Aftersound: Side Stories

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Written by:

Flutterfinar & Geka

Preread and edited by:

IAmApe, Jay Tarrant

Cover art done by:

Geka

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They bleed

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The air roared.

Metal rang against metal as it was beaten into submission without any mercy. Dross and gas exploded in the distant furnaces, evidence of the sloppy job done by the Junkyard. Smoke and fire were vomited towards the heavens, filling them with ash and poison. Machinery shrieked and groaned as it slaved under the calloused or artificial hooves of its masters, who were nothing but slaves themselves. Guttural shouts cut through the burning night—it was the song of labour, it was the wheezing breath of manufacturing. The entire sector of the Heavy Industry wailed in a ceaseless orgy of machine and flesh, giving birth to the products demanded by the city of Canterlot, who never knew the true price paid for its hunger and greed.

But soon it would.

Despite the almost unbearable noise borderline with pain, Spark was straining his hearing as hard as he could. His ragged ears swirled as he tried to make out where exactly the remote explosions took place and if it was any different from where they were supposed to happen. However, he was aware that it was rather pointless. One of the detonations would be just a precursor to the signal, not the signal itself.

Then the very loud bang of a pneumatic hammer violently striking a steel girder sounded sonorously and ominously above all the cacophony. It was very close and very sudden, making Spark jerk instinctively. The pony on his side didn't even flinch, but the glimpses in the depth of her protective goggles shifted.

Spark recovered quickly, as anypony living at the Edge should. Tired of the waiting, eager to meet his destiny, he sprung to his hooves, ready to bolt forward to the next cover. But a metal hoof struck his chest, crossing his path and making him halt.

Unaffected by the sharp metal edges all but cutting into his young and yet to harden skin, even through his so-called clothing, Spark glanced at his companion—an elderly, by the standards of the Edge, mare. Slug’s expression was a mask of the perpetual defiant bitterness of somepony who had been spitting into Death's face for far too long, something very common for those few who lived to her age. The blazing salvo of the nearest smelter painted her face a fiery orange, making her still sharp eyes flare like embers amongst dead ashes. Her muzzle was like a tarpaulin of scar tissue on the stretching frame of her bones. Without any change in her look, she nodded forward with a huff, which came out of her permanently seared nostrils as a sharp rasp. Spark followed the direction she was pointing at and saw the reason for their hesitation.

Circles of light, the angry gazes cast by the never-sleeping eyes of the searchlights, hungrily hunting for victims to fill with hot lead, danced across the ravine leading to the guard post, where fate and death patiently waited for Spark and Slug.

Spark looked at Slug again, waiting for her to say something, but the mare remained silent and still, like a statue, intently studying the indentation in the poisoned earth. The young colt liked her, for he knew that under the burned and lacerated skin a kind heart still resided. She was a veteran born to this never-ending war with industry, fighting its metal onslaught for forty years—Spark didn’t know another pony who was that old. She was so ancient that it wasn’t even her foals who would inherit that long-wearing skin of a survivor, but her grandfoals.

That thought made Spark feel the familiar pang of acute jealousy and anguish. He was born in the Heavy Industry sector just like Slug and yet he was, and always would be, hideless. His mother fell into the kiln and his father he never knew, thus Spark would never wear the last parting gift each parent gave to their offspring—their skin which helped them survive long enough to leave somepony else in their stead. But that was the curse and blessing of those who worked in the metallurgical industry—they rarely needed graves.

And without clothing made of the best gift a parent could give their foal, besides priceless knowledge, Spark was just like an orphan from the city—considered weak and useless, food for the flames. He hated it. But today… today it might change forever. The colt adjusted the greasy rags on his lanky limbs, so he wouldn’t trip over them, and grinned. Yes, after today they would treat him as what he was—a Child of the Industry.

An almost incomprehensible raspy voice escaped Slug’s cracked lips, her lungs tormented by the decades of molten metal’s fury incapable of producing any other sounds but the scrape of sandpaper against the rust of her decaying organs.

“Now.”

Despite the heavy contraption strapped across her back, Slug moved frighteningly fast. That might have been due to her hooves, none of them of flesh, but steel, thundering against the charred earth, turning dross into a fine dust. Spark dashed after her, his own hooves, still to be claimed by the fire, barely touching the ground.

They moved rapidly from one cover to another, galloping between mounds of broken machinery, hills of slag and debris of cracked and soot-covered bricks. All that time Spark couldn’t stop himself from marvelling at the metal device swaying against the ancient hide coat. He did not have a single idea how it worked, only that it was a weapon much stronger than any before. He knew that this one was but a replica of the original brought from the Tunnels by the Prophet. “The stolen tech”, the adults called it. And, apparently, it had something to do with rails. Anyhow, it was magnificent: even though made to fire one single time, the gun was pristine, polished and gleaming, reflecting the blazing sky above. Its mere presence was overwhelming Spark with awe.

