Author's Note
Author's Note Courtesy of B_25:
I’ve held three idols throughout my creative life, maybe not to the fullest meaning of the word, but the idea behind suffices to get my point across. They are NC Mares, Harlan Ellison, and, of course, Short Skirts and Explosions.
If there's one writer where the heaviest of my inspiration comes from… it’s him. In creating trying to create tagline like him—my ‘Lola’ to his ‘F’naaaa’—to his style of replying to messages rendering conversations with him as unique experiences… Skirts had that ‘it’ factor.
And I wanted one too.
Inspiration sometimes means to emulate. To the shame of myself and my purist of telling you the truth, in the attempt to be like Skirts—taken from forums and encounters from others and blogs he composed—I started drinking Dr. Pepper, blasting music in my ears, and pacing in my garage for ideas.
The only thing that has changed, of course, is I now drink Monsters.
In trying to be Skirts, I found myself becoming something more, offering responses and writing things like I normally wouldn’t. My computer switched from black text to red on black and has kept that way for three years. All I lack is more hair with a bit more height than him.
But his voice is something I’ll never match, either in prose or in an interview.
It was in trying to be like Skirts, however, that I became more myself. I’d never thought of myself as a prolific writer. Like everyone else, I marveled at the word counts Skirts was able to put up. But I found in acting like him, thinking like him… that I could slowly do the same.
I became so immersed in writing to the point I no longer cared about quality and, while this has served as my downfall lately, it also allowed me to improve at the craft. More time was spent writing and failing and improving during composition. Instead of contemplation, I was actively testing matters out.
Failure ceases to matter when one can immediately take to the next project. There's great solace in that. Something that keeps you going regardless of the results.
My writing became looser as a result. Where before I struggled to type words, now, writing is as natural to me as it is speaking. It’s through the testing of things Skirts would say that I found my own blend of a ‘Character.”
Skirts sometimes plays a character and, sometimes, so do I. The writer you know as B is different from the person that writes these words. Elements of me fade in, sure, but B is what I desire of people to see and experience of me.
I’m still very much like Skirts in many ways; however, those were ways linking to what I would have become anyway. Accepting what is useful and relevant and tossing away that which is not. It’s because of Skirts that I became B, something more than myself.
To ensure I pay him no offense… I may not have become a better writer emulating Skirts… but I certainly became more of a writer for it. Never in my four years of stalking did I imagine we’d become friends. Much less to have him writing for a collection of mine.
And I’m honoured to have him as I am for the rest of the lovely folk here.
Words from shortskirtsandexplosions:
The Brony fandom is about a decade old, and in that time it's garnered its fair share of legends. NCmares is among them. As he is an artist, the likes of this lemur has no choice but to admire him from a lowly mortal gopher hole.
I dig how the illustrator has gone through phases: from the early days of grim dark war pr0n, to the pleasant schtick of cuddly hoodie sleepovers, and finally settling on stuff that... well... is most certainly aligned with B_25's interests. I also especially admire that NCMares appears to share an understanding of who is best pony at all times until the end of time.
While it's been a pleasure to witness all of these manifestations of NCMares from a distance, I've never directly interacted with him. Not until B_25 poked me with an invitation to contribute to a literature anthology that he was throwing together with other like minded ~~banned~~ bois. It was a joy to have an excuse to write something that a known brony persona would take pleasure in. It wasn't so much of a joy to have only 48 hours to do it. Nevertheless, I persisted.
This is the result of that, for better or for worse. We were instructed to choose our favorite artwork of NCMares' and write a 1.5k+ oneshot about it. I chose a pic that showed badass fillies with guns and metal prosthetics running into explosions. 'Cuz fuck yeah.
In so doing, I took a brief glance at NCMares' source material, which I strongly suggest you check out. Thankfully the synopsis of his fic was enough to give me a rough bible to bullshiet a short narrative to. I doubt it'll do his actual content justice, but consider this story a Chinese knock-off of something far superior, and then go stream the original material off itunes ~~goddammit~~.
