An Equestrian Rogue

Thorne managed to make it until noon. No food, no sleep, and barely taking sips from his water. It was a three day trek to the ocean, and then another two at sea. He had been walking through sand for what felt like an eternity. He had grown to hate it when he was serving in Egypt, now he wished he was back there.

With the sun overhead at full splendor, the heat made him worry for his circuitry. He knew he had designed it to be water-proof, sweat-proof, and extreme-climate usable. But he didn’t take into account the strange magical pony-filled climate. Every now and again he’d flex his fingers to make sure it was still within working order. Though he knew with every little twitch, it wore down that time limit.

‘Why couldn’t that asshole summon up a car, or a helicopter, or maybe just portal me to my fucking destination?’ He thought, his words full of spite. ‘Lucky I even managed to get any rations for the trip. Bastard almost let me leave without them…’

Thorne sighed. He resigned himself to dig into his bag and pop a few bites of meat and another swill of water. ‘I’ll need to find a place to lie down and take a nap. Might as well start switching to a night time schedule. Easier to work in the shadows… Doubt these people--ponies. These ponies. Fucking. Ponies. I doubt they’ll have much activity at night. Ponies weren’t nocturnal on Earth, so, should be the same. Though, if they’re all unicorns… That could be a problem. Doesn’t take a genius to make a few balls of light. Or levitate a candle. And if they’re true magi, then they’ll likely know fireball. And I’d rather not get my nuggets fried.’

He chortled to himself. It was a humorous thought. It left him wondering if they had any accidents with all the fur and manes. It must be a hectic society. And a more primal one. He started having doubts about their sophistication. Though, if the centaur was to be an example, it at least seemed mostly medieval. Which led down another line of thinking.

‘I’ll need weapons. And the quality of metal around here… ‘

He had to pause for a moment and inhale deeply, trying to focus his thoughts. “Okay. I’m not a blacksmith, but if I can get my hands on the materials, I could make a rudimentary dagger, some throwing knives, a sword, and maybe make a hand-crossbow. Maybe I could make a flintlock? I doubt I could make a full gun. Especially without the know-how. But a rudimentary design could be done…”

Thorne let the thought pass and inhaled again, letting the breath fill his body before flowing out to steady his mind. “I would need gunpowder. Would also need to make the rounds. Probably make several of them in order to have multiple shots…”

‘Oh good, I get to role-play Blackbeard! A childhood favorite.’ He snickered mentally before putting one foot in front of the other yet again. He had to take another swig of water to wet his mouth. ‘Though, a pistol is loud and gives away position. And maybe I’m being a bit too hopeful with that idea. I understand the concept, but making one… Another story…’

The man sighed at that. ‘Damn it.’ He shook it off and continued his thoughts aloud.

“Ponies. Something tells me they have to use leather, but the question is, do they approve of it? Or maybe they have some kind of faux-leather? Ponies are herbivores, so they wouldn’t need the meat... But the centaur ate meat, so perhaps it isn’t taboo.”

He groaned. “Ugh. Social customs and norms. I’m going to have to relearn them all. And I doubt I could get away with the ‘Lord’ title. Sure they have a Princess and might have nobles, but I’m a human! I could probably pass as a noble, maybe. Depends on how people treat nobles. Wonder if it’s with any disdain? Or maybe I should keep that in my back pocket? I think I could do it, but I’d have to be more… refined. Easily done, so long as I’m not pissed. Or taking word-shivs to someone... I know how crass I can be when that happens.”

Thorne rubbed his brow of sweat with the poncho. He hoped he could wash the thing at some point. And he hoped the washing didn’t undo the magic. “Going to be even more tan after this. Or burnt as shit…” He shrugged that painful idea off. For now he needed to keep moving. His pace picked up into a jog.

‘I don’t know but I’ve been told…’ he started to count off in his head.

A rock went sailing into the cavern, bouncing off the walls and skipping to a stop. It was illuminated by the westward light, so he had that going for him. It didn’t appear deep, but looks had cost him in the past in several instances.

‘If not for bad luck, we’d have no luck at all. Thanks mom,’ the thought to himself as Thorne cautiously made his way into the den. ‘But it appears as though luck is on my side… for once.’

He hadn’t seen any animal signs. No tracks, no bones, nothing to indicate leavings. Though that nagging feeling in his brain that tried it’s hardest to keep him alive told him that he didn’t know any of the animals of this world. He didn’t understand what they were capable of.

Another more cocky voice told him that the animals didn’t know what he was capable of.

He had been walking for another several hours and had finally come to a chasm. The terrain had started to shift rather rapidly from pure dunes to reddish rock. From there, it led into several plateaus and rocky spires. They were sparse, but a welcomed sight to tired eyes. It meant the possibility of shelter.

Thorne didn’t want to rest, however. But his body was telling him otherwise. He was drenched in sweat, starting to chafe in places, and needed to secede himself from the elements for a respite. He had learned many years ago that a dull mind and dull body led to a quick death--a death he wasn’t going to allow himself. Not yet.