Their stop was abrupt, right under the shadow of a twisted and rusty girder, poking out of the ground at an almost vertical angle, as if it was an accusing claw pointing at the firmament. Spark dared not to peek over the pile of dross, which kindly hid them from searchlights lazily crawling over the hollow, seeking game in the shadows, but he knew he would see the guardpost in the distance if he did. It would jeopardize this whole endeavour, and he wasn’t stupid—it was his only chance to reclaim the life stolen from him.

Spark glanced at Slug once again. Their eyes met and she gave a brief nod.

Now they waited.

The young colt began to count his heartbeats and when he reached one hundred, he heard them.

Gurgling rasps of rotten lungs whistled through the arid air as two figures shuffled from the dark, keeping low to the ground, almost slithering. Emissaries of the Light Industry they were, the fabled chemdrinkers. In any other circumstance, they would be attacked on sight, they wouldn’t even make it this far into the Heavy Industry. But not tonight—this night they were allies, partners in crime and justice.

Spark watched with wide eyes as they emerged from the red dusk. He had seen a gryphon once, a Pink Butterfly terrorist, but even that filthy creature was more equine in the appearance and mind than the chemdrinkers.

The chemdrinkers were as feared as they were revered. Even by the standards of the Deep Tunnels, they were horrifying abominations, born from the venom of the Light Industry chemical plants. But nothing survived like them, for what was dead couldn’t die again. And although they were infamous for their lethality, the drugs they produced were considered the most hardcore and effective in all Canterlot.

Like all of the chemdrinkers, those emissaries were unicorns, their horns always aglow and ears moving to compensate for the eyes burned away by the toxic fumes, despite the gas masks. Said protection, along with the remains of the full body suits, was forever fused with their gangrenous flesh. Those patches of their skin which were absolved of the conjoining with the discoloured rubber stood out furless and covered in sickly, never healing chemical burns. Their legs ended in bone spikes—ever-growing tumours and petrified flesh caused by wading in the toxic waste were chiselled and sharpened to serve as tools... and weapons.

Spark gulped and suppressed a shudder. Underneath the hanging tubes of the gas masks he could see the gleam of teeth too sharp and dripping with saliva and blood. Casual cannibalism was one of the many reasons why there was a wide alienation zone around the production plants where chemdrinkers led their wretched existence.

Slug was either undaunted by their appearance or incapable of expressing fear with the mask that her face had become. She unstrapped the weapon from her back and nodded towards the chemdrinkers, but as they showed no reaction save for the never-ceasing wet wheeze, she realized her mistake.

“We are ready.”

For a few moments, the silence was her answer, then a sharp crepitation of liquids moving all the way through their airways came from one on the emissaries, the bigger one, it was impossible to tell if it was a mare or a stallion. It was quite likely that for the chemdrinkers such a difference ceased to exist—they weren’t born after all. Where they lived, things could only die, and it was a popular opinion that they weren’t dying fast enough.

“Go… On… We… Follow…“

Each word was coughed out along with the spray of blood and small chunks of lungs. Despite his best efforts, Spark cringed away, even Slug seemed to lean back, but even if it did happen indeed, she was quick to turn to her weapon and check it again.

“Are you ready?” She asked Spark staring with hardness and judgement through the glass of her goggles.

Spark nodded.

He knew his part. He wasn’t here to help, he wasn’t worthy of touching the weapon, he wasn’t even strong enough to haul it. But he was fast, very fast. So his task was simple—witness, and bring back the news as quickly as possible.

If they failed, every second would count—the wrath of their slavers would rain down on them very soon. If they won… he actually didn’t know what would happen then, besides him no longer being counted as hideless. But that was more than enough.

Ever so slowly and carefully Slug peered above the slab of cement she was hiding behind. For some time she watched the darkness and the rays of artificial suns banishing it away until she saw an opening in their cadence and turned to the chemdrinkers.

“Fast!” She waved her hoof for them to come, another effort wasted on the sightless living corpses.

They passed Spark and he choked—the acrid smell of chemicals and dead flesh almost made him vomit, though it wouldn’t be much of a loss—their rations had been cut again and it was to be at least another day until he got something to eat. When they were a few steps away from him, he followed on three hooves, using the fourth to cover his muzzle.

And finally, he saw it—the guard post.

An elegant spire of once polished bright steel, now blackened with soot accumulated on it over many years, towered above the tormented landscape. And from behind the bullet-proof glass on its top, the ponies clad in their gleaming pristine armour sneered at the continuous agony of the land and the ponies dragged there either from the city by the violence of the corrupt police or from the wombs of mothers by the unjust nature of the world.

Spark could see them moving. Drinking. Laughing.

For him and many others they were tormentors and… angels.

The Heavy Industry could produce so many things and almost all of them were important for the city like nothing else; it was this sector which unknowingly dragged Canterlot to the future on its whip-ravaged back. But it could not produce one thing—food.

