The Arcturiad: Long Flight

Chapters

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

Prologue

It was a summer evening in Equestria when the griffon fell from the sky. A fragrant breeze was sweeping across the rolling plains that surrounded Canterlot, creating a swaying ocean of emerald green. Ponies were working in the vast farms that dotted the countryside; content to be away from what they assumed was the hustle and bustle of the city. As they finished their daily work, the clouds above them were anvils upon which the sun cast her salmon rays. The ponies across the countryside looked forward to their evening meals, and the sweet release of sleep that would ease their aching muscles.

In the distance, the griffon burst from the crags that separated the peaks of the Foal Mountains, wings straining with exhaustion, body riddled with cuts and scrapes. As she surveyed the land below, her hear heart soared with joy. Tears began to form in her eyes and a contented little whimper escaped her beak. After what she could only assume was months of travelling, she had finally arrived in the heartland of Equestria. The Griffon’s weary eyes turned now towards the dirty satchel she carried, buried in her mottled feathers. Now, she only needed to find audience with Princess Celestia, lest her journey be for naught.

The Griffon’s wings shot with pain, and the steady flapping began to falter. She screamed in panic, and fell out of the sky like a dart. A family of farming ponies was enjoying their dinner in their dining room when they heard the audible thump outside their house. What had been lively conversation before had turned into deafening silence. Almost thirty seconds had passed before something in one of the haystacks outside began to groan in pain.

Being the type who enjoyed looking formidable, the farmer grabbed the rifle that was hanging by the rickety door of the house and slowly stepped outside. What had been a neat haystack only a minute before was now a scattered pile of bone-dry straw with an unconscious griffon planted squarely in the center. The Farmer, noticing the horribly mangled wings, yelled for his wife to call an ambulance. His wife, who was standing in the doorway, gasped before running inside.

The farmer’s young colt trotted up beside his now distressed looking father
“Pa? Who’s dat” he asked in the way that children ask questions when you specifically want them to stay out of something.

The colt began pacing around the haystack, craning his neck in order to get a better line of sight on the injured griffon. The farmer grabbed the colt and yanked his son beside him. “Get yer ass over here boy.” He snapped as he forced the colt to sit down. The colt, still quivering with excitement, repeated his question. “Well? Who’s dat pa?”

“Dunno son, looks like a gal who’s had one too many wet ones tonight.” The farmer replied a concerned look set in his stone grey face.

“She looks awfully scratched up, Pa.”

“I know, that’s why yer Ma’s getting’ an ambulance.”

“Does that mean that the soldiers need to come again?”

The farmer thought for a moment, scratching his scruffy chin. The war with the Changelings had siphoned doctors from all over Equestria. Even out there, where the wheat stalks during harvest season formed golden oceans as large as the most sprawling cities, the doctors were shipped to the front. Instead of curing the local children and dealing with their incessant wailing, they treated soldiers riddled raw with gunfire wounds. They would all have traded the world to have returned to the children.

“No one else who can come son.” The farmer replied.

“Are you sure?” The little colt whined

“Fraid’ not pal.”

It was on the cusp of night now; the brightest of the stars jubilantly began their sparkling performance in the dusty sky. Crickets joined in accompaniment, flinging the most graceful of melodies into the evening air. The sun was so low, that one could position themselves in such a way that even the most distant haystacks would block out the crimson orb. The farmer and his son sat together, both to keep an eye on the unconscious griffon, and to appreciate the resplendent beauty that the evening had bestowed upon them.

The Farmer’s wife walked up and sat down beside them.
“The base is gonna send a medic over, see what they can do.” She said, fixated on the evening sky.

“Good” The Farmer grunted in reply.

Blissful silence passed among the three, and for a few seconds, the air was filled with the sounds of night.

A large groan from the griffon broke them from their trance.
“Shouldn’t we get er’ inside?” The wife asked her husband.

“Aye, we should probably do that” the farmer said, a little embarrassed that he had let the griffon lay injured in the prickly pile of hay.

The couple hoisted the griffon up on their backs, the dirty satchel slipping from her shoulders.

“Careful with er’ wings! They’re beaten up awful bad.” The Farmer exclaimed.

“I know! I’m tryin’ my best!” his wife shot back

The couple had quite the ordeal hauling the unconscious griffon to their house. They first had to conquer the steps leading up to their porch, with the little colt having to keep their fragile cargo from slipping off their backs. Getting the griffon through the door while walking two abreast was particularly difficult, the husband and wife performed some less-than-graceful maneuvers to fit. They lay the griffon on their patchwork couch belly down, as to avoid disturbing the damaged wings.

The little colt had picked up the satchel, out of which fell a resplendently decorated scroll, emblazoned with borders of jet black and deep red. As the parchment unfurled in the colt’s hooves, a golden seal could be seen dominating the bottom, placed next to an elaborate signature in ornate gold ink. The body of the text matched the jet black of the borders, but what the scroll said, the colt would never know. He had been taught the basics of farm work, not the basics of books.

“Hey Ma? What does this say?” The colt asked inquisitively.
“Junior! What did I say about going through other creatures’ belongi-” She stopped, her head cocked with intrinsic curiosity.

She handled the scroll with the delicacy that parents use with their children. The scroll was of magnanimous importance, that she could tell, but her rudimentary reading skills were not enough to decipher the flowing cursive that dominated the text. The Farmer’s wife gently rolled the scroll back up, and replaced it inside the satchel. She brought the satchel over to the griffon and set it down beside her slumbering body.

“Let’s all leave that alone now, ya hear?” she practically whispered.

It was in the dead of night, the colt had long been ushered into bed, dreary eyed and exhausted from a lengthy day of play with the local children. The farmer and his wife sat at the table, mugs of freshly brewed coffee sustaining their consciousness, hoping and praying that the ambulance would come soon. It seemed as if their prayers were answered, as they heard the steady clopping of a stallion driving a carriage. Both shot up, and rushed to the door.

“Good evening Harvester.” A unicorn officer wearing green military fatigues got off the back of the wagon, a pony with a medic’s armband around his leg followed closely behind.
“Awfully inconvenient for you to call at this hour.”

“Awfully inconvenient for a griffon to drop into my front yard at this hour” The Farmer replied.

“Indeed.” The officer growled, clearly miffed at the fact that he was out so late at night. “Where is the griffon?” he inquired.

The farmer jerked his head towards the couch. The officer nodded towards the medic, who began to make his way towards the sleeping griffon.

The officer let a deep breath go.
“I was going to bring this by you tomorrow” the officer started “but since I had to come here anyway, I figured I would give you this now.” The officer pulled a yellow envelope out of his satchel.

“I’m sorry Harvester.” He said formally
The farmer held the envelope in his hooves, eyes trying to burn it away.

“It’s ok captain, he’s been missing for just over a year now, we figured we’d get the news sooner or later.” He said, voice quaking with grief.

“I trust you know he died in service to his country, no better way for a stallion to pass.” The officer said, emotionless.

The farmer began to weep uncontrollably, eyes releasing torrents of salty tears. His spirit was as broken as a mirror dropped onto a stone floor, only reflecting back pieces of the observer. He threw the letter onto the ground and collapsed into a violently convulsing mess of tears, stress, and dirt. The wife avoided the letter like the plague, only looking to confirm her suspicions before throwing herself onto the floor beside her husband.

The medic returned to the side of the officer, standing uncomfortably close as to be heard over the couple’s anguished wailing.

“It’s nothing serious, Captain. Her wings are broken and she’s pretty scratched up, but there aren’t any major internal injuries that I can see. Gonna hurt to high hell to set those bones, though.”

“Good.” The officer replied. “Get her into a stretcher and we’ll take her to the infirmary back at base.”

“Yes sir.” The medic left the house to get the stretcher.

The officer returned his gaze to the grieving couple
“As soon as the war concludes, your family will have access to all the benefits your son’s service entitles you to.”

“We know Captain.” The farmer’s wife said looking up from the now tear-stained letter.

“Then I have no further business here, I hope you both have a pleasant night.”

The officer shut the door quite loudly on his way out, re-boarding the medical carriage now with the unconscious griffon face down on a stretcher. The farmer and his wife cried themselves to sleep that night, eventually giving in to the demands of their physically and emotionally drained bodies. They knew they had two things to prepare themselves for in the morning, telling their little colt the news about his brother, and packing the next shipment of hay for the war effort.

The officer was tired, pissed, and his butt hurt. He was getting ready for bed, pajamas on and teeth brushed, when the phone rang with the farming couple’s request for a medic. Couldn’t they have waited until morning? It was only some broken bones for Celestia’s sake. He glared at the now dark farmhouse, which was disappearing into the gossamer black of the night. The medic noticed his officer’s glum complexion.

“Something wrong Captain?” the medic asked

“Damn right something’s wrong!” the officer shot back “We’re out here in the middle of nowhere at some ungodly hour, taking care of some prick who couldn’t hold their liquor!”

“With all due respect, sir.” The medic quietly said. “Bones, especially hollow ones found in wings, need to be set almost immediately. We should be glad those farmers called us.”

The officer was noticeably taken aback by the medic’s response, and a long silence followed. The only sounds were the crickets chirping and cobblestones clanking against the wheels of the wagon.

“We should check that bag.” The medic stated to his officer

“Pardon?”

“We should check the bag, for ID. Maybe we can get an idea about family members to contact.”

“Oh. Right.” The officer used magic to pick up the satchel and haphazardly dumped the contents onto the floor of the wagon.

The scroll was the first thing to fall out; the metal ends heavily clanking against the wooden floor of the cart. Several grimy oat rations, and a tattered brown water pouch followed it.

“What the hell is this?” the officer said, still visibly frustrated at the events of the night.

“Dunno” the medic shrugged “Give it here, I’ll check it out”

As the officer handed the scroll over, a glint of light from their weak oil lamp reflected off of the gold leaf on the ends of the scroll. The medic unfurled the scroll and began reading. He recoiled with a sharp hiss; dropping the scroll to the floor and watching it ravel itself back up.

“What!? What the hell was that for!?” yelled the officer, who had nearly fallen out of the cart at the medic’s reaction.

“That damn thing is for Princess Celestia! We’re in deep shit captain, reading such an important message like that!” The medic was now breathing heavily, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“Calm down!” the officer shot back “What did it say?”

“I dunno! I didn’t read past the ‘An urgent message for Princess Celestia, ruler of the great land of Equestria.’”

“Damn….”

“Is everything alright sir?” the stallion pulling the cart inquired. “If you need me to stop for anything, you can just ask.”

“No! No!” the officer replied. “Just get us back to base as soon as possible!”

“Right sir!” the stallion replied, going at a slightly faster pace than before.

The cart was dead silent for the remainder of the ride. The driver blindly followed the road, as the feeble oil lamp mounted to the cart could only penetrate a few meters into the night's inky blackness. The silvery moon was well above them, past midnight. As the cart crested a hill, the base’s watch fires could be seen casting a yellowish glow. The cart passed through the hastily made barricade without difficulty, and came towards the brightly lit courtyard. Despite the late hour, soldiers were bustling about in a sporadic fashion.

As the cart ground to a halt, the officer signaled for several ponies to come over. “We’ve got an injured griffon, take her to the infirmary!”

Like a swarm, six ponies picked up the stretcher and began bearing it over to the large domed tent that housed the base’s sick and wounded. The officer placed the satchel on the end of the stretcher and began to walk away. He would take care of that in the morning. He didn’t want to deal with high-level intelligence that late at night. Four delirious doctors joined the crowd, clearly miffed at their good night’s sleep being interrupted.

The infirmary was almost empty, it’s only occupant being a soldier sleeping off a nasty cold that couldn’t be trusted to quarantine itself. Many of the leading officers at the base debated the usefulness of an infirmary, especially with their location being so far away from the front. The infirmary’s newest patient was laid on a cot, and the doctors got to work. It took around an hour to get the griffon’s wings set properly.