When I first ever started writing poni poni poni stories, it was my dream that someday someone would write fanart based on my content. I've had that fantasy come true multiple times, to the point that I scarcely feel worthy of the creative grace that has been bestowed upon me.
Perhaps the likes of this literary fluff is a way of paying the universe back for the endorphins that have been ejaculated my way. It's hard to see the shoeshine in it when said-artist is already such an accomplished author as well, but... meh. At least it got squeezed some words out of my brain bone. Recursive materia's gonna recurse, dreit?
Dreit.
The Charge
Once upon a time, friendship—like most magics—was not a weapon of war. But Apple Bloom could scarcely remember it. Through the ash and soot of yet another exploding shell, she couldn't pierce through hard enough to recall the color of sunlight—for which she fought so hard. For which they all did.
Another shell landed—much closer this time. Half a second of cacophony later, dirt and bone fragments showered across Apple Bloom's canvas gear, kissing her bruised coat as she lay deep in the mud of a low trench reeking of gunpowder and decay. A wavering murmur bristled through the huddled bodies squatting all around her. There was squeaking, a cracking voice or two—scared and youthful—on all sides of the muddy depression. It almost sounded like music, a precious chorus hidden amidst all the mud and metal.
At last, Apple Bloom opened her bloodshot eyes, peering over the charred black blades of grass bending before her.
A dark horizon stretched between No Mare's Land, flat and desolate beneath an even darker sky. A wide open field lay before the Equestrian offensive line. Save for a few sporadic potholes carved into the ruined earth by random artillery, it was a clean gallop straight to the treeline. And that treeline was Death—for it was where the enemy hid.
An enemy that was currently lobbing more magic shells at the Equestrian position.
“Incoming!” somepony squealed, not that it would amount to much. The shells landed where they would—and it was by the grace of Harmony that they exploded an innocuous cluster of bullets far south of their position.
As the latest salvo of thunder settled—serenaded by chunks of debris hailing down on all sides of the trench—a familiar figure wormed up towards Apple Bloom's right side.
“What in Tartarus's name are we waiting for?!” Scootaloo hissed. The green managlow of her scout goggles faintly illuminated a camo-painted muzzle, currently twisted with impatience as she spat into the mud and ash. “We got them backed into an isolated cluster of Everfree!”
“You don't think they know that?!” squeaked another mare to Apple Bloom's left. Three years into this senseless conflict, and her voice still sounded like harmonic chimes against the continuous bass of war. “They got us pinned down! As soon as we show our heads—”
“Nightmare One and Nightmare Three are further ahead than the rest of us!” Scootaloo gestured at the dozens of bodies huddled low in the trenches around them. Grimy metal augments along the edges of her fetlock clicked like chainsaw teeth in the deathlights. “We ground to make up! And if we don't, we'll no longer have a solid line to advance with!”
“Have you forgotten our orders?!” Sweetie Belle squeaked. Her ammo bandoliers and equipment rattled as she snarled at her comrade. “The Shadowbolts will be providing air support at any moment now! Then we wait for the flare—”
“And I'm tellin' you, they won't have made it past the flak line!” Scootaloo hissed back. “We're waiting for nothing! You think any of the other squads will issue a charge at this point?”
“Why are you itching so hard for a scrap?! You know what it's cost to bring us this far!”
“I'm just sick and tired of hiding from these freaks! Are we going to take down that stupid radio spell or not—?!”
As the two mares continued bickering into the mad and shadows, Apple Bloom's weary eyes settled on a pale image before her. Soft petals—flimsy and drooping. A single flower was bravely sticking sideways out of a collapsed patch of earth in front of her. She reached forward with her left forelimb to touch it. The metal teeth of her augments squeezed towards it, like a squid's beak. But she stopped just a hair's width before so much as grazing the flower, knowing that she would only crush it. Apple Bloom's teeth clenched, and a deep growl rose from her muzzle, before bursting towards both her left and right.
