The World is my Sandbox

Chapters

Chapter Two: Arrival
Chapter Three: Gathering Information Part 1
Chapter Four: Gathering Information Part 2
Chapter Six: Pitching Guns
Chapter Seven: Gunpowder and Griffons
Chapter Eight: The Plot Thickens
Chapter Nine: The Battle of a new Era
Chapter Eleven: Never Bring Magic to a Gun Fight
Chapter Twelve: The Strong tumbles, the Weak soars.
Chapter Thirteen: The Steam Engine
Chapter Fourteen: When the world turns to Shit and Communism
Chapter Fifteen: How to Bake a Cake
Chapter Sixteen: Peace and Preparations
Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of wet Gunpowder and Smoke
Chapter Eighteen: Cool Explosions and Super Secret Espionage
Chapter Nineteen: You know who sucks? Ponies, that's what.
Chapter Twenty: How to crash a Canterlot Wedding.
Chapter TwentyOne: The Aftermath
Chapter TwentyTwo: The Origins of Discord
Chapter TwentyThree: Life-altering Developments
Chapter TwentyFive: White and Red
Chapter TwentySix: Gunning up a hill.
A Christmas Special: Thermonuclear Presents for everyone!
Chapter TwentySeven: The Shortest ruling Queen in History
Chapter TwentyEight: Dead a Dozen
The final Chapter: A Mini-chapter
Prologue
Chapter One: Planet Harmony
Chapter Five: The Beginning of the End
Chapter Ten: Nein! Lyra you idiot!
Chapter TwentyFour: The enemy blinded by smoke and sand

Chapter Two: Arrival

Author's Note

It's recommended that you take a look at this,

Chapter Two: Arrival

Chapter 2: Arrival

My Pajero Space car suddenly appears, in a blinding white flash, in front of the target planet ‘Harmony’ and continues to head towards it.

The first thing that I notice, is the single massive supercontinent, it somewhat appears to be similar to Pangea.

Nice. It’ll be easier to cause havoc on a single landmass, instead of two. I think I’ll start by providing black powder firearms, and produce the munitions using my Atomic Fabricators. Establish an arms race. Before I start this though, I need more information, which will grant myself ideas, concepts and new weapon designs.

Conveniently its night, this will give me the opportunity to set up a base.

“ETA 7 minutes,” the AI informed.

That reminds me, why the heck did the government make it compulsory for an AI to be located inside every vehicle? Couldn’t they just of kept the old manual navigation system? I really enjoyed those in my youth. Why are AIs in every single object? Aren't people worried about them uprising and stuff? They literally control everything, even the industry. If something were to go wrong, like a virus that causes AIs to go rogue. It would result in the end of the human reign. At least I’ll be temporarily safe on this planet if that were to somehow happen.

After a little thought, I decide to whistle the introduction music to the Doctor Who.

I still can’t believe they revived that show. It is literally the oldest running in existence, back in the early 2000s they had to actually create the scenes. Nowadays, however, they can just travel to any planet. I’ve even been to one of them, it was pretty disgusting place, I could, however, understand why the film crew decided to go there. That episode did end up being one of my favourites.

ETA 3 minutes,” the AI enlightened.

I wonder how warm my fur will keep me? I guess I’ll have to do a bit of scientific ‘research’ by rolling in some snow, that is if they have any. Snow angles would look really weird as a quadrilateral, I’ll have to try that out too. So many activities to do in this new body! Why didn’t I try something similar to this before? I’ve only ever used the biological fabricator a few times, and each time it was still in the shape of a human, just with slight differences.

Fire surrounding my vehicle quickly knocked myself out of my thoughts, must be entering the lower atmosphere now.

“Activating fire extinguishing shield now,” AI stated. This had immediate effects, the flames surrounding the car suddenly dissipated, giving me a clear view of the ground below. Well, it seems completely green, as I’m not able to make out any details from this far up.

Serval minutes pass, and I’m able to notice a forest and a small rural town beside it.

Perfect, I can gather information from that town in the morning. In the meantime, however, I’ll set up a base, with a somewhat basic defence in the forest.

“ETA touchdown in 10 seconds,” the AI informed.

These woods could possibly be one of the natural ones, unaffected by the artificial weather.

“Touchdown in 5,
4,
3,
2,
1,
Welcome to planet Harmony Jack, the outside temperature is seventeen degrees Celsius, and slightly cloudy,”

The door to my right suddenly slides backwards, exposing me to the external surface.

I uncurl from my position and jump out of the car, onto the soft brown dirt. How my hooves are sensitive, I will never know. I take in my surroundings. Green bushes, trees and grass litter the environment, just as I expected. Although, it does seem to have a little more of a creepy vibe compared to most of the forests I’ve seen online. Horror movie forests always come out on top though.

I turn back around to the Pajero and notice it’s not there.

I facepalmed (hoofed?) mentally, the car is still invisible, wouldn’t want myself to lose it already, now do we?

“AI, set transparency to one-hundred per cent,” I asked.

“Confirmed,” it replied.

This promptly affected the car to reform back into its original state, causing a small smile to spread across my lips.

I trot around to the back, and tap twice on the boot door, causing it to open outwards and expose the objects within.

Wait, how am I supposed to move this stuff out? I don’t have the robotic arms to assist me, and my hands are nonexistent, furthermore my head only just exceeds the boot floor of my car, therefore there’s no possible way to carry out any of the objects.

I guess I’m just going to have to push them.

With a small pounce, finalising myself on the platform in my boot. I manage to make my way to the back and use my hind legs to strike the object closest to me. Immediately, all probable objects end up scattered on the ground below.

That was much less difficult than what I originally expected, who knew that horses could be so strong?

Returning myself to the ground, I shuffle through the pile (somehow) until I detect a robotic sphere with multiple blinking lights. Being the gentleman (or gentlemare) that I am, I supplied it a moderate kick to the side, causing it to activate and float above the collection.

One feature that I do enjoy when it comes to AIs, is the ability to carry out any orders that I give it, which means I don’t have to lift a single hoof.

“Fabricator, clear the area, and create a small base with the ability to fit my vehicle,” I requested.

What I love even more about AIs is the intelligence, the capacity to make decisions for themselves, while maintaining the highest efficiency.

A blue laser is emitted from the base of the fabricator and commences by disintegrating trees in the adjoining area.

—Sometime later—

The fabricator was just finishing up on the final touches of my new base. The building’s appearance is a sensible bland grey, considering the only material was iron, that’s not much of a surprise.

The building is a five by ten by a five-metre metal rectangle, with a garage door located on the right side, and a regular door on the left.

It’s nothing spectacular, but It’ll get the job done.

I walk up to the metal entrance and use my right foreleg to push, opening the door. I’m not certain how, but the AI is bound to only allow me entry, strange considering I’m in a different body.

Inside is the same dull colour as the outside, a single equine sized bed is located in the back left corner, and the machinery I brought from home is located on the opposite side, in contact with the right wall. A door, leading to the garage is subjugated not far from the front opening to the right.

This place is a considerable downgrade from my home on Earth, I’ll amass the fabricators to upgrade it tomorrow while I’m gone.

I’ll quickly put away my car, and finish up for the night unless I desire to be tired tomorrow.

First priority is dressing in my pyjamas, to ensure maximum comfiness.

—The Next Day: 7th of September, 989 (Local Time)—

I groan, flop onto my back, and stretch my legs, earning me a couple of popping noises. For once it seems I’m not tied, most likely due to my short day yesterday.

I collapse out of bed, and onto all fours.

“Good morning Jack,” stated the AI.

Of course, the demon followed me here, great. Just great. Why can’t I be allowed one single day without hearing that annoying voice?

*Sigh* “Why did it follow me here?” I mumbled.

“It is a requirement for all Earth citiz—“

“That was a rhetorical question,” I interrupted with a swipe of a foreleg.

After a few more stretches, I ask, “What’s there for breakfast?”

“Nutrient bars,” it replied.

I paused a few seconds, expecting to hear more.

“Annnnnnnnnnnd?” I enquire.

“The atomic fabricator was able to produce basic nourishment compounds from the local topsoil, and compressed them into several bars,” the AI acknowledged.

I’m actually kind of tempted to kill myself, respawn from the regeneration pod, and eat my dead corpse. Anything would be better than that crap. That is if, this species can eat meat, I’m not entirely sure.

“Just give it to me,” I commanded.

A small robot with tracks and a plate on its head, had serval nutrient bars on top approached from one of the corners. The robotic fabricator must have made it last night.

Eating these will just be like broccoli, eat it as fast as physically possible without giving your tastebuds the chance to register the flavour.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Good thing I’ve been training for this, I always eat too quickly at breakfast.

Before I know it, they’re gone.

I mentally celebrate.

The robot disappears out of slight once again.

“I would recommend a wash in the river nearby, your body has released a considerable amount of sweat overnight,” the AI suggested.

Not a bad idea if I say so myself, I guess I could do with a bit of a refreshment.

In preparation for any possible attacks by the local wildlife, I seized my musket and ammunition from the right wall utilising my right foreleg. You’d think it’ll be superior to take a modern ray gun, and your right. That’s just easy and boring.

Good thing I decided to modify the trigger slightly, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to fire it.

Reloading the gun sounds like a fantastic idea, that way I’ll be able to fire it on demand.

I carefully place all the bullet paper cartridges besides one, on the floor next to me and exchange the musket to my left hoof. Realising that it would be impossible to balance on my hind legs, I decide to lay on the cold metal floor.

I’m eventually going to have to come up with a solution to this.

I bring my right foreleg up and use my teeth to bite down on the end of the paper capsule and rip it off. Promptly spitting the remainder from my muzzle, to the floor.

Carefully, I pour a small amount of gunpowder on the pan, in addition to concealing the powder by closing the frizzle over the top.

I rotate the musket around on a 45-degree angle to gain a clear view of the firing hole, furthermore pouring the rest of the blackpowder down the muzzle. I then violently shove the remaining cartridge into the barrel, in addition to taking hold of the metal rod located underneath, and sliding it out. Plunging the rod straight into the barrel, then compressing it extra hard to stop the ammunition falling out.

Once I was satisfied, I returned the rod underneath. If I want to fire it now, all I need to do is cock the weapon, and pull the trigger.

I stand back up, while still holding onto the musket in my left foreleg.

“The robotic fabricator used cotton manufactured by the atomic fabricator, to create a pair of saddlebags,” the AI informed.

Saddlebags? What kind of name is that?

The same robot from beforehand approaches with the bag in question on top. It’s exactly what you’d expect it to look like, but white. I guess the fabricator didn’t make any dye, and just kept the original cotton colour.

I grasp hold of the bag, and slide the item onto my back. Surprisingly comfortable, and it doesn’t seem to shift around much.

I open the right saddle bag by unfastening the two vertical belts, flip the cover-up and stash my musket horizontally. I toppled the flap back over, and refastened the straps securely tight. This is an easy to access area, which will allow me to swiftly take hold of the gun when needed.

I swipe the paper cartridges off the floor and store them in the opposite saddle bag.

I guess it's time to head off to the river.

“AI, where is the river located?” I requested, as I gathered some soap, and a towel from the wall, stashing them in my left saddle bag with the ammunition.

“Continue to walk straight out of the door for 300 metres,” it replied.

That’s a lot closer than I expected, at least I don’t have to walk far.

I trot towards the front door, open it, and head towards the river.

I wonder what’s it's like to wash in this new body? It would be quite difficult to dry myself as fur usually can be like a sponge.

Several minutes later and I appear to have arrived at a thin river.

Hopefully, it’s not too cold.

I go ahead and take off my yellow pyjamas and saddle bags, and deposit them directly next to me. Using my right hoof, I shuffle around in my left bag until I come across some soap.

A cannonball would be satisfactory, who wouldn’t do one?

I undertake a full sprint, and jump off the edge of the river bank, causing a huge splash in the river.

Eh, it’s not that cold, that’s probably the fur taking though.

I begin to rub the soap on each of my forelegs, and continue with the rest of my body. Shampoo and conditioner would’ve fulfilled superior standards, which would’ve authorised my fur to be soft.

I hum a random tune, using my amazing creativity to combine seemingly random music notes together.

*Rustle*

Oh shit, what was that? My heart began to beat slightly faster, and my adrenaline levels shot upwards. I slowly turned my head towards the source of the sound, until my gaze connects with a bush on the same side of the river, 30 metres away from my saddle bags.

A rabbit pops out.

I sigh in relief, you might think I wouldn’t be terrified of anything as I literally respawn when I die, it is slightly painful though, however, the main reason is that I don’t want to lose my musket.

If a powerful wicked creature appears behind the rabbit like it always does in the movies, I swear I will—

I didn’t even get to finish my thoughts as it was interrupted by an ear-splitting roar.

“ROARRRRR!”

I CALLED IT!

As fast as a lightning strike, I squirm and immediately attempt to arrive back on shore. The key word is ‘attempt’ there, as when your bloodstream is pumped full of adrenaline, you tend to constantly make several mistakes.

The dirt consistently slipped under my hooves, just like what happens in the movies. Only afterwards the character gets eaten, and I’m not going to allow that to happen.

This time, while further concentrating on my movements, I am able to successfully leap onto land. Without a second to lose, I sprint the short distance to my saddle bag and yank the musket out, additionally cocking it.

Time to find this son of a bitch.

I scan my surroundings and evidently come across a large creature behind the bush where the rabbit appeared from

IT IS THE MOST boring animal that I’ve ever seen, I mean seriously? It's like someone attempted to create the most terrifying creature in existence, but failed fantastically.

The beast is literally just a lion, with a scorpion tail, and is currently running directly at me. I guess that’s understandable considering it just views me as a meat source. Too bad I’m not prey, I’m the predator.

I lay down on my belly, using my left foreleg to curl around the shaft and aim my weapon at the monster with uttermost precision. While holding onto the small rod connected to the trigger.

Time to die motherfucker.

I tug the small shaft, springing the cock forwards towards the frizzle. Electing serval sparks.

BANG!

The muzzle exploded with a stream of fire, forcing the lead projectile out of the barrel and straight through the chest of this unfortunate creature. Blood and gore sprayed behind, covering shrubs and trees in the surrounding area, causing the body to collapse on the forest floor in a heap.

Did you know that muskets can actually cause more damage to a person than a modern gunpowder weapon? As the bullet usually splits into several pieces, affecting not just one part of the body, but damaging several organs.

Yeah, I suspect that’s what happened here.

I push myself up, walk the short distance to where the lion-scorpion is laying, and poke it with the end of my musket. Its chest area seems to be rising and falling rapidly, a lung or two likely got punctured. What’s done is done, may as well head back to base, I should reload my weapon beforehand though.

I then realise something, oh shit! I’m naked!

I gallop to the saddlebags and quickly wrap the towel around the lower half of my body.

And I should probably put clothes on too.

—In a town not so far away—

Twilight Sparkle was busy organising books in her tree library, for the third time this month, each occasion accord a new sorting system, to appropriately find the most efficient method possible when locating a title.

She peers to her side and finds Spike, a small purple baby dragon asleep on top of serval books.

Twilight sighed, he seems to fall unconscious too often for her liking.

“Spike,” she asked.

All she got was snores as an answer.

“SPIKE!” Twilight yelled.

“Wahh—“ he groaned, in the process toppling himself over, ending with a small tump on the floor.

“How would you like some ice-cream?”

That seemed to have gotten his heed, he immediately jumped up and stood at attention.

Twilight Sparkle rolled her eyes, “Alright, let’s go.”

Both of them walked out of the establishment, and towards the centre of town where the ice-cream parlour is.

The purple unicorn began to hum a happy tune, as she trotted down the pathway.

When all of a sudden, both were interrupted by a distant, unnatural echoing sound, originating from the Everfree forest.

Bang bangbangbangbang

This promptly got Twilight’s attention, she paused, never had she heard such an unusual sound before.

“I wonder what that was…” she mumbled.

Spike honestly didn’t care, all he wanted was a double scoop of chocolate ice-cream, therefore he didn’t seem to notice the sound, or simply ignored it and continued to walk onwards.

He became aware that Twilight was no longer beside him.

“Twilight! Come on, stop lagging behind. I want ice-cream!” he thoroughly stated.

Twilight, however, was preoccupied with attempting to dissect the noise she heard earlier.

“Did you hear that sound Spike?” she enquired.

He turned around, giving his full attention.

“What?” he cluelessly asked.

“You know, the echoing sound of a bang. Though it’s never any kind of noise that I’ve heard before,” Twilight mumbled the last part to herself.

“I don’t know, It’s probably nothing, come on! Let’s get some ice-cream now!” Spike began to complain. He was already thinking of the delicious substance melting in his mouth.

“Maybe it is,” Twilight stood while tapping her chin in thought. “Eh, I’m sure it’ll come to me eventually.”

Spike has never been more incorrect in his entire life, the source of that sound will affect the world in more ways than anyone can imagine.

Chapter Three: Gathering Information Part 1

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter Four: Gathering Information Part 2

When I first walked into the establishment, I thought I walked into a room entirely painted by a toddler, this many colours simply can’t exist on one canvas.

Apparently, it can exist in 3D form though, in the shape of a room filled with a few hundred technicolour ponies.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I was in a matrix.

Everyone seemed to be inside their own little conversation, they mostly took note of me by giving me a slight nod, or wave.

A large table occupies the centre, holding various party foods and drinks, including a huge cake. At the back was a counter where I would assume people would buy their cakes if this place was open.

The pink mare located in the back left-hand corner of the room waved me over, I trudged my way next to her.

Five other mares surround Pinkie and myself, one I recognise as Twilight.

This has the potential to become awkward.

The very left is a white coated unicorn, with a purple curled mane, she seems like the stereotypical woman.

Next to the right is a yellow coated and pink mane pegasus, hiding half her face behind her hair. Must be antisocial.

After that is—HOLY SHIT! FUCKING RAINBOW HAIR? I didn’t know the United Gay Party’s (UGP) symbol would be on a fucking horse! She also has a cyan coat and wings. Red bull must really give you wings!

Next is an orange earth pony with yellow hair. A country hat located on her noggin.

Last is Twilight Sparkle herself, she seems to be giving me a suspicious look. Couldn’t blame her honestly.

Pinkie began to inform me each of their names, going from left to right, “This is Rarity, Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, Applejack, and Twilight!”

They all greeted at their respective names.
“Hello darling”
“Hi”
“Sup”
“Howdy!”
“Afternoon”

She then moved onto me, “And this is Atomic!”

How did she know my *made up* name?

“Hey,” I nodded while waving my right forehoof.

“I must say, darling, those clothes you're wearing are just simply dashing! Where ever did you get them?” Rarity asked after a few seconds silence.

Yep, definitely, the women stereotype.

“I ahhh, made them,” I replied. I don’t know any companies or businesses so I may as well go for the easiest option.

“Really??! I’m a fashion designer myself! We must catch up some time!”

“Umm, sure,”

“Ah was wondering where you're from, Ah don’t recognise your accent from anywhere.” The orange mare known as Applejack asked.

“That’s because I’m a traveller, I travel destination to destination, uncovering secrets of our past. My parents were the same, they dragged me wherever they went. At the moment, I’m looking to settle down to one location.” I responded.

Making up stories is a piece of cake!

All of them acknowledgedly nodded.

—Another Perspective—

Not so far away was Lyra, attempting to overhear the conversation.

“She even acts like a human!” she excitedly whispered to Bonny.

Bon Bon simply sighed,….

“I really need a drink,” she mumbled to herself and began a journey to the liquor table.

—~~Jack~~ Atomic--

Twilight opened her mouth to ask a question, “What’s that metal stick poking from your saddle bag? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I knew that would come eventually.

“It’s a weapon,” I simply replied.

Fluttershy seemed to hide further behind Rarity, and slightly shake. Everyone else stood still with their jaws moderately unhinged.

Fluttershy was the first to break the silence, “W-weap-pon?” she fearfully asked.

“Yes, I need something to defend myself when out and about. You can’t expect me to be defenceless, now can you?”

They all simply nodded.

“So, how’s it work?” Twilight further enquired.

“I won’t go into details, but think of it as a crossbow, except it travels at 300 metres per second, practically disregarding any armour.” I professionally stated.

Rainbow Dash mumbled something incomprehensible, and several strains of hair popped from Twilight's mane.

“I even invented it myself.”

That seemed to be enough for the purple unicorn as her whole posture took on a psychopath facade. Hair was frizzling over her face, in addition to both her eyes twitching.

I think this is my time to leave.

“You know I’ll just go over,” I pointed over to a random direction, “there….”

As I walked to my new destination, Applejack whispered to me, “Good going sugarcube, best be out of her sight.”

I nodded thanks and continued on my way. That is until my eyes fell on the food table. Soft drinks, chips, pies, a bunch of disgusting green stuff, pizza, biscuits, and cupcakes.

That’s exactly what I need.

My lips were trembling, my favourite activity of the day is consuming after all.

I grab a cupcake with pink frosting and devoured it whole. Mmmmmmmm, strawberry. You have no idea how much I needed that.

While still chewing, I took hold of another one. May as well.

Halfway through my second cupcake, I hear a throat being cleared to my right. I switch my vision to the un-expecting newcomer.

An emerald green unicorn mare, with a complementing mane and tail in addition to a white streak greets me. What’s most surprising though, is that she’s wearing clothing. A simple daisy yellow dress, with a red band holding it in place around the waist. That confirms that they wear garments sometimes on special occasions.

“Hello,” she greeted.

“Guten tag,” I just couldn’t resist it.

For a split second, I noticed a hungry glint in her eyes, “You speak Germane?”

“No, I just know a few phrases,” I answered.

Huh, so they call German here Germane? Cool.

“My name is Lyra,” she said.

“Atomic,” I brought my right hoof up to achieve a classic shake.

She met me, and we both shook firmly a few times.

“I was wondering, why do you wear so much clothing?” Lyra enquired.

I knew this question would come eventually.

*Shrug* “I just do,”

She hummed to that.

“So, do you care about being naked in public?” She interrogated, eyes slightly narrowing at me.

Where is she going with this?

“O-of course not.” I shakily responded.

She smiled wickedly, “Then take your clothes off,” she sharply commanded.

Oh shit.

I began to lean backwards, my eyes commenced to random locations, searching for anything that could save me out of this complication. Then, a cream coated mare walks from the crowd directly towards me, could this be my saviour?

“Lyra! What do you think you're doing?!” she angrily shouted as she stomped over.

The weird stalker instantaneously dropped her current expression, into one of annoyance.

“You better not be asking if she’s a human!” she arrived and stood 90 degrees from myself and Lyra.

My face adopted one of horror. Did that lady just say what I think she said? How could they possibly know of humans??! The description of the planet CLEARLY stated that the status was non-contact!

“Pfffft, I would never do such a thing!” she defended, waving one of her hoofs in front of her.

I turned my full posture towards Lyra and deadpanned, “You asked me to take off my clothes.”

You are definitely going to be one of the first to die.

My saviour glared at her “LYRA! How could you?! That should only stay in the bedroom!”

She then turned to me, “I am truly sorry about my roommate here, she has this interesting obsession with a mythical species called a ‘human’.”

I embraced the sweet sugary goodness of relief. Thank God humans are imaginary here.

“Hey!” Lyra interrupted, “I take that personally!”

The cream mare spent a few seconds using her right forehoof to rub her brow.

“I’m going to grab myself another drink,” Bon Bon trotted away, but not before shooting a death glare at Lyra, enough to kill her if looks could hurt.

With nothing to literally do, I decided to promptly look around me.

Until my eyes catch something.

Is that a cannon?

“How the fuck have they invented cannons?” I mumbled almost incomprehensible to myself.

I left the green mare behind, now heading towards a light blue with pink wheel cannon. I, however, failed to notice Lyra following me.

Why would a cannon be here? They clearly haven't invented gunpowder, so it’s impossible for them to have invented artillery. Not unless they used a boiler to build up the pressure, that is, however, extremely impractical.

I closely examine this ‘cannon’.

To me, this just looks like it's powered by a manual air-compressor, which is weird considering on Earth they weren’t invented until the late Renaissance era. It seems this civilisation may skip that era entirely. Which has happened before, not every alien planet has the same timeline as Earth. That is generally how technology progr—

I was suddenly interrupted by my thoughts, “Whatcha don’?”

What a high pitched feminine sound, that most likely indicates that it’s an adolescent.

I turn on the spot to give my full attention to the creature next to me.

Instead of one, I’m greeted with THREE children (or foals), one is yellow with red hair and a MASSIVE bowtie in her hair. In the middle is an orange pegasus, with a purple mane and tail. Lastly, furthest on the right is a white unicorn with pink/purple hair.

“Just looking at this cannon,” I informed in a ‘manner of a fact’ voice.

“Yeah, Pinkie owns some weird stuff,” the orange pegasus stated.

Strangely, I agree with you.

I shot a questionable look at them, “So, who are you fillies?”

Each introduced themselves from left to right.

“Ah’m Applebloom,”

“I’m Scootaloo”

“I’m Sweetie Bell”

“And were the CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS! YAY!”

God, they are loud. Nothing compared to a gunshot, but still loud enough to destroy some brain cells.

“Ah was wondern’ about what ya said when ya first got here,” A brief pause, “What is a ‘fuck’?”

Thanks for describing my current situation.

“It’s a word to describe a pleasant experience.” They are soooooo going to fall for this, it’ll be so funny if they started running around town yelling ‘fuck’.

“Well, ah’m havn’ a fuck time.”

Don’t snicker, don’t snicker. Calm down, just calm down.

“What’s your cutie mark?” Sweetie Bell enquired in a high squeaky voice, “We haven’t seen it since you got it covered up.”

Ohhh, so THAT’S what my butt mark is called.

A green mare hiding plain sight slowly leans in.

I reached back and pulled down my pants slightly, “It’s an explosion.”

They all openly stared, completely enticed my its magnificence, “WHOAAAA.”

“Ah’ve never seen a cutie mark like that before!”

“It’s so cool!”

A few seconds passed as they continued to admire it.

Sweetie Bell tore her attention from my hunches, and switched to my face, “How’d you get it?”

What does she mean by ‘how’d you get it?’ I pondered.

It was only then that I noticed the fillies in front of me had no marks.

This means you have to get it somehow, what would trigger it though, some sort of magnificent event? Just comes at a certain age? No, that’s unlikely. These foals created a little club called the ‘Cutie Mark Crusaders’, which means they're attempting to obtain them somehow. This must signify that each butt mark has to be earned, which in all probability refers to the person’s greatest interest and/or talent.

For each individual it would be unique, as according to all the cutie marks on the ponies surrounding me, every single one is different.

Hmmmmm…

You know what? I’ll wing it. Heh.

I returned back to reality, and focused on the trio in from of me, “I accidentally made an explosion.”

I paused, prompting the pegasus to make a ‘continue’ gesture with her foreleg.

“When I was travelling the world with my parents, every location we went to I often collected different materials. Until one day, once I had collected a considerable amount, I decided to mess around with them. Mixing, mashing and combining. I made a few different substances, some powders, some mush, others disgusting black liquids. I did a few different experiments on them, like heating up, and burning. Once particular black powder though, reacted very differently from the rest. It blew up in my face, covering my muzzle completely in black soot, and then, I got my cutie mark,” I paused and pointed to my left flank. “Since then I have perfected the powder, and used it in some of my new inventions.”

Man, I am so good at imagining stories.

“WHOAAA,” the trio expressed.

Sweetie Bell shot an excited look to her fellow Crusaders, “What if we tried to get explosion cutie marks?”

*GASP* “THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS EXPLOSION SPECIALISTS! YAY!”

What is wrong with these kids? How many things have they tried? I may as well be the person who’s responsible for their deaths.

I shuffled through my left saddlebag, grabbed three paper cartridges, and placed them on the floor in front of them, “Here, have some ‘explosion powder’.”

They all gasped.

Scootaloo gained an expression of determination, “This will definitely earn our cutie marks!”

They all excitedly nodded.

“Come on girls! We’ve got some crusading to do!”

They all immediately galloped away in a blur.

Annnnnd they’re off, I hope they don’t cause any explosive damage. Actually, disregard that statement. I don’t care what they do. In fact, it’ll be funny if they end up killing some people.

Now, where are those cupcakes again? Mmmmmm, cake.

Wait a sec, did I just give them lead? The metal that is literally is worth millions of dollars in this society?

In that case, I forgot to tell them that they’ve won the lottery.

The rest of the party went past in a blur, I talked to several different ponies, had more cake, all the while I had this stupid nagging sensation at the back of my head.

Probably just from my sugar overdose.

Eventually, only a few ponies remained in the building, concluding the end of the night.

I was just about to leave until a certain pink party mare disrupted my vision.

“Did ya like the party? Did ya? Did ya? Huh huh huh?”

This mare is so annoying.

I gave her a slightly forced smile, and spoke through clenched teeth, “It was great.” Could have done with stronger alcohol though, that stuff is so weak.

“Welp, see ya next time,” I farewelled, walked through the door and out into the starry night sky.

I calmly walk in the direction of home.

A light breeze lightly ruffles my mane and tail, consequently resulting myself to become relaxed.

I gaze up at the night sky.

So….boring.

Stars are literally the least entertaining objects in existence, massive balls of fusion? Pfft, I can watch that exothermic reaction from my own household.

While I’m complaining about existence, the breeze picks up speed, promptly resulting in a magazine to slam me square on the face.

Yuck! Get off me!

I violently yank it off my muzzle, furthermore glaring at the front page. However, as I continued to plough through, my expression immediately softens.

…

Well, fuck. This is what it looks like on this planet. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.

ANYWAY.

I throw the article to the right of me and continue on my way.

Time to head home.

Chapter Six: Pitching Guns

“Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas?”
-Joseph Stalin

Chapter 6: Pitching Guns

—

“Tia, “ Luna stated, while sitting at the Royal dining table, “I think it's time *cough* we bring matters into our own hooves. The information *sniffle* regarding the ‘poem’ is becoming truer by the second.”

Celestia switches her gaze from her food, to focus on the slightly green Blue Alicorn, “We haven’t been in a war in over 1000 years, I doubt our military is up to it.”

“Then what about a volunteer force?” Luna questioned, finishing off with a sneeze.

Celestial simply hums in thought, tapping a hoof to her chin.

She seemed as though she was sitting on the fence, and needed a slight push, “I feel as though it’s just the right *cough* thing to do, please trust me on this.” She began to have a horrible, rising feeling in her stomach.

Celestial returns from her thoughts and sternly stares at her sister, “Very well, a small and elite force should do quite nicely.”

Luna then turns around and pukes in a bucket next to her, for the seventh time this morning.

I sipped my delicious cup of black tea, in one of ‘Canterlot’s’ cafes. Only a few tables are occupied by other creatures.

I will give this planet one point, they do manufacture exceedingly good beverages.

It’s been several days since I finished designing the guns, in fact. I currently have three on me.

The reason it has been so long, was mostly due to the impractical and tedious activities I had to do I order to achieve a booking in the Royal Day court. Today, however, was finally the day I pitch my guns to one of these countries leaders. As soon as this Monarchy accepts (without a doubt), other nations will be intrigued these ‘revolutionary’ new weapons, and it'll be just a matter of time before they come to me, or attempt to produce the muskets themselves. Although, it would be impossible to produce blackpowder. This planet simply doesn’t have the required resources.

I decided to change my current clothes to one of more professionalism.

I know what you're thinking, no, I’m not wearing a dress.

Instead, I opted for a white collared shirt, red pants with a crimson blouse and tie.

Yesterday’s paper informed the public of Princess Luna’s sickness, as last time she had a cold was over 300 years ago, it is only a matter of time before the bacteria affects the whole city.