“We’re lucky she’s unconscious.” One doctor remarked to his colleague

“Why’s that?”

“The cost of the anesthetic would bankrupt Equestria.” he chuckled

The other doctor took a more somber tone
“Basically anything is gonna bankrupt Equestria, especially with this war on.”

The griffon’s wings were casted and bandaged, and she was left in the stretcher on her cot. The doctors dispersed, eagerly wanting to get back to bed. The satchel and its contents were placed on the nightstand next to the cot, no-one taking notice of it. The griffon slept; content to have the rest. For now, her body sunk into the springy cot, eyes clamped shut in sweet, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 1

The most striking thing about Canterlot on a hot summer day was the way the gold-topped spires glinted in the noon sun. Walking around the streets, one could completely forget the grinding calamity of war that plagued Equestria. The occasional uniformed soldier milled around with the endless amount of ponies. It was market day, with merchants barking advertisements at unassuming pedestrians. Royal Guards stood with the pretense of watching for changeling spies, but were simply there to occasionally clear the streets and allow carts and carriages passage through the crowded market square.

A train was pulling into the grand station in the center of the great city. A grey steam locomotive pulled wooden freight cars that groaned with cargo of all kinds up to a rickety loading dock. Porters and teamsters immediately went to work; opening the doors and unloading the cargo before the engineer could even get up from the simple folding stool he had set up in the control room of the engine. An earth pony stood in one of the cars, gathering his various trunks and suitcases. He was an officer dressed in full military regalia, not just the common fatigues of a soldier on leave. The pony set his belongings carefully on the platform, hopped down from the car, and expectantly observed the station around him.

The earth pony had a coat as grey as the leaden sky on an overcast day. His cutie mark, a pair of interlocking gears, sat squarely in the middle of his flank. He stood tall, not a slouching bone in his body, and had perpetually raised eyebrows above squinting eyes. He was, as most ponies were in those days, unbearably cynical. Only an oppressive siege of insurmountable evidence and the endless battering of good argument were able to leave a dent on the citadel of his suspicions. He felt an ever-increasing sense of annoyance as he shifted his gaze to the watch near his hoof.

“I swear” The pony muttered, “The train’s the only thing that runs on time in Canterlot.”

His eyes snapped to a splotchy brown pony holding a sign cardboard sign still dripping wet with black tar-like paint. Upon it, the large, bold letters read:
“COLONEL GIZMO TECH”

Gizmo released a sigh of relief and began hauling his belongings towards the teamster, who rushed to meet him.

“So you’s the colonel?” The teamster asked, the words leaking through the gaps in between his sparse teeth.

“Yeah.” Gizmo replied. “I suppose it was wishful thinking that the Brigadier General would send a military escort my way.”

“Naw, sir! You was lucky you got me!” the teamster threw in a toothy grin that had far too much gum and too little tooth.

“Alright then, better make the best out of it. Mind helping me with these bags?”

“No problem sir!”

They loaded the baggage onto the cart and the teamster hitched himself. Gizmo was about to climb in when the teamster let out a sharp whistle.

“Hey, I get paid before every ride.”

“Your fare hasn’t already been paid?”

“Naw, your boss said you was gonna pay me.”

Gizmo rolled his eyes, money was already tight, and much of the payroll budget for officers had been transferred for the upkeep of raw recruits. He sat down and opened his untouched coat, the medals and buttons shined to mirror-like perfection, retrieving a small leather coin pouch. Ten bits were traded between the two, and the teamster’s tone became much more amicable.

“Alright, you hop up now. I’m supposed to take you straight to your hotel.”

Gizmo climbed onto the wagon. There were no seats or cushions, so he balanced himself precariously on one of his larger trunks. The cart pulled forward with a jolt, almost making Gizmo fall from his makeshift perch.

“You alright back there?” the teamster asked. “I recon I move a little too fast for some of my passengers.”

“I’m fine.” Gizmo replied briskly

The crowd of ponies flowed around the cart like a multi colored sea, ripples being created with every single turn of a head. The teamster hawked obscenities that could make even a military stallion like Gizmo squirm, and a path through the madness of the rush-hour crowd formed. They got out of the station without too many difficulties and were soon under the comforting blanket of a blue sky. Surprisingly, the streets were actually less packed than the inside of the station.

The warmth of the sun blanketed the ponies in the street. It was the kind of heat that wrapped its arms lovingly around all under the open sky. It allowed the wearing of the loose, trendy garments of summer. As Gizmo was carried down the street he looked around, eyes drawn towards the vibrant colors of the stalls and storefronts. The blatant resplendence of Canterlot caused a knot to curl up in the base of his stomach. Their flamboyant nonchalance grated against every part of Gizmo’s being.

He knew that the ponies here, unless some calamity befell the Equestrian Armed Forces, would never need to worry about a trip to the killing fields of Olenia, the homeland of the deer that the Changelings had invaded a few years prior, where the bloody alleyways Vaverfront would claim thousands just for one side to gain a devastated tenant or bombed-out bunker. The ones with wealth abundant enough to live here would never need to worry about the draft, even if their names were called up. Their friends in high places would simply withdraw the draft notices, often without any sort of justification.

Gizmo himself had been stationed in the area surrounding Vanhoover, a city that had once been a bustling center for commerce and innovation on the eastern border of Equestria. The changeling threat had always loomed out there; the city was one of the closest to Queen Chrysalis’ lands. But even after the attack on Canterlot that had so nearly toppled all of Equestria, the ponies of Vanhoover remained uncannily apathetic. For them, their country’s near demise had simply been a headline that had only lasted a few days. Nopony cared until the shells as dense as cinderblocks began to fall like deathly rain from the ashen grey skies.

Now, Vanhoover was a husk of its formal self. Only soldiers made camp within the dilapidated buildings and murky sewers of city. Combat between the Changelings and Equestrians was only a few miles outside, gunshots and explosions could be heard at all hours of the day. Personnel of both sides were only able to slip into dreamless, crushing sleep out of pure exhaustion. The sweeping fields outside the city were flat as a plate, perfect for the airbase that Gizmo worked at.

The teamster turned his head back to look Gizmo up and down, perhaps skeptical of his motives “How did the war get you?” he asked

Gizmo sighed. “It didn’t. The military paid for college. It wouldn’t have been easy on the pocketbooks otherwise.”

“I see.” The teamster turned back towards the road in front of him.

Gizmo had graduated early, not because he had some drastically higher degree of intelligence than the rest of his peers, but because the Changelings had just invaded Olenia and the military was already understaffed. He was immediately plopped in a research lab stuffed with scientists and engineers of all walks of life. Their purpose was to bring mechanical flight to the Royal Equestrian Air Force, so pegasi could be distributed amongst the other branches of the military.

They succeeded in producing the first fighters, thanks in no small part to the many sleepless nights Gizmo spent alone in the library. There had been a large jamboree in celebration of their momentous feat; every single pony in a leadership position had attended. The music was playing so loud that nopony could hear the air raid sirens blaring outside the base. When the bomb punched through the roof and detonated in the middle of the dance floor, those that weren’t immediately incinerated were crushed under a mountain of rubble. There were no survivors.

After the condolence letters were sent and state funerals concluded, Gizmo was commissioned as an officer and given several promotions. He had decided not to attend the party that night, instead he was reading in his room when the alarm was called. There was nopony else alive with the experience needed to keep the airplane research moving forward. During his brief time in officer training, he was informed that he was the first earth pony to hold a leadership position within the army. This surprised him, but he was too busy dodging the open hostility and the steely looks of other new officers to take much pride in his accomplishment.

The town passed the cart by in a myriad of colors, each individual detail clamoring for attention. The pastel of the shopping districts gave way to a dirty brown, as the cart began to drive deep into the heart of the slums. There was almost nopony out on the streets. Ponies that were trudging about on the dirty cobblestones hid their faces and rushed past the cart, the sight of Gizmo’s crisp uniform draining any of the remaining color from their faces. Gizmo shifted in his seat, bringing one of his suitcases close to his chest.

“How far away is the hotel?” Gizmo asked the teamster

“Oh, taint far from ere’. Yer boss said he wanted me to bring you somewhere that was close to the recruitment office.”

The cart stopped in front of a rickety brown building with all the windows above the first floor barricaded with crude wood planks. On the first floor, the windows were so clouded with dirt that they obscured the entire interior from the gaze of one attempting to peek inside. Beams supporting a shambled overhanging roof were detailed with faded paint, fine depictions of flowers and grass claimed by the relentless battering of the elements. The teamster stopped suddenly, inertia carrying the majority of Gizmo’s luggage, and Gizmo himself, to the front of the cart.

“This is where I leave you, colonel.” The teamster said “I hope you have yerself a nice evening.”

The two unloaded the cart without exchanging any more words. With a quick nod, the teamster was off disappearing behind one of the brown corners. Gizmo dragged his luggage to the patio of the hotel. Above his head, a dated sign depicted a yellowed shield with the words “The Steadfast Guardsman” under it. Gizmo slowly opened the door, the rust on its hinges screaming in resistance

On the inside, the hotel was no more impressive. The dirty windows only let a marginal amount of light into what one could assume used to be a grand reception area. A gilded chandelier hung from the rotting ceiling, all traces of luster stripped from the gold leafing. Ornate oil lamps with stained glass shades sat gloomily in the corners, adorned with sheets of lacey spider-web. The tablecloths and rugs were either rolled up and covered with flimsy paper or scattered around the room, moth eaten.

In the front of the room, a stallion was behind an aged oak clerk’s desk. He was ancient, predating the cobwebs and ruin of the hotel. His mane was overrun with grey hairs and revealed sporadic bald patches. A youthful glint was smothered in his deeply sunken, baggy eyes. There was an old ledger in front of him, bound with a heavy iron clasp. He looked up and saw Gizmo standing in the doorway, his eyes widening in horror. “Oh please!” he screamed “Don’t send me out there again! I’ve already done my service but I lost my release certificate! Please! Please!” he began weeping profusely.

Gizmo rolled his eyes and trotted over to the stallion.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m not from the recruitment office.”

The stallion still wept, he was now shaking violently. Gizmo gently put his hoof on the stallion’s shoulder. “You’re having a panic attack, it’s alright. It’s alright.” He softly crooned. “Breathe with me.” He began taking deep breaths, raising and lowering his hoof in a methodic fashion.

The two sat on the floor for a while, the stallion taking shaky breaths along with Gizmo. Eventually, the sobbing subsided, the old stallion wiping his bloodshot eyes.

“Thank you for that.” the stallion said. “The day I got drafted was the worst day of my life. I honestly think it would be better if I had dropped dead on the spot.”

Gizmo recognized the detached look in his eyes. That awful stare where soldiers home from war get caught in the unmatchable horror of the past, with the unending trepidation that one might need to go back. Gizmo handed a small metal canteen over and after a few sips, the stallion was finally able to calm down. He pulled himself off of the floor and leaned against the clerk’s desk. “Haven’t had booze that good since before the war” he mused. “Where did you get it?”

“I’ve been saving up my emergency rations. They’re supposed to be for before battles, but I didn’t see much combat out there.”

“Lucky bastard.” The stallion muttered, “I never got why they gave officers emergency rations. Haven’t met one yet that’s had to fire a gun.”

“Neither have I.” Gizmo replied. “To be honest with you, I’ve never actually seen a changeling before.”

The old stallion grumbled at that before pushing himself up off the floor. Despite the short distance between him and the desk, it looked like he was trying to climb a mountain. His face was contorted in intense concentration, with tiny winces of pain whenever he took a weighted step. The old stallion had now collected himself, and opened his ledger. “Now uh… How can I help you?”

“I need a room.” Gizmo replied

“Well good news for you, I got just one left.”

