It’s lucky the train can move at all.

The solitude Trac normally road home in was absent this time as Thunder and Bunker road along with him. The three soldiers had the remains of shell shocked expressions left in the corners of their faces.

Thunder’s normal chatty nature had abandoned him. He sat in silence as the train rumbled down the tracks. Bunker’s laid back attitude evaporated. She fidgeted in her seat, absently blowing dust out from her clockwork leg’s exposed nooks and crannies.

“So like… Will the train get here before the bars close?” Bunker asked Trac yet again.

A faint flash of blue light lit the mostly empty car. The three ponies didn’t bother to look up. Despite being the only passengers in their car it’s not like no one else would enter over the course of the train’s route. The flash was most definitely a conductor checking for anyone aboard who shouldn’t be.

Trac shrugged. “Normally yeah. With the engine messed up, I don’t know.”

Thunder’s ears flicked slightly. “I… I need one. Badly. Do you have anything at home?”

Trac paused and closed his eyes. “Uhhh, no? Retort does. But that’s his. We would need to ask.”

Bunker’s lips twitched. “He’ll understand… I fainted in front of the Princess. That’s something you give someone a bottle for.”

Trac winced. “Oof, yeah… They should have told us the ‘noble’ was actually a ‘royal’. Pretty sure we would have intentionally lost.”

Thunder shook his head. “Buck no! I would have tried just as hard.”

Bunker laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t have! I’m not qualified to teach our future Commander in Chief the basics of tank warfare. I wouldn’t be if she had been born this century and was familiar with the basics already. Now I have to train someone from the days when armies stood in lines in front of each other and traded shots like they were in some kind of board game!”

The source of the blue flash raised an eyebrow at Bunker’s comment and cleared her throat. “That’s not how ancient warfare worked.”

The three ponies jumped out of their seat at the sound of Luna’s voice. The fur on the back of their necks stood up as they snapped into salutes.

Luna rolled her eyes and sat down in the aisle. “I believe you were instructed not to treat me as a Princess,” Luna offered the three a friendly smile. “Come now, we may be off duty, but I would like our relationship to be friendly and one of equals.”

Trac bit his lip, wincing as he lowered his hoof. “Y-yes ma’am. But, you’re still… You.”

Luna rolled her eyes. “No. I am someone very different from the propaganda you were raised on.”

Bunker coughed and shook her head. “Trac’s a history nut. He uh, he knows the real you. Probably.”

Luna laughed bitterly. “Unless the books you read mention my habit of bringing handsome stallions to bed after visiting small village bars and taverns every other night, then you do not know me. You know my public face. A creation of my sister’s.”

Trac cleared his throat. “I uh, I know you’re a promiscuous mare, Princess. I was referring to the fact that I am speaking to someone who single hoofedly slew three dragons in one to one combat. Conquered the lands which make up our modern nation. Supposedly invented scalemail armor. Has the ability to see all of our dreams. Fights off eldritch horrors which try to invade our world through those dreams… You’re a big deal.”

Luna nodded and looked at the three with a rather distant stare. “I’m also a person. Who at present has no genuine friends.”

Thunder’s lips pulled downwards. “That’s horrible! I mean, if it’s true. How can it be true? You’re you!”

Luna rolled her eyes and stood up. “When you have near unlimited power, those who come to you seeking friendship often, in truth, seek to suck on your teats. Not literally, unfortunately. The rest of the people I know today either are my peers, my sister, or in positions of power below me. It’s lonely at the top. You three have been put into a position of power above me for the time being… At least, in certain respects.

“I was hoping we could get a drink and get to know one another while I hide from my sister. There’s a late night session of the Solar Court to welcome the Griffonese High King for some peace talk or another… Frankly I would rather not attend. I’m not up to date on current politics. I’d likely say something appropriate for the time of the Crusades and start a fight, if not a war.”

Trac tilted his head to one side. “S— Shouldn’t Princess Celestia know that?”

“She does, but wants to have me present as a show of power. I divined your location and teleported to you in the hopes we could go find a bar and sample the innkeeper's finest instead of starting the Fourth Crusade.”

Bunker and Thunder exchanged a look and nodded. Thunder inhaled and winced. “With all do respect… We uh, we were going to drink because of you, so…”

Bunker’s eyes widened, her pupils shrank. Raising her metal hoof she thwacked the back of her brother’s head. “NO, YOU IDIOT! I meant she can come!”

“Ow!” Thunder rubbed his head and glared at Bunker. “But she likes to go to bars and pick up stallions!”

Trac and Luna stared at the tiny pegasus in confusion.

“Uh… So what?” Trac said slowly.

Luna nodded. “Indeed! What business is it of yours whom I bed?”

Bunker facehooved and groaned. “Oh, Celestia… It’s late. The only stallions present will probably be you and Trac. You could have phrased that way better!”

Thunder nodded and stared awkwardly at the floor. “Yeah… Uh, we’re a couple sooo… You know…”

Luna’s eyes widened for a moment before taking on a sly yet pleased gleam. “You’ve placed a lot of trust in me. Thank you. Fear not, I shan’t flirt with you. It would be improper, you’re my superior officers.”

Bunker cocked her head. “Trust?”

Luna nodded. “Of course. As sovereign, I could have them jailed for their relations. I am grateful for your trust, Sergeant.”

Trac blinked and looked up at the dark Alicorn. “No one told you?”

“No one told me what?”

“Same sex couples have been legal for three hundred years.”

Luna frowned. “They have?”

Bunker nodded. “Yeah. S— Shouldn’t someone have updated you on the laws you missed?”

“I was given a ‘crash course’, as it were,” Luna ran a hoof through her mane to hide her blush. “I’m glad you two may live as you wish. That law was dumb. I would have gotten rid of it, but domestic law has always been my sister’s affair.”

Thunder shuffled his hooves on the floor for a moment. “I— Uh… I’m sorry. For assuming you’d flirt with us.”

Luna snorted and waved a hoof in dismissal. “Apology accepted. Besides, thou art short and tiny. It reminds me of a colt. I’m not attracted to you. Your stallion is also not my ‘type’. Even if it were not improper, I wouldn’t have thought to propose anything.”

Trac’s ears drooped back. I dont normally care what mares think of me… But… She’s a princess… That kinda hurts.

Thunder’s eyes narrowed. His shoulders straightened. He opened his mouth with an angry frown. “Excuse me, but did you just call my coltfriend ugly?”

Luna blinked. Bunker stared wide eyed at Thunder. Trac froze in place.

Luna snorted and shook her head, offering Thunder a smile. “No. It’s just that I don’t enjoy stallions of his bulk. I’m quite tall, it takes a rather flexible stallion to mount this mare, and he’ll need to have somewhat thin legs to fit in deeply enough to count. Unless of course he’s rather large.”

Bunker’s cheeks lit up a bright red. “Uhhhhh, that is NOT an appropriate conversation to have.”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “We’re soldiers, going to a bar. What else do we talk about aside from romantic conquest, feasting, fighting, and hypothetical romantic conquest?”

Trac bit his lip to keep himself from laughing as Bunker’s ears slowly drooped down.

“She has you there,” Thunder said with a giggle.

Bunker coughed. “I uh… But you’re also the princess. We should be on our best behavior.”

Trac shook his head slowly. “S-Sarge? She’s trying to be friends… It’s an awkward topic, but uh, well, she’s over a thousand. This is what warriors talked about with their friends back then. We should… Help her feel at home.”

Bunker sighed and looked at the ground in defeat. “I suppose… But I don’t wanna talk about what I like to a Princess.”

Luna’s eyes lit up. “Oh? You like some interesting things I take it? Well in that case, think not of me as a princess. I was a city guard long before I had a crown. Think of me as your comrade.”

Thunder eeped. “Uhhh, we can skip her.”

Luna looked over at Thunder while Bunker sighed in relief. “I’ll hardly be embarrassed or judgmental. Do you not think after two thousand years I have not gotten curious about nearly everything there is to do?”

Trac frowned. “Huh… I never thought of that. How do you keep anything feeling fresh and new? Uh, sex stuff and normal stuff alike. I mean.”

“I get banished to the moon,” Luna said with a wink. “Say… I’ve never asked anyone this before. Largely because I have never known a pair of stallions of your proclivities before. But, how exactly do you two copulate? I don’t mean to be rude. I’m simply wondering how such a tiny opening can stretch to accommodate—”

Thunder blushed and looked away from Luna, rubbing the back of his head. “Uh… Butts are way stretchier than most ponies think they are.”

Luna’s eyes widened. “Butts? Of course! That would work far better! Why on earth did Tia tell me— Nevermind.” Luna shook her head and gave Bunker a gentle nudge on her shoulder. “See? We’re bonding. Or do the warriors of today do things differently?”

“Why did they bond over talking about what kind of ponies they liked to sleep within your day?” Bunker asked with a timid squeak.

Luna tilted her head. “Why, so we could find partners for our friends, of course! Each army would spend only so long at a given city. Everypony deserves a lover’s touch after a long campaign. It would be easy to miss out if your friends didn’t direct individuals you’d like your way.”

“Huh,” Thunder said, stroking his chin. “That’s actually kinda thoughtful.”

Luna nodded twice. “Indeed! My soldiers even directed stallions like you to partners. I always found that rule of Tia’s to be silly. What business is it of anypony what others do in their beds?”

Bunker squirmed in place. “I feel, like you want to know what I like, because I am single and a soldier. But given what you just said, can you respect that I would feel really awkward telling someone what I like?”

Luna frowned and nodded. “I can. Is there any kindness I can show you instead?”

Thunder’s lips twisted into a vengeful smile as he remembered Bunker smoking in their shared room every day for several years. “You could buy her one of those potions that makes a magical duplicate of the drinker.”

Luna nodded. “Of course I can. But why would she—”

Bunker looked at Thunder, her eyes filled with complete and utter betrayal. “Thunder! WHY?”

Luna blinked then smirked. “Oh! I see. Fear not. I’ve done that several times myself.”

Trac tilted his head. “I don’t get it.”

Thunder snickered. “Well, since she’ll murder me tonight already… Bunker drank one of those five years ago while she was drunk and fell in love with her copy. She’s been dating herself once a week ever since!”

Bunker’s eyes filled to the brim with tears. “It’s not my fault! I’m like, super nice… I don’t like mares. But I’m really charming so it’s an exception cuz I’m not gross for some reason and— And— And I’m not talking about this!”

Luna offered Bunker a knowing smile. “Fear not. I won't tell anypony. Though, I do believe I could help your ‘friend’ stay with you for more than a few hours at a time. There are several spells which—”

Luna fell silent mid sentence, her eyes widening as the train at last crested the final hilly ridge and West Bloomfield came into view.

The burning orange glow of flames churned and boiled, hidden from distant eyes beneath the rippling illusion of a normal sky. The spell did not reach the ground, a mercy the griffons did not intentionally offer.

The train sped along for six more seconds. Luna’s horrified eyes remained locked on the burning city. Trac, Bunker, and Thunder turned to see what she was looking at only for their eyes to gaze on in horror as well.

The Majesty came into view as they looked on. Griffon sorcerers were no match for unicorn mages. To keep their ship hidden and conceal the glow of the burning town from afar their illusion could not be made to reach the ground. A tactical choice which would have worked out had a spy been able to finish sabotaging a certain train’s engine.

Luna’s horrified expression twisted into wrath as she saw a pair of griffons carrying an unconscious pony to their airship. “It would seem I did not need to say anything to start a new Crusade.”

Bunker blinked, snapping out of her trance. “We need to do something!” She reached into her pocket, retrieving her messenger gem. “Command, this is Master Sergeant Bunker Bunny. West Bloomfield is under attack, repeat, West Bloomfield is under attack!”

The gem in her hoof failed to glow. Bunker frowned and shook the chunk of sapphire. “Come on! Work! I charged you this morning.”