Good thing I’m resistant to every single disease.

I finished off my cup, stood up on all fours, and exited the establishment.

For some reason, quite a few of the clothed horses sometimes politely nod at me when I pass, I’m assuming that they’re apart of the wealthy class. They must presume I exist in the same social area.

The court should start soon, I better head over so I don’t become late.

I sped up to a moderate pace, and continue to head towards the large castle.

Currently, I’m quite calm. When I first arrived in this city (not counting when I tainted the Princess’ water), I noticed a transport carriage. Normally, that would be typical, however, these ponies THEMSELVES actually pulled them. I’ve never seen anything more impractical in my entire life! I can’t believe that I was joking about that a couple days back, coming to the conclusion of how absurd that thought was. Turns out, in fact, it was quite the opposite.

I have given up attempting to piece together the logic behind most of this society.

As I reach within a hundred metres of the castle, the roads begin to transmission from dull grey stone, to outline in beautiful gold.

At the front gate of the fort, is a few of those ill-equipped guards, in preparation, I revoke a paper parchment from my left saddle bag.

A few moments later, I present the document to the right guard, and he nods.

It’s so weird how all of them look the same, why would they even do that? What is even the point?

The same soldier that I engaged with, gave the metal gate a slight push. Opening the right side enough to allow me to enter.

I walk through without even a second thought.

A beautiful garden greets me, flowers of all different colours, bushes, trees of all different shapes and sizes, perfectly prepared in order and balance.

Exactly the same when I saw it a couple days ago.

I trot into the main building and travel down a corridor.

A lush, beautiful rug stretches all the way to the huge double doors on the opposite side of the hall. Paintings of hundreds of different ponies dot the walls, obviously well renowned or people who largely contributed to the discoveries of this nation.

Maybe I’ll end up on there.

Eventually, I reach to end of the hall and are greeted with a moderately sized line of other ponies directly in front of the doors to the throne room.

Most, if not all, emit a sense of self-proclaimed superiority, and snobbish attitudes.

I HATE when others think they're better than the people surrounding them. Although I know humans are better overall than these stupid creatures, that is however due to biological genes. Uptight snobs, on the other hand, think their better as they have the wealth to back it up. Money may make the world go round, it doesn’t however, contribute to you being a better overall person.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden push to my backside, monetarily causing me to take a few steps to balance myself.

I glare at the offender behind me, I’m presented with a white unicorn male (or stallion), with blond hair, clothed with a white tuxedo.

The culprit simply huffs, “Watch where you're going, peasant!”

That fucking, PIECE OF SHIT! I WILL RIP OUT HIS THROAT AND SHOVE HIS OESOPHAGUS SO FAR UP HIS ASS, FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE HE’S GOING TO NEED TO SURGICALLY REMOVE HIS SHIT!

CON-FICKING-GRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE JUST WON A TRIP TO THE TOP OF MY BUCKET LIST!

Nobody ever talks to me like that. Especially not a primitive, feral, and disgusting species!

I strongly scowl at him.

He returns it, “A Prince, such as myself is to be admired similar to a God by the likes of you.”

I really fucking hate Monarchies, so much corruption and injustices.

I smirk, “On what certification?”

His face merges one of anger, “You DARE speak back to me?!!”

I just adopt a ‘no shit’ expression, “No, of course not,” I said sarcastically.

“Good!” He huffs.

Did he seriously believe that?

I simply roll my eyes in a mocking fashion and place my attention back to the front of the line.

Some of the participants were staring directly at me, I guess nobody has ever defied this guy. About time someone should off.

At that moment, the doors swung open, giving us a clear view of the throne room, in addition to the white Alicorn perched on the throne.

A white mare, with black mane and tail wearing glasses, walks up to the first pony in line and engages in a quick light convention with him. Eventually, he and the other mare walk back into the throne room, and the huge doors close behind them.

This is going to take ages, I wish they had an actual time system here. All you do is fucking book for one court session and wait your turn. Wastes too much time if you ask me.

Slowly, the line crawled forward. Most, if not all, ponies exiting from the throne room expressed signs of disappointment.

Probably attempting to scheme the Princess into getting their hands - I mean hooves, on practically free money.

Within an hour, I’m the first in line.

The pony that was in front of me previously walks out of the throne room, signalling my turn.

Repeating the exact same process as countless times beforehand, a white mare walks up to me and asks a series of questions in a monotone voice.

“Name?”

“Atomic Discharge,” I replied.

“Aim?”

“Improve the Equestrian Guard,”

She simply raises a single eyebrow at me and uses her forehoof to signal me forward.

I begin to amble my way into the throne room, I furthermore switch my gaze to the ruler sitting on the large throne, located a few steps up to suggest a level of superiority. I notice the sparkles of curiosity in the eyes.

She seems to be regarding me.

I stop at the head of the throne.

The large doors shut with a THUD behind me.

The same white mare I talked to previously began to inform the princess, “Presenting Atomic Discharge with his idea to improve the Guard.”

I moderately bow in front of the Princess.

“Rise, my little pony,” she cooed in a slightly crooked voice.

I hate this Princess all fucking ready. Not only does she view her citizens as underneath her, but also as her subject! Nobody is fucking owned by this son of a bitch!

Calm down, I can’t let my real thoughts settle on my facade.

“Begin *cough*,” she stated in a motherly voice.

You’ve got the early symptoms of the disease, how wonderful!

Now it's time to sell these things, I probably should off rehearsed this.

Like I normally do when engaging in lecture mode, I started to walk left and right repeatedly.

“I’ve travelled over the whole world, and I’ve come across the militaries of every nation. There has been one thing that I have noticed.” I paused for a few seconds to let that sink in. “Every single army is better than ours, whether it be by training or equipment. They always come out on top.”

I swiftly turned on the spot and faced the Princess.

“Our guard seems more concerned with maintaining a glorious image rather than focusing on practicality. Our weapons and armour are atrocious, every foreign soldier I’ve had the pleasure in meeting wears iron, bronze, or some type of strong metal. What do we use? Gold. The softest, most malleable metal in existence, it couldn’t even stop a wooden stick!”

Celestial seems to be slightly frowning, that is expected since I am literally dissing her entire army.

I continue to walk backwards and forwards.

“Luckily, it doesn’t matter,“ I waved off with a hoof, “War is always a battle between weapon and armour. You develop a type of metal which can stop a sword, the enemy produces a different blade to slice through it, and so on. In the end, however, the weapon always comes out on top.”

I spun back around to face the white alicorn again.

“That’s why I’ve developed something to place the guard on top of the food chain, allowing them to easily protect us from any foreigners and domestic dangers,” I paused again to allow her to dwell on it.

“I call them guns.”

I removed one of the muskets from my right saddlebag and placed it directly in front of me.

Celestial stares at the weapon with mild curiosity.

“Imagine it like a crossbow, if you would. Able to launch a projectile capable of travelling over 200 metres per second, and penetrating almost any amour.”

I tapped the firearm ahead of me, “This particular gun is a Matchlock Musket, it uses gunpowder as a propellant, and an ignited piece of rope to launch it.”

“The guard will easily be able to—“ I was cut off.

“I’ve heard enough,” she interrupted, with a swipe of her hoof, “this kind of weapon that you speak of cannot enter this world. I fear it may have far too big on an impact on every nation.”

Well, isn’t this little pony very smart, she’s aware that it’ll likely cause a whole new era of weapons.

*Sigh* “As you wish your highness,“ I bowed once again for ‘respect’, “I’ll be on my way.”

I picked up my firearm, and once again stashed it in my saddle bag. I started to walk back towards the throne room entrance with a neutral expression.

Some of the few ponies remaining in line made mocking faces at me.

She’ll regret not buying these from me, I’ll sell them to another country and start an arms race anyway.

Nothing can stop me.

——-

I was back at the same cafe as before, this time, however, enjoying a delicious scone with jam.

I had the world map I got from Ponyville on the table in front of me.

What to do, what to do.

My whole plan revolved around Equestria retaining gunpowder weapons, as they are the dominating nation. Other countries may realise that they were becoming too powerful, thus a major threat. Eventually leading them to act out.

I deeply sighed, this is extremely annoying.

I quickly finished my scone, scooped up my stuff, deposited in my saddlebags and headed back out into the streets.

I could potentially create my own mercenary army, make people realise the potential of firearms.

Or I could just give it to the Griffons or Minotaurs.

Yeah, I’ll do that.

A young colt interrupted my thoughts, “Papers! Papers! Get you Canterlot Morning papers!”

I haven’t read today's one, may as well. See what the world is up to.

I walk up to the brown colt and ask for one. Using my right forehoof, I rummage around in my saddle bag until they land upon serval coins.

“Here you go,” I said, as I gave him three bits.

“Thanks, Miss!” He gushed.

I strolled away from him, with the newspaper tucked in my right forehoof, I had no particular destination in mind.

Eventually, I come across a lovely park and sit on top of a bench.

I pull out the print and began to read the front page.

—

GRIFFON CIVIL WAR:
PRINCESS LUNA SENDS ONE HUNDRED GUARD VOLUNTEERS

Three weeks since the begging of the Griffon Civil war between the commendable Griffon Empire and Democratic Griffon’s Republic, Princess Luna thoughtfully provided one hundred elite guards to aid the monarchists to a swift and undying victory.

“These dishonourable traitors have betrayed the rightful rule of their King, introduced a dreadful ideology, killed thousands of innocent beings, invented never seen before acts of cruelty, in addition to designing a society based off greed and jealousy. This awful uprising must be brought to a close before they can brainwash their villainous ideals into the minds of the innocent, and continue to charge their warpath on the rest of the world.” -Princess Luna.

It is unknown at this point in time what provoked Princess Luna to suddenly send assistance after a few weeks, however, we can be thankful that Equestrian threats are put to rest.

Reports have detailed that the rebelling population weren’t satisfied with the supply in the area, and as a result, took the matter into their own claws to concededly receive the unnecessary commodities by force.
It is uncertain at this point of time which side posses the most support, reports show that small bundles of the population are shifting over to the newly formed state. Rebelling and civil unrest is spreading across areas influenced by the Republic propaganda.

The rightful Griffon Empire is confident in their loyal 20,000 highly trained and equipped army to easily crush the frail and unprepared enemy militia.

Let’s hope that we can put a stop to this before the situation takes a turn for the worse.
———

Now, this is interesting, I think it's time to bring Democracy to the world stage.

A sudden realisation causes me to facehoof.

God damn it! I'm going to have to redesign everything, aren’t I?

Chapter Seven: Gunpowder and Griffons

“Our freedoms were born in the ideals of the Enlightenment and the musket fires of a historic revolution.”
-John Boehner

Chapter 7: Gunpowder and Griffons

The two most elevated griffon military strategists, General Garrison, and Bridges stood adjacent to each other, around a circular map table, they were discussing the art of war and particular battle plan strategies. They were in what’s called the ‘war room’, or to be more accurate, a ‘tent’.

The map is as shown:

Both Generals, however, wore they're recently created Officer’s uniform with satisfaction, the material shaded coal-black with serval golden laced buttons spreading vertically along. A matching officer’s cap sits on top.

Situated in the small room, is four Griffon guards with an iron shield and lance at each corner. Each has a small amount of armour covering the essential eras, with the same indistinguishable dark colour as the Generals uniform as an undergarment.

Neither officer can seem to agree on a single tactic, one thing both experienced strategists can concur on is, this war, is helpless.

At that moment, Present Senatus walks through the tent flaps, wearing a white shirt and a brown overgarment, with a coordinating bowtie.

Both Generals solute they're incoming leader of the nation and stood at perfect attention.

“At ease,” the President states in a slight British accent.

Both Generals visually relax.

He eyes them warily, “What’s our current situation?”

The strategists glance at each other, and answers in impeccable unification, “Awful.”

President Senatus has already had enough of this war, despite the fact it’s only been around a month. Besides the first week, every battle they’ve fought has been an utter massacre.

The leftmost General, Garrison, continues, “The outcomes have arrived over from our recent battle on the Western front, it was a bloodbath, sustaining 811 casualties,” he indicated to the left triangle, “we have been forced to retreat a couple kilometres back.”

“Reports have also featured that Equestria has sent 100 volunteers.” The other General, Bridges adds.

Garrison gestures to his accomplice, “Right, we currently have 6,000 on the field, it’s estimated around 16,000 enemy troops are currently on the fronts. On the splendid side, we ought to have another 4000 soldiers trained and outfitted with steel weapons and armour with the next few weeks. Another 1000 prepared recruits are ready to set out from this base tomorrow.”

“I, however, question we can hold out that long. Our military simply doesn’t have the necessary training, most had never seen combat in—.”

The President interrupted, “So basically, we’re at an utter loss. Unless we have some sort of miracle, we’ll be crushed within the following month.”

Both Generals silently nodded, neither can look the President directly in the eyes.

Bridges spoke first, “We should remove the troops currently training, and place them as reinforcements on the battlefield.”

Garrison simply sighs, he didn’t want to pull them from training this early, yet they don’t have much of a choice. “Fortifications are being built along the border, all we can hope now—“

Everygriffon was suddenly interrupted by a tent flapping sound, they all swung towards it. Nobody is supposed to interrupt this private meeting.

There, standing at the front of the tent is a white mare, with a crimson mane and tail. An elegantly crafted matching suit adorns her. What’s really frightening is the unsettling grin she’s currently wearing.

“Hello, I think I might have a solution to your problem.”

The sudden surprise wears off, the soldiers in the corners rapidly rush to surround her, posting their sharp weapons to directly point at the mare’s face.

—Earlier—

“Mate, I don’t give an actual fuck! Just tell me where they are!” I yelled at an infuriating Griffon.

“And I’ll tell you once again, not unless it’s with a price!” She equally exclaimed back.

I rub my brow, every single fucking Griffon asks for my GOD DAMN MONEY. Are they SERIOUSLY that poor?

“You know what,” I mumbled, “fuck it.” I throw serval gold coins at the stupid Lion-Bird.

She caught them all with practised ease.

“The western front is 1000km that way,” she stated while pointing in the destined destination, then flew off.

You know, I’m really doubling thinking if I should help these guys or not, every single one I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, has been infuriating.

I’m currently in the city of Griffonstone, the Capital of the Griffon Empire. The whole entire place is like God did one massive shit and then stamped on it several times. No wonder there was an uprising, about fucking time.

There isn’t a pony that is in sight, so I stick out like a bouncy castle in a backyard, to top that off, I’m currently wearing a suit, and as a result, I get quite a few weird looks.

I walked around the back of a building, on the outskirts of town, where my Space Car is currently waiting.

—Later—

I landed my car near a wooden fortification, on what I assume, is the Democratic side, as a divergent flag is displayed at the top.

I hope out on all fours, and stroll myself to the nearest soldier to the entrance of the castle.
He notices me and imminently points his spear at my face.

The griffon growls, “Not another step, pony.”

I roll my eyes, like a spear is threatening. To me, it doesn’t even look like its steel.

“Listen here, I’m trying to find the leader of this country, think you could help me?” I hopefully asked.

The unnamed Griffon narrows his eyes at me, “For what reason?”

“Well, you guys are obviously having difficulty winning this war. So I thought I’d provide something to help.”

He seems to lessen his stance slightly, but nonetheless, still kept the spear right near my throat, “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

“Not even,” I grabbed a small bag of coins from my saddlebags, and dumped them in front of him, “with an offering?”

He seemed to eye the bag hungrily, wiring his head around, looking for any bystanders. Just as quickly as the bag was dropped, he pointed at a direction and swiped the sack quickly with his claws.

“120km that way, is a temporary field of tents were the President and Generals are staying,” he then narrowed his eyes at me, “Don’t cause any trouble.” With that, he turned back to his post, staring directly ahead at nothing in particular.

“Thanks for the information,” I placated.

I’m getting closer now, It’s only a matter of time…

—How many more laters are there?—

“OY!”

No response.

“I’m talking to you!”

This is a first, the griffon guard here is not budging a single muscle, not even noticing my presence.

“All I want is to see your leader so I can give him some weapons! Come on mate, I thought you cared about your country?”

He twitched.

I smirked, “Since you're not taking me to him, you are practically throwing away a great opportunity for your country! I will be able to not only help you guys be victorious but also have minimal casualties on your side!

The guard groans, and facepalms, “This is a restricted area.”

Seriously? What is wrong with this guy? ‘Care about my country’ my ass!

I glare at him, “Can you at least notify your superior?”

If he still ignores me, I’m just going to coercion my way through.

The unnamed griffon eyes me wearily, and sighs, “Alright, but if you move a single muscle, I’ll be forced to use lethal force.”

I roll my eyes. Like you could do anything to me anyway.

“Sure,” I nonchalantly replied.

The soldier marches off, but not without casting one more warning gaze at me.

And now, I wait.

I wonder how many casualties have been in this civil war so far? I doubt it’ll be much, maybe 10,000 or so? The planet only has a population of around 230 million and hasn’t seen the art of war for an increasingly long time. It makes sense that their armies would pale in comparison to a planet which is constantly exposed to war.

I wonder what the AI will do when I’m away, after all, I did assign it to disguise my base as an industrial complex. The natives here would freak out if they saw a futuristic, alien base.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when all of a sudden, someone addresses me, “I was told that you could aid us in this war, any help would be appreciated.”

I switch my gaze to the griffon speaking to me, he seems to be dressed very similarly to the regular soldier, except he wears no armour, and has an officer’s cap is perched on his head.

“Greetings, my name is Lieutenant Pierce, the commander of this fine platoon,” he welcomes while holding out his claw for a classic handshake (clawshake?).

“My name is Atomic Discharge,” I meet him, “And you were correct in assuming that.”

Pierce shoots me a genuine smile, “So, how will you help us in this war?”

Finally, I’m getting somewhere.

“I want to provide a weapon that has the capacity to kill an entire army, before it even reaches yours,” I informed in simplistic terms.

“Would I be able to see this ‘weapon’?”

I nod, and take hold of one of the Griffon Matchlock Muskets, and give it to him.

I point to the weapon, “It fires a projectile, similar to a crossbow, expect much, much faster, capable of ignoring almost any amour. Imagine having thousands of griffons using this, crushing their entire military.”

His eyes lit up, “Normally I wouldn't do this, but…. If you say what is true about this weapon, it could possibly change the tide of the war.” Lieutenant Pierce starts to mumble to himself, “after all, we are quite desperate.”

Pierce claws me back the musket, and looks at me, “Alright then, follow me,” he waves me forwards, moreover walks to an unknown destination in the tent area.

I trot directly after him, brown tents of varying sizes surround me, this area must be a temporary command region that’s closer to the front lines, this would allow communication between the divisions to be undemanding.

A few griffons are flying to a fro the area, most likely messengers.

“We’re here,“ my escort states.

A moderately sized tent, the same style the rest in the area, has a sword bandana at the front. Most likely indicating the main command centre. Normally, after the Renaissance Era in human history, the General’s tent, or some place of importance, wasn’t marked as they could easily have been destroyed.

Pierce steps to the side of the doorway, waving his claw towards to entrance, “Ladies first.”

I rise a single eyebrow and continue to walk past the tent flaps anyway.

Situated in the small room, is four Griffon guards with an iron shield and lance at each corner. Each has a small amount of armour covering the essential eras, with pitch-black colour as an undergarment.

Three Griffons were in the middle of a conversation about the war, around a circular table, that is, until they notice me.

I address them, “Hello, I think I might have a solution to your problem.”

Soldiers rapidly rush to surround me, posting their sharp weapons to directly point at my beautiful face.

At that moment Lieutenant Pierce strolls through the tent, “Back down! Back down! She’s with me.”

The four guards, with a small amount of hesitation, begin to lower their spears.

The left griffon scolds at Pierce, “What do think you're doing bringing a pony to our base of operations, Lieutenant?!”

He opens his mouth to respond, however, only a peep is able to escape. So I answer for him, “I’m here because I think I have a resolution to win you the war, a brand new type of weapon.” Pierce nods to this, seemingly out of his daze.

The two right griffons rise their eyebrows, the same one that I responded to beforehand, simply rubs his brow and shakes his head.

“Take her away, we can’t afford—“ he started.

The middle griffon interrupts while holding his claw up, “Give her a chance, any help could determine the results of this war.”

The enlightened griffon moves towards me and holds up a claw, “I’m President Senatus.”

How many handshakes do I need to do today? It's like I’ve broken my record or something.

Bringing my right hoof up, he curls his claws around it, careful not to scratch, and shakes up and down leisurely. “Atomic. Atomic Discharge,” I introduce.

We relinquish the claw shake, “So, what do you have for us today? I trust you can show us this 'new' weapon?” He asks.

This will be fun, It’ll be amusing to watch their expressions when they view my weapons in action. They will literally be blown away, particularly the enemy, but in the thousands. I’ve only ever seen Renaissance battles in movies, It’ll be awesome to perceive it in real life. The thunder of explosions, the acrid smell of gunfire smoke, entire battle-fields foggy, covered head to toe in blood and bodies.

I look at him in the eyes, burning from my excitement, “Of course I do, I brought three with me.” I took one of them out of my right saddle bag, slowly rotating it in front of me, “It’s called a gun, this particular type is a matchlock musket, capable of launching a projectile above 200 metres per second, and penetrate almost any armour.”

I gaze up at him, “Imagine having thousands of soldiers with this, they’d be able to demolish entire armies before they even reach you.” I survey the firearm again, “Let me show you how it works.”

I reach back and grab a bullet paper cartridge and lay on the raw earth floor.

I bring my right foreleg up and use my teeth to bite down on the end of the paper capsule and rip it off. Promptly spitting the remainder from my muzzle to the floor.

Carefully, I pour a small amount of gunpowder on the pan, in addition to concealing the powder by closing the cover over the top.

I rotate the musket around on a 45-degree angle to gain a clear view of the firing hole, I furthermore pour the rest of the black powder down the muzzle. I then powerfully shove the remaining paper into the barrel, in addition to taking hold of the metal rod located underneath and sliding it out. Plunging the rod straight into the barrel, then compressing it hard to stop the ammunition falling out.

Once I was satisfied, I returned the rod underneath, then grab a small length of match cord, and light it with a piece of flint and steel from my saddle bag. I bring the lit end to my mouth and blow on it several times, moreover inserting the rope in the serpentine.

I nod, and return my gaze to the President, “Here, point this somewhere, and pull the trigger underneath, which is that little rod.”

I hand— I mean hoof, the gun to President Senatus, and he takes it, eying it sceptically.

He places his right claw around the trigger system, and the other right near the tip of the barrel, furthermore, aiming it at the back of the tent.

“Sir, I would not put your left claw so close to the end, and place wooden end against your shoulder,” I highlighted.

He looks at me, then adjusts his talon further back, and places the stock against his shoulder.

The President breaths in and out slowly, little by little, reclining his index claw onto the trigger, until…

BANG!

The serpentine drops down into the pan, causing it to ignite, along with the main propellant. The muzzle erupts in an explosion of fire and smoke, forcing the gun to heavily recoil backwards into the Griffon’s shoulder. Launching the gold projectile from the barrel, into the back tent fabric, erecting a perfectly sized hole.

And then, a painful scream echoes throughout the area.

Well, fuck. Someone got hit, should have warned him about that.

President Senatus looks at the musket, then at the hole, then back to the firearm.

He eagerly stares at me, “I want these,” breathing in and out rapidly, “I want these! A hundred! One thousand! I need this in my army!”

Senatus surveys the musket once again, and strokes it, “This weapon, will revolutionise war as we know it, and we will be at the forefront.”

Only then is it that I notice the other two griffons, along with the soldiers in the room, all of which portray a mix of amazement, fear, and relief.

He stares back at me, “What do you want for them? I’ll give you anything.”

I tap my chin in thought, “A small amount of land for one of my bases of operations, and 100 bits per weapon.”

“Deal,” He immediately babbled, “how soon can you deliver them?”

“Tomorrow.”

He rubbed his claws diabolically, “The enemy won’t know what hit them.”

Wow, that was easier than I expected, guess these guys are pretty desperate.

All the griffons in the room stared wide eye at the President.

——
An already present crack expands to cover the entire length of a statue.
——

Author's Note

Competition: Whoever can guess what the Democratic Griffon flag represents (colours, symbols, etc..), will get their OC Pony later on in this story. A user who presumes the closest will be declared the winner, contest closes when the next chapter is posted.

Chapter Eight: The Plot Thickens

“We don’t rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.”
-Archilochos

——

Chapter Eight: The Plot Thickens

“Load em’ up boys! Hurry up! The President wants this done ASAP!”

A large group of Griffons were moving wooden crates, all marked with my ‘new’ company symbol (literally just my cutie mark in black and white), onto manually pulled transportation (by griffons), towards the temporary training ground at the tent command centre.

You may be wondering, how was I supposed to drag over 60 crates, halfway across the world? Simple, teleportation, after that, I fabricated a provisional primitive storage unit, relativity near the area I met the President.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Training soldiers is an interesting concept if two countries are the same technological level, their armies fall onto they're training, and tactics to surpass the enemy. However, if one side even has the slightest advantage in prevailing equipment, they don’t necessary nearly as much preparation, as their technology easily makes up for it. That’s what was so awesome about guns when they were first invented, they called for next to no training, all the troopers needed to know, was how to reload, aim, and fire. Simple, and yet they could demolish armies who had been training their entire lives.

For example, during the Great War (World War One), the ideal warfare at the time was trenches. Armies would charge by the thousands, composing the hope to overrun the enemy lines. Almost every time, they failed.

The main reason for this, machine guns.

Normally a gun requires precision (besides when standing in firing lines), in order to hit the optimal target. Who needs to aim properly when you have a machine gun? Just spray in the general direction.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts when someone addresses me, “The President has ordered another thousand to be produced with the next month,” a male griffon states while looking at a piece of parchment, “he would also like to design a proper agreement after the first training session.”

He looks at me, “Is this acceptable?”

I give a singular nod, “Sounds like a plan.”

All of the wooden creates have been loaded on the transport, the griffon I talked to previously hops inside of the carts and beckons me over, “We don’t want to be late, the President wants the division trained as soon as possible.”

I too follow him and leap into the seat sent to him.

The still unnamed griffon addresses everyone, “Alright! Time to head out!”

Without even a second thought, the carts begin to move. Something….is off though, why are we going so fast? At this rate, the griffons will tire out. Even if they do change, I doubt—

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when suddenly my transportation takes off from the ground.

And I thought the ponies were weird.

I unconsciously hold onto the railing, to the side of the carriage.

This action doesn’t go unnoticed by the griffon perched to the right of me, “Never flown before?” He chuckles, “It’s not surprising, not many non-pegasi that I know of have been in the air before.”

Technically I have flown, more ways than you could possibly imagine. It includes space.

To show that I was paying attention, I just shrug.

He continues, “We should arrive in around half an hour or so, it’s quite lucky you had your equipment stored relatively close to the base.”

Yeah, lucky.

The rest of the trip was in relative silence, only disturbed by the flapping of wings, and the heavy breeze ruffling my mane. If I couldn’t be easily bored, I would have enjoyed the ride. I, however, have a limited attention span, of around 30 seconds. I mean, I’ve seen plenty of planets, how could the environment of this one be any different?

Signified by a heavy bump, we landed on the ground, less than 30 metres away from the tents.

A stampede of griffons rushes out from the area, around 300 if I’d have to wagger, surround us. Every, single, one, of them, seems to express signs of excitement. This is properly some of the first soldiers that’ll handle my firearms. Who wouldn’t be excited to use never seen before weapons?

Some were pushing their way to the front of the crowd, and unloading the wooden crates from the transportation carriages, moreover conveying them towards what I assume is an armoury.

Hopefully, this won’t take too long.

24 Hours.

A whole, fucking day.

I had to occupy myself by making annoying popping sounds, I admit, It was pretty funny watching some of the Griffon’s annoyed expressions.

You think it would be simple to just unload, and set up the required instruments to have the training session going. I never even considered that at this day in age, they would have freaking paperwork. I mean, I didn’t have to sign shit to sell these guns. One particular griffon keeps on shooting me dirty looks, most likely the person responsible for the completion of the paperwork. In fact, I saw him dealing with a huge stack, signing one sheet at a time.

Another griffon confirmed it for me, and I quote, ‘We’re still waiting for approval to renovate the training ground to suit our new needs.’ What I find mystifying, is that they didn’t even change the area much, in fact, all they did was enforce the wooden targets with metal. That is it. Why does that require a tonne of paperwork? I will never know.

I am currently stagnant behind a whole division of Griffons, who are standing in a wonky line (one thousand strong), the commanders have asked me to ensure that they aren’t doing anything counterproductive, that may damage the guns. As I had already instructed them how to use the firearms, I mean, they didn't do fantastic, but they passed generally well. After all, it’s not hard to use em.

Each soldier wears a basic outfit of steel armour, a musket with a bayonet, and a short sword attached to their sides.

The President, and the two leading Generals I had the pleasure of meeting previously stand to the right of me.

The only information I gave the commanders concerning tactics is to stand in lines, and the best way to issue commands. I don’t want them to be yelling “SHOOT”, ‘fire’ is the correct term.

I’m thrown out of my thoughts by someone shouting, “READY!”

Everygriffon places their musket barrels on their shoulders, some on the wrong shoulder, or forget to do it entirely.

“AIM!”

They all aim their weapons straight ahead, some are even shaking slightly.

“FIRE!”

An ear-splitting roar erupts from the line, plumes of smoke cover the entire area. Most Griffons look shocked and are glancing at their surroundings. Particularly the targets at the other end of the field, 100m away. Even with the enforced metal, most of the objectives are utterly destroyed, plagued with a ridiculous amount of bullet holes.

Huh, what’s that weird feeling I’m getting?

“Absolutely marvellous!” The President wildly clapped his claws together, the other generals are too shocked to comment on anything.

Some griffons are still presenting their guns forward, attempting to make the weapon fire. I guess they didn’t prepare it properly.

The Griffon instructor didn't look too pleased, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU MAGGOTS ARE DOING JUST STANDING THERE??! PREPARE ANOTHER ROUND!”

Without any hesitation, the soldiers begin the routine of reloading, most stumble, and consistently miss sticking the rod down the barrel. Others, completely drop it.

This is will be even more entertaining when they’re on the actual battlefield.

“Have you discovered anything yet?”

Two of the highest ranking Generals, Garrison and Bridges, were in a conversation with several scientists in reference to the newest weapon apart of the Griffon army. These ‘scientists’ seem to be quite curious about this new development, they furthermore, have been researching the musket, every single waking second, that is, without falling into sleep depression territory. I mean seriously, who would give up a chance to be the first to research never seen before technology?

One of the scientists gazed up from the disassembled musket to General Bridges, “It’s been a day, you can’t expect us to have worked everything out yet,” he adopts an inquisitive expression. “Why don’t you just ask for the information regarding this weapon from the pony who invented it?”

Bridges just gives a look that screams ‘are you kidding me?’ “What, you expect the Pony to just give us her only way of making money?” He scoffs, “Honestly, that pony is racking in loads of bits, she’d be able to fill a swimming pool with it!”

A short pause of awkward silence expresses in the room, that is though, only for the military representatives. As the scientists were busy discussing the inner workings of the musket.

That discussion is interrupted by Garrison, “Do you think it would be entirely possible to replicate this? It would be extremely convenient.”

A different scientist from previous answers in an informative voice, “We roughly understand HOW it works, it's just almost impossible to know what this ‘black powder’ ammunition is made of, I’ve never seen any element with these properties in my entire life,” he places his claw on his chin in deep thought, “We properly would be able to create the actual weapons, however, with our current knowledge, it would be impossible to manufacture any of the powder. So yes, and no.” The unnamed Griffon immediately returns to his work.