Bits changed hooves and the old stallion dropped a rusty key onto the dusty table. “There you go” the stallion said “Room’s on the second floor, they’re numbered so you should be able to find it pretty easily.”

“Thanks.” Gizmo replied

“Don’t mention it.” The stallion sat down and began reading a newspaper, ignoring Gizmo as he ascended the stairwell with his copious amounts of luggage.

As soon as he reached the top of the stairs, Gizmo let out a cacophonous sneeze. He waved his hoof around in a futile attempt to dispel the specks of dirt that were drifting about in the air. The hallway around him was decorated with ornate and intricate, albeit dirty paintings. An assortment of dried up and withering potted plants sat on antique tables. Gizmo counted the room numbers as he made his way down the hall. Brown tarnish was slowly enveloping the gold of the number plaques.

Finally, Gizmo reached his room. He had to jiggle the key for a considerable amount of time before the lock was willing to open. The room was relatively tidy, all things considered. A layer of dust coated everything in sight. He placed all his suitcases on the bed and opened a large trunk. A few shirts were moved to reveal a brown folder. Gizmo opened the folder and pulled out a flimsy letter.

“Colonel Tech.” the letter began. “The Ministry of War is pleased to inform you that the recent passing of Major General Lightwing has opened an opportunity for your promotion. We are allowing for three weeks of leave from your current post so that you can travel to our central recruitment office in Canterlot. There, you will be evaluated against other candidates for promotion. Enclosed with this letter is the necessary paperwork you will need to complete in order to submit an application. We hope this correspondence finds you in good health and eagerly await your arrival.”

Scanning through the letter, Gizmo found the address and time he was supposed to arrive. He looked up at the clock, which was miraculously still working. “Shit. Have to be there in 20 minutes” he muttered before collapsing on the bed. He allowed himself to lie there for the briefest of times, drawing abstract shapes from the splotches of mold on the ceiling. He peeled himself off of the bed and dusted off his uniform. He had to dig through the pile of luggage to find the briefcase he packed with all of the necessary paperwork. After he undid the clasp, he made sure that there were no unnecessary crinkles on any of the papers and slipped the invitation into the envelope next to a copy of his birth certificate.

He slipped his briefcase into his saddlebag and set off. The stallion at the desk had disappeared and an “out to lunch” sign had taken his place. Gizmo stepped out onto the deserted street and made his way to the street corner. Other than the odd pedestrian that scampered to get out of his way, Gizmo proceeded without interruption. The street seemed to get dirtier as he approached the gilded doors of the recruitment office. Around the front of the building, the hedges were high and neatly landscaped. The only way to actually see into the compound was through the open wrought iron gate.

Two marble statuettes of the Equestrian princesses flanked the doorway, staring down at Gizmo as he passed through. Inside the recruitment office, there was a flurry of activity. Bureaucrats and soldiers alike mingled together as the stomach of the war effort digested its food. He made his way past dozens of tall filing cabinets containing the name and status of every single pony drafted and their assigned posts. An army of typists hammered away on their typewriters, futilely attempting to keep up with the overwhelming amount of paperwork.

Gizmo found Brigadier General Lightningcloud’s office at the very back of the building. In front of it, there was an assistant’s desk with a largely uninterested mare behind it. She gestured to Gizmo, signaling that he could enter the office. The Brigadier General was a large, gruff looking pegasus with a significant amount of gravel to his voice. His coat was stone grey, and he had a black mane. He sat hunched over his desk, poring over the multifarious papers that covered it in a lake of egg white.

“Well Colonel, I suppose you’re here to turn in the application. Like we don’t have enough paperwork already.”

“You know me sir, just here to make life easier.” Gizmo replied sardonically

“Just give me the damn papers, Colonel.” Lightningcloud growled.

“Your wish is my command, your excellency.” With that, Gizmo gently laid the papers out on the desk and took a deep bow.

Gizmo turned to leave before Lightningcloud stopped him. “Just a second Colonel, I haven’t dismissed you yet” he sneered. “I just thought you would like to know how unlikely it is that you are going to receive this promotion. Nopony has ever skipped a rank before.” He let out a brief chuckle. “Plus, I hear the advancement exam is the hardest it’s ever been this year.”

“Well then” Gizmo replied “I guess that’s just some nice personal leave time for me.”

“Not quite, I’ve been looking for an officer to perform a civilian interview. A griffon almost died from exhaustion, dropped out of the sky faster than some of your first flying machines.” Lightningcloud chuckled again “She claims to be a messenger, but she isn’t on any of our payrolls. The doctors and I are inclined to think it’s insanity, so it’s pretty much a formality at this point.”

“Do I really have to have to?” Gizmo groaned. Vanhoover had been a major point of entry for messengers and spies. Whenever somepony claimed to be a messenger and weren’t on the list, they were given an interview. As an acting officer, it usually fell on Gizmo’s shoulders to conduct the interview and determine whether the messenger was legitimate or not.

“I’m so sorry to inconvenience you Tech!” the general spat tartly and leaned forward in his chair “It’s something that needs to be done, for your country.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” Gizmo hissed back

Lightningcloud let out a smug grin and resumed sitting nonchalantly in his chair. “It’s above my pay grade. Maybe you’ll be able to know what that feels like someday.”

Before Gizmo could retort, there was a knock on the door. A unicorn carrying a gargantuan stack of papers entered the room. “General, fresh casualty reports from the front.”

“Sweet Celestia, can those guys learn how to run a war? I’m getting sick of writing condolence letters.”

Lightningcloud slumped back and took a deep breath. He looked at the clock on his wall, and then looked at Gizmo. “Colonel, I suppose you have enough time for that interview before the written exam this afternoon. Dismissed.”

With that, Gizmo was ushered out of the office, flabbergasted.

Chapter 2

Clouds had begun to occupy the sky above Canterlot. Ponies across the city looked forward to the impending showers that would soon wash the trash off the streets and into the sewers, but they made a concentrated effort to make their ways to places that would protect them from the downpour. Gizmo had to drag himself, what he thought was, far too many blocks to get in the vicinity of the hospital where the Griffon was being held. As hospitals go, the building was completely bland and monolithic. Grey, concrete walls held up a flat and featureless roof. Ambulances were parked in the entrance rotunda, mostly sitting idle.

Gizmo’s heavy hoofsteps carried him through the large entrance and into the pristine and sanitized lobby. The air was stagnant and ponies sat rooted to their chairs, waiting for their appointments. Gizmo made a beeline for the front desk, pushing past ponies waiting in line “Excuse me, excuse me.” The clerk was a mare with deep, dark circles under her eyes.

“Sir, you’re going to have to wait in line like everypony els-“

“I’m here to interview a griffon, she has broken wings.” Gizmo grabbed the lapel of his coat and showed it to the clerk, the badge signifying his rank glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

The mare rolled her eyes. “Of course sir” she sighed, “I’ll get you back there right away.”

She trotted back to the tall bookshelves and pulled a large tome from the bottom shelf. After a few minuets of flipping through pages, she looked back up at Gizmo.

“She got in around two days ago, on the fourth floor, room 456.”

‘Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it.” The mare growled.

Gizmo pushed his way past a nurse that had come into the waiting room to retrieve a patient. He never liked hospitals, the only reason they ever existed is because something was wrong. Walking down the grimy halls, the pained groans of the sick and injured did nothing to assuage his discomfort. He stopped a few of the staff to ask for directions and then continued on his way. When Gizmo reached the fourth floor of the hospital, a beleaguered unicorn in a stained coat stopped him.

“Colonel Tech?” the unicorn asked, “My name’s Doctor Brightmane, I’m the psychotherapist for this hospital and I’ll be sitting in on your interview with the patient.”

Gizmo shrugged. He didn’t expect the interview to last more than five or ten minutes, they never did. He followed Doctor Brightmane down a long corridor. Padded rooms with barred doors lined either side. The Doctor made a comment about how their mental health ward was one of the most “humane and dignified” in the nation. Patients were doing everything from rattling the bars to rocking themselves softly in the corners of their cells. The shrieks and incessant giggling put Gizmo on edge. He kept his head low and made sure to avoid eye contact with everypony.

As the two reached the end of the hallway, Doctor Brightmane opened the last door and stepped aside. He gestured for Gizmo to enter. Once he was in the room, he saw a Griffon that had been stuffed into a pristine white jumpsuit. A solitary book was propped open in front of her, and a dirty food tray was neatly placed next to it. She looked up at Gizmo with sudden relief, the tension meting from her poised muscles. She stood up and snapped to attention, bringing a claw up to her beleaguered face.

“I assume that I am talking to an emissary from the great Celestia herself!” she bellowed

Despite her bandaged wings, she seemed to be in good shape. The ghost of absolute exhaustion ran over her eyes, dragging those bags down her face. There was a staunch determination seeded in the way her eyes narrowed, like a sniper looking down their scope towards a target. Her legs were thin and shaking like a mutt stranded on the frigid streets, and looked like they could barely hold her body off the ground.

Gizmo winced at the griffon’s sudden outburst; a headache had manifested itself in his temples. He had to sit down and rub them vigorously. After a few seconds he stood back up. He met that determined gaze with one of disinterest, and began thinking of what he was going to do when he got out of that bastille of a hospital.

“Alright, lets get this over with.” He groaned

He placed himself directly in front of the griffon and dropped a clipboard and pen heavily onto the floor.

“Name?” He asked

“Griselda Featherbolt” she answered

“Place of origin?”

Griselda looked over at Doctor Brightmane, who was leaning against the wall of the room fidgeting with his ring of keys. It was that kind of fidget where concentration was torn away by the inner churnings of the mind, where absentmindedness robs the subject of all amount of essential thought.

Griselda looked as if words were imprisoned in her beak. Beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead, traveling along the contour lines on her face, and falling onto the soft, padded floor. She shifted in her seat, almost as if she was primed for flight or escape. Finally, the words began to trickle out of her mouth like drops from a leaky faucet.

“Griffonia…”

“The Empire?”

“No. The continent.”

Gizmo raised a hoof to his throbbing head and took a deep breath to quell his mounting frustration. The inside of his head felt as if it would burst through his skull. He took a few breaths that were as powerful as the throbbing pressure mounting inside his head.

“What part of Griffonia?” he sighed, more than a tinge of annoyance attached to his voice.

“The north…” Griselda trailed off.

“Oh for Celestia’s sake!” he exclaimed. Gizmo was clearly getting as far as a snail on a salted path with that line of questioning. He had done these types of interviews before, there was always some nut job, or spy, claiming to be a messenger. Their problem came from giving too much information, like a convict thinking the more detail they put in their alibi the more convincing their story will be. “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

She stood up and snapped to attention again. “I come bringing a message of upmost importance for her highness Princess Celestia of Equestria!”

“So you have a seal?” Gizmo asked. Communication directly with the Princess was highly sought after. Long ago, the Ministry of War had made a certain number of official seals to distinguish superfluous messages from urgent communiqués. Despite the fact being well known, it always seemed to trip up most of the fakers. Griselda tapped her claws together, allowing the nerves to dance between her talons.

“Well… There’s a seal on the message.” She drew a claw up to her collar and tugged vigorously in the manner that displayed marked uncertainty.

Gizmo jerked his head around toward Doctor Brightmane and asked to have Griselda’s belongings brought in. He was absolutely sure that he had this interview wrapped up. Like when it’s near the end of a race and you’re in front. His experience gave him that kind of delirious self-confidence that slackens your efforts and dulls your reflexes. Thus, it was natural that Gizmo was hit with the type of surprise that drops a stone in your stomach and makes pins and needles shoot throughout your body when he saw that the seal on the parchment in front of him.