Once inside the cavern, he would give it a good once over in order to make sure it only had one entrance and exit. Assured nothing would get the jump on him, he sat himself down. He didn’t enjoy not having much of any covering, but he knew he would make due. If several tribes of humans could make it with their genitals hanging out for everyone to see, then he could too. At least that’s what he told himself, though the comforts he had grown used to kept prodding at his tired mind.

It would need to be a short rest. He came to the conclusion that he was making expert timing and he must be over halfway there already. Thorne was already skipping meals, passing up on frequent rests, and even full sleep. On top of that, he assumed his stride may have not been that of a centaur, but with him jogging and even sprinting, he should be outpacing the Master. His estimates told him that tomorrow he should at least start smelling the ocean breeze toward the end of the day.

He settled in and took a few bites of the carrots that had been packed into his pack. ‘Going to need a true backpack…’ a passing thought told him. Another swig of his water and he leaned back against the rock. He brought his knees to his chest, curling up as defensively as he could. He kept his head locked on the entrance as his eyelids grew heavy. ‘Quick nap. Maybe this totem makes me have no dreams… That’d be a reprieve.’

With that final thought, he went out.

“Fall back! Fall back!” The static from the distance slurred the words in the radio. With a simple click, Thorne turned it off.

“Major?” A voice across the hall called out.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I… It’s nothing sir.”

“No, go ahead Ulysses, speak freely,” Thorne responded. He held his cover, back against the corridor opposite the hallway of his captain in a kneeling position. His hands were idly checking his magazines, topping them off from an ammunition box and slipping them into his vest pockets.

The sound of a shell being racked echoed from the captain. He looked down the barrel of his shotgun, inhaled deeply, and peeked around the corner, firing a blind shot before returning to cover. “That was the order to fall back, sir! We should adhere!” He pumped again, ejecting the spent shell and the familiar click of another sliding into place followed it.

Thorne watched as the casing hit the ground. Tracers went flying by in his field of vision as more turret fire went beating into the lobby wall that separated the distance between the two men. The major could only grin and stand up. He lifted his rifle and slammed home a freshly filled mag. He pulled the slide with a mechanical finger and flicked his safety off.

“You will be falling back, Captain. I will remain here,” He shouted over the roar of gunfire. “Circle back down your hallway. Take the stairs to the basement and then hit the switch!”

“Sir! That wasn’t part of the plan!”

“A change of plans!” Thorne responded with a grin as he stepped from cover, unloading a burst of fire. The scream of someone being winged filled the lobby. He was swiftly back behind his cover just as fast as he had ducked from it. “Go! Let me have my fun!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Ulysses responded. He gave a nod and took off, checking his corner before heading out of sight.

Thorne chuckled darkly. He stepped back outside, recoiling slightly as his vest caught a round. It was quickly sent right back as he returned fire. This time, he didn’t stop squeezing the trigger. Each burst laid down heavy suppressing fire, buying his captain enough time to make his way down the stairs. He had already counted off the seconds and he had enough of a bullet hose to give him a good head start.

Another round went into his vest, along with several glancing off his arm. Those made him pull away and retreat back behind cover. But it was enough of a show. He heard the sound he was aiming for.

“Push up!”

‘Oh you poor lost souls…’

Thorne simply dropped the gun, letting the strap catch it, and reached back behind him, pulling out two daggers. Black blades with a hint of steel shimmering in the light. Each one was a reflection of the other. Straight edges with firm grips. They weren’t large, but clearly had heft to them. They also didn’t seem special, but they meant everything to the one holding them.

The man took a deep breath, quieting his mind. Everything fell away in that moment. All he focused on was the sound of their movements. His heartbeat increased as he felt the familiar rush of elation.

An orchestra started to play. He could hear the music in his mind. A symphony of blood and death that only he could hear. There he stood as the curtains rose. He was in the theatre he had come to call home. A wicked grin played along his lips and his fingers curled tighter on each dagger.

Then came the moment. An explosion rocked the lobby. Screams of pain and terror were his chorus. The lights of the building flickered and shuddered in response, the entire structure groaning in pain. On his heel he spun from cover and ducked low, rushing into the fray. The confusion wrought by the explosion had made several of his other actors spin right on queue to face the threat and help their comrades, giving their leading actor his dues.

Blood began to seep from the debris that had collapsed atop the enemy combatants. Many of them were compressed to nothing and several others were pinned alive, their sweet essence flowing from torn limbs and mangled bodies.

But the stage wasn’t for them--they were merely playing their parts as extras. The four that had been the forward push were the co-stars in this grand piece. In the seconds it took them to realize they were still well within enemy lines of fire, they were already too late. They had heard the heavy boots of Thorne as he sprinted at them, his body half leaning over in a madman’s dash. When the lights flickered, they could see the twisted and malevolent face that was swiftly closing in.

The two in the back got their weapons up just in time to place a few shots--shots that failed to hit their target. The two in front of them, however, merely got a moment to swear as daggers went plunging into their unprotected necks. The back-spray as each knife was removed was immense as their heart rates had climbed to panicked levels. The crimson tide that flowed upon Thorne was a soothing mist he welcomed.