“Cut the chatter!” She silenced her friends—her subordinates—in a single grunt. Another roll of thunder, but not from the landing shells this time. “It's the Witchin' Hour. Them invaders have stockpiled all their fancy black magics to let loose for this one slobberknocker. And if they're fixin' to protect that cluster of Everfree so dang hard, then we know for sure that what we're aimin' to destroy is in that there woods.”
A shivering pony two meters away stammered across the trenches: “What's the w-word, Two-Alpha?”
Apple Bloom looked back at the soldier. “We wait for the air support.” She rolled her body sideways, adjusting the full weight of her rifle and checking its magazine. “Then the flare.” Rattling augments shifted the weapon's bolt in and out of place. “Then... we stampede.”
Scootaloo took a deep breath. “Night Mares take point.”
“Eeyup.” Apple Bloom rolled back and aimed down the sight, surveying the battlefield ahead of them. “The regular infantry will take the rear.”
“Just like we trained,” Sweetie Belle added.
“Good to know we're all in agreement.” Apple Bloom's lips tightened as she studied each of the dim tree trunks lingering in the dark, dark distance. “So stop the dang yappin' and know yer places!”
Sweetie and Scootaloo shuddered, falling silent. The same solemn hush fell over the rest of the trenches as everypony lingered. Waited.
“This... this here's the last charge,” Apple Bloom murmured into her own issued emptiness, scanning the deathly edges of the forest. “It has t'be.” Her ears flattened beneath the bullet-riddled scrap of a pink bow. “Blessed Night Mothe—”
Just then, her entire sniper scope lit up, blinding her. She shook her head loose, squinting over the obsidian horizon of carved earth. As her vision came into focus, she saw—as everypony did—a rising curtain of bright streaming fire issuing upwards from the Everfree Treetops.dk
“Incoming salvo!” some scared pony shouted several bodies away. “They're trying to finish us off!”
“No, look!” another pointed skyward, noting how the volley was still rising, piercing the soot-stained clouds above. “It's anti-air!”
“That means—!”
Everypony flinched as a sonic reverberation issued overhead. An expanding bubble of pegasus magic rippled outward in every direction, flattening the remaining grass as over a hundred winged bodies tore north through the blackened atmosphere. Clothed in blue and hugging bombs to their chests, the daredevilish squadron spread their limbs and dropped their payloads into the treeline below.
The bombardment was haphazard. Sloppy. Desperate—but it was enough to drag the attention of the hidden enemy away from the Equestrian frontline. Pretty soon, the sky filled with amber streaks of tracers and fiery-enchanted ballistics. The blackened countryside lit up, and—for the briefest of gasps—Apple Bloom and her companions could see huddled masses of artillery stations huddled between the trunks of the Everfree cluster.
“What did I tell you?!?” Wind chimes. Sweetie Belle's smile lit up with each burst of flak above.
“Let's not waste it!” Apple Bloom hollered. The augments of her rear hooves dug into the mud, anchoring her as she flung her forward half over the edge of the trench. Something tiny was crushed underneath her, and she blew the pale petals away, slinging the rifle over and out until it was aimed at the tree line. “Open fire! Send them varmints to Tartarus!”
A rousing round of neighs boiled through the hidden squadron. In a solid glinting column, no less than five dozen rifle barrels swung towards the furthest horizon. Their muzzles flashed with enchanted gun powder, and soon the earth was screaming with a dance of shrapnel, surging due north.
The noise was skull-splitting, but Apple Bloom was used to it. She took even breaths, firing her rounds slowly and taking brief moments between bolt action reloads of her rifle to scan the treeline for any changes in the pattern of chaos. Sure enough, the anti-air salvos had lessened, but there was no sign of fallen targets. Even when squinting down the sight of her scope, Apple Bloom saw fallen trees, scattered leaves, and split branches—but no bodies.
It certainly didn't help that Equestria never quite knew if the invaders were actually capable of bleeding.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Scootaloo shouted, goggles rattling from the vaporous discharges of her grenade launcher. Each distant explosion reflected off the two serrated metal wings emerging from her backside. “Can't take it as well as you dish it out, huh?! Ya black magic punks!”
