From Yakyakistan, With Loveby TumbleweedChaptersSome Notes on the TextChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Some Notes on the TextWhen I first began collating and publishing the Flash Sentry Papers, I worked under the assumption that the documents were limited to the contents of a single chest. Some years ago, I was proven wrong, when I found myself in possession of a mysterious ‘lost’ volume of the Flash Sentry Papers*. While the provenance of this account is understandably dubious, chemical analysis of the paper and ink at least places the documents in the appropriate era, though I will admit the textual analysis is yet an issue for debate, especially given the superior prose of this apocryphal volume. *See: Flash Sentry and the King’s Ghost. This said, I have been remiss in not searching out alternative sources of the Flash Sentry Papers until recently. To be honest, it took entirely too long for the concept to cross my mind. Especially given the fact that there are a great number of documents found within that original antique trunk that I have yet to give more than a cursory glance. However, my perspective soon changed once Princess Twilight so graciously granted me unprecedented access to the Royal Canterlot Archives in recognition of my scholarship. (And only my scholarship, despite the innuendos the less credible tabloids use to sell newspapers). After many long nights spent delving through the labyrinthine stacks of the Archives, and with occasional help from no less than Princess Twilight herself, I was able to uncover a great number of documents hithero thought lost or destroyed during one particular crisis or another. Highlights of this discovery include fragments of Flash Sentry’s service record, no less than three death certificates in his name (written at different dates), receipts for several bar tabs charged to the royal expense account, and several other choice pieces of documentation that will no doubt be conducive to future research. Of everything I found within the Royal Canterlot Archives, the most interesting (and, according to my editor, most publishable) was the following volume of the Flash Sentry Papers. What this particular volume was doing hidden in the depths of the Royal Archives, I cannot say. Some might speculate that this particular tale was kept from the public in order to avoid political incident, given the less than flattering picture Sentry paints of Yakyakistan and its customs. On the other hoof, it is entirely likely that this volume wound up on a dusty and forgotten shelf of the Royal Canterlot Archives through sheer dumb luck. I shall leave it up to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely case. Circumstances of its discovery aside, this volume once again offers an unprecedented first-hoof account of life both within and without Equestria. As readers of Sentry’s memoirs should know by now, his viewpoint is by no means objective, and is often less than flattering to all parties involved, Sentry himself included. But, even with such bias, these accounts offer a rare and valuable window into the past. Just as I have in earlier volumes, I shall personally provide further, contextual information in the footnotes. -G.M.F. Chapter 1“It’s not fair!” I tried for righteous indignation, but in retrospect, it came out as more of a whine Which, I might add, was entirely justified. What was supposed to be a pleasant morning of coffee and practiced laziness had been entirely ruined by the arrival of an all-too-chipper courier, bearing an envelope with Princess Twilight Sparkle’s official seal emblazoned on it. A Princess’ attention was an unnerving enough prospect on its own, but the ‘polite request’ within the envelope was even worse. “Yakyakistan! They’re sending me to Yakyakistan! And I haven’t even done anything! At least nothing the Princesses know about.” I paused. Frowned. Looked across the breakfast table the most dangerous (and somehow also one of the most attractive) ponies I’d ever met. “You … you didn’t tell Princess Twilight about that business with the tulips and the walrus, did you?” Carrot Top (a.k.a. Special Agent Golden Harvest, master of hoof-to-hoof combat, a.k.a. one of the most beautifully dangerous ponies I’d ever met), didn’t look up from her morning newspaper. “I didn’t.” “Then what’s got the Princess so mad at me?” I groaned, and let my head thunk down onto the breakfast table, hard enough to make the cutlery shake. Any pain that the impact might have carried went forgotten, as my cynical mind already started anticipating new agonies like frostbite and Yak cuisine. “It’s got to be Captain Armor-- Consort Armor –whatever his title is. He never liked me-- he even threatened to send me to Yakyakistan if I ever jilted his sister, and now he’s done it anyway!I swear, I didn’t jilt the Princess! Why, I haven’t jilted anyone since--” “Since when?” Carrot Top lowered her newspaper and arched a very dangerous eyebrow. “Since I met you?” My voice may have cracked a little. I raised my head and gulped down a mouthful of lukewarm coffee to wet my suddenly dry mouth. “Good answer.” Carrot Top said, and returned to her reading. “But if you must know, Sentry, sending you to Yakyakistan was my idea. Good to see that Fancy Pants passed the suggestion along.” “What?” My voice definitely cracked, then. “How could you? What did I do? Was it because I forgot our anniversary?” That was enough to give Carrot Top pause. “Do we even have an anniversary?” “I don’t know! Which is a damn stupid reason to send me off to freeze to death, don’t you think? Look, Carrot-- darling.” Desperate, I turned on the ol’ Flashy charm. “Whatever it is I did, I apologize, and I promise I can make it up to you--” “Sentry.” Carrot Top set down her newspaper, and reached across the table to lay one strong hoof over mine. “Flash. Think. If I were mad at you, don’t you think you’d know already?” “If I knew you were mad at me, I’d be running already.” I looked over Carrot Top’s shoulder, out through the open window at the busy Canterlot streets beyond. My wings twitched, ever so slightly. When I returned my attention to Carrot Top, I found her expression more bemused than angry. There was no mistaking the difference, as I’d been on the receiving end of both expressions more times than I could remember. “So … you’re really not angry?” “No.” “Well, now I’m just confused.” The corner of Carrot Top’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Per the usual.” “No thanks to you.” “Also per the usual. Now, will you let me explain?” “Please.” “You’re going to be part of a diplomatic mission--” “Oh no.” My stomach lurched at the ‘d’ word. I shook my head, fighting down a fresh wave of panic. “These ‘diplomatic’ missions always wind up with someone trying to kill me. It’s all supposed to be cocktail parties and trade negotiations, but that just means I’ve got to wear my dress uniform with the starched collar so then I get to be uncomfortable right up until the assassins show up. And then it’s moreuncomfortable, but in a different way.” “It’s not an op.” Carrot Top said, even if she knew I didn’t believe her. Hell, she probably didn’t even believe herself, given the nature of her occupation. “But there are very valid reasons to send you to Yakyakistan.” “Such as?” “Yaks are very proud of their martial heritage, and so they’re inclined to respect fellow warriors. Seeing as of how you’re one of the most decorated officers in Equestria--” “--they’re going to put me up against some brute of theirs in some barbaric blood-duel or something, aren’t they?” My voice cracked. Slightly. I stared out the window again, wondering if I could defenestrate myself before Carrot Top could tackle me and drag me off to my terrible, Yak-murdered fate. “Of course not.” Carrot Top’s stern tone somehow soothed me. There was at least some solace to be found in the knowledge that, should some hulking hair-mountain of a Yak slay me, Carrot Top would dispatch said Yak without a second thought. Which would no doubt plunge the realm into bloody war, but it wasn’t as if I’d be around for it. “Yakyakistan and Equestria are friends. The worst you’ll have to worry about is someone challenging you to a drinking contest. Which, I might add, is the second reason you’re going to Yakyakistan.” “Wait, what?” “Yaks are also very proud of their drinking culture. Something about rules of hospitality and all that. As such, it would be … convenient for the delegation to have someone who can handle their liquor.” “You’re kidding.” I said. Carrot Top leveled one of her icy ‘Special Agent’ looks at me. “You’re not kidding.” I said. “The only other candidate is Princess Twilight’s friend Pinkie Pie, and she’s trouble enough when she’s sober.” “Which one is Pinkie Pie again? She’s not the one in the Wonderbolts, is she?” I wisely kept myself from sharing my opinions on said pony’s plumage. There’s nothing quite like watching a lady languidly stretch out to display her full wingspan-- at least, not for a red-blooded pegasus like myself. Of all Carrot Top’s surprising (and often terrifying) talents, telepathy was thankfully not one of them, and thus I remained on her good side for the time being. “She’s the pink one,” Carrot Top said, deadpan. “Oh, right.” An image of a chubby-cheeked, entirely-too-enthusiastic earth pony came to mind, along with memories of surreal hallucinations and a particularly splitting hangover. To this day, I haven’t touched absinthe since.* *See: Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Yonder “Which is why it’s down to you, Sentry. But relax. For once, you’ll actually get to enjoy yourself on your assignment. All you’ve got to do is to present a few toasts, make some new friends, maybe teach the Yaks some of your obnoxious drinking songs, and that’s that. So long as you don’t get sloppy and vomit into anything ceremonial, you’ll be fine. The rest of the delegation will handle the actual diplomacy.” “While I’m the designated drinker.” I mulled the concept over. “Pretty much.” Carrot Top leaned over the table and placed a gentle hoof atop mine. “And if that’s not incentive enough, remember. Yakyakistan is very, very cold.” “I’ve mentioned that. Repeatedly.” “But have you thought about it?” Carrot Top scooted over to my side of the breakfast table and leaned very, very close. “I mean, cold as it is in those mountains, there are certain things a pony has to do to stay warm.” She waggled her eyebrows in a manner less suggestive than declarative. “Oh,” said I. Gazing into those bright green eyes of hers, my objections tumbled away. Of course, the whole trip turned out to be a fiasco, but for once, not even Carrot Top knew just how much trouble we were getting into. You’d think a special agent would be a bit more cynical (especially after hanging around me for so long), but damn if she didn’t think we’d have an easy go of it for once. Both of us should have known better. I mean, Yakyakistan? It wasn’t fair. Chapter 2“Sergeant Lockstock, reporting for duty, sah!” The burly pony in an impossibly-crisp green uniform saluted me so hard that it made his shako, well, shake. The equally imposing, equally dress-uniformed guardsponies behind him mirrored the salute as if they were all connected by strings. It was, in short, a perfect display of parade ground soldiery. It made me queasy. Still, standing there on the boarding plank of the C.M.S. Commander Hurricane, there was nothing for me to do but return Sergeant Lockstock’s salute (albeit mine had a lot less starch in it) and look like I knew what I was doing. This, I’ve been told, is called ‘leadership.’ “At ease, Sergeant.” I said, and Lockstock and his squad snapped their hooves downward. “Permission to speak freely, sah?” “Er, granted?” I said. “Just wanted to say, sah, on behalf of the lads-- this is a plum honor of an assignment, it is. We all volunteered as soon as we heard the wot-wot’s.” Sergeant Lockstock had a strange, garbled sort of earth pony accent that I’d never heard before. Either he’d been born in some out of the way corner of Equestria, or had sustained multiple head injuries over the course of his military career. Possibly both. “Ain’t every day one gets to serve with the Major Sentry. I musta read that poem* ‘bout you and the Wonderbolts givin’ the Changelings what-for a hundred times by now.” *Sgt. Lockstock is most likely referring to Tenneighson’s “Charge of the Flight Brigade,” which is based (quite loosely) on Sentry’s exploits detailed in Sentry at the Charge. “Ah.” I faked a smile. “That. Let’s just hope this mission’s quiet enough that nobody’ll want to write a poem about it.” “Right-oh, sah! Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s the way to do it!” Sergeant Lockstock nodded, then leaned in, conspirator-close, lowering his volume to a barely-audible murmur, easily lost amidst the bustle of Canterlot’s skyship docks. “Which is why me n’ the lads packed a few surprises in our luggage, in case things go south, ay?” “Surprises?” I at least knew better than to ask about what kind of surprises.“That won’t be necessary--” “’course it won’t, sah.” The words would have been a lot more encouraging if he hadn’t winked at me. Before I could object any further, he stepped back with a sharp rapping of all four hooves. “Now then, Major-- orders?” Behind the sergeant, the rest of his-- my –squad looked on expectantly. “Er, right. Just, ah-- stow your gear, and stay out of the way of the, er, dignitaries.” I tried not to think about what implements of mayhem Lockstock and his lads brought with them. Then again, I supposed it likely wasn’t anything worse than what Special Agent Golden Harvest liked to stow in her luggage. “Right-oh, sah!” Sergeant Lockstock snapped off another salute, and set to bellowing at the other guardsponies. “You heard the Major! No lollygaggin’ ‘round now!” And with that, the stalwart brutes shouldered their conspiciously-clanking duffel bags and tromped up the boarding ramp. I took to the air to keep myself from getting enthusiastically trampled, and settled down on one of the Commander Hurricane’s higher decks. As Lockstock and his volunteers boarded the airship, I tried to make sense of it all. Over the years, I’d gotten used to the Equestrian Intelligence Office sending me off on terrifyingly dangerous missions alone, or with Special Agent Golden Harvest if I were lucky. The presence of a whole squad of guardsponies complicated things. It was just an honor guard, sure, not nearly enough hooves on the ground to do much of anything but stand around and look impressive. But there were still enough of them to get into trouble, especially given the Sergeant’s … enthusiasm. Ostensibly, the E.I.O. wouldn’t have put anyone too unhinged on a delicate diplomatic mission. On the other hoof, the agency thought that Yours Truly was a model operative, which should tell you all you need to know about their judgment. I tried to stay optimistic, without much success. I’d at least have a half dozen burly ponies to hide behind if (or, more honestly, when) things turned sour. In theory. Perhaps to prove the inadequacy of my erstwhile bodyguards, nopony even gave so much as a “look out, sir!” before an earth pony moving at nigh-hypersonic speed blindsided me and pinned me to the deck. Being as dashingly handsome as I was (and still am, all these years later, albeit with a bit more silver in my mane), I was no stranger to ladies throwing themselves at me with wanton abandon. But there wasn’t a hint of salaciousness in Pinkie Pie’s expression. As I’d learn later, such Golden Harvest-worthy takedowns were Pinkie Pie’s equivalent to a hoofshake. I was just lucky she didn’t decide to mark the occasion by setting off fireworks. “Hi there, Mister Major Sentry! It’s me, Pinkie Pie! We’re gonna have so much fun on this trip! Have you ever been to Yakyakistan before?Oh wait! That’s silly of me to ask, ‘cause Twilight told me you’d never been to Yakyakistan before, and she’s the smartest pony I know! But there’s stuff that even she doesn’t know! So maybe you actually did go to Yakyakistan once as a little colt, and never told anyone! I don’t know why you’d keep that sort of thing secret but maybe it wasn’t a good vacation and gave you some kind of weird trauma but you’re putting on a brave face and going anyway! Which is really admirable but you shouldn’t keep your feelings all bottled up like that so if you have anything to get off your chest just let me know!” “The only thing I’d like to get off my chest is you.” I wheezed. “Oh! Right! You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie hopped off of me, and I pulled myself up to my hooves. “So I guess you really haven’t been to Yakyakistan before!” Pinkie Pie went on, as if she hadn’t nearly staved in my ribcage mere moments before. “But that’s okay! I know Yakyakistan looks cold and bleak and desolate, but that’s only because it is cold and bleak and desolate! Which means that Yaks have to be extra friendly to make up for it!” “Extra friendly?” I used my wings to smooth out the wrinkles in my uniform. “Oh sure! Except ‘friendliness’ to a Yak looks a little different, that’s all. Lots of shouting and headbutts.” “How quaint,” I said. Suffice it to say, the pink pony did not pick up on my sarcasm. “You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie giggled. “We’re gonna have such a good time, you’re going to wish you brought a helmet! I can’t wait ‘til we get there and then the real party gets started, woo! But first I gotta make sure I packed all my presents and party favors and all the other goodies I packed for all my Yak friends!” As abruptly as she’d hit me, Pinkie Pie bounced off as if she had springs in her hooves. I watched her caper across the deck, and rubbed at my face with a hoof. “And here I thought this was going to be easy.” I grumbled to myself. “Stop complaining, Sentry.” Carrot Top said as she stepped up beside me at the airship’s outer railing. Per usual, she’d been lurking innocuously in the background without anypony (myself included) noticing; she was always the sort of pony you’d only notice when she wanted to be seen. It was a lucky thing for me that she did opt to reveal herself, as she made for quite a lovely sight with her frizzed hair wafting in the skydocks’ breeze, and her eyes a-gleam with playful humor. “You’ll get used to Pinkie Pie. Eventually.” “Damnation, I hope I don’t.” I stretched out a wing and Carrot Top neatly nestled in against my side. “You may be used to that kind of Ponyville madness, but I’m certainly not.” “True. You’re more used to Perchertanian madness. Or Kowloon madness. Or Appeloosa madness, or--” “That’s different.” It was a good thing I didn’t let Carrot Top finish, as if I’d let her list all the places we’d been sent, it would have kept us occupied all the way to Yakyakistan. “How?” Carrot Top, of course, knew to ask the hard questions. “You and I, we’ve made careers out of chasing-- or being chased by-- trouble. Which is why we keep on getting sent to the arse-end of the map every couple of months. But in Ponyville, it’s more … localized. I swear, from what you’ve told me, something bizarre happens in that little town every damned week, and most of the time it’s the pink one’s fault.” “It’s not always Pinkie Pie’s fault. In fact, I’d say she’s responsible for shenanigans only about--” Carrot Top furrowed her brow in thought. “Sixteen point seven percent of the time. Roughly.” “That is an alarmingly precise number.” “I’ve been hanging out with Princess Twilight.” “And that is an alarming piece of news.” The thought of two lovely ladies with nothing to do but gossip over Yours Truly was made a little less enticing by the thought of how dangerous each of them was-- albeit each in her own particular way. Though, of course, Carrot Top was the more intentionally dangerous of the two, which just made the purple princess all the more terrifying.* *As a student of history (not to mention one who has had the pleasure and honor of collaborating with Princess Twilight Sparkle in the past, I must note that Sentry’s account of the Princess, much like many other parts of his memoir, should be taken with a grain of salt. While it is true that Princess Twilight possessed a particular talent for friendship (and therefore magic), rumors of Princess Twilight’s purported recklessness in her use of magic originated nearly universally in scandal-hungry newspapers eager to make more sales.* Similar rumor mongering has befallen every other Princess over the centuries, resulting in unfounded fabrications such as Princess Celestia’s gluttonous love of cake, Princess Flurry Heart’s wild teenage years, or the strangely enduring legend that Princess Luna once fronted a heavy metal band. In all likelihood, Sentry may have picked up some of these rumors via general osmosis, and unconsciously wrote this unfounded bias into his memoir. While some might say that such bias makes the Flash Sentry Papers an unreliable source of information, I choose to view instances such as this one as a learning opportunity, where one can compare Sentry’s account with the widely acknowledged historical record. Carrot Top rolled her eyes. “Would it help if I told you Princess Twilight was hanging out with Carrot Top, and not Golden Harvest? Ever since she got her wings, she’s made it a point to socialize with everyone in Ponyville-- something about staying grounded, and how we shouldn’t think she’s any different even though she’s … ascended.” “You’re still calling her Princess Twilight, though. With a capital P.” Carrot Top winced. “… not to her face, at least?” “Oh-ho? That’s a brave admission to make,” said I. “Why, a pony could almost use it for blackmail-- just think, what would Princess Twilight say if she knew you were going behind her back saying nice things about her and using her proper title?” “You wouldn’t.” Carrot Top tried to glare at me, but her amused smirk betrayed her. “If the Princess found out, she’d only want to spend more time with me. Which would be hell on my schedule, you know.” “Mmm, yes. I can see how having a Princess around would make it rather hard to do your job.” “It’s not my job I’m worried about-- it’s my personal time.” She even winked at me, the saucy thing. “Oh.” I used one of my wings Carrot Top’s sturdy-yet-shapely form closer to mine. “Suppose we can’t have any of that. So your secret’s safe with me, darling.” “It better be.” Carrot Top kissed me on the cheek, and nestled in beneath my wing. *That many of these scandal-hungry newspapers were owned by the same individual, one Wilhelm Randolph Horst, is no coincidence. Much has been written (and even filmed) about Horst’s unfounded enmity towards Princess Twilight Sparkle, so I will not bore the reader with further digression.