Luna set a hoof on the unicorn’s clockwork shoulder. “The gem is fine. Griffons have always found ways to disrupt magical communications. Pirates my plot! Attacking at night, from the air, concealing the attack via illusion and the natural terrain. This is an attack!”

Trac’s ears fell at Luna words finally pulling him free of the spell he had been under. “Attack? No shit! That’s what they do! They attack us!”

Bunker shook her head. “She means it’s military. This is war.”

Luna tilted her head, popping her neck. “And their high king is in a room with my sister as we speak. She is in danger. I must leave to render aid.”

Trac felt something snap within his heat. He whirled around, looking up into Luna’s eyes with a deathly glare. “NO! You’re going to help us! You royals have let this happen for hundreds of years! You’re going to ride this train into town and kill every single bucking one of those griffons, then march right into their nation and burn it all down! You have the powers of a god! Stop this, right, bucking, now!”

Luna leaned down and gave Trac a brief hug. “I’m afraid you, and most rural ponies, greatly overestimate what I can do.”

Trac grit his teeth and pointed towards the cloud of griffons beneath the airship. “I know what you can do! I’ve read every book on you. I’m supposed to be your superior officer, right? This is an order, kill them all!”

Luna stood up straight. “You are my superior except in the case of emergencies, Tractor Pull. War is an emergency. Fear not, I share your sentiments. Within ten minutes their sovereign will be in shackles, or ash. As for this town, it will be safe if the airship is scuttled. I think I know just the tool and ponies for the job. Remain still.”

Thunder shook slightly, his wings ruffling as he finally tore his eyes away from the window. “Celestia’s cake fetish! How the buck did they slip past our scouts?!”

Luna blinked. “Uh… Please stay still. Also, please do not inform any other ponies of my sister’s oddities.”

Luna’s horn shone brightly as she teleported herself and her trainers. Had any of them moved, pieces of them would have remained within the train. Fortunately the three were safely staring blankly ahead, fully entranced by the apparent truth of a silly oath they had heard since primary school.

The three appeared amid a flash within a beige office filled with far too many potted plants. An office none of the three had seen before thanks to their fairly low ranks.

The flash of blue lighting his office ripped Colonel Ironclad’s attention away from the paperwork which had kept him in his office after hours.

The Colonel sputtered as Luna colessed from the arcane light. He offered her a quick bow. “I— M— Is something wrong, your highness?”

Luna nodded sharply. “West Bloomfield is under attack. The enemy consists of a single airship and at least two hundred armored soldiers. I want you to personally lead a full assault on the town, retake it, and then fortify. I will leave the specifics to you.”

Ironclad’s head tipped back as he looked into Luna’s eyes. “Yes Ma’am! It will take at least half an hour to fully deploy and arrive at the city. It may be advisable for you to hold the enemy there until we can arrive.”

“I have a plan for that, Colonel. Please order the engineers to ready Crusader for battle. I should be able to teleport a single tank to attack range. I would go personally, but apparently my sister's skill at arms has dropped so much that she was defeated in one attack by some kind of large insect.”

Trac blinked. “Uh, P— Princess? One tank won't stop them.”

“We need not stop them. We need only scuttle their ship. I want you to enter town and destroy their balloon. Failing that, disable the engines. With the airship grounded their raid becomes a hostage situation and we will have time to plan. Unlike now, as the enemy could flee at any time. Do you understand?”

Trac’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Colonel Iconclad cleared his throat and lifted the messenger gem he kept on his desk. “Command to Depot: By order of Princess Luna, ready Crusader for battle. You have one minute before the tanks is to be deployed. Live rounds are to be loaded.”

The gem crackled slightly as a Depot Officer picked up the facility’s own stone. “Command, this is Falcon Depot. Please confirm orders, over.”

“Load JP-9 One-twenty-four with live rounds and ready it for field use immediately!” The Colonel repeated.

“Yes, sir… Is this a clandestine situation, sir?”

“No. This Is an emergency situation. The base will be going on full alert in five minutes. Crusader is to be ready in one. Stop wasting time!” Ironclad set the gem down on his desktop, the glow vanished as his hoof broke contact.

The Colonel stood up and began to put on his coat.

“Thank you, Colonel” Luna said as she turned her head to look at the three soldiers behind her. “This may be a suicide plan. I have been told tanks can withstand a lot of damage, and I can not transport more than one and still have the energy to return to Canterlot. Are you up for it? I should have asked before.”

Bunker frowned then nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Send us in, people are dying.”

Luna smiled. “A mare after my own heart.”

Luna’s horn began to glow as she charged her next teleportation spell.

Trac raised a hoof, then lowered it. Luna frowned at him. “Do you have something critical to say?”

Trac nodded swiftly. “Put us just outside the train station. It’s centralized enough for us to get anywhere in town, and the airship is parked above Yarrow Field park. We’ll start with a clear shot at it.”

Best of all, if their griffons are still flying as they were seconds ago, we’ll have clean shots at their whole group. Real flak rounds will make mince meat of them all!

Luna nodded and her horn flashed. The spell whisked the four ponies away, depositing them with a flash directly in front of the hulking form that was Crusader.

An earth pony technician yelped as they appeared nearly on top of her, prompting the mare to almost drop the ammunition crate she was carrying. “EEP! This is a teleport-free zone you bucking id—” The mare’s eyes widened as she saw one of the four was Princess Luna. “— S— Sorry, your highness! Go anyplace you want!”

Luna rolled her eyes and looked at the ponies who would one day train her. “Get in.” She turned her attention to the technician. “Is this vehicle loaded?”

The mare nodded, then shook her head. “All but this case of bolts for the swivel bolter, ma’am.”

Luna took the case from the mare with her telekinetic grip and set it atop the turret. Bunker, Trac, and Thunder jogged over to the ladder built into Crusader’s left side. The trip across the engine deck to the hatch atop the turret seemed to take an eternity. The three ponies had seen combat before, but this was different.

This was war. This was a suicide mission.

Bunker let Trac enter Crusader first. He slid down the ladder and ran to the driver's seat, flicking through the startup sequence even as Thunder climbed in and Bunker loaded the box of live bolts into their weapon.

Crusader’s engine hissed and hummed as it whirled to life, prompting Luna to wince slightly. “Can you shut it down?”

Bunker’s ears perked. “It takes a few minutes to fully shut down… Why do you ask?”

“Moving objects are hard to transport. Something sounds like it is spinning.”

Hearing the conversation through the hatch, Trace groaned and facehooved. BUCK! I’m too used to driving to the fight. “Sorry!”

Luna sighed and shook her head. “No time… Everypony, remain still as you can!”

The entire Depot froze in place, nopony certain whom exactly the Princess was referring too. Luna closed her eyes, grit her teeth and focused her magic. The massive tank rippled and shimmered as her magic enveloped it.

Metal groaned. Crusader shook and shuddered as its magically enhanced fuel objected to the foreign magic racing through it. Luna began to sweat. Her wings twitched. Her brow furrowed. The energy enveloping the tank shone bright blue as it reached its peak—

Trac jumped as the world’s largest whip cracked. Crusader shuddered, shook, and jerked slightly as if it had fallen. The sound of roaring flames shrieked all around them. A gastly aroma permeated the air; burning homes mixed with burning bodies. Griffon laughter and hunting cries punctuated the crackling of flames and rumble of collapsing buildings.

Trac’s heart stopped beating as the world around him vanished. Decade old memories raced through his mind like rivers of molten metal. He was suddenly hiding beneath a pile of hay, nose pressed into the dirt.

Bunker pursed her lips, watching Trac’s building panic with worry. “Trac, buddy, you okay?”

His hooves began to shake. His eyes shrank to pinpricks. It’s just like then. It’s just like then. It’s just like then. It’s just like then. It’s just like—

Crusader’s boiler moaned as the tank shook off the last of the stress teleporting had put on the poor machine. Trac’s heart resumed beating as he felt Crusader’s seat beneath his plot and constroll sticks in his hooves.

“It's not like then. I have a tank.” Trac said blankly.

Bunker’s ears lay flat. “What’s with him, Thunder?”

Thunder looked back at Bunker in disbelief. “Did you forget he lost family to the last Griffon raid?”

Bunker winced and nodded once, not wanting to verbally admit she had.

Trac lips pulled back in a sickly smile. “I have a tank!”

Bunker cleared her throat. “That’s right, we’re in sixty tons of armor. We’ll be okay. Thunder, as soon as we’ve got power find those engines and fire.”

Trac’s eyes widened. “BUCK! Startup sequence! Uh, step six! I was on six!”

He began to franticly resume switching Crusader on. We’re only halfway on and we’re in the field! It’s a miracle we’re not being shot—

“TANK!” A distant voice screeched.

A heartbeat passed. Crusader’s hull began to ring like a bell as small arms fire began to slam into its top and sides. The tank chuffed as its main power came online. The engine growled slightly, its turbine misaligned by the teleport. Trac winced. Oh shit! It’s going to shut down!

Crusader twitched. The Harmonics field blossomed around its hull. The plink of bullets hitting armor stopped. Several gauges on the dash twitched and jumped.

Trac let out a held breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his hoof. But not just yet. “We’re on borrowed time. I shouldn’t have started him up before the teleport.”

Bunker nodded sharply. “Then we move fast! Thunder?”

“On it!” The pegasus pulled at the controls, swinging the barrel up to take aim at the armored airship perched above the town. “Engines, right?”

Bunker nodded. “Yeah, the balloon will be too well armored. No way they’ll attack in a gas bag we can puncture.”

Thunder swiveled the turret to being the starboard engine into his crosshair. The bulky engine hung off the balloon, just behind the “wing”. His hooves squeezed the trigger. Crusader roared, spitting fire as the live round blasted through the air, flying towards its target like a javelin.

The round hit the armored engine and exploded, shaking the morot’s housing, but doing little real damage.

Thunder swore under his breath. “Hard Target. Minimal damage.”

Trac’s eye twitched. “Then shoot till it explodes!”

Thunder frowned. “Uh… How long will those wards hold?”

Trac glanced at the harmonic gauge. The needle was already dipping down below eighty percent. “Oh… Right…”

Bunker smiled bitterly. “Gentlemen, I propose we shoot and scoot.”

“Right!” Trac rammed both control sticks forwards.

Crusader roared and shot forward, slipping out from under the hail of bullets the griffons had been heaping upon it. The circling flock of Hawks shifted their aim, keeping up with the tank as it raced down the street, its tracks tearing up the road. Soon enough the fire rained down on the shielded tank once again.

Bunker tapped a series of commands into her commander’s console. “Mmm… There’s a large firefight near a school to the east. Trac, head over there. Someone will be able to get these birds off our tails.”

Thunder grit his teeth and took a second shot, hitting the engine slightly higher up. “Crap! Deflection. No damage.”

Trac narrowed his eyes and looked through all three of the driver’s periscopes. Kinda pissed I’m not shooting...

Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

A short ways away from the rumbling tank a slightly more dangerous threat occupied most of the griffon’s attention.

Ameili’s biosuit had long since been reduced to tattered rags. Bullets had eroded the garment within the first five minutes of battle, leaving her synthetic body and clockwork limbs were on display for all to see. Along with more than a few of her bones.

Pain flooded Ameili’s body as each and every cut, rip, and scrape in her foam body screamed like a real wound. Her mind payed them no heed as the undead battlemage danced her way across the corpse strewn square.

Piles upon piles of charred bodies and scorched armor lay where they had fallen. Dotted here and there amongst the fallen griffons was the occasional body of a pony. Many of which were dressed in deputy’s uniforms.

Ameili’s stand had drawn in many ponies looking for a place to make a stand. Only one remained standing.