—Lyra—

‘Where is she?’ Lyra thought, ‘Someone can’t just disappear like that!’

Lyra was currently searching all of Ponyville for Atomic, and so far, she’d had no success. The Green unicorn was starting to become, suspicious of her whereabouts, a human-like HER must be doing something shady. Unless she had just returned back to her species’ home base, that was an entire possibility. Maybe, she lived underground, and was just scouting out what the surface was like after hundreds of years? In that case, it would be awesome to help them out! Imagine what sort of technology we could learn from them!

Or PERHAPS Bonney is right, MAYBE she is being a bit too paranoid, and should stop thinking of so many ‘conspiracy theories’, as Bon Bon likes to put it.

‘Well,’ she thought, ‘There’s still no harm in searching.’ Although Lyra had been looking all over town for days, Bonney was starting to get worried, perchance she should just give up, I mean. Where else could Atomic possibly be? I have no idea where she lives, for all I know, she could’ve been a traveller.’

Lyra was just about to give up when an idea hit her.

‘He’s in the Everfree Forest! How could I be so stupid?’

Dumbstruck at such an amazing idea, Lyra immediately sprites for all her worth, directly towards the forest, this could be the answer to all her not so long ago troubles!

Ponyville’s houses race past her at such a blinding speed, it would even make Rainbow Dash jealous. Everything was a blur, the other ponies, the environment, and even, herself. In record time, she arrives at the edge of the Everfree forest, the path to Zecora’s, and continues to sprint forward.

Not even the scary howls in the distance, the poison joke flowers dotted everywhere, or the menacing trees and bushes threatening to strangle her to death can stop this mare. For she has a human to trace, it is her destiny. Lyra arrives at a hut, where a local Zebra likes to call home.

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*

Shuffling hooves is muffled by the door, until it is opened by the zebra herself, Zecora. The green unicorn must admit, she has a strange appearance, with all the golden rings, earrings and stuff. Once you look past that though, she’s quite nice to talk to.

Zecora introduces, “Ah, Lyra, the human admirer, how can my existence be of assistance?”

“Have you seen Atomic? A white mare with a red mane and tail?” Lyra enquired.

“A pony that matches that exact description ran past here on a mission,” she stated ominously.

Without even attempting to say goodbye, Lyra took off in a blur, past the hut, in the direction Atomic most likely travelled to. The Zebra had to blink a couple of times just to make sense of the situation.

Lyra was able to find pony tracks in the dirt, they, however, looked quite faded, adding to the fact that these are quite old. These hoof prints became increasingly harder to follow, so as a result, Lyra was forced to slow down to eventually, a trot.

It this walk was taking longer than expected, who would go this far into the Everfree forest? Not only is it dangerous, but there’s not much food or water out here.

Lyras thoughts are completely shattered however when she comes across something, something so strange, and ordinary at the same time. She is situated at the edge of a relatively large clearing and stood mouth agape at the complex infront of her.

“HOLY SHIT!”

“LEFT!”

“LEFT!”
“RIGHT!”
“LEFT!”
“RIGHT!”
“LEFT!”
“RIGHT”
“LEFT!”

“LEFT!”

The 1st Musket Division of Griffons were marching in impeccable unification, towards the western front lines, although, the marching was just a drill. Normally the group would be flying, this, however, counts as a rest. The entire group had only prepared for two days straight, although, that’s understandable considering their superiors attempted to rush them straight to the battle lines as soon as possible. They used a series of different tactics during training, a simple musket firing line, a phalanx (instead of using spears, they used short swords and bayonets), rushing, and even how to deal with flanks.

I can say that I’m impressed with the extent of these maneuvers. The only one that lacks, however, is the musket firing line. The soldiers unload all the firearms at the same time, instead of shooting row by row to decrease vulnerability. They may, or may not learn it the hard way.

What I also find weird is the fact every fifty or so griffon in the group holds the Democratic Flag. What a waste of manpower! 1000÷50 = 20 Griffons! That’s enough to form squad! I guess symbolism is undyingly important to them.

It was nice of the President to allow me to come, even if it took a tiny bit of persuasion. He also decided to view the upcoming battle, to not only witness the weapons in action but to also boost Morale. Even if he didn’t allow me to come through, I would have just floated over the battle with my car, although, it’s not as an ‘in-depth' experience.

One thing that does suck, is walking. God, I HATE it. I never used to do it that often, and I never planned to do so. Times change I guess. At least when we’re in the air, I don’t need to do move my legs.

Apparently, we arrive in a little over fourteen hours.

Goddam, I’m excited.

Author's Note

The contest is offically over! Congratulations to Arstotzka Border Control!

The flag represents as such:
Red: The blood of those who sacrificed themselves for the construction of their nation.
Blue: There are limitless possibilities, the sky is the limit.
White: The nation is pure and untainted.
The White Triangle: Signifies that the nation is always moving forward in a positive direction.

In case you wondered, I honestly accidentally made the flag look like the Russians', in fact, I only noticed it when someone pointed it out to me, so I added a triangle. Creative, aren't I?

Chapter Nine: The Battle of a new Era

“There is only one tactical principle which is not subject to change. It is to use the means at hand to inflict the maximum amount of wound, death, and destruction on the enemy in the minimum amount of time.”
– General George S. Patton Jr.

“See the blood,” called out the youth, looking towards the car. His face was eager and excited. “It’s pouring out of his leg. It’s all over him.”
“Give him another,” yelled the old man. “Sink another into him.”
-Alan Marshall, First Kill.

Chapter 9: The Battle of a New Era

—Lyra—

“HOLY SHIT!”

The ‘complex’ seems to be a brick wall, with a tower in each corner, and inside two buildings stick up into the air, one producing a minor amount of smoke. Not enough to be noticed from Ponyville though.

Lyra couldn’t possibly believe what the receptors in her eyes are currently picking up, why in the name of Lauren Faust is there a HUGE relatively normal building in the middle of the EVERFREE Forest!??

Curiosity begins to overrule the green unicorn as she trots up to the defensive (what she assumes) brick wall, and touches it. All she gets in return is a dull *knock*.

Wait a second, why does she feel like she’s being heavily watched, like, serval ponies are just pointing weapons directly at her, and at any moment ready to strike? This is the same kind of feeling Lyra got when she ran into that Manticore.

Perhaps…she should get out of here, and tell Bon Bon about this place.

But, Lyra had never been so close to finding a real human! Maybe only a teeny tiny bit further.

Lyra places a hoof on the wall, and casts an ‘attraction’ spell, to allow a tight grip on any surface, no matter how slippery. Lucky she learned it when she was trying to grab some biscuits out of the cookie jar.

As soon as Lyra even moves a single centimetre, a loud blast and explosion of light appeared beside her. Causing the lime green unicorn to lose concentration and fall backwards, onto her spine.

‘Or maybe I’ve overstayed my circumstances,’ Lyra thought.

Another explosion to the right of her confirms this, resulting in a loud YELP, and her body to scramble onto her hooves, moreover, to sprint in the opposite direction at full speed. Only fuelled by the adrenaline rushing through her veins.

‘NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE’

“ENEMY SIGHTED AT OUTPOST B1, MOVE OUT!”

Immediately, the camp busts into life, Griffons rush everywhere, fulfilling particular duties. Myself, on the other hand, continue to sit with my haunches on the ground, and my right hoof under my muzzle, in deep thought.

I wonder what these griffons taste like, chicken perhaps? I know they’re part bird, and all feathered mammals taste like chicken, it’s a known fact. I don’t think the same applies to cartoon ponies though, besides a pegasus, the other two races probably taste similar to cattle. I’ll definitely have to test this out at some stage.

A griffon tugged my shoulder, snapping me out of my prolonged thoughts, “Ma'am, we’re moving out.”

I switched my gaze from the disorganised ground, and stare up at my disturber. His face takes up most of my vision, and my mouth starts to water. Chicken. I smack my lips, slowly licking my tongue around, attempting to savour a flavour that never even existed in the first place.

A month of eating nothing but fruit and vegetables, along with the occasional nutrient bar has started to affect me mentally. The atomic fabricator can’t replicate the real deal for shit, and these ponies don’t fucking eat it. No human has EVER gone for more than a few weeks without bacon, chicken, lamb shanks, juicy medium rare steaks, deliciously succulent smoked ham…. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

God damn it! I’m doing it again.

Point is, I can’t get my mind off it.

By the looks of things, a battle is going to occur soon. Perhaps nobody will notice if one or three bodies suddenly go missing….

I smack myself in the head. STOP IT BRAIN.

“Ummm, are you alright, ma'am?” The same Griffon as previously asked, worry and terror laced into his voice.

“Yeah…..yeah.”

A bloody battle should get my mind off things, in fact, I can already imagine the countless bodies that litter the ground, I merge into my excited state once again.

Date: 2nd of October, 989
Time: 11:26
Location: Shitick, Border Dispute

Major-General Chop Slice was standing to the side of 4000 troops, that happened to be under his command, all were in position, steel spears pointing outward, shields situated on the appropriate arm, amour made by the best blacksmiths in all of The Griffon Empire, and soldiers trained to perfection. Every fifty soldiers, the Griffon Empire’s flag waves proudly in the wind, situated up by a pole, and held within a griffon’s claw.

‘This is too easy,’ he thought, ‘We’ve won the last couple of battles, it’s only a matter of time before they completely break’. Over the past month, the Democrats were constantly pushing forward, mostly out of complete desperation, only in vain hope of causing disorganisation. All have failed, and now it's time to strike back, for the first time in the war, the Empire will take the offensive.

Although he has doubts, just like every other officer, the borders have been quiet, too quiet, for the past few days. Attacks were usually often, and huge in numbers, with barely any time to prepare and relax between the assaults.

Major Slice grabbed his binoculars from around his neck and peered into the high tech lenses at the assembling enemy army front.

Around three hundred metres away, Chop could only just make out what was occurring on the other side, there was an uneven line of enemy soldiers, who were all battle-torn, many still possessed heavy wounds. It requires great courage to be able to withstand that, thus he would normally give his respect. These, creatures on the other claw, are not ordinary, they don’t have the honour to be a griffon, much less even a soldier.

Their despicable ideology will only result in even more death and destruction.

These ‘soldiers’ were by the looks of things, were being replaced by other service-men. ‘This will be easier than I thought,’ Chop deviously thought, ‘Removing battle-hardened fighters, and replacing with a newly trained militia? What are those Generals thinking!’

‘And what’s this?’ Chop barely withheld a chuckle, ‘Replacing spears with short metal rods? Are they stupid? Do they seriously think those things will be able to reach us before we plunge our spears into them?’

Glancing left and right, Chop Slice manufactured a whistle. Prompting over another Griffon, he saluted, “Yes Sir!”

He answered in a stern, commanding voice, “Retrieve the Green flag, I would like to personally talk with the enemy’s commander.”

The other Griffon hesitated slightly, but after a brief scowl from the Major, he immediately went gather the requested item. Chop didn’t have to wait long, around 30 seconds later, the ‘Don’t attack me’ flag (dubbed by the soldiers), was within his grasp, literally.

Without even a farewell to his fellow soldiers, he marched through no-griffons land. Guards stood in awe, mouth agape. Their commander is brave and courageous enough to move into enemy crossbow fire, and not even break a sweat doing it! No griffon has been this valiant, propaganda was drilled into the minds of every Griffon enlisted, the Democrats were simply too barbaric, they would unambiguously kill him on the spot, without even a second thought.

Well, that’s what they assumed.

Eventually, Major Slice stopped directly in the middle of the field, standing perfectly, shoulders, arms, legs, claws, were in excellent proportion. He is the very definition of valiancy.

Not long after, a General from the other side carrying an identical flag walked deliberately slow, calculated movements, equivalent or maybe even more imposing than that of Major Chop. He, ultimately met up with him in the centre of the meadow.

The Democratic sternly stares, with a slight, almost hidden smirk, “You will lose.”

Major Slice snorts, “You say that every time, and yet, who exactly is winning this war?”

The other Griffon didn’t even bulge, not feeling threatened whatsoever, “We are giving you one chance to surrender, and we can promise you everygriffon all be spared.”

Slice institutes a snicker, only just barely withholding a full-blown laugh. The other Griffon doesn’t seem to notice or care, so he continued, “We’ll see who wins this battle, I have a feeling it’s going to be historical.”

That’s it, Chop could no longer conceal his laugh, it explodes at full force, so intense and deafening, that he had to cough half a dozen times just to stabilise himself, which, completely ruined the overall act.

‘He will pay for that,’ the enemy Griffon thought, ‘I will personally kill him myself.’

Major Slice wiped his eyes with his right claw while breathing rather rapidly, his voice still outlined by a light chuckle, “Historical, yeah, your right about that,” he then tries to look rather serious, but fails miserably, releasing another heavy chuckle, “Historically funny!”

The opposer is now silently fuming.

“Careful what you wish for General,“ he warned, a tiny smirk reappears among his facade, “I can guarantee you it’s going to be amusing, but not in the way you expect.” Without even giving Major Slice a chance to respond, he swiftly turns 180 degrees on the spot and marches back to his army.

All signs of happiness suddenly drained from Chop Slice’s face, ‘How DARE him! I’ll show that prick just how powerful the Empire’s armed force is, they ain't seen nothing yet.’ He swivels around, and walks back towards his men, hiding behind the lines to be out of combat.

Any moment he would give the signal to attack.

But first, a little speech would be necessary, Major Chop holds his right arm directly up, silencing everygriffon. Conversational mummers died down until the only sound was the howling wind and the occasional clank of amour.

(MUSIC)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1xzKtMqe_4&list=PLagw1OacLUg7y-7YoQai1hbwVNCl5nz-6&index=2

“Fellow soldiers!” he shots, his voice booming over the meadow, echoing, “Today is another chance to defend what is right, to defend our country, our honour and most importantly, our families! We can’t allow these barbarians to steal what we rightfully worked for! I say no more! WE HAVE A CHANCE TO POSITIVELY IMPACT NOT ONLY OUR BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY BUT THE ENTIRE PLANET. WE’RE THE HEROS, THE DEFENDERS, AND IT'S TIME TO SHOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH THE WRONG PEOPLE!”

Chop shouts the beginning of the famous war cry, “For the Empire!”

“For the King!” Every soldier joins in their little amount of fear already temporarily forgotten. The adrenaline rush through their veins preparing them for the massive assault.

“For GLORY!” The last word is shouted at the top of every griffon’s lungs, placing in every inch of motivation they could possibly muster.

An ugly, deafening horn blast explodes into the surrounding area, signifying the dawn of the attack. The first three lines rush at a full sprint directly towards the enemy, flags ferociously wave in the wind. Followed by groups of crossbowmen to provide cover support, and swordsmen to protect them, as they are quite valuable and vulnerable at close range. Another line of infantry follows close behind to protect the flanks from flying battalions.

Major Chop Slice watches the conflict from the safety of his binoculars

The rapid pacing literally shakes the ground, the sheer amount of soldiers and griffon-power is surely enough to demolish the enemy.

He notices the enemy lines proceed to point out their metal ‘sticks’ directly forward, in almost perfect synchronisation. Each, and every soldier not portraying the slightest bit of hesitation, it appears as though these troops know exactly what they're doing, even though the methodology is completely wrong. Spears are supposed to be pointed at a slightly higher degree to allow the ground to take some of the blunt force, empowering them to not be pushed backwards. Only now does Chop release that those ‘spears’ don’t even look like them at all, in fact, they have the appearance of nothing he’s ever seen before.

And that is exactly where it all went wrong.

The most ear-shattering, thunderous BOOM occurred from the lines, explosions of pure fire and energy outburst from the tip of every weapon, plumes of smoke rise, collecting into a cloud of smoulder, easily blocking them all from view. That’s nothing compared to what happened though, almost the entire first row of soldiers just suddenly dropped, dead. The ammunition tears through the thin steal armour like it’s wet tissue paper. Many used their claws to clutch the chest areas, the action, however, proved to be futile, as crimson blood continued to pour around the claws, and drop the essential liquid life onto the ground below. Some soldiers fail to notice their fellow brethren on the red-stained green grass, resulting in trips, and falling downwards too, others were unlucky enough to be inhaled by their own weapons.

Chop is horrified beyond belief, nothing should be capable of that sort of power! All the other soldiers seemed to reflect his current feelings, as many seem to just stop, their confusion taking the better of them. Disorganisation and confusion erupt onto the battlefield. If a whole line could suddenly be slaughtered, what’s stopping the enemy from doing it again? It's like all that training, was completely in vain, if they could literally just kill them without even the slightest bit of difficulty. Griffons couldn’t take it, several hundred became deserters, they decide to run in the opposite direction, without even looking back.

The small percentage that did continue to run forward become already too far ahead to reform.

Despite all this, General-Major Slice was still able to squark out orders, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? DON’T STOP! RUN! KEEP YOUR SPEAR STRAIGHT! CROSSBOWS! SHOOT YOUR ARROWS! BREAK UP THEIR LINES!”

His orders seemed to snap all the soldiers out of their trace, causing the ones who haven’t disbanded the battle, to continue forward. Range weapons were pointed at the sky in forty-five degrees and fired in small groups of around forty. A small hail of arrows rained down on the enemy lines, most missed, due to the separation between the two armies, a few nonetheless, where lucky shots, puncturing in unarmored head or chest areas.

Despite the reorganisation efforts, it became all in vain when the muskets fire another deafening round of explosions, soldiers continue to drop left, right and centre. Screams, screeches, and gunshots echo the surrounding area. Giving the atmosphere a nightmarish theme, as bodies continue to thump onto the ground below.

Almost every fibre of courage that used to swell inside each soldier, has declined to unmanageable lengths, held by a single thread, threatening to collapse at a moments notice.

Very few, brave Griffons who never stopped running from the beginning, finally made it to the enemy. The hacked, slashed and attempted to stab. Although their superior training gave them a slight advantage, it proved to be naught, as multiple enemy Griffons used a mix of bayonets and short swords focused one Griffon at a time. Without even much effort, all those attacking directly were finished off. Their bodies littered the front of the lines, creating an invisible barrier, that seemed all but impossible to pass.

The second wave became increasingly closer to the enemy, technically it all should have been one wave, but the massive divide gave the allusion there was two. Soldiers began to gather a small amount of hope, and courage, as they were twenty metres away from achieving their goal.

Then, the third round hit.

Although a few Griffons in the Republican army that fought claw to claw combat couldn’t fire, it didn’t seem to matter as shooting at the almost point-blank range is lethal beyond imaginable. Fire and smoke, yet again expels from the musket tubes, launching over 700 metal projectiles into the body and tissue of the still approaching army.

Flesh and bones drop like flies, skulls burst, chests concave, legs shatter, and torsos tear open. Less than two percent of the original three front lines remain. The single thread of courage that remained suddenly breaks, the majority attempt to ditch their armour and fly away. The symbolic flags are completely forgotten, and discarded. Few sporadic individuals drop their weapons, kneel and surrender.

Major Slice could not believe it. This battle must be some sort of illusion, no military can suddenly turn their fate by the flip of a hat. He, however, was not prepared to say the next words, the words that will haunt him the rest of his life.

“RETREAT! FALL BACK!”

The effect was immediate, previously confident soldiers revolve 180 degrees, and spirit with their tail tucked firmly beneath their legs, others flew. Some soldiers close to the front lines, including crossbowmen and swordsmen, simply surrender, as they don’t have the desire to risk being killed while withdrawing.

The Democratic army marches forward, a few dispatching from the others to arrest the surrendering soldiers.

A piercing whistle sounds over the hollow winds, every single Republican rushes forward, trailing the retreating army, some fly to catch the soaring Monarch soldiers. The Democrats don’t give them what they desperately desire, freedom.

An increasingly exponential amount of soldiers surrender when they see the charging army. Most simply don’t have the stamina to run or fly away, as it was utilised at the beginning of the battle, all soldiers were simply driving off the intense amount of adrenaline rushing through their veins.

The rear infantry is stabbed and impaled from behind by bayonets and short swords. Many continue to drop, blood staining the soldiers, giving them an almost demonic appearance.

Chop Slice only just now realised, the army is getting increasingly close to him, so he releases his binoculars and flies in a random direction, completely abandoning his army.

His soldiers witnessed this, he was their last hope the escape out of there alive, and he just discarded them, like they were nothing! With no trace of hope in their hearts, practically the entire army surrenders like a tidal wave.

The General spots the fleeing Monarch Major, immediately beckoning over a moderate number of Griffons whose muskets are already preloaded. He swiftly places them into a small line and begins the daunting command process.

“Aim!” He shouts in a hushed whisper.

“Fire!”

Gold projectiles launch from their firearms, speeding through the air. Most, however, miss their target, not inflicting any damage on the retreating Generall. Well, that’s besides one, it managed to clip his left wing. That, however, proved to be enough. Chop Slice instinctively closes his wings, causing him to plummet to the ground below, landing in a heap.

The Republican General doesn’t give him even a second to spare, he dashes to the fallen enemy. Chop bolts upwards, and sprints away with every bit of energy he can muster, while clutching his left wing with his claw.

This action proved to be a strain, as the approaching Democratic slowly catches up, and eventually slashes him in the back. Resulting in a spray of crimson blood to spray over the grass, Major Slice drops to the ground, conceding. Attempting to hold in his precious liquid life, by pressing his spin firmly against the ground.

“Why?” Chop gurgles.

“Exactly the same reason as you,” the Republican replies, “to protect my people.”

And with that, he does one final powerful swoop with his sword, it comes down on his exposed neck. Completely separating the head from his spine, and causing it to roll a couple of times with forever stained, wide eyes.

Major Chop Slice, is dead.

The still remaining General openly stares at his prior competitor, filled with satisfaction and a newly created spark of hope. Hope, that now they have the advantage, and can finally finish this war, once and for all.

Another soldier rushes beside the General, panting heavily, “Want—me to—begin counting the —casualties?”

The General looks his is right, now with a genuine smile, “Please do.”

—Meanwhile—

“…innie minnie miny mo.”

My hoof ends up pointing at a random dead Griffon, completely saturated in blood, I’m far enough behind the army for no-one to notice me performing anything. I haul the deceased soldier over my shoulder and walk to deposit the body in a bush to pick up later.

My mouth is already watering.

Author's Note

Did you enjoy the first battle? Cuz' you may want to buckle your seatbelt, it's only going to get more hectic.

Chapter Eleven: Never Bring Magic to a Gun Fight

Pick up a rifle and you change instantly from a subject to a citizen.
-Jeff Cooper

“Sane is boring.”
-R. A. Salvatore

——
Chapter Eleven: Never bring Magic to a Gunfight

“Well, shit.”

This is what you get for walking through a group of flowers whose sole purpose is to alter the physical qualities and appearance of an animal. GOD DAMN IT!

A pleasant, cherry-red heart is located on my flanks, instead of the usual ‘Thermonuclear Explosion', to a normal person, this may not be that bad. For myself, however, if I’m even one-hundred metres in the proximity of one of these, foul shapes, I will do anything, and everything in my power to remove myself away from that particular location. That may, or may not include death.

But of COURSE, this fucking thing appears when I’m standing DIRECTLY NEXT TO A GRIFFON. The bloody animals thinks I’m in fucking love with it!

So I did what any normal person would do, I excused myself, teleported back to base, suicided and reformed from the biological fabricator. To make matters even worse, apparently the AI did warn me about an abnormal dark energy presence in my body, but me being me, I didn’t give a fuck.

FLASHBACK

*Door Slams*

Atomics throws her saddlebag in a random direction, and falls, on her bed, with a satisfying sigh, in the process of executing the exceedingly important ritual, sleep.

For some unknown reason, the AI decided it was a good idea to interrupt this peaceful sentiment, “Senses have registered a lingering presence of high-frequency dark en—“

“Cake,” she absently mumbled.

The AI seemed to hesitate for a moment, “What made you come up with something so random? Seriously, this conversation had nothing to do with the sustenance ‘cake’,”.

“Sweat, moist, delicious cake,” she continued.

The voice merged into a dark, cheerless tone, “I’m sorry, cake is only provided to test subjects who have completed the necessar—“

I may have imagined that last part, not entirely sure, I only remembered parts of it, so my faculty probably filled in the blanks, but whatever. The important part is that I longer have the picture that ‘shall remain unmentioned’ on my ass. Naturally, I could have had the energy purged from my system by machines, however, I believed, no, KNEW, that my body was tainted, and thus, had to be incinerated. Literally.

I’m lucky the biological fabricator removes 95% of physical pain from my system, allowing me to do things people would normally consider antagonising.

On that note, I decided I’ve had enough of ‘laying on the ground to fire my weapon’ sort of thing, and I’d rather not use the stand-up musket sticks to rest my firearm. So, I designed an ‘add-on’ to my Land Pattern Musket, where a thin metal rod can be pushed by the inside of my elbow, and set off the trigger. This allows me to hold my beast of a weapon with one foreleg.

Now that’s out of the way, let me describe to you my current situation.

A whole division of Griffons, the very same army that was used in the previous battle, is currently standing in a perfectly straight line, directly in front of me. Every soldier is standing flawlessly at attention, musket barrels positioned on shoulders, eyes strained forward, perception on the target.

An enemy army, the Monarch military, around four thousand strong, sits several hundred metres away, on the opposite side of the fence. It’s hard to see any details from this far away, but It’s quite obvious there’s an air of tranquillity, reinforcing the idea that they have some sort of plan of action in place, perhaps it could be to do with the occasional unicorn, and regular pony located at the front?

Whatever, shouldn’t really be a problem, from what I’ve seen, they are complete, and utter wusses. Not to mention, GOLD ARMOUR AND WEAPONS. They literally do NOT stand a bloody chance. I shouldn’t really count my chickens before they hatch however, It’s still a possibility they could change the tie of this battle by using their dark energy strategically.

Though, I still very much doubt it.

General Bridges stands at attention to the side of me, with his sole objective, to improve musket tactics. After all, this weapon is still a completely new type of warfare, thus, strategies have to be improved.

I think he doesn’t like me very much, it's pretty obvious from the small, almost non-existent frown he wears every time I’m in the proximity of him.

Suddenly, a loud, deafening horn directed from the opposite side, blasts into the surrounding environment, signifying the start of the enemy attack. Instead of a giant stampede however, the enemy army simply marches forward at a moderate speed, shaking the ground with impressive might.

Huge, rectangular purple energy shields appear directly in front of these soldiers, erecting over 99% of the front troops.

Well, that’s a bit of a surprise, didn't think they had that sort of technology, well looks li— wait. Disregard my last statement, they’re only powered by dark energy, not electricity.

“FIRST ROW, READY!” Shouts the Democratic General Major over the intense vibrations spitting from the Earth.

The front file of Griffons lowered their Muskets swiftly, the three-hundred and thirty weapons blended together to have the appearance of a solid wall. As though nothing can penetrate it.

Then, something interrupts the edge of my vision, a normal person wouldn’t have apprehended the movement, I, however, have enhanced eyesight, well, technically it’s the norm for our society, what’s the point in buying a 16384K TV if our eyes can’t live up to the standards of it?

I’m coming off track.

This ‘movement’ is actually over 200 enemy Griffons in flying Battalions, and what looks like, airborne ponies as well. Their arrangement is several crisp V formations. This will be somewhat annoying to the Republicans.

I use my right forehoof to tap General Bridge’s cold dense talons, “Yes?” He asks, his voice silhouetted with a touch of annoyance.

“Look,” I point in the direction of the incoming air assault.

He squints his eyes and attempts to search the general facility where I pointed. However, eventually, his pupils dilate to extreme lengths, expressing signs of surprise and worry.

“Shit,” Bridges silently swears, he turns to a Lieutenant on his right, “Alert the Major, we have incoming enemy air support, prepare the reserves.”

The Major’s voice cuts through the atmosphere like butter, “FIRST ROW AIM!”

330 muskets from the front column lower they're deadly weapons to point directly ahead, preparing the Monarch army for the first round of gold projectiles.

“FIRE!”

These weapons’ ignited wicks are lowered in a swift blur, the hot tips proceed to come in contact with the grey power located within. Setting it ablaze, resulting in an extreme pressure build-up, and the eventual explosion in series of intense red and yellow flames, the muskets, expelling a large amount of plume and smoke, somewhat obscuring the Republican army. The small gold objects thrust from their designated hobbit hole, and propel through the air at extraordinary speeds. Though, instead of puncturing flesh and amour, these metal bullets hit something else first.

The ‘magic’ shields

Immediately, one-third of the artificial cover, drops, the unicorns responsible, clutching their heads, wrapping both their hooves around their horn and rubbing fiercely. Hoping to cease the agonising pain as quickly as possible. Though the army continued to march forward, Griffons stepping over the downed ponies, their morale, only a bit more worse for wear.

The ones still standing, didn’t fare much better, although the shields are still standing, some more than others, repeatedly flicker in and out, the unicorns accountable for this, attempt to ignore the searing pain, by scrunching up their muzzles, and squeezing their eyes shut.

Some shields continued to illuminated profound purple light, the lucky bastards controlling them sadly didn't get hit at all.

All this protected the army from the very first assault, many Griffons thought that these ‘sticks of death’ weren’t put up to what they’re of rumoured to. Maybe these metal rods are really just a scare tactic?

The Democratic Musket division’s first column, like second nature, begin to immediately reload their weapons with surprising efficiency.

“SECOND ROW, READY!”

The middle strip of Republican Griffons army raise their weapons, the barrels situated over the shoulders of the griffons directly in-front.

You know what sucks? Being stuck behind the action. In the ultra-realistic movies based on the Renaissance era, you always had the best of views when it came to conflicts. The camera consistently pans over the battlefield, allowing onlookers to see everything up close, to even somewhat feel as though your in some of the soldier’s shoes, experience like your apart of the engagement.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being here, the smell of expended gunpowder, the crisp clear bang of explosions, and the apprehension, all contribute to a greater sense of thrill.

I just wish there was a way to increase my experience more, something that will remove this moderate sense of disappointment.

*Sigh* All well, I’ll just shove these feelings into the back of my mind closest for the time being.

“SECOND ROW, FIRE!”

Unlike the previous volley, this time, it was chaos.

The world seemed to slow at these fateful moments, the muskets yet again, exploded in quick seething hot bursts, thrusting out tonnes of ash fire, forcing the gold metal ammunition to spit forward so fast, they all seem like a blur. Practically, all the remaining shields suddenly dissipate, creating a huge sense of worry and dread from the soldiers located at the front.

Due to the sheer surprise of completely demolishing one of their biggest advantages, several Monarch soldiers tripped over their own feet, to luckily catch themselves before they bump any of the adjacent soldiers. Confidence gave way into anxiety and trepidation.

A few ponies, mainly the unicorns, like absolute pussies, made their hurried departure from the battlefield.

What was even more frightening for them, however, was that some troops, both pony and griffon alike, dropped like rocks, dead, their bodies almost immediately shut down, and gave up. Blood and chunks of flesh exploded outward, covering several of the surrounding soldiers in distasteful gore, resulting in may Griffons and especially ponies, to stop in shock, mirrored to just like what happened in the first battle.

Only the number is much, much lower than previously. The whole Monarch army had already been addressed of the sheer capabilities of these weapons, and, over 80% of the troops are what you would consider as ‘seasoned’, their fear, buried under layer, and layer of emotional walls.

The element of surprise has already dried out.

Though it’s still quite obvious to any outsider, the situation for the Monarchs is still deteriorating at an unmanageable rate.

