Innsmouth County, the bleak, dark swamplands directly to the south of Canterlot. In ages past, the first Witch Hunters had descended upon the native population, condemning hundreds of them to death for witchcraft, burning, stoning, and drowning Innsmouthians by the score. Since then, the county has rebuilt under the close watch of the Royal Demesne, and this bred resentment for both Canterlot and the Royal Family. The denizens of Innsmouth, fueled by their resentment, opened their gates to any who the government in Canterlot saw as criminal or undesirable. All manner of thugs, warlocks, witches, and the like could be found just beneath the surface of Innsmouth’s cities.

Beneath Innsmouth’s capital of Dunwall, a particular witch, a foul necromancer, kept alive for decades beyond her own death through the crafts of her hooves, had set up a laboratory, where she could perform all manner of experiments outside of the eyes of Equestrian law enforcement. Every night, her contacts within Dunwall would bring her the raw materials she requested, usually young mares and colts from orphanages within the city. While she would be the first to admit that snatching adult beggars from the streets might be less risky, the foals were more likely to remain largely intact. They had more bones, fresher blood, and malleable souls.

“Yes~” The necromancer’s voice, hollow and metallic, wafted through her laboratory. Her half dozen mechanical legs danced with grace of a spider traversing its web, carrying her over to her lab table, where the last touches of her necromantic science were being applied to the corpse of a young filly, no older than 13. She had taken great care with this one, determined to make it the masterstroke of her necro-mechanical genius. With deft hooves, she had replaced the filly’s heart and lungs with an expertly crafted soul engine. With calculated movements, she grafted iron joints to the filly’s bones, and replaced her limbs with perfectly machined prosthetics. With the gentle touch of a master seamstress, she had stitched the filly back together, and now came the last touch.

The most expensive items one could find on the black market were those items relating to the soul. The hardest of those items to get was a warlock-made soulstone. Not the cheap, soul-infused ore of the Resurrectionists further south, but a hard, black crystal orb of demonic origin. Under any other circumstance, she would have used one of the soul cages which hung from the ceiling of her lab to hold the filly’s spirit, but that left the soul open to damage. No, she needed this demonic artifact in order to preserve as much of the soul as required. Of course, she had also experimented upon the soul itself, wiping clean what memories she had seen as unsuitable for her efforts.

Taking the soulstone in her hooves, the necromancer gazed into the crystal, eyeing the young, innocent soul swirling within it. Save for her experiments on it, it was flawless, perfectly captured and contained within the demonic grasp of the soulstone, and with a strength exceeding that of mortal ponies, she crushed it between her hooves. The gentle wisp of the filly’s soul spilled from the fractured soulstone, the crystal vaporizing into nothingness as its cargo was spent. Cradling the soul in her hooves like a foal would cradle a bird, the necromancer whispered an incantation, before her hooves opened, pouring the ethereal wisp into the filly’s body.

With the essence of life once again filling the body, the filly began convulsing upon the table, straining against the straps which bound her.

“I figured a foalnapping monster like you could be found in the sewers.” A voice from the far wall made the necromancer scowl, her legs swiveling her around to face the intruder. She was a pony, standing just taller than the Equestrian average, wearing a dress-coat and vest of muted browns and reds. The most easily recognizable aspect was her teeth, her fangs which protruded out from her upper lip. The Vampiress Hunter, the Huntress of Hunters.

“So they finally sent their bloodhound after me? You have nothing better to hunt tonight?” The necromancer scowled, moving defensively in front of her lab-table and the thrashing body of the reanimated filly.

“Oh Morty, you’ve been at the top of my list as soon as I heard you started abducting children. Mortenebra, under the authority granted to me by Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service, I hereby place you under arrest. Surrender peacefully or I will make use of my authority as a Witch Hunter to put you down myself.” The Huntress’ wing right wing unfurled, reaching across to grab hold of her sword, drawing forth the long, silver estoc which she had long used to deadly effect.

“Those two are the same option and you know it, you bloodsucking wench.” Mortenebra snarled, her project for the moment forgotten. “I choose to continue my unlife for as long as I see fit. You of all ponies would understand, you chose undeath as well.”

