Fallout: Equestria – Moomento Mori

by Deck of Cards

Chapters

Chapter 1: Tennis Ace
Chapter 2: Bad Form
Chapter 3: Steady On

Chapter 1: Tennis Ace

Once there were two princesses who ruled over Equestria.

Once there were six heroic mares who formed ministries to save the world.

Once there was a war.

Once there was a final day.

Then all of Equestria burned away.

Once there was a wasteland.

Once there was a mare. A mare that came from a little hole who fled safety and sacrificed soul for a world right, a world whole.

Once there was sun and rainbows and bursting clouds.

And as the present fades to the past - once there was me.

Prologue:

“Final perseverance is the doctrine that wins the eternal victory in small things as in great”

I drifted slowly. Serene.

Alarms screeched. Metal groaned deep as the wreckage folded under its own weight. Somewhere, an engine failed and whined. Its complaints grew louder until, with a wrending of steel and a final, mechanical roar, it exploded. Its shrapnel pinged as it pierced the interior around it. Oil dripped steadily in a near rain, mixing with the fetlock high water to make abstract twists and twirls.

My breath was ragged. I had long stopped feeling the rebar spearing through my chest, nor did I feel the engine’s debris as it dug into my flank and halted deep within the flesh. Every sensation was faint. Muted. The rebar glistened with my blood in the sunlight. Its warped metal twisted through my left wing and reached towards the sky. Towards that beautiful, blue horizon.

I had done it. I had succeeded. My friends, New Pegasus, the NCR, all of it. Seven long years since Sunshine and Rainbows and now Equestria was finally free.

The water lapped at my sides. Lake Stead was consuming the last remnant of an empire. The last piece of technology harnessed to kill. To hurt. Somewhere below, deep within the recesses of the lake, there were the remains of the mangled tower.

A smile, bloody and beaten, curled along my muzzle. I could feel my life leaking, tinting the water scarlet, mixing with the oil in macabre patterns.

Tired. I was so tired. It didn’t matter. I could rest now. Sleep forever. I had earned it.

The water was rising. It engulfed my ears. The dull sounds around me became garbled. I was laying on my back. I watched blood spray up the rebar in time with my heartbeat. My smile, it dared not drop. It grew wider.

I closed my eyes. Let out a slow breath. A shadow loomed against the lids of my vision. Distantly, I thought I heard the sound of wings. Lake Stead enveloped me.

I only prayed that history remembered me fondly.

Act 1: Enclave

Chapter 1: Tennis Ace

Omnium rerum principia parva sunt sicut mendacium gentis

“The beginnings of all things are small, as are the lies of all nations.”

–Cicero, Roaman statezebra.

The sun beat down upon me with little mercy. My eyes narrowed in careful consideration. We were evenly matched. My opponent had skill and knowledge; I had wit and agility. I adjusted my stance in anticipation. No way he was going to win this fight.

The clouds below me puffed as I reared skyward and pushed off. Wings flared, teeth clenched, every inch of me screamed with exhaustion and exhilaration. My skull throbbed and my lungs gobbled air in quick, staccato bursts.

My wing curved. Loose black feathers fluttered to the clouds. My hoof held in front of me for aim, gaze thinning in calculation. A growl of concentration slipped my lips as I made a few adjustments. Tilt my wing, add some spin, make it fast.

This was it.

I swung.

THWAK!

The tennis ball cracked as it met contact with the space just below the tip of my right wing. Follow-through sent it ripping across the court with an audible buzz. My muscles pulsed. The green ball cleared the net by an inch and smashed onto the other side, scarcely touching the cloud before rocketing off towards the pegasus waiting just past the boundary line.

He didn’t move. There was a small grin on his face. I knew, even this far away, there was that twinkle in his eyes and that confidence that crackled around him like a storm. My heart thudded. I wiped the sweat from my brow.

With an ease and grace only he could manage, he spread a wing, stepped back, and effortlessly returned the ball. It skimmed the net and flicked high into the blinding glare of the sun. Its speed sent it spinning like a small planet; if I didn’t meet it in the air it’d be unpredictable.

I saw it. A wings length above me, falling fast. No time to think. I smashed it down, expelling a grunt. The effort translated into pure energy and the ball landed like a bullet just barely in the singles line. With that speed he’d have to play it safe.

But he had no trouble at all. He watched it approach as if it was nothing more than an annoying gnat to swat away. There was no way he could get it. He was too far, too slow, but I watched with awe and a teensy bit of frustration as he moved like lightning. One second in the middle of the court, the next an inch from the ball.

Buck! I should have known!

The return was equally fast.

I retorted with a sky-high, playing it safe.

He returned it with a smash.

I backwinged.

He hit with a killer forewing.

I surged forward. My wing clashed against the ball. Momentum sent it screaming back across the court. And like Celestia herself with all her grace and calm, my opponent simply popped it back like tossing an apple.

I watched it fly in its high arc. It slowed as it reached its summit, drifting almost tranquil, like it was caught in a spell. Reflexively my back legs coiled. I flared my wings to their full span. Every nerve stung in tandem, the sweat in my eyes burned. The clouds did more than just plume as I pushed off. They exploded in a shower of mist and vapor as the sheer strength of my jump and the force of my wings catapulted me upwards.

I must have been a sight, body uncoiling like a spring, forehooves speared upwards, wings tight against my sides, eyes on nothing but the ball and its descent. I wondered if I looked like a superheated round of artillery, hurling into the air all red and angry and made for devastation.

One Maressissippi.

Two Maressissippi.

Three!

I angled my right wing and swung my entire body left. The impact of the ball recoiled through my spine and clamored about my skull. Pure exhilaration met with endorphins and cocktailed into this indescribable crash of...of… well, I’m pretty sure I started getting a wing-boner because of it.

It was that awesome of a shot.

And it was short-lived.

“Fuck yeah!” I shouted, probably far too loud for the suburban neighborhood that hugged the courts. Gravity dragged its greedy hooves across me as I plummeted back first. I offered a lazy glance down and the net was right there. My wings flailed. The net reached up to greet me as my spiral threw me into it. I let out a yelp, tumbled over, and with an unceremonious thump landed in a tangle of my own limbs.

There was a sound like somepony punching a pillow and a short squeak I adamantly refused to believe was me. A blush ambushed my cheeks to the tune of a drifting laugh as I struggled to untangle myself.

“Ha, hooo, oh sweet Celestia, that was awesome!” My opponent was curled around himself on the court clouds, fighting for breath between ridiculous, totally not adorable spouts of laughter.

I brushed a few thin vapor wisps off my chest and fluffed my wings in indignation. “Was it at least in?” I tried to hide the sheepishness creeping from my tongue. Muddled and a tad jarred, I peered around. Nothing. I knit my eyebrows. The ball was nowhere to be seen.

I hopped the net when he wasn’t looking. “It wasn’t that funny,” I muttered to myself as I extended a hoof. He took it without a fuss, fighting little giggles as he got to his hooves. “It wasn’t that funny, Thunder.” I repeated lamely. My heart melted a little at the goofy grin that made his eyes shine. Curse him.

Thunder was on the small side for a pegasus. He was the buck you’d think was a complete nerd, only to find yourself face first in a cloud bank the moment you insulted him. To his credit most of the time he would attempt to disarm the situation diplomatically if it went that far. He was a rules and regulation pony. Sometimes a little too much.

Me on the other hoof? I was usually the one that put ponies into cloudbanks.

His mane was cropped short to officer standard but it shone gloriously gold under the bright sun. On his flank were two thunderclouds billowing with electrical current. Each cloud had hoof-prints plodding across them. His fur was black and he had a beautiful set of gem green eyes that a pony could get lost in. If they did they would probably end up face first in a cloudbank.

My eyes only kind of deal.

I let him giggle fatuously as I hunted for the ball. It was the third one I’d lost today, and the club would have my hind if they found out. They had a three strikes out policy and I wasn’t about to incur their wrath by fessing up.

“Ace,” said Thunder eventually. There was a tickle of astonishment in his voice. It lapsed to a quiet awe as he said again, “Ace.”

“Yeah?” I glanced over. He had this wide-eyed look to him as he gazed down at his hooves. I rolled my eyes as he kept staring. Didn’t even look up at me. What the stars was so crazy to make him-

“Woah,” I said to nopony in particular.

Thunder said, “yeah.”

“Was that...was that me?”

“I think so.”

“Holy buck.” At his hooves, the size of a tennis ball, was a hole punched through the clouds. Clouds that were at least a wing length thick. Clouds designed specifically to withstand the continual impact of ponies and...and yet the hole was still there, even as I blinked. Perfectly circular and smooth.

I had done that, I thought.

“Damn.”

Through the tear and far, far below, I spied the ruddy colors of the Marjave desert. A few mountains and hills crowded the edges. A massive, dry lake bed stretched as far as the eye could see and a faded black road wound like a snake through the sand. In the distance, the offensive construction of an old city shone.

I remembered the name Las Pegasus from a history lesson as a colt. Below the safe clouds lay the ruins of Equestria, scattered and far-stretching and ever desolate, ruined by balefire. Above was the new, more prosperous, greater world of the Grand Pegasus Enclave. A world clean and perfect. Well, was, would be the operative word.

“Take note foals! We are the last great bastion of a ruined world! The majestic detritus of a golden but fallible age. We must not make the same mistakes! Echoed an old memory of Miss Clip, my school teacher as a foal. She pointed a wing at an emblem of clouds and wings with a pair of eyes gazing from an arch of green and purple over black. What do you think of the Enclave children?”

We had all mumbled, antsy and energetic for school to let out, “The Enclave is all-seeing and all-caring. We are safe above the clouds.” Miss Clip had frowned. Her eyes fell over each and every one of us. She was looking for something, I didn’t know what. And as her eyes passed my form and onto the next foal I finished quietly, the way my dad did the day I had proudly belted out the new mantra I had learned, his face suddenly solemn and forlorn: “--because the truth is hidden far below.”

I had looked up to Miss Clip staring. She had asked me to stay after class.

Even with the distance, I could gaze upon the skyscrapers and perimeter walls. I saw buildings like clumps of dirt and a net of roads scattered from the city. Dimly, I was aware of an air-ship port on the outskirts but it wasn’t what caught my eye. What caught my eye was the thin spire-like building spearing the sky. It must have been almost a hundred stories tall and attempted to gut the clouds. It took my breath away.

“Guess we’re not getting that tennis ball back,” I said absent-mindedly.

Funny how life has a penchant for irony.

Thunder grunted. His wings fluttered. He said, “move.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why? Nopony’s gonna see.” As if to add theatrical emphasis a low gust toppled an empty tennis ball canister. It rolled noisily along the court.

“Move,” Thunder said, a little more forceful. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

I understood why, really. Destruction of cloud cover was a punishable offense. But didn’t he share the curiosity? The wonder? There was only so much somepony could do up here. Only so much somepony could see. It was all whites and clouds and boring.

He glared at me. I watched him try to hide the lick of anxiety that must have spurred within, but his wings fidgeted and he started to whinny.

I rolled my eyes. Thunder, always the diligent do-gooder. “Fine,” I huffed and stepped back. He kicked his forehooves like he was trying to raise a dust cloud. A few wisps of vapor lapped at his fetlocks. He looked at me expectantly. “Fine,” I grumbled again. It was my mess, I guess, and I was supposed to fix it. But if he hadn’t hit so hard this would have never happened.

As I worked to fill the hole, shoveling clouds into my hooves from the corners of the court, I kept glancing at Thunder. He was sitting over the hole, hoof tapping, eyes darting, head turning, searching anywhere and everywhere for somepony to pop into existence and see what we’d done.

My eyes flicked to his. They were looking at me. I offered a goofy grin. His lips perked, his eyelids fluttered. I winked. His eyes widened. I started to smirk at the thought of leaving him flustered with my sexy, sexy charm.

And ran muzzle first into the fence.

I nickered in surprise, stumbling back as my pile of clouds puffed into mist. Thunder laughed again. Luna's ass, my luck today! I glared at him and went about gathering more cloud fluff.

It didn’t take long to patch the hole.

“You’re clumsy today,” Thunder teased.

“Hey, your hot flank distracted me!” I scowled at him and gave an indignant snort. It wasn’t my fault he was cute, or that he hit a return like he was trying to kill me. He rolled his eyes and chuckled. He was a hard stallion to make blush.

“Did I now? Sure you weren’t tired from getting your flank kicked?”

Oh he did not!

“Hey, that last ball was in! If I remember correctly that means I won!” I narrowed my eyes at him, it didn’t really have an effect. Thunder dealt with Enclave officers and officials after all, kind of hard to be intimidated by the buck who forgot how to use his wings and ran into a fence.

He deadpanned, “It fell through the ground.”

“Well the court lines extend from the ground to space, and the ball fell through the clouds sooooo.” I stuck my tongue out at him. The hole looked like it had never been there. Well, besides the scraped-off portions of cloud at the edge of the court. But nopony needed to know about that.

“Ace, I was the captain of the tennis team while at the academy, that is not true at all.”

I gasped, feigning surprise, but I couldn’t stop the coy grin tugging at my muzzle. “Did you just,” his eyes widened a tinge, “oh you did!”

Thunder started, “I didn’t.”

“You did! You totally just bragged about being the tennis captain! Dude, do you know how lame that is?” The grin grew. “Totally lame!”

“It’s not!” It was his turn to be indignant. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders and spread his wings. I almost, almost burst out laughing at the display.

“It totally is. Lame. It’s totally lame, Thunder.”

“It is not!” He repeated. Lamely.

I snorted and joked, “You’re telling me that lording your captain's status on the tennis team to your coltfriend, isn’t the least bit, totally, really lame?”

Thunder’s face dropped. His eyes narrowed and his brow cinched. His jaw clenched so tight I thought I could hear them grind. A pang of guilt and realization clawed at my chest. Regret swept over as I watched his wings press tight against his sides.

“Don’t say that out loud,” he hissed, heated and fast.

I cringed, ears twitching, and held up a hoof in apology. “I’m sorry, I forgot. It just slipped out.” His eyes narrowed further as if he was surveying me, evaluating me, trying to determine if I would slip up again. “No C-word.” I promised, and after a moment his jaw loosened and he relaxed. He looked around warily. Nopony was there.

“Sorry, I just-”

“No, no I should apologize,” I said. We’d had this conversation a thousand times.

He said: “No, I shouldn’t have snapped. It was mean.”

I said: “I get it.”

He replied: “It’s just-”

“No fraternization between service members of different ranks,” I parroted. I had it memorized by heart by now. I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice but the wounded look on Thunder’s face told me I didn’t quite have the act down.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts but it’s just for our safety! I want you to be my...y'know, and you are, we just can't show it in public or we'll lose our jobs or… worse!” The way he paused made my teeth clench. It wasn’t his fault. I knew why he insisted on it–stars I knew–but it still made me angry at the thought, at the hollow realization that I couldn’t call Thunder my own simply because he was a higher rank.

“Nopony’s around,” I grumbled sourly. It was unfair.