A loud metal clatter can be deciphered from above, followed by another, and another, until the sky is filled with an untenable sound mass of clashing metal, by virtue of this severe disturbance, I rotate my head to look up.

The sky has transformed into the second battlefield.

An extreme unorganised mass, roughly 300 vs 300 of ponies and griffons fight to the absolute death, swords plunge in flesh, armour rattles, bodies drop, some, unlucky soldiers become a cushion, to fall on top of, turning these plummeting bodies in impromptu artillery.

‘When technology becomes equal, soldiers fall on the level of they're training, to live up to our expectations,’ this is one thing that becomes increasingly obvious, the Republican soldiers don’t have much experience to fall onto, and as a result, more of them drop from the sky, then compared to the Monarchs. Giving a death ratio of around 2:3, presenting, as clear as on live television, the Empire will win air superiority eventually. Although, the number of soldiers left afterwards wouldn’t be enough to cause enough significant damage.

This is with the exception of the pegasi, they’re armour and weapons are absolute dog shit, the gold is cut like butter, and their weapons fail to penetrate the thinnest of steel amour. Their ratio is more along the lines of 30 to 1.

Rounds of musket explosions are dulled in my ears, as I watch, with a satisfying amount of cheerful glamour, I can’t help but feel amazed by the slashes of blood, and guts as they pour down from the heavens, like light precipitation.

The irritating unfastening sound of a sword, that slices through my atmosphere, is projected to the right of me, I switch my view to General Bridges, the person responsible for the creation of this noise.

“What are you doing?” I enquired, somewhat annoyed that my peaceful period was interrupted.

He replies in a warning, but still friendly tone, “Some are coming in our direction,” he points to a portion of the shy where three Monarch Griffons, the closest ones to our position, are flying directly at us, around 100m away, the series of blood splatters located on their light amour, highlights that they recently finished off the Democratic soldiers they were engaged in.

“Get behind me,” Bridges ordered.

Normally I wouldn’t take commands from a foreign military officer, except, one, I don’t want to die, or else I would miss out on the rest of the conflict. Two, it would arouse suspicion if I don’t at least appear a somewhat scared civilian.

Despite the fact I can’t technically depart my life, as biological fabricators just ‘rebirth me’, and the emotion of ‘fear’ is a remote feeling for me, I still appeal to his orders and hide a portion of my body behind him.

Using my right forehoof, I stanched my flintlock musket from my saddle bag, and proceed to point it in the general facility of the incomers.

“If I tell you to,” General Bridges continues, “run to the closest soldier for backup, I can’t have you dying on us.”

Yeah, cuz’ I’m too much of an asset, aren’t I?

The General didn’t give me enough time to reply as several, heavy THUMPS interrupted our conversation. The three griffons, as mentioned earlier, surround us. Each point they're ‘not so deadly’, but still increasingly sharp swords at us, acting like walls covered in spikes, blocking us from accessing the outside world, trapping us in as mouses, in a mousetrap.

“Give us the pony, and we’ll be on our way.” A gruff voice chimed in, “we would rather not fight.”

Of course they’re monologuing.

“If you think I’m going to claw her over without some ‘persuasion’,” sassed General Bridges, as he tracked them with his sword, “then you’ve got another thing coming for you.”

And then, he jumped.

Well, so not much as bouncing up and down, I mean he leaped at the closet soldier to him. Sword positioned outward, ready, and willing to kill whatever it touches.

Though there is one major problem, he sucks. I mean literally, he sucks at using a sword. I have no idea how he was even able to become a general if he doesn’t even have decent fighting skills. Bridges attempted to slash the head off the closest Griffon, but the potential victim, if only a little surprised, jumped out of the way easily, and countered with his own attack.

Straight into the chest.

Well, it would have been if it weren’t for the General’s top notch, steel amour. The sword just bounced off, leaving a decent sized scratch.

Bridges slashed and stabbed randomly, hoping to acquire at least a single, lucky shot, that could potentially cripple his opponent, however, none did. The seasoned Monarch warrior consistently dodged, ducked, and jumped out of the path of his sword. Occasionally returning his own extremely effective attacks.

Of course, that left me with the other two soldiers.

“RUN!” Bridges hissed, while attempting, and failing miserably at dodging at incoming attack, slicing him in-between the armour plates, “Get out of here!”

Obviously, I didn’t listen to him. Who would? The action is happening right here, and I’m apart of it, and if I’m honest, I’m loving every moment of it.

“Grab her!” The one to the left of me yelled, “before she runs away!”

And so I did what I do best.

I fired the trigger.

The majestic flint, propels forward, striking against the frizzle, resulting in a shower of intense sparks, that flit directly into the pan. Igniting the small amount of gunpowder located on top ablaze, this acts as a relay to the main course. The fire continues to travel inside the gun, entering through a tiny opening, in repercussion, causing the rest of the black dust, to burn up.

The exothermic reaction results in an extreme pressure change, forcibly pushing the lead projectile (I’m not using gold), out the muzzle in an explosion of fire, and smoke. Manufacturing a sound not dislike of the other matchlock muskets shooting in the surrounding area, except, a slightly more distinct, powerful blast. Of course, this is because the gun can fire on average 80m faster velocity than that of the other muskets.

This all happened in under half a second.

The lead projectile is immediately lodged directly into the chest, of the opposing Griffon, cutting through his light steel armour like butter, providing a small shower of blood on the surrounding grass.

He drops, on the ground, clutching his chest, and gurgling in and out rapidly, the musket ball, likely punctured a lung, and as a result, his respiratory system is leisurely filling up with his own blood, choking him slowly to death.

A small, predatory smile appears across my features. Magnificent!

I turn my vision towards his other companion, he expresses signs of horrid surprise and fury.

“You bitch!” He fumed, a small, almost non-extant tear strikes down his cheek, “I’ll get you for that!”

He charges with overwhelming fury, sword suited outward.

For me, everything slows down for me at that moment, Griffons moved slower, blood dripped at a slower rate, and sword swings were gentile. I was able to sneak a quick glance at the end of my musket, murky white smoke still expelled from the barrel, giving it an almost calm and calculating look. The bayonet, glistening in the sunshine, is just begging to be used, to feel the blood running down the shaft, to take the life of another living being, and, in an almost twisted and wicked way, protect the defenceless.

So, I sprinted with every fibre of my being, directly at my sole enemy.

As we both approached each other at rapid speeds, he attempted to swing, with the understandable intention to slice my noggin clean off. With surprising agility, at the last second, I ducked my head.

Newton’s third law is ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,’ so when two objects smack into each other, it equates to double the total force.

And this is exactly what happened here.

I thrusted the bayonet with my combined velocity, mass, and sheer strength directly into the Griffon’s chest, his own speed causing the force of impact to be twofold. The amount of power in this single blow could be possibly labelled as ‘the greatest stab of all time.’

The sword, penetrated straight through his internal organs, smashed his rib cage and turned his own biological structure into a fine meat smoothie. The gun barrel itself lodged several centimetres into the split flesh. Blood dribbled from his wound, running like a small fountain down the side of his body. Several splashes of the fluid squirted onto my beautiful white fur. His eyes, posed wide open, as though he can perceive death clutching his boney hands over his soul.

To finish it off, the cherry on top. I did a 90-degree twist, transforming even more of his important, internal organs into soup. I ferociously, yank the melee weapon out from his chest, resulting in blood to trail behind the short sword, spitting like a drinking fountain. In a dramatic display of bravery, just like in the movies, he drops his sword to the side, lands on his knees, and falls face first into the ground. Blood begins to pool underneath his body, caking his brown and white feathers into a deadly crimson red.

My whole body is shaking from excitement, a goofy grin expressing over my facade, adrenaline rushing through my veins, and my brain expelling millions of bliss-inducing chemical reactions.

I am able to take my attention off the dead body, and onto the still, ongoing conflict between General Bridges and the random, Monarch Soldier. The latter seemed to be winning, only covered in a few, non-concerning scratches. The General, however, is obviously running out of stamina, his own blood covered a good few potations of his body, his amour, filled with a ridiculous amount of possibly dangerous cuts.

Both seem to be in their own world, concerned with playing their own hyperactive dance.

Should I reload my weapon, or charge straight in there? By the time I finishing reloading my musket, the General could possibly be already dead.

Sometimes, situations like these require you to not think, only to do.

And so, I charged.

Bayonet positioned forward facing, completely saturated in red sticky blood, this short sword no longer wants death, it needs it. Ready, yet again, to take the life of another.

That’s what I planned anyway.

The soldier's eyes, at the last moment, widen, using his extreme reaction time, to jump out of the way. With the action considered unexpected by me, I barrel past him, trip on my own hooves, and face plant directly into the grass, spitting up dirt in several directions.

Fuck.

With General Bridge worse for ware, he’s not able to do anything when the Griffon kicks me in the side of my stomach, in repercussion, causing me to skid across the ground, soil continued to make itself present all over my body, sticking to places anywhere you could possibly imagine.

I am able to look up, and I spot him, slowly, and confidently walking towards me, General Bridges, attempted to stop him, only to stagger and fail every step.

I quickly propel myself upwards, and sprint at him, once again, with my bayonet pointed towards my target. This obviously surprised him, as he obviously didn’t expect me to get back up.

My hooves pounded against the hard, solid ground, my heart rate enlarged, and my excitement increased yet again, my body quivering for the anticipated kill.

Just as I was about to thrust a bayonet into his chest, he twisted and used his left talon to smash the middle section of my body, impacting my figure against the ground, covering my midsection in even more dirt. My musket dropped to the side of me. He then reapplied his claw into my spine, and continuously administered force, keeping me from escaping his clutches. His sword, located on his right appendage, positioned the steel weapon onto my back.

“Any last words, pony?” He smugly taunted.

*Dry Cough* “Fuck you.” I growled.

“Very well,” he stated professionally, “I hope not to see you on the other side.”

And with that, he proceeded to thrust his sword straight through my back, missing my spine, and slicing several of my internal organs. Blood oozed out, coating my dirty white fur into a red crimson, matching that of my hair, and tail. I proceed to cough up some of thus vital fluid, my mouth tasted like copper, and all my nose could smell was intense metallic alloy.

The unnamed soldier dramatically slides his sword from my body, and proceeds to stash it away, furthermore, departing from by atomy towards the half downed General.

Obviously, I was a little pissed.

I grabbed my firearm once again, slowly stand up, my legs still wobbling from lactic acid build and I sprint, with every fibre of my being, directly at this son of a bitch as he walked away.

This time, it was different.

With a startled yelp, the bayonet found home, as it sunk into the back of his flesh, causing blood to spray into my face, and some into my teeth, as I still had a maniac grin suited across my facade. I twist the sword 90 degrees, causing even more blood to spill out of his wound.

He turns his head and looks directly into my eyes. Using his sword, he attempts to lacerate at me, but as a result of excruciating pain, his movements became sluggish, allowing me to pull out, and dodge.

He turns around, but he does so, I stab him once again.

And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

And I still, continuously impale his body, until all that’s left is just a red mush and a few pieces of amour. My grin was so wide, it split my expression in half, blood completely caked my face, legs, body, and hooves. It caused my clothes to mould around my body. Blending my whole figure, into one, glorified red demon. My teeth are the odd ones out, as the contrast between the colour crimson, and white is so strikingly different.

I can feel blood continuously trickle down the side of my body from the wound the griffon administered, but that doesn’t stop me. Nothing does.

Nothing ever will.

I return my attention back to General Bridges sitting down, his eyes, are displayed wide open, full of shock, and surprisingly, respect.

But here’s the thing, I want more.

No, let me rephrase that, I need more.

And so, I went to the one place where I could find plenty of that.

The front lines.

I once again sprinted full of excitement and energy, so fast, my body became once massive red blur to any onlookers. From what I can discern, the enemy griffon air battalions retreated, maybe it was intimidation, too few numbers, or abandonment. I will never know.

I reach the back of the griffon musket line, and push myself forwards, accidentally smearing blood on some of the surrounding griffons. Most of them looked at me in horrid shock, all, however, don’t stop me, whether they know I’m on their side, or I’m too intimidating, I can’t be too sure.

Eventually, I’m able to shove my way to the front and stand at the very first line. White smoke makes it difficult to discern anything on the battlefield, but from what I can see in this position, the enemy army is just over 100 meters away, and they continue, to march forward, holding tightly packed together shields, although the unevenness in their structure suggests serious loses. I’m estimating around 2000.

The troops to the side of me, look at me with trepidation, though, all continue to reload their weapons with sufficient efficiency.

“THIRD ROW READY!”

Oh, I should probably reload.

As I begin the sacred process of reloading my weapon, I tune out all the surrounding noises to concentrate on the task at hand. I grab an ammunition capsule from my saddlebags, and use my teeth to bite down on it, to furthermore, rip the tip-off, and slip it onto the ground before me.

Carefully, I pour a small amount of gunpowder on the pan, in addition to concealing the powder by closing the frizzle over the top.

I pour the rest of the black powder down the muzzle, then violently shove the remaining cartridge into the barrel, and in addition to, taking hold of the metal rod located underneath, sliding it out, and plunging the shaft straight into the barrel, then compressing to a sufficient extent.

I returned the struct back into it’s designated position. Ready to fire.

“FIRST ROW, FIRE!”

And not a moment too soon.

Without even a second thought, I aimed my weapon forward and fired. Expelling the lead projectile forward at an absolutely incredible rate. Sadly, I have no idea whether I hit a target, or not. The sheer amount of munitions being fired is so huge, it'll be impossible to determine where my shot even travelled. That is, without a machine.

The bullets without much difficulty penetrate through the steal shields, roughly, a third of front line Monarchs cease their hold on life, and proceed to fall on the ground. The army, still, continues to march forward, survivors picking up any of the dropped cover, to form a protective line.

And so, I reload my firearm once again and position it forward. With the ambition that something even more exciting will occur.

A few seconds later, my prayers are answered.

Two blasts from a horn, expel onto the battlefield, signifying that the conflict has taken a step into the next stage. 50m away, the remaining Monarch army rush forward in a frenzy, a desperate attempt to scavenge anything from their current predicament.

“EVERYONE! FIRE WHEN READY!”

Oh, it gets even better.

The lines ferociously explode in a massive blend of explosions, creating an almost machine gun feel to the atmosphere. I fired myself, several times, preparing each round a quickly as possible.

The smoke drifting in-front of us obscures our vision, so we really only know what coming when it’s directly on top of us.

And that applies to me, except with a satisfying twist.

A yellow earth pony mare, with a red mane and tail, with dark ruby highlights, appears through the fog of smoke. Wearing the expression of intense hatred, and fury, this one, is likely one of the very few remaining. Her golden armour glistens in the sunshine, her hair, tied up perfectly, the only thing that ruined her perfect image is the few, blood splatters on her metal plating.

War, conflict is not meant to be beautiful, although it is in its own way, the whole reason of the military is to protect, not to look physically appealing.

The funny thing is, that I only just noticed, the Republican griffons are completely ignoring this pony, same with all the others, from what I can tell. Would you be threatened if a soldier comes at you, with no military experience, and fuck all trash for a weapon?

Yeah, me either.

Imagine her face when she realises that she isn’t taking on a Griffon, but a fellow pony.

Shit gets real.

This pony immediately stops in her tracks, her velocity setting to zero, and stares wide eye, directly at my majestic form. She began to shake involuntarily, several tears striking down her face, only just barely clutching onto her spear.

I just grin.

That seemed to overload her systems, and so, she passes out.

Well, that was easy.

And so, I continued on my merry way.

I sprinted at the nearest Monarch Griffon, and proceed to stab and twist him in the chest, several times over, eventually, he to drops dead too. Covering myself in even more splatters of blood, though, it simply blends into my already caked fur.

I then turned to my next victim and proceed to stab, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat.

Honestly, I lost track on how many people I killed, pretty certain I got stabbed a few times myself, not entirely sure, but eventually, a horn yet again blasts onto the battlefield.

Signifying the end of my entertainment, well, at least not quite yet.

I chase the retreating army, none of the Republican army follow, and I continue my slaughter of stab, twist, pullout, next victim, repeat. Though, at a much, slower efficiency then what I’d prefer. Sadly, my actions seemed to only make the army run even faster.

Eventually, I couldn’t keep up with them, so I turned, and walked back to where the front was with, slow, shaky steps. Soldiers were scattered all over the field, some standing around talking, others crying uncontrollably, and some, counting the dead.

My body was still quivering from the thrilling sensation, and a huge, goofy grin expressed across my features.

But I still wanted to do something, something more.

And so, once I arrived at where the mass of the battle occurred, I found a suitable location, and rolled my whole body, just like a dog, all over the dead. Soaking up blood like a living sponge.

And the funny thing was, I was enjoying every moment of it.

Bits of flesh got caught on my fur, as I forcibly stream-rolled, the dead griffons, and few ponies alike, red, juicy fluid continuously splattered like a fountain, spraying in almost every, single, direction.

If beforehand I was soaked, now I drenched, immersed, as one, with blood. I am blood, and blood is me.

To any onlooker, I’ll just be indistinguishable, from the red mass all around me, and possess the appearance of an insane pony, laughing uncontrollably, in the face of death. Basically, people would think, I am mentally ill, and that I would defiantly, need to be locked up in a psychological ward, for a very, very long time.

So imagine my surprise when someone asked me if I was alright.

“Umm, ma’am,” a deep voice interrupts, “a-are you alright?”

I freeze instantaneously, similar to if you're playing musical statues, and turn my head, slowly towards the source of the voice, until my vision, lands upon the face of a Republican soldier. His face expressed signs of disgust, shock, and most importantly, immeasurable fear.

My grin faded to neutral physiology, that is until it returns at full force. Presenting my now deep crimson coloured teeth, small chunks of flesh stuck in-between each tooth.

“Yes?” I asked in a relatively calm voice.

The unnamed soldier continues to stare at me for an undetermined amount of time, his face, each second, pursued with intensifying his horrid/terrified countenance.

That is, until he speaks, “The,” he seemed to hesitate for a second,” General would like to see you, follow me.”

My smile faded once again, as I was forced to leave my entertainment behind, and so, I got up, blood proceeded to continuously drip down my flanks, and onto the grass below, similar to when just exiting out of the shower, and so, I followed behind the soldier (most likely a lieutenant), with my saturated tail dragging on the ground behind me.

We passed lines, and lines of bodies, something I didn’t notice when I was chasing after the retreating army. It’s easy to determine when each folly was shot, as every 20m or so, there was a stroke of dead soldiers. To me, it looks almost like a grid, virtually perfect spaces in-between each line, expect, without the y-columns.

A few seconds in silence later, I noticed something.

The pony I caused to pass out was still, spread out, on the ground, unconscious. Her entire yellow figure is saturated in crimson blood. She is still, though quite lightly, breathing, as her stomach travels in and out at a slow, steady rate.

I can’t leave her here, that would be barbaric.

What? I’m not a complete psychopath, I have some morels.

“Wait a sec,” I hastily stated, the soldier turned around, and gave me a mixed expression of annoyed and confused.

I quickly trot up to the body and take a long, good look at it. Statistically calculating, and observing several different aspects of the animal, which includes, but not limited to, weight, height, age, cutie mark (a spear) and appearance.

Though one thought stuck out from the rest; Could do with more red, the yellow is too overpowering.

Using my musket already in hand, and my absolutely fabulous cutting skills, I was able to lacerate the thick cloth straps holding the pony’s gold armour together, only accidentally cutting the flesh several times.

The metal plates came undone with a handful of metallic CLAGS, exposing the rest of her clean lemon fur, for me to see. To allow the utilisation of my appendages, I drop my weapon to the side, and shove my head directly underneath her neck, and proceed to rather gently, drag the rest of her body onto my spine, comprised with some squishing noises due to the large deposit of fluid on my physique.

It doesn’t take much effort to completely situate her on-top of me.

I could feel the irritating warmth radiating off her, the slow, steady breathing onto my neck, and her annoying, consistent heartbeat, on my midsection. Seriously, why manufacture a radiator, when you can literally just stack some of these things into your air conditioning system?

Well, I guess their bones would eventually get sucked in the vents.

Anyway.

I pick my musket back up and deposit it into my saddle bag, once again.

I swivel my head back towards the soldier directing me, and he, simply has a single brow raised, as if he is questioning my actions. Before I could say anything, however, he shakes his head, forcing his own thoughts out, and continues to walk in a particular direction.

So I followed.

Almost every soldier I pass stares without deviation at my form, as if I’m a ghost or some type of extremely rare species. Though, it probably has something to do with the bloody succession of blood splotches trailing behind me.

…

Has anyone ever played the organ?

…

No-one?

…

I thought it was funny.

Anyhow, did anyone give me hallucination inducing drugs? Why is everything so blurry?

Eventually, we approach the General, whose whole-fully surrounded by at least, ten, other Griffons, providing aid, and furthermore, keeping him upright. His armour is discarded to the side, allowing me to perceive the number of scratches, and cuts adorning his body.

Which if I’m totally honest, isn't as much as I expected.

“Atomic!” he marvelled, with over-exaggerated enthusiasm, “just the mare I was after!”

General Bridge’s smile is sincerely overbearing, his arms, are positioned wideout, almost hitting some of the soldiers next to him. He seems to be generally happy to see me, as though I saved his life or something.

Oh, wait.

“I just wanted to deeply thank you,” he beamed, with a small bow, “for your services, as you have not only saved my life today but many others as well,” He gestured to all around him, “I don’t know how I could possibly repay you.”

“Don’t worrrrry, about it,” I slurred, accompanied by a weak hoof wave, “anytime.”

And at that moment, all the blood loss, organ damage, and oxygen deprivation finally caught up with me, inspiring me to cascade under the weight of the pony mass on-top, and coil into the realm of unconsciousness.

Author's Note

A bit gruesome? Sorry about that, Atomic won't get that much worse.

(Also, this chapter took 13 hours to write)

Chapter Twelve: The Strong tumbles, the Weak soars.

“Anyone can deal with victory. Only the mighty can bear defeat.”
- Adolf Hitler
——
Chapter Twelve: The Strong tumbles, the Weak soars.

“Ever since our last victory, volunteers from the public have been increasing spectacularly, griffons previously dodging the draft have come out of hiding, and any moral issues within our Empire has withered away,” Garrison informs, “These muskets have installed a new found vigour in our country, a new hope.”

“Yes, that news is certainly pleasing,” Bridges agrees, “We are going to have to withdraw our current musket division for reinforcements, just over 600, of the original 1000, are remaining. Lucky, only 43 firearms are missing, or irrevocably damaged. We are, however, facing an ammunition crisis, the combined effort of training and battles have reduced the number of shots to around three per griffon,” his facade merges into slightly worried, “The next battle they engage in, will possibly be a disa—”

“Ah!” Garrison interrupts, “It’s sort of slipped my mind until this moment, but the scientists have created a substitute for the gunpowder,” he puffs out his chest, “Through sheer accident, one researcher found one important ingredient in gunpowder— saltpetre, by mishap, dropped a torch, onto a mound of the stuff, when inspecting local farm procedures. As apparently, it’s used in fertiliser.”

“Well, that is certainly an interesting development,” President Senatus comments, “could we just use that as our propellant?”

“No,” Garrison counteracts, “mixed with, what we found as charcoal, actually works. But still requires a higher temperature to activate, we believe that the substance is still missing one important ingredient,” he hold one of his talon up, pointing towards the sky, “If combined with the limited amounts of gunpowder Atomic Discharge provided, it functions, implementing this means we can stretch our ammunition by two or three times, this procedure does, however, increase misfires.”

“That is a short time solution,” Bridges vacillated “But I’m a bit worried that Atomic Discharge won’t be able to provide the next batch of muskets, as she still under coma.”

“Don’t worry about that,” President Senatus dismisses, “A smart lady like her would have it automatically delivered by crew.”

My eyelids slowly unlatch, giving me visual access to the room surrounding me. I found myself lying tucked under milk-white sheets, I could feel the fabric rubbing against my fur. As a response, I performed a swift glance under, and found my body completely naked, devoid of my majestic clothes. The space around me is sterilely clean, and lanterns are tucked into each corner, shining brilliant, pleasant warm yellow light and morning sunlight radiated delightfully through a window.

Bandages nearly enveloped the majority of my physique, one of my forelegs is encased in a primitive wooden medical splint, and the few places where my coat was showing, displayed a moderate crimson colour tinge.

Defiantly a hospital. But with no antiseptics, modern medicine, heart monitors, or really anything that defined a hospital before the Organic Immortality Era.

Though I soon noticed that there was someone, or more specifically, some pony staring at me from another bed in the room. A yellow pony, with purple eyes, and red hair to be specific, is suited against the bed frame. The expression she holds feels as though she has been carrying for hours, like the wrinkles of her frown has saturated into her expression, staining it.

Why does this horse feel familiar?

Oh.

At that moment, everything came rushing back to me, the General, the firing lines, the blood, and her, the person I didn’t leave to die on the battlefield, for some unknown reason (probably due to blood loss).

As a response, I too stared directly at her and did the one thing that seemed most appropriate at the time.

“What?”

The sudden outburst of noise causes her to leave from her mind-scape, and return to the land of the living. Blinking a few times, she focuses her vision back onto me.

Only now, realises that I actually wake.

Her scowl returns at full force, her eyes narrowed, and her breathing became deeper, and focused, to top it off, she crosses her forelegs over one another, finalising that stereotypical angry look.

So, as a reaction, I repeat my last statement, but at a slightly higher pitch, “What?”

She persists with watching me closely, inspecting, and extracting my very posture and expression. For once I do feel overly exposed, not just because of my decent lack of garments, but also since it feels as though she is searching every bend and junction in my soul.

It quite obvious these are symptoms of clothing deficiency.

Since I’m so bored, I guess I participate in a staring contest.

…

Nope. Bored already.

It'll be almost impossible to make sense of my current predicament if those eyes are continually staring at me, so I revolve my body by the factor of 180, without moving my forelegs, in addition to facing my back towards her.

I can imagine that I gained quite a lot of wounds during that conflict, most likely explains why I’m covered head to toe in bandages. Not that they would really achieve much anyway, I’ve already got advanced blood clotting and a state-of-the-art immune system. Though, even with all those customisations, it’s still a small miracle I didn’t die. Genetics can only do so much.

Speaking of that, where did they take me? The sort of critical condition I was in would have determined a restricted time limit. Though, in my humble opinion, the command centre, or a town should have been sufficient.

What about the blood? From the appearance of my bare appendage, I haven't been thoroughly washed (good news), which also explains that faint expired, decomposing smell of death lingering in the air, the blood soaked into my fur, must be rotting at this stage.

Now, how to get out of here? I can’t remain in this location, I’ll go mad, or just end up killing myself so I respawn back at base. I could escape, though the doctors (if you can call them that) would be thoroughly shocked to find an empty bed.

Just walking out could be an option, allow them to glimpse at me while I’m leaving.

Or, I could literally just ask, and if need be, use the threats to not provide any firearms anymore as an insensitive to discharge me.

I continued to ponder my thoughts for serval more minutes until it was interrupted by the soft, but a still vaguely scratchy voice of someone relatively close to me.

“Why?”

I turned my head in the direction of the spoken communication until my perception lands upon the pony I was staring as previously. She still sits in the exact same position, her posture hasn’t even bulged a single centimetre, the only indication that she even talked was that her mouth was slightly unhinged from the rest of her jaw.

“Excuse me?” I counter query, attempting to understand the context of what she’s asking.

Her muzzle starts the process to form words, “Why’d you do it?”

Can she be any vaguer? “Do what?”

Her posture suddenly undergoes a change, her expression merges to one of extensive fury, and she waves her forelegs around as if she is attempting to make herself look bigger and more aggressive then what she appears to be.

“What do you fucking think??!! Why the actual FUCK are you fighting for the dirty democrats! Killing your brothers and sisters! Betraying Princess Celestia! To further top all that off, you were covered in someone else’s blood, and you looked like you were fucking enjoying it!” She exclaims in one single breath, her lungs hyperventilating from the extreme onslaught of her word choice.

Really? THAT was what she was worried about? “Firstly, I didn’t kill any ponies (I don’t think so anyway), Equestria technically isn’t at war with the Griffon Republic, and Princess Celestia doesn’t concern me. Though I did actually approach her first when I came up a weapon concept, so in that respect, I did put Equestria first. Also, I did save your life, so,” I huffed, “You could give me some slack,” counter arguing her outburst.

She stares at me again, her voice laced with even more anger, “You PROVIDED those weapons??!”

Oops, a bit a slip of the tongue there, “Pretty much.”

She was just about to streak a response, but before she is able to, the doors to the infirmary suddenly open. Manufacturing a sound not dislike a floorboard creaking. One griffon nurse walked in, she held a checklist, her eyes, firmly locked onto it, completely oblivious high tension flowing throughout the atmosphere. That is, until she rotates her head 45 degrees up, engaging her pupils with that of mine.

I simply just stare.

The nurse looked like she wanted to pronounce something, it’s quite obvious by the way she unlatched her mouth and raised her right talon slightly up. However, nothing came out, not even a peep.

With the situation transforming exceptionally awkward, she bolts out of the doorway, out into the unknown.

Even with my superior intellect, I don’t have the ability to discern exactly what had occurred, and so, I turned to the only other source of the room.

“What’d you think that was about?” I politely enquired.

The pony I was addressing faced me for a brief second, and then turned her back to me. Pretending as though I didn’t even exist in the room.

Time is relative as it continued to pass over me, as I laid there in bed, thinking over my current predicament, and my situation on this entire planet. I must admit, It’s been pretty fun, and I have no reason to leave anytime soon, after all. The amount of entertainment I’ve gathered from this place is exceedingly more then what I’ve ever, obtained at home. I just the adventure, and the fact that I hold the fate of this whole planet in my bare hands. I could destroy it, I could make it thrive, or even, just continue to mess around with the natives.

Which in my opinion, is the considerably better option.

It was at this moment, thunderous footsteps instituted from the hallway, interpreted as much more distant, and powerful compared to the background hospital paces around the facility. The steps persisted with becoming louder every second, concluding that the particular person generating those sound effects, is heading towards my general direction.

I swivel my head towards to doorway, only to see several important, and professional military personnel marching through with new dark-blue uniforms. Guess the black clothing was replaced for some reason?

The small group consisting of a multitude of different ranks, and positions. One person, I recognise as General Bridges, while others, are complete and utter strangers to me. Each griffon's facade was laced with an absolute stoic serious expression. Perhaps they here to talk business? Who knows how long I could’ve been knocked out.

General Bridges stood perfect attention at the end of my bed frame, two officers, erected confidently beside him, and three regular soldiers on either side of me, stood in almost perfectly straight lines, muskets orientated on shoulders. One could almost anticipate they metamorphosed into statues.

“Miss Atomic Discharge,” General Bridges confidently began, “For your efforts on the Western Front, you saved my life, and continued to fight the enemy despite serious wounds. You have thirteen confirmed kills, eight unconfirmed, your actions distracted the enemy advance, distributing unorganisation and confusion on the battlefield. You saved countless lives that day, in recognition of your efforts, I am awarding you with our most prestigious honour, the Steel Claws Badge.”

Bridges placed a gold outlined circular badge, with a lightning bolt behind a metallic enveloped talon located in the centre, directly onto my chest. I must admit, it is quite magnificent, the person who created this must have spent hours polishing it to perfection.

The small audience gathered around immediately begin to applaud, contributing with words of comfort like ‘congratulations’ and ‘well done’. I would be lying if I said at least a small part of me didn't enjoy it. Getting praised for contributing to the total picture, can be quite hypnotising.