It was all a swift motion. He had shimmied side-to-side in a lazy serpentine as he approached his targets, sending bullets narrowly missing. From there he had brought himself up and drove the daggers hard into the two throats. But he was required to pause for a moment, allowing the two men ahead of him to put a few more rounds into his chest plate. Thorne ignored what was probably a cracked rib or two. He knew the plate would hold, but it wouldn’t hold forever.

From that motion, a new one began. Once he had ripped their throats asunder, again he was on the attack. The two soldiers ahead of him took their steps back, but their backs were reminded that the roof had collapsed on their comrades. Thorne targeted the one on his right, savoring the look of fear in the eyes. The light of the moon began to pour in and ignited those gold eyes and silver hair. Blood coated him, giving Thorne an almost ethereal appearance--a ghost come to claim what passed as their souls.

The right soldier was swiftly claimed as Thorne plunged his dagger just under the plate and into the man’s guts. From there, Thorne used him as a sandbag, shifting and turning him forcefully as his friend emptied his remaining shots into the back of his now betrayed comrade. Another dagger ended the sandbag’s life. He was promptly discarded, leaving a deeply breathing Thorne looking at the one remaining.

Of course his last co-star would try to play the hero--it was to be expected. He dropped his rifle and pulled his service pistol. But it came too late. Thorne closed the gap in the blink of an eye.

“No, no, no!” Were the man’s last words. They were so common, but the audience loved them! They were turned into gurgles as a blade found itself going into the chin and into the brain. With it removed and the soldier falling limp, the daggers were shaken of their blood and sheathed.

Thorne heard the conclusion of the orchestra and the curtain closing. He would spin about, ignoring the puddles of blood and mashed entrails that sloshed around his boots. He simply took a bow, placing his right hand on his heart and his left behind him. It was heartfelt and respectful. A bow he saved for those he considered worthy.

“Another beautiful performance…” he said with an elated tone.

An alarm tore him from his bliss. “One that shan’t have an encore…” he exhaled, coming down from his high. He picked his rifle up from its hanging position and checked the mag and slide. Once confident he was in working order and that his body wasn’t about to give out, he hustled out of the lobby and down toward where the captain had trundled off too.

It took a few minutes, but he managed to get down into the basement. There, waiting by a truck, was his captain. They shared a nod and Thorne took his rifle off, throwing it into the waiting back seat after flicking the safety back on. Next on the list was the bulletproof vest. “How long until we’re clear?” He asked Ulysses.

“We’re T-minus three mikes,” the captain responded.

“Affirmative,” Thorne replied. He jogged over to the nearby garage door and hit the button, rolling the metal door up. He rushed back to the truck and began to tear the fatigues and boots off, replacing them with a power company jumpsuit. His captain was swiftly doing the same.

“Enjoy yourself, sir?” the captain asked.

“Of course I did, Ulysses. I always do when I’m in my theatre.”

“Right,” the man replied with a bit of sarcasm to draw it out.

“Alright. I’m dressed. I’m going to check the street. You get the truck started and pull up once I give the signal, yeah?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Thorne raced back to the door that was now all the way open. He looked back to the truck. They had stolen an electric company’s work truck as well as clothing. The resistance soldiers would be too busy with the explosion and too busy looking for the armored truck they had arrived in.

‘We’ll walk right out the back and none will be the wiser…!’ The major thought to himself with a pleased smugness. He checked the street and saw it was clear, waving his captain forward. The man had gotten the truck started and pulled forward to meet the major.

Thorne scampered over to the passenger side once Ulysses was out on the street proper, both of them illuminated by moonlight, though Ulysses was more concealed as the shadows of the truck overtook him in the driver side. Thorne opened the door. A brief moment of pain went surging through his chest.

The silenced pistol fired off five shots right into his stomach and chest.

Immediately the look of betrayal filled Thorne’s face as he stared at his captain.

“Sweet dreams, my Lord.” Ulysses spat. He put his foot to the gas and took off, the door slamming shut from the force.

Thorne fell to his knees in disbelief. His mind began to race. He put his hands to his chest and felt the warm liquid spilling out from the wounds. It took a moment for his instincts to kick in. He tried to apply pressure but fell back and cried out in agony.

‘No… No! You bastard… not… not like this! I can’t…’

Tears slowly began to pool at the edges of his eyes as he stared at the bright and silver moon with broken gasps filling the night air. He could hear the sirens and the boots of soldiers closing in.

‘I won’t… I can’t…’

His mind tried to form words but it couldn’t. He reached out to the moon as if it would help him. And in that moment, he began to pray. Pray to anything that would listen.

“No…!” he exclaimed weakly, defying the sweet sleep that called to him. But his eyes were watery and weary. They demanded he close them. To blink out the pain and misery that was welling up inside of him. But in an instant, he felt something different. His eyes instead went wide.

There, in the moon, a pair of eyes were looking back at him. Silver and glowing. Menacing and full. They demanded answers. They demanded his attention. They demanded his respect.

They demanded him.

Thorne snapped awake.