“I know,” he said softly. He wanted to say more, his mouth opening reflexively, but he shut it and blew out a deep sigh. “Let’s clean up."

The Grand Pegasus Enclave didn’t hate coltcuddlers or fillyfoolers. They encouraged it. Between the overpopulation and constant food shortages why not shack up with a stallion and show him a good time?! You’re doing Celestia’s work by doing your fellow buck! That’s what the Enclave advertised, maybe not in so many words and with a dull, boring insistence on prudishness. Even anecdotal rumblings here and there from academics argued that fighting alongside your mate made you work faster and stronger, some zebra spartan logic I didn’t quite follow. There were tax breaks and benefits!

Orientation wasn’t the issue. Regulation was.

Enclave fraternization doctrine allowed for interpersonal relationships with pegasi above and below your rank with a disallowance between an officer and enlisted. Should fraternization occur outside the selected boundaries, the blame, and therefore consequences, would fall to the pony of a higher rank. Which was total bullshit. I was a captain in a completely different unit and Thunder was a lieutenant-colonel. A single. Damned. Rank. Separated us from the acceptable limits.

But since those limits existed, it was a point of contention and stress for Thunder. Plenty of pegasi disobeyed the doctrine, and the Enclave didn’t care. As long as you weren’t some three-star general plowing some grunt’s plot they did buck all! Thunder believed that if anypony found out he was with a captain the stars would explode and the clouds would evaporate, especially a Molder. End of the world for him. Which it wasn’t, duh, but he claimed because he was young and his superiors disapproved of his age (he was 23 with top academic marks, it was a wonder he didn’t rank higher), they were all gunning for some dirt to throw on his sexy, shiny black coat.

Looking back and knowing what I do now? I would have tore at that hole in the clouds and wriggled through to spare him the mountain of dirt I ended up creating.

The tennis courts were part of an officer’s club meant for the upper echelons of the Grand Pegasus Enclave. It was situated in the middle of a large suburb west of Neighliss and Grand Pegasus. There was a small cafe and rec room nestled next to the entrance but hardly anypony actually went there, let alone used the courts. It was too hot most days for tennis and there were closer venues for officers. Or they're lazy and old, I thought as we passed a paunchy senior pegasus with his wife. He was wearing a uniform with a general’s insignia and Thunder and I snapped our hoofs together and gave a winged salute.

He waved his wing back lazily and smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes and he spent a moment staring at Thunder. His fur was a creme color. His mane was gray with age. His eyes were a steely, piercing brown, nearly black in the bright sunlight. “Right,” said the name on his chest.

I didn’t have the energy to fly. My wings were sore and my mood was sour. So I walked and Thunder glided quietly beside me. Neither of us spoke. I felt another wrench of guilt that grew deeper as I realized how much my silence must be hurting him. I was torn between stubbornness and the need to apologize.

“Ace,” Thunder said. His voice was low and there was a touch of nerve there.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I’m sorry.” I lied, but there was a half-truth within, “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

He blew a sigh of relief.

“But only if you buy me a drink.” I grinned and offered a salacious wink. “Free drinks are the best way to earn forgiveness, at least that’s what my ma says!” She didn’t. The only advice she ever gave was the kind veiled within an insult. I fought off a disparaging frown at the thought.

Thunder rolled his eyes and shook his head, “Uh-huh, and what drink would that be?”

Wide(r) grin? Check! Creeping excitement at the thought of getting sloshed? Check! A coltfriend and free drinks? Check, check! “Oh you know, the hard kind. I’m thinking…” I tapped my chin with my hoof, feigning thought, “good ol’ whiskey! And I know just the place!”

“How about we have something without whiskey?” He said.

Without the whiskey? I feigned an uncomfortably inordinate amount of thinking. Eventually, I said, cocking my head: “Water?”

He face hoofed. “You’re a complete dolt y’know that?” He fluttered his wings and stretched his shoulders. I traced an eye along the strong, taut muscles that outlined his perfect fur. Who am I to turn down a little eye candy?

Somepony cleared their throat from across the counter. A green mare with her pink mane in a ponytail eyeballed us. She looked like she was pushing her forties and didn’t want to be there. Frankly, now that she was neither did I. She looked familiar, uncomfortably so. My eyes flickered to the name tag on her chest that read “Paper”.

There was usually an old mare behind the counter, I could never remember her name, but I guess she was out.

“Hello!” I said, she stared at me blankly. Thunder snorted in reaction; her eyes flicked to his. Ah, fake coughing fit, good save, Thundy.

“We’re here to return the canister,” I said as I placed it on the counter. She picked it up with her wing and began to slide it towards her before she stopped. Her head turned slowly to regard the empty tin mysteriously lacking its three tennis balls before looking back at me.

Phooey, I almost thought that would work.

“Where are the contents of the canister?” She tapped the plastic cap with a hoof.

I chuckled sheepishly. “They’re uhhhh, they are-” I licked my lips. “Somewhere?”

She sighed. She wasn’t even mad, just tired of my existence. Somehow that stung. “Do you see that sign behind me?” She thrust her hoof at a chalkboard.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, squinting at it. Luna, that old mare had had bad hoofwriting. It said something about losing balls. I didn’t really understand why she had put her plans for her husband up there but I guess it was as good a place as any.

With little patience for my antics, Paper stated: “Each player is allowed a loss of three tennis balls”–in poorly erased chalk was (these things happen!) Perhaps a lost relic from a happier time–” before receiving a fine of 5 bits per ball.”

I blinked. 5-perwhatnow? I turned to look incredulously at Thunder who mouthed gay. I scrunched my brow and my confusion must have translated well enough to my face because he said, “Ace. Pay.”

So I did because curse Thunder and his power over me! Always making me do good things.

“I’ll need your address,” Paper scraped the bits off the counter into a little tin underneath it. It clinked and clanked as she mouthed out the count quietly. “For the receipt,” she said when I asked why.

I nodded and signed the small slip she slid forward.

She withdrew it and stared, head cocked at my writing. That sense of unease grew. It swept up my spine and gathered on the back of my neck. I hadn’t a clue why.

After a moment of consideration her ears dipped and she huffed out a long, “I’m sick of your shit” sigh and leaned close like my ma would when she got fed up. It was the kinda sigh that resonated in your bones and told you she was about to say some real aggravating shit. I began to sneer.

“The hoof-off will be at 0600 hours Wednesday.”

And the sneer dropped. My ears twitched a few times. My feathers ruffled as I adjusted my wings without thinking. Okay. I was not expecting that. In the strange silence that lingered I gazed at her, really studied her. Her coat was a dark green, her pink mane was mussed and glistened with some mane-care product. She had a cutie-mark of a stack of papers held together by a paperclip. Faintly, I thought I smelled the cloying scent of dirt and earth, the kind that stuck to my dad’s fur after a long tour on the scavenging teams. Her eyes, while gray, had this lightning spark to them.

We held each other’s gaze for a flick then she thanked us for our patronage, assuring me she would send the receipt to my home as soon as possible.

I nodded dumbly.

“What was that about,” Thunder whispered as we trotted away.

“I...I have no clue, dude,” I said.

I didn't tell Thunder until it was far too late. I should have, I know that now, but then, gliding a fair distance above the clouds, I didn’t want to worry him with cryptic remarks from a receptionist who worked at an officers’ club damn near abandonment.

Suburbs rolled out below us. In the distance were the buildings of Grand Pegasus, white and blinding. Pegasi flitted around like ants, flying about their duties and lives. Air carriages hovered over the roads and the occasional sky tank buzzed by far above. I watched a few as they took off and landed from Neighliss Cloud base. The sprawling, towering military complex, bristling with weaponry, glinted in the evening sun. A few raptors drifted here and there, and a thunderhead floated, moored to the base. The impressive Neighvada territory SPP tower hugged the Northern edge, cloud farms sprawling for acres around.

Our wings dipped low as Thunder and I spun slowly into a street full of cookie-cutter houses. The same two stories, blank cloud lawn, cloud mailbox, cloud door, cloud window frames, cloud, cloud, cloud sprawled for miles. Cloud everything. It was military housing; a pegasus couldn’t expect anything different.

We landed in front of one that differentiated itself only with the numbers ‘222’. There was a stack of mail on the steps and a fake cloud plant by the door.

I had stayed remarkably silent most of the journey. I was too focused on the puzzled, pulsing thoughts that pinged around my skull like bullets. What the buck did she mean hoofoff?! Who was she? Why did she look so familiar? Thunder kept glancing at me from the corner of his eye, muzzle twitched to a frown and brow furrowed. I was too caught up to notice.

He broke the silence as he scooped up the mail. His hoof was inches from the door. He asked, “Would you like to come in?” He nodded towards it for emphasis.

After another lapse of silence, “Ace?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, then blinked as my thoughts caught up to me. They threatened to fry my brain. Too much. Fuck, too much. There were uncomfortable memories surfacing now: a flash of a mane as a stallion fled into the night; dim rays of sunlight glinting off of the ruined buildings of Las Pegasus; my mother sobbing quietly at the dinner table, a drained bottle of wine and a picture held in her hooves–it was the only time she cried. The hoof-off will be at 0600 hours Wednesday.

Through the storm of thoughts, like a bolt of lighting up blackened clouds eager to drench the world in rain, one question tumbled. With a million volts of electric power it found its mark on Thunder.

“They suspect you, don’t they?”

And there it was. Out. Of all times the question found itself it was now, pulsing up from miles of walls and dirt and attempts to bury it. There it was. What a strange time to ask. Standing in front of his home, sweating from a hard tennis game and reeling from the unexpected.

Thunder stared. His eyes caught mine and held. For a moment, neither of us moved nor said a word. To anypony he would have looked like he was studying me. But I knew Thunder and all his little reactions. His left eye twitched and he took a hitched breath ever so often as if he had to remind himself to breathe. His back hooves made grooves in the clouds. His whole body held in anticipation.

“Thunder?”

His jaw locked. There was little in the way of indication but his chin pulled slightly taut, and the muscles of his neck bulged ever so lightly. He didn’t answer, but the gears of my brain, however rusty, turned steadily on.

His eyes narrowed.

I ran a hoof through my mane, fascinated by the way the porch clouds looked exactly the same as the path, the walls, the pot and its plant, the clouded floor, and on and on and on until I ran out of places to look. The heat of his gaze burned holes in my feigned interest, leaving nothing but an acute discomfort.

“There was that general, dude. He looked familiar”–Like Paper.

“Stop.” he interrupted.

I looked at him expectantly. I was going to babble. I had planned on it.

He sighed, “You have to come in now, I suppose.” His ears drooped. He turned, swiftly stepped inside. I peeked through the open door. If this was anypony else I would have joked about an unsaid ‘I have to kill you’. Between his strange attitude and my idiotic bumbling, I figured it would be best not to exacerbate the situation.

The main hallway was little in the way of unique. There was a room a few hoofsteps from the front. A staircase climbed up to the first story above. Familiar pictures greeted me as I crossed the threshold and closed the door gently behind me: a young Thunder, flank as blank as the clouds, with a big wing wrapped around his little form–his dad smiling wide beside him; a photo of two colts, a familiar red and a familiar black; a more recent picture of the stallion in front of me, clad in his fine dress uniform, cap adorned, gazing stoically ahead–his gold mane glowed almost luminescent against the sky blue background. I could faintly read the tag on the uniform’s chest.

“Sit,” Thunder grunted as he turned the corner and trudged to the suspended cupboards within an island kitchen. I sat upon a sofa in a small living room opposite. Its clouds felt soft against my coat, and part of me was tempted to lay my head on the arm and doze off. It would kick two clouds with one buck–I’d get a nice nap as an aftergame treat and avoid whatever the hay was coming. I suspected I knew exactly what the latter would be.

Thunder shuffled around the kitchen. The clinking of cups and the low gurgle of a teapot drifted over the backrest. I closed my eyes, huffing a low sigh. This was awkward. Stars, why did I even ask that question? It was pointless, and now he was being cagey. Congratulations, Ace, always know how to make a scratch a deep gash. Call it one of my talents.

“You look like a dog,” he said eventually. He padded by the sofa and settled in a hoofchair. I stretched with exaggeration, feeling my back crack as I mimicked a canine. When I planted my flank back on the couch it was with an exaggerated ruff and a goofy grin.

Thunder rolled his eyes, “Whoa now, boy. Down.” He placed the steaming mugs on a coffee table that faced the fireplace. There were mementos on the mantle–awards, ribbons, military decorations, commemorative objects, photos and a pale-mist colored urn. I lingered on the last one for a few moments.

We sipped on our tea. Neither of us spoke. I tried to enjoy the silence, the comforting warmth spreading through my stomach, the presence of Thunder. Try as I might, it all seemed moot. He could tell I was waiting. I could tell he was waiting. It was a game of chicken. I didn’t like it. But I held my tongue; try as it might to rectify that squirrely feeling in my chest..

He broke first. No, broke would be the wrong word; it would imply he was free-balling. What Thunder said next was practiced, and the silence in the interim was the moment when he tasted the words; pieced them together until they shaped perfectly. He set the mug down on the table and turned his head to me: “You’re aware of Operation Cauterize?”

I nodded slowly. Who didn't? “It was…” I paused, I couldn’t find the words. It hadn’t been fresh news for a while and yet it still stung. It still left a pit in my stomach. “...it was the biggest failure we’ve ever made. But that was years ago, we weren't even adults! What’s that gotta do with you?”

“Nothing,” Thunder said. “But there are pegasi who want a scapegoat to pin the consequences on.” He massaged his neck, rolling it back and forth as if to take the strain from his voice. It didn’t work.

“So that general, the one who kinda glared at you-”

“That was general Forthright, he’s one of the ones looking,” Thunder finished. He picked up his mug and downed the rest. I wondered if alcohol would be better than herbal tea but said nothing. The mug in my hooves felt cold. Maybe it was me that felt cold, the growing sensation as the dots connected. The dawning that followed was no pleasant thing.

“So...so they don’t just suspect you. They want to blame you! Why the buck do they want to do that? Cauterize was seven years ago! You weren’t even a part of it!” My ear twitched. I wanted to punch something. The rising anger in my throat, the tightening in my chest, I really didn’t like where this was going. I knew it wasn’t about Cauterize. It was about something else. Something recent. It hurt to know that they could be connected.

He said, “They don’t care about the operation. After the counterattack, command restructured and resettled.”

“Nieghvarro, yeah.” Enclave base of operations. It was assaulted and utterly destroyed. This ‘Lightbringer razed everything. Erased all the progress Equestria had made in an instant. All except for the Neighvada territories. The survivors, our remaining leaders, our remaining troops, those who could, moved to Grand Pegasus in the aftermath.

Thunder nodded. “There’s been a security breach recently. I”–he sighed, long and hard–“I didn’t realize the rumors were so far spread until you asked. I should have told you earlier, it would’ve alleviated a lot of this tension, eh?” He laughed, this time it was awkward and didn’t attempt to hide its true intent. He was stressed beyond belief. I joined him out of consolation.

“Yeah, I’d heard.” Truthful.