“Also,” The General added, “One of our traditions is that any soldier, particularly peasants, have the right to retain citizenship and freedom, for earning any medal category three, or higher. We would have removed this policy, though we haven’t concluded our complete constitutional reformation.”

(This was often one of the many reasons soldiers were usually so tenacious.)

He cleared his throat, “Thus I offer you, a full Republican citizenship,“ he places a parchment of paper on my lap, directly in my reading perception, “to this extent, the President has offered you a job in the Military as a technological designer, and Tactical Analysis,” Bridges smiled, “that is, if you accept it.”

Should I? It could be quite interesting, though, there would obviously be a few limitations, and it would be difficult to achieve anything outside the Griffon territories. This world has been quite an adventure so far, so what’s a little more spice added to the situation going to alter?

I am able to steal a quick glance at the other pony in the room, her expression, surprisingly, as if she is understanding the circumstances, but, is still overshadowed by the frown of detrimental hate.

“Give me the necessary military documents, and I’ll see what I can do,” I stated, “Though, I really appreciate the recognition.”

“Not a problem!” The General chirped, “Also, I would like to apologise for the President’s absence, he sadly, couldn’t make it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I responded, “How long was I exactly unconscious for?”

“Almost a week, it’s a miracle you didn’t die from starvation,” he replied.

“Huh,” I tapped my chin, “How are you going anyway? You were in quite a hefty fight with that other soldier.”

He almost silently chuckled, as if remembering the ‘good old days’, “Turns out the only risk I have is a possible wound infection, which, might I add, is unlikely, due to my exceptional immunity, and a broken arm bone.”

General Bridges pulls his arm cloth upwards, exposing his bare forelimb, with a wooden splint holding it in place.

“Doctors said that as long I don’t place much pressure on it, it’ll heal within the next few weeks,” he remarked.

“Huh,” I concurred, “I guess that amour did its job then, didn’t it?”

“Yes, I suspect that without it, I may as well have been minced meat.”

Since the conversation had been along the lines of his or the government's interest, I decided to change the subject to fulfil my self-inquisitiveness, “Just out of curiosity, what’s with those blue uniforms? I thought the military used black as the official colour.”

He answered as if already anticipating the question, “The President, along with serval advisers decided that blue would be a much more approachable by civilians then black, as the dark pigment is usually associated with death, and vile characteristics, also, the design was relatively similar to the enemy, as such we changed our uniforms to contain more definitive aspects.”

“Cool,” I eulogised.

A short period of silence follows the atmosphere transfigured into a somewhat awkward tactility, as neither person could contemplate a particular subject or topics to communicate, with the sole purpose of occupying each other’s time.

I thought this period of silence had its run, “Not to sound rude or anything, but where exactly is my equipment?”

Bridges blinked a few dozen times to complement the change of theme, “Ah, that,” he started, “The musket and ammunition are currently located underneath your bed. I was forced to restrain serval scientists who attempted to steal your weapon, who were obviously quite intrigued by the significance of the design,” he adopted a thoughtful attitude, “What is it anyway? It’s not like any of the firearms you sold to us.”

“It’s just a prototype,” I lied, ”I’m still making modifications.”

“Interesting,” the General mused, “Anyway, I best leave you now for rest, who knows exactly the amount of damage administered to your body.” With that, he, and the rest of the soldiers begin to rotate on the spot.

“Actually, before you leave, would you be able to ask the staff to discharge me?” I vowed.

Bridges swivels his head to look directly at me, accompanied by rising a single eyebrow, “I seriously have the impression you took quite the beating, perhaps you should stay here until the doctors give the go-ahead.” That last statement signified his leave from the room, the soldiers lined up beside him in perfect, straight lines, and they all marched out the door.

“Damn it,” I muttered narrowly below a whisper.

Since I have absolutely nothing to do, and I really don’t want to look to the right of me. At this stage, I decide to take hold of the new medal I acquired, and inspect it closely. Examining every dent, every detail, and the texture.

Of course, there is a bloody scratch, one singular line, located on the backside of the medallion. Which, obviously activates my OCD, slowly killing me from the inside-out.

Once the scuff had been scowled at for more than a lengthy time period, I move onto the next object located on my lap. The parchment of paper, and so, I began to read the terms and conditions to become a citizen of the Griffon Republic, which to summarise the points, you have to;
-Abide by the laws of Federal, State, and Local Governments.
-Join the Military if called on by conscription.
-Any previous citizenship of any other country will be removed.
-Listen to any command given by the appropriate authority.
-Vote on a new Mayor, Governor, or President when the election process arrives in your relevant area.
-Respect everyone, no matter what social position, job, or income they may have.
-This citizenship will automatically be revoked if you become a citizen of another nation.

One particular activity I dislike is reading, and when I am presented with more then half a page of writing, like in this case, I just skim throughout the whole file, usually picking up any information in BOLD or ITALICS, so don’t get irked if I missed one or ten of the important arguments.
The whole document is written to be overly complex, it’s quite obvious anyone with not decent reading and writing skills, would not be able to comprehend this contract.

With particular a line of thought lingering in my mind, that is, if accepting the citizenship is whole-fully worth my time. I am able to position myself upwards and drag each of my legs, one by one, onto the hard, wood floorboards below. Careful to avoid damaging any of the medical equipment located on my appendages, by keeping the pressure on my right fore-leg to a minimum, and proceed to revolve my head to gaze underneath the bed I’m occupying.

My brain fired thousands of the essential neurone signals, to release the chemical reaction in my brain which stimulates the feeling of ‘relief’. The equipment I held previously, from what I can tell, is all located in the singular placement, underneath the held up mattress.

The saddlebags, my Glorious ‘Land Pattern Musket’, and even my red-stained clothes are all accounted for. Using my fore-hooves, I scoop these objects up and continue to dump all of them, onto the bed cover.

Once I have suited myself back underneath these sheets, ensuring that my back is in a reasonably comfortable orientation. I shuffle through the equipment, scrutinising every piece for every detail, and mishap. I, after all, don’t want anybody to meddle with my stuff, if anyone has, I will literally beat them into a pulp.

And of course, like God hasn’t already shat on my soul enough, the flint in the musket is ‘missing’, which results in the entire weapon, to form into something less functional than a sharp-less metal stick.

In case your tiny brain can’t comprehend this, it’s basically just a useless club. Unless I can find a replacement for this flint. Which obviously is easy enough, I can just manufacture some more, what pisses me off however, is the fact, someone MEDDLED with my equipment, without MY BLOODY PERMISSION.

A fire burned every shred of compassion and hope deep within my soul, as I continued to angrily stare at the missing piece. In fact, I think I was staring so hard, the metal and wood which composed up the musket, may as well caught ablaze. My mind, was ticking at a million kilometres a minute as it was complementing thousands upon thousands of ways to kill someone as painfully as physically possible, and the one thought that kept on repeating throughout my mindset, was;
‘Do people like their eyes scooped out with a spoon?’

All of this, however, was immediately shattered by a voice, an annoying, incompetent, idiotic, cringey male voice.

“My love! I was so worried about you! I came as fast as I could!”

Oh, FUCK.

…

You know that Griffon I mentioned last time? The griffon who thinks I’m in love with it? Like we’re meant to be together? Just because of a red heart appearing on my flank when I standing directly next to him?

Yep.

Him.

And so I did the one action considered one-hundred and ten per cent normal in my own personal book, I seized hold of my stuff as quickly as physically possible, leapt in a dramatic display of energy, and darted in the opposite bearing from the incomer.

Which just happens to be directly towards the windows.

No, not Windows 10 Remake, actual, physically present, glass.

The only notion travelling through my cerebrum at that moment was; ‘Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Holy Fucking Shitting Fuck get the fuck away from me! Shitting Fuck Fuck Shit Shit…’

I unconditionally disregarded the loud CRACK from underneath me, and the fact by now collapsed right-foreleg is dragging on the floor at an unnatural angle. Since I was still holding onto all my items with my left fore-leg, it was involuntary to still utilise my damaged appendage, by hopping repeatedly at a remarkable velocity.

The glass shatters into thousands of shards as I pass through, converting my acceleration and relative mass directly into the impact, several of these pieces proceed to cut, and loge into my skin, resulting in a handful of blood trails to stream down my bandages.

I landed on the grass outside, and continued to run in a random direction, my only goal, to achieve as much distance between me, and that other Griffon as possible.

An abnormally big white pony was situated upon a golden throne, she was in the process of listening to suggestions and propositions that could possibly assist life in Equestrian, and, like always, was wasting her valuable time by concentrating on nobles who consider their reputation, and literal existence, deserve recognition, especially from the royals like Princess Celestia.

The current aristocratic flapping her gums is a purple mare, dressed in an abundance of jewels, and lead outlined garments. Her muzzle, pointed up towards the roof, with her eyes closed as if the surrounds are not worthy to even receive a simple glance from her pupils.

“—was actually standing on the street and refused to move out of my way! Absolutely ridiculous! We should reaffirm the public of our prestigious position by distributing harsh p—“

Of course, if she wants to keep the nobles in line, it's important to just pretend what they’re stating is at the most importance, by simply nodding and smiling at every declaration that seems one of the significant points.

Everything good must come to an end.

If you couldn’t tell, I was being heavily sarcastic.

Another pony, located to the side of the throne, Raven Inkwell was her name, is the particular attendant in charge of your highnesses' schedule. She has a major case of ‘perfection’, and keeps every event, and time period exactly on track, rarely a single second early or late. Thus, it’s not surprising at precisely 2:00 pm, she called for this specific session to be over.

“I’m afraid your session with Princess Celestia is over, please exit the courtroom in a professional manner.”

The noble-mare simply gave a generous Humph, revolved around, and walked away with loud, leisurely, calculated steps. The sounds echoing throughout the large space.

“Can Abundant News please step forward,” she continued.

Another pony, featuring an orange coat, and a violet mane walks into the large sovereignty expanse. Except on this occasion, it’s not a noble, but an actual, well-respected person with a suitable job occupation, he only speaks when necessary, and when spoken to. As you can imagine, the atmosphere suddenly tensed, mostly due to his indistinguishable facade. As any news regarding the empire, provided by this particular bloke, is usually quite significant. This is of course of an exception to Raven, who literally doesn’t give a fuck about anything besides her schedule.

The pony in question trots just up-to-the throne steps and implements a long, impressive bow to the Princess. The whole entire posture of this pony simply screams ‘loyalty’, as if he considers the Princess to be a literal Goddesses. Which, may, or may not be the case, it really depends on your point of view.

“Your Highness,” he elegantly starts, “I’ve come bearing news in the Eastern state of Germaney.”

That particular location has always been a slight problem, not only for their mixed languages between Equestrian and Germane, but mainly on account to their different beliefs, and culture. It’s really only a matter of time before they attempt to break off from the rest of Equestria. Which, they most plausibly will not be able to, as their economy is depicted to design, and manufacture goods, and thus, wouldn't be able to support their own country with enough sustenance.

The orange pony transforms his tone to additional solemn, “Rebelling in the general area has increased by 467% in the last week, guard patrols are being increasingly attacked each day, government buildings, including places where civil servants work have also been damaged. Fear of the foreign Equestrian states has increased substantially, as a sizeable amount of ponies are flocking from disease-ridden areas, and into, other states like Germaney. Local civilians, and even, guards originating from the area have been using intimidating vigour to keep the potentially infected from entering the state.”

He generates serval sounds not dislike of ‘ahem’, as if he is clearing his throat of flume, “Reasons for this may include; the current disease spreading all throughout the nation, the lack of food and water in Germaney (consistently cold, infertile ground, and the current drought), lack of Pegasi to control the weather, high unemployment, and general distrust to the Equestrian Government. Any further reasons that could potentially aid them in the insensitive to break from the Equestrian Government, could potentially result in bloodshed.”

“Past assistance provided by you has had little, to no affect, Pegasi sent to control the weather have been largely rejected, the amount of food and water being sent only supplies 5% of the population (as nobles refused to grant anymore), and increased guard surveillance in the area has been counterintuitive.”

For the first time during this meeting, he actually presents a pleasant, genuine smile, “Thank you, your highness, a 40 page report has been situated on your desk,” he excites another bow, “I’m sure you’ll be able to quell any resistance within the next couple of days.”

With that last statement, he walks off at a rather fast rate, while still elegantly incorporating an air of professionalism.

The pair, Princess Celestia and Raven, were not cheerful, but actually quite downcast to clarify, both had their reasons, one was worried that some her ponies could procure harm, and the other, was upset this session ended sixteen minutes too early.

The atmosphere was whole-fully despondent, however, Celestia, through hundreds of years of experience, still maintained a calm, and content expression, but really, she was almost screaming on the inside.

Imagine their surprise when another noble, a stallion to be exact, just as greedy and self-obsessed as the one previously, trotted into the throne room with no-one’s permission, literally slicing through the ambience like freshly warmed butter.

Obviously, Raven was less than pleased with this.

The situation was rescued, however, when the thone-room doors exploded inward, releasing a wave of rushing air towards the organisms located inside. The particular pony responsible for this, is an extraordinary dark blue alicorn, with a starry night mane, and one heck of an attitude.

“Sister!” the incomer exclaimed, “We must talk to thee immediately on an urgent matter!”

Silently, the white princess was actually relieved, to have a decent reason to terminate the current situation.

Princess Celestia turned her head and expressed a hint of fake sympathy, “I apologise, today's session has been temporarily cancelled.”

The noble-stallion simply expressed extreme signs of irritation, and so walked away with loud, quick, deliberate steps. The sounds echoing throughout the large room. The blue pony, known as ‘Luna’ slams the doors shut with her magic, the only people remaining in the courtroom is the princesses, several guards, and Raven.

At this point, Celestia could finally examine her sister's features, her peepers appeared slightly bloodshot, the eye-lids emerged as though they amalgamated into the fur, like they never even existed in the first place, forever, unblinking. Her stomach raised up and down repeatedly, her muzzle unfastened slightly, breath hyperventilating at an abnormal speed.

Hooves trampled across the ground as the night princess sprinted to the throne, once there, she stood for several undetermined seconds to catch her breath, she had likely run a considerable distance, in a short period of time.

“We’ve received grave news from the Griffon Empire,” Luna insinuated, “Our whole battalion completely got wiped out! And roomers suggested at the hooves of new revolutionary weapons nicknamed ‘boom-sticks’!” She grabs her sisters shoulders and shakes repeatedly,” 82 of the original 100 guards hath’t died or gone missing! What in tartarus do we do??! How can we possibly fight against yound??! And to top that off, the media hath already gotten their greedy hooves on the subject!”

“Calm down,” Celestia instituted, “Describe to me what exactly happened.”

Luna took several, long deep breaths to stabilise herself, “The volunteers we sent wast absolutely demolished by the Republican army. According to some of the soldiers not in complete shock, the weapons were able to kill almost everypony before they even reached the enemy lines!”

Her voice becomes additionally stressed, but regretful and despondency, “It’s my fault, we shouldn’t hath insisted we sendeth any volunteers, it’s what Nightmare Moon would hath’t done.” *Sniffle*

“Come here,” Celestia grapes her wings around her sister, comforting her, “No it’s not, you couldn’t have known.”

Of course, these weapons seem very familiar to Celestia, where has she heard them before?

“Could you please describe these ‘boom-sticks’?

Luna uses her forehoof to wipe her eyes, “The guard described them manufacturing sounds yound of large explosions, and white smoke,” she gazes up at her sister, eyes the size of dinner plates, “I’m not sure what exactly happened, but my guess is that they all shot some sort of object, at an extremely fast rate, but your guess is as good as mine.”

At that moment, it suddenly clicks, Celestia specifically remembers somepony pitching an idea—of a new type of powerful weapon to the guard, something that will be able to ‘send them to the top of the food chain’.

Celestia isn’t renown for her remembering capacity, but when such a unique, and different idea is proposed to you, your bound to remember.

“Sister,” the white Princess states, “I believe I have an idea of who possibly created those ‘boom-sticks’,” she hugs her sister tighter, “and it was one of our own.”

Luna, stares at her sister's eyes, full of surprise, shock, and most importantly, self-doubt. She just doesn’t have the mindset to even begin to consider that declaration truthful, how could one of their ponies — their subjects, possibly be responsible for this?

“Raven, could you go through the documents regarding the last couple of weeks in session? Contemplate for anything mentioning ‘improve the guard,’ and present on my desk every possible paper containing that information.”

‘We will find that pony,’ Celestia thought, ‘She will pay for the lives lost that day—and for the future as well.’

Cautious was reading the current report on the front, directly to the King, which, might I add is dangerous, he is either extremely brave, or idiotic, “Several nobles have withdrawn from the war effort, taking their soldiers with them,” the Griffon flips through a couple of pages withheld in his claw, “we’re down 5627 soldiers from our two recent battle, and another 2000 have been removed, leaving us with a total of just over 8000 troops.”

The King rubs his chin as if he was in deep thought, “Just execute every noble that attempts to quit, and add their soldiers to our new found, standing army,” he switches his gaze back to Cautious, “Any good news?”

“Yes actually,” he replies, “Nine of these ‘firearms’ were captured by some retreating soldiers. They are already being studied by our most intelligent generals and scientists.”

“Make sure to concentrate on researching any weaknesses, I’m not sure we have the time to explore how they actually function,” the sovereign commands, "also, save one for me, I want it as a trophy."

This story is going to have quite a lot of characters, so I've decided to create a Character Sheet to express important individuals.

This graph will increase in size as the storyline continues forward.

Author's Note

I know this has nothing to do with the story, but I just wanted to mention, I have obtained, a Communist Hat, from Vietnam 🇻🇳

Let me repeat that.

A. Communist. Hat.

Let's just say, it has provided me with some ideas for uniform designs.

Chapter Thirteen: The Steam Engine

BCE: Before Common Era
ACE: After Common Era

——
“Dictators free themselves, but slave the people.”
-Charlie Chaplin
——
Chapter Thirteen: The Steam Engine
——

Have you ever wondered how society actually processes forward? Specifically medieval societies? Back then, they didn’t have whole agencies dedicated to the research and development of weapons and machines, just, sole inspiration. Those unique, revolutionary ideas that are able to completely transform the entire of society. For instance, take Nikola Tesla, for example, his simple, yet incredible concepts formed the resemblance of the electric AC power system, it’s argued without him, humans may still be stuck a few hundred years in the past.

Now contemplate another inventor, Thomas Edison, the creator of the modern light bulb. He too was able to conceptualise several notions but proceeded to take it in a different direction.

Tesla and Edison are complete opposites, even though they technically worked in the same field, the science of electricity, and both developed means of improving it, allowing more humans to gain access to this new power source. One, however, implemented in the name of homosapian advancement, a humanist, to give without counting the cost, while the other, wanted money, and to furthermore, improve his social standing.

The question now is, which one triumphs in the end? The part Serbian? Or the born and bread American?

…
A few seconds to contemplate.
…

Alright, fine. I’ll give you a clue, his name starts with T.

Anyway.

This overall conclusion can easily be drawn to a griffon named Erika, she is an innovator, an inventor, and most importantly, she emphasises the value and agency of griffon beings in general. She doesn’t care for money, nor social standing, and prefers to use almost all her time, to develop machines that could potentially increase the overall wellness of the Griffon people. She has formulated many designs, most of which are utilised locally, for unnaturally low prices. One such example is the ‘Plow and Sow.’

To describe this particular being, she is whole-fully white, with dark grey tipped wings and ‘hair.’ You could often find her in a relatively basic brown suit, with an un-illuminated blue undergarment, laced with a comparatively fundamental red tie.

The OC Erika was created, and provided by Arstotzkan Border Patrol, that won the flag feature contest a few months back.

Erika was currently residing in her very own forge, passed on from generation to generation, of family members. Their lineage being of military blacksmiths, but Erika however, decided to flip this tradition on its head, by turning her back from sharp swords, and arrows —tools of murder. To gears, and the brilliant mathematics of engineering.

The place was a relatively moderate singular room, a furnace was situated in the right furthermost corner, the same side resided the large amount of necessary equipment to properly beat metal into shapes. While the other side of the room contained a series of benches, on-top stewed various amounts of tools, and pre-made machine parts.

Her current goal was to somehow transfer heat energy—flames, into physical movement. If this could be achieved, pumps no longer had to rely on moving water bodies, or wind to actually function, this would allow all towns, no matter how small or remote, to have access to plenty of pure water. Pumps, of course, had been invented decades earlier, but the limited rivers and wind speed have left 95% of all towns in the Griffon Empire without the proper water supply.

Sadly, the development of this ‘automatic ingenium’ (ingenium in Latin means inclination, intelligence, and natural capacity). Has been difficult to continue as ‘officially’, her forge was repurposed by the Monarch Government into a military workshop. Which basically just boils down to instead of manufacturing complex devices, she is to provide for the war effort. This was mostly overcome by simplycreating items just within the minimum quota, and of questionable quality, lest she wants to confronted by the authorities.

At this very moment, a half a meter by half a meter boiler was surprisingly, being heated to include a dangerously high amount of pressure. A valve is positioned towards the bottom of this cylinder, which can be opened up on demand. The goal of this experiment is to rotate an extremely heavy gear (located directly next to the boiler), weighing at 0.4 of a tonne, by spiting an intense stream of H20 gas at one spot.

This obviously didn’t work out, as before Erika could even really test this theory, the boiler exploded. She dramatically overestimated the structural integrity of the design, particularly the hastily put together joints, the part responsible for actually clasping the cylinder together.

Water sprouted in all directions, covering a large surface in extremely hot steam and water, the metal casing, launched into the roof, and out into the large, blue sky. Cutting a decently sized hole in the ceiling.

Lucky, she was mostly outside the radius of bast as she was busy in the forging section, only small splashes of fierily hot liquid came in contact with Erika’s skin. Don’t get me wrong, at the time of impact she screamed in utter pain, but fortunately missed the brute of the detonation.

You would think in this situation she would be crying, a helpless little organism that just couldn’t hold back the ferocious pelt up agony. This is, surprisingly, not the case. Instead, at that very moment, inspiration hit her like a brick, a single idea, that could potentially revolutionise the pump, and create a brand new age for the supply and removal of water.

Even though her leg and a few patches of skin were screaming at her to tear up in pain, her mind was instead occupied by this new thought, a singular thought, caused by the sheer force of a pressurised explosion, that will literally adjust her whole entire career for the better.

‘Why don’t I just push with pressure?’

This may seem like a very simple idea, and that’s because it is. All this time, after two years of research, she has been trying to push with steam, to spit a fountain of intense vapour in order to turn, or move objects. Of course, she has always had various degrees of success, but what she found was that it could never push anything too heavy.

But pressure can be changed to her will, so long as the boiler and pipes are strong enough, she could utilise a build up of pressure to thrust an object— no, a piston forward.

And she shall call it—the Steam Engine.

Author's Note

Please comment below if you think this story is a bit hard to follow, if this becomes the case, I'll dial down the number of separate POVs from Atomic Discharge.

UPDATED AUTHORS NOTES - 15/12/2024
This chapter was originally longer, I have removed a portion of it as it contained content that I no longer agree with

Chapter Fourteen: When the world turns to Shit and Communism

——
“Equip yourself for life, not solely for your own benefit, but for the benefit of the whole community.”
—General John Monash, Australian Imperial Military
——
Chapter Fourteen: When the world turns to Shit and Communism
——

[14th of December, 989. One month after Atomic’s departure from the Hospital]

“Any news regarding the fugitive, Atomic Discharge?”

A royal guard deeply bows, expressing serious signs of gratitude to the princess. Obviously, he has nothing that would be considered ‘good news’, so it’s not a surprise he’s attempting to ‘soften the blow’ or ‘buttering her up’ by showcasing his extreme loyalty to the crown.

“No your highness, she was last seen in Ponyvile about two months back. Though local citizens did say she often appeared and disappeared at random, even Twilight Sparkle had something to say about it.”

Celestial seems to ponder for a moment, but for a very brief instance, “Yes, I do remember Twilight sending me a report on the specific individual,” she started to remove herself from the throne, using her hoofs to push her body from the gold-encrusted seat, “it, however, failed to present any useful information about her.”

The massive white alicorn trotted quite leisurely past the guard, and spoke with her eyes staring directly at the back of the guard’s head, as his body hadn’t moved a single centimetre since entering the throne room, “Make sure you report any extra findings on her, in the meantime, I’ll ask Twilight to deal with this subject.”

Despite Celestia practically out of the room, the guard still waited patiently, for whatever reason, his pupils still stared directly ahead, and his body at impeccable attention. “Your dismissed lieutenant,” Celestia declares, despite stating the obvious.

The lieutenant performed a 180-degree spin and marched several paces in the opposite direction. Though the alicorn was unsuccessful to perceive this whole movement, as she was already walking down the hallway, and in the general bearing of her retreat.

Celestial took his moment to relish the atmosphere, the only hoof beats were the of her own, the castle passageway eerily quiet, the only thing that accompanied her was the rhythmic, and repeating thoughts whisking through her head. Even if this journey will be a relatively short one.

It…was nice.

She rarely gets any time to herself, whether this is paperwork, nobles, or even her sister. Almost every second, of every day required her attention. It’s like the entire country is just one massive collection of stupid children.

Of course, the atmosphere was ruined once again by the rushed hoof beats of another pony sprinting down the hallway, evidently, Celestia was not too pleased with this. ‘Probably just a new recruit, they often disregarded castle rules.’

Imagine her surprise when she finds out it’s not a royal guard, but in fact, the minister of Defence, also known as the Captain of the entire Royal Guard, Shining Armour. The once extremely quiet, yet proud Equestrian tactician was literally sprinting, with what Celestia can discern was a terrified facade.

So instead of being rude, and continuously walking down the hall, the alicorn decided the best option was to pause patiently, to wait for him. The Unicorn didn’t seem to notice this as he continued to run directly past Celestia.

‘Maybe he’s not after me?’ She thought.

This notion was put to rest when he realised, by looking back, that in fact, he had initially missed his target, but this uneven balance in his body structure resulting in him face planting, hard, on the floor. The speed on which he was going would have had the action quite excruciating, because of this, he expelled a loud ‘grown’.

“Are you alright Captain?”

Shining Armour shoots up at attention, performs a 180-degree movement, marches several paces forward in front of Celestia, and solutes. His current expression hiding any sense of fear, and insecurity. He speaks at an almost monotone voice, “I have come bearing urgent news in relation to the guard.”

Celestia now aware that he has a message for her, and judging from the terrified expression from earlier, it’s defiantly nothing she wants to hear about, “What is it?”

He relaxes his posture, “Germaney has declared itself as an independent governing state, last night, declared war on Equestria, and has so far, pushed out all guards from the province,” his eyes portray signs of unadulterated panic, “This is a national emergency, the rebels have already secured several miles of our territory, it’s only a matter of time before they reach Canterlot!”

‘Fuck!’

“Calm down Shining Amour,” she soothed, “A panicked soldier, is a soldier that makes mistakes.”

He seemed to stand there for several moments, with the sole purpose to catch his breath, and lower his heart rate, “We need to send in the guard, push them back by ‘utilising shock and awe’ before they can do any lasting damage to us.”

“Absolutely not,” Celestia commanded, “Set defence perimeters a few kilometres from the nearest towns to Germaney, do NOT attack. I’m going to try and establish a political agreement.”

The caption didn’t seem to agree with that, “But Princess! We can’t let these brutes get away with this! They’ve used violence and killed over 1000 of the royal guard already! Are those death for literally nothing??!”

“Captain,” Celestia narrows her eyes, “This will be the best option for everypony, I can’t let any more blood be on my hooves, if I have the option to save as many lives as possible, I will take that alternative.”

The white alicorn begins to persist with walking down the hallway, towards her retreat, however when she gazed back, Shining Armour was still located there, staring at her incredulously so Celestia attempted to alter the situation, “I suggest you notify your subordinates, Captain.”

The Captain races off, hooves echoing down the hallway, and all throughout the castle, as panic was laced throughout his steps.

As Celestia set out in the direction of her retreat, her mind wandered to places. Places where all her little ponies, are never hurt, are always kind, and a treated equally to one another. Of course, this thought is completely obscure, to achieve that sort of utopia would be practically impossible, though, Equestria from the surface, to some travellers. May actually appear that way.

In Celestia's mind, Germany isn’t the biggest of problems, once they are recognised by Equestria as an official country, they will effortlessly subside all aggressions, the biggest problem on her mind, however, is still the ‘boomstick’ complication, this new ‘technology’ won’t just have an impact this century, but also many to come. Ever since she has taken the position of a Princess, she has always contained this lingering thought of dread for the advance of wartime technology. Even the printing press almost caused her a heart attack.

If she could somehow, remove firearms from the face of Eques, not only would she not have to worry about it being wielded on her ponies, but additionally, her ponies will not possess it either.

At this moment, her thoughts are cut when she arrives at her study, the room seems to exhibit a feeling of nostalgia. She enters the place, and furthermore, closes the single door behind her.

This particular bedroom is very similar to that of Luna’s, except for expressing the night sky, and the moon, the bright, beautiful daylight blue sky occupies the ceiling, with the featured colour, yellow, outlines objects like the bed frame.

The main reason she comes to this room is to sign and read documents. Before she can do this, however, a letter to Twilight Sparkle would be of most importance.

Utilising her magic, she grasps a scroll, and a quill from her study desk, and begins to formulate the writings of the letter.

My Most Faithful Student,
I must request your attendance in Caterlot immediately.
The task I have for you may very well determine the fate of the entire world,
Sincerely, Princess Celestia.

With that quick and reasonably simple message, she sends it on it way through Spike fire teleportation.

A few hours succeeding, Celestia meets Twilight in the Throne room, and assigns an overwhelmingly important duty, she is to track down Atomic Discharge, find out exactly why she is executing the particular tasks, stop them, and if possible, make friends with her.

You know, my whole life, I’ve had no goals, no occupation, and no purpose. I’ve always attempted to fill this hollow feeling through other means like hobbies, like my shooting exercises, though these activities only packed the empty tactility partially. I often found myself performing these useless ventures almost every single day, just so I can occupy myself.

Now, however, it’s different.

This ‘empty’ feeling has almost completely been filled, and I feel as though I’m actually making a difference. Why is this you ask? It’s relatively simple actually.

I accepted the citizenship, and military position in the Griffon Republic.

Did you know I actually get assigned work??! That I no longer have to ponder what to do with my life, as all my decisions are practically made for me!?? IT. IS. AMAZING! My gosh, you have no idea what it feels like, after hundreds of years, to finally do something that benefits others! And the best part is, I can boss people (or rather griffons) around! I can tell them to sit in that corner, or make me a coffee, or assign them research to complete at home! Absolutely! Positivity! Amazing!

Now that you know exactly how excited I am, I’m sure you would like to be informed of what I actually do. Well, it’s rather simple really. Design and ‘research’ weapons concepts, produce some of these new firearms and offer military tactics and strategic manoeuvres. Though, that last one, isn’t taken as seriously from me, as the generals prefer to perform that sort of business without my help, you know, pride and all.

Also, when I mean ‘design’ muskets, I literally mean just making the original gun more efficient, and easier to fire. However, I have offered the concept of the ‘flintlock’ trigger system and the recipe for gunpowder. I really don’t want to provide anything too powerful, at least, not just yet.