* We could have stayed there on the upper deck for the whole trip, cuddled up together to ward off chill winds and unpleasant company, but before we could even get underway, someone had to ruin the moment by shouting. Loudly. “YONA LATE! YONA SORRY! PLEASE NO LEAVE YONA BEHIND!” The verb ‘stampede’ typically has a plural subject, but that day it was a single creature thundering through the airship docks, barreling towards the Commander Hurricane. She (you could tell from the pink bows and braids) was a hulking brute, easily the size of Sergeant Lockstock, and three times as hairy. Speaking of the good sergeant, he and his squad once again proved themselves useless as they didn’t even so much as form up a skirmish line in the face of such obvious calamity. Whereas I, pony of action I was, had already taken to the air, hovering just behind Carrot Top just in case Yona wanted to start dispensing traditional Yakyakistan headbutts in greeting. *That Princess Twilight Sparkle is responsible for several notable academic grant programs has nothing to do with this notation. “Relax, Sentry.” Carrot Top reached up with both front hooves and pulled me back down onto the deck. “Yona’s harmless.” At that, Yona bounded onto the Commander Hurricane’s deck and landed hard enough to rock the airship on its moorings. The airship’s crew immediately started shouting jargon-filled commands at each other, and hauled on whatever ropes they needed to in order to keep the ship aloft-- and even then it was a close thing. “Usually.” Carrot Top added on. “She means well, at least. But you know how children are--” “That’s a child?” I boggled. “She’s taller than you are!” Meanwhile, on the deck below, Pinkie Pie bounded over to greet Yona, as well as a gawky teenaged colt following in the yak’s wake. Yona’s woolly bulk easily dwarfed the two of them, as if to prove my point. Carrot Top shrugged. “She’s a yak.” She said, as if that explained everything. “So you’re saying we’re about to sail into a kingdom full of creatures that are even bigger, stronger, and more ill-tempered than our … fellow passenger over there?” “Don’t get so worked up about it, Sentry. You’ve been through worse.” “I know.” I peered over the railing, and briefly considered throwing myself overboard and gliding down to the bottom of Canterlot mountain. Only briefly, however-- it wouldn’t do to suddenly bolt in front of a whole damned airship full of ponies who mistakenly thought I was a hero. My ill-gotten reputation would be ruined. Not to mention the fact that Carrot Top would have no trouble tracking me down and dragging my worthless carcass to Yakyakistan herself, if she thought it was for the good of Equestria. Of course, given my luck, even if I did escape, I’d likely just wind up throwing myself into an even worse situation, somehow. And thus, I stayed put as the Commander Hurricane set off for Yakyakistan. Despite my misgivings, the journey itself went fairly smoothly. There’s not much to do on an airship-- at least, not when you’re a passenger. True, Carrot Top and I had a private cabin, but it was too cramped for anything more than the lightest of canoodlings. It’s damned hard to get in the mood when you’ve just banged your head against the ceiling, let me tell you. Carrot Top noted that I’d had far worse concussions before, but the truth of the statement just made it worse. So we spent most of the trip abovedecks, watching the scenery go by. Were I a more poetic soul, this is where I’d weigh in on the beauty of the Equestrian countryside, or how our lofty viewpoint put things into perspective, but honestly I’ve crossed the map so many times that one journey’s cartography just blurs into the next. As Carrot Top and I lounged around the observation deck, the other passengers came by to socialize. Pinkie Pie yammered on about how much fun we would have in Yakyakista, (which I doubted). Sergeant Lockstock gave me a needlessly thorough run down of his squad’s training and capabilities (which I promptly forgot). All standard stuff, honestly, but for one conversation that popped up the day before we landed in Yakyakistan proper. Carrot Top had ducked belowdecks for some last-minute preparations for the upcoming trip, leaving me alone on the observation deck-- at least until somepony found me. “Mister Sentry?” “Major Sentry, technically.” I turned away from the railing to face the pony addressing me. He was a gawky, awkward thing (which is to say, a teenager) with a tousled green mane that likely took several hours to make it look like it’d never been styled at all. Why a child like that was aboard the Commander Hurricane was a mystery to me; he must have been a cabin-colt or an airshipsmare’s apprentice or something along those lines. “Oh, sorry!” The lad’s voice cracked. “Major Sentry, sir. My name’s Sandbar-- you probably don’t remember me, but I was there when you gave a speech at my school.* So, um-- I wanted to say hi. And, uh-- I guess I did. But, like, could you do me a huge favor?” *See: Octavia’s Eleven. “Depends on the favor,” said I. A sinking feeling began to form in my belly. Easy diplomatic assignment or no, I already had enough to worry about before some hero-worshipping young colt decided he wanted to be my sidekick. “So, like-- I’ve heard you’re really popular with mares and stuff. And you’ve been hanging out with that pretty mare with the orange mane the whole trip, and, um-- like-- can you tell me how do you do it? How do you make girls like you?” The lad looked up at me with genuine admiration-- and for something other than killing changelings or harassing dragons or any number of other disasters I’d built my reputation on. It was something of a novel feeling, to have somepony interested in something I was genuinely good at. “You know.” I rubbed at my chin. “I honestly haven’t given it much thought. I mean, I’ve always been quite dashingly handsome, you know. So it’s only natural that mares start a-swooning whenever I’m about. And, you know, singlehoofedly saving the whole of Equestria helps. But something tells me you’re not asking just to ask, hm? You’ve got a special somepony of your own you’ve set your eye on, haven’t you?” “Y-yeah.” The lad blushed, even. “Something like that.” “Well, good on you.” I nodded. “Of course, seeing as of how you’re not as famous or as good-looking as I, you may have to work a little harder. But don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.” “You do?” Sandbar said. “Indeed I do.” I nodded, then beckoned him closer with one wing, then leaned in, conspiratorial. “Poetry.” “Poetry?” Sandbar blinked at me, confused. “The very thing.” I nodded. “Nothing like getting a mare into-- interested in you, than scribbling down some doggerel about the color of her eyes or somesuch.” “But I don’t know how to write poetry.” “Pssh, so?” I shrugged. “Neither do I, honestly. But that’s the beauty of it. It’s not about the quality of the poetry so much as the effort you put behind it. All you’ve got to do is tell the girl that you wrote something for her, and she’ll be so flattered that she’ll look past whatever creaky verses you actually came up with.” “Does that actually work?” “Would I be telling you if it didn’t, lad?” I nodded, and then made a shoo-ing motion with one hoof. “Now, go on. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some ink and paper. Go scribble out a couple of couplets, and your special somepony will be smitten in no time.” “Got it! Poetry, right.” Sandbar nodded with the resolute earnestness of youth, and then trotted off, muttering to himself. “What rhymes with braids?” No sooner had Sandbar disappeared belowdecks, I turned around to find myself face-to-face with Carrot Top. I’d known her long enough to not be completely startled by her sudden, stealthy reappearance-- nor by the familiar, bemused expression on her face. “You never wrote me poetry,” said Carrot Top. “You never asked?” I ventured. “Besides, you’re too canny for me. You’d see right through whatever strained cliches I tried to use to tell you how pretty you are. I’ve found it’s better to adopt a more … direct approach.” I winked, suggestively. “Then why’d you tell Sandbar to write poetry?” “To get him out of my hair, of course.” I shrugged. “Last thing I need is some impressionable youth following me around thinking he’s going to learn all my secrets. Or worse yet, what if that colt decides he really wants to imitate me, and goes off throwing himself into the jaws of some horrible monster, thinking it’ll impress the ladies?” “Why Sentry, that’s remarkably responsible of you,” Carrot Top said. “I must be mellowing in my old age.” I shrugged. “Don’t get too mellow yet.” Carrot Top gave me a gentle, playful nudge. “The Yaks are expecting a proper Hero of Equestria, after all. They’d be gravely disappointed if you turned out to be boring.” “I promise you, Carrot Top, I will be anything but.” In retrospect, I shouldn’t have said that. Tempting fate, and all that. But even if I hadn’t, the inevitable disaster was already in motion; I just wasn’t aware of it yet. And thus, I remained blissfully ignorant of the upcoming fiasco as I watched the mountains of Yakyakistan loom large on the horizon, looking like nothing so much as a bank of thunderclouds made solid. A better writer could probably squeeze a better metaphor from that, but at this point I don’t think I’ll bother. I never was much of a poet anyway. Chapter 3“WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?” Prince Rutherford bellowed, not for the first time. The Yak to his right answered without the slightest hesitation, at an even greater volume. “TO CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES, SEE THEM DRIVEN--” “WRONG!” Prince Rutherford interrupted the other yak with a ‘friendly’ headbutt, and sent him crumpling do the floor. “EVERYONE SAY THAT! IS GETTING OLD!” The other yaks about the yurt murmured sycophantic agreement with their Prince. Not that I blamed ‘em. Hell, I did the same, given the fact that I preferred to keep my skull un-fractured. I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of yak ritual, or party game, or just some mad whim of Prince Rutherford’s, and I really didn’t want to find out. Nearly immediately after we’d touched down in Yakyakistan’s nameless capital (and ‘capital’ is a term I use loosely, here), Prince Rutherford and his entourage had swept the whole delegation up into an enormous circular tent to welcome us with a proper feast. The yaks didn’t bother with tables or chairs, instead hunkering down on various cushions and carpets strewn about the place in a loose circle. Unlike the strictly formalized royal dinners I’d attended in Canterlot, there wasn’t any semblance of formalized seating arrangements. In the sort of anarchy that would put any advice columnist into conniptions, the yaks shuffled from one seat to the next whenever one of their neighbors wandered off for a second serving of pickled cabbage dumplings, or to relieve themselves. (Which they thankfully did outside the tent, at least). Which is how, by about my third bowl of halfway decent millet-beer, I found myself separated from the rest of the pony delegation and sitting next to the hulking mass of Prince Rutherford. Which wouldn’t have been so bad had he not swung his fearsome, shaggy face towards me to once again ask his question. “SENTRY, WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?!” I stalled, occupying my mouth with a fresh glug of cold, fizzy beer. Seeing as of how I’d slept through most of my philosophy classes in school, I was entirely unprepared for the demanding profundity of the yak prince’s question. I scanned the circle with the corner of my eye, only to realize that the rest of the circle was watching me. The once raucous party simmered down into near-silence as dozens of yaks and ponies waited to hear what Flash Sentry, Hero of Equestria, had to say on the matter. Among the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Carrot Top’s lovely green eyes flashing a familiar ‘don’t screw this up’ look in my direction. The last of the beer trickled down my throat, and I lowered my drinking bowl, breathing in deeply. Somewhat inspired (and somewhat tipsy), I prepared to launch into some rambling business about love and companionship and friendship and so on. You know, pony stuff. It would have been a great speech, the sort of thing that would’ve gotten my cutie-mark glowing and then some rainbows would explore or whatever and then they’d name a holiday after me.