“Can’t remember where from.” Lie.

“I don’t know much, probably just a little more than you. But I know that it wasn’t just a data breach. It was...” He looked for the right word. I leaned in. Sure, I wanted to know where to direct my anger and why, but a small part of me was curious. Overwhelmingly curious.

You know what they say about curiosity and the colt.

He continued, “it wasn’t just data, it was code. It contained the schematics of the augmented SPP matrix that allowed our engineers and scientists to consolidate the functions of the control tower in Neighvarro to Grand Pegasus. I’m sure you don’t need the briefing I received to know what that means.”

To say I went pale would perhaps be an understatement. It felt as if the air stilled, as if my heart stopped and then began beating in reverse as if the clouds had indeed evaporated and I was left in free-fall. It was in the news before, a long time ago. The slow trickle of refuges and retreating units that came from the East, carrying their stories of horror and destruction. Disturbing reports–cloud cities, towns, massive gaps torn into the cloud layer all over Equestria. We were being hemmed in.

We needed some good news. We needed hope. We needed a reason as to why we were the only ones left, an island amongst a sea of fire. As if with Celestia’s blessing and her own damned chariot, it came; command released declassified info, something about eggheads cracking the Neighvada SPP and allowing its control to be consolidated to Grand Pegasus and away from the battered control tower. If whoever had this data escaped, there would be no telling what hell would break loose. They could destroy Grand Pegasus at the flick of a wing. End the only remaining hope for Equestria.

The minute dip of his muzzle confirmed all I needed to know.

I swallowed. My throat hurt. My mouth was dry. “And they, they want to blame somepony, want to blame you instead of doing something. Mobilizing,” I growled through gritted teeth.

Thunder said nothing. His mug sat empty on the table. He was still. I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the bags beneath them. The way he held himself was a scarcely composed barrier against the stress and worry and loneliness he must have been experiencing. I loathed those that had brought this upon him, I loathed myself for neglecting to notice.

“It’s politics,” he said with a weak shrug.

“It’s wrong!” I shouted. “Why you? Why not somepony else? Why-”

He looked at me. There was a sadness in his eyes, a realization that translated in his gaze directly into mine. He knew why. I...I knew why. He was the perfect candidate. Easy to throw under the carriage for his age; the right rank, not too high, not too low; and...and…

There was a vacuum in my chest. I was going to be swallowed whole.

...And me.

Yet in this vacuum a spark flourished. A darkness within the entropy lit to a flame, then to a fire, then inferno. The new knowledge became air, and with that air, the heat grew, the inferno raged, and so, too, did I. Anger, white and hot, it ate me. It could barely be contained.

His gaze said: You’re a Molder.

His gaze said: Your father’s a dashite.

His gaze said: Why wouldn’t you?

It said: Ace, you’ve made me the perfect one to blame.

I left without a word.

I needed to get away from Thunder, that much was clear. The tumbling realization spurred in me a manic energy that would only fade the further I fled. At least, that’s what I convinced myself.

My flight faltered, my body tensed with anger. “What the buck?!” I shrieked, like a colt refused a cookie. Far below, the lights of Grand Pegasus glittered. The sun mantled the horizon, big and fat and sinking, its shimmering rays a vibrant orange that bruised the sky into purples and blues. A cool breeze tussled my mane. I let out a sigh of defeat. My shoulders sagged and, for a moment, I hovered in the air, staring at the retreating sun.

I’d known about this ‘breach’ for almost a week now. It was all anypony gossiped about. Sure, Pegasus had its fair share of crazy shit happening every other hour, but something as big as this didn’t go unnoticed. It didn’t matter who started it or where it came from, only that I found it (metaphorically) whispered in my ear. I hadn’t even begun to think that Thunder could become a victim of this. It was easier to believe it was nothing more than a bloated mistruth. After all, wouldn’t those in command, those more knowing, more powerful, have done something about it?

Knowing where the crosshairs lay killed the dissonance. I was going to be the bullet fired from the smoking gun.

I passed a casino called Kloud-9, its multicolored cloud walls shaded with the neon lights within. The casino boasted its name in a sparkling, blinding rainbow “9” mantled along its top. I could see the windows on the lower level vibrate with club music. The night was growing alive. The rare sky-tank still flew overhead, but their presence was being replaced with sky-carriages and taxis.

Grand Pegasus, in an act of old-world reflection or purposeful design, kept a district dedicated to its namesake’s debauchery. The titular strip was still a gambling trap and a money-sink through and through. Casinos and clubs, strip shows and dive bars, and anything one could dream of crammed into three cloudscrapers along three blocks. It was heavily regulated by the Grand Pegasus Enclave, of course, and half the revenue of any place went right into their pockets. But it didn’t matter, it was the city of sin after all, and crazy high tax rates were the same as any vice.

Here the air was abuzz and the world was a facade of a 24/7 party. There were spotlights and criers and music blasting from speakers and shops and stores. There were ads that shone brilliant upon every wall and signs pointing this way and that to endless possibilities. It all felt so impossibly vivacious and yet so…fake. Over the years more and more pegasi had arrived along with more and more equipment. We had begun as a city in the middle of nowhere, and with Cauterize a failure, catapulted right up to Canterlot status.

Canterlot if it had been surrounded on all sides by zebras and gone from the capital to a city-state, that is.

I dodged the growing crowds of pegasi as the civilians finished their jobs and the off-duty soldiers arrived to get drunk and find a warm body to fill their bed. An arch with “Grand Pegasus!” and “Welcome to The Strip!” in a litany of bulbs greeted me as I stalked beneath it. I wasn’t here for the strip, I was here for a friend.

We were at a bar a block away. It was cowpony-themed, a close rendition of the saloons scattered about Neighvada before the great war, or so I'd been told. It had the typical Grand Pegasus flare with blackjack and poker tables scattered about and a slot machine hugging the far corner.

It was an easy feat to lure him out with the promises of alcohol and mares. Granted, the latter might have been a slight embellishment, but if I couldn’t get whiskey with Thunder I’d get whisked with my squadmate.

Shock Bolt sat across the lacquered wooden table from me. He toyed with the empty shot glass in his hooves, sliding it back and forth over a slick splash of melted ice. I eyed him, half-lidded and half-interested. He was the ponification of a lightning bolt. His mane was a frazzle of yellow, his coat the color of an endless sky. He looked like a punk or vagrant or rocker-colt.

“You gunna finish that?” He asked, pointing to the bottle of bourbon in front of me. He managed a country drawl and a city clip in a single accent. Through some Celestial grace he pulled it off perfectly.

“This is your third shot. We sat down like a minute ago.” I poured a generous helping into my glass. It dribbled at the cusp where it nearly overflowed.

Shock swiped his wing at me. I went to swat but he slid his hoof forward and plucked the bottle away. I scowled. He laughed, “This’ill be yur’ sec’nd par’ner. Ain’t no way yur’ leavin' 'ere so dry!” His cowpoke impression was good. Not too calamitous.

“Cheers to that!” Our glasses clinked.

“Eyup!”

The burn was pleasant. It boiled my tongue and slid like lava down my throat. A good distraction, and the simmering spread of warmth in my gut made up for the piss poor taste.

“How ‘bout one more for old times sake, eh?” He sighed, content, it seemed.

I rolled my eyes, “Hey now, I ain’t a lightweight, nor are there ‘old’ times to reminisce upon, lieutenant. I could drink you under the table!”

“Them’s fightin’ words, cap’,” he purred.

“Stars-damned right they are!”

That seemed to light a fire under his ass. His eyes narrowed in that playful way that meant he was about to do something stupid. He had been my best friend right through flight school, academy, basic, and a whole slew of other things. I knew him like the back of my hoof. It didn’t matter that he was my subordinate.

“Oh, yur’ on!” There was full shot glass in front of me before I could blink. Shock poured another as he gestured with a wing. Drink, it said, and who was I not to comply? “This n’ the next then we’re equal.”

Nothing like an imminent drink binge to put the mind at ease and the aching heart to rest. The alcohol was already starting to dull the niggling worries in the pit of my chest. The worry of 0600 hours. The worry that wondered what Thunder was doing right now. The worry that urged me to go back to him and comfort and console and do nothing but offer warmth and support and somepony to lean on.

But if I did that I’d be putting him in danger. Every second spent together was one more moment General Forthright could engineer to damn Thunder. One more moment to use me as a weapon. To use something beyond my control against me and those I loved. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Two more down the hatch and that put us both at four.

Shock winked salaciously and played bartender with the bottle. Another shot appeared in my hooves. He put the bourbon down, near halfway to empty. “Atta’ boy! We’re ready to rumble!”

Anypony worth their salt knows the perfect equation to a good night. Booze and a shit ton of it. If they don’t know that they aren’t worth the time.

The first round was wretched. By that time my stomach had decided against any more, nearly empty and growling from only tea and exercise. Splashing more alcohol into it wasn’t something it was eager to do.

I forced it anyway, I had had worse things before. Even so, I gagged. Another laugh from Shock spurred me on.

The second round was a little easier.

So was the third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

The sixth? Oh baby, was it heavenly. The alcohol had dimmed my taste buds with its fire, and my stomach was weighed down by its leadened magma. Try as it might to revolt, it was cowed by my stubborn insistence on winning.

“That makes”–Shock belched–“ten.”

“Manners,” I murmured from my place face down on the table. I was staring at the subdued colors of the carpet wondering why this joint had decided on sick as the best pallet. When had the dizziness kicked in?

“What’chu mean manners! Ah’m the manneredest pony ‘round!”

“Country colt.” My chin found the table and slumped there like a beached cloudship. I giggled at the way my eyes tried to focus on Shock. He was attempting to waggle out the last drops of the polished bottle. Whiskey, whiskey everywhere, and not a drop to drink, I thought hazily.

“Ahma’ get more,” he announced, nearly falling from his chair as he tried to stand. The bottle rolled off with him. I caught it in my wing on instinct. Shock whistled and pat me on the back. No, punched me more like. The bottle nearly fell again.

“Yeah, yeah”, I watched him saunter towards the bar. The bottle felt solid in my hooves. It was the only solid thing, really. I put the glass to my eye, peering through it like a telescope.

Everything was shaded in a deep brown. There was the bartender, a stallion with a funny mustache and a wavy mane. There was a pony with a cowboy hat slouched against her friend who nudged her to wake. There were bottles and bottles and bottles lining the back, reflecting bright against a mirror wall. There was my squadmate at the counter. There was a mare sat next to him; the two were talking.

Bored, I roved my bottlescope along the rest of the room. The high ceiling had exposed supports. There were gallon hats hanging from every wall; the front had the facade of timber logs, though I doubted it was real–nopony was going to sign-off on a scav-op for logging. The place reminded me of those cabins in the little camping books my dad would give me. He’d return from trips on the scav team, always with some little knick-knack as a surprise. I loved it.

I frowned. How long had it been? Twelve years? Ten? I wished he was still around, he would know what to do about this whole scape-goat thing.

My frown deepened. This wouldn’t have happened if he was. In a way, it was all his fault, wasn’t it?

I turned my sights on the bar. Shock had better get his ass back here. My thoughts were sobering me up faster than a drunk in the brig. That is to say, if I didn’t get another bottle in me I’d probably end up crying like a foal.

He wasn’t there. Just my luck. Where in the stars did he go? “He better not be necking with some ma-”

“Heya squaddy!”

I damn near flew out of my coat. Shock materialized next to me, slamming a bottle on the table like he was trying to break it. “What the buck, dude!?” My heart was a ricochet, fucking with my spirit-soaked brain, making it feel like everything was jittery and jumpy.

“Shucks, I was hoping to yell timber. Awh well, always next time.” He sat back in his chair. “Say, there was this kind miss at the counter! Bought us a bottle o’ Desert Rose!”

I grumbled. I’d show him what timber was if he tried that again. “Gimme the bottle.” He acquiesced. I grabbed the thing, opened it, and poured another shot before it registered in my sluggish, inebriated brain. “Desert Rose? Two-fifty a bottle stuff? That whiskey?

Shock nodded. He told me about the pony he’d been talking to, and how, when he mentioned me she had turned to glance. He told me how her eyes widened before she turned back. She got it soon after. I glanced around him. The seat she occupied was empty. She was as good as a ghost.

I needed another round. No, more than one. If whoever she was was gonna be mysterious I wasn’t going to question it. I would’ve if I wasn’t near hammered, but at this point I cared little for nuance and wanted to ply myself with as much alcohol as possible. If some mare wanted to play sugar-momma, I wasn’t going to turn it down.

“Seventh round, I’ll beat you past fifteen?” Like he was gonna disagree with that.

Shock stepped up to the plate, “Bet yur’ butt ya’ wont!”

The security mare at her booth acknowledged us with a flick of her ear and a light nod. She held a magazine in her hooves and a coffee mug in her wings. She took a sip as she turned the page. Two pegasi stumbling past ass drunk wasn’t too uncommon for her.

We didn’t run into anypony as Shock and I fell up the stairs of his apartment complex. I couldn’t stop giggling at everything. The blank cloud walls were funny. The identical doors were funny. The dullness was funny. Except for the carpet. The carpet wasn’t funny. It was a nauseating orange and might have had stains in it. I couldn’t focus my eyes long enough to know.

I tried to hover, a foalish insistence on avoiding the gross floor, but ended up twirling around uselessly. It was fun until I nearly fell down the stairs.

Shock caught me, wrapping a hoof around my neck and yanking me back. We bumbled forward right into a wall. He asked what idiot put it there and how they did it so fast, and frankly, I couldn’t help but agree.

We broke into a fit of laughter, resounding and amplified and probably annoying all the neighbors. But with the state of this place, I doubt it was out of the norm to hear a thing like that. “You live here!” I said, wild with wondrous realization only a pie-eyed pony could achieve. It came among a quartet of eurekas–I was drunk, I was dizzy, and Shock had a surprisingly squishy face.

“Leggo!” Shock pulled away from my prodding hooves.

“You leggo,” I mumbled, flailing at the air. With a blink, I realized he’d moved. Confounding! He was like lightning!

There was a stallion down the hall, poking at a vending machine. Brown coat, light brown mane, a cutie-mark of a coffee bean or coffee grinder or a...coffee something, I wasn’t good with fine details right now.

He looked typical and unassuming. Another visitor, another occupant of this haunt.

He glanced as we approached. A bag of corn crisps crinkled in his hooves. There was a jolt of surprise in his movement, and his glance became an unnerving stare. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

We passed.

“Captain,” he said, the word hazed in a note of anxiety. He snapped his wing in a quick, messy salute.

I said “Yo” and tripped over my own hooves. Shock howled at the hilarity. We had little sobriety for proper form.

I glared at Shock. He stood by the other pegasus. At least, one of him did. I was going a little cross-eyed.

Wait.

The buck was still staring.

‘How...?” I began, then stopped. There was a particularly interesting stain near his left hoof.