The seal, which had no lack of shine and glimmer from a heavy polishing, was ornate beyond compare. A large centric cross was superimposed on a background of flowery vines. Even the tiniest of thorns could be made out, almost as if someone had sculpted each little prickle with a knife. In the center of the cross stood a griffon on it’s hind legs letting loose a resolute war-cry, raising it’s talons to strike at some unseen foe. Gizmo’s awe locked his eyes to the seal, imploring him to wean every single one of the infinite details out of the small, golden stamp.

Gizmo shook his head vigorously to dispel the uncertainty that coagulated in the deep blue of his eyes. He had never seen a seal such as this one, but the intricacy of the stamp made him less certain that it was a counterfeit. Griselda was looking at him expectantly, almost as if she was seeking his approval. Gizmo began to discover the cartilaginous texture of his lower lip, as his front teeth began anxiously grinding against it.

It took an excruciatingly protracted hour for a stone-faced unicorn guard to deliver the ledger detailing all the seals the Equestrian government found acceptable and their uses. It was a hefty tome bound in ancient leather. The trip over from the war office did nothing to clear the cover of a thick layer of grime. The guard dropped the ledger in front of Gizmo and a cloud of dust was hurled into the surrounding airspace. Doctor Brightmane gawked at the conspicuous black rectangle of dirt that had been imprinted on the clean, white padding.

Gizmo began tentatively turning through the archaic parchment, eyes intently studying and disregarding every single symbol, every single detail. Time seemed to stop in the way that it does when you’re hanging on the edge of your seat, not knowing what outcome you’re looking for. As pages turned into sections, Gizmo felt a smug zeal build in his chest. There was no seal such as this one. If it wasn’t in the ledger, then the government didn’t recognize it.

Gizmo’s mouth twisted into a triumphant grin, one of a smug nature rather than malicious. It was another interview down, another counterfeit message discovered, another bogus messenger to be sent back to whatever desolate corner of the globe they came from. He let out the smallest chuckle of relief, and made eye contact with Griselda. “It seems as if the seal on this parchment is not within the ledger of acceptable identification.” He began. Gizmo had practically memorized the closing remarks; they were the same for every single interview. It always ended in the same way: the interviewee becomes mute and the color drains from their face as they learn their fate.

“As per article 8, section 17 of the Equestrian Martial Mandate, you are hereby convicted of malicious counterfeit and sentenced to death by-“

“But you didn’t finish the book!” Griselda interrupted with a startled expression

“I beg your pardon?” Gizmo asked through clenched teeth.

“You didn’t look through those last pages!”

Gizmo looked back down at the book, sure enough there were a few pages that had yet to be flipped. They were where there to help identify messages of vital importance and lacked the worn, crinkled feeling of the other pages of seals. Gizmo had never touched those pages and began to feel the stomach-churning gnawing of doubt begin to consume him. He looked back up at Griselda, eyes darting between her and the book.

“It’s most unlikely that the seal would be in there.” Gizmo explained “Those pages are reserved for the most important, high-priority messages that the Office of War could ever recei-“

“No! You listen here! I don’t care what you do to me!” Griselda screamed as she lunged to grip Gizmo by the collar of his uniform. The unicorn guard had quickly drawn a pistol and was shakily pointing it at Griselda’s head.

“Let go of him now!” He screamed

Griselda ignored him, her eyes locked with Gizmo’s. Her grip had tightened and Gizmo was panting heavily. “I don’t care what you do to me.” She repeated “but you have no idea what I’ve gone through to get here, and who’s depending on me. So I would appreciate it if you would do everything in your power to make sure that you’re right before you go dooming me and everyone on this planet to oblivion!” Flecks of spit flew from her beak onto Gizmo’s face.

“All right! All right! I’ll check!” Gizmo yielded. Griselda released his collar and he tentatively flipped to the next page in the leger. The seals in this section of the book were still rough, but more meticulous than the plain ones of the previous pages. Gizmo studied them with the same intent that he gave the rest of the book. He was on the very last page, deep in the most exotic of seals when he saw it.

The details on the seal were cruder in the book than the version on the parchment in front of him, but the similarities between the two were unmistakable. The griffon on the seal stared back at Gizmo with an intense triumph in its eyes, mocking him with a zealous jubilation. He put down the list of seals with resignation, mouth agape and face dumbfounded. His eyes darted from face to face, pleading for some sort of sign that there was a mistake, but the only creature that showed a remote amount of interest was Griselda.

“It’s in there… Right?” she tentatively inquired, an apprehensive tension sat in the creases around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She began to lean forward,

“Yes.” Replied Gizmo. All assertiveness and confidence had disappeared leaving only an unfeeling murmur to respond to Griselda’s question. The oppressive weight of defeat hung from his back, lowering his head and slouching his shoulders. He forced himself to stand up and began to pack up the scattered items that he had brought to the interview; the notepaper on the clipboard remained completely untouched throughout the entire interview.

Griselda saw Gizmo packing up and moved toward him, trying to poke her head into his line of sight. “So what happens now?” she asked.

Gizmo slowly swung his head towards her rubbing his chin and thinking to himself, actively attempting to recall the process by which he was supposed to deal with matters like these. “Well, since your message will be officially recognized by the Equestrian government, I think they have to give you proper lodgings.” He let out a sigh of tremendous proportion. “I suppose I need to turn this into my superior officers. They should be able to get the message to the princess.”

Gizmo flung his pack on his back and moved towards the door, jerking his head for Griselda to follow him. The guard still had his pistol primed and ready, as if the threat of attack had not yet faded. Gizmo looked the guard up and down, before swatting the pistol out of the air, breaking the magic field that had it suspended there. “Why didn’t you take the shot?” he snapped before exiting the hospital with Griselda in tow.

Brigadier General Lightningcloud, salutatorian of his class, prodigy of Princess Celestia, and Commander of the Canterlot Air Garrison was having an awful week. First, he had to torture himself writing a record number of letters of condolence. Next, coffee had ruined his best uniform that he was planning on wearing to the Grand Galloping Gala. Not to mention the staff shortage that the recruitment office was undergoing. He felt as if the military higher-ups might as well tie him up and send him to the eastern trenches, taking a bullet had to be better than this.

But worst of all was that dammed letter that Colonel Tech had brought in to the war office. Never had the Brigadier General gotten any important communiqués from random dullards who had washed up in some inbred farmstead in the middle of scenic nowhere. What did Princess Celestia say in response? Handle the matter to the best of your ability. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Now he was supposed to send an army halfway across the world to some snowy northern hellhole in Griffonia because some griffon falls out of the sky and tells him to? Like hell he was. He let out a low, anguished groan and lay his head down on his desk. How the hell was he supposed to help run a war under these conditions? Why the hell was he the one who had to make the decision? And why the hell was it taking so long for his secretary to bring his morning coffee?

There was a hesitant knock at his door before his secretary entered juggling a coffee pot and a manila folder. She was fairly short for a mare of her age, and wobbled back and forth as she balanced her the load on her back. As she approached the desk, a small wrinkle of the ornate carpet slipped under her hoof and sent her tumbling across the floor. The coffee, as if ordained by some higher being, sailed in a perfect arc through the air and landed directly on Lightningcloud’s head.

Despite wanting his coffee as soon as possible, the scalding, caffeinated beverage now soaking into his mane seemed to displease the Brigadier General. He let out a cacophonous howl of pain. The secretary let out a loud gasp before running to Lightningcloud’s side, apologizing profusely and patting his head down with a number of tissues that she had yanked from a small box on his desk. This seemed to displease Lightningcloud even more, as he snatched the tissues from the secretary before drying himself off.

The secretary backed away, retreating back to the manila folder that she had dropped. “Here are the results of the promotion exam like you requested, sir.” She said meekly, holding up the folder to shield her face from the spiteful glare the Brigadier General threw at her.

“It’s about damn time.” He barked at her. “I didn’t think that you would be delivering my coffee directly to my head.” He put down the mushy stack of tissues and looked at the secretary in an imperious way. “You know” he mused, “I’m sure there are plenty of other mares that are looking for work in these troubling times. Maybe I should begin looking for your replacement.” His words ended with an edge as sharp as a razor, cutting straight through the flesh and hitting bone.

The secretary immediately looked completely distraught, as she fell on her face and proceeded to beg for her job. Tears rolled down her face as globs of makeup hit the floor and stained the carpet. She kept rambling on about her loyalty and promised continued hard work in exchange for forgiveness. The secretary looked up at her boss before he nodded his approval at her desperate supplication.

The secretary made a hasty withdrew from the office; an unused tissue was firmly attached to the underside of her hoof. Lightningcloud looked down at his newly stained shirt and felt an impending sense of rage boiling inside of him. The thought of reviewing the results to the promotion test forced the frustration back inside his chest and left it there, boiling like the inside of some hellish volcano.

He turned towards the folder on his desk and rubbed his hooves in anticipation. The Brigadier General had a sense of pride over his accomplishments and thought he was the obvious choice for promotion. Especially with the amount of work he had done for the government over the years, he had scratched their backs, why wouldn’t they scratch his?

He quickly opened up the folder and almost as quickly threw it across the room. An animalistic scream of rage flew from his agape maw. Second?! To Tech?! He made a few laps around his office, nostrils flaring with an unbridled rage. How the hell did that bastard get first?! He let out another groan of exasperation before picking up the result folder again.

The secretary, who was outside of the office sipping on some tea, ignored the sudden outburst and only stared harder at the newspaper in front of her. Several of the ponies that had been newly recruited approached the closed door, keen on investigating the commotion. The secretary quickly ushered them away, leaving the now sultry hellscape that was the Brigadier General’s office undisturbed behind the insubstantial portal of his door.

It took around thirty minuets and a splitting headache to bring the Brigadier General down from his frenzied paroxysm. By then, he scrutinized the results with a searing fervor. He looked at Colonel Tech’s scores, trying to deconstruct what led to his unprecedented success. Lightningcloud looked along the various columns, scored one to one hundred and saw that Tech’s technical and tactical multiple-choice section scores were frightfully high. But that’s just fact memorization! How come these sections count for so much? He thought to himself

Just like the rest of the participants, Tech’s psychological evaluation and social understanding skills were dreadfully low. “Heh” Lightningcloud chuckled to himself. I guess we’re all a little dispassionate when it comes to our pony skills. He closed the folder and tossed it back on his desk with a disappointed grunt. He then stood back up and began pacing a hole in his floor, dragging his hooves against the ornamental rug. The practical portion of the exam is next week! How am I supposed to catch up to Tech? It’s not like the guy hasn’t led ponies before, he practically needs to just get half the remaining points to come first!

He plopped himself back down in his chair, scratching his coffee-soaked head with a beleaguered hoof. He had heard that Colonel Tech was quite the abrasive boss. Verbal abuse was apparently commonplace in situations where he was the leader, but he couldn’t count on the colonel’s pony skills being his downfall. No, something more drastic was going to need to happen. He needed a miracle to prevent Colonel Tech from physically attending the practical exam.

His secretary opened the door and poked her head in to scope out the environment before re-entering the third stage of purgatory. “Sir? High Command is calling, they’re wondering if you’ve made a decision about a matter in… Griffonia?” The Brigadier General’s head snapped up and an impish grin spread to the corners of his face. He sat up, straight as a board, and put his hooves together like some venerable elder.

“Yes, I have in fact.” He said, words falling off of his tongue like smooth, sweetened honey. “Feel free to patch them in, I’ll take it from here.” The secretary left back to her desk and pressed a large red button on the base of the phone. Lightningcloud, whose hoof had been hovering over the handle of his phone, picked it up immediately when it began to ring.

“This is Brigadier General Lightningcloud, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” He answered.

The voice that replied was distinctly shaky and ancient, and it tripped over every single consonant. “It’s General Rock Lancer. It’s good to hear your voice again Lightningcloud. I hope you’ve been, mulling over how to deal with this matter in Griffonia.”