* *The astute (or at least trivia-minded) reader might note that Sentry does have a holiday named after him-- or at least half of one. In recent years, Princess Twilight Sparkle has decreed that the third Wednesday after Hearts and Hooves Day on even-numbered years be noted as “Flash’s Day,” meant to recognize Sentry’s accomplishments, as well as those of Flash Magnus, in something of a two-for-one deal. Though it’s worth noting Flash’s Day isn’t recognized as a bank holiday, and honestly has slightly less cultural cachet than National Paperclips and Staplers Day, which takes place a week prior. I set my drinking bowl on the ground, and prepared to make history. I opened my mouth to start my oratory-- --and belched instead. Loudly, too. And trust me, calling anything ‘loud’ when there are yaks about is a hell of a descriptor. The belch had enough duration and reverb to amaze a whole crowd of 3rd graders-- or yaks, for that matter. That millet beer was potent stuff. On the other side of the circle, Carrot Top facehooved. Prince Rutherford snorted and stared down at me for a long moment, just long enough for me to see the whole of my wasted life flash before my eyes. And then he started laughing. “FLASH SENTRY IS WISE PONY! GOOD DRINK! GOOD COMPANY! THAT IS BEST IN LIFE!” Prince Rutherford declared. The other yaks set about laughing in agreement with their leader, and more bowls of millet beer were passed about. I leaned back on my cushion and allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction. Moments like that were, of course, the very thing I’d been brought along for. I even began to think the yaks might not be so bad. Oh sure, they were enormous, literal-minded brutes, but at least they knew how to appreciate a good time, unlike, say, changelings (too anxious) or dragons (too argumentative). A few more drinks, maybe a bawdy song or two, and then we could hop back on the airship and get back to Canterlot before the hangover wore off. Or so I thought. “FLASH SENTRY IS STRONG DRINKER!” Prince Rutherford declared, in what might have been the most honest thing ever said about me by royalty. “FLASH SENTRY NEED TO TRY SPECIAL YAK DRINK NOW!” “I do?” My eyes dropped to the thick and hazy liquid in my bowl. “This isn’t the good stuff?” “NO!” Prince Rutherford smacked the beer-bowl out of my hooves. “ONLY STRONGEST WARRIORS ALLOWED TO HAVE SPECIAL YAK DRINKS!” “Oh.” I looked down at the wet, shattered remnants of my bowl on the ground. “I’m honored?” “YOU SHOULD BE!” Rutherford nodded sagely, then barked out orders to his subjects again. “BRING SPECIAL YAK DRINKS NOW!” “NO!” A yak said. Again, silence fell over the yurt. The yaks shuffled around, making way for the dissenting voice. It was another yak, of course; this one just as big as Rutherford, with orange wool tassels hanging from their horns. The rebellious yak stormed across the circle. “SPECIAL YAK DRINK ONLY FOR YAKS! THIS PONY TOO WEAK AND PUNY TO WASTE SPECIAL YAK DRINK!” The challenger said. And that settled it. I’ve never been a prideful sort, mostly because I’ve never had much to be particularly proud of. What, with the life of cowardice and incompetence and all. Had this random yak started going on about me not being able to headbutt glaciers or what have you, it would’ve been easy for me to shrug it off and hide behind my heroic reputation. All I would have had to do is murmur a few words and play the part of the humble, professional world-saver, and that would be that. But drinking? That was one of the few things I was actually good at, and like hell I was going to let some shaggy brute imply I was a lightweight. The fact I was half-soused already didn’t help much, either. And so, I sat up straighter, puffed out my wings, and said two of the most dangerous words one should utter in such a situation. “Wanna bet?” Prince Rutherford and his yaks reacted just as one would expect. Most cheered and taunted, while a few more enterprising souls started laying odds. The ponies’ reactions were the same too: Pinkie Pie yelled enthusiastically incoherent encouragement, Sergeant Lockstock and his squad looked impressed, and Carrot Top facehooved again. Though my survey of the room was soon interrupted as the orange-tasseled yak thundered up to me. “ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A CHALLENGE?” said the yak. “Are you saying it’ll be a challenge?” said I. As again, for the record, I was several beer-bowls in by this point. My ill-advisedd quip at least got the crowd in the yurt laughing again. It was the same sort of boisterous energy I’d seen countless times in countless pubs which meant, for once, I was in my element. “DRINKING CONTEST!” Prince Rutherford declared. “FLASH SENTRY VERSUS DUCHESS HELGA! BRING SPECIAL YAK DRINK NOW!” “Duchess?” said I-- and in response to my question, the yak with the orange tassels on her horns just nodded, and shoved another yak out of the way so she could sit down on the other side of Prince Rutherford. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!” Duchess Helga said. “RULES ARE SIMPLE!” Prince Rutherford said. “WHOEVER DRINKS MORE ARGH WILL BE WINNER!” “Argh?” said I-- and in response to my question, one of the yaks slammed an empty bowl down in front of me, uncorked a wax-sealed jug, and poured. The potent scent of the goopy semi-liquid hit my nose with all the subtlety one would expect from anything yak-made. “Argh!” “YES! ARGH!” Prince Rutherford nodded. “FLASH SENTRY IS SMART PONY TO KNOW PROPER SPECIAL YAK DRINK!” On the other side of the Prince, Duchess Helga leaned forward, a cruel smirk on her muzzle. “IF ARGH IS TOO MUCH FOR TINY PONY FLASH SENTRY, HE CAN GIVE UP NOW.” Which, of course, was a trap. If I flaked out, the Duchess (and whoever wanted to curry her favor) would taunt me for the whole damn trip. Worse yet, if the yaks saw the ‘best’ Equestria had to offer as a disappointment, it’d color their opinions of Equestria in general, and no doubt scuttle the entire diplomatic process, and perhaps even lead to war or economic ruin or some other catastrophe well above my pay grade. So there was no other option for me than to drink the vile sludge that the yaks held in such high regard. The things I do for my country. Argh was the most aptly named substance I’ve ever had the misfortune of consuming. Even all these years later, I can vividly remember its smell (yeasty and half-rotten), its consistency (like a milkshake made from curdled cheese), and its taste (herbal and punishing). I at least knew better than to ask what was in it, or how it was made, as that’d make the feel of it going down my gullet even worse. Duchess Helga pounded down the stuff like it was water, forcing me to guzzle my argh down in thick gulps to keep up. The only conceivably ‘good’ thing that can be said about the stuff is that, after the first bowl or two, your mouth starts going numb so it doesn’t quite taste as bad. Almost. The yaks kept refilling my bowl, and I soon lost track of just how much of that alcoholic goop I’d consumed. My stomach churned, my face flushed, and my vision began to blur, making it even harder to distinguish one hulking form of a yak from the next. Whoever they were, I could only assume they were happy with me, as a great cheer arose each time I brought the drinking bowl full of argh to my lips. It could have been worse, though. As for as stomach-turning as the yak’s signature liquor was, at least it wasn’t hallucinogenic. The last thing I needed was another wormwood induced episode like I’d gone through the one time in Ponyville.* *See: Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Yonder. While I was certainly an experienced, nay-- expert, carouser, even I had my limits. My world narrowed down to just my hooves and the bowl in front of me, and it became harder and harder to lift it. I swayed in my seat, barely clinging to consciousness. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, bracing myself for defeat. I’d at least given the damn yaks a good show, so hopefully my heroic inebriation would be up to their standards, and the diplomatic mission could continue. Or something. Logical, coherent thought wasn’t exactly within my capabilities, at that very moment. But before I could fully give myself over to sweet, blissful unconsciousness, the entire yurt shook in a sudden, inexplicable earthquake. My eyes snapped open, and through blurry vision, I looked over at a large brown lump surrounded by other large brown lumps. I squinted through the drunken haze just long enough to make out the orange tassels splayed out around the one on the floor. All the yak liquor apparently had me thinking about as fast as one, as the realization hit me just as Prince Rutherford stomped on the floor in declaration. “DUCHESS HELGA PASSED OUT! FLASH SENTRY IS WINNER OF DRINKING CONTEST CHALLENGE!” “Well, there’s a surprise.” I murmured to myself, and promptly passed out. I woke, not in a puddle of my own sick, but in a surprisingly comfortable bed. So that was nice. Some thoughtful soul had hauled me out of the central yurt and into a smaller shelter in order to sleep off the prior night’s revelry. Sunlight streamed in through the yurt’s open door flaps, bright and punishing in my hungover state. The dryness of my mouth won out over the throbbing in my head, and so I rolled out of bed on mostly-steady hooves to search for something non-boozy to drink. I wondered if yaks drank coffee, or if I’d have to start rummaging through the airship’s galley. Either way, there wasn’t any coffee to be had in that little yurt, so I braced myself and stepped outside. Yaks and ponies went about their business in the late morning sun, all of them looking damnably happier and less hungover than me. I shielded my eyes with one of my wings and scanned the village, searching for Sergeant Lockstock or any of the other soldiers. At least they could make themselves useful by fetching me something caffeinated. But, as I looked around, I found myself face to face with another pony entirely. “You’re awake. Good.” Carrot Top spoke in the terse, clipped way she did whenever Special Agent Golden Harvest business came up. “We need to get moving.” “What is it this time?” The prospect of new terrible dangers sobered me up with depressing speed. Dozens of horrifying scenarios ran through my brain, and I leaned in to murmur to Carrot Top so no one else could hear. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?” “What?” Carrot Top blinked. “No.” “Just checking. And since you’re here talking to me and not stalking around, that means you’re not going to kill anyone, which means whatever the emergency is can’t be that bad, right? I mean, we’ve been in worse spots before.” “We have, but that was different. I’ll brief you once we’re--” “FLASH SENTRY!” A familiar yak voice bellowed. Carrot Top and I both looked up as Duchess Helga stampeded across the village. My stomach twisted itself in knots, both from fear and from whatever leftover argh was still burbling away in my system. The Duchess no doubt had taken her defeat badly, and was returning to take it out on Yours Truly. I stretched my wings out, preparing to take flight. Such flight became unnecessary, however, as Duchess Helga skidded to a halt mere feet away. Before the tassels on her horns could stop swaying, she started shouting. “FLASH SENTRY WON CHALLENGE! THAT IS FIRST TIME DUCHESS HELGA HAS EVER BEEN DEFEATED! IT IS SOMETHING THAT DUCHESS HELGA HAS BEEN THINKING ABOUT EVER SINCE WAKING UP!” “Oh, is that … good?” “FLASH SENTRY IS STRONG PONY!” “Thank you, but--” “FLASH SENTRY IS WISE PONY!” “Ha, well, I suppose I am--” “FLASH SENTRY IS BEST PONY!” “I don’t know if I’d go that far--” “THAT IS WHY DUCHESS HELGA IS GOING TO MARRY FLASH SENTRY!”
