MLP 30K: Rebel Dawn

“We have concluded that the case presented to us does not display sufficient demonstrable merit compared to the relative cost of projected enhancements needed to ensure continued development. Thus, this council finds it is in the best interest of The Equestrian Education Association and the Citizens Safety Council to temporarily suspend funding to the San Palamino exo-accoustics project, pending further review. I'm sorry, I truly am.” Chairpony Fancy Pants' voice echoes in the packed courtroom amid the shuffle of papers.

Shock.

Numbness.

The words felt like they physically slapped Sine Wave across the muzzle, then bucked her in the stomach. A tightening in the Unicorn's chest melds with an acrid tang of bile creeping up her throat as the reality of the situation came into focus. She was out of the job, and her efforts scattered to the wind. A year of research and information collection, more than two months of breakthroughs, a remarkable discovery, and it had come to nothing. They'd discovered information never seen before, and a language on the edge of being deciphered from Celestia knows where, but it was deemed to be 'insufficient'? Not only was it unfair, it was irrational! Sine swallows to try and clear the sour taste from her mouth before trying to say something convincing.. Nothing comes out. Her voice cracks and warbles, threatening to break her usually steely composure.

Where had it all gone wrong?

“Let it be on the record,” Professor Baryon's irritated huff interrupts the uncomfortable lull that had fallen on the chamber, “The decision is not unanimous and thus subject to re-evaluation at a future date.” The mare's support for the project didn't seem to be able to overturn Neighsay's sudden disapproval.

“Of course, objection noted.” The council's head stallion replies with a sigh.

A quiet whimper and sniffle makes the Unicorn glance towards the earth mare at her side. Clarion Call's breath hitches as her face prickles up in shades of red, reflecting the shame and disappointment that Sine felt as well. The pink mare's muzzle twitches as she fights to keep the keening simper locked into her chest. But the wet shine in her eyes betrays her. After only a few seconds, the first tears cut furrows down her cheeks.

“Y-you can't! Why?” Clare's voice cracks before she tries to regain some composure with a noisy sniff.

“I think we could probably do with a break.” interrupts another of the council members, an obvious attempt to forestall any overly emotional reply and maybe allow them a chance to find their way out. Lady Grey. Probably. Sine felt herself far less interested in that as she scoots over to place a foreleg around Clare's withers. Her friend shivers uncontrollably, barely held together as they sit on the shrouded bench just outside the spotlight.

A day ago they were presenting the most incredible news that their community had ever seen, and now it held no merit?

Sine's lower lip trembles just long enough for her to scrunch up her muzzle and let the acidic bite of disappointment well up in a queasy tide. “T-thank you for your time.” she breathlessly gasps, well aware that nopony would hear her. But it did offer a moment of respite being that no one could see her glossy eyes in the dark.

The swirling miasma of time whirls around her as the scratch of pens and quiet muttering of pagecolts melts together in an easily ignored background drone. The mare didn't stand up, she couldn't. And by the occasional hiccuped gasp and shudder that radiated into her side from her friend, neither could Clare.

So the sensation of a hoof on her shoulder makes her flinch from the unexpected touch, drawing away and pressing further into Clare's pudgy barrel.

“Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to spook you.” a quiet voice whispers, and in the gloom, Sine spots the fiery mane and bright coat of a vaguely familiar Unicorn. She was from the day before, the one the council had grilled pretty harshly as they got in. The Unicorn's bright teal eyes glimmer in the darkness, reflecting a weak but genuine smile lightly traced across her thin muzzle. The only surprise was the flowery moss green thermos thrust into her leaden forehooves. “Here, it might help.”

“Wha izzit?” Sine slurs together with a sniff.

“Just a pick me up a friend made for me, but it looks like you two could use it more. I'm sure she won't mind.” The bright Unicorn mare had been there and never broken down. It only made Sine feel even more sullen, realizing she couldn't- 'the buck is this?'

The self deprecating thought dies as Sine tastes the sea salt and caramel latte that sends tingles her tastebuds in short order. Her eyes nearly cross as she focuses on the curls of steam rising from the container, bringing with it the heady fragrance of sweet and salty goodness.

“I thought you two might need it more than us before your meeting.” The bright and confident unicorn quickly levitates another simple cream coloured ceramic thermos from a saddle pack. She unscrewed the cap and passes it to a still sniffling Clarion Call, the Unicorn steps in front of them, as if to hide them all from the view of the council.

