The night sky was so opulently beautiful sometimes. He would never admit this to anygriff who asked, but he had a secret love of anything to do with the night, and the stars it allowed him to see. Sure, the moon princess of the ponies was a sworn state enemy, but that didn’t matter to him. Politics didn’t matter. The simple matter of it all was that it was simply gorgeous, and he adored it.

He loved any chance he got to admire it, though was usually simply too busy to take much time out of night-schedules to star gaze. He actually laughed more than once at the thought of what his mark would be if he’d been born a pony, something between stars and mechanical work, no doubt. Maybe a telescope, or something to that degree. Or maybe something more nebulous and vague that applied broadly, like a silver star. He’d read stories about ponies like that, Prav below, he knew more about the individual pony than most of his comrades, he’d wager.

But there he was, a lone Griffon in the Imperial Griffonian Army, staring at the sky like a dumbstruck changeling getting their first taste of love. He’d wager not many of his comrades would understand that one, either.

This was nice, more than nice even… so why did it feel wrong? It was like the only things around him were stars, everything else felt like an infinite distance away. He tore his gaze from the universe above, it’s swirling majesty calling to him like an alcoholic to their vice. His eyes looked around the foggy and blurry nothingness below, and once he looked underneath himself, he fell.

He fell and fell into that infinite void, but no sound left him. His beak was stuck closed, and his limbs were weighted down with the Gods own strength. His eyes flicked up towards the rapidly falling universe. Or was he simply falling away? It felt like seconds and millenia, inches yet kilometers, thought and action. No savior came for him, and he fell.

His eyes began to wink open slowly, the stinging light of the day star burning into his ruffled feathers. He was under some kind of tree cover, and below that some kind of tarp. Daybreak, he thought. If he was alive, that meant he was captured. If he was captured, that meant he was needed for something.

He breathed in rather calmly, given the situation. He pushed himself up with one of his clawed forelegs, wincing as the motion shifted and torked his injured rear leg. ‘Right, shrapnel…’

He saw the bandaged leg, multiple spots having been stained light with blood that had soaked in areas where presumably the shrapnel hit him. He’d also seen that in addition to his rear left leg, his wing and side had taken lighter hits. Whoever had bandaged this wing clearly never had before. Pain, it let him know he was alive. He let out another wince for the Griffons he knew weren’t feeling that pain, and started looking his head around the area he currently occupied. It must not be very far from where he’d fought his captor, or captors, if the river was still audible and the trees were still overhead.

He stayed quiet for now, the worst thing you could do in a situation like this was to reveal information such as being awake, followed shortly by going into a panic. So, he avoided both of those so far, a rather short checklist but still a very important one. What he did do however, was check the immediate surrounding area he currently resided in. Whoever took him captive had left his grey infantry-griff uniform on, now spotted with blood stains and tears across it’s soft surface. He still didn’t understand the thought behind giving R and R teams soft uniforms instead of the usual Army body armor.

He suppressed a groan of pain as a muscle twitched and caused his injured limbs to shuffle only a few inches, deciding the pain was negligible if he could find answers. He’d been stripped of all weapons, his helmet, and any way to tell where exactly he was. Figures. Around about that time is when his eyes glanced towards the river itself, seeing something that made him release an audible gasp. He regretted it immediately as the once motionless metal monster that decimated his team turned to face directly at him.

“Pilot, the captive is awake and seems responsive. Recommend now as the time to speak.”

The voice of that thing was deep, and robotic. It spoke with the strangest accent he had ever heard, and vaguely sounded like something from one of the allied pony forces that aligned with the Griffon Empire. The immediate thing running through his mind was sheer terror, his body simply not responding to his orders, despite wanting to run or fly as far away as fast as possible. He started to shake at the giant’s gaze, in the daylight coming to realize it wasn’t some monster, but a creation of claws and metal, a mechanical beast.

As much as he adored technology, the last thing he wanted was to be here. His terror only heightened as he heard something thud against the dirt next to him, and heavy steps moving towards him. He could barely pry his gaze away from the technological terror, but managed to wrench his sight towards the thing moving towards him. It was a strange minotaur, as far as his fear-addled mind could tell.

The two-legged thing was covered in some kind of clothing or uniform, all in a green yellow and black looking camouflage. He also seemed to wear some kind of body armor lined with pouches and equipment, for what purpose though he could not understand. His presumed captor walked right up to the edge of the tarp above him, not crossing the boundary between open tree topped sky and low hanging cover.

“So, just what in the hell are you?”