Some Notes on the TextWhen I first began collating and publishing the Flash Sentry Papers, I worked under the assumption that the documents were limited to the contents of a single chest. Some years ago, I was proven wrong, when I found myself in possession of a mysterious ‘lost’ volume of the Flash Sentry Papers*. While the provenance of this account is understandably dubious, chemical analysis of the paper and ink at least places the documents in the appropriate era, though I will admit the textual analysis is yet an issue for debate, especially given the superior prose of this apocryphal volume. *See: Flash Sentry and the King’s Ghost. This said, I have been remiss in not searching out alternative sources of the Flash Sentry Papers until recently. To be honest, it took entirely too long for the concept to cross my mind. Especially given the fact that there are a great number of documents found within that original antique trunk that I have yet to give more than a cursory glance. However, my perspective soon changed once Princess Twilight so graciously granted me unprecedented access to the Royal Canterlot Archives in recognition of my scholarship. (And only my scholarship, despite the innuendos the less credible tabloids use to sell newspapers). After many long nights spent delving through the labyrinthine stacks of the Archives, and with occasional help from no less than Princess Twilight herself, I was able to uncover a great number of documents hithero thought lost or destroyed during one particular crisis or another. Highlights of this discovery include fragments of Flash Sentry’s service record, no less than three death certificates in his name (written at different dates), receipts for several bar tabs charged to the royal expense account, and several other choice pieces of documentation that will no doubt be conducive to future research. Of everything I found within the Royal Canterlot Archives, the most interesting (and, according to my editor, most publishable) was the following volume of the Flash Sentry Papers. What this particular volume was doing hidden in the depths of the Royal Archives, I cannot say. Some might speculate that this particular tale was kept from the public in order to avoid political incident, given the less than flattering picture Sentry paints of Yakyakistan and its customs. On the other hoof, it is entirely likely that this volume wound up on a dusty and forgotten shelf of the Royal Canterlot Archives through sheer dumb luck. I shall leave it up to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely case. Circumstances of its discovery aside, this volume once again offers an unprecedented first-hoof account of life both within and without Equestria. As readers of Sentry’s memoirs should know by now, his viewpoint is by no means objective, and is often less than flattering to all parties involved, Sentry himself included. But, even with such bias, these accounts offer a rare and valuable window into the past. Just as I have in earlier volumes, I shall personally provide further, contextual information in the footnotes. -G.M.F.
Chapter 1“It’s not fair!” I tried for righteous indignation, but in retrospect, it came out as more of a whine Which, I might add, was entirely justified. What was supposed to be a pleasant morning of coffee and practiced laziness had been entirely ruined by the arrival of an all-too-chipper courier, bearing an envelope with Princess Twilight Sparkle’s official seal emblazoned on it. A Princess’ attention was an unnerving enough prospect on its own, but the ‘polite request’ within the envelope was even worse. “Yakyakistan! They’re sending me to Yakyakistan! And I haven’t even done anything! At least nothing the Princesses know about.” I paused. Frowned. Looked across the breakfast table the most dangerous (and somehow also one of the most attractive) ponies I’d ever met. “You … you didn’t tell Princess Twilight about that business with the tulips and the walrus, did you?” Carrot Top (a.k.a. Special Agent Golden Harvest, master of hoof-to-hoof combat, a.k.a. one of the most beautifully dangerous ponies I’d ever met), didn’t look up from her morning newspaper. “I didn’t.” “Then what’s got the Princess so mad at me?” I groaned, and let my head thunk down onto the breakfast table, hard enough to make the cutlery shake. Any pain that the impact might have carried went forgotten, as my cynical mind already started anticipating new agonies like frostbite and Yak cuisine. “It’s got to be Captain Armor-- Consort Armor –whatever his title is. He never liked me-- he even threatened to send me to Yakyakistan if I ever jilted his sister, and now he’s done it anyway!I swear, I didn’t jilt the Princess! Why, I haven’t jilted anyone since--” “Since when?” Carrot Top lowered her newspaper and arched a very dangerous eyebrow. “Since I met you?” My voice may have cracked a little. I raised my head and gulped down a mouthful of lukewarm coffee to wet my suddenly dry mouth. “Good answer.” Carrot Top said, and returned to her reading. “But if you must know, Sentry, sending you to Yakyakistan was my idea. Good to see that Fancy Pants passed the suggestion along.” “What?” My voice definitely cracked, then. “How could you? What did I do? Was it because I forgot our anniversary?” That was enough to give Carrot Top pause. “Do we even have an anniversary?” “I don’t know! Which is a damn stupid reason to send me off to freeze to death, don’t you think? Look, Carrot-- darling.” Desperate, I turned on the ol’ Flashy charm. “Whatever it is I did, I apologize, and I promise I can make it up to you--” “Sentry.” Carrot Top set down her newspaper, and reached across the table to lay one strong hoof over mine. “Flash. Think. If I were mad at you, don’t you think you’d know already?” “If I knew you were mad at me, I’d be running already.” I looked over Carrot Top’s shoulder, out through the open window at the busy Canterlot streets beyond. My wings twitched, ever so slightly. When I returned my attention to Carrot Top, I found her expression more bemused than angry. There was no mistaking the difference, as I’d been on the receiving end of both expressions more times than I could remember. “So … you’re really not angry?” “No.” “Well, now I’m just confused.” The corner of Carrot Top’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Per the usual.” “No thanks to you.” “Also per the usual. Now, will you let me explain?” “Please.” “You’re going to be part of a diplomatic mission--” “Oh no.” My stomach lurched at the ‘d’ word. I shook my head, fighting down a fresh wave of panic. “These ‘diplomatic’ missions always wind up with someone trying to kill me. It’s all supposed to be cocktail parties and trade negotiations, but that just means I’ve got to wear my dress uniform with the starched collar so then I get to be uncomfortable right up until the assassins show up. And then it’s moreuncomfortable, but in a different way.” “It’s not an op.” Carrot Top said, even if she knew I didn’t believe her. Hell, she probably didn’t even believe herself, given the nature of her occupation. “But there are very valid reasons to send you to Yakyakistan.” “Such as?” “Yaks are very proud of their martial heritage, and so they’re inclined to respect fellow warriors. Seeing as of how you’re one of the most decorated officers in Equestria--” “--they’re going to put me up against some brute of theirs in some barbaric blood-duel or something, aren’t they?” My voice cracked. Slightly. I stared out the window again, wondering if I could defenestrate myself before Carrot Top could tackle me and drag me off to my terrible, Yak-murdered fate. “Of course not.” Carrot Top’s stern tone somehow soothed me. There was at least some solace to be found in the knowledge that, should some hulking hair-mountain of a Yak slay me, Carrot Top would dispatch said Yak without a second thought. Which would no doubt plunge the realm into bloody war, but it wasn’t as if I’d be around for it. “Yakyakistan and Equestria are friends. The worst you’ll have to worry about is someone challenging you to a drinking contest. Which, I might add, is the second reason you’re going to Yakyakistan.” “Wait, what?” “Yaks are also very proud of their drinking culture. Something about rules of hospitality and all that. As such, it would be … convenient for the delegation to have someone who can handle their liquor.” “You’re kidding.” I said. Carrot Top leveled one of her icy ‘Special Agent’ looks at me. “You’re not kidding.” I said. “The only other candidate is Princess Twilight’s friend Pinkie Pie, and she’s trouble enough when she’s sober.” “Which one is Pinkie Pie again? She’s not the one in the Wonderbolts, is she?” I wisely kept myself from sharing my opinions on said pony’s plumage. There’s nothing quite like watching a lady languidly stretch out to display her full wingspan-- at least, not for a red-blooded pegasus like myself. Of all Carrot Top’s surprising (and often terrifying) talents, telepathy was thankfully not one of them, and thus I remained on her good side for the time being. “She’s the pink one,” Carrot Top said, deadpan. “Oh, right.” An image of a chubby-cheeked, entirely-too-enthusiastic earth pony came to mind, along with memories of surreal hallucinations and a particularly splitting hangover. To this day, I haven’t touched absinthe since.* *See: Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Yonder “Which is why it’s down to you, Sentry. But relax. For once, you’ll actually get to enjoy yourself on your assignment. All you’ve got to do is to present a few toasts, make some new friends, maybe teach the Yaks some of your obnoxious drinking songs, and that’s that. So long as you don’t get sloppy and vomit into anything ceremonial, you’ll be fine. The rest of the delegation will handle the actual diplomacy.” “While I’m the designated drinker.” I mulled the concept over. “Pretty much.” Carrot Top leaned over the table and placed a gentle hoof atop mine. “And if that’s not incentive enough, remember. Yakyakistan is very, very cold.” “I’ve mentioned that. Repeatedly.” “But have you thought about it?” Carrot Top scooted over to my side of the breakfast table and leaned very, very close. “I mean, cold as it is in those mountains, there are certain things a pony has to do to stay warm.” She waggled her eyebrows in a manner less suggestive than declarative. “Oh,” said I. Gazing into those bright green eyes of hers, my objections tumbled away. Of course, the whole trip turned out to be a fiasco, but for once, not even Carrot Top knew just how much trouble we were getting into. You’d think a special agent would be a bit more cynical (especially after hanging around me for so long), but damn if she didn’t think we’d have an easy go of it for once. Both of us should have known better. I mean, Yakyakistan? It wasn’t fair.
