Alien Postcards

Jostle me around some more, would you?

Avery didn’t voice his opinion. He wasn’t in the right position to do so and that meant something. Sergeant Major Avery Junior Johnson was one tough son of a bitch and he was always in the right position. His luck was without competition excluding one olive green supersoldier.

Lightbulb had put him through the wringer. His chest consisted of a burnt hole, curtesy of one hot as fuck laser beam and the rest of his body wasn’t faring any better. The ache from many consecutive days of fighting was setting in. The only reason he wasn’t in a coffin was because the heat from that beam had cauterized the flesh around his chest, delaying his inevitable bleed out. Brownie’s flying wasn't doing him any favors and his throat wasn’t cooperating so he couldn’t tell her that.

And he knew it was a she—the voice was raspy yet distinctly feminine. While he wasn’t caught up on his marshmallow horse anatomy, what he saw between the swishes of her tail seemed to back up his assumptions.

If the flight wasn’t causing him immense amounts of pain, he would’ve enjoyed it. The view was exquisite. Tall trees were visible in all directions, their branches reaching out to touch the sky and shield the ground below. Everything was brighter, more alive and animated. Forests like this were in increasing demand in UNSC controlled space. But they would rebuild because they had won.

That mere thought was intoxicating, yet its aftertaste was unpleasant. He would have liked to see himself through, to see the aftermath and help wherever he could—end of the war or not, there were always asses to be kicked. But that was neither here or now—his here and now was Brownie’s flying and the pain that accompanied it. He was well-accustomed to pain. Yet the sound of her wing beats held a therapeutic quality to them. He saw that he had no pressing concerns beyond his impending death, so when he felt sleep’s familiar embrace, he welcomed it with open arms.

Sweet Celestia, is this thing made of bricks!?

Daring prided herself on her quick wit and her ability to be at the right place at the right time, all the time, yet she knew that she owed a large part of her success to strength. She was stronger than most pegasi and she reckoned she could overtake some earth ponies. She was no pushover in the strength department yet she found herself struggling to keep up her attitude. The heavyweight in her forelegs straining at her wing muscles. She was going to have to stop soon and the Zebrican capital was still a ways off.

Determining that it was time to land, Daring began her descent, passing the low-hanging clouds and lowering into the dense forest canopy, careful not to damage her injured, living cargo any more than it already was. She landed in a semi-open glade, covered in all directions by green tendrils of local flora. She inspected the ground and picked the flattest portion she could find. With gentleness unbefitting of the adventurous mare, she lowered it to the ground and looked up into its closed eyes. A hasty ear pressed to its chest confirmed its status as alive.

She did a quick once-over to determine its condition, and the result was not good. The biggest concern was the deep burn in its chest. She wasn’t sure what did the deed—the only thing she could think of was a charged assault spell but that required a unicorn to cast it. From the relative newness of the wound, it was not within reason that her assumption was correct.

She shook her head. Regardless of the cause, it needed treatment soon or else the monkey would die—and she was certain it was some form of hairless monkey. She didn’t need a degree in zoology to come to that conclusion; anypony with a working pair of eyes would come about with a similar deduction.

There were a few other notable wounds on its lanky appendages and its torso but the chest wound was the main concern.

She was paying her dues to it for saving her. Daring Do didn’t owe anyone any debts, and this monkey was no exception. She would take care of her own needs later. Her mind had already created a list, and she would follow it to the tee.

Let’s begin, she thought, her mind forming a sort of checklist.

...Create salve…
... Bandages…
...Staunch any bleeding…
...Find food…

Her list continued to spiral downward but the first few were the most pressing, so without a moment of complaint, she set about doing her tasks, all the while keeping her impromptu patient within view.

She found the correct leaves within minutes, and her internal filly scout awoke. She crushed the leaves into a rich pulp, spreading it around on her hoof. Walking over to the monkey, she lathered it in thick dollops along its chest and torso. Absent-mindedly, her eyes wandered over its dark, scarred skin, taking in its many interesting features. Thick veins ran up its beefy forelimbs, some of its skin hosting inked art—tattoos, they were called. She had seen some minotaurs with tattoos. She didn’t understand the practice, but it was not her business nor care to understand.

She traced her hoof along its arm, toward its rounded, monkey face and met its eyes. Its open eyes. She nearly yelped, her body stiffening as its gaze met hers. Her internal voice which had been quiet thus far exploded in her head once more. Predator! Predator! again and again with tedious litany. Why was it doing that? She had been around gryphons before and it had never been this vocal in those situations. She shook her head, those were questions for later.

Daring met its eyes again and saw a thin veil of malice. Its mouth curled up into a terrifying snarl, its chest letting out a low growl.

She jumped back and spread her wings out protectively. Her practiced instincts had already arranged her hooves in a prime fighting position. Damn monkey, should—wait…

Its eyes held hidden mirth and its mouth turned to a smile. Its chest rumbled again. It was laughing at her!

The smile turned to a grimace. It coughed and its body convulsed with what could only be pain.

Horseapples!

She rushed to its side and pushed a hoof into her now-dry satchel, pulling out a roll of gauze and a half-full vial of dust.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use this. She popped off the cork with a twist of her mouth and hoofed some onto the chest wound. The results were immediate as the slow bleeding halted and the wound started stitching itself together.

She glanced at the nearly empty vial of healing dust. I’ll have to ask Rye for more.

Its visage morphed into a pained smile, its head falling back to the ground. It laughed again and wrapped its digits around her hoof, shaking it up and down. It mumbled sounds—words in its guttural, harsh language.

It pointed at itself and spoke before pointing at her. Names.

Mirroring its actions, she pointed a hoof at herself. “My names Daring Do, archeologist and explorer extraordinaire! But you can’t understand me, can you… can you?

Its eyes held no comprehension but it nodded its head anyways and it sat up looking at its partially healed chest with confusion.

“You’re welcome. We’re even now, and if you want food, I’d appreciate it if you let go of my hoof.” She nudged its hand with her free hoof and it let go with another laugh.

Within a minute, she had cleansed its wounds and bandaged them. She trotted over to the closest foliage, checklist back in motion.

What have I gotten myself into? I don’t need the extra baggage.

She shook her head again, something she seemed to have to do a lot of today. She sighed and continued her with her tasks.

Let’s begin...