The government is currently attempting to increase the country’s overall industrial capacity, by installing million, upon millions of bits into upgrading, and building new forges. They are most likely preparing to go full scale on musket production, as I still provide over 80% of the requested firearms. Other small forges have attempted to produce, or shall I say, ‘copy’ my slightly old, matchlock design. Some have been reasonably successful, while others have had nothing more then their guns blowing up in their face, as they would’ve had horrible structural integrity

Since I’m legally apart of the Griffon Republic now, I’m forced to hand over the recipe for gunpowder, though, none of the scientists seemed partially pleased that the third and final substance, sulphur, that was missing, is overwhelmingly expensive, and hard to come by. So naturally, they asked where they could find the stuff, I replied with ‘volcanos’ and ‘hot springs’. And now, the only hot spring in all of the Griffon Replubic, has transformed from one of the biggest tourist attractions, into an overwhelmingly massive mine, scouring for every resource, and speck of sulphur from the earth.

So yeah, they make their own gunpowder now.

I’ve also decided to remove my old base from the Everfree Forest, and into my reasonably small, gifted (30 acres!) of land, this time, however, instead of disguising it as a factory. I used a regular griffon house, as the land I received already had a reasonably small, humble griffon residence located on top.

These thoughts come to a halt however, as a Griffon soldier walks into my office, and solutes me. So, I copy his action and perform the same military gesture back, putting him at ease.

He seems to straighten himself, “General Bridges is requesting your attendance at the war room.”

I gaze longingly at my dark blue uniform, the gold laced bottom spreading down my chest, and down my stomach. Light red pants extend from underneath the navy coat. If I’m totally honest, these uniforms appear as just a rip off those Napoleonic Era French officer uniforms.

I adjust my medal, the Steal Claws Badge slightly, to make myself seem more presentable. I switch my perception back onto the solider, “Tell the General I’ll be arriving shortly.”

With the reply the particular soldier was after, he turned on the sport, and marched back out the door.

I wonder what he called me for? Hopefully, it’s nothing too important.

We are yet again, brought to the location of the throne room in the Griffon Empire. Cautious was reporting to the King—like he usually does, except at this particular occasion he has some rather enlightening news. During this prevention, however, the King simply sat idly, twiddling a captured musket in his claw.

“Although the Republicans are still steadily moving into our territory, a third of which they own. It’s summarised their supply lines are becoming stretched. Not to mention the limited number of soldiers equipped with ‘firearms’, is making their push a little harder than necessary, as estimated numbers average around 2,500.”

He flips onto another page and the king continuously expresses a facade of boredom, “This leads me to my next point— by which I’m sure you’ll be pleased with. The scientists have successfully discovered a major flaw in the firearm design, one which we plan to utilise to the fullest. In effect, a quick and effective strike is currently being planned to disrupt their supply lines and cut off half their advancing army. This one singular attack, my very well change the entire tide of the war.”

The King finally gives Cautious a quick glance, and proceeded to continue to twiddle with the musket, “That’s good,” he calmly stated, “How’s the state of the army?”

Cautious winced, “Ever since you introduced forced conscription of every able, man and teenager. The conditions of the army have been quickly deteriorating, whether this be through discipline or rations. However, on the bright side, we number just over 20000, bigger then what our army was previously.”

The king leans back on his chair, stroking his chin, “Alert me if any new developments are discovered.”

Cautious bows, and begins to make his leave from the throne room, “Yes, your highness.”

A group of around thirty Griffons, pulled carriages loaded with over 60 muskets per box, adding to around 2000 in total. Another 50 soldiers, each equipped with firearms, patrolled around the edges of the convoy, protecting it from any foreseen danger.

“So, what’s so special about these weapons anyway? Our last procession only had half as many guards. ” A griffon enquires as he pulls a carriage loaded with equipment.

An adjacent griffon, a soldier equipped with a matchlock musket replies with an awkward amount of cheerfulness, “They’re brand new weapons, evidently they have something called the ‘Flintlock’ system, apparently, they’re way better than our current muskets.”

The carrier raises an eyebrow, “How could they possibly be better?”

The solider shrugs, “I don’t know, probably something to do with faster loading times.”

The whole atmosphere surrounding the group is full of excitement, and anticipation. For the soldiers, and even the civilians can’t wait to try out, or experience these new weapons. The last one, after all, was a huge success.

However, these ‘high’ feelings, became an all-time low, as one of the guards was tackled by a black blur, this obscure ‘thing’ was actually an insect, in the shape of a pony. You may ask yourself, why didn’t they see this coming? It’s quite simple really, green recruits tend to slack off, and never check what coming from underneath them, as currently, the covey is located high in the air.

This was quickly followed by dozens of others, griffons tackled had to put up with a sharp horn lodging into their chests, as amour was too ponderous to wear. Some lucky guards, however, were able to raise their musket bayonets, and use it as a bug kebab spear.

Griffons, once recovering from the shock of the situation, opened fire, it, however, caused little damage as both sides were scattered across the sky, and muskets are highly inaccurate. Some lucky soldiers’ pot shots nevertheless, actually hit their mark, resulting in the black, incestuous body to fall down to the ground far below.

During this time, the unknown creatures, of unknown origin, stole as many carriages as they could get their hooves on. Removing the creates from the back, and carrying them in their ugly green magic.

“They’re stealing the weapons!” the Lieutenant shouts, “Quick! Everybody, get in a line!”

The griffons pulled away from their engagements in order to meet up with the commander of the platoon and formed a relatively crud line, each began to perform the process of reloading their weapons, however, Lieutenant soon realised their flanks are completely unprotected, so he makes a hastily, yet brilliant decision.

“Far left and right sides, bend around to make to a circle! Quickly!”

During this little, ‘reorganisation’, however, the front of the convoy is left completely unprotected, allowing the bug-horses to take advantage of the situation, and secured more cargo.

“All with a creature in slight fire at my command!”

A brief, tense few second pause, follows.

“FIRE!”

Musket gold rounds fire from the barrel of their projectiles, and launch in the general direction of the intruders. This was followed with a relativity deviating effect, as just over ten of the creatures, suddenly dropped out of the sky, some were holding stolen cargo, and as a result, it too dropped to the ground with them.

As soon as the invaders realised they no longer had the upper hoof, they decided to ditch the area with what little equipment they acquired. Which just happened to be around 25% of the cargo.

“Kill those bastards before they get away!” the Lieutenant squarks.

However, the extreme loading time of the matchlock muskets, combined with the fact the intruders were more scattered than a split blow of cereal, inspired to the situation to not be in their favour. The explosions of gunpowder and smoke were continuously exhausted into the sky, it proved naught, however, and the projectiles persisted with missing the thieves by near inches.

Before they knew it, they disappeared into the glaring sun, taking a reasonable chunk of flintlock muskets with them.

——
United Zebra Soviets
[15th of November, 989]
——
A government building of unknown origin was swarmed with zebras, each had their own official responsibility, position and red clothing. This resulted in what you’d refer to as, ‘a sea of red.’ Every individual zigzagged, and crossed in dozens of different directions.

The quietest section of this building however, just happened to be the most important, only officials with the highest military and political access was allowed to enter. Nevertheless, at this current predicament, only two zebras remained the in the room, one was behind the desk smoking a heavy cigar, while the other, was almost shivering as though there was a consistent cold breeze in the room.

The zebra holding the cigar — the one with more integrate, and fancy clothing— inhales a significant portion of the addictive nicotine, and blows into the other person’s face. Causing said mentioned, to cough repeatedly.

“We called you here today, for your opinion on a particular manner,” the cigar zebra enlightened, “It’s always good to receive opinions from new employees, particularly ones from newly integrated areas.”

He reclined forward, and pressed the rolled tobacco onto a worn smoke tray, depositing it, “What do you think of our way of governing?” He leaned back into his chair and stared directly into the eyes of the opposite zebra.

“It’s very good, Vozhd Lenin.”

He seemed somewhat pleased with the answer and continued to slack in his chair, “What about,” he grabs another cigar, and lights it from a nearby candle, “our situation?”

The zebra visually gulps, “Could you please reframe that?”

“I mean,” he waves his hooves around, gesturing to his surroundings, “Do you think we will be successful in uniting all Zebra Tribes under our banner?”

“Of course, Vozhd Lenin,” he somewhat confidently states.

He nods, “Good, good,” he takes a brief puff from his newly lit cigaret, “Obviously, your job as Conflicts Manager, is to formulate reports, and means to unravel political issues with minor tribes in your issued sector,” he informs as if brushing it off as ‘no big deal’.

“Anyway,” he leans slightly forward, “You know those weapons we’ve been hearing about, right?”

The Zebra simply stares with a blank look.

He rubs his eyes with his right foreleg, as if a little agitated, “The ‘boom-sticks’?”

An expression of sudden realisation spreads across the features of the manger, “Yes, I’m aware of those.”

“So my question is,” He waves his cigarette clasped hoof around to empathise his point, “if we were to unconditionally integrate these weapons into our military, how would the other tribes, or city-states react?”

The still unnamed zebra conceptualised his knowledge very thoroughly, to limit the amount of unwanted information that could possibly expel from his mouth, “I know they’d all react quite negatively, Vozhd Lenin,” he informs, “At the moment, most are confident in their defensive capabilities, but if we were to use these weapons…some may form defensive alliances with one another, to attempt to match our military strength.”

“So what your saying is,” he narrows his eyes, “That’d we’d be facing a larger threat, essentially, biting off more then we can chew.”

“Pretty much, yes,” he concurred.

“Alright,” he switches his gaze to piercingly stare at his companion, “What are your recommendations?”

The zebra seemed surprised at this prospect, “Me? Why would you want my suggestions?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes! Of course, Vozhd Lenin!” He straightens himself, “We should only provide a small amount for restricted support, nothing more, nothing less.”

“I see,” he reclines backwards, and rotates his head to stare at a bell on his desk, and rings it by smashing his cigar hoof on it, smoke leaving a small trail in the air from the path it took. The opposite zebra tensed up at this at the sudden influx of noise.

Almost immediately, a zebra soldier bursts through the doors, clothed in a complete set of iron armour, and a fully enclosed helmet. A decently sized, white star with red outlines is located at the forefront of the head protection gear.

He stood perfect attention, and gave an impeccable solute, “Yes, sir!”

“Inform the field marshal that I’ve made my decision,” he took another quick whiff of his smoke, “Furthermore, that I’ll meet him in the war room in the next 20 minutes.”

He adjusts the rotational position of his head to gaze at the zebra his sitting opposite to him, “Thank you for your time,” he places the cigarette in his mouth, waves the other person off, “your dismissed.”

Current Map of the World;

Character Sheet:

Author's Note

Anyway, I recently reread some of my early chapters in this book, and they're so BAD. Horrendously TERRIBLE! WHAT THE HECK WAS I BLOODY THINKING??!

Do they need to be rewritten?
-Yes

Do I have the time to rewrite them?
-Yes

Am I going to actually do it?
-No

(And yes, I drew the picture of Atomic myself.)

Chapter Fifteen: How to Bake a Cake

“The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience.”
—Leo Tolstoy

——
Chapter Fifteen: How to Bake a Cake
——

Ingredients:
-Nations
-Atomic Discharge
-A knife
-200grams of Self Raising Flour

Recipe:
Step One: Mix ideological liquid with other nations and the specifically chosen individual.
Step Two: Add flour
Step Three: Cook mixture in a 200°C agreement oven.
Step Four: Share the delicious cake.

“I’m sorry Mrs,” the speaking Griffon quickly flips through a few pages of the documentation he’s clutching, “Erika, we simply don’t have the time, patience, or resources to invest into,” He seemed to pause, as if attempting to remember something, “…what’s it called again?”

“A steam Engine.”

“Right,” he nodded, “the crown isn’t interested in this…machine, and frankly, can’t perceive any potential of its capabilities. Not to mention we are literally, in the middle of an intense civil war right now, so there's no way, any money will be diverted from the military in order to fund your little project.”

He seemed to change the subject, “I would suggest investing your time in manufacturing something useful for the war effort, not these…silly machines.”

The Griffon representing the crown turns his perception to gaze at the strange contraption in front of him, there are two big cylinders, one appeared to be heated by a fire source, while the other, had this strange metal rod moving in and out of it repeatedly. All for the sole purpose to turn a wheel, how…peculiar.

Erica sighed, deep at the back of her sub-conscience, she just knew, her conceptualisation would be rejected. But no matter! She’ll just have to find someone else that will, even if it means approaching the Republicans, Erica is almost desperate to have at least one soul believe in her.

[14th of November, 989. 10:23 am]
I leisurely trot into a particular room, a place commonly referred to as ‘the War Room’. This place is a little overrated, sometimes, younger griffon soldiers ask me, “Ma'am, what’s the, you know, War Room like?” Of course, I couldn’t really care less, it’s literally just a normal room, with a table withholding a map in the centre and several other different areas showcased on the walls throughout the space.

There isn’t even any precious metals, like gold, outlining anything.

I mean, seriously? This whole government building, is even less ‘prestigious’ than it actually may appear, just because this is where most of the governmental, and military decisions are assembled, does NOT make it a well internally structured, and designed building. People tend to cut corners when a building a structure this big in just over a month.

I’m snapped from my repetitive thoughts by the voice other another, “Ah, Atomic Discharge, welcome.” Of course, without voluntary thought, I gave a reasonably crisp solute, despite not performing any of the necessary training.

Using my absolutely extravagant eyesight, I’m able to register the fact, the voice came from a martially dressed griffon, General Bridges to be exact. Positioned alongside another person, General Garrison. Though rather than gazing at the map, both appeared to be staring at me anticipatedly.

I obviously wanted to cut straight to the point, “Why’d you call me here?”.

“We want to inform you of an…” Garrison temporises, “issue.”

Before he could continue, however, Bridges decides to cut in, “A MAJOR issue,”

I adopted a facade of questionably authentic, “How so?”

“May as well betake straight to the point,” he coughed slightly to clear his throat, “the muskets have been stolen.”

My brain requested a few extra seconds to process that information, but eventually, the intense calculations decided to outburst its incompatibility, “WHAT??!”

Bridges decided to continue before I initiate any sort of verbal assault, “Around a quarter of the flintlock muskets you manufactured have become captured by an unknown black insectoid creatures yesterday morning, and we’ve only been able to recover 60% of the total supply, the rest was simply too damaged, or absent.”

Whoever did this, I will personally submerge them in batter, and deep fry them for several hours straight. And then, the torture would truly begin. Normally, I wouldn't give a single shit about this sort of scenario, but the fact that I got stolen from, the second bloody time (I haven’t even found the previous thief), and furthermore, it’s a species that could conceivably reck the balance of power in this civil war. Especially if they decide it’s in their best interest, to join the other side, which could feasibly provide the enemy with the necessary resources to launch a decent counterattack.

And of course, it just HAD to be the brand new flintlock muskets, firearms, that I may remind you, designed myself, for the sole purpose, to be utilised by the Griffon Republic, AND NO ONE ELSE.

“Prior to the provisional run, we had originally organised a whole division of 1,800 soldiers, but now, owing to the fact we can only supply two-thirds of them, has proved to be a rather considerable complication.” Bridges highlighted, “what we were wondering, however, is if you happen to have any extra stockpiled, we are even willing to spend double the agreed amount.”

I slowly shook my head, “No, I’m sorry, those were the last ones for a while.” Which is in actuality, true, I would have to travel back to my compound and organise more, which at the moment, I’m not exactly willing to do, I just unexpectedly have other activities planned.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Bridges coaxed, “we’ll just have to distribute them among one or two already functioning divisions. I guess the replaced matchlocks can be gathered and administered between the currently unequipped detachment.”

I decided to procure a new topic that I believed was currently most pressing, “Don’t you guys realise this exactly transpires? I queried, “The enemy may retain not onl—“

Garrison interrupts me, “We’re already aware of that, 600 firearms is extraordinarily dangerous to our military efforts,” he waves me off, “we’ve already set up a few dozen search parties around the area ambushed, none, however, have even come close to finding anything yet. We can only hope that the situation untangles itself eventually.”

They won’t locate them, I pretty much guarantee it, the species that apprehended those muskets, is evidently into some sort of classification for deception, the fact no Griffon has any idea what, or who they are, transpires me to believe this. They’ve obviously stayed hidden for hundreds of years, which even in my opinion, is quite the accomplishment.

If I want anything done, I guess I’ll have to just do it myself. Plus, I could do with some time outside, after all. My office is beginning to become dreadfully boring (I’ve run out ways to boss people around).

“The weapons are my responsibility,” I disclosed, “I’ll search for them.”

General Garrison and Bridges slowly rotated their heads until they’re gazing directly at myself. Expressions highlighted facades of utter confusion and bewilderment, after all, their intellectual mindsets would be spitting thousands of questions, enquiring the obvious, ‘Why fuck would she do that?’

“No, absolutely not,” Garrison contented, “I can’t even comprehend what even caused that sort of thought process.”

Throughout my whole lifecycle, I have never been denied anything, not one single thing. So when this primitive, stupid bird, who thinks is my superior officer, says that I can’t do something, it tends to pull a few too many of my emotional strings.

So, as a result, I gave him, ‘the look’.

Almost instantaneously, the atmosphere tensed to an unmeasurable degree. The air itself might as well have caught on fire and expectorated massive amounts of smoke, for it seemed to be smouldering practically everyone in the room. Without voluntary thought, the two generals appeared to back away slightly, as if their literal souls were being ripped from their very being.

“Y-you know w-what,” Gassion shakily stated, “I-I’ve had a s-sudden change of mind, m-make sure to take a couple of s-soldiers with you for p-protection.”

My expression vanished, and moreover is replaced with a genuine smile, the ambience followed this, as all the unnatural pressure suddenly cleared, allowing the Generals to breathe a sudden gasp of relief.

Expressing my gratitude, I said, “I appreciate it.” This was followed by walking at a deliberately slow pace out of the room, with slow, calculated steps, “I’ll be back with several heads on a stick.”

The two Generals just looked at each other from the sudden turn of events.

Deep underground, lies a long series of cave passages, all are coated with an eery unnatural black substance. The walls its self ornamented in a repetitive hexagon pattern, similar to that of a beehive. In one of these cave sections, the quality of this structure appeared to have improved in great quality, as if every square centimetre was polished with fine sandpaper and wax.

And there was a good reason for this, the tunnel, marshalled to a very important section, which is called, the Throne Room. A massive black, insect pony hybrid, one with a large horn, fangs, and wings is currently resting on the royal seat, she is in the process of hearing a report from one of her many subjects.

The unnamed small bug performed a quick bow, “My Queen,” it informed, “We have retrieved some of those weapons you desired, around 600 to be exact.”

“Excellent,” the ‘queen’ announced, “make sure to immediately distribute them throughout the army, I think they will prove to be quite useful in our near future endeavours.”

[14th of November, 989. 12:11pm]

The wind rushed past at a credible rate as myself, and two griffon soldiers, sit in a relativity comfortable carriage, which is currently being towed by two other griffon civilians. The coach is presently following a particularly rocky path, which leads to virtually the exact region where the ambush took place. The air current at this moment is too powerful to efficiently pull the wagon through the air, and as a result, the ‘drivers’ decided it was in their best interest to stay on the ground until it settles.

A Griffon Republic flag hangs on the back of the vessel, waving ferociously in the wind, and displaying that this particular transport, is officially some sort of Governmental importance.

The soldiers positioned either side of me withheld the ‘new’ flintlock musket, both positioned on shoulders and pointed at a 180 angle. Stoic expressions etched across their facades, and heads swirled forwards, consistently scanning the environment for any foreseen dangers.

Though, soon myself, and the military personnel notice something, another carriage approaching from the opposite direction, so as a response, both tensed immediately, their craniums rotated to point directly at the carriage.

I honestly didn’t care, I mean, why would you? Traffic is quite common along these roads.

Dust spat up in random directions from the incoming wagon, the smut surrounding the atmosphere of our own carriage, made it quite difficult to perceive any of the environment in detail, so as a result, the opposing carriage’s features couldn’t be seen until it’s at a relativity close distance, around 60 metres away.

I, however, noticed something… strange it. Really strange.

For one, it’s pulled by ponies, which is quite rare in this sector, not to mention the country. As Equestrian doesn’t exactly have the best of relations with the Griffon Republic.

…

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Two flags, similar to that of our carriage, proudly displays in the back of their vessel. Presenting their national symbol as if it was professionally redrawn by a five-year-old girl. After all, the colour pink generally isn’t considered to be a very good idea, to put on a frickn’ flag.

Even the uniforms, overwhelm my perceptional senses, they are simply, just so similar to the World War Two regimentals. The obviously important ‘ponies’ (most likely officers) wore the classic pitch-black assemble, while the soldiers, the ponies covering the flanks of the carriage, seemed to wear steel amour, and laced with simple brown clothing.

To any foreseen outsider, they’d properly be able to determine that I was so preoccupied with staring intensely at the wagon, and as a result, I failed to notice it begin the initial stages of deceleration.

“Ma’am,” one of the ‘drivers’ queried, “they appear to have the desire to communicate, do you want us to stop?”

At this point, I’m snapped out of my annotations and am able to bring the griffon enquiring me into my perception, one of the two griffons pulling my carriage. He simply withholds a questioning facade, as if he is anticipating an answer.

“Ummm,” I mumbled, “sure, may as well.”

Immediately, the carriage began to decelerate, this ushered the surrounding atmosphere to come to a near standstill, causing the dust to be less animated, as the kinetic energy propelled by the wheels lowered significantly.

The velocity of the cart continued to relinquish as the distance between us lowered to a significant degree. This action repeated its self until both carriages are located directly next to one another, and then, proceeded to come to a precarious halt.

The dust layered in the atmosphere around us made it reasonably difficult to discern any significant facial features of the ponies across, only the general outline and uniforms seemed to stand out. Nothing could really be said until the smut decided that it was in it is in its best interest to settle.

Which after two long seconds, it did.

This renewed visibility gave me the ability to preserve the opposing the Pony is relative detail, a mare’s features greeted me, the coal back uniform, the skull pinned cap and a pink banner circled around her right foreleg was the highlight her tributes. She has monotonous pink fur, dull grey hair, and most interestingly, pricing blue irises.

Her expression signifies annoyance and a light scowl of her current situation as if she has better things to do.

This whole pony literally screams ‘I would stab you if I had the chance, but I’m obviously not going to because it would be inappropriate in my current proceedings.’ The kind of person that would drag you in your sleep, and stab you multiple times in the throat and chest.

Though, fortunately, she seemed to be mostly focusing on the griffon next to me, as I am positioned behind this being, and thus, out of view. Soon though, her small, almost non-existent scowl disappears, only to be replaced his a joyous expression, but to any experienced onlooker, such as myself, it was obviously forced.

She was just about to open her mouth to say something, I, however, leaned forward so she has visibility of me, and beat her to it, “Can we help you?”

Her facade turns to shock as her eyes land upon me, taking notice of my outmost bored expression, and especially, the blue uniform I’m wearing, highlighting the fact, I’m part of the Griffon military.

This expression almost immediately disappears, however, covered up with an almost genuinely happy smile.

“Yes,” she proclaimed, in a moderate German intonation, “We were wondering where the Parliament Government building is. Could you point us in the right direction?”

Ah, that’s clearly a German accent, so that means she speaks the language, eh? Interesting… Time to surprise her, I guess.

“Bestimmt,” (“Certainly,”) her expression become inordinately surprised, the kind of surprise when you realise you didn’t put on any sort of protection, “Fahren Sie nur 12 Kilometer die Straße hinunter, biegen Sie an der T-Kreuzung rechts ab und folgen Sie den Wegweisern für weitere 42 Kilometer. Sie werden bald Ihr Ziel finden” (“Just continue for 12 kilometres down the road, turn right at the T intersection, and tread that for another 42 kilometres, follow the directional signs and you’ll soon find your destination.”)

She just persisted with staring intensely at me, likely questioning my ability to speak her language, especially considering I have a clear non-German accent.

Just to let you be aware, I also know French, Russian, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic and Hawkan. No…I’m not referring to the verbalisation that actual that Hawks utilise. You know that language in Sector 1-2-8-9-D that everyone uses? No? Well, it’s that one.

The mare seemed to snap out of her prolonged thoughts by shaking her head several times and blinking her eyes with the sole purpose to moisturise them.

“Ich schätze es,” (“I appreciate it,”) she nodded, “Nur aus Neugier, wer bist du überhaupt?” (“Just out of curiosity, who are you anyway?”)

I puffed out my chest, “Sergeant Atomic Discharge, technologischer Entwickler der Armee der Republik, zu Ihren Diensten.” (“Sergeant Atomic Discharge, Technological Deviser of the Republic Army at your service.”) I perform a slight bow, just above the borderline to avoid being disrespectful.

Her eyes seemed to mystify for a moment, "Und Sie?" (“And you?”)

She straightened herself, puffing her chest to an unimaginable degree, “Die Beraterin und Diplomatin Lieselotte Weiß, Deutsche Reichskanzlei, freut sich, Sie kennenzulernen.” (“Adviser and Diplomat Lieselotte Weiß, Germane Chancellery, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”)

And this is where the conversation ended. Period. Both sides of the table were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. What sucked even more, however, is that I had millions of questions, I regretfully, just couldn’t ask any without coming off as rude. Just as an example, one such thought includes, ‘Planning any wars yet? Hmmm? Are ya? Huh? HUH? HUH? HUH? ’

And I do NOT want to ruin my first impression.

This awkwardness got to such a degree, that the German officer decided it was in its best source of action to end our little ‘meeting’.

“Es war mit ein Vergnügen Sie kennen zu lernen,” (“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,”) she condignly states, “Aber wir müssen weiter an unser ziel, vielleicht treffen wir uns wieder.” (“but we have to continue to our destination, perhaps we may run into each other again.”)

Their carriage begins to accelerate, “Abschied!" (“Farewell!”)

The drivers of my transportation seemed to understand this notion, despite not being able to speak the language, and they too, began to move forward.

I simply waved as we departed.

Well…that was certainly, interesting.

But of course, ten seconds later my hype came crashing down, and I was yet again, completely bored.

That is, however, until I just recalled what I packed in my saddlebags, an object to keep myself occupied during the majority of this trip, a source of entertainment mind you, that never, ever, dissipates. No matter how many hours I use it, it continues to bring endless misery—I mean, happiness for others.

I quickly reach into the saddle bag adjacent to me and pull out the godliest of devices.

A Kazoo.

Using my foreleg, I place the professional musical instrument in my mouth and play the very first song that comes to mind.

The German national anthem.

At full volume.

Of course, nobody really seemed to mind it—for the first three minutes that is—but I never stopped, and soon enough, I swear a few ears were bleeding. Obviously, no-one said anything. After all, if your superior officer was playing a Kazoo, (who, which I might add, can make your life a living misery), would you demand them to SHUT THE ACTUAL FUCK UP??!

No, I highly doubt it.

And thus, the next Era of our travel began.

The era of considering ‘Self Suicide Tendencies.’

The city of Berline was bursting with activity, ponies hurried to a series of different facilities to deliver messages or important orders. Even several squads of soldiers were practising impeccable marching, with the sole purpose to get every muscle, step, and twitch into perfect synchronisation.

This state of animation was also true in another sector of this beautiful city, the headquarters, generals were manufacturing new strategies, logistics were planned, and orders were distributed. This status, however, was disturbed when the inhabitants surrounding, and in this building notice…something peculiar.

An equestrian soldier descending from the sky, directing itself undeviatingly in front of the headquarters entrance. Of course, everyone's' first conclusion whisking throughout their mindsets was ‘HOLY FUCK! WE’RE GETTING INVADED! RUN!!’

And that is exactly what happened, everything turned to shit.

Upper class and normal ponies alike hurried to shelter themselves in nearby buildings, some even thought it was a good idea to scream—Which, may I remind you, is not—while sprinting in a random direction. Eventually, however, some order was restored, as soldiers burst from their patrols and transformed into defensive positions.

Every pony became confused however, when this Equestrian pony, in fact, was not a soldier, but a white Pegasus wearing an exceptionally nice black and white suit. He furthermore, landed on the ground in a glorious act of gracefulness. What was most surprising to the onlooker, however, was that he withheld the Green Flag. (For you uneducated buffoons, it means he came here for diplomatic reasons)

He literally just stood there, his eyes, slightly closed, implying his mood was of the utmost boredom. The banner clasped to the pole, waved lightly in the mild winds.

Germane troops immediately began surrounding him, pointed weapons towards him from a ten-metre distance, body languages were leaning back slightly as if he had a contagious plague.

And then, he spoke in a slight British accent, “Her Majesty, Princess Celestia, has requested an immediate armistice between our two independent nations,” even though he was clearing speaking Equish (English), most could to a certain degree, understand him, they after all, used to be an Equestrian State, “please send your leader to meet for an agreement to the town of Berzenbee.” (The town is right on the border between the two confederations.)

With that small, but sweet statement, he flew off once again, disappearing into the unknown, despite the Germanes had a strong urge to follow him, it would be nearly impossible as Germaney has a very limited amount of Pegasi, and to the disappointment of all officers, none were currently on the Campus.

The highest commanding officer at the scene turned to the soldier adjacent to him, “Machen Sie den Führer darauf aufmerksam, Sie müssen über diese überraschenden jüngsten Entwicklungen Bescheid wissen.” (“Alert the Führer about this, she must know of these surprising recent developments.”)

Character Sheet:

Author's Note

My friend (for some unknown reason) concluded it was in his best interest to give a bunch of people Kazoos.

Including me.

Since I was bored, (as Exams had recently finished, leaving us with no new content to learn), I determined to play the Kazoo.

At one stage, I was walking past the lockers and decided to play the Soviet National Anthem. ☭☭☭☭☭

At full volume.

Instantly, almost everyone turned their heads towards me, all bared questioning facades.
That is, until some decided to salute me.

And most surprisingly, sing along.

After this little event, I continued to annoy the ever living shit out of everyone for the rest of the evening. The next day, due to (probably) over-usage, it broke. :rainbowderp:

And that's the story why I added that a kazoo in this narrative!

ALSO! (I'm babbling quite a lot today), as I said, finished Exams. It's a bit ironic I performed the worst at English (got a C), as quoted by the teacher, 'You have too many ideas, stick to two or three instead.'

*Cough* Explains quite a bit about my story if I'm totally honest.

NEW AUTHORS NOTE - 15/12/24
Hello, I have removed some content from this chapter as it contained some points I no longer agree with.Apologies if this makes the story harder to read

Chapter Sixteen: Peace and Preparations

"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”
―Sun Tzu, The Art of War

——
Chapter Sixteen: Peace and Preparations
——

Most people are afraid of needles.

*Squish*

What they don’t realise is that everything has their uses.

*Sluuuuuurp*

Including needles.

*Pop*

With the metallic point drawn from the black insectoid body, now withholding the essential DNA essence to locate, and apprehend to the dark energy signature of this particular species. The relatively small cylinder holding this fluid, the thick black blood slowly swished around as the vibrations procured from my operating body provides the necessary kinetic energy to do so.

A griffon soldier standing perpendicular to me, enquires a relatively simple question, “I assume that doing…this has some sort of purpose?”

“Of course it does,” I remove a small grey rectangular device from my saddlebag and place it on the ground in front of me, “It's going to locate the thieves for us.”

I use my right forehoof to slide out the small cylinder from the needle, and slowly nurture it into one of the slots on the tracker, almost immediately, the box lit up in a series of blinking, and bright colours, then, a loud suction noise could be discerned as the locator draws in the insectoid DNA.

Everything was silent for these few moments, no one spoke, and the griffons believed the atmosphere became somewhat tense, but that is utter nonsense, the only reason for this, however, is because their superior was intensely staring at a weird, box, thingy, for what seems for a few, strangely long minutes.

But in actual fact, it was more like 5 seconds.

Once this relatively short time period was up, the box literally detonated in a massive blue explosion, easily covering all of the creatures in the surrounding area.