His voice was like sandpaper, sounding like an entirely different unplaceable accent than the taller metal thing behind this one. It was the ‘griffish’ language to be sure, but in weird and strange vowels that definitely weren’t pronounced with a beak. His mind drew back immediately to the one thing that was drilled into him for situations like this. “P.private Chevocco Wesson, Serial 5467-7123-0019!”

The two-legged thing groaned and sat down at the edge of the tarp, roughly four meters away from his current position. “Right, you know I could do that too! Master Sergeant-Pilot Ethan Rohan Johannsen, Operational Number 4365-6723. Good to meet you Wesson.”

The thing's face was presumably hidden behind a full head covering helmet, explaining the lack of moving facial features when he spoke. Both of them had unintentionally given away surface level yet still important information about themselves, he’d given away his inexperience within the Army, and the unintentional stutter gave away his nervousness. This Sergeant though, he was experienced. Wherever this demon of a being came from, he knew war and how to kill, and his slightly jovial attitude gave away a deep psyche that was even used to the act.

“You know, I’ve never seen anything like you before. The Militia would probably have a massive hissy fit if they figured out I took out that squad of yours… sorry about that. Genuinely I am. I don’t like killing folks, but being a Pilot kinda changes ‘yer worldview.”

He just stared on incredulously, looking daggers into this thing that had casually wiped out his team with his armaments. “Of course, the hawk pities his prey, for they are not a hawk. Cut your honeyed words and tell me what you want.”

Johannsen’s shoulders slouched just a bit, it was going just about as well as he thought it would, all things considered. He tried to patch up the bird thing as best he can, not really being qualified to deal with veterinary emergencies. Although in cutting away various sections of the thing’s uniform, he did find that it was a half cat half bird… thing. Basically a chimera of sorts, or another word that he couldn’t quite remember at the time. “I want information. What province of the country are we in right now?”

He figured the best bet would be to play semi-informed, and hope the chimera thing would give additional information to save his own life. He was taught that if he was captured, he would eventually need to give up small minute details to keep himself alive longer, and hopefully the country they were in would be one of those.

“Yakhuz, in the Saddle Protectorate. You clearly aren’t from around here, and I know damn well I’ve never seen another like you. Who are you, do you work for the Equestrians?” The simmering anger was starting to bubble in the chimera, he could almost taste it.

“No, I don’t work for the ‘Equestrians.’ I’m a Frontier Militia Pilot, just a little lost.”

“Then why would you shoot an unknown team walking through the desert!?” The chimera winced in pain as he sat up, no doubt reopening a tear or two in his ass, he’d have to change those bandages soon too.

Johannsen paused. The close shaved hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he swallowed. “Because… I was scared. I have never seen something like you or whatever the hell was behind that squad of yours. Where I come from, you simply cannot exist. Now listen Wesson, because I’m only gonna say it once; I am not your enemy. I have absolutely no ill will to you, and after I can find a settlement somewhere around here I’ll be more than happy to let you go.”

He could see the anger still bubbling below the surface in the chimera’s eyes, and he knew that if the roles were reversed, no force on this planet could stop him from killing his captor. He sighed and looked off to the side, then up to the active-camouflage tarp he’d put over the birdy. Before he could pipe back up though, it spoke.

“I don’t think you’ll be offended if I say I don’t believe you. Imperial Griffons are taught to die before getting captured, and if I go back now me and my family will be hung. So just kill me now, my family will be compensated.”

His attention was fully turned back to the injured chimera, er maybe griffon, in front of him. That sounded like something not even the damn IMC would do, let alone any organization he’d ever been a part of. Fuck. “Jesus Christ, no! What the fuck? Why would you let your government do that?!”

It was his turn to get outraged, absolutely livid at the state of whatever planet this was. No self respecting government should ever do something as blatantly evil and heinous as that, he was honestly sick to his stomach. At some point during his speech he stood up without realizing it, now looking down at the chimera just meters away.

“It is how things are. One griff alone could not challenge the order, the King would execute us all.”

He looked back towards AK, then to the chimera/griffon. “What about these ‘Equestrians’ you mentioned earlier, why don’t you try to get them to help?”

The bird thing actually laughed out loud before sadly trailing off, “The Griffonian Empire is at war with Equestria. Have been for longer than I’ve been alive. And do you know why? For ‘the perversion of Harmony, and the legalization of suffering’ in Griffonia. What good propaganda, it practically writes itself.”

He didn’t know what to say, left momentarily stunned by the injured chimera who didn’t give up an inch in the conversation, rounding on his lull in speech. “And you claim to be from this ‘Frontier Militia.’ If that’s even true, you coward, you know damn well what I am and who I belong to, Zemyla above this is tedious. I’ve already told you I’m dead, might as well do it faster.”