“Oh I have, General. Don’t you worry about it, I’ll brief you in the War Room tomorrow.”

“That’s good, how are you planning on getting all of those troops halfway across the world?”

Lightningcloud feigned dismay. “There’s a problem before that, General, the Changeling front is already strapped for troops. We can’t send soldiers that we don’t have to Griffonia.”

“So what do you suggest?”

The grin returned to Lightningcloud’s face “Well, if we were to send one of our best officers as a military advisor, we could provide assistance while still maintaining our presence in the Changeling Lands.”

“Interesting.” The ancient general mused “I don’t suppose you have somepony in mind?”

“Indeed I do, general. I’ll send his papers over to you immediately and you’ll see why he’s an exemplar candidate.”

“Fantastic. Bring him to the War Room tomorrow and we’ll brief him.”

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

The Brigadier General hung up the phone and laughed out loud, a bubbly laughter like a clear brook rolling down a mountainside. He called his secretary with gusto, his baritone voice reverberating off of the wall. The secretary, who was considerably confused by Lightningcloud’s joyous nature, approached his desk with caution.

“Do you need something sir?” she said, chattering the words out through her teeth.

“Yes” Lightningcloud answered simply “Get Colonel Tech on the phone.”

Chapter 3

The summer winds that whipped through the lattice of Canterlot’s streets were particularly ferocious that day, causing ponies in the shopping district to tightly wrap their ostentatious garments around their bodies. Those brave enough to step into the screeching gale were met by that ceaseless howling that gusts of air produce when they force themselves through tiny gaps. Small tidbits of garbage tumbled down the sidewalks, sometimes becoming wedged between the odd uneven cobblestone and it’s more uniform counterpart.

Shops whited with liberal amounts of plaster lined the boulevard until it curved to match the circular shape of the city. While the doors were rattling in their frames, the futile tinkles of the greeting bells attached to them reverberated through the calm shops. Mostly safe in their stores, the shopkeepers made idle work out of the slow day, rearranging goods or reading the daily newspaper. They paid no attention to the odd pair that was trudging headfirst into the uncompromising headwind, meeting the squall with gritted teeth and squinted eyes.

Colonel Gizmo Tech of the Royal Equestrian Air Force and Griselda Featherstone of Celestia-knows-where had been cooped up in the same cramped Hotel room for the majority of the week, trading terse remarks about who’s turn it was to use the sorely insufficient bathroom, or who’s snoring was more obnoxious. Gizmo, who had occupied the room’s only rickety bed, snored with a certain bravado that made even the most veteran night-goers quake with a fear that some hideous monster was just around the corner. Griselda’s snores, while milder in magnitude than Gizmo’s, were amplified by the acoustics of the rafters. She had constructed a makeshift roost of pillows and blankets up near the thatched roof; making sure that that her rough wheezing was as robust as Gizmo’s raspy snores.

Together they raised more noise complaints for The Steadfast Guardian than it would receive in a normal year. The only reason the two had not been evicted from their sparse accommodations by their now virulent accommodators was some coercion by the Equestrian Government, who were so proud of the supposed bureaucratic genius that was housing Gizmo and Griselda together in order to cut costs that they refused to place the two anywhere else. Thus, Gizmo and Griselda found themselves tramping down the street. Soupy sleep deprivation hung bags as heavy as mountains underneath their eyes.

The main War Office of Equestria’s armed forces sat directly in the center of the Royal Palace, as to allow a quick consultation of the princesses should the need arrive. It was here that the legislative tendrils of the Equestrian government tangled with the corrosive arteries of the military. Here, rifles were just as abundant as quills and parchment. The remnants of the complacency and ineptitude that plagued the pre-war era, before the Equestrians realized they weren’t invincible in Canterlot’s tall white spires, were just beginning to fade.

There was an absolutely copious amount of guards patrolling the corridors, making sure that every inch of space was under surveillance at all times. Assorted checkpoints were the only places one could pass through the lofty barbed fence that surrounded the palace. Long, winding lines of beleaguered ponies waited in the wind, desperately clutching their identification papers or bags to their chests. Every once in a while, a pony that lacked the proper paperwork would be led away from the checkpoint by a contingent of guards.

It was the third time that week that Gizmo and Griselda stood in those lines. The top brass at the War Office demanded multiple times that Griselda be interviewed by somepony of higher rank, making Gizmo escort her back and forth until his hooves were sore. After a period of time with the length of an hour and the potency of three, the odd pair finally made their way up to the checkpoint. Gizmo had already prepared the entrance documents that the War Office had given them before their first visit. Twenty pages of the Equestrian bureaucracy’s finest background checks, identification, and superfluities were thrust into the hooves of a young pegasus guard.

The guard looked at the heap in front of him with an anguished look in his eyes, he had clearly been meticulously rifling through hundreds of pages of documents that day. He nonchalantly flipped through the hefty packet before throwing it back at Gizmo. “Sorry Colonel, it’s not the right paperwork.”

Gizmo was absolutely shocked. “Not the right paperwork?” he said with a sharp hint of agitation, “it’s been ‘the right paperwork’ for the past week! What changed?”

The guard rolled his eyes and brought a hoof up to his face. “Look sir, if you want us to escort you over to the processing office I’m sure that they could sort this whole mess out for you.”

With that, Gizmo’s jaw dropped. The processing office was Equestria’s premier cesspool of incompetence, laziness, and messiness. It didn’t help that it was one of the most underfunded and understaffed parts of the Equestrian Military; there was no glamour in paperwork. Cases often took hours just to be heard and an even longer period of time to be processed. Those who went into the processing office often came out insane, exhausted, or a combination of both. Gizmo knew that if he and Griselda went there, they would probably never see the light of day again.

Gizmo was about to let loose a raucous protest when he was interrupted by a familiar gravelly voice. “That’s quite alright Airman, you can let them through.” Brigadier General Lightningcloud was grinning from ear to ear when he strode over to the guard post. “I can assure you that the Colonel and his friend are vital to the promotion of Equestria and her interests.”

“B-but sir, that’s not protocol“ he stammered

“Do it, Airman.” Lightningcloud growled, getting in the quivering guard’s face.

With that, the guard stepped aside allowing Gizmo and Griselda to pass through the gates easily. Lightningcloud gestured for them to follow him and eyed the large stack of paperwork that Gizmo was carrying. “You might want to discard that, Colonel.” He chuckled, “this is going to be the last time you need to escort Ms. Featherbolt here.” Gizmo raised his eyebrow but was nonetheless eager to throw the large stack of identification into the nearest garbage can.

They took their usual route through the enormous castle, pushing through the crowds of ponies and soldiers that clogged the hallways. As they reached the back of the castle, the long staircase that led to the central war room stood like a dark maw, waiting to swallow whatever unfortunate soul that dared to venture into that inky abyss. The main war office had been built in the royal palace’s old dungeons to protect it from an unlikely bombing raid. Griselda moved directly towards the stairs and stood on the dark portal. She looked back at Gizmo and Lightningcloud with hesitation before moving past the guards stationed at each side and descended the rough-hewn steps.

Gizmo turned to leave. He intended to go back to his room and re-pack for his trip back to Vanhoover. The lab had remained without an established leader for quite some time now and he was anxious to get back. Gizmo had almost turned completely around when a wing wrapped itself around him. “Let’s go get lunch, Colonel, my treat.” Lightningcloud said, something mischievous dancing around in the backs of his eyes.

They were standing in the middle of the hallway, annoyed ponies pushed past them. Gizmo felt a twinge of apprehension from the way that Lightiningcloud was looking at him. He always felt, despite the difference in their rank, the two of them were equal, and Gizmo made a point to act like it. Lightningcloud stood next to him, wing wrapped around his back, grinning profusely, eagerly awaiting Gizmo’s answer. Gizmo averted his eyes and bit down nervously his lip.

“Well, Colonel? How about it?” Lightningcloud asked again

“Actually, I was going to head back to the hotel. My leave is ending and I need to-“

“Forget about that!” Lightningcloud barked, eyes shrinking into thin slits. He squeezed Gizmo even tighter with his wing. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to pack later.”

Gizmo slowly nodded his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. A small glint of triumph flickered in Lightningcloud’s eyes and the toothy grin returned to his face. “C’mon, there’s a great outdoor café in the courtyard.” The two began walking abreast down the corridor. Lightningcloud never let go of Gizmo, keeping him far too close with his wing. Gizmo almost asked his unusually enthusiastic companion about his overt cordiality, but Lightningcloud’s laser focus on the hallway in front of him kept Gizmo’s jaw wired shut.

Once they got out of the main body of the castle, Gizmo had to squint to alleviate the searing pain the burning noon sun put in his unadjusted eyes. The windows on the side of the white castle were polished like sterling mirrors; every single particle of light that splashed onto the walls reflected straight off. Aristocratic ponies sat at checkered tables under frilly umbrellas. They threw genteel little nods and greetings towards Lightningcloud, who dragged Gizmo over and began introducing the reluctant colonel. “Fillies and gentlecolts, I would like to introduce the illustrious Colonel Gizmo Tech, one of the finest minds the Air Force has to offer.”

Gizmo just stood there and smiled awkwardly in front of the group. The aristocrats and Lightningcloud made conversation for an unbearably long amount of time, throwing their heads back in pompous laughter every once in a while. Lightningcloud finished talking and waved farewell to his claque, but not before lingering even longer on the superfluities. He brought Gizmo over to a table secluded in one of the grassy corners in the courtyard. The blistering heat being reflected off the walls cooked Gizmo in his full uniform.

After a few minutes of silence, Lightningcloud asked for two glasses of water from a cheery looking waitress. He opened a pocket in his coat and took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Gripping one between the primary feathers of his wing, he blew on the tip to dispel some specks of dirt. Then, holding the cigarette aloft, he took out a gilded lighter with a bleached ivory elephant on the front. He was about to hold the cigarette to the gently flickering flame before he looked Gizmo directly in the eyes, “you don’t uh… have a family, do you? No significant other or…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely in the air.

“No, General.” Gizmo replied, “Now what the hell is this about?”

“Good.” Lightningcloud said contentedly before lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. He let his jaw hang open and the thick, acrid smoke rolled past his lips like some carcinogenic fog. As the smoke wafted past his eyes, Lightningcloud looked past Gizmo, lost in thought. After a few seconds he allowed his head to roll back towards Gizmo. With his eyebrows raised, he asked “What did you think of General Farflight?”

Major General Farflight had been the commanding officer on the aircraft development projects for the Equestrian Air Force before Gizmo took over. He had been, like Lightningcloud, a whip smart protégé of Celestia. During the air raid on Vanhoover’s main airfield, Farflight had rushed back into the burning remains of the dance hall to recover some of his injured comrades. When the fire died down and recovery efforts had begun, his mangled body was quickly dragged out from under a large I-beam.

“I thought he was alright.” Gizmo replied, “he took me out to lunch once, bought me something besides water.”

Lightningcloud let out a deep chuckle and allowed a wistful smile to cross his lips. “That’s the kind of thing the bastard would have done. He always did have a certain…” Lightningcloud waved his cigarette around “sentimentality.” he took another long drag.

The sun was directly above them now, beating down onto all who sat in the courtyard. The backs of their necks were beginning to become soaked with perspiration, coating them with a sticky film of sweat. The waitress brought two glasses of chilly ice water over to the table, along with an ashtray for Lightningcloud’s cigarette. Those tiny drops of condensation that form on cold surfaces during hot days ran down the sides of the glasses, forming dark wet circles on the white tablecloth.

The two spend a few minutes in silence again, Gizmo sipping on his water and Lightningcloud puffing on his cigarette. Eventually, Lightningcloud turned back to Gizmo again. “Can I be candid with you, colonel?” he asked, tapping his cigarette on the ashtray.