He cocked his head. His eyes were wide. Yeah, he definitely looked like he’d seen a ghost. The paleness on his cheeks, the quivering of his muzzle. His ears wobbled. His wings were half-cocked like the hammer of a gun, waiting to slam down and send him shooting off. “Uh, how…” he choked on his words, “how what?”

I peered at my chest, lazily eying the red coat. Nope, not there, but it was fun watching myself sway. With exaggeration, and totally not because I felt sick, my wings met my gaze as I turned my head. Yup, same black wings. Not what I was looking for. I leant my head and found the three aces that made up a triangle. There it was, the ace-of-spades within it, on my flank as usual, bit wobbly but there. Probably on the other side too, but still not my goal.

That was it. Unless there was some cool new egg-head tech that had been slapped on me when I wasn’t looking, I wasn’t wearing my uniform.

“Checking yurself’ out now?” I think Shock tried to say. It came out more like “Chuck yurshelf oot naw!”

The stranger was still nervous, but now he looked more perplexed than scared. The ghost was doing some real stupid shit apparently. Still, I didn’t recognize him, didn’t even begin to match any of the faces I’d served beside. Nada. Nope. Nothing. He was totally unfamiliar. Granted, I was blasted drunk, and if asked to identify anypony I’d probably give the names of the ministry mares, but that didn’t matter. Yeah, totally didn’t.

“Something wrong?” I was being paranoid. Probably. Most likely. Definitely. The alcohol didn't help, but I’d only salute a superior if I knew they were a superior, uniform or familiar face. As far as I was aware, he was a civilian.

He was quiet for a moment–trembling. You would’ve thought he was about to step into a meeting with a military tribunal. I wasn’t that terrifying, was I?

“No.” He murmured, “Is there something wrong?”

Buck, I’d forgotten to add the ‘with this picture’.

I snorted. “Could be, you–oops!” The wall had rushed up to greet me. It was very supportive. A good friend. Dependable.

“Uh, eheh, what?”

“You...uh...yo-uu…” I tried, clumsily, to right myself. I wracked my brain for the words. They were bouncing around my skull, and my sluggish brain was doing very little to catch up.

“You addressed him by his rank.” Yes! Those were the words! Thank you, Shock!

“Did I?” the pegasus asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I hissed, anger rearing ugly and unexpected from its hidden nook. I had buried it, it would do no good alive, but the whiskey had disturbed the dirt and it dug itself free.

He shrunk back.

“I’m! I’m not! I swear!” Lies. He had the gall to look confused.

I narrowed my eyes. A growl burbled in my throat. I almost vomited, but he didn’t need to know that.

He squeaked, fumbling with the crisp packet. He sat on his haunches and shoved the thing in my face. I stumbled back with a whinny. My wings flared, cramming uncomfortably against the walls. With a vexing glare, I tried to right myself, forgetting about my wings. I yelped when they tweaked. Ow.

“Look, I was talking about the snack! The packet! Look! I don’t know what you’re on about!” Indeed the bag had the word “Captain’s” and “Crisps” in arched lettering. There was a pegasus wearing a white officer’s cap. He leant his elbow on a frame, letting his hoof dangle. Captain Crisp, the brand’s mascot, smiled at me.

Well, this was awkward.

“Uhhhh...oh.” Fucking hay, nice damage control, Ace. Real whizz with words, a masterpiece of letters right there. It was my turn to flounder. My brilliant perception had gotten me into this. I had heard some random pony say captain and I went off the rails. I was a real ass when drunk, it seemed.

Shock said, “He was talkin’ to the crisp bag.” I glared at one of his doubles. It phased through the wall. Wrong one.

“I’m drunk,” I said dumbly. As if that was a good excuse.

The stranger offered me the mercy of a sheepish smile. There was relief in his eyes, a relief I wouldn’t realize wasn’t for the reasons I assumed until later. I offered my own shaky grin and backed up a few steps to give him space. “Oh it’s all right,” he giggled nervously, “we’re all drunk these days, what with the brea- with the break coming up! All the colts and fillies are getting out for summer! And we all know the importance of Ace - I mean an ace in a deck! Those foals are obsessed with those flashy casinos, always wanting their own card games to play! No wonder we’re drunk! Good stress relief!”

“Yeah...sure.” Should’a just kept my mouth shut.

Another moment of silence. This buck’s smile was growing forced, or maybe I was getting way too paranoid. I hadn’t a clue. He kept staring at me. It was discomforting. But could I blame him? I don’t think I’d be too far off the mark if I was in his position.

Eventually, he broke away, saying he had places to be but not before introducing himself as a one “Mr. Coffee Bean”. I missed his hoof when he first held it out, skimming along his fetlock. He looked at me funny.

I got it the second time. He apologized again, like it was his fault, and hurried down the hallway.

As we neared Shock’s door I heard from behind me, “Well I wasn’t expecting you here but it was nice meeting you, Ace!”

“Yeah, you too!”

Look, contrary to popular belief, I’m not an idiot, nor am I unobservant. I fly stars-damned sky-tanks for a living. It just so happened that at that moment I was a perfect combination of the two with a nice doping of cluelessness. I blame it on being ass drunk, or maybe wanting to get away from an awkward situation, or maybe I really am a tad bucked in the head, I don’t know. All I know is that I heard a stranger say my name and didn’t bat an eye.

...and so did Shock.

Luna screw me with her horn, we were dumb as clouds.

Footnote: Level up!

New Perk:
Confirmed Bachelor – You do +10% damage against the same-sex, plus unlock unique dialogue options with certain characters! Select factions react negatively to orientation.
First Serve – In an encounter willingly instigated by you, gain +1 luck and +1 perception on your first move!

New Trait:
Match! Set! Game! – The ball’s in your court. You can use your strong wings to hit certain objects with no penalty to accuracy.

Chapter 2: Bad Form

Diciture Veritas filia temporis.

“She is called Truth, the daughter of Time.”

–Cicero, Roaman Statezebra

I stood in my living room, gazing out the back door into the endless cloud expanse that made up our backyard. The air shimmered, warping and twisting, bleeding into a kaleidoscopic swirl. The counter by the door became ceramic and jutted. Smoke trailed from the desiccated carrion of cigarettes as they sunk into a well of ash. The windows became a fine, transparent mist. The world was abstract.

My wings were red. They hadn’t been, not for a long while. “Oh,” A tiredness overtook me. This was the beginning of a timeless play. I could do nothing but watch and struggle.

The carpet was scratchy beneath my hooves. My head barely reached past the dining room table as I slunk by. The counter had resumed its form and atop it was a tower of empty wine bottles. I stared at them. Without eyes, they gazed back. Taunting. Torturing. They were not of this time. They were a memory intersecting, a piece in a collage that made this tepid dream.

“Hey, ma!” It had been so long since I’d had a high voice. Felt longer since I'd spoken to her with happiness. She eyed me; said nothing, just walked past my place by the table, and began to wash dishes.

There was an absence, absurd and unfathomable, interrupted briefly by the clinking of plates and the low hush of a running sink. My ears rang. This place was devoid of its form, missing its integral piece. It was a facade to a thinly veiled void.

I glanced at the window in front of her, the one she’d use to gaze out fondly. She admired the world from there, taking delight in the foals that played in the street. In the life that continued, peaceful and normal. But it was night where my eyes fell, and no comforting sight met me.

The confusion had sown in my chest, fake and removed and disowned. Yet it all felt so achingly real. I was a viewer and an actor, thrust into my role with all the emotion that came with it, yet permitted no control. This dream had its strings wrapped tightly around me, and I was tugged along as a puppet. But for whose entertainment?

Ma continued to wash dishes. There were no lights on. The room began to dim. The clinking ceased. It was dark. At my hooves was inky blackness.

My wings wouldn’t work.

I was falling.

Loud and pitched and terrified, my shriek echoed infinitely. I flailed. Deep within my mind, among the lucid understanding that battled to be free from this nightmare, I understood none of this was real. Yet paralyzed, the fear swept, raw and piercing.

Safe. I was outside now, in an endless sea of rolling clouds. They moved the way the ocean was described in those old paper novels my dad would scavenge. I was alone. The sky spanned above, blue and peaceful and forever. Then there was the kitchen table. Then there was ma. Then there was my dad.

I ran towards them. Towards him. I wanted to wrap him in a hug, I wanted to see him again. To do away with the deserted years and entomb my lurid reality in a concrete of endless fantasy. It was no longer a dream, it was a tearing ache of grief and longing for even the most superficial moment with him.

I leapt onto the table but he wasn’t there. My mother looked right through me. I stood on a scattering of photos, each a memory, each playing like a flipbook as I gazed.

There he was again, at the same table further away. I ran. I stopped. He wasn’t there. I looked around. Another table.

On and on it went, countless times, countless iterations. It never changed. I’d run, desperate to find him, to touch him, to talk to him, and he’d be gone. Then I’d see him, and it all would repeat. Eventually, he was a silhouette on the horizon, a shadow of a lone stallion and a table in front of him.

I approached, wary. Even my dream self became increasingly hopeless with each attempt. He was there, staring at something on the table. Ma wasn’t, just him.

The clouds had grown fat and dark like they were pregnant with a heavy, waiting storm. But there was no crack of lightning and rumble of thunder. They didn’t buzz underhoof the way they would when it poured. They were perfectly still.

“Hey, dad,” I whispered with that young, nasally voice that hadn’t been mine for years. I watched him carefully, scared he would bolt like a bullet. He didn’t acknowledge me–like my mother hadn’t.

“Dad?” I was scared. I was sitting on the table as myself, twenty-two years old, twelve years since that fateful day. Dad was staring at me, not through me, at me. I wanted to cry, but in this dream, I never could. He was opening his mouth. He was going to say something.

I leaned forward. So close, so stars-damned close. I wanted to touch him but it was like a barrier between us. He was going to speak. I watched in slow motion.

But nothing ever fell from his lips. His tongue moved as it formed the words, his eyes glistened as if wet with tears. We gazed deeply, pensive, and then he was gone.

“No!” I lunged forward, wings flaring, pushing myself into gravity’s embrace. He was falling, his gray coat a blur, his red mane whipping about him. He didn’t use his wings. I was being dragged back by something, like the invisible aura of a spell. I tried to struggle. He was falling. Far, far, far he fell into the bright, blinding maw of Las Pegasus.

I screamed.

Once. Twice. Three times. The sting of feathers like barbs lashed across my face. Everything was blurry from grogginess. My lids were glued with grit and sweat. I thought I was roasting. Luna, it was hot.

“Wake!”

Slap.

“Up!”

Slap.

“Yur’”

Slap.

“Rattlin’”

Slap.

“The”

Slap.

“Walls!”

Sl-

“Okay! Okay! Enough! Stop, I’m up you blue fuck!” I caught the curve of Shock’s wing with mine, and the force expelled through my muscles. Stars, that would have been a hard one if it had connec-

SLAP!

The floor welcomed me. That bastard had used his other wing!

“Urgh,” I rubbed my temples, squinting. “What wuzzat for?!” I tried to convince myself the head-spinning migraine was from the rude awakening, not the monumental hangover crashing about my skull. Everything was sluggish. I was feverish. I hadn’t had a wind-down like this in ages.

Shock was indignant and cranky. He tried to glare from his place on the bed above but winced. Good to see I wasn't the only one with a headache. “You wer’ shoutin’ up a storm in yur’ sleep. It were a damn racket!” He was laying it on a little thick with the country accent. It tended to happen after a night out.

“Well sorry for disturbing you, Nightmare Moon.” I tried to stand–“tried” being the operative word. Halfway up my knees dropped. Everything wobbled, but not in that fun, drunk kind of way. My stomach threatened mutiny if I tried again.

“Celestia damn right you are! If t’wernt for yur’ howlin’ ah woulda’ been sleepin’!” He stomped, huffed, and managed the glare this time. I grunted, the shouting wasn’t helping.

“You a’right though? Seemed lik’a pre-tty bad one.” He didn’t keep the annoyance for long. His eyes softened and his lips pursed in concern.

Bad would be a word for it. “Thought getting drunk was supposed to, y'know, suppress that kinda shit.” In all my times battling sober sleep, I hadn’t once dreamt. The one time I did? Well, it was when dad came to say hello. Typical. I must be cursed by Luna.

“Don’t change the subject.”

Damn it, I’d hoped Shock would take the bait.

I rose and stumbled towards his bathroom. Somewhere along the way I had to use my wings as balancing weights, which was an issue when it came to getting through doorways. Maybe if I closed them a bit? Folded them in like this?

“Timber,” he said dryly as I collapsed.

Eventually, I found the finish line, repeating my tried and true fall-forward-when-folding-wings technique. It turned out my jelly hooves sucked when it came to balance, who knew?

I leant against the faded wallpaper. My head swam and my bones ached. It was almost enough to convince me not to drink again.

Almost.

“Ace?” His voice rebounded from his bedroom. I watched the sink basin fill. I considered splashing my face, but it would’ve been a Celestian act to manage. Instead, I ignored my squadmate and entertained myself with the handsome buck in the mirror.

“Cap?” came the question again, closer this time. I pressed a hoof against the small thundercloud that acted as a tap. The basin shimmered as its contents calmed. Shock’s gaze met mine in the mirror. He had more success than me getting down the hall, but he still had to squint under the harsh, artificial gem light. He flicked a switch by the door. The room dimmed. My eyes glinted in the reflection, blue and weary.

I shuttered my lids, trapped a breath of air, and plunged my head into the sink. The sound dimmed–warbled–as water drifted about my ears. My head soothed with the warmth that clutched it. The world was dark. Relaxing. I placed my hooves on the edge. Sat back on my haunches. I must have looked like a pony with their head stuck in a cloud.

When I pulled back, Shock was still there, curtained by wet mane, in the mirror dappled with droplets. His eyebrow raised, the edges of his muzzle roped upwards with it. He was unimpressed.

“What?” The faux frown caught my lips, eyes alight with feigned innocence.

He whinnied, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. “Ain’t foolin’ no one.” He swayed and coughed in that way that told me no part of him reacted positively to that choice. Figures he’d forget not to move too fast.

“I ain’t tryin’ for nuthin,” I mimicked. I returned the eye roll with my own. Ow, okay, maybe I stop with the negative thoughts, my head was hurting with each inner-chunter. “What time is it?” I groaned. Anything to distract him. Anything.

He huffed.

I huffed back.

He snorted.

Right back at you, buddy.

He stared.

I wasn’t the type of pegasus to try and pull rank when I wanted something to go my way, especially when I wasn’t on duty. I’d had my run-ins with those types of folk, and they pissed me off. But the way he looked at me, that appraising, piercing gaze that cut right through me, right into my soul; well boy was I about to. It was something Thunder would do. It made my heart ache right along with the rest of me. “Stop looking at me like that,” I wanted to shout. I felt naked. Vulnerable.

Maybe it was pity, maybe it was impatience, hay, maybe the two combined, but after an uncomfortable lapse of silence, broken only by the soft patter of water, he sighed. I expected him to bite back with a sarcastic remark but he simply leaned back.

“It’s…” he was trying to spy his clock, the one that watched over a kitchen full of dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, and perhaps a new form of microbial life. I could hear its tick from here, slow and deliberate, a tempo to our quiet tug-of-war.