Chapter 2“Sergeant Lockstock, reporting for duty, sah!” The burly pony in an impossibly-crisp green uniform saluted me so hard that it made his shako, well, shake. The equally imposing, equally dress-uniformed guardsponies behind him mirrored the salute as if they were all connected by strings. It was, in short, a perfect display of parade ground soldiery. It made me queasy. Still, standing there on the boarding plank of the C.M.S. Commander Hurricane, there was nothing for me to do but return Sergeant Lockstock’s salute (albeit mine had a lot less starch in it) and look like I knew what I was doing. This, I’ve been told, is called ‘leadership.’ “At ease, Sergeant.” I said, and Lockstock and his squad snapped their hooves downward. “Permission to speak freely, sah?” “Er, granted?” I said. “Just wanted to say, sah, on behalf of the lads-- this is a plum honor of an assignment, it is. We all volunteered as soon as we heard the wot-wot’s.” Sergeant Lockstock had a strange, garbled sort of earth pony accent that I’d never heard before. Either he’d been born in some out of the way corner of Equestria, or had sustained multiple head injuries over the course of his military career. Possibly both. “Ain’t every day one gets to serve with the Major Sentry. I musta read that poem* ‘bout you and the Wonderbolts givin’ the Changelings what-for a hundred times by now.” *Sgt. Lockstock is most likely referring to Tenneighson’s “Charge of the Flight Brigade,” which is based (quite loosely) on Sentry’s exploits detailed in Sentry at the Charge. “Ah.” I faked a smile. “That. Let’s just hope this mission’s quiet enough that nobody’ll want to write a poem about it.” “Right-oh, sah! Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s the way to do it!” Sergeant Lockstock nodded, then leaned in, conspirator-close, lowering his volume to a barely-audible murmur, easily lost amidst the bustle of Canterlot’s skyship docks. “Which is why me n’ the lads packed a few surprises in our luggage, in case things go south, ay?” “Surprises?” I at least knew better than to ask about what kind of surprises.“That won’t be necessary--” “’course it won’t, sah.” The words would have been a lot more encouraging if he hadn’t winked at me. Before I could object any further, he stepped back with a sharp rapping of all four hooves. “Now then, Major-- orders?” Behind the sergeant, the rest of his-- my –squad looked on expectantly. “Er, right. Just, ah-- stow your gear, and stay out of the way of the, er, dignitaries.” I tried not to think about what implements of mayhem Lockstock and his lads brought with them. Then again, I supposed it likely wasn’t anything worse than what Special Agent Golden Harvest liked to stow in her luggage. “Right-oh, sah!” Sergeant Lockstock snapped off another salute, and set to bellowing at the other guardsponies. “You heard the Major! No lollygaggin’ ‘round now!” And with that, the stalwart brutes shouldered their conspiciously-clanking duffel bags and tromped up the boarding ramp. I took to the air to keep myself from getting enthusiastically trampled, and settled down on one of the Commander Hurricane’s higher decks. As Lockstock and his volunteers boarded the airship, I tried to make sense of it all. Over the years, I’d gotten used to the Equestrian Intelligence Office sending me off on terrifyingly dangerous missions alone, or with Special Agent Golden Harvest if I were lucky. The presence of a whole squad of guardsponies complicated things. It was just an honor guard, sure, not nearly enough hooves on the ground to do much of anything but stand around and look impressive. But there were still enough of them to get into trouble, especially given the Sergeant’s … enthusiasm. Ostensibly, the E.I.O. wouldn’t have put anyone too unhinged on a delicate diplomatic mission. On the other hoof, the agency thought that Yours Truly was a model operative, which should tell you all you need to know about their judgment. I tried to stay optimistic, without much success. I’d at least have a half dozen burly ponies to hide behind if (or, more honestly, when) things turned sour. In theory. Perhaps to prove the inadequacy of my erstwhile bodyguards, nopony even gave so much as a “look out, sir!” before an earth pony moving at nigh-hypersonic speed blindsided me and pinned me to the deck. Being as dashingly handsome as I was (and still am, all these years later, albeit with a bit more silver in my mane), I was no stranger to ladies throwing themselves at me with wanton abandon. But there wasn’t a hint of salaciousness in Pinkie Pie’s expression. As I’d learn later, such Golden Harvest-worthy takedowns were Pinkie Pie’s equivalent to a hoofshake. I was just lucky she didn’t decide to mark the occasion by setting off fireworks. “Hi there, Mister Major Sentry! It’s me, Pinkie Pie! We’re gonna have so much fun on this trip! Have you ever been to Yakyakistan before?Oh wait! That’s silly of me to ask, ‘cause Twilight told me you’d never been to Yakyakistan before, and she’s the smartest pony I know! But there’s stuff that even she doesn’t know! So maybe you actually did go to Yakyakistan once as a little colt, and never told anyone! I don’t know why you’d keep that sort of thing secret but maybe it wasn’t a good vacation and gave you some kind of weird trauma but you’re putting on a brave face and going anyway! Which is really admirable but you shouldn’t keep your feelings all bottled up like that so if you have anything to get off your chest just let me know!” “The only thing I’d like to get off my chest is you.” I wheezed. “Oh! Right! You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie hopped off of me, and I pulled myself up to my hooves. “So I guess you really haven’t been to Yakyakistan before!” Pinkie Pie went on, as if she hadn’t nearly staved in my ribcage mere moments before. “But that’s okay! I know Yakyakistan looks cold and bleak and desolate, but that’s only because it is cold and bleak and desolate! Which means that Yaks have to be extra friendly to make up for it!” “Extra friendly?” I used my wings to smooth out the wrinkles in my uniform. “Oh sure! Except ‘friendliness’ to a Yak looks a little different, that’s all. Lots of shouting and headbutts.” “How quaint,” I said. Suffice it to say, the pink pony did not pick up on my sarcasm. “You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie giggled. “We’re gonna have such a good time, you’re going to wish you brought a helmet! I can’t wait ‘til we get there and then the real party gets started, woo! But first I gotta make sure I packed all my presents and party favors and all the other goodies I packed for all my Yak friends!” As abruptly as she’d hit me, Pinkie Pie bounced off as if she had springs in her hooves. I watched her caper across the deck, and rubbed at my face with a hoof. “And here I thought this was going to be easy.” I grumbled to myself. “Stop complaining, Sentry.” Carrot Top said as she stepped up beside me at the airship’s outer railing. Per usual, she’d been lurking innocuously in the background without anypony (myself included) noticing; she was always the sort of pony you’d only notice when she wanted to be seen. It was a lucky thing for me that she did opt to reveal herself, as she made for quite a lovely sight with her frizzed hair wafting in the skydocks’ breeze, and her eyes a-gleam with playful humor. “You’ll get used to Pinkie Pie. Eventually.” “Damnation, I hope I don’t.” I stretched out a wing and Carrot Top neatly nestled in against my side. “You may be used to that kind of Ponyville madness, but I’m certainly not.” “True. You’re more used to Perchertanian madness. Or Kowloon madness. Or Appeloosa madness, or--” “That’s different.” It was a good thing I didn’t let Carrot Top finish, as if I’d let her list all the places we’d been sent, it would have kept us occupied all the way to Yakyakistan. “How?” Carrot Top, of course, knew to ask the hard questions. “You and I, we’ve made careers out of chasing-- or being chased by-- trouble. Which is why we keep on getting sent to the arse-end of the map every couple of months. But in Ponyville, it’s more … localized. I swear, from what you’ve told me, something bizarre happens in that little town every damned week, and most of the time it’s the pink one’s fault.” “It’s not always Pinkie Pie’s fault. In fact, I’d say she’s responsible for shenanigans only about--” Carrot Top furrowed her brow in thought. “Sixteen point seven percent of the time. Roughly.” “That is an alarmingly precise number.” “I’ve been hanging out with Princess Twilight.” “And that is an alarming piece of news.” The thought of two lovely ladies with nothing to do but gossip over Yours Truly was made a little less enticing by the thought of how dangerous each of them was-- albeit each in her own particular way. Though, of course, Carrot Top was the more intentionally dangerous of the two, which just made the purple princess all the more terrifying.* *As a student of history (not to mention one who has had the pleasure and honor of collaborating with Princess Twilight Sparkle in the past, I must note that Sentry’s account of the Princess, much like many other parts of his memoir, should be taken with a grain of salt. While it is true that Princess Twilight possessed a particular talent for friendship (and therefore magic), rumors of Princess Twilight’s purported recklessness in her use of magic originated nearly universally in scandal-hungry newspapers eager to make more sales.* Similar rumor mongering has befallen every other Princess over the centuries, resulting in unfounded fabrications such as Princess Celestia’s gluttonous love of cake, Princess Flurry Heart’s wild teenage years, or the strangely enduring legend that Princess Luna once fronted a heavy metal band. In all likelihood, Sentry may have picked up some of these rumors via general osmosis, and unconsciously wrote this unfounded bias into his memoir. While some might say that such bias makes the Flash Sentry Papers an unreliable source of information, I choose to view instances such as this one as a learning opportunity, where one can compare Sentry’s account with the widely acknowledged historical record. Carrot Top rolled her eyes. “Would it help if I told you Princess Twilight was hanging out with Carrot Top, and not Golden Harvest? Ever since she got her wings, she’s made it a point to socialize with everyone in Ponyville-- something about staying grounded, and how we shouldn’t think she’s any different even though she’s … ascended.” “You’re still calling her Princess Twilight, though. With a capital P.” Carrot Top winced. “… not to her face, at least?” “Oh-ho? That’s a brave admission to make,” said I. “Why, a pony could almost use it for blackmail-- just think, what would Princess Twilight say if she knew you were going behind her back saying nice things about her and using her proper title?” “You wouldn’t.” Carrot Top tried to glare at me, but her amused smirk betrayed her. “If the Princess found out, she’d only want to spend more time with me. Which would be hell on my schedule, you know.” “Mmm, yes. I can see how having a Princess around would make it rather hard to do your job.” “It’s not my job I’m worried about-- it’s my personal time.” She even winked at me, the saucy thing. “Oh.” I used one of my wings Carrot Top’s sturdy-yet-shapely form closer to mine. “Suppose we can’t have any of that. So your secret’s safe with me, darling.” “It better be.” Carrot Top kissed me on the cheek, and nestled in beneath my wing. *That many of these scandal-hungry newspapers were owned by the same individual, one Wilhelm Randolph Horst, is no coincidence. Much has been written (and even filmed) about Horst’s unfounded enmity towards Princess Twilight Sparkle, so I will not bore the reader with further digression.