“Awww, you’re backed so far into a corner that you’re trying to compare the two of us.” Skirov laughed, slowly beginning to walk towards the necromancer, each step slow and deliberate. “Morty, Morty, Morty, we’re both monsters, but I’m a monster who hunts other monsters.”

“A lapdog to the mortals you mean. They’d all fear you if they knew what you really are.” The rapid skittering of Mortenebra’s legs marked her moving towards the wall furthest from the entrance to the lab.

“You would know, you’re feared both for the way you look

the things you do, Morty. I’ll go easy on you though. I’ll aim between the eyes, er, eyeslits. You won’t feel a thing.” Skirov readied to pounce, but Mortenebra knew what was actually coming. Almost before the necromancer could react, the booming roar of Skirov’s hoof-cannon rang out, the massive pistol held in her free wing. Mortenebra dove for the door, not even flinching as the silver bullet narrowly missed the iron covering over her face. Using her necromechanical strength to her advantage, Mortenebra grabbed hold of Skirov, throwing the vampire towards the wall, before rushing out of the lab. She didn’t have the means to kill Skirov now. She wasn’t expecting to deal with a vampire and as such didn’t stock up on silver swords or wooden stakes. So, she’d rather take her chance at an escape into the sewers.

Skriov groaned, picking herself up off the ground, covered in broken glass from a number of ruined beakers that her body had broken. Looking to the open door into the sewers, she snorted. There was no way she’d be able to track down Mortenebra now, at least not until she settled down long enough to leave a scent trail.

“Damn, I forgot how fast those legs of hers are.” Skirov shook her head, then jumped as she became aware of the thrashing filly bound to the table. Her coughing had ceased, but now she was panicking, not knowing where she was, or what was going on. Skirov’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit.”

Rushing over to the table, Skirov removed one of her gloves, letting the silken hoof covering fall to the floor as she gently placed the hoof on the filly’s forehead, trying to calm her down.

“Shh, shh, it’s ok. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to save you, the bad mare is gone.” Skirov spoke softly.

“Wha-what?! Wh-who are you?! Where am I?!” The filly shouted, though her struggling had slowed somewhat.

“My name is Skirov. I’m… I’m a policemare of sorts. I’m here to help you. I’m going to let you out, but I need you to calm down first. Can you tell me your name?” Skirov kept her voice even, being able to tell she was getting somewhere with this filly.

“I-I, I don’t know, I don’t know my name.” The filly’s breathing began to pick up again, starting to panic again.

“Shh, shh, calm down, it’s ok. You’ve been through a lot, it’ll come back to you, I’m sure.” Skirov nodded, trying to recover from that unforeseen slip up. She’d have to be careful if she wanted the young girl to relax to the point where she could be let out.

“Y-you’re sure?” the filly asked, looking at Skirov with pleading eyes. Skirov met the look with a reassuring smile and a nod.

“I’m sure. In the meantime, how about a nickname? Something I can call you until you can remember your real name?”

“O-ok.”

“Alright. Nickname… Nick… Name…” Skirov pondered for a moment, looking over the filly. “How about Mecanic?”

“Mecanic?” The filly asked.

“Yeah, Mecanic. You got those hooves there, I think they’re really cool.” Skirov smiled, beginning to undo the straps.

“Cool?” The filly asked, as she cocked her head to one side. “I-is that good?”

“Very good. Lots of ponies have things like horns or wings, but I’ve never seen anypony with hooves like yours. Do you think you can use them?” Skirov asked as the last strap came undone. She offered her gloveless hoof to the filly, offering to help her get down from the table.

“U-um, I think so.” The filly took Skirov’s hoof in one of her own, nearly crushing the vampire’s in her cold, metallic grip. “I-I think I like that nickname too.”

“Good. Well then, Mecanic, let me take you from here. I know of somewhere safe we can go to for you to recover.” Skirov helped Mecanic up onto her hooves, reflexively shaking her hoof once the filly let go. She didn’t actually feel anything from it, but she still had phantom pains from back when her nervous system still worked. “Just stay close to me until we get to the surface.”

“Ok, Miss Skirov.” Mecanic nodded, moving close to the Witch Hunter, so close she was practically hugging the mare’s side as they moved back to the streets of Dunwall and then beyond the city, leaving the nightmarish place behind them.

“I’m sorry… You did what?!”