He exhaled a deep breath he didn’t even know he was holding in, looking straight at him as his hands reached up and removed the helmet from his head. The world went foggy and blurry, vague and unfocused shapes greeting him as he barely recognized the form of the chimera. For his part, the griffon found it utterly confusing to see such a strange facial structure that for a moment he was ripped from his anger to focus on the plain awe.

“I don’t know you Wesson. I don’t know your country or the creatures that I killed… what I do know is that I am in a world of shit, and apparently so are you. The way I see it, the only crime you committed was following a beacon. I’m not going to kill you… I can’t. I can’t.”

He exhaled as the griffon looked over his glassy eyes, his features haggard and tired, his unshaven face starting to build up a half decent ten o’clock shadow. “I’m going to have to change your bandages sometime. Try not to aggravate the wounds and stay down, kid. AK, watch him for me, let me know if anything else comes by.”

“Affirmative. Sentry and tracking protocols have been engaged for 4.3 hours now.”

Johannsen didn’t respond, simply pulling the helmet back onto his head and turning around to mosey wherever his feet took him within a hundred meter radius. He didn’t want to be there right now, hell he didn’t know where he actually wanted to be. He found himself hung into a tree overhanging the river a decent way.

He sat there just thinking for a bit, and the deep shit of a situation he was in. His breathing was steady as he got comfortable on the thick branch, the sound of the water rushing below nice and calming as his hand dug through a pouch on his bandoleer. Producing from it a clinking set of blood stained dog-tags stamped with the Militia’s 3rd Fleet symbol.

It was the set of tags from that Corporal on the Orwell. He stared down at the tags containing the basic information of who the man was. Hiro, Honata S. O-positive blood type, no religious preference. He never knew the man in life, and had only been able to watch him bleed out and die. Damn you, damn you all.

He stifled some noise he wouldn’t have known the meaning to, and held the tag close to his chest in his ‘bad’ hand. That damn metal thing was supposed to weigh basically the same as his other arm but he could feel a difference, even if everyone else said it was perfectly calibrated. He just looked at it, checking over the vambrace on where his forearm would’ve been, and the small little metal pin embedded into the material signifying his Master Sergeant stripes. Three chevrons and three little yellow rockers, and his name on a plate just above his wrist. ‘E. Johannsen.’

His other ‘good’ hand was more drawn to rest on the holster on his right thigh, his finger idly playing with the safety on the pistol inside it, eventually just deciding to let the dog tags rest on his bandoleer while his hands removed the pistol from its sheath and started messing with it. Pilots technically weren’t supposed to just be able to carry these, but Fleet accidentally put in a custom order for a hundred of the things chambered in a sluggish .45 caliber, and accidentally added on an extra zero.

He was in the room when the deck officers saw the price of the extra nine hundred things, nearly broke the damn communications terminal scrambling to get to the ship adjutant. He chuckled dryly remembering that moment. Back then he was still running with First Company as the attached Pilot, must’ve been just a year into his Titan service.

He just couldn’t stay with that company after… it happened. He physically removed the thought from his mind as he returned the Mark 6 Smart Pistol to it’s holster, that one in particular specifically made for him, engraved names and all. He also dropped the tag of Hiro back into the pouch, the clink of metal resounding in his head as it met the other tags inside.

His head turned to look down stream at the water flowing right underneath him, and from here he could just about make out AK’s armored form in the trees still guarding over the friend he made. Friend. Why did he fire? They might’ve been friendly.

He just slowly shook his head as he pondered the rules of engagement he’d been assigned, a simple ‘just get the job done, Sergeant.’ The Militia entrusted him with special missions where there really wasn’t an ROE, and he just did what he had to do. He had one of those damned griffons in his scope, and they were aiming back. He fired first, doing exactly what he was trained to do.

He used to be called a coward more often than most would expect. And sometimes he still thought people said it about him when he wasn’t listening, or when he wasn’t around. Never to his face anymore, being a Pilot technically made him outrank enlisted personnel. The respect people held for Pilots and the hatred the Militia tended to have about combat snipers didn’t mix well, especially in his case.

Maybe if he didn’t take that shot they wouldn’t have thought so ill of him...

He was so tired.

Author's Note

And there we go! A shorter one than usual but it was important. Ole Joey boy being rather pensive and deep-cut about the engagement fuck up with the Griffons. Wonder how it'll play out oOOoOOOooo~

ROE - Rules of Engagement