* We could have stayed there on the upper deck for the whole trip, cuddled up together to ward off chill winds and unpleasant company, but before we could even get underway, someone had to ruin the moment by shouting. Loudly. “YONA LATE! YONA SORRY! PLEASE NO LEAVE YONA BEHIND!” The verb ‘stampede’ typically has a plural subject, but that day it was a single creature thundering through the airship docks, barreling towards the Commander Hurricane. She (you could tell from the pink bows and braids) was a hulking brute, easily the size of Sergeant Lockstock, and three times as hairy. Speaking of the good sergeant, he and his squad once again proved themselves useless as they didn’t even so much as form up a skirmish line in the face of such obvious calamity. Whereas I, pony of action I was, had already taken to the air, hovering just behind Carrot Top just in case Yona wanted to start dispensing traditional Yakyakistan headbutts in greeting. *That Princess Twilight Sparkle is responsible for several notable academic grant programs has nothing to do with this notation. “Relax, Sentry.” Carrot Top reached up with both front hooves and pulled me back down onto the deck. “Yona’s harmless.” At that, Yona bounded onto the Commander Hurricane’s deck and landed hard enough to rock the airship on its moorings. The airship’s crew immediately started shouting jargon-filled commands at each other, and hauled on whatever ropes they needed to in order to keep the ship aloft-- and even then it was a close thing. “Usually.” Carrot Top added on. “She means well, at least. But you know how children are--” “That’s a child?” I boggled. “She’s taller than you are!” Meanwhile, on the deck below, Pinkie Pie bounded over to greet Yona, as well as a gawky teenaged colt following in the yak’s wake. Yona’s woolly bulk easily dwarfed the two of them, as if to prove my point. Carrot Top shrugged. “She’s a yak.” She said, as if that explained everything. “So you’re saying we’re about to sail into a kingdom full of creatures that are even bigger, stronger, and more ill-tempered than our … fellow passenger over there?” “Don’t get so worked up about it, Sentry. You’ve been through worse.” “I know.” I peered over the railing, and briefly considered throwing myself overboard and gliding down to the bottom of Canterlot mountain. Only briefly, however-- it wouldn’t do to suddenly bolt in front of a whole damned airship full of ponies who mistakenly thought I was a hero. My ill-gotten reputation would be ruined. Not to mention the fact that Carrot Top would have no trouble tracking me down and dragging my worthless carcass to Yakyakistan herself, if she thought it was for the good of Equestria. Of course, given my luck, even if I did escape, I’d likely just wind up throwing myself into an even worse situation, somehow. And thus, I stayed put as the Commander Hurricane set off for Yakyakistan. Despite my misgivings, the journey itself went fairly smoothly. There’s not much to do on an airship-- at least, not when you’re a passenger. True, Carrot Top and I had a private cabin, but it was too cramped for anything more than the lightest of canoodlings. It’s damned hard to get in the mood when you’ve just banged your head against the ceiling, let me tell you. Carrot Top noted that I’d had far worse concussions before, but the truth of the statement just made it worse. So we spent most of the trip abovedecks, watching the scenery go by. Were I a more poetic soul, this is where I’d weigh in on the beauty of the Equestrian countryside, or how our lofty viewpoint put things into perspective, but honestly I’ve crossed the map so many times that one journey’s cartography just blurs into the next. As Carrot Top and I lounged around the observation deck, the other passengers came by to socialize. Pinkie Pie yammered on about how much fun we would have in Yakyakista, (which I doubted). Sergeant Lockstock gave me a needlessly thorough run down of his squad’s training and capabilities (which I promptly forgot). All standard stuff, honestly, but for one conversation that popped up the day before we landed in Yakyakistan proper. Carrot Top had ducked belowdecks for some last-minute preparations for the upcoming trip, leaving me alone on the observation deck-- at least until somepony found me. “Mister Sentry?” “Major Sentry, technically.” I turned away from the railing to face the pony addressing me. He was a gawky, awkward thing (which is to say, a teenager) with a tousled green mane that likely took several hours to make it look like it’d never been styled at all. Why a child like that was aboard the Commander Hurricane was a mystery to me; he must have been a cabin-colt or an airshipsmare’s apprentice or something along those lines. “Oh, sorry!” The lad’s voice cracked. “Major Sentry, sir. My name’s Sandbar-- you probably don’t remember me, but I was there when you gave a speech at my school.* So, um-- I wanted to say hi. And, uh-- I guess I did. But, like, could you do me a huge favor?” *See: Octavia’s Eleven. “Depends on the favor,” said I. A sinking feeling began to form in my belly. Easy diplomatic assignment or no, I already had enough to worry about before some hero-worshipping young colt decided he wanted to be my sidekick. “So, like-- I’ve heard you’re really popular with mares and stuff. And you’ve been hanging out with that pretty mare with the orange mane the whole trip, and, um-- like-- can you tell me how do you do it? How do you make girls like you?” The lad looked up at me with genuine admiration-- and for something other than killing changelings or harassing dragons or any number of other disasters I’d built my reputation on. It was something of a novel feeling, to have somepony interested in something I was genuinely good at. “You know.” I rubbed at my chin. “I honestly haven’t given it much thought. I mean, I’ve always been quite dashingly handsome, you know. So it’s only natural that mares start a-swooning whenever I’m about. And, you know, singlehoofedly saving the whole of Equestria helps. But something tells me you’re not asking just to ask, hm? You’ve got a special somepony of your own you’ve set your eye on, haven’t you?” “Y-yeah.” The lad blushed, even. “Something like that.” “Well, good on you.” I nodded. “Of course, seeing as of how you’re not as famous or as good-looking as I, you may have to work a little harder. But don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.” “You do?” Sandbar said. “Indeed I do.” I nodded, then beckoned him closer with one wing, then leaned in, conspiratorial. “Poetry.” “Poetry?” Sandbar blinked at me, confused. “The very thing.” I nodded. “Nothing like getting a mare into-- interested in you, than scribbling down some doggerel about the color of her eyes or somesuch.” “But I don’t know how to write poetry.” “Pssh, so?” I shrugged. “Neither do I, honestly. But that’s the beauty of it. It’s not about the quality of the poetry so much as the effort you put behind it. All you’ve got to do is tell the girl that you wrote something for her, and she’ll be so flattered that she’ll look past whatever creaky verses you actually came up with.” “Does that actually work?” “Would I be telling you if it didn’t, lad?” I nodded, and then made a shoo-ing motion with one hoof. “Now, go on. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some ink and paper. Go scribble out a couple of couplets, and your special somepony will be smitten in no time.” “Got it! Poetry, right.” Sandbar nodded with the resolute earnestness of youth, and then trotted off, muttering to himself. “What rhymes with braids?” No sooner had Sandbar disappeared belowdecks, I turned around to find myself face-to-face with Carrot Top. I’d known her long enough to not be completely startled by her sudden, stealthy reappearance-- nor by the familiar, bemused expression on her face. “You never wrote me poetry,” said Carrot Top. “You never asked?” I ventured. “Besides, you’re too canny for me. You’d see right through whatever strained cliches I tried to use to tell you how pretty you are. I’ve found it’s better to adopt a more … direct approach.” I winked, suggestively. “Then why’d you tell Sandbar to write poetry?” “To get him out of my hair, of course.” I shrugged. “Last thing I need is some impressionable youth following me around thinking he’s going to learn all my secrets. Or worse yet, what if that colt decides he really wants to imitate me, and goes off throwing himself into the jaws of some horrible monster, thinking it’ll impress the ladies?” “Why Sentry, that’s remarkably responsible of you,” Carrot Top said. “I must be mellowing in my old age.” I shrugged. “Don’t get too mellow yet.” Carrot Top gave me a gentle, playful nudge. “The Yaks are expecting a proper Hero of Equestria, after all. They’d be gravely disappointed if you turned out to be boring.” “I promise you, Carrot Top, I will be anything but.” In retrospect, I shouldn’t have said that. Tempting fate, and all that. But even if I hadn’t, the inevitable disaster was already in motion; I just wasn’t aware of it yet. And thus, I remained blissfully ignorant of the upcoming fiasco as I watched the mountains of Yakyakistan loom large on the horizon, looking like nothing so much as a bank of thunderclouds made solid. A better writer could probably squeeze a better metaphor from that, but at this point I don’t think I’ll bother. I never was much of a poet anyway.
Chapter 3“WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?” Prince Rutherford bellowed, not for the first time. The Yak to his right answered without the slightest hesitation, at an even greater volume. “TO CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES, SEE THEM DRIVEN--” “WRONG!” Prince Rutherford interrupted the other yak with a ‘friendly’ headbutt, and sent him crumpling do the floor. “EVERYONE SAY THAT! IS GETTING OLD!” The other yaks about the yurt murmured sycophantic agreement with their Prince. Not that I blamed ‘em. Hell, I did the same, given the fact that I preferred to keep my skull un-fractured. I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of yak ritual, or party game, or just some mad whim of Prince Rutherford’s, and I really didn’t want to find out. Nearly immediately after we’d touched down in Yakyakistan’s nameless capital (and ‘capital’ is a term I use loosely, here), Prince Rutherford and his entourage had swept the whole delegation up into an enormous circular tent to welcome us with a proper feast. The yaks didn’t bother with tables or chairs, instead hunkering down on various cushions and carpets strewn about the place in a loose circle. Unlike the strictly formalized royal dinners I’d attended in Canterlot, there wasn’t any semblance of formalized seating arrangements. In the sort of anarchy that would put any advice columnist into conniptions, the yaks shuffled from one seat to the next whenever one of their neighbors wandered off for a second serving of pickled cabbage dumplings, or to relieve themselves. (Which they thankfully did outside the tent, at least). Which is how, by about my third bowl of halfway decent millet-beer, I found myself separated from the rest of the pony delegation and sitting next to the hulking mass of Prince Rutherford. Which wouldn’t have been so bad had he not swung his fearsome, shaggy face towards me to once again ask his question. “SENTRY, WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?!” I stalled, occupying my mouth with a fresh glug of cold, fizzy beer. Seeing as of how I’d slept through most of my philosophy classes in school, I was entirely unprepared for the demanding profundity of the yak prince’s question. I scanned the circle with the corner of my eye, only to realize that the rest of the circle was watching me. The once raucous party simmered down into near-silence as dozens of yaks and ponies waited to hear what Flash Sentry, Hero of Equestria, had to say on the matter. Among the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Carrot Top’s lovely green eyes flashing a familiar ‘don’t screw this up’ look in my direction. The last of the beer trickled down my throat, and I lowered my drinking bowl, breathing in deeply. Somewhat inspired (and somewhat tipsy), I prepared to launch into some rambling business about love and companionship and friendship and so on. You know, pony stuff. It would have been a great speech, the sort of thing that would’ve gotten my cutie-mark glowing and then some rainbows would explore or whatever and then they’d name a holiday after me.