He had come crashing through the wall of a burning building. A skinny white unicorn stallion, clad in classic motorcyclist gang apparel with a pair of Hay-ban sunglasses. All while wielding a pair of the belt-fed heavy bolters Ameili had seen some of the deputies setting up behind barricades.

Only instead of using them from behind cover, he had ripped the weapons off their tripods, put a shield spell around himself and was currently wielding the heavy bolters via his telekinesis. Each bolt his weapons sent to the beat of the many pro-war songs blaring from an enchanted amulet hanging around the stallion’s neck.

Ameili couldn’t help but notice her fellow warrior’s cutiemark was a heavy-support gun crossed with a red bandana tied into a headband. While Ameili had no idea what the symbolism meant, she understood her new best friend’s talent lay in warfare.

He’d very helpfully said so while the Hawks gaped at the skinny unicorn who had plowed through a brick wall. “I’ve come here chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I’m all outta bubblegum.”

The Hawks had responded appropriately. With a lot of bullets. Unfortunately their small arms couldn’t pierce the stallion’s shield spell.

Feeling a need to out-awesome his dynamic entry, Ameili had conjured a small army of flame-tendrils. They reached out from her wings, snapping and cracking like whips at anyone who got within their lengthy reach, leaving scorch marks behind after each hit.

Ameili’s metaphorical heart raced as she lept through the air, trailing flames as she flew like a dart towards a griffon’s exposed back. The griffon screeched as her hooves slammed into her spine, sending her crashing into the cobblestones at high speed.

Ameili laughed, conjured a ball of fire in her left hoof and rammed it into the joint between the griffon’s cuirass and helmet. The griffon shrieked, thrashing in pain and terror as her feathers immediately combusted. Ameili rolled off the dying soldier's back and sprinted towards her next target, her shield raised. But not towards her target.

The red tower shield was battered, chipped, and splintered. Its enchantments allowed it to mostly endure the hail of bullets sent Ameili’s way, but not forever.

She knew her shield would fail soon. The Hawk’s pistols and submachine guns were minor nuisances. The spells strengthening her bones could endure their blows for months before failing. But those were not the only weapons the enemy had.

The ground seemed to jump as Baron Murcrow fired his tenth shot of the evening. Six ounces of lead blasted forth on a cloud of fire and smashed into Amili’s shield. The ancient enchanted timbers splintered, cracked, then shattered, unable to take the force of yet another .700 nitro cartridge.

Ameili yelped as she was flung to the ground, shards of her broken shield piercing her synthetic skin like a cloud of needles. Pain radiated along her left foreleg, breaking her concentration enough to dispel her fire-tendrils.

Ameili grunted and pushed herself up to her hooves, swaying unsteadily.

The Baron’s eyes lit up as he watched Ameili stand. Seizing his chance he shifted his aim and took a deep breath. The next disruptor round wouldn’t miss.

The rifle roared again and the round caught Ameili squarely in her barrel. The anti-dragon round tore through her latex skin, carving a hoof-wide hole into her chest and out her side. Ameili spun through the air before crashing into the ground, her jaw hanging open in a silent scream as white-hot needles plunged into every single point on her body.

Across the squair, the Baron lowered his rifle and smiled. “Ah! Now that was something. Hawk, fetch her body, please. This one is going to hang over my mantle.”

Ameili closed her eyes tightly and did her best to force herself through the pain. Her mind churned and boiled under the strain before she at last clawed her way back into consciousness.

Ameili closed her mouth and tried to stand, but her legs refused to move more than a few centimeters. What the hay is in those rounds? That felt like I was punched in the soul.

One of the Hawks near the Baron took to the air and flew towards Ameili to retrieve her body, the other three remaining at his side to keep suppressing fire focused on their other still active opponent.

Ameili’s futile squirming was overlooked by the griffons as the twitching of a dead mare’s clockworks. A common enough occurrence.

It was not overlooked by her brother-in-arms.

The stallion sprinted across the square, ignoring the bullets plinking off his shield to focus all his attention on sending hot-iron into the griffon heading for Ameili’s limp form.

Ameili couldn’t help but smile at the white stallion. I have no idea who he is, but if he lives through this, we should get a drink!

The stallion’s thundering weapons blew the charging Hawk aside moments before he reached Ameili’s side. The stallion close his eyes, his horn brightening as he extended his shield over Ameili before holding out a hoof for her to take.

“Can you still stand, Bone?” he asked with genuine concern.

Ameili reached for his hoof, her shaking leg managing to just barely grab hold of his foreleg. “I’m only half bone.” Ameili said weakly.

The Baron’s beak dropped open. “She’s not dead? Inconceivable!” He reached to the bag hanging from his side and retrieved another two shells, breaking his rifle open to load them.

Ameili’s new friend pulled her to her hooves and tipped his head forward to wink at her over his glasses. “I can see that. Never had a nickname before? Heh, well, here’s hoping you live through the night!”

Ameili gave his hoof a squeeze before letting go. “I think we both know I’m not in a position to be killed.”

The stallion looked at the hole punched through Ameili and shrugged. “Well what do you say? Re-killed? Meh, how about we forget that noise and get back to fighting bad guys?”

Ameili’s head tilted as she processed the stallion’s words. He knows I’m undead and still flirted with me? “What’s your name?”

“Flint, just moved up from Ponyville. Things were a bit too boring for me after Twilight and her friends started solving every little thing inside twenty minutes. How about you, what’s your name?”

“I am Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. It’s nice to meet you.” Ameili‘s horn burned orange, lighting up her face beneath the battered remains of her helmet.

Flint frowned. “I think that hunter ‘chap’ will get another shot off before you can-”

The Baron fired. His enchanted round streaked through the air, striking Flint’s shield and throwing a shower of bright purple sparks every which way. Flint dropped to his knees, his eyes shut tight. “Aaa! Man that stung. What is he firing?”

Ameili pointed to Flint’s twin pony-sized guns. “Shoot him?”

Flint sighed. “Can’t. Watch.”

The stallion squeezed both weapons triggers, sending a volley of superheated bolts hurtling towards the distant griffon. The bolts struck the air in front of the griffon, stopping dead with a metallic shriek before slowly sliding to the ground.

Well… That complicates things. If I leave the shield he shoots me. I don't know if I’ll survive another hit. Even if I do leave the shield, he’s shielded too.

Flint cupped his hooves around his muzzle “Buck you and your invisible shield, cheater!”

The Baron responded by firing again. The enchanted bullet punched Flint’s shield, cracking the arcane construct and making a thin line of blood ooze out of the stallion’s left nostril.

“Ow! Sheesh, what kind of gun is that? A Penis Compensator Nine-Thousand? It’s like five hundred of the little guns at once,” Flint grumbled.

The Baron ignored the crass remark and broke his gun open to reload once more. “Hawk, if they move, tell me. Forty meters is more than enough time to cut them down if they charge.”

Ameili rolled her eyes, smirking despite the dire situation. “Said the stallion dual wielding guns the length of his body.”

Flint beamed Ameili the brightest smile she’d ever seen. “I’ll have you know mine’s bigger than these! No, but seriously, we're pretty screwed. These things can almost punch through his invisible horseapples, but this isn’t horseshoes or hoofgrenades.”

Ameili squinted and searched the inferno engulfing them for any sign of Vulcan. “I had a friend who could help… But he ran off to help contain the fires.”

Flint shrugged. “Well… If we’re gonna die…”

The stallion reared up, hit shuffle on his music player, pointed both anti-vehicle bolters into the air, and fired off a long sustained burst while roaring a challenge to everyone within sight. The awesome display shook many of the Silver Hawks who had no forcefield creating belt-buckles to protect them. A few dove for cover even before Flint swept his bolters across the square to indiscriminately perforate everything within his sight as an overly dramatic male choir and galvanic guitar rocked the battlefield.

“On sixth of Megan. // On the shores of western Zebrica. 1944. // Death is upon us! // Through the gates of hell, // as we make our way to heaven, // through the Zebra lines, // Primo victoria!”

Ameili’s eyes lit up. “I remember that war!” her smile turned into a wince. Probably shouldn’t tell Flint I accidently started it. Who know that warlord would be so angry?

Ameili reared up as well. The pyromancer cleared her mind and conjured a pair of fireballs, one in each forehoof. Her damaged left shoulder screamed as she flung both orbs of blazing red flame at the mad huntsman standing before her.

The twin fireballs streaked through the air, trailing sparks and smoke. The Baron’s Hawks dove for cover, remembering all to well how their comrades flesh boiled away beneath those bolts. The Baron stood still.

The bolts splattered against his shield, making it flash white for a split second after each impact. Ameili cursed.

The Baron snapped his rifle closed and raised it. “Good try, but one does not hunt unicorns without being prepared for wizards.”

The griffon’s rifle thundered. The disrupter round smashed into Flint’s shield, shattering it into a shower of arcane dust. Flint dropped to his knees again, spitting blood as a vessel in his nose popped under stress. The bolter on his right side fell to the ground, clattering across the stones.

Ameili gathered her hooves beneath her. He has two shots. I can dodge one, if I push Flint out of the way, he can get to cover behind the fountain. We’ll plan from there.

Flint growled and fired a bolt from his remaining weapon. The red-hot iron dart pierced halfway through the Baron’s shield, just like the others.

Baron Murcrow sighed. “You know the entire point of intelligent prey is to make it sporting, don’t you? Would it have killed you to bring a proper weapon?”

Ameili’s jaw dropped. “Sporting? You have a shield spell and a rifle which hits like Mars’ fist to fight unarmed civilians!”

The Baron sighed. “The ‘it’ in question is ‘Hunting without forsaking the use of our minds’. There’s no chance of a fair match with animals, our minds have given us all these wonderful tools for safely bagging our game. Only equally cunning minds pose a threat to us. It’s a shame you didn’t use yours and found a proper weapon before making your stand. Farewell!”

The Baron aimed his rifle at Ameili. Ameili narrowed her eyes, focusing on his trigger-talon, readying her jump.

One…

Stone cracked in the not-so-distant-distance.

Two…

Something large and metallic creaked and groaned.

Two-and-a-half...

The Baron’s tallon began to tighten around the trigger.

Ameili shifted her weight and—

Flint pointed to the street to the Baron’s left. “You mean like that one?”

The Baron paused. Knowing he was in no danger he turned his head to look left. Ameili jumped, tackling Flint and rolling with him several meters across the square.

The Baron’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

Ameili sprang up and pointed to the battered fountain. “Quick! Make for the fount—”

Ameili’s desperate cry was cut off by the crunch of a brick wall collapsing underneath Crusader's bulk like a foal knocking over wooden blocks. The massive black and purple tank rolled into the square, its engine’s deep bass rumbling almost entirely muffled by the crackling flames surrounding the bloodsoaked square.

The blazing inferno shrank back as the tank fired, sending a shell screaming into the Griffon’s airship. A ball of blue-green fire blossomed on the airship’s hull. Bits of propeller and motor began to rain down over West Bloomfield.

The Baron took a step back. “That’s hardly fair!”

Flint smirked. “I’m sorry. We don’t give a buck!”

Ameili couldn’t help but smile. Ah, hypocrisy goes so well with irony!

11 - The Greatest Game (Part 3 - End)

Twilight Sparkle - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Princess Twilight Sparkle and Princess Celestia stood huddled together in the corner of Celestia’s throne room.

Twilight’s eyes were full of tears as she looked over her shoulder for only a brief instant at the griffon standing some distance away. “This is bad.”

Celestia inclined her head in agreement. “Extremely… I’m not entirely certain what we should do.”

Twilight took a deep breath. “Where is Luna? Why isn’t she here?”

“I told her to come… I think she didn't want to start any international incidents.”

Twilight rubbed her temples with her hooves. “A bit late for that now. Isn’t it?”