Shock’s eyes widened. “Awh, sweet Celestia!”

“What? What’s wrong?” There it was, that familiar pit in my stomach. The one that said “oh shit” in a squeaky voice and pinned my ears to my skull. Within it flashed a realization wreathed in panicked energy.

I had vaulted over him and bolted towards the door before he could say, “Weren’t we havin’ a briefin’ in an hour?”

Weaving around sky carriages and pegasi, I tore through the air. It was a Luna-damned aerial course navigating through the Strip and towards the suburbs near Neighliss. I nearly pancaked against a bus twice and narrowly dove through another, zipping out the other side. Curses and complaints followed like contrails.

I dodged a mare and her husband, launched myself over a filly much to her mother’s chagrin, and came to a hard stop as my legs gave out. “Buck!” I yelped, curling my wings and flinging my back towards the fall. Using them as springs, I pushed off and away. On instinct, I anchored a hoof on the ground and spun in a full vertical pirouette.

The married couple clapped politely and the foal giggled with delight. The mother scowled and dragged her daughter away.

I blinked. Stood there. I was in the middle of a quiet street. The Strip rose in the distance. The SPP tower loomed closer than before. A light breeze whispered. The air was warm.

“Ya’ haven’t flown that fast since ya’ asked Thunder on ah date for tha’ first time,” Shock landed easily enough. He gazed this way and that as if looking for something. Whether he was successful or not, I didn’t know, but he joined me soon enough.

“Well, so much for the peace and quiet,” Unlike that time, I wasn’t panting for air like I’d flown a marathon, nor was I manic with joy and exultation. Nor was I–

You get the point.

He chuckled.

The house in front of me was not as shabby and small as Shock’s apartment, nor was it as open and cozy as Thunder’s. But it was a home, and even if I didn’t use it half the year I was going to take advantage of officer benefits.

“Think she’s in?”

I was on the front porch. “Probably. She’s always in, doesn’t do fuck all but sit around and drink.” Time was ticking. I hovered a hoof over the door. I could open it, I should open it. It was my place. I wasn’t some random pegasus sauntering up and trying to barge in. So why did I feel like it?

Shock’s voice was low when he spoke, “Why do ya put up with her anywho? All she does is eat up yur’ bits.”

“I don’t know,” It was hushed, more to myself than him. Everything compounded. There was merit in the phrase misery loves company, it seemed. I was hoping five was the max amount of shit I could get, as if I was at the end of a ration card and had just received my last stamp. Except there wouldn’t be fear and worry, but relief.

The door was locked. Fuck.

“Aw shucks, you know Major don’t care ‘bout that kinda stuff. Long as you come back for it. Ya ain’t a…what’s she call it?”

I ignored him. This wasn’t the first time. I knew where this was going. “Yup, no extra key. Typical,” She’d probably used it to get in and never put it back. I nudged the back gate. It didn’t budge but I was over it anyway. Barriers are kind of redundant when you can fly.

“You’re right,” The back was nothing special. It was blank. I never bothered to decorate it. “Major won’t care. Daddy’s a dashite and mommy’s an alcoholic shut-in. Who would?” The sarcasm dripped, venomous and cutting. I tugged at the back door. Same deal as the front.

Being in proximity filled me with a twisted cocktail of dread and anger and… and worry. The last one stung. How, after all these years, could I still care? My skin crawled, I had stupidly left my uniform when I went to meet Thunder. I’d hoped to come back and grab it but, I thought to myself, plans changed.

“Right, I’m going in. If I’m not out in five minutes, radio base and call in the big guns.” The joke was bad, hampered by the nerves and the hangover. But it lightened the mood just a little bit. Shock grinned small, I couldn’t help but do the same but make it toothy and goofy and exaggerated. Humor was good for getting a bit of you back.

The window slid back into place with a soft click. The air stank of must and stale beer. I peered through the gloom. The shutters were closed. Dust motes filtered through the little sunlight that snuck in. There was a bed, its table, a closet, and a dozen empty wine bottles scattered about the floor. There were deep stains visible on the walls. Damp towels bunched up by the door. A dirty radio played something I didn’t bother to make out.

I had to resist the urge to growl. This was pathetic.

She was in bed, tangled in an unwashed duvet and drooling on a filthy pillow. She was out cold. There was a bottle clutched in her hoof. Must have fallen asleep halfway through it, the rest spilling over the sheets. It mixed with the stink to make a nauseating mire. Should have bought a gas mask for the occasion.

Seeing her like this, her mane a nest of rat tails, her coat slick with a sheen of grease, her chest textured in her own vomit, I wanted nothing more than to sneer and spit at her hooves. It wouldn’t do much worse to this poor room. I never thought my heart could ache for the inanimate, but it needed to be put out of its misery.

I opened the bedroom door, as quietly as possible, and in the interim felt the deafening silence. It was occasionally broken by gargling, raspy snores, but nothing ever replied. There was no sound of a desert wind through open windows. No groan as the house settled. Even the radio–which I noticed with a grimace was one of dad’s fixer-uppers–couldn’t overpower the soundless bubble that shrouded this place.

I realized–with a pang of rippling sorrow pooling in my gut and a creeping, suffocating despair–that this place could never be mine. It was the tomb of a dead mare who had yet realized it. Three years ago she’d moved in, and every day my home grew colder. More detached. I had, not with a resounding crash, but a quiet whisper, become a stranger.

My officer’s uniform was on the ironing board in the living room. It didn’t take long to change into. I glanced at the couch, at the quilt I called my blanket. My mother had the only bed in the house.

Despite my better judgment, I found myself back in her room. My clothes were snug. Crisp. I was sullying every inch of them the longer I stayed. Yet, gently, I wrestled the bottle from her hooves; I found two clean towels and draped them over her chest and the mess on the mattress; I removed the blanket, gave her mine. Even on borrowed time. Even with the simmering rage. I couldn’t bring myself to leave her like this.

She stirred but did not wake.

There was a picture frame face down on the bedside table. I picked it up, held it between my feathers as if it would shatter against the barest touch.

It was me.

It was mom.

It was dad.

It was us.

I was ten again. A colt. I was small for my age, dad towered over me and mom followed close behind. We were in the courtyard of the ground operations wing. There was a beautiful, silver tree whose blossoms were like snow. We were all smiling. I had dad’s officer cap on. It was too big and nearly swallowed my whole head. Though there it was, a red muzzle with a grin wide enough to beam the eyes that peaked below the brim. Dad had his wing around me, holding me in a bear hug, my back against his chest, his other wing around mom, pulling her against him oh so tight.

It was the day I had asked him about the huge tower next to the base. It’d been a wonder, brilliantly cocktailed into a starving intrigue as it mixed with the excited butterflies in my stomach. He had pulled me close and told me all about the SPP, and then, in a hushed tone and a smile that betrayed nothing, he promised to tell me the coolest thing I’d ever know.

He’d said, using a nickname only he had the right to, “Cash, you a gambling colt?”

I’d giggled, “No! You said it’s a waste of bits!"

He had grinned wider. It was infectious. “Damn right, but sometimes you have to gamble, that’s just life. You just gotta sit down, get dealt your cards, and play with what you got no matter what.”

I had nodded eagerly. Anything he said was gospel to me. He was the perfect mix between a rebel with a cause, a patriotic soldier, and a good father. He was my idol.

Two weeks later he was gone.

I placed the picture frame back on the table, careful to leave it standing, and left soon after.

Shock was waiting on the sidewalk. He made a joke about being honored to be my plus one to the officer’s ball. “How dashing you are my handsome stallion, clad in your glorious uniform!” His attempt at a feminine voice didn’t gel well with his hybrid accent, and clad came out more as clayed among other things.

I snorted. “How long was I in there for?” The sun stung my eyes. A deep melancholy clung to my chest. It was a sinkhole that pulled further against me with every acknowledgment. I wanted desperately to fill it.

“Ten minutes most, Cap.”

“Let’s jet,” A gush of air his way. He was swathed in a fine, damp condensation as my take-off disturbed the clouds. “If you can catch up, that is.”

He smirked.

Game on.

A few pegasi glanced our way as we walked the halls. Shock was still swiping wisps off his uniform and complaining about creases. I had managed to buck the hangover as best I could, the fresh air and exercise certainly did wonders. As for all the other bullshit? Well, speak of the stars.

Some of our curious onlookers were not masters of subtlety. Those that could get away with it glared with open contempt as if I was a walking case of sedition. Others gave more side-long stares from their periphery.

“It’s been a decade, fuckers, lay off,” I muttered, pretending my voice didn’t carry to those close by. I had worked damn hard for my rank, for my achievements, to drag myself out of my father’s shadow, and yet still I was viewed by others with suspicion simply by proxy. I tried my best not to catch their gaze. I didn’t need to see the embers of ire within their eyes or the words they inevitably translated.

The briefing room was easy to find. It was through a security checkpoint, past a few bay doors leading into cavernous hangars, a stop in the break room for a bagel, and a pop into the locker room to swipe my aviators. It was a quick trip.

“You’re late,” Major rumbled. She was a violet-coated mare with a trimmed mane. She sported the look of a rebellious filly who’d gotten into the officer costumes at the thrift store mixed with the wannabe personality of that pre-war wonderbolt Spitfire. Their was a half-drooped frown glued to her muzzle like the whole world was so damn unimpressive.

“Fashionably late,” I flashed her my award-winning smile. I’m sure I didn’t look like a total asshole, flycolt glasses and all. She was standing at a pedestal next to a large screen. There were rows of chairs before her. A few were taken, their occupants turning to glance at us.

A roll of her eyes. “I would appreciate it if the two pilots and officers were here before their subordinates,” she enunciated each role as if to remind us of our positions and duties. I resisted the urge to stare starry-eyed and ignorant like a greenie. I doubted I could get away with a slap on the fetlock for that.

“Won’t happen again, ma’am. Just a bit of traffic on the airways today, you know how it is,” She blinked slowly, her lids poised halfway to another. Her gaze was cold. Bemused. Something told me she didn’t believe me. Should have added the good old broken down sky-carriage, works every time.

“Captain Molder,” she was stern, “In the interest of time and my sanity, please sit.”

“Ay-ay,” I sauntered down the aisle like I had no care in the world. The usual military paraphernalia adorned the walls: notices, a few pre-war and newer posters, a glass cabinet of trophies and awards, the whole shebang. Two flags stood dead on either side of the room–the familiar Grand Pegasus Enclave and the Equestrian coat of arms. The triumph of tradition on the final front the two together said, or something like that, I didn’t tend to follow the real nutcase patriotism. I slid into a seat next to three other ponies, Shock did the same a few rows in front of me.

One of them next to me raised a brow. Major cleared her throat, “Anyways. As I was saying, your job will be supporting the units on the ground and providing a…”

When the brief finished, Ace was tucked away in his little nook while Captain Molder of the 6th armored cavalry corp took the reigns. I played the role and I played it well. Dad raised an actor. His absence was as thunderous as any applause.

The plan was simple. There were growing reports of a number of dissidents gathering in the town center of Cloudsprings, five klicks East of Grand Pegasus. We were to transport two squads, insert them with the garrison stationed outside the town hall, and wait on stand-by for further orders. It wasn’t too far afield to guess we would be sticking around for presence deterrence.

I was on my third bagel and heading back to the hangar. While my crew made final checks, I’d nipped off for more food. My hangover, as good as a ghost, still haunted me with its pleading. It wanted water, it wanted sleep, it wanted to be a little bitch. It was like dealing with a foal.

Gale Force walked beside me. She had followed my not-so-stealthy exit and had been pestering me since. She was an ill-tempered mare with a fussed mane and a coat the color of sand.

Derisive and rough as usual, she snorted, “We’ve just been given this shit-piss of a mission and you left to get food?” She tried to glare in that ‘if looks could kill’ kind of way.

I schooled the scowl that tried to creep up my face. Fate hadn’t been kind to me as I tried to salvage what little reputation I had started with. Gale had the distinction of being one of my two sky-tank gunners, which gave her a lovely position under my command.

I glanced behind me. The hall was empty. Gray. There was a single camera pointing away from us. “I'm not going to be having this type of conversation with you. I suggest you throw away such opinions or keep them securely to yourself.” I toned it with a warning, low and dangerous and growling. To her, loose lips didn’t sink ships. It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced her thoughts. They weren’t popular.

“You can’t expect me to accept that excuse, sir! Major wants us to play zebra oppressor and you’re just rolling with it?” Really, I was the issue? She lacked the understanding of the broader picture. We weren’t going to massacre them, it was a drop and watch operation. Nothing more. Nothing less.

A few crumbs fell from my uniform as I brushed them with a wing. Drifts of activity echoed from the hangar as we neared its double doors. A little of me slipped free, fleeing from groping hooves to find itself settled in my gut. Despite my better judgment I, with a quiet whisper inches before the doors, careful that nopony was around, offered assurance, “Look, do you remember that exfil into the wasteland, the one a couple of months ago? We arrived over the ruins of a town South of the Foalorado to retrieve a squad of scouts. Said they had encountered those NCR fanatics, called the landing zone hot. Do you know how many rounds were fired?”

She was silent. She knew the answer. “Zero, Gale. Zero. Even when we picked up the squad and they watched from behind a sand drift, not a shot.” My gaze drifted. Still just the two of us. “Look, I’m going to say this as nicely as possible, not as your CO, but as pony-to-pony. You need to be careful what you say and where you say it, I don’t know how many times you can do this before the rope pulls taut.” What was unsaid hung heavy in the air–her actions would take me down with her. I was on far thinner clouds. It wasn’t hard to guess why.

I left her to gather her thoughts and passed into the hangar. The smell of oil and grease poured up my nostrils. The air was hot with activity. Sky-tanks taxied to and from aeropads. Mechanics rushed about, ladened with tools and covered in their own hard work. Ammunition trundled along on belts. A heavy gunship variant was being fitted with missiles and rocket pods. Somewhere nearby, the sound of a front gun whined steadily as it activated. There was a staging area at the far back and another set of doors. Infantry milled about, waiting to be loaded and ferried elsewhere. The clouds rumbled underhoof with the pitched howl of countless magical conversion engines. I could taste the flecks of arcane exhaust, like the tang of copper and the bite of ozone.

I pondered my own words. The New Canterlot Republic stood behind the Lightbringer. They were the arms of that monster. Would I have done things differently now? Would I chomp the bit and turn them all to fine, glowing ash if I was given the chance to do it all over? I hadn’t fired. I could’ve, Celestia knows I would have probably been commended for it, but I didn’t. There was no point. None of the scouts had been injured, no fire exchanged, just a startled bump into each other on a routine recon.

We wound our way through the organized chaos. “These ponies aren’t our enemies. They just want food, water, a warm place to sleep and protection. What we’ve been tasked with doing, it’s wrong!” Another reiteration of her tired point. The world was too busy here, too loud and frantic, to take notice of her concerns.