Sweetie Belle grimaced as she aimed down her the sight of her semi-automatic. “Scootaloo?! Must you—?”
But before Apple Bloom could chew either of them out—
—the entire eastern edge of the field lit up in a bright, blinding orange.
Apple Bloom looked up, pupils shrinking at the sight of an enormous flare slicing through the lower flak.
“What?!” A soldier down the trench stammered in the middle of reloading her rifle. “Nightmare Three?! Already?!”
“It's too soon!” Sweetie Belle's voice cracked. “We can't stampede through this! We'll be cut to ribbons!”
Apple Bloom swallowed hard. Just then—another flare. This time burning the sky to the west, where Nightmare One was hidden. She took several deep breaths—inhaling the soot and decay... and exhaling a growl. “Like Tartarus we will...!”
Mud bubbled beneath her from the manaexhaust of her augmented legs powering up. With a mechanical hiss, Apple Bloom's body was propelled vertically. Her trained body adjusted to the bipedal stance. After another hiss of hydraulics, she was boosted forward in a blink, scaling the edge of the trench and raising her muzzle high enough so that her following shouts would be carried to every hidden meter of the battle line.
“Foals of the Night Mother!” She screamed, her tattered bow flailing like a battle flag in the necrotic winds. “Stampede! The Witching Hour is ours!”
“Awwwwwwww ponyfeathers...” Scootaloo grinned in spite of her expletive. One slap to the chassis of her grenade launcher, and its shed its outer metal panels, converting to a portable weapon that steamed in the dark air.
Sweetie Belle shook her shoulders. With a little help from her glowing horn, a shiny cylinder emerged from her backpack. Speakers sparked to life with miniature bolts of lightning, playing a loud and crackling rendition of the Matriarchy's battle anthem.
And just like that, every scared mortal soul galloped up and out of the trenches, hollering in one hellish accord: “For Equestria!!!”
“Onward, Crusaders!” Apple Bloom shouted, taking point. It was impossible not to; her augments threw her forward like a locomotive shoving a bound infant. Her vision rocked from the steady bipedal sprint, and yet she found the strength to scream into the madness, aiming her rifle in mid stride. “Take down the radio enchantment at all costs!”
The army of Equestria charged north, galloping towards a forest on fire. The smoke overhead cleared briefly, revealing a sun and moon hanging statically in the sky—a desperate measure by the Princesses to illuminate the enemy for the kingdom's finest. This accomplished very little, however, for soon the spaces between the flak were filled with the bodies of unlucky pegasi falling to the earth, most of them reduced to indistinguishable chunks from the anti-air that swiftly responded to their attack.
Apple Bloom gnashed her teeth, strafing left and right as tattered wings and shattered vertebrae rained down to the muddied earth. In her peripheral vision, she spotted the companies of Nightmare One and Nightmare Three advancing. Echoes of the royal battle march echoed Sweetie Belle's device from the fringes, and soon all three companies converged as one, forming a solid line as they charged the forested cluster head of them.
At last, the enemy regained their focus—and hot streaks of black magic ballistics sailed towards the advancing Equestrians. Amber tracers filled the air with the smell of burning metal dust and acid.
Apple Bloom jumped several projectiles with a hiss of hydraulic augments. Half-a-scream later, she landed, her prosthetic rear limbs grinding through the earth and kicking up a blinding wall of dust to shield her comrades. The soldiers took the opportunity to duck low, prop their rifles up, and return fire at their foe. As the dirt wall settled, Apple Bloom dashed up towards a moss-covered boulder and took cover.
The Night Mare grasped an enchanted ammo clip from her bandolier. She breathed on the bound bullets, causing them to glow faintly. Then—flicking a metal barb loose from the side of the clip—she proceeded to cut a shallow slice into her left flank—just above her scarred cutie mark. Her blood oozed over the bullets, and the enchanted ammunition illuminated like hot bricks. She promptly loaded this into the chamber of her rifle, bent around the edge of the boulder, and took aim at the source of the enemy's bulletfire.