Celestia sighed and turned around. “Indeed…” The Princess cleared her throat and put on a dignified mask as she addressed the griffon. “High King Er—”

A flash of blinding blue light blinded all thirty of the room’s occupants, a thunderclap riding along with the light. Griffon guards dropped their weapons with cries of pain. Royal Guardsmen silently wished their uniforms included sunglasses and earplugs. The Princesses cried out in alarm, not certain what was happening.

Princess Luna emerged from the flash of light, clad in her personal armor. Glimmering black plates of steel inlaid with silver stars shone in the light coming from the many chandeliers hanging from the throne room ceiling. The same light made the blade of Luna’s halbard gleam wickedly as it floated before her, held in a guard position by her magic.

Luna’s eyes narrowed to slits behind her helmet’s visor. She glared into the small griffon’s very soul. “THOU THINKS THEE CAN SLAY MY SISTER AS YOUR FORCES MARCH UPON WEST BLOOMFIELD? THINK AGAIN, FOOL!”

Luna raised her halbard to strike. The High King looked up at the blade, accepting his imminent death with either grace and dignity or calm acceptance.

Twilight’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. She held out one hoof. “LUNA! NO!”

Luna turned her head, her blade stopping just as her swing began. “WHY?”

Celestia let out a breath she didn’t know she had held. She pointed to Luna's target. “He’s twelve.”

Luna blinked and looked back down at her target. The mighty griffon warrior she had been expecting was indeed rather short, and covered in white pre-pubescent fluffy feathers rather than an adult’s plumage. “Then… We’re not at war? But the griffons are invading the town of West Bloomfield as we speak! I was just there.”

Twilight ran across the Throne room and took hold of Luna’s halbard with her arcane grip, lowering it to Luna’ side gently. “I believe you. His father, the previous High King was assassinated this morning while getting ready to attend this meeting. Eren in here seeking political asylum.”

Celestia nodded grimly. “The Griffon Kingdom has collapsed into anarchy.”

The young High King rolled his eyes. “Nah. There’s order and stuff. And governments. It’s collapsed into like, fourteen warring factions. All of whom hate dad, and me, because he kept telling people not to hunt and eat you guys.”

Luna pursed her lips. “Then… Are your pirates as organized as military forces? The tactics on display—”

Celestia held up one hoof. “Excuse me, did you say one of our villages is under attack?”

Luna nodded once. “Yes. I dispatched the army, deployed some heros, and came to ensure you were not being assassinated. The village will be fine.”

Twilight frowned. “Wait, the border towns really are raided by griffon pirates? I thought that was a myth.”

“It’s a myth,” Eren snorted.

Luna raised an eyebrow. “I was just there. Do not lie to me. Instead, explain why their tactics are—”

“I’m not lying. It’s a myth because they are not pirates. Dad said that so you wouldn't fight him. It’s actually like, one of three different noble families who are stupid and think ponies are the only prey worth hunting.”

Twilight’s ears lay back in an odd mix of anger and worry. “And you didn’t tell us this because… Why?”

The young High King blushed and shrugged. “War’s bad, apparently? I don’t know! All I know is every time dad told them to stop someone died.”

Luna took a deep breath and dipped her head down to look into the young Griffon’s eyes. “Sorry for trying to chop your head off.”

Eren blinked. “Uh, why would you be sorry about that?”

Luna’s eyes widened. “Because you were not the enemy I believed you to be.”

Eren ruffled his wings, visibly confused. “Well yeah, but, we’re nobles. Don't we just like, kill each other? That’s our job. Right?”

The three princesses shared an astonished look for several long moments. When it was over, Celestia cleared her throat and looked into Eren’s eyes. “No.”

Her message delivered, Celestia turned her attention to her sister. “It would seem the Griffon’s current state of civil war was inevitable. Please return to the forces you deployed to West Bloomfield and oversee the defense. Then return here so we can plan defences and possible military assistance for the young High King.”

Luna nodded and offered her sister a salute. “Yes, Ma’am.”

The Royal Guards quickly looked down a the floor and covered their ears, sewing confusion within Eren’s personal guard. The Princess of the Night vanished in a second bright blue flash. The confusion which had overtaken the High King’s guards, vanished along with Princess Luna.

Tractor Pull - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Crusader rumbled in place as Thunder looked out through the spotting scope at the Majesty. The little pegasus's wings twitched as he smiled. “That did it! Let’s get the other one and ground this bird.”

Bunker shook her head slowly. “That’s not how these work. If we take down the engines the airship can’t move horizontally, but it will still be able to go up and down. The feather-like bits handle that.”

“I’m not sure we have the firepower to take those out,” Thunder mused as he looked over the thick sections of wing.

Trac smirked. “It doesn't matter. If it’s stuck over the town we can send infantry up to it. Her speed should be halved now. It won't get away before reinforcements arrive.”

Bunker winced, her ears laying back. “Uh, dude? I know they’ve hurt you, but you need to dial it down a little. You can gloat later. I’ll be right there with you. For now please focus on your job.”

Trac’s mouth pulled downwards. “Sorry, Sarge. I’ll focus on driving.”

“Good,” Bunker said as she peeked through the Commander’s scope.

The unicorn mare watched as silver dots began to fly up from the town’s streets and alleyways. Hawks falling back to the Majesty. Bunker nodded to herself and flicked on Crusader’s arcane scopes. “They noticed we hit their engine. Looks like they are starting to retreat to the ship. Trac, take us in a straight line to the other side. Ignore the buildings, they’re all on fire anyways.”

Trac nodded, his eyes dilating as he focused his attention on the controls in front of them. “Yes, Ma’am!”

Trac turned his head to the left, putting his eyes up to the left-side driver’s periscope to get a fix on their position. Driving through buildings was something a Bronco could do, but only if it took care not to collapse the entire thing atop itself. The warmachine could only carry so many tons.

A bank’s fire-blackened brick storefront filled most of the pariscope’s view. The glass had been blown out from a fire’s intense heat. The gaping wound within the brick structure showed the flames had hollowed out most of the building already.

“We need to go around this one, Sar—” Trac’s throat closed as something moving in the corner of his periscope drew his attention.

Trac turned the Periscope. Whatever it was beige. Remarkably clean beige. Hardly what one would expect to see in a burning town. The paracope’s lense turned, and Barron Murcrow came into view.

Beige hunting clothing. Leather vambraces. An expensive double-rifle held in steely-talons. Red-brown feathers arranged in a distinctive pattern. A pith helmet, with a bronze family crest pinned to the front.

Trac’s heart stopped. His legs tensed up, demanding he run. His hooves tightened around Crusader’s control sticks. The blood in his veins began to run cold.

“You…” Trac whispered.

Bunker frowned, her ears swiveling to face the driver’s seat. “What was that?”

Trac’s heart started beating again. Slowly at first, but with ever building steam. His chilled blood began to warm, threatening to boil.

His eyes fixed on the crest, his vision blurring until the griffon wearing it vanished, replaced by a much younger griffon in the same helmet. The feathers were a little less vibrant now, and their beak had gotten a little crooked, but there could be no mistake.

Trac’s lips peeled back as he grit his teeth. “BUCK YOU!”

The enraged stallion threw his full weight against the control sticks and Crusader shot forward with a mechanical roar. The sudden start tipped the tank back, the front end rising like the opening maw of an angry beast.

The Baron’s eyes shrank to pinpricks. His wings flared on instinct, flapping as he dove to the side to get out of death’s way. The Silver Hawks accompanying their Baron lept upwards, wings snapping open as they took to the air to dodge the charging beast.

Crusader blazed across the street and dozens of tons of warmachine met the Baron as he dove out of the way. The Baron’s shield had been designed to stop small fast moving things. As a big, slow thing began to roll over it, the shield simply squeezed down, conforming to the shape of what the simple spell believed was a wall its owner decided to lean against.

Steel tread met flesh and bone, biting into the Baron’s hind legs and dragging him to the ground. A steel hammer fell, and feline paws became dust upon a cobblestone anvil.

Trac pulled the sicks back, bringing the tank to a stop atop the Baron’s legs and tail.

Thunder winced as the high pitched shriek pierced Crusader’s engine noise. Bunker’s eyes widened, her nostrils flaring as she looked to the sensor screen. “We hit someone! Was it a civilian? I didn’t—”

Trac’s left eye twitched as his brain played out the scene it had just taken part in and determined something most critical. “We missed him!”

Trac unbuckled and jumped up from his seat. He was on the ladder in a flash. Before Thunder of Bunker could process he had stood up, Trac popped the hatch and slipped out onto the turret top.

Trac’s hoof flew to his belt, drawing his service pistol. He fumbled with the weapon, nearly dropping it as rage coursed through his trembling hooves.

Trac stepped over to the side and glared down at the screaming griffon. He leveled his gun and grit his teeth. “HOW DO YOU LIKE IT WHEN BULLETS RAIN ON YOU?!”

Trac’s hoof curled, squeezing his weapon’s trigger. The heavy-pistol barked, spitting lead towards the screaming griffon. Hot lead bounced off the Baron’s forcefield, the magic belt-buckle still quite active. Trac pulled the trigger again and again. Hot brass rained down, bouncing off the turret top and forcefield until Trac’s weapon clicked dry.

The Baron slumped and thrashed, his vision turning white as pain began to steal away consciousness.

Trac’s face twisted into a cruel glare. “You’re still alive?! YOU'RE STILL ALIVE?!”

He turned around, grabbing hold of Crusader’s swivel gun mount to swing the bolter around and take a shot. Bunker’s iron hoof reached up from the hatch and grabbed Trac by the throat, yanking his face down until his nose pressed against the mare’s own.

“What the buck is your malfunction, Trac?!” Bunker roared, grabbing Trac’s collar with her other hoof.

Trac’s vision turned red. “Let. Me. Go! He took Birch from me!”

Bunker blinked, her anger at her subordinate popping the hatch in the middle of a warzone evaporating in an instant. “Oh. Carry on then.”

Trac popped back out of the hatch and took hold of the swivel gun again. He spun around, angling the weapon to point down. A silver axe sliced through the air. Trac flicked his head to the side on instinct. The axe bit air.

The Hawk wielding the axe landed atop the turret with a clang and took another swing at Trac’s exposed head. “Cut him free! I can’t keep this up for long!”

Trac growled and ducked again and again as the Hawk swing his blade, striking air and metal alike. A wet meaty sound reached Trac’s ears even as he recoiled down into the hatch.

“Got him! Shield’s extended over us. Get clear before the others open fi—”

The sound of a large bolter firing made Trac wince. Half a dozen superheated bolts struck Crusader’s side, pinging off after leaving scorch marks. The Hawk atop the turret swore and took to the air, joined a heartbeat later by another two Hawks who carried a limp bleeding form between them.

Trac’s eyes locked onto the unconscious Baron, focusing on the bleeding stumps of his tail and hind-legs. “He wont die from that,” Trac said matter-of-factly.

He returned to the swivel gun in a heartbeat. Hooves gripped handles. Triggers squeezed. A line of military-grade bolts blazed towards their target, streaking forth with nearly as much fury and hatred as the stallion who had fired them.

The bolts slammed into the forcefield, stopping dead. Trac growled and adjusted his aim, deciding to hit the Hawks bearing the grifon who had haunted his nightmares for years to safety. More bolts raced towards the fleeing griffons. Yet more bolts stopped dead as they hit the invisible shield.

Trac unleashed a scream of hatred which shook the very ground Crusader rested upon. “NO! YOU DON’T GET AWAY TWICE! YOU BUCKING DON’T GET AWAY TWICE!”

Bunker’s heart churned in her chest as she sank into her seat.

Ameili took a step back, fearing yet another friend had fallen into the berserker's rage from which none had returned.

Flint winced, his ears falling flat. “Buck… That’s a lot of hate.”