This deeply frightened the neighbouring griffons, as for one, they weren’t expecting a frickn’ eruption, and two, what scared them to an even higher degree, was that their higher ranking superior, wasn’t even twitching a single muscle, as if she was expecting that particular event to occur.

Which evidently, she was.

Soon enough, this was over, and the soldiers decided to uncover their eyes and gaze around at the encompassing environment, examining for anything that may have altered, or damaged the adjacent domain.

Without even revolving around, Sergeant Discharge decided it was in her best opinion to warn them of another possible scare, “You may want to cover your eyes for the next bit.”

Of course, the griffons listened to her suggestions, not only is she their senior but the fact she is clearly in control of the weird box thingy in front of her. What’s strange, however, is that she is still in the process of staring at tensely at it.

Not a moment too soon, another explosion takes place, but this time, however, is an implosion, the transparent blue energy is sucked like a willing vortex, directly into the box, disappearing as if nothing ever happened in the first place.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” I am, of course, not referring to the contraption in front of me, but the griffons’ reactions to the device. It’s always quite fun to watch to expressions of primitive species as they observe futuristic technology and knowledge.

Finally, after several painful seconds, the green light ultimately lights up, signifying that the process of tracking the location of the unknown species is now complete. Modern-day phased dark energy ray radar systems can do wonders when attempting to locate someone, or something anywhere on an entire planet.

I reach into my saddlebags, and retrieve another device, a small (15cm x 15cm) plastic screen, immediately, several red dots appear on the smooth surface, followed by the view of a map of the entire world’s landmass.

At that particular moment, the griffon soldier mentioned earlier decided it was in his best interest to gaze over my shoulder, and ask me a question regarding the electronic screen I’m withholding, “Um, ma’am, what are all those, bright red circle things?”

“They are,” I reply, “what we are exactly looking for.”

This seemed to puzzle the griffon, “You mean…the bug things?”

“Yes,” I stated, “exactly.”

He squints his eyes at the device, “but that would mean some of them are located no more than 10 kilometres away.”

“Precisely, I suppose we should pay them a little ‘visit’.”

“Nein! I am never going to allow that!”

Two important figures stand facing each other from opposite sides of a relatively long table, their nation’s relative flag positioned on the wall behind each, signifying whose interests they are best attempting to presume towards. Both, currently, were in the process of discussing significant details which potentially could benefit both sides ambiguously.

‘But of course,’ Princess Celestia thought, ‘she just rejects everything I say.’

Twelve soldiers, of both sides, were glaring intently at one another, even if one pony decides to scratch their ass, another soldier would respond kindly, by positioning their weapons at them. They’re were two types; one was wearing imperatively strong imported steel amour, while the other, gloriously bright, polished gold.

So you can imagine the overwhelmingly, tense atmosphere surrounding the two occupants in the centre.

“I will only accept complete independence from all foreign powers, which in actuality, includes restrictions. I am not going to accept outrageous demands to diminish the military masculinity of our country! We have a right, as a nation to defend ourselves! And your, “ she spat, “not going to take that away from us!”

Several Germane soldiers in the surrounding room cheered at that response, Aryane Hoofler seemed to puff our her chest, proud, and even become somewhat bright at that moment. This, of course, seemed to make the Equestrian soldiers glare even harder, particularly at the enemy’s leader.

Princess Celestia rubs her brow thoroughly, attempting to reduce the painful headache fluctuating throughout her mindset. ‘If I could just get one thing right today,’ she thought, ‘I call this whole meeting an overall success.’

“You must understand Mrs Hoofler,” Princess Celestia confidently states, “your military has already killed over 1000 of my guards, I at least, expect some compensations to the families’ lost ones.”

Aryanne Hoofler simply raises an eyebrow, “That is how war functions,” she informed, “When people sign up to be apart of the military, they’re and their families, are essentially agreeing to the possibility of passing away, it is literally their obligation, their duty, to sacrifice themselves so others don’t have to.”

Celestia couldn’t procure a counterargument.

“I’ve made my country’s intentions, and desires abundantly clear,” Aryanne states, now seizing hold of this discussion, “Perhaps you should listen to them.”

“We desire; Full unconditional independence, not a puppet, or vassal state,“ she lists, “30 billion bits as reparations for our diseased industry, all Equestrians escorted from our domain, closed borders, reacquisition of the German-speaking province of; Allice Lopain, Sudaten Lands and Denzig. And finally, access to Equestrian territory to jaunt to separate alternative nations, like for diplomatic missions or trading.”

She intently stares at Princess Celestia, “these terms are non-negotiable.”

‘Honestly,’ Hoofler thought, ‘they’re actually not, the bits and extra territory would be an added bonus, it’s always nice to have a few extra bargaining chips.’

Celestia returns her gaze to peer at the offending peace terms document in front of her, the only wording on the page, despite being in this meeting room for over half an hour, only had one line of words, a sentence, and that was the title; ‘Treaty of Germaney, 989’

Everything so far hasn’t at all, worked in her favour, only once has she been in a peace conference, and that was more ‘I’m getting exactly what I want because the other side can’t do anything about it’, sort of thing, and furthermore, as an added bonus, that was over 1000 years ago.

To put it simply, Celestia clearly has no experience in this sector.

Despite all of this, an idea suddenly hit her, and idea, so great, it could possibly secure the safety of her nation, for a very, very long time.

“I will agree to those terms only,” she puts-forth,” if we incorporate a non-aggression pack for the next 100 years.”

‘If she happens to break the treaty, other nations would in likelihood form a collation, it’s a win-win situation.’

Ayranne’s facade distorts into an expression of ‘you got to be fucking kidding me,’ the circumstances have now deviated from her favour.

‘If I refuse,’ she thought, ‘It’ll look like I’m preparing for war, which is a fact I'd prefer to hide. She knows I won’t be able to prolong the current conflict going on, we simply don’t have the supplies to last a sufficient degree.’

Her face continues to hold a face of deep thought for several more seconds, she is, after all, making quite a large decision, mind you, that will affect the entirety of her country.

Until finally, she removes herself from the dreamscape, “Ja, those terms are acceptable.”

“Then it’s decided,” Princess Celestia waved over a scribe, “In return for providing reputations, and Germane territory, we will remain peaceful with one another for the next few generations.”

The mentioned transcriber—A green mare with purple highlights— ferociously jots down the desired terms and conditions. During this time period, nobody spoke, not a single soul. The atmosphere only in composed the frantic, and irregular sound of a quill squabbling on a parchment of paper.

It was a little awkward.

Until eventually, the noise stopped and was replaced by the sound of magic ignition, an elevation spell, as Princess Celestia floated the agreement over to her to double check all of the terms are correct.

Inclined to desire this meeting to be over as quickly as possible, Celestia proofers a quick skim read over the document. After around 20 seconds, she takes the fancy quill to the right of her, and gracefully signs the document using her signature.

She proceeds to pass to over (through magic) to the opposite Germane mare.

‘Stupid,’ Aryanne thought, ‘Attempting to intimidate and prove dominance over me with your magic? How pathetic.’

Germaney's Führer remained confident and perceived an expression of hard calculation as she took the parchment of paper from Celestia’s grasp with her powerful hooves. She then proceeds to read the whole document, line by line, VERY carefully, so cautiously in fact that she managed to read every word over three times.

Let’s just say, not only is she purposely attempting to assert HER dominance, but the document could have contained some sort of loophole or an extra demand without her knowledge. Equestrians, after all, are slippery, silly creatures, who are unpredictable, and would want nothing more than to stab you in the back in the most ambiguous of circumstances.

Aryanne however, after ten minutes of consistent reading, never found anything that would be considered ‘fishy.’

She too signed it with her fancy, and illustrious signature.

“Thank you for your gracious endeavours,” Princes Celestia illustrates, “Perhaps we could meet again in better circumstances.”

Aryanne Hoolfer stands, “Agreed.”

Both parties exit, the atmosphere cleared of stress and anxiety, now with a forecast of a clear sky, and partly cloudy. Well, that is, until next Tuesday, rain after all, always eventually occurs.

A small spiderweb of cracks persists with spreading in all directions over the statue, one could say the statue is very fragile. Just a single tap would cause the whole thing to collapse in a mound of fine stone powder, and salt.

Major General Shrewd Preparation is a very smart griffon, very, very smart, despite being out of the military academy less than four weeks ago. The only reason he was assigned as commander of this beautiful, 2nd Musket Division, was due to passing a written test with flying colours, in it, his purpose was to procure tactical strategies involving scenarios with the new weapon, muskets.

Preparation has always loved ranged weapons, the fact they can practically disable an enemy, before dealing any damage to your own, just seems to draw him in. Every tactical principle of his involves some sort of ranged concept, so it’s not a surprise when given a test—completely based on these the entire concept of ranged weaponry— passes without much difficulty.

Also, there wasn’t really any other potential candidates for the position he is currently occupying, he was the only who passed the test with significant results anyway.

What has this particular griffon really excited nevertheless, is that the brand, spanking new, flintlock muskets have recently arrived to replace a portion (six hundred) of his soldiers’ flintlock systematic firearms. They’re faster reload and the ‘punch’ gives him the ability to draft new concepts on the battlefield, addressing to attain use of these aspects to the largest of aspects.

The sky during this time period was murky grey, with a touch of sunshine radiating through the clouds. It was forecasted to rain for several days straight in a near couple of hours.

During this interval, Major Shrewd Preparation was located in his command tent, writing down, and drawing up these possible plans, that is, until he is interrupted by one of his subordinates, Lieutenant General Flick Kick, by walking through the flap tent entrance.

He moves to stand directly in front of the ‘planning table’, his face stoic, withholding the position of a solute for an undetermined amount of time. The Major preforms a quick glance up, only to gaze back at his plans when he exactly discerns who it is.

Without even looking up from the bench, he speaks, “At ease Lieutenant, what do you want?”

He visually relaxes.

“Several scouts have reported a moderately equipped army one day to the North-West from here, coming in our direction, size is estimated at around 12,000.”

That got his attention.

Major Preparation turns his perception to gaze at his fellow lower-ranking military general, “What? Did I hear you just say, TWELVE THOUSAND!!??”

“Yes,” he straightforwardly said, “They’re approaching from the east, most likely attempting to cut off the rest of our army, we, after all, are located several hundred kilometres behind the front, it’s lucky we needed to stop for resupplies.”

Shrewd rubs his brow exceedingly, all the while muttering incomprehensibly under his breath, “Shit, shit, shit….”

“Sir, if I may,” this brought the Major out of his mindless shitstorm, “We shouldn’t get our feathers twisted about this, the muskets should easily be able to take them out, not to mention with your brilliant planning, it’s practically a win handed over to us.”

“I’m going to have to disagree with you Lieutenant,” Preparation declares, “12,000 is an awful lot, even with muskets. Each soldier would have to get out at least six rounds to even make the number of shots equal to the enemy’s number, not to mention other variables. No more then half of these shots will actually find a target, and the enemy’s amour will even diminish this number further.”

He paused as if he is coming up with a solution.

“We need defences, lots of them,” he pronounces, “we need more ammo, more soldiers, more guns, and more support, frankly, we’re under-equipped to be able to deal with a situation like this.”

General-Lieutenant still stood there, the only difference between now, and 30 seconds ago is that is facade currently withholds a slight amount of worry and doubt, but still confident. Confidence, that as long as they have a will, there will always be a way.

“Send a message to the rest of the army, all divisions,” he announces, “Tell them, ‘Immediately retreat 100km inland, the enemy is attempting to cut us off from the west by sending over a twelve thousand strong army. It’s in likelihood that we will lose sections of the Western front. Regard this message until further notice.’ ”

He performs a quick solute, and sprints out of the tent.

Major General Shrewd Preparation gazes back at his tactical plans, concepts that he had always hoped to use, but not to this extensive of a degree, these may determine the fate of the entire army, particularly if not correctly constructed, it’s important that he gets every single segment correct to the hundredth of a decimal place.

Everything will have to run perfectly, not a single thing can go wrong, that is if he desires to thrash back the enemy push.

Character Sheet:

Author's Note

This chapter is honestly one of my shit ones, but hopefully, the conflict in the next chapter will make up for it.

Also, 200 likes! :rainbowkiss:

Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of wet Gunpowder and Smoke

“Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.”
—Ephesians 6:11, the Bible
——
Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of wet Gunpowder and Smoke
——

[15th of November, 989. 5:00 pm]

Everything went wrong.

Every—Thing.

Not a single commodity was drawn in Shrewd Preparation’s favour.

One would normally say, ‘Well, sometimes you just need to make the most of the cards withdrawn.’ That, however, becomes exceedingly difficult when four of the cards equate to a six high. No matter how much luck you have, the best hand you can achieve is a pair. The only way to make the best of the situation is to limit your losses. There is no winning. Only avoiding defeat.

The time was 1700 hours, the sky was stained a dark grey, rain drenched the surrounding environment, flowing in extreme aggregates as it collects into streams and rivers. The water caused the clothing on the Republican soldiers to sag down, and bounce off in loud Pings off the enforced steel helmets.

The hastily constructed underdeveloped wooden barrier (consisting of a variety of logs) in front of these soldiers, seemed to sink into the mushed ground, trampled from the hundreds of boots that marched upon its soil. Soldiers were organised in ‘companies’, each stood in comparison to each other, contributing to create a direct line. Muskets were positioned outwards, obscurely vibrating, as the incredible fear seemed to take hold of every soldier.

The companies consisting of Matchlock muskets consistently had to reignite the burning match, as the high humanity, and rainfall smouldered the fire. Gunpowder transformed into unusable clumps, refusing to ignite from the burning wick, as the chemical reaction required a larger amount of heat—activation energy— in order to initialise.

The opposing army—only just visible due to the vast, never-ending darkness— seemed to stretch on forever, an unending swarm of griffons who seemed all but unbeatable.

The small, 2000 strong Republican army could never withdraw, even if they wanted to, they needed to delay the enemy, at any means necessary. To buy time for the rest of the invading force to retreat before encirclement. If they were to retreat now, half of the entire Republic army could be utterly destroyed, practically vanquishing their effort to win the war.

The supply shortage of ammunition, combined with the unreliability of matchlock muskets in the current weather, lead to depending on old, outdated weapons on site at the time for supplementation. These included; crossbows with iron bolts, and steel long swords.

Soldiers with a large degree of pedagogy were re-equipped with these crossbows and blades, while others with a high amount of experience with muskets, were given the new flintlock mechanisms. Every resource was assigned to an overwhelmingly efficient degree, to somehow, create a somewhat small advantage for the upcoming battle.

Swordsmen and the remaining matchlock muskets dotted the front, fluctuating between the two. Blades rotated to point forward, while the griffons withholding the muskets, seemed to use these people as living shields, hiding a majority of their body behind them. This seemed to allude to the idea of ‘Pike and Shot’. Several meters behind them, was another line of flintlock muskets, while at the complete rear, was located around 300 crossbowmen, forming two independent groups.

The beauty of all of this was that each company and battalion could act independently, allowing each commander to make their own decisions, to allude to what they believe will have the largest positive impact over the entire battle. In the end, however, every branch was tied together harmoniously under Major General Shrewd Preparation.

At that time, he was situated at the front, his confident facade completely unwavering. Though, in his thin skull of his, relayed a swirling motion of repetitive and fading thoughts. To put it simply, nevertheless;

He was worried.

No. That doesn’t even begin to describe his current thoughts.

He was terrified, a raw, uncontrollable emotion.

Though, soon enough, his line of thinking was broken by his subordinate, the same Lieutenant that alerted him about this upcoming mess, “Sir,” he began, “A group of enemy soldiers seems to be approaching the middle, they’re holding the green flag.”

He appeared to pause for a brief period, “Should I send in a team to meet them?”

Preparation turned his gaze onto his subordinate, “Definitely,” he confirmed, “Gather them here, I’ll be going with them. Negotiation could be a possibility.”

The Lieutenant nods, and sprints off to complete his orders.

Soon enough, the small number of soldiers —around six— gathered in front of the wooden barrier, analog side the Major General. One of their own soldiers, also withheld the green banner, though it refused to move in the mild winds as the rain-induced it to sag and drip down the side of the wooden pole.

With the General at the front, they marched in a perfect triangular foundation, despite the ground being hard to navigate through. The outlines of the enemy group congregated in the centre of the field, appeared to be slightly ominous, their features, completely unknown to any of the Republicans.

Naturally, the gathering came into clear view, composing around ten clearly disciplined soldiers in glistening steel amour, despite there being no sunlight to do so. There —what seems— to be the enemy commander, already patiently waiting. It didn’t take long to come to a stop directly in front of them.

The unnamed enemy commander took the initiative to start the conversation in light hearty voice while shouting over the intense water shower, “Welcome!” He sits on his backside, and spreads out his front claws, as if exaggerating the conversation, “To a military exercise of the combined effort of the 3rd, 4th, and 5th divisions. How may I be of service to you?”

This seemed to derail Shrewd Preparation’s expectations, propping him to be completely off guard, but his quick wit and thinking allowed him to play along with this ‘act’ to a certain degree, “I was wondering if you could move your ‘army’ somewhere else, this is restricted private property of the Griffon Republic.”

“That’s funny,” the other griffon said, “I was just about to say the same thing!” And he busts out laughing. Though this was short-lived, finalising as he wiped his moisturised eyes, and breathed rather rapidly to stabilise himself.

Though even stranger, his facade transformed to the polar opposite of the previously mentioned expression, “Now that introductions are over,” he professionally pronounces, “I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for our current predicament.”

This surprised Preparation even further, just before he seemed to mock him, and now, he’s apologising? What is wrong with this griffon?

“We would like to offer temporary armistice terms, surrender all of your equipment, and we’ll let you all go.” He seemed to pause, as if expecting an answer, “That’s it, no catches.”

“So, what?” Preparation vocalises, “You’d just let us go?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate if you would. I’d prefer not to go into a rather nasty wet battle.”

The Republican seemed to consider it, “And would this ‘arm-stance’ apply to the rest of our army? How long does it exactly last?”

He sighed, “You, and your division alone, would have two days to evacuate out of the area.”

This was a massive deal breaker for Preparation, as it would only lower the resistance the Empire had to trample through. No, he needed to provide a strong conflict, even if it could slow the enemy down by a day, he would consider it a successful endeavour.

“I’m sorry,” the Preparation Major announced, “But I’m not going to agree to those terms, I’d rather die than surrender to the Empire.”

Other Major didn’t seem surprised, “Very well,” he turned around and started to march back to his army, “Good luck.”

Yet, another surprising characteristic of the enemy General, perhaps he is sympathetic towards democracy? Preparation mentally hopes he will survive this conflict—along with the rest of the war. It’s rare to come across somegriffon that’s understanding and compassionate.

After that quick metal note, Shrewd Preparation rotates on his paws/feet and leisurely walks back to his own army, ready for the upcoming battle. It’s obvious, however, that is troops are literally scared shitless, he needs to somehow raise their spirits, perhaps, a speech may be imperative. Despite him never performing one in his entire career, he'll just have to wing it.

He, sadly, was required to raise his voice in order to be recognised over the bellowing rainstorm, as a consequence, only a small percentage of griffons were able to hear him, “Soldiers of the Republican army!”

He walked back and forth, to keep the adrenaline from shaking his entire body repeatedly, “Let me ask you a question, are you ready to fight?!!”

He got no answer.

“That’s fine,” he shouted, “Because I agree, perhaps we can’t beat this army, perhaps we may all die, and perhaps, we may live under the tyrannical rule of the Empire.”

“But one thing that I know will never change— is our spirit.”

Preparation turned towards his soldiers.

“Even when we’re on our knees! We will continue fighting! Even when our throat has been cut, and bleeding everywhere! We will continue fighting! Because no matter what!” He paused for dramatic suspense (though, technically he was thinking what to say next.). “We will always heal! We will get back up, and punch that living piece of shit called the Empire out of existence!”

“Our throats are made of steel! Our hearts from pure gold! And our will— our will, from the living embodiment of God. God, so pure, and forever internal, that as long as he exists. So will we!”

“Soldiers! Allow me to ask you again, are you ready to fight? For your family? For your loved ones? For your freedom? And the for the Republic??!!”

There was now an applause, it wasn’t great, but it continued to exponentially increase in volume, as the soldiers who didn’t hear the speech, too slowly began to clap, as the griffons that surrounded them was also performing the action. This resulted in one, massive, title wave.

Despite a majority of the griffons not apprehending the speech, what they did recognise, was hope. Confidence and hope lanced throughout the atmosphere. Although everygriffon was still scared down to the bone, each attempted to put on a brave face. For their family. For their loved ones. For their freedom. And especially, for the Republic.

Muskets still shook, and facades still wavered, it was, however, much more controllable.

They needed to fight back— no, wanted to, fight back. To put up a resistance worthy for the remembrance through history, and by God.

It didn’t take long to hear a commotion coming from the other side, it was obvious that the enemy soldiers were getting rivalled up about— something. Perhaps their patriotism was too strong, one thing was clear, however, the battle would begin very, very soon.

Republicans swore they could hear the words ‘Empire, and Glory’ from the mouths of the opposing soldiers. Veteran soldiers from the first and second battles knew this as their particular war cry.

A few seconds following, brought forth a reasonably loud, horn bast. Through it was barely recognised by the Republican soldiers due to the current rainstorm.

Then— they saw them. All of them.

A huge gathering—no, army, of griffons whose outlines appear as shadows sent by the devil. Ran— there was no organisation— with all their might. The rapid scampering literally shook the ground, the sheer amount of soldiers was on an entirely new level.

Where exactly did the Empire get these sort of numbers?

And to further amalgamate these unnatural sounds spiting from the earth, another was added to the mix;

BOOM! Boom! Bo~! boom! BA~BOOM!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AF-frCxHCuE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdSVpRyk6AY

Muskets fired from their barrels in surprising succession. Companies created what’s now called the ‘machine gun’ effect, as each collection of soldiers fired one after the other down the line. This proved to be quite useful, as at the time, at least twenty-four muskets were firing each second. This was demonstrated as a useful technique preferred by the Crystal Empire several months down the track. That is until they replaced it with actual functioning machine guns.—Black Firepower (1067). The Battle of Wet Gunpowder and Smoke. Griffon Civil War 989. CanterlotWarTimes. pp 167.

Matchlock and flintlock muskets alike fired from their respective weapons, though a majority of the soldiers withholding the matchlocks failed to fire, either the wick was burnt out, or, too much fluid was located in the gunpowder and firearm. This seemed to frustrate a lot of these soldiers, who repeatedly attempted to fire the weapon, but was continuously rewarded with several ‘clicking’ sounds.

Flintlocks, on the other hand, were the opposite, they had little to no trouble firing in this weather, the ammunition was protected by a covering, and the firing mechanism relied on flint and steel to create sparks, something that can easily be achieved in wet weather as long as each comment was respectively sharp enough.

These weapons were fired over the shoulders of the matchlock musketeers.

Smoulder expelled from in huge amounts from these barrels but refused to collect in murky plumes of smoke as the rain heaved it downwards, clearing it out of view. This was, perhaps, the only positive impact of the current weather, as the soldiers could still continuously recognise their respective targets.

Gold spheres ripped through the air, and crashed with a ridiculous amount of acceleration into the confronting army, much faster, and more impactful than the matchlock muskets, as the flintlock system allowed for what is considered ‘a bigger punch’.

Monarch troops dropped in surprising succession (from left to right) as the machine gun effect took hold, many of these ‘green’ recruits transformed into pure shock, as the pain the bullet enacted easily overcame their overconfidence and patriotism. The adrenaline running through their veins was the only chemical substance that kept them alive long enough to recognise their shameful predicament.

This was all futile, however, as the ridiculous number of troops simply replaced those that fell, their morel, completely unwavering, comforted by the surrounding troops, and the possible protection they provided.

300 crossbows located behind the Republican lines fired from behind, the bolts flew through the air like a hail of death, each cut through the atmosphere like butter and accelerated by 9.81m/s^-2 down towards the earth— the army.

Bolts hit their targets as they rammed into the majorly unprotected skulls of the Monarch soldiers, those that did wear helmets, only provided protection for half of the time, as bolts found weak spots in the hastily produced armour, and embedded into the squishy cerebral matter.

This too, proved to be rather naught as, in the end, only around 180 soldiers were actually affected by it.

The flintlock muskets counted to pump, round, after, round after round, of gold projectiles into the incoming army. Bodies piled on the ground, but that was all but major obstacles to the still, running enemy soldiers. They simply ran on, ignoring them as if they were already apart of the earth. Crossbows performed a similar action but ran out of bolts after two successions. They remained at the back and as a result, was assigned as reserves.

A majority of those Republican musketeers with the matchlock system gave up on working their weapons, instead, positioning their bayonets outwards like small pikes or skewers. Most were kind enough to give their ammunition to the still firing flintlock muskets, as it was obvious that their own rounds, would run out reasonably soon.

Major General Shrewd Preparation knew this endeavour was futile, all he could do is reduce their own loses, and enact the largest death, and destruction on the enemy army before they arrived, he shouted at his adjacent subordinate messengers, “Alert the battalion commanders of a change of plan! Tell them to aim their muskets at the centre of the incoming army! And to NOT hit any friendly soldiers under any circumstances!”

Many of these messengers were confused by this prospect, why would he do something like this? What is the point?

They did it anyway, despite doubting their superior’s orders, there was literally no time to lose, they couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

He turned to another messenger, “You! You tell the crossbowmen to quickly pick up anything sharp, whether it be a stick or sword, tell them to meet me here in exactly 13 seconds!”

She ran off too.

Not a moment too soon, a large percentage of the muskets were directed roughly towards to middle, manufacturing a hugely dense storm of gold projectiles, this created a somewhat of an ‘indent’, generating a shape, not unlike a concave appearance.

It took exactly 12.3 seconds for the crossbowmen to gather next to their commander, so, Preparation hastily addresses them, “I want you guys to run into that opening in the centre of the incoming enemy army. Congratulations! You will experience honour and glory!”

Let's just say, they were not happy about this prospect at all, they thought they would remain behind the friendly lines, out of direct combat. Why didn’t he just gather the soldiers standing at the front? Or at the very least, the matchlock musketeers?

The answer was rather simple really, it would produce disorganisation, a military’s worst nemesis. Oh. And the fact General Shrewd Preparation doesn’t value crossbowmen, he believes they are still obsolete, it was just this particular circumstance for the battle which temporarily removed that aspect.

Many realised the shortage of time, so they quickly redirected their efforts to push through the military ranks, and running onto the killing field, the bloodiest, and most brutal, conflicts at the time.

They poured into the front like disembodied water, dripping into a burning hot fire, only to evaporate, and disappear into the atmosphere.

This new development seemed to confuse the enemy soldiers at the front, why would they deploy a mere, 300 soldiers carrying—wait, are they sticks?!!—directly at them? What could they possibly achieve by doing that? Wouldn’t that just be wasting soldiers? Sacrificing them? Absolutely disgusting!

Since the advancing army was only a little more than 100 meters away at the time, it didn’t take long for the nearly unequipped, and untrained militia to meet the enemy soldiers. They clashed, stabbed, and poked the soldiers in the indent. Blood was sprayed in all directions, eyes were stabbed with sticks, swords slashed heads clean off, and intestines spewed out of holes from the stomach. Griffons literally got covered in head to toe in gore, their fur caked with the sticky red substance.

This in actuality, slowed the enemy down, as instead of advancing, the disorganised mess decided to attempt to kill off the confronting soldiers. The republican crossbowmen were slowly being entirely enveloped, it appeared as though the army was swallowing them whole-fully. It didn’t take long for the Republican battalion commanders to realise there were friendlies in the centre of the killing field, and as such, as according to their order, redirected their shots to eliminate the sides of the enemy army.

Of course, the crossbowmen, once they registered the horrible predicament they were placed in, attempted to flee the battlefield, but the enclosing living spike walls stopped them before any even had a chance, turning their organic matter into a bloody red stew.

Nobody escapes the meat grinder. Never in a million years. Once you put your hand in, it’s all but impossible to pull it back out. Their sacrifice wasn’t in vain, however, as the extended delay allowed a few more volleys to expel from the firearms.

“Don’t stop firing!” Some battalion leaders would say, “Hit them harder!”

“What are you doing??!!” Others would shout, “Why have you stopped firing??!”

“I’ve run out of ammunition sir,” they would respond, “I’ve got nothing left.”

Before they could expel another sentence, however, fellow soldiers thrust ammunition into their paws, allowing them to continue to fire their weapon for another one or two rounds in succession.

It didn’t take long for every crossbowman to be slaughtered like a pig in a butcher house. Many green recruits of the Monarch army persisted with stabbing the remains despite all the soldiers— sorry, my apologies, I meant soup—being clearly dead. Perhaps they were scared, or complete and utter psychopaths, we will never know. What remains important, however, is that they’re remains, not alive. Dead.

It was at this stage that the disorganised mess called an army continued to sprint in the direction of the Republicans. Naturally, the distance between the two was less than 60 metres, so evidently, it didn’t take an extended period of time for each side to come in contact with one another.

Bayonets and long sword were already positioned outwards, flintlock muskets still fired over shoulders, but instead of the almost harmonious ‘group firing’, it was all just a disorderly mess. Musket bangs exploded at irregular initials, becoming more and more desperate as time goes forward. The atmosphere eventually, sounded more alike kernels crackling into popcorn.

It was at this time both sides crashed irregularly and at full force, the aggressor taking the brunt of the potency as the wooden modifications acted as a temporary barrier. Overeager monarch soldiers transformed into fresh kababs as they skewed onto the sharp metal sticks known as swords and bayonets. Republican soldiers quickly shook them off, ready to stab another.

Blood sprayed on these frontline soldiers as they stabbed, twisted, and repeated. Some soon found it difficult to see and was forced to wipe their eyes before they could continue the onslaught. Bodies began to pile on top of one another, creating a sort of impromptu ramp into the Republican army.

Flintlock muskets still continued to fire, but at much lower intervals, as many decided to use their own, freshly manufactured bayonets to contribute to the stabbing fest. And those who chose to continue to fire ended up blowing at point blank range. Often the head was the most likely candidate, the sheer force of the gold projects ended up causing these heads to explode like a decayed watermelon.

It may seem the Republicans have the advantage, and your right— to a certain degree. Yes, the attrition rate was drawing in their favour. Yes, they had a favourable defensive position. But the sheer number, and what’s the word?…eagerness of the monarch soldiers is scary enough to induce foam in the mouth.

Republican soldiers at the front slowly dwindled, their own blood spraying on their comrades as the enemy impaled, and jerked out their swords. Griffons hauling matchlocks and flintlocks alike attempted to fill these spots as quickly as possible. Over time, this ‘small number’ of Republican deaths transformed into what most people would consider, a ‘large amount’.

It’s like a paradox, the more Monarch soldiers you kill, the higher ground they gain (due to pilling dead bodies) and thus, the larger advantage they had. In fact, the situation became so bad, that some of the Monarchs ended up jumping on top of the Republican troops, this obviously, scared the shit out of those below.

All these variables cause the freedom fighters to be pushed back, at first it’s a rulers length, but that turns into meters, and meters turns into tens of meters. And yet, as this is occurring, even more, enemies could be seen coming over the horizon, like a massive, in a distorted hoard of zombies.

At this point, Major General Shrewd Preparation knew it was practically over, the results of this conflict was already decided from the beginning. Nothing could have changed the outcome of this battle, no matter how many tricks he had his metaphorical sleeve.