One by one, she took focused pot shots of the tree line. Each enchanted bullet landed with remarkable force, exploding magnificently and sending wooden shrapnel flying every which way for yards. As she squinted down the steaming scope for signs of a return-fire, she spotted bright flashes of blue light. Hissing under her teeth, Apple Bloom ducked low behind the boulder, her ears twitching at the sound of multiple prolonged whistles.
The air above her strobed with a pale blue light, illuminating dozens... hundreds of equine bodies charging into the fray. The first of several artillery shells landed. They were blue spheres of unearthly magic. Upon impact, they lifted back up, hovered a meter above the earth, then fluctuated with arcane fury. Within seconds, anything that was not rooted down—and some things that were—were forcibly sucked into the infinitesimal nexus of the spell. Apple Bloom watched helplessly as multiple soldiers were lifted off their hooves and thrown together—screaming. After the ensuing flash, what was left of the ponies were congealed into a crimson mass of squirming muscle and tattered limbs, too cancerous and writhing to die quickly.
Apple Bloom wrenched her eyes from the casualties. She spotted a pale body just a few yards west of her. “Night Mare Beta!” she shouted. “Engage siege mode!”
Sweetie Belle looked her way. She nodded, horn already glowing. The speaker in her back popped its panels loose, undulating to reveal several metal barrels that floated off her gear. She kicked her rear hooves into the ground. With sparks issuing, the augmented digits folded away, and a pair of miniature tank treads mushroomed into functional existence underneath the bend of her fetlocks. At the same time, the barrels levitated by the Night Mare's magic, forming the rough floating skeleton of a minigun. With a shake of her backpack, Sweetie Belle unribboned an absurd length of fifty calibre shells into the heart of the levitating, spinning chamber. Strafing smoothly on the miniature treads, Sweetie Belle glided fearlessly towards the enemy position, all the while firing a murderous string of hot bullets from the floating minigun which leveled the outer forest cluster to bits.
Apple Bloom knew this would only give her company thirty seconds to spare at most. She capitalized with a hydraulic leap, hurdling over the boulder and charging once more towards the burning walls of Everfree. As Sweetie Belle's cover fire tore into the western reaches of the cluster, heavy shadows came bursting out of the eastern flank.
A jolt rang through Apple Bloom's heart; she wondered if she was finally laying eyes on the enemy. Within seconds, her heart sank. Quadruped shapes were charging towards the Equestrian stampede. The moment she saw the bodies absorbing the bullets of her comrades, she knew what they were facing.
“Eyes right!” the Night Mare shouted. “Constructs—!”
Just as she hollered this, they accelerated, kicking up dirt and bloody fragments of fallen pegasi. Their gnarled wooden bodies flickered against the artillery bombardment—timberwolves fused to foreign metals, glowing hot and blue from within. Their fanged jaws open wide, and projectiles zipped from their mouths. These bullets did not fly straight—however—but zipped and flitted about with pale trails before landing on the necks and chests and flanks of ponies, upon which the projectiles achieved a demonic autonomy, burrowing and carving their way into the flesh of equine soldiers via buzzing mandibles.
Soldiers writhed and screamed, falling into the puddles that their eviscerated bodies were becoming. The constructs splashed through the viscera, converging on what remained of Apple Bloom's company.
“Night Mare Delta!” Apple Bloom hollered, all the while taking futile shots at the regenerating wooden legs of the mutant timber-beasts. “Blades out!”
“On it!” Scootaloo hollered, charging from a dozen screams away, illuminating the battlefield with a voracious smile. She sent a single shrug through the length of her body, and her augments sparkled. The two serrated blades extended further from her back. With a running leap, she glided over the battlefield, landing in a spinning slide that nimbly cut the legs off two constructs from underneath them. Before she stopped gliding, the mare reached her forelimbs back and grasped both wings—unsheathing them as a pair of lengthy scimitars graffiti'd all over with the hash marks of past kills.
