Angels are calling your name
It was the second year of the invasion, as Queen Chrysalis embroiled the land in the festering slaughterhouse that is industrialized war, where pigs are butchered and given medals. Blow after blow had staggered Equestria, yet its blasted, shell-pocked cities echoed with proof of resistance in chattering machine guns and shouted orders. Trottingham was almost lost, and not yet so. Its great clock tower had fallen and changeling oberfuhrers camped on Downing Street, but in some places ponies held fast against the blitz.
The sniper was in such a place, nearly alone. It suited him well. He had friends who were now dead, and saw little point in making more. The few who knew him didn’t like him. That was alright; his business was best done without company. He had a fine spot here, in a two story flat with the roof and many walls caved in. Reasonably sheltered from the rain and wind, demolished enough to not attract curiosity. He had found canned food in a cupboard and was enjoying the luxury of soup, heating it with his magic and drinking whenever hungry. His eyes were gray and his coat once white, now painted like the debris of civilization around him. He wore a knit hat and a big winter coat that was also his blanket.
He was, alas, not completely alone. A big, heavy pony stumbled up to his spot. The sniper did not turn.
“They’re coming.”
The sniper leaned against a wall, gazing out over ruined Trottingham as he smoked his last cigarette. He said nothing.
The mare-brute behind him shuffled. “They’ve been pushing in close, bringing up more. Sending infiltrators, because they think we haven’t learned.”
Again, he said nothing. He gave a single nod, more to avoid worthless discussion than a need to acknowledge her.
The mare stepped closer, bringing a husky smell he did not like. She raised a muscled limb and pointed, drawing a line from one undistinguished bit of urban devastation to another. “That area gives the best cover and it’s likely where the biggest hit will come. But what they don’t know is our guns have it sighted to a ‘T.’ There’s going to be a lot of squashed bugs, a lot of bugs running. You’ll get ‘em alright, yeah?”
The sniper shrugged. Didn’t like to talk about work.
The mare coughed awkwardly, speaking on without need. “Of course, they’re around to both the left and right too, you know, so they’ll be hitting all at once. It’s going to be rough. B-but we’re getting supplies and reinforcements. They won't pass. Not Trottingham, not us. We’ll fight from the tunnels if need be.”
“Do you have a cigarette?” the sniper asked.
“If you have a bit.”
Raw banditry. He used magic to float over the coin, and kept his expression neutral as she bit the cigarette from her pocket and passed it over.
“Pull back if it gets too hairy. You can always fall in with us, yeah?”
He shrugged. His gaze returned to the outside, his filthy white coat leaving him invisible to the distance. He did not watch the mare depart; instead his eyes moved to a splotch of black and green some hundred meters away. A changeling scout who crept too close.
It had died loud and slow, shot through the gut in a way that also broke up its carapace. He let it scream, hoping a medic would come, but alas that proved not so. A shame, quite a shame.
The sniper placed the cigarette carefully into a pocket. He pulled a random can and began heating it with his magic.
He smiled.
Quite a shame.
The sniper was not a pony of any particular religion. He did not believe in heaven, that fairy tale for children. He hoped for a hell so that Queen Chrysalis and her brood may scream for eternity, but in his heart he knew it was equally silly. Still, over the last year the sniper had developed a patriotic sort of morality he kept tallied in points. One for killing a changeling soldier, three for an officer, five for a particularly young one (with a full life of wickedness ahead), and ten for a medic, who would save many more if left alive. His current score was eighty-eight, and he vaguely sought to reach a hundred before the end.
Perhaps he would get there tonight. Or today? They liked night attacks, but many unicorns had learned to make bright flares that could blind them in the dark.
He opened the can, frowned. Creamed corn. He shrugged and began eating, thinking. Tried to ponder the big picture, but couldn’t see it from the second floor. Maybe it was good that the changelings were pressing hard into Trottingham. Less time, fewer soldiers for their drive on Canterlot. They were in a hurry, willing to trade poorly to take ground. Perhaps they were running out of steam.
Or perhaps they were numberless, and this was the end.