* *The astute (or at least trivia-minded) reader might note that Sentry does have a holiday named after him-- or at least half of one. In recent years, Princess Twilight Sparkle has decreed that the third Wednesday after Hearts and Hooves Day on even-numbered years be noted as “Flash’s Day,” meant to recognize Sentry’s accomplishments, as well as those of Flash Magnus, in something of a two-for-one deal. Though it’s worth noting Flash’s Day isn’t recognized as a bank holiday, and honestly has slightly less cultural cachet than National Paperclips and Staplers Day, which takes place a week prior. I set my drinking bowl on the ground, and prepared to make history. I opened my mouth to start my oratory-- --and belched instead. Loudly, too. And trust me, calling anything ‘loud’ when there are yaks about is a hell of a descriptor. The belch had enough duration and reverb to amaze a whole crowd of 3rd graders-- or yaks, for that matter. That millet beer was potent stuff. On the other side of the circle, Carrot Top facehooved. Prince Rutherford snorted and stared down at me for a long moment, just long enough for me to see the whole of my wasted life flash before my eyes. And then he started laughing. “FLASH SENTRY IS WISE PONY! GOOD DRINK! GOOD COMPANY! THAT IS BEST IN LIFE!” Prince Rutherford declared. The other yaks set about laughing in agreement with their leader, and more bowls of millet beer were passed about. I leaned back on my cushion and allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction. Moments like that were, of course, the very thing I’d been brought along for. I even began to think the yaks might not be so bad. Oh sure, they were enormous, literal-minded brutes, but at least they knew how to appreciate a good time, unlike, say, changelings (too anxious) or dragons (too argumentative). A few more drinks, maybe a bawdy song or two, and then we could hop back on the airship and get back to Canterlot before the hangover wore off. Or so I thought. “FLASH SENTRY IS STRONG DRINKER!” Prince Rutherford declared, in what might have been the most honest thing ever said about me by royalty. “FLASH SENTRY NEED TO TRY SPECIAL YAK DRINK NOW!” “I do?” My eyes dropped to the thick and hazy liquid in my bowl. “This isn’t the good stuff?” “NO!” Prince Rutherford smacked the beer-bowl out of my hooves. “ONLY STRONGEST WARRIORS ALLOWED TO HAVE SPECIAL YAK DRINKS!” “Oh.” I looked down at the wet, shattered remnants of my bowl on the ground. “I’m honored?” “YOU SHOULD BE!” Rutherford nodded sagely, then barked out orders to his subjects again. “BRING SPECIAL YAK DRINKS NOW!” “NO!” A yak said. Again, silence fell over the yurt. The yaks shuffled around, making way for the dissenting voice. It was another yak, of course; this one just as big as Rutherford, with orange wool tassels hanging from their horns. The rebellious yak stormed across the circle. “SPECIAL YAK DRINK ONLY FOR YAKS! THIS PONY TOO WEAK AND PUNY TO WASTE SPECIAL YAK DRINK!” The challenger said. And that settled it. I’ve never been a prideful sort, mostly because I’ve never had much to be particularly proud of. What, with the life of cowardice and incompetence and all. Had this random yak started going on about me not being able to headbutt glaciers or what have you, it would’ve been easy for me to shrug it off and hide behind my heroic reputation. All I would have had to do is murmur a few words and play the part of the humble, professional world-saver, and that would be that. But drinking? That was one of the few things I was actually good at, and like hell I was going to let some shaggy brute imply I was a lightweight. The fact I was half-soused already didn’t help much, either. And so, I sat up straighter, puffed out my wings, and said two of the most dangerous words one should utter in such a situation. “Wanna bet?” Prince Rutherford and his yaks reacted just as one would expect. Most cheered and taunted, while a few more enterprising souls started laying odds. The ponies’ reactions were the same too: Pinkie Pie yelled enthusiastically incoherent encouragement, Sergeant Lockstock and his squad looked impressed, and Carrot Top facehooved again. Though my survey of the room was soon interrupted as the orange-tasseled yak thundered up to me. “ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A CHALLENGE?” said the yak. “Are you saying it’ll be a challenge?” said I. As again, for the record, I was several beer-bowls in by this point. My ill-advisedd quip at least got the crowd in the yurt laughing again. It was the same sort of boisterous energy I’d seen countless times in countless pubs which meant, for once, I was in my element. “DRINKING CONTEST!” Prince Rutherford declared. “FLASH SENTRY VERSUS DUCHESS HELGA! BRING SPECIAL YAK DRINK NOW!” “Duchess?” said I-- and in response to my question, the yak with the orange tassels on her horns just nodded, and shoved another yak out of the way so she could sit down on the other side of Prince Rutherford. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!” Duchess Helga said. “RULES ARE SIMPLE!” Prince Rutherford said. “WHOEVER DRINKS MORE ARGH WILL BE WINNER!” “Argh?” said I-- and in response to my question, one of the yaks slammed an empty bowl down in front of me, uncorked a wax-sealed jug, and poured. The potent scent of the goopy semi-liquid hit my nose with all the subtlety one would expect from anything yak-made. “Argh!” “YES! ARGH!” Prince Rutherford nodded. “FLASH SENTRY IS SMART PONY TO KNOW PROPER SPECIAL YAK DRINK!” On the other side of the Prince, Duchess Helga leaned forward, a cruel smirk on her muzzle. “IF ARGH IS TOO MUCH FOR TINY PONY FLASH SENTRY, HE CAN GIVE UP NOW.” Which, of course, was a trap. If I flaked out, the Duchess (and whoever wanted to curry her favor) would taunt me for the whole damn trip. Worse yet, if the yaks saw the ‘best’ Equestria had to offer as a disappointment, it’d color their opinions of Equestria in general, and no doubt scuttle the entire diplomatic process, and perhaps even lead to war or economic ruin or some other catastrophe well above my pay grade. So there was no other option for me than to drink the vile sludge that the yaks held in such high regard. The things I do for my country. Argh was the most aptly named substance I’ve ever had the misfortune of consuming. Even all these years later, I can vividly remember its smell (yeasty and half-rotten), its consistency (like a milkshake made from curdled cheese), and its taste (herbal and punishing). I at least knew better than to ask what was in it, or how it was made, as that’d make the feel of it going down my gullet even worse. Duchess Helga pounded down the stuff like it was water, forcing me to guzzle my argh down in thick gulps to keep up. The only conceivably ‘good’ thing that can be said about the stuff is that, after the first bowl or two, your mouth starts going numb so it doesn’t quite taste as bad. Almost. The yaks kept refilling my bowl, and I soon lost track of just how much of that alcoholic goop I’d consumed. My stomach churned, my face flushed, and my vision began to blur, making it even harder to distinguish one hulking form of a yak from the next. Whoever they were, I could only assume they were happy with me, as a great cheer arose each time I brought the drinking bowl full of argh to my lips. It could have been worse, though. As for as stomach-turning as the yak’s signature liquor was, at least it wasn’t hallucinogenic. The last thing I needed was another wormwood induced episode like I’d gone through the one time in Ponyville.* *See: Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Yonder. While I was certainly an experienced, nay-- expert, carouser, even I had my limits. My world narrowed down to just my hooves and the bowl in front of me, and it became harder and harder to lift it. I swayed in my seat, barely clinging to consciousness. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, bracing myself for defeat. I’d at least given the damn yaks a good show, so hopefully my heroic inebriation would be up to their standards, and the diplomatic mission could continue. Or something. Logical, coherent thought wasn’t exactly within my capabilities, at that very moment. But before I could fully give myself over to sweet, blissful unconsciousness, the entire yurt shook in a sudden, inexplicable earthquake. My eyes snapped open, and through blurry vision, I looked over at a large brown lump surrounded by other large brown lumps. I squinted through the drunken haze just long enough to make out the orange tassels splayed out around the one on the floor. All the yak liquor apparently had me thinking about as fast as one, as the realization hit me just as Prince Rutherford stomped on the floor in declaration. “DUCHESS HELGA PASSED OUT! FLASH SENTRY IS WINNER OF DRINKING CONTEST CHALLENGE!” “Well, there’s a surprise.” I murmured to myself, and promptly passed out. I woke, not in a puddle of my own sick, but in a surprisingly comfortable bed. So that was nice. Some thoughtful soul had hauled me out of the central yurt and into a smaller shelter in order to sleep off the prior night’s revelry. Sunlight streamed in through the yurt’s open door flaps, bright and punishing in my hungover state. The dryness of my mouth won out over the throbbing in my head, and so I rolled out of bed on mostly-steady hooves to search for something non-boozy to drink. I wondered if yaks drank coffee, or if I’d have to start rummaging through the airship’s galley. Either way, there wasn’t any coffee to be had in that little yurt, so I braced myself and stepped outside. Yaks and ponies went about their business in the late morning sun, all of them looking damnably happier and less hungover than me. I shielded my eyes with one of my wings and scanned the village, searching for Sergeant Lockstock or any of the other soldiers. At least they could make themselves useful by fetching me something caffeinated. But, as I looked around, I found myself face to face with another pony entirely. “You’re awake. Good.” Carrot Top spoke in the terse, clipped way she did whenever Special Agent Golden Harvest business came up. “We need to get moving.” “What is it this time?” The prospect of new terrible dangers sobered me up with depressing speed. Dozens of horrifying scenarios ran through my brain, and I leaned in to murmur to Carrot Top so no one else could hear. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?” “What?” Carrot Top blinked. “No.” “Just checking. And since you’re here talking to me and not stalking around, that means you’re not going to kill anyone, which means whatever the emergency is can’t be that bad, right? I mean, we’ve been in worse spots before.” “We have, but that was different. I’ll brief you once we’re--” “FLASH SENTRY!” A familiar yak voice bellowed. Carrot Top and I both looked up as Duchess Helga stampeded across the village. My stomach twisted itself in knots, both from fear and from whatever leftover argh was still burbling away in my system. The Duchess no doubt had taken her defeat badly, and was returning to take it out on Yours Truly. I stretched my wings out, preparing to take flight. Such flight became unnecessary, however, as Duchess Helga skidded to a halt mere feet away. Before the tassels on her horns could stop swaying, she started shouting. “FLASH SENTRY WON CHALLENGE! THAT IS FIRST TIME DUCHESS HELGA HAS EVER BEEN DEFEATED! IT IS SOMETHING THAT DUCHESS HELGA HAS BEEN THINKING ABOUT EVER SINCE WAKING UP!” “Oh, is that … good?” “FLASH SENTRY IS STRONG PONY!” “Thank you, but--” “FLASH SENTRY IS WISE PONY!” “Ha, well, I suppose I am--” “FLASH SENTRY IS BEST PONY!” “I don’t know if I’d go that far--” “THAT IS WHY DUCHESS HELGA IS GOING TO MARRY FLASH SENTRY!”