After a few draughts and an unsteady hiccup, Sine Wave looks up and clears her throat. “Meeting?”

“Yep,” Sunset Shimmer replies quietly, ears pivoting before quickly casting a few looks to the reporters gallery, then a more concerned look at Clare as the earth pony gulps down most of her drink. “The princess wants a word with you about your work. Today.”

“'Pick up the guests', she said. 'They'll be obvious and everything will go great', she said. Lovely. Just bucking lovely.” Moondancer grumbles to herself as she wiggles her back uncomfortably against the wooden slats of the Canterlot station bench. She sighs and twists, taking up most of the space to lay down with her forehooves crossed over her saddle bag and hind legs tucked up to her barrel. The grey cloak wadded up and twisted uncomfortably over her like a blanket only barely warded off some of the early morning chill.

All around her the steam of engines rises from dormant machines' smoke stacks, and the sound of jangling cargo trolleys and baggage carts beats an obnoxious tattoo in tune with the general din of the station. From the jumbled groan of complaining foals and irritated working mares as they stumble into hastily formed lines, to the ambient noises of the soon departing locomotives, Moondancer could swear that it was all done to assault her with even more noise.

It's the last thing on her mind as the Unicorn stifles a yawn and quickly wraps the cloth under her frame while trying to scrunch her neck further into the warmth of her well worn turtleneck. Anything to stave off the humid chill of the unseasonably cold morning. With a loud rattle-clack, a pair of dual rail yard doors slowly yawns open, allowing a new arrival into the far side of the station. Of course, it also let in a new blast of cold air that sweeps through the station, using it as a wind tunnel to filter the rank fume-laden chilliness right into her face.

The rains had stopped in the early morning hours, but the sombre grey clouds left Canterlot's usual spectacular features swathed in a dismal haze. Sitting on the slatted wood and iron framed bench, Moondancer tried to keep her attention fixed on the flipping charts of inbound train schedules rather than the unhappy crowds and dingy skies. The sprawling latticework of glass and metal above the train yard let in what light it could, but it still wasn't enough to dispel the sensation of apathy and uneasiness that pervaded Canterlot.

Squinting through her glasses, Moondancer spots the Ponyville Express as it eases into the station's wide entrance, a few rail yard ponies quickly arranging baggage trolleys along the adjacent platforms. While obnoxiously loud at her spot at the mouth of the train station's ticket hub, it wasn't as bustling as it would be on a typical early autumn day.

With a sigh, Moondancer quickly rubs the life back into her tingling extremities and sluggishly rises to all fours.

'Happy smile, c'mon filly. Plaster that stupid grin on your face. Don't let them know you didn't want to get up at the crack of doom to pick them up.' It's too early for these horse apples.

She fully expected that Luna would be wanting to talk to Twilight, or maybe Starlight as part of their little royal club. Picking up her saddle bag, she makes her way around the stone platforms, wandering off towards the distant train while stamping some of the feeling back into her hooves.

Of course the stupid thing would show up on the other side of the station. She should never have drawn straws against Starlight to see which of them would go and fetch the science ponies and who would go to the station. That had been the decision of a morning zompony that had also maybe, kinda... possibly snubbed Sunset's good morning, and called her Starlight by accident. She'd have to apologize for that later.

'Well, if I'm doing this, gonna at least pretend to be happy.'

She knew one way to at least fake it. Quickly drawing her thermos from her pack, the Unicorn unceremoniously unscrews the cap of her paisley thermos. Paisley? She didn't remember packing that one, but she didn't really remember much of the morning. There was the hazy memory of stumbling outside into the cold and quickly scuttled back inside to pick up a cloak, and the early morning snub. That was it.

Stopping at an iron lamp post at the end of one of the stone embarkation platforms, the mare felt the steam on her muzzle and let it fog up her glasses with its life-giving heat. A small grin broke out on her face just from that as she sniffs some of the moisture away. It didn't smell quite as poignant, but that's because she needed a double kick this morning. Taking a sip, her face scrunches up.

It was a very nice tea, warm and fragrant....

'WHERE'S MY BUCKING SALT LACED CAFFENATEDSUGARDRINKWHATDIDYOUDOYOUBUCKINGWHORSE?!?!'