“I don’t see why not.” Gizmo replied.

Lightningcloud leaned forward in his chair, his breath causing the petals on the rose centerpiece to quiver. “I don’t fucking like you.” He growled.

Gizmo was a little taken aback. “Well General, I’m not too fond of you either,” he huffed.

Lightningcloud ignored him. He held his cigarette in front of his face, and stared deeply into the embers of the smoldering tip. “Farflight was the best of the best, there’s no doubt about it, but there’s one thing that he always would forget.” He paused briefly, “words like ‘bravery’ and ‘honor’, they’re reserved for the ponies who are supposed to give and get shot.”

There were no words in Gizmo’s mouth and a hard knot was forming in the depths of his stomach. He stayed silent while Lightningcloud continued his rant.

“But Farflight did know this, there are only two ways for stallions like you and me to get ahead: know the right ponies…” he gestured towards himself “… or be in the right place at the right time.” He pointed his cigarette directly at Gizmo. “But here’s the thing I don’t get. You’re never gonna be able to match up to Farflight, that’s obvious, so why the hell did you take his job?”

Gizmo thought for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration. He had never really thought about his own reasoning before. The War Office had hit him with the offer of a commission shortly after the air raid, and he didn’t really have any time to consider. “I-I don’t know.” Gizmo stammered, “I guess I thought that it would be a good way for me to help with something that was bigger than me.”

Lightningcloud let out a burst of raucous laughter, disturbing the diners even on the furthest sides of the courtyard, before leaning in uncomfortably close. “That’s the only thing I love about you, Gizmo Tech, you’re cynical about everypony’s motives but your own.” He let out another brief chuckle, “but who knows, maybe you’ll get the opportunity to ‘help with something that’s bigger than you’ sooner than you think.” He flashed an eerie smile and jammed his cigarette into the ashtray in front of him, swiftly extinguishing it.

After a few seconds, Lightningcloud withdrew his face away from Gizmo’s and stood up. The waitress came over to the two and stood there expectantly. “Are you boys ready to order?” she asked.

“No, thanks.” Lightningcloud responded. “We’re absolutely stuffed.”

A tangible twinge of annoyance flashed across the waitress’ face before she composed herself. “Alright then, y’all have a nice day.”

Off in the distance, a monstrous wooden clock tower with flecks of paint peeling off the sides let off a single, sonorous chime. The wind carried that sound all the way to the castle, where many of the ponies began to return to their daily work. Lightningcloud turned to Gizmo again. “Alright Colonel, it’s time to go pick up Ms. Featherbolt.”

Gizmo cocked his head to the side in confusion. “I thought you said this was gonna be the last time I escorted her.” He replied

The same eerie smile returned to Lightningcloud’s lips. “I never said that. Now c’mon.”

The walk back to the mouth of the War Room took even longer than the walk to the courtyard. Gizmo and Lightningcloud struggled to stay together, forcing themselves against a fast moving river of ponies returning from their lunch breaks. When they finally reached the long, winding staircase downwards, the two generic guards had been replaced with members of Celestia’s personal guard. The two stood in resplendent white and gold uniforms, peaked caps emblazoned with silver embroidery. Ever since the changeling attack on Canterlot, Celestia’s Royal Guards had been reformed from some flashy ceremonial unit to one of the most elite fighting forces in the Equestiran Military. They stood tall, holding their rifles deadly still.

As Gizmo and Lightningcloud approached, the two guardsmen aimed their rifles in blistering fashion. “State your names and your business!” one yelled.

Lightningcloud’s eyes widened in surprise, for a second he was unable to formulate words in his mouth. “Uhhhh… Brigadier General Lightnigcloud and Colonel Tech of the Royal Equestrian Air Force. We’re here to sit in on the meeting.”

The two guardsmen looked at each other before lowering their rifles and nodding to allow the two past. Lightningcloud moved ahead of Gizmo to get a closer look at the guards as he walked. There was a visible look of confusion on his face, his eyebrows crumpled in concentration. Once they were past the mouth of the stairwell, Gizmo whispered up to him. “You look like you didn’t expect them.”

“Shut up.” He snapped back, brow still furrowed in concentration. “Why the hell did they get Royal Guardsman here?”

Moisture from the ground ran through the cracks in the cobblestones as they descended. The stairs ran slippery with water as tiny droplets fell from the mossy ceiling. Once the two of them reached the bottom, a rusted iron door blocked their way into the War Room. They could hear heated murmurs emanating from the other side. Lightningcloud slowly opened the door and allowed orange candlelight to flood into the darkened stairwell.

The main War Room, while large enough to fit a sizable carriage, was extremely cluttered. A table with a large map of the world took up most of the space in the center of the room. Every single high-ranking pony in the Equestrian Military stood crowded around Griselda, who pointing at various landmarks and terrain features in northern Griffonia. All heads in the room turned towards the creaky opening of the door and stared at Gizmo and Lightningcloud in silence.

A lanky unicorn emerged from the crowd, face absolutely beset with the deep wrinkles of age. His uniform was tightly fit, but his hat was precariously balanced upon his bald, polished head. His gnarled knees wobbled as he hobbled his way towards Lightningcloud. “General Lightningcloud, we’re glad you could come so soon.” The unicorn said shakily. “It seems the situation in Griffonia is more dire than we originally suspected.”

Lightningcloud was visibly confused, scanning all the faces in the room. “General Lancer? What’s going on? The entire general staff is assembled and you’ve got elite guards posted at the doors.” He began to shake a little; it looked like vomit was crawling its way up his throat.

“Hold your horses, General, we’re getting to that.” Lancer replied. He turned towards Gizmo slowly, his body lagging behind his rotating head. “Colonel Tech?” Lancer asked.

Gizmo threw up a hasty salute, “Yes sir?”

“It’s good to finally meet you. We’re transferring you to another post.”

Gizmo looked at the room around him. Everypony was staring at him; expectant looks in their eyes. Griselda looked visibly peeved, with her forehead resting in her claws. She was the only creature in the room seemingly unwilling to make eye contact with Gizmo. He turned back to face Lancer, a bit surprised at the news, he quickly composed himself. “Alright general, where am I going?”

“Griffonia.”

Chapter 4

Gizmo blinked twice in surprise and shook his head. “I’m sorry, General,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “you’re sending me where?” The room was utterly silent; those who weren’t staring at him expectantly averted their eyes and stared at the table. The only sounds were the harsh buzzing of the incandescent lights and the faint clacking of a telegraph in the corner.

“To Griffonia, Colonel.” General Lancer repeated, rubbing his chin. “The north, to be precise; just about as north as you can get.” He turned back around and began walking towards the table. The crowd of officers parted as he made his way next to an annoyed looking Griselda. “Let me tell you about a few things, Colonel,” he said. “Despite our stubborn reluctance to believe otherwise, the world’s been around a whole hell of a lot longer than us.” He looked down at a small peninsula of Griffonia with a worried look in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean some things in the past shouldn’t stay buried.”

“Pardon me, General, but I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” Gizmo said tentatively. He had meandered over to Lancer, who looked like he was about to doze off on top of the table. Gizmo gave him a gentle little shake, jolting him back alert.

“I’m sorry, what were we talking about!?” Lancer exclaimed confusedly.

Gizmo forced the annoyance back down his throat. “Griffonia, General.”

“Oh yeah. I was, wasn’t I?” he let out a raspy chuckle. “I’d normally be napping at this time of day.” He rubbed his chin again, “where was I? Oh yeah. A couple thousand years ago, a group of necromancers called the Dread League decided that it would be a nifty idea to take over a sizeable majority of the Griffonian continent.” Lancer’s face was deathly pale. “Folks unlucky enough to get caught up in their conquest got used as cattle to feed vampires and zombies and other hellish monstrosities that you wished would just stay in the storybooks.”

Gizmo continued to prod Lancer. “Alright, but if you don’t mind me stating the obvious, zombies don’t exactly walk the plains of Griffonia anymore.”

Lancer looked around the room, biting down hard on his lip. Expressions ranged from distraught to nervous to downright angry. A light bulb burned behind Griselda’s head, casting a long shadow over the table and the map. Lancer took a hard swallow. “Are we sure we’re gonna go through with this?” he asked the room.

Lightningcloud, whose eyes had been darting around the room ever since the conversation started broke his silence. “Go through with this!?” He fumed, “You’ll have to excuse me, but if the fate of the world is at stake then maybe we should, I don’t know, send the Elements of Harmony?”
“You know we can’t do that!” Lancer snapped back, “If the war here at home starts going south, we’re gonna need an ace up our sleeves.” He composed himself and straightened his hat, which had begun to slip off of his head. “Plus, you’ve already expressed extreme confidence in Colonel Tech, so I see no reason why he’s unfit for the job.”

Gizmo’s head swiveled quickly on his shoulders, and he raised one of his eyebrows sharply. He squinted at Lightningcloud, who chuckled nervously and tugged at his collar with one of his wings. “General Lancer?” Gizmo asked, “Could I have a moment to confide with my…” he gritted his teeth, “esteemed comrade.”

General Lancer nodded in agreement before turning back to whisper in Griselda’s ear. Gizmo stomped over to Lightningcloud, grabbed his shirt, and dragged him over to one of the cobweb-filled corners. “What the hell is going on here you bastard?” he hissed.

“Get out of my face, Tech. Your breath smells awful.” Lightningcloud growled as he looked back at General Lancer and the rest of the general staff, they were all gathered around the table again and not paying any attention to the two. “Look, I may have recommended you for this tiny mission so you would miss the advancement exam.”

“You what!?” Gizmo almost yelled, breathing short, incredulous gasps. His mouth hung agape and his eyes were as wide as a deer’s in the headlights of an oncoming car. His lip began to quiver at the thought of being shipped off to the icy wastes of northern Griffonia. A putrid mixture of anger and fear began to coagulate in the back of Gizmo’s throat, covering the back of his tongue in an acidic film. He looked back towards the collection of officers before blurting out a shaky “I’m telling them!”

“Shut up!” Lightningcloud hissed. “Look, I didn’t know it was gonna be this important. We just need to convince them that there are other options.” He paused and gave Gizmo a hard look. “Besides, do you really think they would believe you? I’ve had these jokers wrapped around my hoof for years.”

“What other options? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re trying to run a war!” Gizmo exclaimed

“Look, I’ll think of something. Just let Lancer ramble for a while.”

Before Gizmo could get another word in edgewise, Lightningcloud pushed past him and approached the desk. As he flashed a warm smile, the corners of his mouth quivered with a hint of nervousness. “Gentlecolts.” He said, voice smooth as honey. “I’m sure Colonel Tech is ready to hear the details of the proposed operation now.”

“Like hell he is!” a large pegasus whose jawline was as sharp as an obsidian knife and whose jacket was adorned with a plethora of glittering medals spoke up with a voice that rubbed them raw like sandpaper against the flesh. “I’m sorry Lightningcloud, you know how much I respect you, but can we all take a look at this guy for one damn second? He’s an earth pony for Celestia’s sake! No wings, no magic. Hell, he doesn’t even look strong enough to pull a plow!” The pegasus sat down and crossed his entire body, he glared at Lightningcloud with a burning intensity.

Lightningcloud perked up and breathed a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and was about to respond before Lancer butted in. “General Softsky, shame on you!” he snapped. “The documents that General Lightningcloud provided show us Colonel Tech’s immense intellectual capabilities.”

“Sir, if I may.” Gizmo began. “I’m just an engineer, we tend to have marginally higher test score-“

“Oh you’re too humble, colonel!” Lancer interrupted again. “Anyway. Where was I again?”

“The zombies, General?” Softsky groaned.