He crept to another part of the flat. A lovely campsite for a sniper, this place. Beds and food, more neat little places of cover than he could count. He entered what had once been a family’s apartment, went to a window where he rested his gun and knelt on a little filly’s bed beneath. All pink and frilly, or at least once so. Just the right height so he could kneel and shoot and be barely seen. Lovely, lovely.
Waiting came easy. He watched, he listened, and recounted his points. He again tried his hoof at being a mental general, but he really knew nothing of things outside his flat and tossed it aside.
He stuffed cotton in his ears well before nightfall. A bad thing to not hear, but worse to become deaf. He smiled at his own wisdom as distant thumps sounded, and counted low. One… two…
Muffled came the sounds of the apocalypse behind him. Shells burst above and on the ground, tearing rubble into rubble. Whispered shouts and screams tickled the edge of his hearing. Perhaps the mare-brute was dead. Once alive, gone.
Thumps came from even further behind, the beautiful chorus of Equestrian guns singing their reply. They gouged the earth half a city away.
He laughed, fancying a bold and sweaty earth pony artillerist barking to his soldiers, “Aim for the gray rubble to the left and fore of the other gray rubble!” Perhaps it was well that they were going long.
Machine guns and other weapons began to howl. Changelings knew to charge under the cover of the first shells, but the sniper knew that trick well. He watched from the window, leaving the rifle down for now. Patience. He frowned as the setting sun entered his eyes, then smiled. Clever changelings, moving with the sun at their backs, but not very clever. The soot and dust of Trottingham choked its glare down to the dull orange of a lit cigarette.
He saw them, like scuttling beetles fleeing light. Heavy packs and belts of grenades slowed and stooped the changelings, rushing and stumbling in a tight, narrow line. Fifteen minutes through the rubble would see them at the mare-beast’s doorstep, if she was still alive.
Ah, but kill one, and the rest might duck and flatten. One bullet, holding a platoon. Snipers did good work.
He drew up the rifle. Tough, thick wooden stock, small scope so as not be seen.
An easy thing, to take a life. The changelings crouched and scurried, but they could not both run and hide.
He pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked, the old friend. He saw one fall and the rest scatter. They hunkered down. A few would rush forward to flank and kill him, and of course he would have to leave first. But there was time.
He eyed the fallen. A clean kill, rotten luck. Young but not much so, so one point. He did not cheat.
Hard for that many lings to find good cover in so small a space. One flattened in an old shell-hole, not nearly deep enough. The sniper fired, broke his limb. The changeling rolled, screaming. Its hoof flapped like a ball and string.
The sniper watched greedily. Changelings shot back at the flat, nothing came close. He kept his aim steady.
One changeling dashed for the crater. The sniper waited, patient. Hard to hit someone on the move.
It hopped into the crater with the wounded bug. A silly one, this newcomer. A white helmet with a red cross, with the same on a band around each limb and an over-shirt to the front and rear. A pathetic plea from atop a million dead ponies, ‘Don’t shoot!’
The medic bent over its kin to staunch the flow of green ichor. The sniper shot it in the back, right through that white cloth. Green and black burst out, and the medic retched to the air and collapsed.
He saw changelings dash beneath his sight, into the flat. Some of the bullets were getting closer, though none yet too close.
Quite chancy now, it was time to move. He slid back on the child’s bed, away from the window.
A steel hammer on his face, under the right eye. He fell back, hard enough to tumble and roll through the dust.
He fell asleep, woke, looked up with the only eye that could see. A dull and reasonable pain above his mouth. A ricochet?
He made to touch his face, found his hooves could not move. Lifeless, alien limbs to each side. He saw blood seep and reach them, felt nothing but his heartbeat in the wound.
The sniper blinked, slept, woke. It didn’t hurt as much now, like a knee you banged yesterday. Blood everywhere, still spreading, the limbs still gone. Not a ricochet, shot in the head.
Dying.
Fear thrilled in his breast, his cold heart not indifferent to the coming dissolution. This was the end. He was afraid.
The sniper saw the useless emotion for what it was and swallowed his cries. He steadied and took stock, and found himself quite in control of his faculties. He was capable of meeting his end with qualities considered glorious by those yet to meet theirs; to die ‘game,’ as it were. A damned unlucky hit through that window, but so it goes.