... but it wasn't the same.

As the train pulls to a stop, the mare stares in dismay at the paisley container and stares at it blankly for a moment. A memory flashes back, a slightly awkward Sunset scurrying off with her pack slung on her back with a cream thermos jangling from a strap. Biting back a warble of dawning comprehension, it does little to quell the sudden shaking in her hooves or the twitch in her left eye.

The squeal of brakes and hiss of a passenger car's doors opening barely registers with the mare as she stares at the now thoroughly unwelcome thermos hovering in her pale arcane grasp. Not that she could see it through her foggy glasses.

“SUNSET?!” She howls to the rafters in indignation.

“Um, it's Starlight.” Comes the voice from just in front of her. And through the opaque haze, she indeed spots the blurry violet blob.

“Well, it seems as though the fetch-and-carry-acorn has learned something at least.” The drink is peeled from her telekinetic grasp by an interfering pale haze. “This isn't half bad.”

'No, no... nonononono NO!' That voice. Moondancer tilts her head down just enough for her glasses to slide to the end of her muzzle.

There was only one blob that blue, that smug, and that insufferable.

'Stars, spheres, and celestial dam above, why do you hate me?'

Even though months had passed, the scars of the Davin incident were still fresh. The scratches of bolter fire and twist of a tortured void-frame were exposed here and there. Some sections had been acid-washed clean, exposing the bare cladding to the world, others had divots gouged out of their surface. But Tybalt Marr knew it as scar-tissue, something that the Spirit would never fully recover from.

Much like a living creature, it had felt the touch of pain and treachery. It was an ever present reminder that there was no sanctuary.

His heavy footfalls weren't alone in the corridor, dozens of astartes were traversing the well worn halls between the mag-lifts and access routes to the armory. The Warmaster's redeployment meant that a great many of the Spirit's considerable compliment of warriors would soon be in the care of the Magna Tyrannis. Spotting the transverse black crest and motley assortment of colourful cloaks garbing a glory squad, Marr was quite aware he wasn't even the most senior officer in the hallway.

After bobbing his head in acknowledgement to the black cloaked Reaver marshal, Marr veers sharply to his right and, with a wave of a hand, opens up a maintenance corridor. The cramped space would quickly bisect the barracks deck and lead him to the tenth's quarters. Compared to the wide and scuffed main thoroughfares, the maintenance runs were ugly, dimly lit, and even more noisy with the ever present hiss of steam pipes and pneumatic fluid exchanges. A pale green glow pulses through the section from the brass-clad lumin lamps sunk into the perforated rib stanchions. The scent of machine oil mixed with... something else. Something almost organic in its stink. Marr's nostrils flare, a cautionary warning ringing in his head as he spots the sharp pock marks of bolter fire that had burst the finger thick flange.

Blood?

It was possible. More than just astartes had died in the assault. But it wasn't just blood wafting in the air. For a second, a cold and uncomfortable instant, there was something more chemical in nature wafting on the artificial wind. Something that didn't match what his senses told him were machine oil. The astartes realized full well that it was deathly silent. No one but himself was in the corridor, yet eyes bored into him from somewhere.

'I see you.'

The astartes spins on his feet, cloak fanning wide as his hand snaps to the pistol locked to his hip to confront the voyeur.

Nothing.

The empty hallway pulses with dull green light while the low groan of industrial pumps and pistons fill the corridor with the heartbeat of the machine. Whatever had been watching him was gone.

Slowly, Marr straightens up and turns. But the hairs on the back of his neck still prickle as if something had brushed up against him. Redoubling his pace to something resembling a lope, the captain hurries through the grated metal section. Rusted and clogged servos whine as the door squeals open under some protest. In his haste, the warrior nearly runs into a grey-suited fleet crewmen.

The swarthy man blinks, nearly reeling back before shooting his gaze to the floor in an instant. “Apologies captain, I didn't think anyone was in there.”

“It's fine. No harm done.” Marr nods with an affirmative grunt, twisting to avoid bumping into the man as he locked eyes on the sigil of the 10th company across the hall. It was only a sparse few seconds, a breath between this hallway and the barracks to Loken's company.

But a prickling question gnaws at him, enough so that he turns around to look at the maintenance door even as his hand reaches to open the barracks room. By then, the fleet menial was gone, the portal snaps shut with a rusty whine.