Thunder watched the bolts bounce imputently off their target through Crusader’s sights. His brow furrowed with irritation. “Don’t worry, sweetie.”

Thunder squeezed his trigger. Crusader shook as the main gun spat fire and fury. Eight kilograms of lead smashed into the Baron’s force field, detonating in a blinding ball of orange flames and arcane light.

Thunder smiled in satisfaction as bits of flesh and twisted metal rained from the sky. “Mine’s bigger.”

Trac started blankly at the remnants of the fireball for several long seconds. He closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. A smile parted his lips. “Thank you, Celestia.”

Thunder’s ears flicked back against his head. “Hey! I took the shot, not her!”

Trac nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. “You’ll get your thanks later.” When Bunker isn’t around.

Aemiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 21st of Lunar Dusk, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Across the square from Crusader, Flint turned to Ameili and gave her a quick smile. “Well, you should probably go to your friend. I've got other things to take care of.”

Ameili blinked, her tattered latex body only barely able to perform the gesture. “How do you know we’re friends?” Her eyes narrowed, her left hoof drew her gladius from her scabbard. “Who are you?”

Flint held up one hoof and smiled. “Hey, take it easy there, Bone. We’re all friends here.”

Ameili’s brow furrowed. Flint’s smile softened slightly. “No but seriously. I need you to get that tank out of here.”

Then the pony vanished in a flash of green fire. The fire raced across his form, melting white fur into black chitin and transforming leaf green mammalian eyes into glittering emeralds with a thousand facets. A changeling. One from the hive Ameili had met long a ago and far away.

Ameili’s mind kicked into high gear. “What are you guys doing this far north?”

The changeling offered Ameili a shrug. “Classified. Don’t worry. It doesn't concern you. I shouldn’t have helped out here, but… Well, I had too. Though if you really do want to know, ask Trac if you can read the journal I gave him a few months back. Now if you’ll excuse me… I’m technically on the clock and have an assignment.”

Flint looked around, scanning the ground for an intact griffon corpse. Spotting one he memorized it’s appearances, concentrated his unique magic, and with a flash of emerald flames copied its form, and slumped over, feigning death.

Ameili hesitated for several long moments, then nodded to herself. “Your people were friendly to me… I’ll help you.”

The pyromancer summoned one last ball of blue flame and incinerated the corpse the changeling had copied, turned her back, and limped towards Crusader.

Trac turned as Ameili’s hooves clinked against Crusader’s hull. His eyes widened. “A— Ameili! What the buck happened to you?!”

Ameili offered Trac a smile. “I can’t say no to saving ponies, Trac…” The ancient mare looked up at the airship hanging over the town. “There’s still enemies on the field.”

Trac nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry. The army’s on the way and they're going nowhere once we take out the other engine.”

Ameili’s one remaining ear flicked as a mare’s voice called out from the turret. “Uh, Trac? Are you talking to an undead mare wearing a bodysuit?”

Trac looked down the hatch. “Yeah. She’s friendly. Actually, she’s the mare who’s been teaching me how to drive better.”

“... Really?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Ameili.”

A tense second passed. Ameili readied herself to run, believing the order would come to fire on her.

“How hurt is she?” Bunker said after a moment.

Ameili frowned. Her protesting body was a jumble of pain and aches. But her heart burned hot, more than willing to put down a few more of the enemy before taking a well deserved rest. “A good deal. But I can still fight, and there are more enemies left to kill.”

“Well, this isn’t the weirdest thing to happen to us this week. Hop on the bolter, Ameili. Trac, other side of the airship, please.”

Trac looked down at Ameili and nodded towards the bolter. “This will be free in a minute. Climb on up and—”

Ameili shook her head and climbed up onto Crusader’s tread. “No thank you,” She pointed her blade towards the airship and walked to the front of the track. “Drive us closer. I want to hit them with my sword.”

Trac smirked. “You got it.”

Trac vanished down the ladder, closing the hatch as he went. Crusader creaked as it began to chug through the streets towards the other side of town.

Fire burned brightly around Crusader. Griffons fled before it. The rumble of Crusader’s mechanical brethren began to roll in from the horizon. West Bloomfield’s suffering was over, its new heros had seen to that.

FIN

Author's Note

This ending is admittedly a little abrupt. I'm tired of writing this story, at least for now. I don't feel like it's my story, you know? It's just off. I'm not happy with it and I want to do something else. I mentioned this in a blog a few days ago.

This dosn't mean I wont come back eventually and give this a better conclusion, or maybe do a "part 2" for it. But for the foreseeable future, I am done with this story. I would keep working on it off and on, but well, I don't have the ability to split my attention between projects very well. I work best starting, working till the end, then beginning the next one.

I can do two at once, but that is my limit. Right now I am writing a story for a friend and well, I can't stop that. I would keep writing this if I liked it, but I don't. My heart's not in it. But you know what my heart is in? A space opera :3

Stay tuned!

6 - The alien invasion of Silly Beetle’s Hardware Emporium.

Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 1st of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Retort Family home, West Bloomfield - Equestria

Ameili and Vulcan sat in front of the fireplace, staring intently into the flickering flames. The fire within the hearth was not orange as one might expect, but blue and green. Pale tan flames raged on Vulcan’s side. Dark green flames danced upon Ameili’s side of the hearth.

The flames did not lick upwards from the burning logs in the typical fashion either. Rather, each side’s flames had taken on definitive shapes. Ponies, castles, siege equipment, spells, arrows, and even a green dragon. The conjured shapes obeyed their conjurer’s biding. Puppets fighting a small war with one another up and down the log.

Vulcan grit his intangible teeth and concentrated harder. His forces rallied on their remaining third of log, gathering atop his castle’s front wall. Overhead, a small aerial battle took place within the fireplace's throat. Vulcan's dragon disengaged from its duel with Ameili’s pegasi and swooped down. It dove for Ameili’s champion, talons outstretched, mouth open in a silent roar.

Ameili smirked. Her champion rammed its spear into the log then rolled to the left. Vulcan’s dragon flared its wings, trying to pull up, but it had committed too much to its attack. The dragon plunged into the spear, impaling itself and finishing in a puff of green sparks.

“Aw, come on!” Vulcan wined.

“You need to think before you commit, love,” Ameili smiled as she lay her head on Vulcan’s shoulder.

Ameili’s champion retrieved its spear and resumed its march on the tan castle.
“I can hardly be blamed for being less imaginative than you solid folk,” the elemental grumbled as he nuzzled Ameili’s shoulder.

“It’s been a thousand years. You should have learned by example by now,” Amili conjured a tongue of flame to stick out at her mate.

Vulcan narrowed his eyes as he came up with a new plan. His archers began to fire, not at the champion but at the pegasi his dragon had abandoned.

“Ooh, good call,” Ameili praised, grinning from ear to ear behind her mask.

Vulcan grinned, pleased to have an opportunity to turn their game around. The front door creaked as it opened.

“Hey, guys! Anyone want to play some Settlers of Coltan?” Retort asked even before the door creaked shut.

“Sure!” Ameili smiled. “Let me finish crushing Vulcan at warfare and I’ll happily play.”

“Is Trac back yet?”

Vulcan shook his head. “No.”

“Who was th— Vulcan, duh! Sorry, still not used to hearing you talk yet,” Retort walked into view, still dressed in his winter clothing.

I’m glad our lessons each evening have been paying off. I wonder if he can hear everything Vulcan says yet? Ameili thought as she took advantage of the distraction to fire a few catapults.

He gave the two a worried look before his eyes fell on the fireplace. Retort frowned, his lips pursing before he chuckled.

“I thought you meant you were sparring,” Retort continued watching the miniature battle before him.

“We are,” Ameili and Vulcan said in unison.

Ameili’s champion sprinted up the hill towards Vulcan’s castle while her pegasi occupied his archers. Seeing the glorious charge begin, Retort reached over to his jukebox with a wingtip and flicked it on.

The machine hummed, whirred, and clicked. Vinyl popped and cracked. Vulcan jumped as Iron Filly’s “The Princess” rocked the living room. The elemental looked around the room frantically, searching for the band which had appeared from the blue.

“It’s called a jukebox, Vulcan,” Ameili winked at Vulcan then nodded back towards their game.

“I will never get used to that,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

Ameili’s champion sprinted up the hill, it’s spear leveled at the wall itself. Vulcan could ignore the champion no longer and directed his archers to fire down at the charging warrior. Their arrows skipped off armor, bit into ground and bone alike, but the charge could not be stopped.

The champion’s spear point struck the wall at its base. The Champion twisted, flexed, and jumped, using the spear to vault over the top of the wall. A sword was drawn in mid-air. Vulcan’s general screamed a silent cry of terror. The sword cut through the air, then through bone.

The fire went out with a dull hiss as if someone had tossed water onto the logs. Ameili tapped her throat to modulate her voice, jumped up onto her rear hooves, and pumped her forelegs in victory.

“Ameili wins! Fatality!” She proclaimed in a deep echoing voice.

Vulcan shot her a dirty look. “I wish you hadn’t picked that up from those bugs’ games.”

“Oh, bite me. it’s fun!” Ameili grinned back before resetting her voice to normal.

Vulcan grumbled something under his breath and curled up in the fireplace to sulk. “I’m eating this log…”

Retort shook his head in amusement and turned the jukebox off. “I guess that’s going to be just you vs me for Coltan then, Ameili?”

“Oh, he’ll play. Go ahead and finished getting undressed. It won't take him long to finish sulking over his most recent loss,” Ameili said as she gave Vulcan a loving kiss on the cheek.

Retort nodded and took a few steps towards the entryway, speaking as he went. “So have you not gotten paid yet?”

Paid? Ameili frowned as she thought back. Oh! Of course. Though, I do find it rather odd a police officer got me a job where I am paid under the table.

“Yes, I have. They have been paying me at the end of each shift. It’s been a while since I had a job. Thank you,” Ameili sat down on the living room couch and began to look around for the table Retort liked to play games on. “I am surprised they agreed to take me on as a part-time worker. Is it normal for Equestrians to employ the ill?”

“No. But you’re working for a fire station,” Retort said as he vanished from view. “That makes you extremely desirable. You should know that.”

I wonder if he’s understood I’m joking with him yet?

“What does that have to do with it?” Ameili asked with a knowing smirk.

“... You’re a pyromancer. You can just put out a fire with your—” Retort trailed off then walked around the corner to stare at Ameili with a blank expression.

Ameili giggled and conjured a flame-smile for her friend.

Retort ducked back into the entryway. “Back to my original point, if you have money why are you two playing with the firewood? I know you both like fire. But why not buy something more interesting to burn?”

“Everything burns in an equally interesting way. It’s not our fault if you can’t perceive their individual beauty,” Vulcan answered. “Besides, there isn’t much to do other than our usual games.”

“Yes. There’s not much to do in town with money other than shop,” Ameili said as she levitated the card table into position in front of the couch.

Retort’s ears drooped, his gut telling him the two were feeling down. Even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“We have a game store. You could buy… I don’t know, do you two like roleplaying games? Or trading card games? There’s also a bookshop. I’ve seen you read to Vulcan before.”

Ameili waved a hoof around the living room despite Retort not being present to see her gesture. “We’re still working through your library. You have hundreds of books.”

“And you have many board games,” Vulcan added, the log he had been nibbling on beginning to crumble into ash.

“Okay, fair enough. As long as you two aren't getting bored,” Retort finished as he trotted back into the living room.

Ameili pulled two chairs up to the table with her magic. “Would you like me to contribute something to the household’s funds? That is the reason I asked if you could find me somewhere to work a few days a week in the first place. I have reserved fifty percent of my earnings to share with you as needed.”

Retort shook his head. “No, no. I make plenty. I won't say no if you do want to contribute though. I was only wondering why you wanted a job since you didn’t seem to be spending anything. I mean, I swear you don’t eat anything at all. I hear you use the blender to make food-packs but the grocery budget and meal portion sizes haven’t changed at all.”