She then proceeded to add a fresh number to her record, slicing deep into the necks of the constructs, severing their black magic circuitry and exposing the fluctuating manacores. At one point, she sliced the chest of a timber-wolf wide open, causing its metal core to fall out. With a grunt, Scootaloo backflipped, bicycle-kicking the orb into an advancing wave of intercepting constructs.
Apple Bloom exhaled, steadying her body as she narrowed her sight on the flying orb and took one expert shot. The bullet sliced through the carnage, impacting the core and rupturing it. Blue plasma erupted across the battlefield, taking out multiple constructs with the improvised discharge. What remained of the constructs became easy pickings for Night Mare Delta, and Scootaloo's victorious growls urged the remaining soldiers onward with their charge.
A short breath—nothing more than could be afforded—and Apple Bloom swiftly slapped a new magazine into her rifle before moving forward...
...and that's exactly when her left rear leg exploded.
It wasn't until Apple Bloom's muzzle was carving angel wings into the dirt beneath her that she became aware of her own screams. A blood-tinged sky rolled and broiled above her. Heaving inward, she wrestled her lungs to submission just long enough to throw a reluctant glance down to see the damage.
An enemy bullet had landed into one of the manacircuits of her fetlock augments. What remained was a splintery mess of wires, bone, and muscle strings. The cauterized edges of her flesh steamed into the flickering air.
Apple Bloom smelled that morning's breath. Shivering, she wiped the fresh vomit off her chest and—like a good soldier—reached a numb hoof out towards her rifle. She heard her name being screamed. Panicked eyes darted eastward.
Scootaloo's figure blurred in and out of focus. She charged across a sea of corpses towards Apple Bloom, repeating her name in louder echoes, her goggles rattling above a worried face. Pausing once or twice—if only to deflect incoming projectiles with her blades—the mare made a mad dash for her companion. “Don't worry, Apple Bloom!” She galloped. She slid. “I'll get you to—!”
A blue shell landed, floated, and flickered—like a flower.
Scootaloo's breath was sucked in, and then her body. The twin scimitars spun, folded, and crackled—flying towards opposite ends of the sky like dragonfly wings. What remained of Scootaloo herself fell in a wet lump on the grass, with writhing sinew circling around the fragmented facsimile of a skull.
Tiredly, Apple Bloom rocked her head towards another source of screams—like wind chimes fracturing down the scenter.
She saw Sweetie Belle in two places—being pulled further apart. A pair of timberwolf constructs were fighting over her head and abdomen, and both predators were winning. As more and more of Night Mare Beta's entrails were exposed, she threw a vomitous look of desperation at Apple Bloom. Eyes pleading... tearing.
Deadpan, Apple Bloom jerked the bolt of her rifle and aimed at the holocaustal scene. The black cross of her scope lingered on Sweetie Belle's pallid forehead... then reluctantly switched to the manacore of one of the constructs devouring her. For Apple Bloom heard the thunder of more automatons rushing in and there was only way to take them all out and spare the lives of more soldiers.
One last, musical shriek—and Sweetie Belle vanished beneath the erupting magic. Apple Bloom flinched as twigs, metal shards, and pieces of her friend rained down on her. More breakfast. She shook, strained, and struggled to get up. Pain rippled through her body, but her remaining augments carried her soon-to-be-corpse forward.
Limping, wobbling, she inched a bloody streak towards the treeline. Apple Bloom was so close. She could almost smell the enemy—a queer, leathery smell that used to mean the cusp of victory, but now...
“Varmints...” She cocked her rifle, propped herself on one good prosthetic, and fired randomly into the cluster. Shot after shot. Chasing that ever elusive radio spell into the black gasp of Hell. “Filthy... peevin' varmints...” Bullets returned. Enchanted projectiles—one with the mandibles of a demon scarab, going straight for the jugular. “Mother of Nightmares give me strength... I'll send ya high-tailin' back to Tartarus—”
One projectile landed, slicing its way into Apple Bloom's liver. A second bit onto her left forelimb. The third—exploded into her rifle, taking out a chunk of her face.