“Oh yeah. After a period of time that the history books could never give credit to, a bunch of nations got tired of constantly staring over their own shoulders. They banded together and banished the Dread League up to the snowy wastes of the north. We hadn’t heard anything about them, that is, until a few weeks ago.” Lancer paused, “when Ms. Featherstone here showed up.”

All of the shadows in the room split at their hooves and fell on the floors and the walls and the tables. Most of the ponies still looked extremely hesitant to speak, their eyes darted around like students after their teacher asks a question. Lancer continued, “So here’s the gist, a bunch of religious nuts-” Griselda interrupted by clearing her throat loudly and throwing a sharp glare at Lancer, “pardon me.” Lancer apologized with a flustered cough, “A bunch of holy orders fought alongside that grand coalition and, after the Dread League was driven back, coalesced into what is now the Arcturian Order.”

Lancer stopped and turned to face Griselda. “Did I get that right?”

“Most of it.” Griselda responded. She stood up from her chair and moved directly into the center of the mass of officers. They moved away from her like oil in water, forming a perfect circle around her. With a tremendous voice and a puffed out chest, she met all of their curious gazes with steely determination. “The Dread League isn’t going to stop at Griffonia this time.” She paused, allowing a silence that made their skin crawl to seep into the officers. “There’s only one thing that was stopping them in the past, the Griffonian Empire. But now, King Grover is knocking on death’s door and his kid’s still fresh out of the egg. If there’s any time for the Dread League to attack, it’s close.”

Softsky rose from his chair and entered the circle that the officers had made, standing directly next to Griselda. “It sounds truly dire, and Equestria could be at great risk if the Dread League should conquer Griffona in it’s weakened state.” Softsky turned to stare directly at Gizmo with a gaze that could burn through hardened steel, “which is why we should send the best of the best to protect Equestria and her interests.”

“Well said General Softsky!” Lancer applauded while remaining in the outer ring. “I’m glad we can rest easy that we have such a capable leader like Colonel Tech!”

“No, Lancer!” Softsky fumed. “What I’m trying to say is there absolutely has to be better candidates than Colonel Tech! We aren’t gonna have any second tries on this one.” He spat a glob of phlegm onto the stone floor and got directly in Lancer’s face. “Unlike your genius Vaverfront offensive.”

“Now that was uncalled for, Softsky.” Lancer growled. “Alright then! Fine!” He jeered. “We’ll take it to a vote. We’ll go around and ask everycreature, if the aye’s win, we send Tech.”

One by one, the everycreature’s names were called. It was dead even, with every single aye being countered by a nay. There was one thing Gizmo was certain of; he was sure as hell he didn’t want to go to Griffonia. So by the time his name was called, he threw his hat in with Griselda and Softsky, who had both voted nay. It looked as if that mini coalition had won the day, but then Lancer’s central clique of officers let out three consecutive aye’s in quick succession. Everycreature threw nervous glances around the room, but eventually all eyes settled on the last vote to be tallied. Lightingcloud was sweating profusely, a skicky film of perspiration covering his brow.

Lightningcloud looked extremely panicked, he looked at Lancer and then looked at Gizmo like he was about to be sick. He bit down so hard on his lip that he drew a few droplets of addled blood. Finally, he released his answer with a heavy breath. “Aye.”

The afternoon sun had woven a musky stink into the dust particles that drifted around in Gizmo and Griselda’s hotel room. The creaky floorboards had swelled in the heat, muffling their steps like a porous layer of cork. They packed in silence, folding their crumpled clothes and placing them neatly in their suitcases. After the vote, Gizmo and Griselda had been ushered out of the war room quickly with a folder of haphazardly stacked mission detail documents.

“How the hell am I gonna get back to Griffonia?” Griselda grumbled. Despite her silence, she was able to hold a keen tension against Gizmo. When Lightningcloud had cast his fatal vote, she let out a tremendous groan of disgust. Gizmo, who had a knot the size of a hoofball in his stomach, responded to her dismay with a sense of muted denial.

“We’ll fly, of course. There’s an airbase near Manehattan that’ll provide a good taking off point.” Gizmo practically whispered. He didn’t even look at his clothes as he folded them, moving his muscles like a lifeless machine.

“Oh really?” Griselda replied incredulously. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but Softsky made a particular effort to make sure everycreature knew that you don’t have wings. Besides…” she gestured to her still bandaged wings “… my wings aren’t exactly gonna be sending me into the stratosphere.”

Gizmo closed his suitcase with a thunderous thud, the metal clasps fastening with a sharp click. “Griselda.” He began. “I know you’re not too happy about having to go on this mission with me. Hell, I’m not too happy about it either, but…” he took a deep breath “there’s nothing we can do about it now so we might as well go along with it.”

“Go along with it!” Griselda hissed like a cornered snake. She threw her claws up in the air and screamed. Then, while tugging at the feathers on her head turned back to Gizmo with an animalistic rage in her eyes. “You see! That’s the thing that you don’t get! That you’ll never get!” she yelled. “I’ve flown halfway across the world because I thought that I would find someone who cared about saving it as much as me, but instead I’ve gotten an apathetic dickhead who just wants to ‘go along with it.’” She folded her arms haughtily across her chest and sat down.

Gizmo narrowed his eyes and stood his ground. “Well then, I would offer somepony else, but, in case you haven’t noticed, I have orders.” He paused and picked up his suitcase. “I don’t know how they do it in the Arcturian Order, but here in Equestria, disobeying orders is the fastest way to get a bullet in the back of your head.”

Griselda was about to respond, but Gizmo pushed past her, suitcase flung across his back. He had sold most of his other trunks and bags, and their contents, to lighten his load down to a single suitcase. He kept his uniform, a couple changes of clothes, and a thick flight jacket lined with fluffy wool. Standing in the narrow hallway, Gizmo checked his watch with a heavy squint against the glare. A deep feeling of dread burned within his chest as he imagined the lonely, isolated forests and mountain ranges of northern Griffonia. Up in those wastes, one could disappear; becoming nothing more than a pile of bleached bones hidden amongst pulverulent mounds of snow.

The sun hung low in the sky, a dusty potted plant placed delicately in front of a window cast a long shadow that looked like some tortuous black vine winding its way across the floor. After a brief pause and a few shaky breaths, Gizmo turned back to Griselda. “You ready? We’re gonna miss the train if you don’t hurry up.” Griselda shot him an irritated glare before shutting her own suitcase, a patchy leather box with rusty iron clasps that the military had provided her. She stepped forward with determination in her stride before standing beside Gizmo.

“Lead the way.” Griselda said

They both wove their way down the stairs and into the lobby, the old colt that ran the hotel looked visibly relieved that the two were departing. The streets were extremely deserted, even for the sparsely populated slums. Gizmo strode forward with Griselda in tow, making his way down the trash-littered sidewalks. He had convinced himself that, much like this mission, he had no business being on these streets. This area of Canterlot was a trap where one could be subsumed into impoverished obscurity, paltry resources never allowing one to escape their situation. They walked past a school, where scrawny children tried to learn algebra from beleaguered teachers. Ponies stood in the windows, putting up pristine blue curtains on polished brass curtain rods.

As they passed into downtown Canterlot, Gizmo looked at his watch again and picked up his pace to a brisk trot. Soon, the city’s sonorous bell would sound and engineers would mount the last trains of the day, whirring them to life and sending them lurching from their pig iron beds. The passengers had probably already been loaded onto the train and were awaiting departure with impatience. With each passing second, a dull and inevitable annoyance was rising in all who were on that train.

Gizmo and Griselda finally had made it to the central station, still as busy as ever. Making their way through the evening crowd, they pushed towards a teamster and asked for directions to the platform that was written on their tickets. Straining under a tower of baggage, the teamster threw a quick little nod towards one of the eastern platforms. The platform was covered in a thick steam that was leaking out of the train’s hydraulics, making it seem as if ponies were walking on a sea of fog. Tramping through the mist, the odd pair got holes punched in their tickets and boarded the train.

They got directed to a boxcar near the rear of the train, a rickety carriage with bales of straw piled high to the ceiling. Gizmo was unsurprised that the military booked the least accommodating accomodations once again, but was still a little disappointed at the distinct lack of seats. The little dried stalks of hay got stuck in the cracks in between the wood. Hardened from age, the floorboards had long nails that had not been hammered in properly protruding from their knots and gnarls. The car had the same cheap feel of the freight car that Gizmo had originally come to Canterlot in; with the large door being left wide open to the wind and the elements.

The train let out a piping whistle a jolted forward on the tracks. Griselda, who had not been settled in the straw when the train began to move, got a mouth full of straw when she fell directly on to her face. Gizmo, who had placed his suitcase onto the floor and sat on it like a meditation pad, let out a little peal of laughter at Griselda’s blunder. This peeved Griselda, who stood up haughtily from her prone position. “Well I’m glad at least one of us are enjoying ourselves.” She fumed

“Well,” Gizmo responded, “a good attitude is just about the only thing I have left now.”

“At least we’ll be able to make it to Manehattan and fly outta here.”

“Not quite. This train isn’t non-stop. We’re gonna be stopping in my hometown, presumably to drop off this hay.” Gizmo let out a shaky breath “Just like the War Office to send me places I don’t wanna be.”

The train moved out of the station, following the tracks as they wove through the mountains that surrounded Canterlot. The deep valley gave way to the wide-open plains of the Equestrian heartland. Looking out at the rolling countryside, their field of view was split horizontally between the azure blue of the sky and the rich green of the long grass. The tracks stretched on into the distance for forever, throwing a defiant challenge as they chased the infinitely retreating horizon.

Chapter 5

The train tracks that stretched out into the distance, the only thing that was able to catch the horizon on those plate flat plains, were far from perfect. There were methodical little bumps that jostled the cars and carriages whenever they ran over the fasteners that brought the sections of ribbon rail together. Ponies who had tickets to ride in the more upper end cars of the train had the luxury of ignoring the pulsations as they slept in feathery beds under plush comforters. Gizmo and Griselda were alone in that rickety boxcar. They made as much use out of their belongings as they could, throwing their jackets and clothes over their bodies as makeshift blankets.

Griselda had dozed off long before Gizmo, quickly finding herself comfortable on the piles of hay that they shared the boxcar with. The porous straw muted her snoring, allowing the sounds of night and the beat of the train to fill the car with a stately melody. Gizmo had been kept up by his racing thoughts. With a sharp whittling knife, he began to carve a smooth fillet on the corners of a cube of scented spruce wood. As he ran the knife through the soft bark, droplets of sticky sap ran down his blade. He envisioned adding a curve to the top, two holes where holding pins would go, and a wide notch he would slide on top of the control stick to the bomber he would be piloting. When finished, the block would be able to hold the controls in place while he moved about the cockpit.

Gizmo flicked his gaze from the block in front of him to a candle that was gently burning next to him. It would soon be morning, but every single time a lonely ember drifted into the air, adrenaline shot through his body as he raced to stomp it out. Much of the straw was moist and inflammable, but he took no chances when it came to starting a fire. When the train took an unexpected wobble, the candle would rock a little in its stand, sending beads of sweat rolling down Gizmo’s forehead. He continued whittling, knowing fully well that in the morning, they would be in Hoof Bend.

The town was like something ripped straight out of a fantasy film. Lush green plants and leafy trees coated the mountains that lined the valley that Hoof Bend was nestled in. Most of the ponies there were vegetable or flower farmers, with seldom few in occupations that weren’t agriculture related. Gizmo had lived his entire youth in Hoof Bend with his mother, a medical researcher, in a double story bungalow a mile outside of town. He always imagined the only reason he lived in Hoof Bend was to get out of it and plaster his name in big golden letters all over the history books. Now that he was returning, it felt like he had regressed in his quest.