He began to think of his mother, reasoning that (by the multitude of last words he heard before now), it was basically tradition to let one’s last thoughts be of childhood love. Yet he found himself unable to recall her, and unwilling to try.
Hoofsteps dashed up the stairs, laden with packs and grenades. The changelings would find him, finish him, move on. To the mare-brute’s failing bastion, to Canterlot.
The limbs were still dead, but he could shuffle his torso. He worked his back to the wall, facing the door with his head upright. Could hear them in the hallway, chittering and buzzing.
His magic still worked. He drew his fat-barreled revolver and cocked the hammer.
One stepped into the doorway, the closest he’d ever been to a changeling. Ugly fangs, sickly holes in the black body. Revolting. He shot it in the face, laughed at the ironic retribution. Its comrade came in, aiming the rifle high. He shot it, too.
More hooves thudded up the stairs. Another through the doorway, dead. And more; dozens. oberfuhrers and elite Queensguard in their gold braid, shot one by one. The hammer of his pistol rose and fell. The sniper grinned in a rictus as his last stand comically failed to end.
A last changeling stepped in, as surprised and unprepared as the rest. Flowing green hair from her scalp, black crown upon her head.
The sniper gasped as he pulled the trigger, and shot Queen Chrysalis through the heart. Such enormity, and at last his strength faded. The pistol slipped from his grasp as new hooves pounded up the stairs. As the world dimmed he beheld the mare-brute running towards him with bandages in her mouth, then closed his eyes.
He opened them in a place of antiseptic smells and phosphorescent white. A hospital, and not a dingy, fly-choked thing for wounded soldiers. His old friend the rifle was gone, as were his comfortable coat and hat. They were replaced by princesses – stars alive, all four of them!
Radiant Princess Celestia was the one to speak, while the others looked on and beamed. “They tell me you are the one who killed Queen Chrysalis.”
He could do nothing but nod. She went on with her grand and kindly voice. “Then you are a hero, young friend. Trottingham, Prance, Horsaw – everywhere the changelings are thrown back in disarray, either running or giving up. You have won the war for us, and we all, all of us, thank you.”
Celestia bowed, then gestured him to rise. “Come, eat. Your celebration begins soon.”
She lead him to a dining hall, and they served him food beyond that of any can. Massive fried carrots and hayburgers, cooked so perfectly the hot juice poured down his chin. Fresh milk and cookies as wide as his hoof. He touched his face – it had been a ricochet after all, and did not hurt. Sergeants dressed him in a perfect uniform, and brought him before a roaring crowd in Canterlot.
He hugged his mother, though did not see her face. He shook the paw of the mayor of Trottingham – the tough bulldog who steeled their city for war. “We shall fight on the fields and in the streets, we shall go on to the end,” and it seems they did. The sniper heard he had perished in an air raid, though apparently that was not so. He made a speech, then pinned ribbons on the sniper’s chest. As did Celestia, then Cadence and Twilight, generals and heroes.
Never Princess Luna. She remained to the side or rear, always in sight and never speaking. And at once, the sniper understood.
He stood by the podium as Celestia spoke, a million eyes upon him. He turned and walked off, towards Princess Luna. He saw her smile twitch, a feigned, polite parody.
She bowed to the sniper. “Do you need something, my friend? More food? Or perhaps a hot bath, and time to rest.”
He met her eyes. She looked away.
“I know this is not real.”
He liked that she did not try to deny it. The princess shrugged, and gave a very sad little smile. “No, but there is no harm. It is a fine thing to dream of glory, if only for a little while.”
“What is the reality?” he asked. The speech behind him ended, and nothing took its place.
Luna’s voice cracked, just a bit. “Please don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not a child,” the sniper said.
Luna flinched at his words, staring to him with pity he could not help but hate. He stubbornly met her eyes, and again she looked away.
She swallowed once, twice. He started for her. “With the pistol. How many did I really kill?”
“None.”
He took a step back, shocked, then righted and steeled himself for the rest.