Apple Bloom fell, gargling her own essence. She rolled back onto her flank, peering skyward in fitful spasms as she felt the scarabs chewing their way through her digestive track and into her lungs. High above—through the ash and soot—the sun and moon hung like pale pallbearers over a never-ending dirge. Her eyes clouded red, crossing, losing focus. The moon and sun converged until one became an eclipsed crescent from the other...
...and then the pain was gone as Apple Bloom came to.
The crescent hung still, cold and clear, the effigy of a banner hanging from the rafters of an ancient citadel.
Apple Bloom breathed—and there was no enchanted projectile butchering its way through her lungs. In a spastic jerk, she sat up—rattling the edges of a canvas cot stretched out beneath her.
She was surrounded by ponies. Ponies in beds. Beds filling every square foot of an enormous palatial chamber strewn-over with the Lunar crest.
Panting, shivering, and drenched in more than a little bit of sweat, Night Mare Alpha looked all around her. The familiar visages of fellow comrades lay in fitful slumber, their faces awash in discomfort and stress. To her right, Apple Bloom made out Scootaloo's sleeping figure; the pegasus' face was frozen in a permanent frown, teeth gritting like a canine's.
A harmonic whimper. Apple Bloom looked to her left. Sweetie Belle lay curled up under a canvas sheet, her clenched eyelids squeezing loose hot tears.
Just then, Apple Bloom heard the scuffle of hooves. Her heartbeat had slowed to a calm crawl by now, and she casually glanced up to see one of several hooded figures trotting towards her.
A veiled stallion came to a stop just before her cot, all the while his companions continued closely monitoring the rest of the fitfully “sleeping” soldiers. An amulet with the lunar crest hung below the neck of his cloak, and a set of fangs glinted as he spoke towards the waking warrior.
“Another failure, then?”
Apple Bloom breathed in and out. She remained silent.
“Her Majesty expects a report, Alpha,” the stallion added tersely.
“The entire charge was obliterated,” Apple Bloom muttered, rubbing her head. The augments built into her fetlock scratched hard through her scraggly, partially-grayed mane. “We... lagged behind Nightmare One and Two.”
“Then the rest will be waking shortly.” The stallion's slitted eyes briefly shone from beneath the hood. “The Night Mother will recreate the dream in the morning. Prepare thineself.”
Apple Bloom's teeth momentarily gnashed. “It would help if we could remember our failures into the next exercise...”
The stallion calmly peered at her from above. “If the Night Mares cannot succeed in a singular isolated engagement, then why should thou deserve the lives that thou hath pledged to ensure?”
Apple Bloom's body went limp. She hung her head.
“The Night Mother doth not choose her warriors lightly,” he said. Again, fangs. “Thine good dreams are forfeit. All that's left is to survive the Nightmare, and carry it—along with her fury—into the actual battlefield.”
Silence.
“Doth thy pledge remain true, Alpha?”
Apple Bloom sat up straight, finally saluting. “It does, goodly sage.”
He nodded slowly in response. “Rest thy mind. The Witching Hour repeats in the morning. Prove thine worth in the Nightmare, or else thou will not hath earned thine limbs.” With a shrug of his shrouded withers, the stallion rejoined his brethren in pacing about the cathedral, monitoring the slumbering soldiers laid out from wall to wall.
Apple Bloom sighed. She rubbed her aching scalp a few times, wincing from the clitter-clack of her metal augments. She let her forelimb hover before her face, examining the grimy metal digits up close. Parts of the prosthetic glittered from pale moonlight, and she turned to look at a tall stained glass window hanging above her cot. From her vantage point, the ebony visage of Nightmare Moon hovered upside down, framed by a gray malaise of “sky.”
Everything beyond was pale, static, a war without end.
There was no sense in refusing to begin.
In a heavy breath, Apple Bloom lay back down on the cot. She sensed the fitful jerks of Scootaloo in her sleep—the sobs of Sweetie Belle to the opposite side. Friends, they once were—but like all good weapons they needed a good sharpening.
So she closed her eyes...
...and meditated in the darkness.