“I took her here with me. And don’t shout, she’s asleep.” Skirov rolled her eyes in the face of the shorter, senior Witch Hunter who stood in the bedchambers of her castle in the county of Coltsylvania. “I had a maid prepare her a room as soon as we arrived.”

“So, to summarize, you let Mortenebra escape…” The Witch Hunter began.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring a machine gun in case she dodged the one bullet from my hoof-cannon.” Skirov shook her head. “She’s slippery, you know this, you lost her too.”

“Then you took the reanimated horror Mortenebra created into your home...” The Witch Hunter scowled, pointing off down the hall. That comment was one that Skirov had no patience for.

“I’m going to stop you there, hun, because that ‘reanimated horror’ is a scared filly who didn’t ask for any of this to happen to her, and before you tell me to do anything about it, keep in mind that

are a Hunter and

am a Huntress of Hunters with a marque from Her Highness to do and kill as I see fit to protect this country and her citizens.” Skirov pressed her hoof against the Witch Hunter’s chest, making him take a step back. “So if I hear so much as a word suggesting insult or threat to her, I’m going to throw you unarmed into the path of a banshee. Now get out.”

“Nopony uses the word ‘marque’ like that anymore.” The Hunter snorted, not able to come up with a viable argument against Skirov’s threat, and turned to leave the castle. “Best of luck to your new stray then, Huntress.”

“I’ll make sure the door hits you on the way out.” Skirov snorted back. Nodding to one of her unicorn maids, she waited a few seconds before hearing the pleasant sound of her front gate slamming closed, punctuated by the pained yelp of the Witch Hunter. “Ah, thank you, my dear.”

“Of course, Mistress.” The maid nodded, smiling before carrying on with her duties.

“Oh, before you get too into it, prepare a feeding thrall for me. It’s been a few days since my last meal and I can feel the hunger returning.” Skirov ordered the maid, waving her to head down to the basement of the castle.

“Of course, Mistress. Should I inform Master Gothic that he should avoid the staff tonight?”

“No need, he’s out on a book tour.” Skirov shook her head. “You may all gorge yourselves tonight without fear of harming any thinking being.”

“Oh, thank you, Mistress.” The maid licked her lips, her fangs showing for a brief moment, before she walked off, headed down to the lower floors of the castle.

“Now then, I’m going to check on Mecanic, to make sure she’s still ok.” Skirov pursed her lips, before chuckling softly. “Now I kinda get how Mom felt while I was being bullied as a filly.”

Skirov walked through the halls of her castle, looking up ever so briefly at the electric lighting she had installed upon taking ownership, before coming to the door to the first guest room. Rather than risk the door creaking, Skirov opted for the more stealthy route, dissolving her form into the shadows underneath the door, reforming just on the other side.

Mecanic wasn’t asleep however, she was in the connected washroom, looking at herself in the full length mirror, examining in particular the chrome mechanisms that were now her hooves.

“Mecanic? Are you alright? I thought you were asleep.” Skirov cautiously announced her presence, slowly walking from the door towards the washroom.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Skirov. I woke up not too long ago.” Mecanic looked down to her legs before turning around to face Skirov. “Miss Skirov, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear, whatever you want.”

“You said you’d never seen another pony with hooves like mine… Is that really true? Am I really the only one like this?”

“Well, there are some ponies with metal prosthetics, but none quite like yours. You’re one of a kind, dear.” Skirov offered a warm smile, which quickly faded upon seeing the depressed look which fell upon Mecanic’s face.

“So I’m a freak?”

“Where did you hear that?” Skirov frowned, putting a hoof on the young filly’s shoulder. “Did one of the maid staff say it?”

“N-no! No. They’ve all been really nice. It’s just… None of them have what I have and that pony you were talking to sounded angry that I’m here.” Mecanic shook her head before looking down. Skirov sighed, pulling Mecanic into a hug.

“Don’t think his words mean anything, dear. His opinions concerning you are less than worthless. But, if it really bothers you that you have these hooves, would you like something to hide them until you’re more comfortable with them?” Skirov offered, understanding the need to hide from other ponies. She had to hide her own nature whenever she left the castle. Her friends and family still didn’t know she was a Vampire, only her coltfriend, Century Gothic, and her twin sister knew.