“You’ve already had several infractions levied against you, multiple of which have led to disciplinary action and a permanent stain on your record,” Captain Molder had returned and his restraint was growing ever increasingly thin. There were five sky-tanks in total, not including the heavy variant. Two were in the middle of repairs and a third was rising gently from the ground. “I understand you think low of this op, but unless you’d like to reassign, erase any notion that I was even an officer acquainted with you, then complain to Equine Resources, I suggest, again, you drop the subject.” There were red slashes along its body like that of great claws. The paint glowed luminescent as it taxied beneath the shadow of the bay doors and into the bright, morning light. I wondered where it was off to.

She huffed. I dodged a repair-buck lugging a box full of tools and scrap. The rear ramp of the sky-tank was closing. There was a glimpse of the cargo–boxes stamped with a pair of glittering wings, a sun, and the white spear of a unicorn horn. Celestial-tier priority, it meant. Whatever that sky-tank was carrying had a hell of a lot of importance.

There was no designation on the upper body behind the cockpit, just a red emblem of an old-world artillery battery.

The clouds plushed into a mist as they burned beneath the magical multiplier engines, thrusters set in a vertical take-off. The sky-tank lifted and, with a swiftness that summoned a curl of coltish glee within me, roared off to its destination unknown.

We were gathered in a tight circle between our ships, my two gunners and crew chief beside me. Shock and his crew waited patiently across from us. A mare, clad in Enclave power armor, hung awkwardly on the outskirts.

Gale had been quiet since the end of our conversation. I did little to encourage her otherwise. Hopefully, she had found reason, or at the very least followed my orders to shut up.

I ushered the mare on the edge in. “Corporal, your troops ready?” Didn’t need an answer to that. They shuffled about the staging area, impatient and eager. Nonetheless, she nodded. “Good.”

My gaze fell on Shock, “Lieutenant, final prep turn up anything?”

A shake of his head and a small, genial smile, “Nada, Cap.”

“No AID issues?” ST-23, the sky-tank he and his crew were flying, had the annoying knack of labeling non-hostiles as combatants and queuing firing suggestions on her Arcane-Integrated-Display, a system built into the visor of flight helmets. It was one of her quirks. I’d gotten to know them as I hopped from vehicle to vehicle with every assignment.

“Ey’nope, ‘cept fer when Force wus chewin’ out a bunch’a grunts, but a’h think it were right on that one.” He grinned at her. A collective chuckle rippled along the circle. Most tried to stifle it. The corporal tittered nervously.

I raised a brow. This was news to me. Here I had thought we had turned over a new leaf. Gale growled. She took a step forward, stopped only by my outstretched wing. Her face was a leer, eyes narrowed. A lick of anxiety twined with anger screeched up my spine. Shit.

“They’re treating this like it’s a seek and destroy. Luna dammit, we’re soldiers, not thugs!” She tried to step forward once more. I pushed against her. I didn’t need to be a tactician to know this whole operation was delicate. It could all go tits up if we weren’t patient, sensible, and reserved.

“Soldier, are you seeing how fast you can earn a write-up? Because you’re on record pace. Return to your duty station, now!” That was it. If she wanted to be a foal she could go to timeout. I was sick and tired of her shit. I convinced myself that the uncertain battle between dread and irritation in my chest was wholly towards her.

She whirled on me–off the deep end. A crowd was growing. My rage matched her fury. I was dealing with all this shit and now my subordinate had to throw a tantrum, “You don’t listen. Jumping at shadows, trying to shut me up because you’re scared. I saw you, paranoid, staring down the hall like the boogybuck was gonna burst through the doors!” She was leaping from point to point in manic succession. “You’re excusing the ponies that ruined your life, condoning their deplorable actions! I thought I could confide in you. Molder used to mean something! Tell me, captain, how’s your mother, huh? Who do you think led her there?!

Ice. I was ice, freezing over. Locking up. A tangle of thorns shrouded my heart, and each pulse sent an injection of the coldest, most flaying substance.

Truth.

But truth was a concept of little importance when I saw red. It was another thing to worry about later. I looked around for anything to distract me. I could barely hold back the energy in my bones, vibrating and hyper and eager to launch me at her and see just how many hits I could get in before I was pulled away.

The hangar had gone eerily quiet. A few vehicles still hummed and the conveyor belt trundled, but the eyes of its occupants fell on Gale and I. The corporal was watching stunned. Shock was…shocked, his eyes flitting frantically between us. The troops stared, the mechanics peeked from between their tech, my unit watched with quiet awe.

Major was there, flanked by two pegasi dressed in blue and black power armor. Badges were welded into the chests. Military police. The humiliation tore just as strong as the deep, yawning pit in my stomach.

I cleared my throat. Found my cool. The nerves clamored. “Major, I’d like to make a request to have Gale Force barred from operating for the present duration of this mission.”

Major eyed me. She eyed Gale. “Under what grounds, Captain?”

Gale was seething. I could see her in the corner of my eye. She wanted to throw hooves just as eagerly as I did. Bigger buck, Ace, bigger buck. Cool your jets. “On grounds of…” Sedition, treason, disloyalty, malcontent, sabotage, on and on the potential went. There was enough evidence, from our conversation and her harassing the troops, to see her life ruined in an instant. It would be sweet, savory revenge. Oh Ace, the temptation whispered soothingly, you only need to let that tongue of yours speak the truth; watch her burn. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A part of me, however small and dumb as hay, couldn’t stomach the idea. I hated that I agreed with her, and hated that I hated that. “Unfit for duty.”

Major nodded. “Very well. Gunnery Specialist Force, please come with me.”

The police ponies squared their shoulders. They were expecting a tussle. But Gale complied, and as she followed, she hissed under her breath: “Coward.”

We were one klick out. The town stretched in the distance, a hodge-podge of hastily constructed cloudtechture centered around a rather impressive town hall. The proximity was a slum of refugee camps. Cloudsprings had been an intake site for years now; it was no wonder things went volatile. You pack enough stressed, terrified ponies together and something’s bound to go boom.

I was standing on the flight dias in the middle of the cockpit. My hooves were nestled comfortably in the stabilizer clamps. The flight harness hummed with each movement. The aeroarcane matrix translated them swiftly into the sky-tanks’ own. She was an extension of me and I her. AID marked a waypoint half a kilometer ahead of us. It spat flight data back at me. 250 hooves off the ground. Fast approach. Thrusters primed for full hover. Weapon platforms ripping and ready. I disabled the latter with the press of a button. No way was I even looking at that.

Communications crackled on. “Command, this is Osprey-6, how copy?” ‘Osprey' was a stupid callsign. It could’ve been something more badass like ‘hawkeye’ or ‘mother hen’, but no, it’s got to be a boring bird.

Wait, no, the other two are birds too. Nevermind.

“Command copies, go ahead, 6.” It was major on the line. I knew she was overseeing this operation but after what had happened earlier it made me cringe. I wondered where Gale was. Probably getting congratulated for fucking over the dashite’s son.

“Over drop-point now, beginning pre-stand by.” The sky-tank slowed to a circle around the town square. Over the rumbling and clattering of my ship, I could hear the howl of Shock’s as he tailed close behind. It was in my periphery as we orbited.

Shock’s voice cut through the sound. “Sweet Celestia…Cap'n, ya' seein' this?” His transmission was ringed in a wash of static.

The square was packed. The jostling bodies of pegasi rippled like water. Their cries of anger echoed like round reports. They were clamoring over each other, surging in perfect time towards the steps of the town hall. The air was swathed with fliers. I had to circle several blocks out to avoid hitting them. The very atmosphere was vibrating with the mob’s chants, my engines drowned under a flood of reverb.

This wasn’t a protest. This was a barely controlled riot.

The town hall had been turned into a fortress. Behind hastily erected fences waited the stationed garrison. Their weapons faced the crowd. They were positioned along the stairs in a stagger. A heavy weapon’s emplacement stood on the roof. Glowing stacks of ammunition winked under the sunlight as I passed. Turrets hung from the exterior ceilings. They watched impassively.

There were picket signs. They begged for food, pleaded for better living conditions. ‘We’re starving’, said one, messy and crude with what looked like a foal’s hoofwriting. Litter decorated the landscape as shrapnel.

Gale’s words echoed in my mind.

“Osprey-6 and Osprey-5 standing by for drop.” A switch tapped. A light above the cargo door glowed red. The stage was set.

“Lieutenant, report.”

“Stand-by achieved, waiting fer confirmation,” Shock said. He sounded calm, but I could trace that faint waver.

We made a final circle and stopped above the town hall. The ship was facing away from the chaos. I could see it unfold through a rear camera feed displayed on my visor.

I said, “Full squad stand-by.”

Major said, “Full copy, deploy.”

The rear troop ramp engaged. The light flashed green. The shadows of the corporal and her unit yawned from the opening. Two-by-two they exited swiftly. The mob had noticed now, and cans and scraps and anything they could get their hooves on sailed through the air. Few reached, they fell short, crashing onto the stairs below.

“Command, full exit made.”

Shock echoed my statement.

“Wilco, proceed with security.” We were left with static and the roaring riot beneath us. I was a viewer. There was nothing I could do.

The reinforcements integrated into the battalion. Defenses received extra ponypower, soldiers were relieved and fell back into the town hall, and a few hovered in a loose blockade. The air was thick with tension. It sucked greedily upon the writhing emotion. Their thunder impressed upon my bones a solid rumble. “5, establish an airspace boundary above the fence. Careful of flying civvies.”

“This is insane, Cap” Shock said. The country drawl had been stolen from him.

The lightest nod, he couldn’t see me. I held my voice even, “It is.” The sky-tank began to glide. Downwash sent pegasi stumbling back. Their manes and coats and tails whipped frantically. A filly tumbled as the rush of air pitched her backward. She disappeared under the trampling mob.

Junk splattered the windshield. A slick, oily viscous trailed as it slid. Another volley rattled off the ship.

Sky-tanks are meant to fight armored units. They’ll shrug off lasers, small arms fire, and weak explosives. Trash wasn’t going to do shit against them. But it wasn’t the damage I worried about, it was the message. We weren’t wanted. We were the enemy. We were to be feared.

“Steady on, lieutenant,” I muttered. “Steady on.”

Major returned, “Osprey-6.”

“Copy.”

“Relay sit-rep.”

I relayed: Crowd was focused on sky-tanks: no success breaching proximity but attempts ramping; mob growing; situation volatile.

“It’s all SNAFU really.” My joke thrummed across the airwaves. It received a dim chuckle from Shock, laced with an abundant anxiety. I wondered if he was riding that rodeo of stress that summoned itself in situations like this. The tilting shudder in one’s gut and the urge to flee like a stratocloud caught on a good draft.

There was a silence, that baleful hiss of static over the radio. Major was still there, the line was open. I could imagine her sitting back, holding the mic against her chest, hurried words being exchanged. Words from on high.

A sound, something like a gasp, or a pause. A movement of shock. The empty line dimmed its static. Major was close to the mic, mouth agape, trying to summon the words. Lines didn’t cease their crackle unless somepony was close enough to add interference.

Major spoke. Was she afraid? Was the lingering gap between every word a moment to grasp her thoughts? “Osprey-6”–a pause, long and foreboding–” stand-by for new orders.”

“Command, on stand-by,” I shuffled in the clamps. Everything seemed constricted.

“Sequence follows. Platform–1, break; Munitions–2, break; Effect–2, break; Duration–1, break. Commence in T-5, end break.”

What?

What.

“Ma-Major. You.” I coughed, shook myself. In an instant Ace was ripped from his corner and shoved roughly into Captain Molder’s place. The auto-pilot fell, my stoicism stumbled.

Calm. Calm. “There must be some distortion on the line, please repeat.” It had to be wrong. I had to have misheard.

She began again. Slow. Crystal clear:

“Platform–1, break.” Frontal cannon.

The crowd moved in slow motion. They jostled about, spittle flying, faces scrunched in anger. In uncertainty. In fear.

“Munitions–2, break.” High capacity energy rounds.

They were a rainbow of color, pegasi from all walks of life. Who had they been before this? Before they were reduced to a squabbling rabble rioting for the barest essentials? How many had lived happily above the clouds? How many did they know who died when their homes were ripped away?

“Effect–2, break.” Fire for suppression.

There was a brief parting in the storm of bodies. A single pony occupied its center. Their head was inclined. They looked at the sky-tank. At me. It felt like I was floating in shattered fragments.

“Duration–1, break.” Until hostilities ceased.

A green mare with her pink mane in a ponytail stared. She was pushing her forties. She looked familiar, uncomfortably so. My thoughts flickered to the memory of a name tag that read “Paper”.

“Commence T-5, end break.” Five minutes until execution.

I blinked, and the mare was gone. The mob had closed back in and I was left disoriented, wondering if what I’d seen was ever there.

It was surreal how such a simple combination of words and numbers could spell such a heavy order. A selection of codes to light a fire.

My mouth was dry. “Osprey-5, you copy new directive?”

“Copy, sir.” Shock tried to hide his surprise, but like a tell-tale heart, it beat in his rushed exhales. He never was very good at bluffing.

I considered the order, inspected each word, grasped their weight, and measured the consequences. The adrenaline tore at the facade I struggled to glue back in place. My concentration had been shaken. Thoughts whizzed like bullets, every angle and outcome flashed in my mind’s eye, none of them good.

Game face, Ace! Game face!

“Command, with all due respect the order is unfeasible.” Any kind of offensive action, even as a warning, would end in nothing but bloodshed. The soldiers were wired, the crowd was wired, one wrong move and everything would detonate.

There was another lapse over the line. A scratchy drag echoed over the radio. It was passed to a new pair of hooves. I could hear somepony stand and move away. “Fire for warning, Captain Molder.” A new voice over the comms. A stallion’s, rumbling and commanding and old.

“This is Osprey-6, Major was on the line. Please identify?” Why the buck was this dude using my full title?

Calmly, the stranger spoke, “This is General Forthright. I have taken over mission command, 6” The callsign was enunciated, spoken with a tinge of amusement and arrogance.

You’re. Bucking. Kidding. Me. This wasn’t Thunder’s sabo-fucking-teur. This wasn’t stars-damned happening! “I can’t, it’s not feasible, it’ll fly into the crowd. It’ll-”

“That’s an order, Captain,” he said with infuriating calm.

“It’ll kill innocent ponies, sir!” I barely had a grasp on protocol. There was a colt holding a small picket sign that said, “Please”, the rest had been crossed out as he tried to spell a single word over and over.

The local communications queued.

Calm and collected, without mirth or malice, Forthright uttered five words, “Lieutenant Bolt, fire for warning.”

Oh, fuck me! This bucking dickhead. I forgot I was an officer. Forgot my place in the ranks. Forgot my duties as a soldier. Forgot it all. I scarcely held back the capricious swell seeping through my soul. The temptation to tear him a new one was absolutely carnal.

“Er…sir?” Shock replied. Even my friend could see the insanity.

“Your CO has been ordered to return to base. You will be heading his portion of the operation. Your orders are to fire for warning.”

I found it in me to let slip a snarl, “This was news to me, general?”