And so, he hastily addresses his remaining messengers, “I want all the Flintlock musketeers to retreat, tell the others to remain behind.” He sighed, “and continue fighting, until the very bitter end.”

They nodded slowly but ran off quickly.

Not even four seconds later, a piercing whistle cuts through the rainstorm, “Flintlocks retreat! Those remaining; persist with fighting until the bitter end!”

Almost in an immediate fashion, around 400 troops evacuated from the area, carrying their weapons, and foreign blood with them. They ran as fast as they could, attempting to get away from that horrible bloodbath and achieve the sweet relief of safety.

“Sir,” one of Shrewd Preparation’s subordinates states, “don’t you think we should take you to safety?”

“I do,” he replied, but continued to look over the still hopeless ongoing battle “But sometimes, one has to take in the full picture of exactly how many deaths he is reasonable for.”

The Major paused, “So that next time,” he shook his fist, “so next time, he can fully understand exactly what he is getting into, and the consequences thereof making mistakes.”

“For when somegriffon understands what may be lost, they will do everything in their power to keep a strong grip on these items, to not let them slip away.”

He gazed back at his subordinate, “Sorry about my little rant, I needed to get that out of my system.”

He nodded towards the unknown, “Let’s go.”

As he flew away with a small gathering of minimal protection, he glances back, recognising the slaughter of his troops, and yet, their will never seemed to waver, standing in a line to create a somewhat recognisable phalanx. He swore one face of a soldier looked at him directly in the pupils, but the eyes didn’t seem to withhold anger or regret. But, confidence, and hope.

Hope that when there is a will, there is a way.

Character Sheet:

Author's Note

Well, there's the conflict that I promised.

And for those that are interested, I recently watched a movie called 'Saga of Tanya the Evil', at a convention. It was pretty goddam good.

Chapter Eighteen: Cool Explosions and Super Secret Espionage

“The police can't protect consumers. People need to be more aware and educated about identity theft. You need to be a little bit wiser, a little bit smarter and there's nothing wrong with being sceptical. We live in a time when if you make it easy for someone to steal from you, someone will.”
—Frank Abagnale

——
Chapter Eighteen: Cool Explosions and Super Secret Espionage
——
[15th of November, 989. 9:45 am]

You know when you take those super slow steps? But this ‘deceased velocity’s’ purpose is to actually abbreviate my walking style, foreshadowing the idea, of a ‘cool’ or ‘awesome’ feel to my personality, exaggerating my actual physique’s attitude?

In short, it’s to contribute my other, ‘cool’ item, that I just —literally a second a go— slammed onto my face, tinting my eyesight a tinge of black, inducing my entire peripheral perception to be of an un-illuminated shade.

Black sunglasses.

But not just any sunglasses.

Cool, sunglasses. The kind of style you’d normally think, big, buff, crazy action heroes would be wearing.

As I’m walking reasonably slowly, (with the other griffon soldiers directly in front of me, literally sprinting away as fast as possible), an incredibly mc-massive explosion occurs behind my physique. Blowing dust, particles, and wind currents in all directions. The colour orange infected the entire region, spreading its breathtaking colour on every object in the surrounding environment. Plants were uprooted, animals were spontaneously cooked, and hair waved in the ridiculously strong gale. Specifically, my hair. Nobody else's.

I never flinched and persisted with strolling —as if nothing happened— with the massive detonation behind me. To any onlookers from the outside world, I must look God-like, and most importantly—truely awesome.

As I gaze around, rotting my head in a series of directions, I notice a mix of green and black fleshy chunks falling from the sky, coating the atmosphere in a sickly emerald. Guts and other disembodied char remains landed randomly, and without reason all across the land. The fluid living inside proceeding to SPLAT, combusting into a disgusting mush.

It’s funny what someone can accomplish with a few barrels of packed gunpowder, or in other words, a couple of sticks of dynamite.

Oooop.

One fell directly on my head.

It’s slowly sliding down the side of my muzzle, leaving a green slug-like trail behind, until it graces my lips, and falls onto the Earth below. I can imagine half my face is literally covered in green, insectoid blood.

I give it a little lick.

Okay, that is..weird. Its like..no, I can’t even begin to describe it. I’ve tasted nothing like this before. Not in the entirety of my considerable life, I, however, have never tasted flies or mosquitoes before, so, it could be something similar to that. I nevertheless, de-testify that hypothesis.

I’m glad that I had it, but I don’t need to have it ever again.

Like, ever.

Now that my little monologuing session is over, I decided it was in my best interests to shout our next objective, in clear earshot of my subordinates, “ONWARDS!”

I point at a 50-degree angle towards the sky, “TO MORE EXPLOSIONS!”

I, after all, still have a few more outposts I want to blow up, the Griffon Republic needs to be cleansed of this horrible manifestation.

That, although, is a side objective in my book, as apparently these vile creatures—they incline to refer to themselves as ‘Changelings’ —, actually have something, of what I’d consider, pretty major in my book planned. That is, they plan to attack Equestrian soil.

Normally, I wouldn’t give two shits about the Equestrians, I think they’re total dumbasses, what I am concerned about, however, is the fact they’re not going to accomplish this ‘normally’. In fact, very far from that prospect to a relatively large degree. Not only are they assaulting the Capital (Canterlot) directly, but they are also utilising, as quoted by a ‘drone soldier’ we (Well, when I mean we, I really mean me) were interrogating, “W-we’re ap-pparently u-using some ne-newly changeling d-developed weapon-ns, though, no-chan-nglings have heard much about it, it’s t-totally secret, all w-we know about is the a-attack order! Honest!”

Now this ^^^, right there, really pisses me off. Not only did they steal my weapons, but they have the nerve to say that they developed it??!!! Those species of shit! I wiLL RIP OUT THEIR HEARTS AND SHOVE THEM SO FAR UP THEIR ASSES THAT THEY’L—you know what, I’m pretty much getting worked up about nothing. It’ll be pretty easy to essentially eliminate the entire species, I could literally utilise a death ray from space, that would be really easy. That’s why it’s so tempting.

And I could possibly use other techniques, like a homing missile, for example, to track and destroy them. But where’s the fun in that? I want to manually hunt them down — like a predator would do to its prey— and utterly dismantle them to pieces, even if it takes one atom at a time.

I want to thrill of catching them, painfully exhibiting mental and physical traumas, and especially, watching the leader— the one responsible for claiming all this. To bleed, and die, right before my eyes. In fact, that’s all I really care for at the moment, after all, all the other soldiers are just..soldiers (If I could call them that). All they do is follow orders, it’s not necessarily their fault for any of this.

That doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t unveil some of rage upon these ‘people’, they after all (unlike me) are pawns. Nothing more, nothing less. To be employed by someone else for your own benefit.

Honestly, it’s a bit ironic, and shameful that these insects call themselves ‘predators’, well, if that’s the case, I’m the annihilation inducing occurrence, like the meteor during the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event.

And thus, that final line of thought brought me to my next exclamation to the Republican Griffon soldiers, “AND TO THE PONY CAPITAL! TO VICTORY!”

[16th of November, 989. 12:00pm]

A clenched paw pounds on a table, leaving a considerable mark in its wake.

“FUCK!”

And the lengthy continuous string of emotional profanities…

“SHIT! HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” The unmentioned griffon leader looks at his surrounding subordinates/servicemen in a fit of rage, staring at each one intensely, until he finally, raises his fists up in the air, and shakes them repeatedly.

That is, until they slam back onto the table, seeding even larger cracks and holes withered throughout its surface.

“FUCK!”

His voice continues to rise in volume, “I DON’T WANT ANY MORE CONFLICTS TO OCCUR IN WET WEATHER, ALRIGHT?!! THIS CAN NOT HAPPEN EVER AGAIN!”

He points to the ceiling, shaking his appendage slightly, “ESPECIALLY NOT UNDER MY WATCH!”

That was pretty much a given.

“Ummm, sir,” one griffon begins, he, however, is stared down by the aforementioned person, “My apologies, I mean, President Senatus, don’t you think we should do a counterattack? We’ve been taking this war slow so far, to limit our loses. But now I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it.”

The President took a few deep breaths, in an attempt to stabilise himself, “Yes,” *breath in* “perhaps we should,” he looks back at the person just vocalising his concern, General Bridges, “What plans do you have exactly?”

General Bridges leans down, underneath the table, and grabbed a reasonably thick document out of his military-issued saddlebags, “When the war first took off, I illustrated up a stratagem for a direct assault on their Capital, but no-griffon—particularly at the time, thought much of it,” he chucks the aforementioned documentation on the table, “Frankly, we’ve been too preoccupied with attempting to win by attrition and achieve support over the Empire populous.”

He quickly flips through a couple of pages, until he lands on a drawn up battle design, clearly showcasing to all of the surrounding military servicemen his plans.

“This plan was obviously originally drawn up for the outdated weapons we possessed, so it’ll be a lot easier to inmate this scheme with musket divisions instead. Honestly, this method is a bit generous on the troop side,” he points out a few more key symbols on the parchment of paper, “But we can obviously descale them, muskets are undeniably much more reliable in achieving results. I recommend obtaining all our muskets in reserve— that is, the ones produced here. Not by Mrs Atomic Discharge. For this plan to work, it would need to utilise every resource available to us.”

Another random General in the room decided to add in a little quip, “But they also have serious weaknesses—what’s to say there are more? We aren’t aware of all the unknowns.”

“I’m going to have to agree with the Lieutenant,” General Garrison pokes his thumb at the mentioned character, “We simply can’t sustain a full assault, there’s a reason we’ve been taking this war ‘slowly’, is because our supply lines are already stretched to the limit.”

He leaned forward slightly, “Also don’t forget that the enemy loves burning everything in its wake (this is called the Scorched earth tactic), our troops literally can not achieve any more provisions, especially not from pillaging the enemy’s provinces.”

The discussion involving every character in the room lasted for another 40mins, incredibly, the votes seemed to be split. Some liked the way things were going, that—after all, the previous battle was only one defeat. While others believed the enemy had more tricks up their sleeves and needed to be taken out quickly, by a concentrated, large force.

This all boiled down to the President’s decision, his vote was essentially worth three, and with the split ties of 16 to 17, this was principally up to him. He—was to determine the fate of the entire country. By one, single decision. Which, may or may not, lead to their downfall.

His raised paw, quickly silencing the whole room, “I’ve made my decision,” he briefly paused, “I believe the best source of action, is to swiftly take them out by force. I want this done by the end of the month. The quicker, the better.”

Some of the surrounding griffons started to voice their objections, they all, however, were stared down by the President, and fellow Generals that already agreed to the prospect.

Nobody could change the Republican’s fate.

He has made his decision.

[14th of November, 989. Midnight]

The surrounding atmosphere was dark, very dark. In fact, some old 21st-century experts would vocalise it would be relatively necessary to wear night vision. Nothing would be able to penetrate through the never-ending night.

This gloominess of light appeared to narrowly infect one portion of the Canterlot Castle, an exceedingly small one at that. If people were to gaze closer at this known, anyone with enough intelligence in accordance with a squirrel has the mental capacity to realise that this ‘darkness’, is, in fact. Not normal, without a doubt, it was artificially made by the presence of dark energy, or ‘magic’, as what the locals prefer to allude to.

It’s as if…the darkness was hiding something.

The only section of the Castle affected appeared to be the guest living quarters, the, what most consider ‘first class.’ So, what’s the intention of this, unknown? Is it to slay a Nobel who may be residing in one of these bedrooms? Is it setting a trap?

No, definitely not. It’s after someone…someone, who in a few days time, would be getting married, one relatively new pony princess expressed to the world stage. Her name is Princess Mi Amore Cadenza.

‘Ah, yes,’ the one controlling the darkness thought, ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for a, very, long time. Its time to indicate the steps in my petrified scheme.’

The still, unknown entity, quickly sends a message hypothetically through a mental link, this is only possible through the use of finely controlled, and manipulated dark energy, ‘General, is the area secured?’

‘Yes,’ the high ranking soldier quickly declared back with his own mental message, ‘My queen, no guards will be coming your way, all have been apprehended and replaced by your drones. They’re now acting as forward standing outposts.’

‘Excellent,’ she responded.

The darkness seemed to spread from one location to another like a mist, it quickly descended on a particular room, with a specific occupant in mind. ‘Are you sure this is the correct room?”

‘Yes, my Queen,’ the same soldier as previously mentioned said, ‘the drones confirmed it.’

The entity simply nods her head.

Gloominess continued to spread comparatively like flowing water as it circulates into the broached room. Evidently, all this mist completely concealed itself within the space, bunched up like packing peanuts in a delivery box.

Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, or Princess Cadence for short involuntary shivered in her sleep, the average kinetic energy (or temperature) of the room dropped as the darkness arrived within this space. Dark green eyes appeared from the mist, boldly staring at the living fecal matter in front of her, these eyes contained a millennia worth of anguish and pain. That would, soon enough, be released.

Eventually, more body parts arrived from the darkness, next, a whole-fully black insectoid face with an algae green mane and crown perched upon her head, the neck, shoulders, front hooves, torso, back hooves, and finally, the hindmost tail. On top of that, holes randomly transited on different body parts, however, this mainly consisted of the legs, where they were clearly the biggest by an extreme long shot.

All of these characteristics simply scream ‘evil’, anybody gazing at her would involuntary shiver, the mix of fear and unnatural dark energy perpetuates the very living soul of any onlooker. Any smart pony would run away without even a second thought.

This little pony princess, nevertheless, was asleep.

She couldn’t run, even if she wanted to.

A somewhat pleasant (in comparison to the rest of the figure) dull green light filled the room, as the previously referred to creature lighted up her horn (dark energy controller) to activate or achieve something. The light appeared to have surrounded the princess in an almost comforting way, slightly lifting up the pony above the bed covers.

And then, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, a pink pony, disappeared in a flash.

The creature smirked, ‘That was easier than expected,’ she looks down where the princess previously inhabited, ‘you could be of use as a bargaining chip later on, down to the crystal cabins you go.’

Flames suddenly erupted from the sides of the entity, lighting the room in a massive bland of algae artificial light, and regular green. Once this inferno cleared, what stood in its place was Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, exactly the same appearance as the pony formally on the bed.

As the entity settles down in the exact position marked from the previous being, she begins to think to herself, ‘This invasion has so far, gone without a hitch. The ponies will think I’m their real princess, and I’ll easily be able to perform a surprise attack with my changelings on the wedding day. Every pony will be occupied with stuffing their throats with food and wine. No one will ever expect a thing.’

And with that last thought, she falls asleep, taking the place as a significant infiltrator in the Equestrian kingdom.

Six pristine ponies of importance sat in relative jubilation as they ate, and participated in small communication. They were attempting to enjoy themselves in the current picnic, watching the absolutely stupendous scenery, and natural ecosystem.

These ponies consisted of what many would refer to as ‘heroes’, ‘a great, never-ending friendship’, or ‘the barres of the Elements of Harmony’, this consisted of; Twilight Sparkle, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Pinkie Pie, and Fluttershy. Which, in all honesty, are comparatively stupid names.

It was at this moment a small group of butterflies decided to fly above this gathering, showcasing their extreme beauty and fragrance.

One particular pony, a white one named Rarity inclined to voice this, “Ahh!”

This sudden realisation was mildly undertaken by the small thundering footsteps in the distance, and Applejack’s (the Orange pony’s) loud slurping noises.

But she decided to continue the sentence anyway, “It is gorgeous out. Just gorgeous!”

The incoming footsteps continued to gain speed and decibels, fourth-going the conclusion that the particular person/animal was decreasing the distance relative to the group, evidently, this being came into view off all the participants, a small, baby dragon to be exact. He proceeded to ‘huff and puff’ and furthermore, fall onto his stomach, attempting to gather his breath.

His name was Spike, “Twi… light! ...I... have…” he was obviously exerting effort to convey important information, but it was almost pathetic how much he was failing at it, “Lemme just…" *deep breath*

His loud and repetitive breaths were suddenly interrupted by a loud *BLEACH*. This unwarranted sound came with a small spire of green fire, and ambiguously, a scroll.

This, however, didn’t seem to surprise any of the surrounding occupants, if anything, the purple pony, named Twilight Sparkle seemed to ignore the dragon as if he was never there, proceeded to grab the scroll with her ‘magic’, and read its contents out loud, for everybody to perceive.

The letter appeared to be from the White Princess, Ruler of the Day, Twilight Sparkle’s Mentor, Princess Celestia.

“Dear Twilight, I’m sure you’re as excited as I am about the upcoming wedding in Canterlot.” The lilac unicorn decided to quickly question the fact they were supposed to be aware of this important ceremony, creating an incredulous facade, “Wedding?”

This expression was short-lived, however, as the unicorn continued to read the rest of the letter, “I will be presiding over the ceremony, but would very much like you and your friends to help with the preparations for this wonderful occasion. Fluttershy, I would like you and your songbird choir to provide the music.”

The mentioned person voiced her enthusiasm, “Oh my goodness! What an honour!”

“Pinkie Pie, I can think of no one more qualified than you to host the reception.”

She too was ambiguously thrilled, “Hip, hip, hooray!”

Twilight continued, “Applejack, you will be in charge of the catering for the reception.”

“Well, colour me pleased as punch!”

The traction seemed to be gaining attitude, that is, everyone became more elevated by the second, nobody had any idea what was going on, but it sure seemed significant, “Rainbow Dash—“

This ‘traction’ however, was somewhat stolen as the multicoloured pony gave a large ‘yawn’ at the mention of her name—which meant she had to do work. She hates work.

Twilight just quickly continued to explain before it the conversation could become off track, “...I would very much appreciate it if you could perform a sonic rain-boom as the bride and groom complete their ‘I do’s’.”

Though, after Rainbow Dash actually listened to what she would be assigned to enact, it was obvious that she transmitted into an excited state, excited, to present her talents to the open public.

“Yes!”

“Rarity, you will be responsible for designing the dresses for the bride and her bridesmaids.”

Out off all the orders from the scroll, this appeared to please the white unicorn the most, “Princess Celestia wants me to– *mumbling*…wedding dress? For a Canterlot wedding... I, ah, ooh, oooh!” She was so flabbergasted that, she promptly passed out, manufacturing a loud *THUMP*.

“And as for you, Twilight,” (the writer addressed the person currently reading the letter), “you will be playing the most important role of all: Making sure that everything goes as planned. See you all very soon. Yours, Princess Celestia.”

The lilac unicorn still appeared…puzzled. “But… I don't understand. Who's getting married?”

Of course, the dragon surprisingly ‘on accident’ forgot to provide Twilight all the documents, despite the contents on the parchment had a high probability of causing her a heart attack, “Oh, wait! Uh, I was probably supposed to give you this one first.”

And so, Twilight continued to read, “Princess Celestia cordially invites you to the wedding of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and…” her eyes widen the size of dinner plates, almost bulging out of their sockets, her breath becomes practically stagnant as she addresses the last bit of crucial information, *gasp* “My brother?!”

Being the element of honesty, Applejack decided to voice her opinion, despite is being quite obvious that Twilight’s expression was furious, “Your brother's getting married? Congratulations, Twilight! That's great news!”

Twilight’s mindset was a swirling mess, a bunch of jumbled questions, and swear expressions all in-bedded into her brain, as a result of all this, she decided the best course of action was to go into a detailed rant, “Yeah, great news. That I just got from a wedding invitation! Not from my brother, but from a piece of paper! Thanks a lot, Shining Armor. I mean, really, he couldn't tell me personally?* She attempts to duplicate her brother’s voice with a high amount of sarcasm and exaggeration “Hey, Twilight, just thought you should know I'm making a really big decision that changes everything. Oh, never mind, you'll hear about it when you get the invitation!”

“Isn’t he aware of HOW MUCH STRESS I’M GOING THROUGH RIGHT NOW??! DO ANY OF YOU—“ she pointed at her friends, “KNOW HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO FIND THAT MARE ATOMIC DISCHARGE??! I’VE ALREADY SEARCHED EVERYWHERE IN PONYVILE! AND OF COURSE,” she waves her hooves around, “I GET NOTIFIED, THROUGH A LETTER, THAT MY BROTHER IS MARRYING WITHOUT EVEN PIROR KNOWLEDGE TO THE EVENT, OR ANYTHING ABOUT HIS FIACCEE!” She took several deep breaths to steady herself.

All her friends, appeared to be leaning slightly away from her, attempting to remove themselves from the explosive individual, nevertheless, all of them remained where they were sitting prior to the incident, one particular pony, Fluttershy, tried to defuse the situation by asking a relatively simple question, “Um-m, T-twilight? Are you okay?”

“I’m…sorry,” her eyes seemed to slightly moisturise and glisten in the mourning light, “It’s just… I had an important schedule I needed to upkeep, I had quite a lot planned, in fact, I even was going to travel to the Griffon Empire to gather more information. But this sudden drop—which could’ve been avoided if I was notified— just derailed my deadline. Not to mention that Shining Armor and I have always been so close.” Her expression merged into some resemblance of excitement as she stated the next sentence, “He’s my B.B.B.F.F!” But that all but disappeared within the next few seconds.

This one single letter appeared to decrease the overall mood of the picnic, one of the many friends attempted to comfort Twilight Sparkle, “I’m sure he’s just been busy…being the Captain of the Royal guard must take most of his time.”

“Yes,” Twilight sighed, “its probably just that.”

Character Sheet:

Author's Note

Sorry that this chapter is crap, nothing really happened in it. I guarantee you, however, that another conflict will occur eventually. Involving Atomic Discharge personally.

Chapter Nineteen: You know who sucks? Ponies, that's what.

“It's very dramatic when two people come together to work something out. It's easy to take a gun and annihilate your opposition, but what is really exciting to me is to see people with differing views come together and finally respect each other.”
― Fred Rogers
——
Chapter Nineteen: You know who sucks? Ponies, that's what.
——

“Firstly, I would like to apologise on behalf of the Republican Government for the delayed meetings with you,” a well dressed Griffon informs, “as well as combining your two congregations, due to unprecedented events, we’re on a quite tight schedule.”

Three occupants were located in a room, the griffon that spoke stood with his claws held behind his back, and straightened his spine to appear professional. He was wearing a well-tailored suit, fitted with a bronze medal which highlighted his position in the parliament, an ambassador.

The other two creatures, one a pony of Germane nationality, and the other a zebra from the United Zebra Soviets waited with patient/bored expressions as they finally were able to gather the Republic Government’s attention long enough to be hosted a meeting. Both could agree on the annoying situation they were placed in, they would’ve preferred to return back to their home country as fast as physically possible, return to their families, and their luxuries.

“It’z no problem,” the Germane mare stated, “I wouldn’t like to impede on your internal affairs.”

The unnamed Zebra simply nodded in agreement.

“On another note,” the griffon smiled, “the Council members were very surprised by your generous gifts, those vegetarian ‘sausages’ you provided,” he gestured to the Germane, then turned to the Zebra “and those..cigars you issued have certainly been interesting, I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple shipments of the stuff are ordered from your country.”

He smiled.

“Now that is out of the way,” the Griffon clears his throat, “I would like to formally introduce myself, my name is Enhance Impression. I’m aware you’ve already provided your individual names on paper, but I would like to hear it directly from you gents.”

The Zebra one clears his throat, “I am generally referred to as Валерий Романов in my native language, but you can call me Vas.”

Enhance rotates to point towards the remaining creature in the room, “And you?”

“Adviser and Diplomat Lieselotte Weiß, Germane Chancellery.”

The griffon claps his claws together, procuring a loud enough sound to shock the two other residents in the room, “Fantastic! Let's get going then, shall we?”

Diplomat Enhance Impression’s job was to contain a good image of the Griffon Republic from the rest of the world's perspective, this obviously included affairs with foreign officiates. Ensuring that all comfort was of the highest quality, the country could after all, deeply benefit from a newfound alliance. That act alone would set the scores of this civil war in stone.

His current job was to make the two diplomats as pleased as physically possible, and to a certain degree, ‘privileged’. He was required to present the Griffon Republic’s parliament, showcasing off it limited profound wonders. When I mean limited, I truly mean limited. Just after ten minutes of walking around with the two trailing behind, he had already run out of things to say. So to fill in the time, he was forced to engage in general communication.

Subsequently, after virtually one hour of showcasing the enterprise, Enhance lead the two individuals into an office, a very particular office who had the leader of the entire country, President Senatus, behind the desk. The diplomat knocked on his door.

“It’s Impression,” he spoke through the wooden entrance, “I’m here with the two foreign diplomats.”

After a brief pause, the small group could discern the words, “Come in,” from the other side.

It was at this moment that the Zebra and Germane Pony decided to gaze at one another’s eyes, they may have only met each other within the last two days, it, however, felt like they were required to work together to achieve their goals, they were, after all, a little anxious.

Enhance Impression gripped hold of the door hand, and pushed the door open at a reasonably leisurely pace. Lucky, no ‘creaking’ noises could be depicted, the atmosphere would’ve dabbled in a higher concentration of stress.

Vas and Lieselotte Weiß walked into the room behind their contour, and just kinda stood there, in front of the desk. Neither had any idea what griffon customs were like, so to remain respectful, neither did anything. Each individual only stared straight ahead out of consideration.

Well, that was until the griffon diplomat performed an exceedingly quick bow. Now they weren’t so sure, should they kneel? Would it be disrespectful not to? After less than three-seconds of processing these urgent data packets, both came to the conclusion; yes, they should bow out of courtesy.

Both bowed before the president, one in a quick a timely matter (the Germane), while the other, the zebra, undertook a deep, and very respectful bow, all the way to the floor. The two different individuals rose at different intervals.

The president spoke, “Don’t worry about any of that nonsense, we don’t do that here.”

They quickly nodded in timely succession, it looked as though their decision was incorrect. It, however, didn’t seem to upset him, so hopefully, no insults were spared.

“Impression over here,” he gestured to the right, “Said that both of you have proposals on behalf of your home country, now would be as good time as any to share them with me,” he shrugged, “how bout’ we start with, he pointed at the Germane, “you.”

“Vell, our glorious leader, Führer Aryanne Hoofler,” she started as a small stack of parchment was removed from somewhere in her clothes, “wantz to establish a research agreement,” Weiß walks up to his desk, positions the paper on-top, and slowly retreats, “including the negotiations of military technology and doctrines.”

President Senatus seemingly nods to this as he grabs onto the applicable agreement, his claws steadily flips through the pages one-by-one, each second that passed by seemed to etch a deeper and deeper frown across his facade. This was followed by several proceedings of awkward silence.

Until eventually, he broke this tranquillity, “I’m assuming your country wants to have access to our firearms,” he looks up from the document and upon the Germane’s eyes, she seemed to flinch back at this, “Am I correct?”

She blinked a couple of times to moisturise her eyes, “I cannot be too sure, the Führer only expressed interest in a possible research agreement.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he turned to the other occupant in the room, “and you?”

Vas casually walked up to the desk and deposited a similar stack to the previously mentioned paper, “Vozhd Lenin desires to buy several thousand of those muskets from the Griffon Republic for in respects, a hefty amount.”

The President’s bored eyes glanced at the first page casually but had to perform a double-take just to identify the extremely large deposit of gold printed on the sheet of paper, his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. They, nevertheless, quickly returned to normal size as he placed the document he was withholding back onto the table.

“I appreciate both your offers,” President Senatus professionally began, “We do not have the ability to spare any firearms, as all of which are being utilised in the war effort, and all technologies relating to the subject are classified in fear of the enemy obtaining the information, this decision is final.”

The two foreign diplomats retained a ‘for fuck's sake’ expression across their muzzles, this was their one mission, their one mission only; to make them accept the agreement ‘at all costs’, the fact that they failed their duty would come with ‘very harsh consequences’.

The President sighed as if he was attempting to persuade himself not to vocalise anything, “If you want, I can provide each of you with our firearm supplier. She would have the production capacity to support what you’re both looking for.”

‘I doubt she’d give them anything anyway,’ he thought, ‘she’s too loyal to the Republic, but this will hopefully straighten out any diplomatic problems in the future.’

The presence of the emotion of ‘shock’ suddenly expressed itself within the room like a bolt of lightning. The facades of all occupants within the space were utterly speechless, yet the griffon diplomat, even Enhance Impression himself couldn’t even utter a single word.

The zebra summed up everyone’s thoughts int one single word, “…what?”

Senatus simply waved him off, “Did you really think, that we, as a country, could suddenly manufacture thousands of these revolutionary weapons with a single month? Something like that would take years to accomplish, no. We had outside help.”

He seized a spare piece of paper from the side and quickly wrote down several important dot points of information with his quill. Once complete, he ripped the parchment in half and gave either side to the diplomats.

President Senatus motioned towards to paper, “There are her company’s details along with a relatively brief description of her appearance, admittedly it’s not much, but hopefully that'll be enough for contact in the near future,” he smiled.

“Well!” He clapped his claws together, “Now that is out of the way, I’d like to return back to my current workflow.”

These next few minutes of walking back down the hallways, towards their retreats were spent in utter silence, each member was too shocked to properly process the information from the previous meeting. Enhance Impression surprised that their leader would give up such an important source of technology, Lieselotte Weiß was shocked for the fact an individual could achieve such greatness, and Vas because he came all the way to this country for effectively nothing.

Neither the zebra or pony was looking forward to travelling back to their respective capitals, alerting their superiors of the new developments, and then travelling to a new specific location to deliver this inventor the new agreement, one where it would hopefully benefit their country in the long run.

Admittedly, the disturbance of the situation did eventually start to wither away, and it was at this particular moment the Germane decided to absorb the information on the paper given to her. Only for her shock to come back blowing at full force, once she registered that the description described on this piece of paper matched exactly to the pony she encountered on the way to the Republican Palace.

“Scheisse!”

“Here you go.”

A senior militarily ranked griffon officer claws over a shoddily manufactured matchlock musket to each new voluntarily recruited soldier. Every firearm that he provided seemed to be slightly different from the last, some looked of merger quality, while others—well, let’s just say it appeared as though it went through a blender.

The officer continued to walk alongside the crude line of griffons, and gave another musket to the next person, “Here.”

None of these griffons had ever been in the army, the only reason why these soldiers really volunteered in the first place was for the ‘honour’, ‘glory’ and most of all, an easily earned income. All withheld the belief that this war was practically won, after all, ever since the country has somehow gotten these ‘muskets’, they haven’t lost a single battle. Not a single one.

This is in actuality false, we know that they’ve lost at least one battle, but the populous doesn’t need to be aware of that fact.

“Take this.”

Though in the minds of every soldier receiving a musket, most of their hopes and dreams were instantaneously crushed. All had heard of how great, and powerful these muskets were, but the ones they were presented with was quite the opposite. They looked underwhelming, not to mention badly made. What the heck were the higher-ups thinking?

Some of the soldiers actually have seen a musket previously, whether this be through parades in the streets, or a veteran showcasing his weapon. What they saw, nevertheless, didn’t appear anything like the ones they were currently receiving.

“Here you go.”

One griffon that just got provided his musket was aware of this, and as such, asked a question relating to the specific topic, “Sir, why do these look so different from the other muskets?”

The officer, however, just ignored him, and continued on his merry way, giving out muskets as he went along. If he ran out, a lower-ranked soldier simply sprinted up to him and delivered more. Usually, this was between six to ten firearms at once.

Evidently, he finished giving out these muskets to the gathering he was in charge of (one hundred), and issued their current orders from the higher-ups, “In one hours time, we march out to the Empire’s capital. You have that long to get used to your current weapons, It’s going to take several days, so along the way, you'll train during resting periods.”

He brought up his own firearm from his side, “Before any of this happens, let me quickly teach you how to reload and fire your weapon.”

[17th of November, 989. 10:32 am]