“You have something for these?” Mecanic looked up to Skirov, a questioning look across her face.

“It won’t be a real fix, but it will keep them hidden from prying eyes until you are ready to show them.” Skirov nodded, before turning to leave the room. “Come on.”

Skirov led Mecanic back through the castle halls, coming to Skirov’s own personal chambers. The room was lavishly furnished, with fixtures of blood red and rich mahogany wood. Sheets of red silk lay immaculately upon the giant bed, which itself was partially obscured behind equally red curtains. The walls held the most variation in color, though not by much, being painted red with gold leaf designs.

“It’s very… red.” Mecanic noted sheepishly, taken back by the uniformness of the room’s color scheme.

“I know, but I think it looks good personally.” Skirov laughed, nodding. She walked past most of the red, coming to a stop before a large wardrobe. Within it was a large collection of curious outfits. They looked like a strange variation of the old-pony clothes that Mecanic had seen some of Skirov’s servants wear. Instead of the blacks and whites however, these were mostly varying shades of brown, and most seeming tighter than those she had seen.

“What are those, miss Skirov?” Mecanic arched a brow, not understanding how these strange garments were supposed to help her.

“These are some of my old clothes from when I was about your age. I was, and I suppose still am, very into what ponies call ‘steampunk’.” Skirov smiled, looking through the garments. “I remember my mother decided to get me some more outgoing outfits, back before she realized what a wallflower I was growing up, so I should have them… Aha! Here we go.”

Skirov pulled out two pair of long, leather coverings, each with straps in different places. Two had four straps spaced fairly evenly apart, while the other two only had three straps, two towards the bottom, and one close to the very top.

“Now, like I said, these aren’t a real fix, but they’re the best I can give you until you’re ready. Want to try them on?” Skirov offered, holding them out to Mecanic.

“Um, o-ok.” Mecanic nodded, letting Skirov place the coverings on over her hooves. The ones with four straps she learned were called gloves, that they went over her forehooves, while the ones with three straps, boots, went over her hind hooves. The gloves came up nearly to her shoulder, stopping just below her underside. The boots however came up to her thigh, the straps meant for securing the coverings snugly to her legs. Upon finishing putting them on, Skirov brought over a mirror, letting Mecanic take a look at herself with her covered hooves.

“So? Will these be ok for now?” Skirov asked. Mecanic looked over herself, gingerly running her now gloved hoof over her leg, stopping just above where the machinery began.

“Yes, miss Skirov. I think these will be ok.” Mecanic nodded.

It had been three years since the day Skirov brought Mecanic into her home. Three years of reclusivity within the walls of Castle Ring. In the absence of proper schooling, Mecanic was tutored by a number of the maid staff and private tutors, the latter of which were kept unaware of the true nature of both their pupil and the majority of those within the castle. During those days when the tutors weren’t required to come in, Skirov and Mecanic would spend their time with each other, playing games and talking at length about whatever interested Mecanic at the moment. The filly was curious about everything, from history and science to philosophy and arcane lore. Her tutors often remarked to Skirov that they rarely had pupils quite as eager to learn as her daughter. For the first year, Skirov politely corrected them, clarifying that she wasn’t Mecanic’s mother, just her guardian, but more recently she just smiled, enjoying the warm feeling she got from being called the young filly’s mother.

But, Skirov knew that there was an immense obstacle standing between her and genuinely being Mecanic’s mother, the Equestrian Government. Since she had taken Mecanic while working as an operative for the Equestrian Intelligence Service, Mecanic technically qualifies as evidence that needed to be turned over to the Spymaster General. In order to keep Mecanic from being locked up in an EIS morgue somewhere, Skirov had had to do something she continued to have pains over.

To keep Mecanic safe, Skirov had to invoke her authority as a Witch Hunter to declare the poor filly a threat to Equestria. Mecanic couldn’t leave the castle, because then she’d be an open target for other Witch Hunters. Skirov had no other option, if she wanted to keep Mecanic safe.

There was some hope though, in time.

Author's Note

"Mecanic" - Romanian word, when used in as an adjective means "Mechanical" or "Automated".

"Marque" - Old French word meaning "Right of Reprisal", evolved to only apply to privateers through "Letter of Marque".