“Consider yourself informed then,” he said casually. “Osprey-5, if you please.”

Somehow I clung doggedly to form. Try as he might, I wasn’t going to let Ace take the reigns. I was still in character. “Lieutenant-”

“Fire.”

I gritted my teeth. Oh, how I wanted to find Forthright and beat the ever-loving shit out of him. Did he not understand? Did he not realize what could happen?

My stomach turned–maybe he did.

I tilted my wings back, raised them. The ship followed suit. Reluctance ate at the part of me following orders to withdraw. I didn’t want to, but I hardly had a choice. I had slipped up too much to risk disobeying more commands. Shock could…Shock could handle himself, there was a reason he was my wingmate.

ST-23’s cannon began to rev. It glowed. Its whine was cutting. I prayed to Celestia that his aim was true. Maybe it’d hit a building, the crowd would scatter, and that would be that. Violence avoided.

The barrel was spinning. The exposed amplifier crystals brightened.

A warning, red and blinking. A screen on my flight board fought for attention. I broke my gaze from the delicate situation.

It was input data from his ship.

ST-23 had highlighted the crowd as hostile.

Footnote: Level up!

New Perk:
Conscientious Objector (1) –You’ve seen a nation play its hand and you aren't for it. +5% damage to combatants considered soldiers, officers, or militants of a “civilized” nation. Additionally, you unlock unique dialogue options with Enclave and NCR military personnel.

Author's Note

Thanks to Lone Writer for helping out with a bit (massive) amount of pre-reading and editing. Know I don't got much of a base, but if you're readin' this I highly recommend you check out his work. Real skilled guy.

Chapter 3: Steady On

Pactum serva.

“Keep the faith.”

–Cicero, Roaman Statezebra

They were waiting when I landed.

I peered through the tinted cockpit glass. The retreating sun cast my sky-tank’s shadow wide like the yawning silhouette of a vicious beast, its jaws gaped to swallow them whole. Their energy rifles shone in the dying light of dusk. Their blue-black armor clashed with the subdued grays and whites of the hangar.

This was it, huh? I suspected I knew what came next. I had been dwelling on it the long flight home.

Two military police stood as I descended the cargo ramp. A further pair guarded the hangar’s entrance. Had they expected me to cut and run? Mirthlessly, I smiled; they wanted an insubordinate. I wasn’t going to give it to them, not the way they wanted.

“Evening, gentlecolts. Week’s shaping up to be an interesting one, huh?” The nerves hid beneath a neutral drawl, dripping boredom. I suspected I had little more than personal dignity at this point.

One, near indistinguishable from his partner, clad in kind, stepped forward. “Captain Ace Molder,” he announced like he was about to begin monologuing. His voice was synthesized. The insectoid eyes of his helmet glowed.

“Are under arrest,” I matched his authority; even cleared my throat for effect. “I figured, officer.”

The scowl it summoned burned clear through his armor. I barely held back a shit-eating grin.

He growled, “Come with us.”

They had stripped my uniform from me. I had nothing but clammy anxiety, suppressed until my thoughts were my sole company. The policepony (I didn’t care to remember him past that) had made a grand display about trial dates and rights and on and on until I’d zoned out. I only cared for the words, “accused of inciting hysteria and multiple homicides.”

I was being pinned for Forthright’s Luna-damned fuck-up.

The cell was cold. Cold in the way that saps more than just comfort. There was a stiff cot, a toilet, and a sink. The floor and ceiling were thick concrete. The usual girder of iron bars made the front. The brig was empty.

Again and again, my thoughts wandered. I’d seen Shock fire. I’d seen those bolts flash the air like flares. I’d seen them vanish behind the buildings that curtained the crowd. I’d retreated–fled. Whether under orders or by my own volition, it didn’t matter.

The guilt ate at my gut, chewed like an acid, made me want to heave.

I closed my eyes. For a brief moment, my breath was slow–calm. The chill of the air, the silence of unoccupied cells, the steady thump of my heart, I drank it all in. Thunder drifted across my mind, tangling himself in ropes of grief and yearning. Being in this cell was doing precisely what I’d dreaded. Every passing second that ached by was one more to take him down. He had warned me about being a danger, and in less than a day I had proved him right.

But what could I have done? Should I have ignored my gut and followed through? Should I have pulled the trigger even if it meant seeing innocent ponies hurt?

I should have slept in.

Time passed uneventfully, marked by a tiny window looking over the clouds. The food was bland. The guard who brought it regarded me with little more than boredom. I spent the time daydreaming of Thunder and fixating on everything that had led me here. The suspense was crippling. The more I sat in that cramped, claustrophobic cell, the more I wanted to bounce off the walls.

It was on the second day that, with the sun peeking its lids over the horizon, two MPs marched in, ordered me up, and dragged my flank down the long, winding corridors of the Judge Advocate General's corp. “Don’t get my phone call?” I quipped. They didn’t answer. Not ones for conversation, I guess.

One of them shoved me through a doorway. With little more than a grunt of “change,” they slammed the doors closed. My ears twitched at the slick click of the lock.

The place was cramped. Scarce. Nothing but a single table with my uniform and a clock on the wall that passed the seconds between 5:10 and 5:11. No seat, not even a magazine to kill time. Typical.

I collected my clothes and, for a span, held them gingerly in my hooves. The black boots reflected their polish in the harsh light. The peaked cap was worn–the emblem in its center was a familiar Enclave flare. The gray uniform and the tan jacket had a weak stain through the right shoulder where wine had spilled–a distant memory of a 20th birthday when my mother had the clarity, and I the stupidity, to celebrate together. This uniform was an evocation, a part of me. I had given my life to the Enclave. I had strived to prove I wouldn’t be like the stallion they thought was a traitor. Yet here I was.

I slipped it on, entertaining the tilt-a-whirl in my head. It was a twirling, dizzying mass of clashing thoughts and seeded panic. In three days, I had been shoved so far into the clouds that I was damn near buried. The only reason I hadn’t fallen into a complete muddle of hysterics was stubborn stoicism and mirthless humor–the two core tenants of every soldier.

The door unlocked, somepony came in and shut it behind them. I was wrestling with the front boots, trying to slip the rubber over my hooves. There was a presence next to me, a gap of space to my left filled by sense and instinctual intuition. The visitor sighed. Their breath rested weakly on my forehooves and hung there, tingling. “You’d think I’d have earned the right to wear parade dress at my own trial. Field kit is a bitch,” I grumbled.

“0600,” Major said.

I regarded her from my place at the table. A wave of simmering anger burbled in my throat. “Your clock must be wrong.” Of all the ponies I expected to brag, she wasn't one of them.

A glint of confusion danced across her brow then slid seamlessly into bemusement. She was dressed prim and proper, collar perfectly folded, stripes and bars flawlessly straight, green mane clean and smelling of aromatic shampoo. Everything about her screamed professional. I wonder how I paired up, three days overdue for a shower and severely lacking patience. “0600,” she repeated, “You have an hour until your court-martial begins.”

Despite it all, my heart fell. I knew what I was facing. But hearing it spoken aloud, ‘my court-martial,’ it filled me with no slight dread. “Helluva an appetizer for a summary case as the main course,” I tried. It hadn’t even left my muzzle and I knew that wasn’t the case. I wasn’t that lucky, not with all this shit.

She blinked, slow and schooled. “You know that’s only for enlisted.”

“A special-court martial? Still over the top for talk back.” My smile matched her facade. I didn’t believe a word I was saying. We both knew the charges and the severity. It wasn’t hope that spun my words, far from it. “I guess that’s why I ain’t JAG, eh?”

A quirked edge, the faint rise of a grin so close to the surface, dampened by Major’s indomitable will. “Ace.”

I blinked.

There was one phrase to describe her: by the book. She never used first names and always addressed with full rank. Yet she’d said mine. It sounded weird on her tongue. What was she getting at? Why the sudden break in character?

My shoulders squared, girded by a narrowed gaze.

“It’s a general court-martial. I’m not going to explain to you what that means.”

Once more, the dread hit and the nausea that followed swirled restlessly.

“You and I both know what happened–the truth. And though I can’t do anything to fix this, I can give you the fairest chance possible, as all should receive.” I could see it in her eyes, that quick-fixing gaze that commanded authority. I was going to receive a little briefing of my own. Despite all the growling, seething anger–the roiling emotion that tumbled about my gut with their molten waves–my admiration and respect grew.

“General Forthright is heading the prosecution; he's obtained special authority to do so by inciting Article 24. Lieutenant Bolt and Gunnery Specialist Force have both made deals to secure their safety. Since this is such a high profile ca-”

“Hold on; Shock did what?!” I snagged on Article 24. By the time my thoughts caught up, I was already talking, “You’re pulling my leg!”

Her silence confirmed the new details. I was left reeling, wanting to sink right back into that murky pit of lethargy and depression. Yet on the same bit, I wanted to rampage through Neighliss until I found that piece of shit general and caved his skull in with my hooves. My best friend, the buck I’d known for damn near two decades, and he was being turned on me by that slimy bastard. And Gale? I couldn’t say I was surprised, but surely she would have heard of the truth. She was crew!

“Only thing worse at this point would be the council presiding.” It was sarcastic. Entirely sarcastic.

Another lapse of silence.

“Oh, stars make me their bitch! No. Fucking. Way.”

“Please refrain from that kind of language, Captain.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it, let out a sound akin to a pathetic groan and a foalish whine, and closed my mouth again. A single word sang through my head: fuck. “Wait, wait, wait”–I mentally slapped myself before I got stuck on repeat– “how in the Goddesses name is this supposed to help me?! Sounds like you’re just listing off every way I’m going to be fucked. Don’t I get a lawyer or something?”

“You did.”

“I did?” I sure as hay couldn’t recall being offered anything but a few glares and the oppressive company of guards.

She raised her wings and dipped her feathers in crude quotations. She repeated her words again. “I am your counsel,” she said afterward, “as little as it may be.”

Grand, just grand. I wasn’t even an underdog at this point; I was mincemeat for top brass. I was a scapegoat. All my efforts were for nothing. “Why? Why come here and risk being seen and charged with ‘collusion’ just to tell me this? If it’s an attempt to showboat, you’ve done a damn bad job at it.” I was angry. I needed a target, something solid, something feasible. The council, the court, and top brass were all a jumble of terms corporeal only in meaning. Major was a tenuous link between all of it.

“You’re going to be charged.”

“Gee, thanks, Maj., didn’t know that. Was it Forthright holding all the cards, or is it because I can't fold!? I’m all in, and my hand is shit!” As was my poker face, it seemed. My rage dripped like sweat. I hadn’t let myself ruminate on the future to the extent it found its way past all of my mental barricades. Not until I accepted that my wings were truly tied and my hooves were near dangling off the edge.

Major fixed me with a scowl, “Let me finish.”

A rushed blast of air from an exhale, with it, the tiniest of melted stress. I nodded at her to continue.

“Two council members will be present. I know that doesn’t change much, but at the very least, it isn’t all six.”–being shot in the head twice wasn’t much better than six times, I thought–“Yes, your cards are…bad, but that doesn’t matter, I came to give you this.”

It was a blank envelope marked only with ‘Ace’ in swirling font. Major's wing shook as I took it. The room was mired in grief, emanating off her in waves. She hadn't begun to realize the part, but the signs were there.

“It’s from my sister,” her voice was hushed. "I found it while I was…" She closed her eyes. A long, slow breath shuddered between gritted teeth. “Just read it, I don’t know of any others with your name.”

My attention fell on the letter within. My heart caught in my throat. The name at the bottom, I knew it. Stars, I fucking knew it. Sweet Celestia.

She was opening the door. A question found itself trapped on my tongue, perhaps the last I'd ever get to ask her. I spat it out, "What is it–your name?"

I was regarded with searching eyes that betrayed her deepest thoughts. She said, with a finality and weight, "Clip. Iron Clip."

Then she was gone.

[✉✉✉]

Dear Ace,

This letter is a precaution should what I fear could happen does. Not long before our paths re-entwined, I encountered somepony with an uncanny knowledge of my fate. They asked that I pass a message onto you. I scarcely believed the request–how could I when they claimed I would meet a pupil I hadn’t seen in 13 or 14 years?–but I did as was asked. As a result of my involvement, they had ‘rewarded’ me with a gleaning of the future: a terrible forewarning of a tragedy that followed another encounter with you.

I’m aware our first meeting in years was strange and, to you, unknown, but I beg for your trust. The Enclave does not take kindly to those on the side of truth and justice, but I will not sacrifice those virtues for my safety. Whatever comes shall come.
Find my associate where we first met.

It is time to confront the truth hidden far below,
Paper Clip

[✉✉✉]

“Oh.” Paper. Miss Clip. They were one and the same. How had I not recognized it sooner? Celestia’s sake, her cutie mark was a stack of papers and a paperclip! How much more blatant could it get?

Guilt crawled across my fur and set itself between my lungs. If I had noticed sooner, maybe things could have been different. I still could’ve ended up here, but perhaps I’d have spared a life.

An uncanny shiver crept up my spine; raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Somepony had told her all of this, her very own death. Somepony who inexplicably knew about me.

That didn't track. Anypony who wasn’t Enclave, let alone a pegasus, would be swarmed before they could get near the clouds. I doubted those old pegasi who called themselves ‘mystics’ could tell the future by throwing torn-out feathers into a bowl of water. Maybe it was some kind of voodoo unicorn magic.

What if she was lying?

The thought occurred, and I toyed with it for a while, enough for the time to drip away like drizzle. Major could be setting me up. Forged the note to toy with me. Maybe she was Paper’s sister, and perhaps she really did want to help but could only forge a false letter for…what? Hope? Relief?

Try as I might convince myself this was all counterfeit, I couldn’t. I had experienced this long ago. Seconds before my dad ran, when my vision shuddered as I entered the living room, and everything felt wrong. My stomach dropped, blood rushed to my ears. The world slipped into startling clarity. I knew something was off–that deep, primal recognition layered in the subconscious psyche. I could taste the dry night, feel the stillness upon my fur, smell the suspense in the air, see it unravel.

When my father burst through the door, panting and sweaty and eyes afire, it was deja vu.

They came soon after.

Like executioners they stood, one holding the door while two waited in the hall. The letter was hidden securely in an inner pocket. I was torn between two paths, one of fiery scorn at the injustice and another of holding myself high, going down with a sense of pride. Divided, I did neither but walk quietly.

My new ‘friends’ and I arrived in a concrete rotunda lacking all but the simplest decor. The space was circular, centered by a round pillar set under a rising skylight. A flat metal mesh dangled below. A bank of cloud terminals, shaped like mini cumulonimbus, ringed the column. Their low buzz accompanied the humdrum of a wingful of guards and personnel scattered about. Some began to stare. I noticed the old look, but it had a new zeal, one of arrogant assurance and righteous indignation. How many knew of the massacre? How many knew what really happened? If civilians had caught wind, I wouldn’t have been here. I’d be listening to the jeers of a riled crowd from within a courthouse cell.