But despite the town’s innate attraction towards obscurity, Hoof Bend occupied a special little place in Gizmo’s heart. He fondly remembered running blindly through the tall stalks of corn, fleeing the local grumpy farmer with his friends as they laughed gleefully by his side. The high school there had been a standard neglected public school, where the teachers gave far too much heart for how much they were paid. During college application season, the entire town cheered with him when acceptance letters arrived stuffed fat with flattery, or scoffed when the more high-end colleges sent their apologetic rejections. Graduation had been an intimate affair. Even with Gizmo’s quite large class size, the crowd stayed ecstatic for the entirety of the four-hour event.

As Gizmo continued to whittle, the image of the control block burned in the back of his mind, he thought to himself: have I really done anything at all? He had done two things since he left home: gotten a college degree, and gotten shipped off to a warzone. When he signed up for the Air Force Reserve Training Corps, he hadn’t really considered the monetary benefits, he imagined himself becoming famous for performing great martial feats or inventing genius tactical maneuvers.

His cutie mark gave the military other ideas for his future. Gizmo had gotten it during a science fair in middle school, a little late but nopony seemed to mind. He had been completely engrossed in a project on applied engineering and delivered a passionate and exited report in front of most of the faculty when the mark appeared. The ponies judging him smiled and clapped as he danced joyfully up on the stage, but ended up giving him second place for all for his troubles. The military also saw Gizmo’s aptitude in engineering, and placed him in an engineering major.

Gizmo set down the knife and the unfinished block, the candle was extremely low and it was getting to the point where even his racing mind couldn’t keep him awake. With a quick breath, he extinguished the candle and watched for a few seconds as the dull red glow of the wick vanished into the darkness. The straw poked into his belly as he tried to lie down and make some semblance of a bed out of the hay. He got his flight jacket out and was immediately comfortable as the soft, insulating wool lining covered him. He took one last heavy breath before his muscles relaxed and he drifted off into blissful sleep.

“This is your home town?” Griselda asked, rubbing a sore crick in the back of her neck. “I like it, it’s a cute place.”

Gizmo pulled his flight jacket up to his eyes, hoping to keep the sleep trapped there for just a few more seconds, before groaning as the little bits of prickly straw entangled in the wool drove themselves into his face. The train had pulled into Hoof Bend’ meager station and come to a complete stop, letting out low hisses of steam as the pipes of the engine decompressed themselves. Clearly peeved, the passengers from the front of the train exited their carriages and began to mill about the town, looking for a hotel or some place adequate to stay. Next to agriculture, temporary lodging was the second biggest industry. Lodging ponies looking to pass through could mean big money during the summer months, when they flocked from all over to visit the wine grottos and tasting rooms.

Looking around the town, Griselda scratched her chin. “It looks like we’re gonna have some trouble finding a hotel room.”

Gizmo packed his flight jacket in his suitcase, his loose, linen shirt keeping him cool in the morning heat. There was a dryness in the air that signaled the coming of a blistering afternoon, where shirts would be soaked with sweat and glasses of cool lemonade would be sipped at splintery picnic tables under striped umbrellas. The little field gnats were already floating in between the tall blades of grass, glowing in the rising sun. Gizmo meandered over to Griselda’s pack, picked it up, and threw it into her open arms.

They both hopped off of the train and on to the rickety platform. Most of the ponies had decided to stay on the train in their bedrooms. This was impossible for Gizmo and Griselda, as the teamsters had already moved to unload the hay from the freight car. Making sure that they would be able to re-board, they double-checked that their tickets were in their suitcases before making their way off of the station and onto the main street. The streets were immaculately paved, with lovely little cobblestones set closely together as to provide the smoothest possible ride for carriages.

Hoof Bend was far from wealthy. The ponies were dressed in plain clothes and threw cheerful little smiles and waves towards Gizmo as he passed. “We’re not gonna need to find a hotel.” Gizmo explained to Griselda as they walked. “We can stay at my house, I used to live here with my mom before college.” Griselda nodded slowly in agreement, taking in the sights of the town around them.

A sharp whistle pierced the air and the two turned their heads. A portly old mare in a wide-brimmed hat was walking towards the two with a grin as wide as a canyon. “As I live and breathe!” She exclaimed, her southern drawl dragging the words out of her mouth. “If it isn’t Gizmo Tech! I haven’t seen you since you shipped off to college.”

Gizmo returned with a wide grin of his own, moving quickly to give the mare the deepest of embraces. After a ten second long hug, Gimzo finally let go. “Sweet Delight, you have no idea how good it is to see you again.” They began chatting furiously like cheerful spring birds, Gizmo maintaining his warm smile the entire time. They talked a while with Griselda standing awkwardly behind them.

Suddenly, Sweet Delight’s face became more apologetic. “I’m sorry Gizmo.” She sighed. “I haven’t been able to visit your mother as much as you asked me to.“ Sweet Delight averted her eyes and looked towards the ground.

“Don’t be sorry!” Gizmo assured the apologetic mare. “Things come up. She isn’t going anywhere anyway.”

There was a more serious pause as Gizmo trailed off and averted his eyes. It sounded like a lump was caught in his throat, but he cleared it with a quick grunt.

Sweet Delight put a gentle hoof under Gizmo’s chin and lifted it delicately. She cocked her head to the side and her eyes held a flicker of concern. “You know, Gizmo.” She started, “I’m sure that your mother would appreciate it if you visited more often. Maybe after your contract is up you could come back to Hoof Bend and-“

Gizmo gave her a large eye roll and pushed her hoof away. “Sweet Delight, we’ve talked about this. There’s nothing for me here.”

“Gizmo, you and I both know that’s a damn lie.” Sweet Delight said, putting her hoof down in a firm manner. “Everypony here has loved you and supported you and wanted nothing but your success, you’ll be able to find a place here.” She paused and backed off at Gizmo’s steely glare. Sweet Delight had known him his entire life, being his mother’s good friend for countless years. She had practically raised him when his mother was off looking for the next big cure or medical discovery. If there was one thing that Sweet Delight knew about Gizmo, it was his conviction that there was success somewhere just over the horizon.

Sweet Delight had always tried to rein Gizmo in, taking steps to get him involved in his community. But Gizmo saw everything he did as a means to an end. Sweet Delight let a deep sigh loose, she had lost this battle once again. “But then again, as long as it works for you dear.”

Gizmo’s ears perked up and the smile returned to his face. He extended his hoof in a welcoming way towards Sweet Delight. “I’m sure my mom would be happy if you visited with us.”

Grabbing Gizmo’s hoof tightly and giving it a few loving pats, Sweet Delight let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll probably come by after y’all leave. There are a few thing’s that I wanna talk to her about alone.”

Sweet Delight and Gizmo hugged each other tightly one last time before exchanging extended goodbyes. Again, Sweet Delight repeated a vague promise that she would visit Gizmo’s mother more often before returning to the little clique of friends that she had previously abandoned.

Griselda had split from the two while they were talking. She browsed the various shop windows and sampled small fruit flavored caffeinated beverages offered by a cheery barista. Finally, Gizmo retrieved her from her wanderings and apologized profusely for holding both of them up. They continued walking down the streets with their pastel shops and street performers. After a good half an hour, the edges of the town melted away into the green of the countryside. The blades of grass that covered the fields were long, sharp, and adorned in sparkling droplets of wet morning dew. The asphalt was replaced with a patchy dirt track as the main town faded from view. It wound its way through the sea of grass and followed the curvature of the hills.

Gizmo and Griselda followed the track; those microscopic specks that fall from the trees and glint in the sun drifted onto their backs and noses, making them sniffle and sneeze. “Where are we going?” Griselda asked.

“Hmm?” Gizmo replied absentmindedly “Oh, my house is around a mile from here, down this path.”

“Great, I thought I would be done walking relatively early today.” Griselda huffed sarcastically.

They stopped at a dry stream with a bed of caked mud. Gizmo remembered it fondly from his childhood, splashing around with his friends on hot summer days. They would swim until the cool of the evening began to set in, forcing them to dry off and retreat back into their homes where supper would be waiting. But supper would never be waiting for Gizmo, his mother taught him to cook at an early age so she could remain in her basement laboratory, engrossed in her research.

Gizmo’s mother had been a medical researcher, studying bacteria and other virulent diseases. Always the busy type, she would spend hours in that lab turning out research papers that would be flung out into the academic community. She searched tirelessly for a cure or medical discovery that would propel her into the national spotlight, and cement her genius in the history books.

They left the dry brook and its dusty bed be, and continued on their journey. A cortège of eucalyptus trees lined the road in front of them, leading up to a stately wooden bungalow. The house was painted stone grey, with bright flowers adorning every windowsill. A white picket fence surrounded the property, separating the open field from the front yard.

The gate creaked as Gizmo pushed it open, little flecks of rust coming off of the hinges as they screamed in resistance. The long, untrimmed lawn crept onto the path leading up to door. As he climbed the stairs to the porch, the planks creaked under Gizmo’s hoofs. Griselda stood at the foot of the stairs as Gizmo took out a rusted key and placed it in the lock. With an audible click, the door swung open to release a plume of dust.

“Mom! I’m home!” Gizmo yelled into the house.

The dust moved around his breath, having been disturbed after years of lying dormant on the door. It opened up to a relatively ornate living room, old furniture and plush seats sat coated with a layer of dust. As they walked across the living room, Gizmo’s hoofs left imprints on the dust-covered floor. He beckoned Griselda in, waving dust particles around with his outstretched hoof.

“Sorry it’s so dusty.” He said apologetically. “I haven’t been home in a while so there wasn’t anyone to clean.”

Griselda looked around, confused at the grubby and unkempt nature of the house. “Where’s your mother?” she asked.

Gizmo had picked up one of the porcelain vases stained with images of mythical beasts and was looking at it intently. “She’s out back by the willow tree.” He gestured towards the kitchen, where a door stood next to the refrigerator.

Griselda tentatively turned away from her companion and walked over to the door. She tried to peek through the curtains, but a layer of grime obscured her view. She turned the latch and opened the door, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sun. The willow tree stood tall on a grassy knoll around fifty feet from the foot of the door. The tree cast a long shadow in the morning sun, stretching from its base all the way to the door.

As she walked under its leaves, the willow tree’s shade chilled Griselda to the point of shivering. She looked around for some sign of life, before one of her talons became caught on something, sending her tumbling to the ground. Bringing her gaze down, Griselda was met by a blue pearl granite gravestone.

Seikilette Tech was chiseled across the top.

Underneath, an epitaph read “While you live, shine. Have no greif at all. Life exists only for a short while, and Time demands his due.”

Gizmo had made his way beside Griselda and sat down in front of the gravestone. “There were three things my mom always said you can’t control.” He said. “Who lives, who dies, and who tells your story.” He sighed and moved to brush some dirt off of the stone. “But I don’t think she ever believed that. She was always galavanting off to some far corner of Equestira hoping to make a name for herself.”

In the end, it had been her research that had killed her. A particularly deadly strain of tuberculosis had escaped containment when she was out of her pressure suit. Gizmo’s mother lingered for months bedridden an coughing up blood before she finally succumed. A quick funeral was held where some family members and close friends mourned the loss of “one of Equestria’s greatest minds” and Gizmo was on the train to college the very next day.

“I’m sorry Gizmo.” Griselda said awkwardly.

“Eh. Don’t mention it.” Gizmo replied noncelantly. “We can’t change the past or bring back the dead.”

Griselda coughed and cleared her throat loudly.

“Oh yeah.” Gizmo chuckled. “I forgot about that whole zombies thing.”

Griselda followed Gizmo back inside that mausoleum of a house, still feeling a bit uneasy from her unexpected discovery of Seikilette’s grave. Gizmo cooked a simple meal that night which they ate at a dusty table with three chairs, he dug through the pantry for some canned goods that had probably been there for years. Some corn and green beans with the lables faded with age provided a warm, but bland dinner. But the food was enough to sate their hunger, and send them straight to sleep.

Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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