Ameili winced beneath her mask. Maybe I should start doing a bit more than just running the blender for a few moments. If I mix a few vegetables together into a paste I can at least make it look like I am eating.

He walked to the bookshelf on which he kept his collection of several dozen board games and took Settlers of Coltan down from its shelf. His lips pursed and wings twitched as another option occurred to him.

“Oh! I remember Trac mentioned you like to tinker. There’s a hardware sto—”

Ameili’s eyes lit up so much their glow became visible as a dim pinprick of light within her welding goggles. “Where is it?!”

Vulcan winced and retreated deeper into the fireplace. “Hon? I’m staying home.”

“Okay!” Ameili jumped up from the couch and ran over to Retort to look him dead in the eyes. “Where is it?!”

Retort blinked and shook his head. “Uh, it’s at Twenty-two Cloud Lane.”

I know where that is! I thought that Silly Beetle’s was a bar. Ameili conjured the largest and brightest smile Retort had seen her make yet. “NOW I have something to spend coin on! I’ll be back in a while, then we can play.”

Retort tilted his head. “They are closed now…”

“I don’t care!”

“You made a huge mistake,” Vulcan chuckled as Ameili ran out of the room.

I haven’t gotten to go to a hardware store since the 12th of Megan fifty years ago! Ameili squeed as she burst into her room. I need to make sure Retort think's I'll be sleeping tonight. Better get my sleeping bag.

A heartbeat passed, during which Ameili picked up her small day-pack, attached her sleeping bag, and slipped the pack onto her back. Five seconds after she had entered her room, Ameili began to sprint towards the front door.

Ameili rushed by the living room door, catching Retort’s attention. His jaw dropped.

“She has a sleeping bag!”

“Last time she camped out in front of the store for a weekend,” Vulcan shook his head. “That’s why I’m staying here with you.”

Retort ran out into the hall, managing to catch up with Ameili as she opened the door. Retort reached out and took hold of her backpack. “Hey! Ameili! They’re going to be closed till five in the morning. It’s nine at night. That’s eight hours from now. Hang out, get some sleep, go in the—”

Ameili slowly turned around to glare into Retort’s eyes, forgetting to conjure a fiery icon. Retort gulped as he saw her leather “mask” warp.

“Let. Me. Go.”

Retort’s police training allowed him to maintain his grip despite the fear filling his gut. “Why is it so important to you?”

Ameili shook her head, her jaw-dropping behind her mask. “W— Why is— Are you bucking kidding me?! There’s a store full of everything you need to create wondrous inventions the likes of which would— You read science fiction. What if a store in town started selling laser-swords? You’d go camp out until lit opened so you could get one!”

Retort frowned and held up his hooves. “That’s not—”

“It is too the same thing!” Ameili stamped her hoof. "I normally live in the woods. I grew up with stone plumbing. STONE! No hot water, no cold water, only outside temperature water. Look around you, this is my science fiction! I can turn a knob and get hot water without having to heat it myself! You have a machine I toss soiled clothing into and it cleans it for you! There are switches you can flip to make light. All without using a single drop of your magic!”

Retort blinked once. “Uh, yeah… But— It’s freezing cold out.”

The mare rolled her eyes beneath her mask. “You’re living in the awesome future times, but completely ignore it because it’s not the space-future times! If you’ll excuse me, I’m going down to the awesome emporium to oggle the devices which cool your ale for you!”

“It’s twenty below! You’ll freeze!” Retort snapped, his eye starting to twitch. “That’s all I am saying!”

Ameili’s elated face transformed back into a glare. “I’m going to get a flashlight and a nice synthetic bristle broom! They will have hacksaws! Very, very soon one of them will be all mine!”

Vulcan walked up to Retort and tapped him on his shoulder, making him look over at the elemental. “Let her go. You won’t win if she decides to make you let go. I’ll play your game with you.”

Retort suddenly became aware of the fact he was restraining a Pyromancer for no good reason. He let go. “W— Well… It’s not loitering to wait for a shop to open… Uh, good luck. Please come back if you get cold. Use a mage gem or public radio to call me if you get too cold. I’ll fly you home.”

Ameili’s anger evaporated the moment Retort’s hoof left her backpack. “Thank you. Back soon!”

I could get a pair of pliers for every room in the house. Every house should be fully stocked with pliers. Oooor… I could overhaul my clockworks like I’ve been wanting too since last decade. Yessss! That’s what I’ll do! Maximum Overdrive setting, here I come! Or, I could build grappling hooks into my forelegs and try swinging around like Spidermare. Or both. Yeah! I’ll do both!

The mare blew her lover a kiss and slipped out the door, closing it behind her. She skipped through the snow drifts, practically walking on air as she made her way down the trail to town.

Tractor Pull - 1st of Midwinter, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

Trac yawned as the train screeched to a stop. He’d had a full day at school after three hours sleep.

Stupid midnight training game…Most people I knew would have fallen asleep in class. Trac yawned again and slipped his coat on. I guess army training is good for something besides serving. Who knew I’d use sleep deprivation training in school?

Trac tugged on his boots and then facehooved. “Anyone who’s actually been to school would know that…” he muttered under his breath.

“Long day?” A mare’s voice asked.

Trac sleepily looked up. A nondescript, middle-aged, unicorn mare with piercing green eyes looked back. She sat in the seat in front of Trac and looked both worried and focused.

“Uh, yeah,” Trac said, his face pulling into a frown. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve looked dead for the entire ride. I was worried you were on something,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.

No one’s ever talked to me on the train before. Why is she doing it now? Trac frowned. “No, I’m not on anything. I’m just tired. Too tired to have a conversation, I’m afraid.”

The mare nodded. “That’s okay. But I do have something for you. You’re Tractor Pull, right?”

The fur on the back of Trac’s neck stood up in alarm. “Uh, yeah… Is this a call to arms? I thought our gems were supposed to beep.”

The mare shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s a package. I’m with a courier service. This was supposed to be delivered to your home, but I recognized you from the picture. I’ve tried to get your attention a few times, but well, you were just kind of sitting there with glassy eyes. We’re not allowed to deliver to someone under the influence.”

The mare reached into a saddlebag next to her and fished out a small brown-paper-wrapped package, along with a clipboard. She held the clipboard out to Trac. “Sign here, please.”

The Pony Express logo on the paperwork pinned to the board jumped out at Trac enough to pierce his drowsy state.

International mail? What? But, why though?

Trac nodded, took a pen from his coat pocket and quickly scribbled his signature onto the page. “Who's it from?”

“It’s anonymous,” the mare replied. “Sorry, but they don't tell the couriers who send things if they asked to remain anonymous. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted too.”

Trac took the package and hefted it in his hoof for a moment. It’s heavy. And flexible. A book?

“That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything is all. Thanks. Uh, you have a nice day,” Trac said as he tucked the package into the duffle bag containing his uniform.

Ew… My uniform got pretty funky this weekend. The bags a bit damp. It’s only got the one pocket… This won't fit into my coat pocket. I hope it won't get damaged by anything soaking through the main compartment.

“I’ll have a great day now that I can stay on the train and loop back to Detrot,” the courier laughed. “No offense but anywhere this north is too cold. Living up here should be illegal under to the Princess’s prohibition on cruel and unusual punishments.”

Trac snorted. “The cold’s not that bad, it’s worse. Thanks again, and bye.”

Trac turned and walked. Well, this mystery woke me up a bit. Kinda weird she took the same train as me. And sat down right next to me. Stranger things have happened though. Like running into an undead Romane mare in the woods next to my house.

Trac made his way to the doors, shuffling along with the dozen or so other ponies who were also getting off at West Bloomfield.

Wait… Stay on and head back to Detrot. That makes no sense. The train stopped here for the night and heads back in the morning. She does hoof delivery, she should know that. Did she rent a sleeper car and sit next to me after recognizing me in the crowd? Because if not she’s going to need a hotel.

Trac turned around to look for the courier. “Ma’am? Y— oh…”

The mare had vanished. The train car wasn’t full enough for her to have switched seats, but Trac had been seated near the front of the car.

I guess she had a sleeper car then. Good.

Trac turned around and stepped off the train. He made it five steps before a familiar voice called out to him and the mystery mare was completely forgotten.

“H— Hey! Over here,” Thunder reared up to poke his waving hoof over the top of the crowd.

Trac frowned then facehooved again. You idiot! You should have slept in class. Thunder asked you to hang out today. It was only algebra. You know algebra.

Trac did his best to shake himself awake and walked over to where his friend was standing. The moment Trac pushed his way through the crowd and caught sight of his tiny friend, his jaw dropped incredulously.

The little stallion had not bundled himself up. Instead, choosing to wear a pair of loose purple shorts and a blue-gray hoodie which while new, matched Trac’s. Or at least it would have if his hadn’t been sky blue when it was new.

The shorts and hoodie let Trac see Thunder’s mane and tail for the first time. Only an idiot took their helmet off while on duty. A tanker’s jumpsuit kept their tail completely covered to keep it from getting dirty or caught in something. Neither Bunker nor Thunder knew Trac's mane color either.

Thunder wasn’t exactly following Guard regulations with his mane and tail’s cut. He was breaking them completely. His bi-color deep purple and royal blue hair was left long, bouncy, and with a slight curl. It went down past his shoulders for his mane, and to just above the ground with his tail. But that’s not what shocked Trac about his friend’s choice of outfit.

Trac stared at Thunder, stock still and eyes wide. “What the buck are you thinking?! It’s twenty below at the least!”

Thunder smiled up at Trac and puffed out his chest. “Pegafloof.”

“I room with a pegasus, that’s not enough when it’s this cold. We need to get you inside!”

“Is he a Songbird or a Falconiform?” Thunder’s left ear dipped down.

Trac blinked. “I uh, I’ve never heard those terms before.” They sound a bit racist, frankly.

Thunder raised an eyebrow. “Really? I guess schools up here don't cover it? Bunker and I are from Detrot. Uh, anyway, there are two kinds of Pegasi. Or at least there were. Waaay back in the day, you had the Songbird tribe and the Falconiform tribe.

“If he’s mostly descended from the Songbird tribe then he’s built for flying at lower altitudes, higher speed, and will be real agile on his wings. I’m a Falconiform. We’re descended from pegasi who lived way up in the mountains. We’re made for the cold, long-distance flights, and have way better eyesight. Oh! And we can hover on thermals, they can’t.”

“Oh,” Trac filed the information away for future use. “How can you tell the difference?”

“Wing shape and color used to be able to do it back, like, a thousand years ago. Now? Uh, stick us in the cold, I guess?” Thunder giggled, flashing Trac a cute smile.

Trac nodded, then shuddered as a gust of wind blew icy torment down the back of his coat. “Well, as long as you’re not going to freeze your balls off. I can’t imagine wearing anything like those shorts right now.”

Thunder bit his lip. “That's… It’s not going to happen. I promise.”

“Alright. So, what were we going to do again? I’ve had a long day.”

Thunder frowned. “That’s right, you go right from the fort to school, don’t you?”

“Mhm.”

“We were going to have a drink!” Thunder smiled and walked over to Trac’s side, standing a bit closer than Trac would have expected him too. “I asked some guys where to go in this town and recommended a bar called the Ponut Palace.”

Trac coughed, choking on his own phlegm. Sisters! Anywhere but there!

Thunder eeped and looked up at him “Uh, are you okay?”

“Y— You— Thunder, that’s the gay bar,” Trac’s cheeks burned as he looked down into his friend’s eyes. “It’s not a stalliony-stallion gay bar either. Or even just a bar gay people go to. It’s the fruity kind, there is at least one Gloryhole, and they rent rooms by the hour.”