“You never drew the pistol,” Luna gently explained. “You are shot in the head. Your mind remained for a few seconds, then fell asleep. All that followed has been a dream, and you have not long at all.”
The second time this day he faced that truth. A little harder this time, with ribbons on his chest and bright peace all around. Death – dark, huge, empty.
He was strong. His words came damaged, but intact, and his jaw was set. “Are you really here? Are you doing this?”
“I am.” Luna nodded once. “I visit the dying of desperate Equestria such as you, and let them dream of glory and joy in their last moments.”
He sneered and choked, his fear turning to sudden anger. “Oh, what rot!”
He paced to the side. Saw Princess Celestia, quiet and still at her podium. A puppet show, nothing more. “We are all dying, all of us! Dying every moment for you. What a circus!”
He sat hard on the steps of Canterlot Castle, speaking on quickly. “No, that is not fair to you. We fight for us. Our rights and homes and lives. The great land of Equestria, where Harmony lives, and one day it shall cover the world if only it can be saved here in its cradle. No better use of a life, I think, and it is useless to be scared when so many have gone before – come on, be brave!”
“But you!” He looked and pointed to his princess. “Is your power so great that you give every million of us this glimpse of heaven?”
“It is not,” Luna said gravely. “My body rests in my chambers; my mind is here and nowhere else.”
“We die by the bushel and pound! Why me, out of all of them?”
“You know why.”
“I don’t,” the sniper said honestly.
Luna sat next to him upon the gilded stairs. A blue feathered wing reached over and hugged his shoulder.
“Because, my little pony… you are fifteen.”
He stood, breaking the contact. “I am not a child.”
“You are wrong,” Luna said.
“You waste your time,” the sniper spat bitterly. He paced once more. “You could sneak into their dreams, learn their plans, sow doubt and hesitation. You could be useful. Instead you spend your time playing make-believe.”
Luna stood. “I do those things, yes. At night. In the day, I visit you children who fall to the bombs and machine guns. And as you dream your last dream, I give peace and happiness now robbed from the waking world.”
“I am not a child,” he insisted. “I don’t need… charades, fairy tales. Stars – tell me straight! Is this the end? Not for me, I know that and I am ready. But for Equestria? Is it all in vain?”
Luna shook her head. “It is not; I swear. The invasion slows, the invader bleeds. Every day they fight for Trottingham is a day we grow ever-stronger before Canterlot, a day our strength is rallied to damned hungry war. Grim times lie ahead, but I also truly think Equestria’s long story is not yet coming to an end.”
“That will do,” the sniper said with terse dismissal. He gestured around them, to bright Canterlot. “End this. It sickens me, I can’t look at it. Your damn fairy tale. I don’t need it.”
“You know what that means,” Luna whispered.
“Yes!” he yelled. “I don’t care. I’m a soldier, not a child. I can see this through, die ‘game.’ I did my duty, now do yours and wipe that horrid race from the map!”
She frowned, standing stern and tall. And he very briefly loved her, for in that sternness he saw or thought he saw respect from her at last.
“Soldier, then. My brave soldier. It is a cruel and evil thing to wipe a race wholly from all life. Do you really want the final memory of you to be of your unchecked hate?”
He faced her. Their eyes met, and neither flinched.
He said, “That is none of my business.”
“So be it.”
Luna began walking away. Celestia was gone, and all Canterlot was fading to dark.
“Wait.”
The sniper raised his hoof. Luna turned. He licked his lips, spoke quickly. “Is my mother alive? If you know, that is. We lived a block from Downing Street, it’s… it’s why I’m here. Please, tell her I’m not afraid. If-if she’s alive.”
Luna smiled like a doting aunt, her eyes full of love. Sweet and kindly, she lied. “Yes, my little pony. Your mother is alive, and I shall tell her.”
And then there was darkness.
Darkness became light. He opened his eyes, stared sideways to the little filly’s bed in his dusty room. His head hurt. It was cold… so cold. Leaden limbs, slick with blood, stabbed everywhere in freezing agony.
It hurt so much. The sniper tried to moan, nothing came.
Then he perished, without even a dream for comfort.