'When was the last time a maintenance worker could look an astartes in the eye by accident?'

With a shake of his head and a low grunt, he looks to the well lit legionnaire barracks hallway. It was a short ramp heading down into the commons room that quickly splits into runs for each squad. There was a degree of oddity, déjà vu. His company's quarters were identical, except for the numerical plate of 18 and the red flag with the familiar glaring eye and screaming aquilla emblem.

But for all the oddity, the voices rising from the adjacent hall were comforting.

“You're bein' a worrywart. Trust me, there ain't nothing to it, Garvi!” Brash and upbeat, even Marr's perpetually pinched grimace turns into a weak grin. He brushes past one of assault legionnaires heading up the ramp to the hall, nodding with a tap to his armored chest in salute to Marr.

The captain returns it with a short nod before entering the main hall. It was certainly awash in activity, with dozens of legionnaires packing what little personal items they had into dull grey cases, while others check their equipment over piece by piece. In the dead center of the room, on the simple green marble roundel depicting the company's numerals in beaten bronze, was the pair of captains.

Tarik stands with his hands on hip and grin as wide as ever while Loken fastens his cloak clasp on the gorget rim, a morose glower of disapproval etched on his stony visage.

“I don't like it. It feels like this is some way to split us up. This, the Prospero issue, maybe the Word Bearers planned all of this out.”

It was neither of them, but the hovering face behind them that spots Marr first. Nero Vipus's eyes quickly focus on him, and he offers a nod and a swiftly flashed grin.

“Easy now, the Commander probably just wants someone with a head on his shoulders to watch over Abaddon. And who better than you?” Tarik offers with a shrug.

Marr clears his throat, catching both their attention. “First choice would have been you, Tarik.”

“Tibs!” Tarik sways on the spot, keeping the same hand-on-hip posture as he cracks a grin.

The new nickname reflexively makes Marr's cheek twitch, “I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

“What?” he keeps his wolfish grin, “You think I'll always have time to say 'honourable commander of the nineteenth company, sixteenth legion, Captain Tybalt Marr. Duck'?” He flicks an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder, “Single syllable, can't go wrong Tibs.”

“'Marr' is one syllable too, Tarik.” Loken grunts and finishes affixing the cloak before reaching over to pluck a new mag-harness from Vipus's grip.

Torgaddon merely waves a hand dismissively with a non-committal huff.

Marr sighs, pulling into the circle of officers that widens appropriately for him. “But really, you've known the First Captain longer, Torgaddon. I'm surprised he didn't elect for you to watch over Abaddon. He might listen to you better.”

“It's not anyone's job to tell Abaddon what to do, just advise. And besides, Horus knows I can get under Aximand's skin. He'll be sticking with me and the Commander, so it'll be fine." Torgaddon's impish smirk never fades.

Marr glances around at the legionnaires, many of which were nearly prepared to depart. This would likely be the last time they spoke until the Spirit arrived at the Ryza mustering point.

“Speaking of the Commander,” Loken interrupts, drawing Marr's attention back to the conversation. “You're his emissary now. It was Maloghurst's job. Just be careful, he can be vindictive.”

“I'm only his emissary abroad, Maloghurst retains his title as equerry to the Warmaster.” Marr sighs, but the thought had most definitely arisen privately. 'The Twisted' was no amateur, nor was he gracious. He'd never even spoken to Maloghurst for more than a minute or two, and the exchange was a more or less perfunctory one.

“There will be a lot of people who want to get into your good graces just to get at the Commander,” Loken cautions and sets a hand on Marr's shoulder, catching his full attention. “I trust you. I just feel ... uncomfortable with the way the Mourneval was split up. Horus is only taking a few companies with him, and for everything he said, he's still not back to normal. It all feels like we're being spread too thin, too many of us paired with lodge members, so we can't keep an eye on everything. So be on your guard and watch for anything strange. Remember Sejanus.”

Hastur Sejanus's murder while acting as Horus's emissary was well known, reviled, and cautionary. Marr begins to now as Tarik's hand finds a hold on his armor, and reels the slighter captain in. Torgaddon leans some of his weight against him, crossing a leg and grinning at Loken. “Hey, I'll keep an eye out for 'em, Garvi. Besides, I'll be at Horus's side most of the time, and when I'm not, Tibs here will. I mean, what can go wrong?”