“Oh,” Thunder’s ears drooped. “I um… The guys said they have Sex on the— OOOOOHHH!”

The little stallions’ eyes bugged out of his head at his realization.

“Yeah, it’s not the drink,” Trac nodded sagely. “Don’t worry, most places here serve Sex on the Counter.”

“Wait, how do you know?” Thunder smiled playfully.

Trac’s face turned bright red. “I… I had to use the bathroom really bad one time. It was the closest place. I was stuck in there for an hour.”

“In the bathroom?” Thunder asked, raising an eyebrow.

Trac bit his lip and squirmed for a moment, then hung his head. “Yeah… I picked THAT stall and uh… I was too… I thought if I left as soon as the guy uh… Look, I thought I'd have my kneecaps broken or something. That’s how grimy of a place it is. I uh… Kinda um, helped a guy out then ran off. So yeah. I’d like to not remember that, okay?”

Thinking back on it now, I don't think I would have really been hurt, though really seemed like it at the time. Genuinely filthy bar. Strong sex smell. The overly aggressively gay types everywhere… Ugh. I wonder if straight ponies know they creep us out too?

“Oh…” Thunder wrapped a wing around Trac’ shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, that kinda thing can be fun if you’re in the mood, but um… Did you file a police report?”

“What did I just say?” Trac sighed.

“Sorry! Sorry! Just… I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“This was years ago. I’m fine now,” Trac’s shoulders slumped. “I— Wait, you’d be into that type of thing?”

“Sometimes,” Thunder admitted with a blush. “Why?”

“It's… I thought you were straight. And with Bunker. You two live together on base. Isn’t that a married couples only thing?” Trac asked, tilting his head.

Thunder shook his head. “No, I like everyone. And Bunker and I aren't together. We room together because... They decided to stick us together for convenience.”

“Oh. Well, since that place is out of the question, I know a bar and grill on Cloud Lane that’s pretty good.” It’s also cheap… I can afford a sandwich and a beer there, but not anywhere else.

“Yeah… We can go there,” Thunder said as he looked down into the fresh snow.

“Uh, cool?” Trac tilted his head, shrugged as Thunder didn’t react, and started walking down the road. “Come on. It’s this way.”

Thunder nodded, took a step away from Trac and followed along after him. The two walked in silence. Only the sound of snow crunching beneath another set off hooves let either know the other was there.

At first, Trac thought Thunder was just playing it tough with the cold and chose to stop talking while walking to make the walk go faster. Some ponies felt time went by faster when no one was talking. Retort was one of them.

But every time Trac glanced down at Thunder, the little stallions looked perfectly warm. No shivering, no blueness, no sniffles. He was fine. Physically at least. Thunder’s eyes looked distant, his face held a pained expression Trac knew all too well.

The two stallions rounded the corner onto Cloud Lane, and Thunder sighed. Trac winced in response.

What did I do? Why is this so awkward all of a sudden? I haven’t done friendship stuff in forever… I probably bucked up. I hope something happens to distract us from—

Trac’s train of thought derailed as he saw the unmistakable white with an orange stripe of Ameili’s jammed against the glass door of a random storefront.

“OH, BUCK!” Trac’s ears stood up enough to dent his hat and hood outwards. What is she doing in town?! What if someone sees her and panics?

Thunder looked up, eyes wide with alarm only to grow even wider. “Holy— Don’t breathe! Wait, ask what was used first. Maybe we can run before—”

Trac put a hoof on Thunder’s head. “No, no it’s fine. I recognize her. That’s a bio-hazard suit, not a chemical suit.”

Thunder pursed his lips and looked up at Trac. “That’s just as bad if not worse.”

“Normally, yeah. But that’s Ameili. She’s living with Retort and I for a while. I was too sleepy to remember she’s stuck in that suit is all,” Trac shrugged. “Sorry for pranking you. It’s fine. She’s in that thing to keep everyone else safe.”

Thunder tilted his head as the wheels in his head began to spin. “She’s got a very contagious disease? That sucks— Wait, you’ve mentioned her before. Is that the mare who taught you to drive like A.J. Trot?”

Trac raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Oh uh… A race car driver. My dad’s really into— Skip it. Why is she making out with a hardware store?” Thunder asked as he watched Ameili nuzzle the doors.

“I… Do not know. Come on,” Trac nodded and crossed the street.

Thunder followed along behind him, more than a little intrigued by the weirdo in a bio-suit.

Trac jogged up to Ameili, stopped behind her, and cleared his throat. “Hey, Ameili, you know I let you stay with us so you wouldn’t be out in the cold like this, right?”

Ameili didn't turn around, instead, she continued to stare longingly into the store. Normally her voice carried her emotions perfectly. But after an hour of her rubbing its controls against the glass, her voice had been scrambled into something almost entirely robotic.

“Oh! Hi, Trac. I’ll go home shortly after they open. Don’t mind me.”

“Is something wrong?” Trac asked with a frown, mistaking pleasure for worry due to Ameili’s vocoder.

Thunder blinked and took a step back. “Woah… What do you have that makes you sound like that?!”

“Sound like what?” Ameili asked, continuing to look into the store.

“Your vocoder is scrambled. I’m guessing because you’ve been dry humping that door,” Trac said doing his best to maintain a blank face.

“DON’T JUDGE ME!” Ameili snapped, turning her head to flash Trac a judgmental glare. “I can’t exactly just go to a bar and pick up stallions, now can I!? If I can get my thrills from anticipating building things, that’s my business!”

Trac’s ears drooped. “I— I didn’t mean it like that. Wait, were you actually dry humping the door? I was joking…”

“Uh, maybe?” Ameili admitted, conjuring a fiery blush as she reset her voice box. “I don’t know. I might have? I REALLY like to build things, and it’s a FULL hardware store! I thought it would be a little place where locals can buy bolts and screws, but it’s not! It’s got EVERYTHING!”

Ameili bounced up and down for a moment before giving Trac a hug. “I’ve got everything planned out! But next time I’m paid I can make little model tanks to help illustrate our lessons better and— Oh! Someone else said something—” Ameili spun around and waved a hoof at Thunder. “— Hello! My name is Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas, I’m Trac’s roommate. I’m normally not this excitable, but that’s because I didn’t know there was a hardware store here.”

Ameili paused and turned back to Trac, rearing up to stare into his eyes. “Trac. Why didn’t you tell me there was a hardware store?”

Trac held up his hooves defensively. “Woah! Easy! I didn’t know it meant this much to you! I also assumed you would just, you know, KNOW we had one. Every town in Equestria has at least one Silly Beetle. It’s a huge hardware store franchise. Besides, I didn’t even know you had money… Wait, did you say ‘get paid’?”

Ameili nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I hadn’t mentioned it to you yet. I wanted to surprise you with something nice. Retort found me a part-time job working with your fire department.”

Thunder tilted his head. “You’re a firefighter? But only part-time? How’s that work?”

“I’m dying. They don’t want to work me very hard,” Ameili answered. “But they wouldn’t say no to a pyromancer offering their services.”

Thunder nodded once. “Seems legi— Dying?” His eyes popped out of his head. “I uh, I can’t catch it, can I? What you have?”

Ameili shook her head. “No, of course not. Its spread by body fluid contact and I am in a fully sealed suit.”

“I had the same exact fear when I met her,” Trac smiled and gave Thunder a sympathetic nod. “Trust me, if she could spread it, I’d be a pile of rotting flesh and bones by now.”

Thunder winced. “So you’ve got like, super leprosy?”

Ameili nodded. “Effectively. There was a wizard, he was a real jerk,” Ameili conjured a fiery frown as she realized Thunder was wearing a pair of shorts and a hoodie. “Speaking of jerks, who stole your coat? Would you like them to be on fire?”

“Oh, I’m a Falconiform pegasus,” Thunder sighed slightly, always annoyed to have to explain himself.

Ameili’s frown morphed into a smile. “Hey! It’s been a long time since I met one of your tribe. I don’t remember any of you having bright colors. You look extra cute for it. ”

Thunder smiled. “Thanks!”

Ameili turned her head back towards Trac, then proceed to look back and forth between the two for a moment. When that moment was over she conjured a pair of surprised looking eyes in front of her goggles. “Huh. That was fast. Congratulations, you two!”

“What?” Trac frowned.

“Yeah, what?” Thunder asked as well.

“Are you two not on a date?” Ameili asked, her burning smile turning back into a frown.

“Oh, no. Thunder invited me to hang out and have a drink,” Trac said with a half smile.

Thunder shrank back and stared at the ground.

Ameili watched Thunder’s reaction and facehooved. “No, Trac. No, he didn’t.”

Trac frowned and looked over to Thunder. “Yes, he d… Y— You did, right? I mean, soldiers go to bars and stuff…”

Thunder blushed bright pink and shuffled his hooves in the snow. “N— No…”

Trac’s frown deepened. “Then—”

Ameili rolled a pair of flaming eyes and baped Trac on the nose. “Date. He asked you on a date. You should go on it. He’s cute. If I had the parts still, I’d take him out since you’re being a big dope about it.”

Trac froze, staring off into the distance in a half-panic.

Thunder’s ears drooped. “I— I’m sorry… I thought since you said yes you were into guys. I didn’t think you thought Bunker and I were a couple. I’m sorry! I hate asking straight guys out. I promise it hurts me more than it discomforts you!”

Ameili waved a hoof in front of Trac’s eyes. Trac didn’t even blink. Realizing she had to take initiative, Ameili knelt down to get on Thunder’s eye level and gave him a quick hug.

“It’s okay. He likes stallions. I’ve been doing my best to help him get over some past trauma. Trac here never got over his last coltfriend’s death. It was over a decade ago. He’s probably… Well, having flashbacks.”

“After a decade?” Thunder asked, raising an eyebrow. “What the hay happened?”

“Griffons… Griffons happened,” Trac muttered.

Thunder flinched. “Oh… So, PTSD. That would explain your entire personality.”

Trac’s eyes narrowed. “If you thought I was a shell-shocked mess, why did you ask me out?”

“I shouldn’t have!” Thunder grumbled. “You had one awesome day of being this cool, smart, skilled, happy guy. I should have waited to see if that stuck. I mean, it kinda did. For the weekend. But like—”

“He obviously thinks you’re hot,” Ameili summarized.

“Y— Yeah. I do,” Thunder nodded. “And suddenly you were also awesome! So I asked because well, you can’t live alone! Um, well, some people can. But I can’t. And I have terrible luck with mares.”

“Because they don’t like submissive guys?” Trac asked.

“No, because that’s what they expect me to be and I weird them out,” Thunder admitted, shuffling one hoof against the sidewalk. “I— I can’t help being tiny and cute.”

“Well, you’re also kinda girly,” Trac said, blushing lightly. “You and Bunker have this cute femmcolt/butchmare dynamic. That’s another reason I thought you two were a thing.”

Thunder humphed and turned around, indignantly fluttering his wings. “I also can't help that! Brain chemistry dictates our behavior to a larger degree than most people will ever be comfortable admitting. I don’t make testosterone. Haven't since I was fourteen. I just don't act that guyish most of the time. It’s not my fault!”

“I never said it was?” Trac knelt down to get on Thunder’s eye level. “Bir— M— My ex was like you. But less so. That’s not a thing which would bother me. Sorry for putting you on the spot like that.”

Thunder reached up and wrapped Trac in a tight but quick hug. He immediately let go. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do… We’re not there yet. At the hugs. Hugging. Stuff…”

Trac cleared his throat and stood back up, flashing Ameili a look which begged for help.

Ameili tapped a hoof to her chin in thought. “Not to ruin the moment, but may I ask you a question, short pony whose name I don’t know?”

“I’m Thunder Charge.”

Ameili giggled. “I’m sorry. That’s a very mismatched name given what I can see of who you are.
Aren't Equestrian names normally representative of their talent or personality?”