So, every time the TCE appeared to visit that or another production complex, the workers prayed. They prayed that it wouldn’t be retribution for the failure in meeting demands, but a bite of synthetic bread or a gulp of stale water. Though, it always remained a mystery as to what their infallible angels would bring them—pain or bliss.

And this is why Spark hated them more than anything else in his charred world of acrid smoke. They were so clean, so perfect and yet so avaricious, so rotten. Perched up in the sky, yet fallen. He hated how he wanted them to come with those tasteless rations and dirty water. He hated how he craved to see them and marvel at their beauty.

But today would be different, the Prophet promised that.

The TCE would finally learn the essence of the land they created.

As Spark was seething at the sight of a feast in a time of famine, Slug finished preparing and aiming her weapon—two rods of metal pointed straight at the shining top of the guard tower. It was only now he noticed that the smaller chemdrinker had a package with… it. That bundle included a heavily corroded metal tube and some sort of small canisters made of metal as well, but strangely without any signs of rust. The tube was pointed in the same direction as the “stolen tech” gun, but more to the sky, high above the target, and one of the capsules was gently put inside of it.

Slug nodded to the chemdrinkers and Spark instantly knew it was that moment. He pressed his ears to his skull expecting a thunderous explosion, but it never came, at least not from where he expected. The gun flashed with a shower of sparks where the slug scraped the metal of the rods and with an ardent whistle it began its journey.

The explosion came from the guardpost. Another shower, a brilliant torrent of glass shards rained on the ground below. With vile animalistic snarls the chemdrinkers fired their own weapon. Just as its colleague in delivering death and destruction, it worked silently, betraying itself only by the sound of air forced along with the missile. There was a longer amount of time before it brought its message to the destination, but the effect was much more noticeable.

A cloud of dark pinkish gas erupted from under the so beautifully carved steeple, blooming like a rose on the stem of blackened silver. Soon, the screams followed, as blood-curdling as if something rent the flesh of the ponies inside the guard post and gnawed on their very bones.

The chemdrinkers who were frozen, resembling grotesque flesh statues, until the very moment the song of agony started, came to life, dewing the ashes and dross with saliva as they cackled and gurgled, poisoned blood boiling in their failing lungs.

Slug began to celebrate the success just as well, but in a less gruesome manner. She grinned and quietly chuckled. And it was in that very moment when the beams of light converged on the four ponies and a second later a machine gun on the tower came to life.

The whip of the masters began to rattle, cutting above all the sounds of the sector’s audible strain, for it sang requiem, the most final of prayers. The heavy-calibre bullets whistled their dirges all around those who dared to siege the gates of their gods’ throne, plummeting into the dead soil, scattering the long-forgotten ashes on the acrid wind.

The chemdrinkers went into a frenzy, their launcher spewing shell after shell, making the tower disappear in the thick plumes of deadly vapour. The bigger one was the first to fall, its filth-filled chest exploding, covering everything behind it with its putrid contents. Spark had no chance to learn the fate of the second abomination as his face received a sudden heavy and painful, yet constrained slap, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Run, kiddo, go tell…” Slug began to bark at him, but she didn’t finish—her face decided to join the tower and the chemdrinker’s chest in their metamorphosis and lose its structural integrity, with the eager help of the machine gun.

The mare fell on Spark, showering him with blood and shattered bone. He almost fell under her weight, but after a moment managed to recover and stop both of them from hitting the ground. Huffing, he began to drag the almost lifeless body behind the nearest cover—Slug still rasped, crimson bubbling on her trembling lips.

However, halfway to those debris a metal hoof swatted him away.

“Run, colt…” Slug rasped as Spark lowered her to the ground—he had no strength to carry her further, it was one of the moments when having half a body made of steel wasn’t a good thing.

The mare began to writhe, huffing and rasping, leaving Spark to watch her helplessly. It lasted only for a few moments and then, suddenly, the old hide coat was shoved into his hooves. His eyes began to widen, but before they reached their desired size, another metal hoof shot towards the rags on his neck, and his upper body was brought close to the mare’s face.

Unwillingly Spark was able to assess the damage done the by the shot that struck down Slug. It wasn’t fatal, not yet, but it certainly spared Slug from having two eyes, leaving an empty bleeding eye socket in the place of one of them. The bullet went through her skull as close to her brain as it was possible, leaving broken bone behind and a wound that would cost her life if not treated very soon.

However, Slug didn’t seem to be in any pain, no. She was cackling maniacally, her remaining eye shining in mad triumph. The mare tugged at Spark’s apparel until his ear was close to her lips and began whispering, rasping, gurgling, spitting saliva and blood on the colt’s face.

“Tell the boss… Tell, tell him… The Prophet was right… Tell him...”

Slug gasped for air, choking on her own life trickling out of her.

“They bleed.”

Author's Note

I appreciate any feedback, and if you notice any mistakes sneaked in through the editing, let me know.
I hope you enjoyed reading this story so far.
Stay awesome.