“Yeah, we normally change them when we get our special talent or move out of our parents' house. You know, to something that’s more fitting,” Thunder smiled, grateful for the distraction. “I um, my dad always wanted the perfect manly soldier for a son. I can’t be that for him, so I kept the name he gave me. Fortunately, he has Bunker for the perfect manly soldier as a daughter.”

Trac’s eyes popped out of his head. “OH SISTERS! You guys are siblings?! No wonder you went quiet when I said I thought you were a couple!”

Thunder snickered. “We’re not siblings. We’re BBFs. Grew up next to each other. Her dad ran out on her when she was eight. My dad decided to be her dad and took over raising her. Not like, legally. He would just go over and do dad stuff with her if he wasn’t with me.”

Ameili raised a fiery eyebrow. “Are you arguing that you can’t act masculine for your father when a mare can do it?”

“Bunker’s not a normal mare,” Thunder said scratching the back of his head as he smiled sheepishly. “Also dad’s not a normal dad. He like… Uh… Well… Trac, you’ve actually met my dad.”

Trac frowned. “I have, when?”

“Basic training.” Thunder coughed. “My dad’s Sergeant Mustang.”

“No!” Trac’s eyes widened.

“Mhm.”

Trac’s eyes glazed over.

Trac squirmed beneath his bunk’s extra itchy woolen blanket. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night. It’s like this stupid blanket is made from equal parts itching powder and wool! How late is it?

The dingy Quonset hut had but two windows and they were in the Sargent’s office. One looked out into the world, and the other looked from the office into the barracks. Trac groaned as the crack of dawn shone into the Sergeant's office.

Oh great… I’ve been up all night! What will I—

Sergeant Mustang sat bolt upright in bed. The movement was explosive. One moment he had been invisible behind the window, the next he was sitting up, gray eyes narrowed, focused, and ready to go.

“AAA!” Trac’s ears lay flat. Celestia’s Cake Fetish! What does he think basic is? A horror movie?

The massive pegasus grunted once, reached out of Trac’s view, opened a cooler, and retrieved a carton of boiled eggs.

Trac watched in fascinated horror as the Sergeant proceed to eat two dozen boiled eggs. Which he washed down with an entire bottle of what smelled like paint thinner. The very moment the bottle was empty, he stood up, lit up a cigar, and stomped out of his office. Fully dressed in a pristine uniform.

Trac jumped out of bed, his hooves striking the ground with an audible crack. Sergeant Mustang looked over. Trac saluted. “S— Sir!”

Mustang smiled. “I like your gumption, private! Only a sissy gets up any later than this. Well, a sissy or my boy. But he’s got special permission the rest of these lily-livered pimpernels don’t!”

“Y— Yessir!” Trac said, his hoof still raised in salute.

Mustang looked Trac up and down then nodded. “Farmcolt, eh? You’ve got the muscle someone would need to give me a hand. I need a spotter for my morning exercise. I work out, you watch for the Commander. Understood?”

Trac saluted again. “Sir, yes. Sir!”

A ten-minute run brought Trac and Mustang to the main headquarters parking lot. Mustang led Trac to the Commander’s personal truck and lay down behind it.

“Remember, private. If you see the Commander, you holler real good,” Mustang said as he slid under the truck.

“S— Sir?” Trac winced. “I don’t think you should be—”

“There isn’t a heavier vehicle on base that’s not essential to national security, boy. Besides, they won't let me in the gym anymore. Now I’m going to squeeze in three hundred reps before he wakes up. If we have time I expect you to do five!” Mustang braced his hooves against the truck’s rear axle and pushed upwards.

The truck creaked. Its suspension groaned. Rubber scraped against pavement. The rear end of the truck began to rise.

Up and up it went. Down and down went Trac’s terrified jaw. Mustang’s forelegs reached their maximum extension. He grunted and began to push the truck up even further by extending his wings.

“ONE!” Mustang announced as the truck reached its apex.

“His standards of fitness were so unrealistic…” Trac whimpered, staring off into the distance. At least I made it to four.

“Yeah, and Bunker meets them,” Thunder nodded.

“S— Sisters…”

“You probably know my mom too. Like, at least on sight. Our last tank was named after her.”

“You’re THE Spitfire’s kid?” Trac’s jaw dropped.

“Yeah.” Thunder smiled and looked up at Trac. “Most ponies don't guess it because I've only got her fur color.”

“And you’re driving tanks?!”

“I wanted dad to be proud of me, okay? The Air Guard would have been easy for me.”

Trac coughed then nodded. “Fair point. He hates easy.”

“Exactly!” Thunder looked up into the sky and smiled. “My special talent is making lightning. I’m a great flier. At least as good as mom. But as a tank gunner? I had no ‘Cheats’ as dad would say. I made it through on my own, skill only. I think he’s finally proud of me.”

Trac pursed his lips for a moment. Should I tell— Of course I should!

“Actually, I spotted him during his morning workouts every day I was in basic. We talked a lot. He’s always been proud of you.”

“Pfff, bull,” Thunder dismissed. “I had to earn this.”

“I mean it! He told me, and I quote, ‘My boy beat the toughest enemy there is. He's got nothing left to prove to anyone and a license to do as he wishes’. Never said what that enemy was though.” Trac shrugged. “Though I guess you know.”

Thunder tilted his head. “You're not lying to me, are you?”

Trac shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

“To try and flatter me so you get laid on the first date?”

“I thought we weren't having a date?” Trac coughed awkwardly. “I mean, we had the whole misunderstanding and never really resolved it.”

“IT’S A DATE!” Thunder and Ameili chorused together.

Thunder looked up at Ameili. “Bop his nose for me again, would you?”

“Sure,” Ameili gave Trac another gentle bap on the nose. “Let the nice colt take you out. You need it. Heck, if Birch were here he’d tell you to go for it. Go have fun! Go home and weird Retort out by having sex against the wall bordering his room. It will be fun!”

Thunder reached up to bap Ameili on her respirator. “You don’t do that on the first date, it’s trashy!”

“I know it is. That’s why you go to two bars on the same night. Then it’s the second date,” Ameili conjured her grin higher than normal to avoid burning Thunder’s hoof.

Trac closed his eyes for a long moment. Would he want me to move on?

Trac cringed, his stomach pulling inwards as he worked out exactly what Birch would have done to him over the last twelve years. He’d literally beat the shit out of me for acting like I have been. I’ve been living the exact opposite of how he’d want in his name. That’s— There's no worse way to insult someone you love.

Celestia… They say you’re not a goddess, and you don’t really hear prayers, but for the love of you, please make sure he knows I’m sorry!

Trac reached down and gently nudged Thunder’s side. “It’s a date. Come on, let’s go get some breadsticks and get you your girly drink.”

Thunder blushed a bight pink and nodded happily.

“Excellent!” Ameili turned back around and pressed her nose back to the store’s glass. “I’ll get back to my own.”

Thunder blinked. “Uh… Is this actually your fetish? Like, were you not joking?”

Ameili sighed wistfully and turned to Thunder with a smile. She waved a hoof at the window. “Would you look at all that stuff?”

Thunder’s ears drooped. “Uh… okay?”

He peered into the window. A second later Trac joined him.

“What are we looking at?” Trac asked.

Ameili turned to look at her friend desperate to be understood. “Everything you need to build anything you wish. Potential. Raw potential. An entire civilization with treasures unimaginable to my people could be constructed using only the supplies of this singular store. It’s the ultimate triumph of civilization. How can you not see it’s beauty?!”

Trac frowned, then smiled as it came to him. She’s a thousand years old. She lived back when if you wanted a fire you had to burn your own manna, and therefore eat more that day. Or light a candle. She’s also only able to perform magic from the pyromantic school. Technology must be the real magic from her perspective.

“I get it,” Trac said with a polite nod.

“I don’t get it,” Thunder said pressing his nose closer to the window. “What am I missing?”

Ameili picked the little stallion up. The strain of lifting an entire pony made all four of her clockwork legs whine and grind as she slowly panned Thunder’s face across the storefront. “You’re missing everything!”

“H— How drunk are you?” Thunder asked with a timid yet nervous smile.

Ameili sighed and set him down, her clockworks ceasing their protest the moment the weight left them. “I’m sober. I can’t drink anymore.”

Thunder opened his mouth to object, but Trac leaned down and whispered in his ear. “She’s basically a skeleton under that. It’s best not to talk about food around her. She misses not having stuff just pumped into her belly.”

“OH!” Thunder cringed. “I am so sorry! I had cancer once. I know that can’t be as bad as something necrotic but, I get it. I know what being so sick you can’t handle anything is like. I’m sorry. If this is what you can do that makes you happy, I’m a jerk for questioning it. Do you forgive me?”

Trac’s eyes widened. Cancer? That’s definitely one heck of an opponent. I’d be proud of my kid for beating it.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Ameili laughed. “But I do need to plan out my route. I’ll spend days in there if I don't have a game plan for when they open.”

“Um… I guess I’ll check on you if you're not back when I wake up,” Trac decided as he gently nudged Thunder’s shoulder. “Come on. If we wait too much longer we won't have time for a drink before they close.”

“Oh! Right, we we’re going for a drink. I thought we were walking now,” Thunder grinned sheepishly.

“Maybe you’d like that, but I’d freeze to death if I stayed out here too long.”

“Even in that coat?”

“Even in this coat. Come on.”

The two walked down the street, leaving Ameili behind. The night was mostly over, but the two had a wonderful end to their night. After ensuring a slightly tipsy Thunder was warmly bundled up on the living room couch, Trac went to bed with a genuine smile on his face for the first time in over a decade.

That smile wouldn’t have been there if he had not forgotten about the package sequestered in his duffle bag's never-used pocket.

Sweet Stuff - 2nd of Midwinter, 08 EoH

Silly Beetle’s Hardware Emporium - Equestria

The first light of the morning sun shone down upon the glass storefront. The brilliant rays transformed each sheet of glass into a wall of light. To Sweet Stuff’s eyes, the glass truly held an otherworldly quality. The glass warped and pulsed. The light within them shifted colors exactly as one would expect the lights of a flying saucer to behave.

The fact that Sweet Stuff was still under the influence was a testament to the quality of the acid she had dropped sixteen hours ago. The fact she wasn’t running away from the white and orange alien robot while screaming and flailing her hooves was a testament to Sweet Stuff herself.

“Can I like, help you?” The wide-eyed manager asked. “We don't sell spaceship parts.” What’s an alien want with like, pony stuff?

The alien turned around. It’s fiery eyes literally burning with delight as it saw Sweet’s name tag. “Yes! Yes, you can. My name is Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. I would like to browse your wares and purchase a selection of items.”

Sweet nodded twice. “To like, learn about our technology and practical magic, and stuff?”

“Yeah! You get it. I wish more people did too,” Ameili agreed with a nod.

Sweet trotted up to the doors and poked her key at them, managing to get them unlocked on the fifth try. “Lock’s moving man…” She grumbled before pushing the doors open. “Come on in. Just take whatever you want. It’s on the house.”

Ameili gasped, her jaw hung agape. “R— really?!”

“Yeah,” Sweet said with a nod. I’m not gonna argue with an alien robot. It’ll melt me with its heat vision… Man, I could go for some water. I’m super dehydrated. Did I take E at the rave too? WOAH! The ceiling is made of blue!

Fortunately for Sweet, her impaired mind was so focused on her own thoughts she didn’t hear the truly disturbing sound of manic laughter as processed by a vocoder. Laughter which continued as Ameili proceed to grab six shopping carts and run through the store like a filly on Hearthswarming.

Fortunately for Ameili, Sweet's acid didn't wear off until she was halfway home with her new treasures, and no one believed Sweet when she said they were robbed by an alien robot.