I didn’t know whether the realization was good or bad. The military didn’t play its hand to the public until it needed to.

An officer noticed my retinue and approached a terminal. A moment passed as he tapped the keys and scrunched his nose at the screen. Eventually, he pointed to a door on the right. The lead policepony knocked. A silence gathered.

I fidgeted; forced myself to stare straight. Eyes burned into my back. If whatever the fuck was meant to happen didn’t happen soon, my coat was going to start smoking.

The stagnant seconds stretched to minutes.

Eventually the door whispered as one of my captors, fed up with no reply, pressed his weight against it, wrestling the counterweight that let it swing closed. It was an easy effort, and once more, they jostled me through.

The room was the type of bland place I imagined brass would meet. A long conference table, business cushions, a litany of terminal screens hooked into the same feed, and those office walls with the texture of sheared fur. I had thought the endless concrete hallways were depressing. This took it to a whole new level.

Two of the guards escorted me the length of the room and sat me at the ass end of the table. I guess they didn’t trust me enough to refrain from leaping at General Forthright when he came through the door. That was understandable. I didn’t either.

They retreated after, settling into their posts on either side of the door. The apparent leader let it swing closed and did whatever his type did after a transfer. I settled into a lumpy cushion. Once again, I was waiting at another table for shit to happen. There wasn’t even a clock this time.

I was distinctly uncomfortable. Two cameras winked red at me. What kind of place was this? Why here?

Two rapid knocks. The guards straightened—turned about-face. The left executed a column right. The right followed with a column left. They both faced perpendicular to the entrance and snapped a wing in salute. Their Novasurge rifles hummed as the barrels pulled up. They were standing at full attention.

It opened, and through the threshold marched six ponies clad head to hoof in pitch black power armor. Red tiger stripes slashed the length of their body. Their wings were crowned with a crimson flare–an excited beam of energy sharpened to a knife’s edge. Their rifles weren’t standard. They glowed a sickly scarlet that dripped, sizzling into nothing as it fell. Somehow, these dudes carried weaponry that leaked light like stars-damned liquid.

They moved in sync. Two took the guards’ positions, and as the latter marched out, their heads turned in compliment to somepony at the edge of the frame. Two moved halfway down the room and halted with a practiced click of their hooves. The final pair made for me. I braced for a hit, but it never came. Instead, they passed and stood back to the wall. Somehow that was worse.

They settled quickly, growing as still as statues. Not a single shift in stature. I could feel the two behind me, keenly aware of whatever the hay their kit was and how close they were to my flank. I think one could crush my skull with ease if they tried. A small part of me, an anxious, ever pessimistic part, squeaked that they were indeed here to do just that. But why, I thought to myself, they’d ruin the lovely walls? And the fancy business cushions!

Somehow, the ultra spec-ops death squad wasn’t the thing that worried me. They were just there to guard a cargo. To provide an escort. To ensure no harm and no fouls. There was a soldier’s saying: don’t give a fuck about the dog, worry about the owner. I didn’t like what I saw on the other end of the leash.

She was dressed in a smart black suit. Her mane was a glossy chocolate hue pulled up into a respectable bun. Her coat was a sharp, shining bronze. Her face was wizened with age and experience. A pair of piercing eyes found mine and stuck. The pupils within narrowed so thinly they looked like the gaze of a serpent. They tunneled their way into my soul and latched there with a humiliating bite. I broke contact first.

He was attired suitably the same, but where she radiated an iron poise, he was calmer. He looked genial, observant. Relaxed. His attention fell on me, and a frown found its way to his lips. His turquoise coat was matte where hers was offensive. His silver mane was cut short, but it matched his eyes. He was older than her, more experienced. He didn’t need her nature to command respect.

If I were into older bucks, I’d think he was pretty hands-

She cleared her throat. I minced the thought. We met each other again in an uncomfortable staring contest as she sat. Even with the distance between us, they were too close.

But there was more to the fun, it seemed. In came General Forthright followed closely behind by Shock and Gale. I stewed in silent rage. I was stuck in a room with two of the most powerful ponies in the Enclave, a piggy-fuck general, and a crew that had seen fit to condemn me.

“One hell of a high-stakes game, huh?” I managed weakly.

Forthright growled, Gale glared, She Scowled, He raised a brow. Shock, dipping his head low, hid a smile. A good reception, all things considered. I hadn’t gotten hit for it.

“Ace, it's been some time.” Her voice was dry, bone dry. “You’ve grown.” Classy. First meeting in years and she opens with that.

“You’re still playing dress-up?” The last time I had seen her, she was donning the corpse of my mother’s hard-fought position.

“You will not speak to councilmare Intel like tha-” Forthright was silenced. He zipped his muzzle shut, and Mrs. Intel’s wing retracted. The general kept communicating, though his eyes did a lousy job carrying his words.

She pressed her hooves together. Her lips pursed. I could see it, the cogs revolving ever onward. Mercifully, she spared me a retort. “Captain Ace Molder of the 6th armored cavalry corp, the charges of 33 counts of consecutive homicide and deliberate incitement of mass panic have been levied against you.” She said it as if it was nothing. As if this was just procedure.

“As Captain Ace Molder is deemed the instigator, later counts of homicide in the ensuing disorder, accidental or with intent, or whether at the hooves of Enclave military personnel or civil rioting, are to be added to the charges. Due to the high-profile nature of this indictment, article 24 has been invoked. The commander of the units operating during the mission will be designated a provisional judge for the case’s duration. Two council members will be presiding over the trial, pursuant to the Enclave’s uniform code of military justice. All such accusations, evidence, and investigation towards the concurrent case can be located in priority case log: 222. The respective participants will now state their name and rank.”

I was stunned into silence. No words could describe how fucked I was. A single thought ran through my head: sleaze. Mrs. Intel was a sleaze, a liar, a bitch, and any insult I could find to throw at her and wish I was telepathic. She was sitting next to the stallion responsible for all of this and droned on about how, in bureaucratic terms, absolutely Celestia damned, Luna-fucked stars-screwed I was. I thought I detected the hint of a smirk on her lips.

They sounded off.

“Judge; Major General Forthright, Enclave Regional Aerospace Defense .”

“Presiding first council member; Stormfront.”

“Presiding second council member; Intel.”

Stormfront said, “We will hear the testimony of those that came forward.” Yeah, as if Shock chose to come forward. You could see it in his eyes. He looked at me with this pleading, sorrowful stare that said everything yet nothing at all. He was as scared as a colt learning to fly. “We will first hear from the mare. Please state your name.”

Gale stood and went through the whole name and rank thing. She told them everything, about her protest of the mission and knowing something was going to go wrong. The premise was too absurd to even consider. How I ignored her. How I had ordered her unfit for duty. How she was barred from the operation.

The welling slew of emotions cooled. She sounded genuinely honest. Not malicious, not cruel, nor taking pleasure in watching me squirm. You could see it in her eyes. She believed every word she was saying, and her ardent pursuit reflected in her voice. By the time she sat down, exhausted of all answers and unable to say anything more of value, she seemed satisfied. I had expected my disgust of her to burn my throat, but instead, in its place was choking despair. For her sake, I hope she never learned the truth.

“Please state your name clearly, second testifier.”

Shock was up to the plate. He looked lost; gazed at the table blankly.

“Lieutenant,” Forthright said. I fixed him with a glare. Fuck this dude.

Gale nudged him. Shock jolted, startled, “Huh, oh uh yeah, e’right.” He stood, but it lacked vivacity. Strands of mane swept across his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, or preened his feathers, or washed. It was like someone had loaded him up with a spiker then left him to drop. I imagined that if I stepped closer, I’d be able to smell the alcohol on his tongue, judging from the way Mrs. Intel’s nose wrinkled. “Ah’m, uh.” He collected himself or tried to at least, “This is, Lieutenant Shock bolt of tha’ 6th armored cavalry corp.”

“Good, now please recount the story you told us.” The councilmare had regained her composure. She waited expectantly.

He was a drunk in the carriage lights.

When his attention held on me, pleading silently for something, anything to fix this, I could do nothing but observe. I realized then that I wasn’t getting out of this. Not if I wanted him spared the anguish. I mean, I knew before, yeah, but it was like when Major dropped the news of the court-martial. There's a difference between knowing and recognizing.

Shock began to speak a lie.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. We appreciate your honesty and time. Your sense of justice and dedication to the truth is admirable,” Mrs. Intel said when he had finished. It was rubbing salt in the wound and sand in the eyes. It made my blood boil.

My friend nodded, stiff and shaky. He sat.

Stormfront clapped his hooves on the conference table. “Now, with the testimonies complete, and the evidence supplied and presented in priority case log: 222–all judiciaries will now indicate the status of their examination,” they each said ‘Aye’ “–then with confirmation, we will now adjourn briefly for a recess, followed by a deliberation. That is unless the accused would like a moment to defend themselves.”

The smirk that’d been slowly lifting itself along Forthright’s muzzle broke. Mrs. Intel was more reserved, but the way she shifted, an ear twitching, a flash of something dangerous along the contours of her face, this was news to her.

She started, “Councilstallion Stormfront, you are aware tha-”

“Yes, Intel, I am.” He didn’t turn to acknowledge her; he kept his focus on me. I took note of the lack of formality. “But procedure dictates, even in the event of a high-security case, the defendant may choose to argue against the charges.”

I considered it. I thought I’d be sitting here listening to ponies speak about my non-existent crimes and be spared any chance of justice. Sure, I could’ve spoken up, but then it’d be more ammunition for them to use in whatever deceitful tape they were probably recording. I suspected it wasn’t a coincidence my ‘judges’ sat below the cameras.

"Yes, sir, I would like to contest." I didn’t want to hurt Shock, but I needed some way to guarantee Thunder would be okay. I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do, but I’d always been a sucker for quick thinking.

“All right, we will recess then hear your defense.” Forthright and Stormfront stood, the former red in the face. The latter began to usher Shock and Force out. There was a fleeting glance my way before my squadmate disappeared through the door.

Mrs. Intel stretched her neck and raised a hoof to trace a circle in the air. The red light beneath the cameras cut. The souped-up pony-in-a-cans filed out without a word.

It was just the councilmare and I. The puzzles of my batshit plan were crammed together helter-skelter. My hand was bad, real bad, but Stormfront had unwittingly dealt me another card. It was shit, but half the skill in poker was psychological. Fake it until you make it, baby! I just had to find a way to spice up the pot, give her the win without losing Shock or Thunder.

I made the first bet. “Stormfront doesn’t know the truth, does he?”

She studied me.

“The only reason you’re not dead and incinerated is because of your mother. She pulled all her little spider strings together to make her web.”

“So he’s an old friend?”

It had become a stand-off, “She knew it was inevitable yet she did it anyway.”

“So, what? Cooked this up from the start? Didn’t expect the wildcard?” No plan survived first contact with the enemy, another soldier’s saying.

“Oh. No, this was the General’s fuck-up, impressive as seconds go, considering the magnitude of his first. I just happened to catch his messy way of trying to clean things up. Then I found you tangled in this web.”
Bingo. I had found purchase, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trying to entice me. I was wary of time. Any moment they could return, and out the window went my plan. Curiosity had a hell of a bite, though. I had to risk it. ”And what would the first be?”

She smiled. It was detached. The light never had the chance to reach her eyes. “He oversees E.R.A.D. You’re a smart buck. You connect the dots.”

I squinted, confused. ERAD was responsible for the defense of Grand Pegasus, but what did tha- “No way.” In the span of a single statement, everything slid into place. Forthright’s dogged compulsion, the reason I’d been framed, why I was so important in taking down Thunder, The Enclave’s biggest boon had been stolen right under Forthright’s snout. This wasn’t a power play, he was scrambling, trying for anything to fix his mistake.

“Ah, so you do know.” It wasn’t a question.

In my surprise, I’d let the act drop. I’d inadvertently confirmed I knew about the SPP crisis. It bolstered her hand, and she acted on it without pause, “Just how exactly did you learn that? Was it from a certain Lieutenant-colonel? I’ve heard the general has identified him as a prime suspect.”

The rope tightened. A growl rumbled in my throat, and fury flashed bright like lightning. I held myself still. “Be careful with what you say next.”

She waved her wing at me as if I was being blasé.

“The general and I have a mutual goal, though he’s going about it somewhat…” she paused, whether for effect or to find the word I didn’t know, “...unconventionally.”

“He’s jeopardized the whole of the Enclave!”

She cocked her head and pinned me with this soft gaze. It was like I was a little foal who was so close to understanding the bigger picture. Amusement assaulted her lips. I heard condescension, inexplicably saw pity. “Oh, Ace,” her voice was soft. She shook her head so slowly.

If only you knew, her eyes said. “He’s a means to an end.”

An end that had been gathering since my father jumped ship.

“I’ll spill my guts to your partner.”

That gave her pause. She regarded me. “And what do you think that would do? He’s not liable to believe you.”

“I don’t need him to. If I tell my side of the story, you think he won’t pursue those leads out of procedure? You hadn’t expected him to offer an ear to my side of the story. Do you really want to risk it?”

There was no retort, and I filled the interim with reasoning to seal the play. Luna-damn was this bluff dangerous. One slip up and I was fucked. “Every day after will be one step closer to the truth. You can't expect every pegasus to keep quiet. Something will come out. And if you kill me? Won’t that look suspicious? How many days do you think you’ll get before you’re found out?”

She was calculating, mulling over every option, considering the best way to come out on top. I could see the question on her face, the way she struggled to suppress a smile. There was a cliche there, desperately trying to remain hidden.

I grinned. “And if you think you can have your cake and eat it too, you’re dead wrong. Break the promise, and the very lieutenant who testified will be the one to reveal the web. You can't dispose of him if you want to share this ‘triumph of justice’ with the public. Mighty suspicious if something happens to the crown colt, the stallion of the hour, the one who brought down the big bad Ace.” There were so many holes she could poke her feathers through. They could frame Shock, doctor the footage, let Forthright fuck over Thunder anyway, and there’d be little I could do to assure otherwise. It was hope that held the strings tight. I wasn’t going to drop the act until I managed to drag a guarantee out of this.

There was a lick of admiration in her voice when she spoke, “I’m impressed, nephew, you’ve gotten cunning.”

If she expected me to preen at that, she was sorely mistaken.

“Thought you dropped that word after you fucked over your sister.”

“For old times sake.” She shrugged, “If you acquiesce, I’ll make sure your precious stallion stays safe. I recognize good points when I hear them.”

For Thunder’s sake, I prayed that was true.

Mrs. Intel clapped her hooves. The cameras flipped back on.

As if on cue, the door opened. The councilmare settled into her calm, poised demure. The others filed in, Shock and Gale missing.

The stallions sat, and Stormfront began where he left off, “Before the recess, the accused requested to argue against the charges. We will now give him the floor.”

I caught Mrs. Intel’s gaze. For a moment, I considered recanting my promise just to fuck with her. But I wasn’t going to risk it, not if it compromised our tenuous agreement. “I have nothing to say, sir.”

“You seemed to five minutes ago.” Stormfront raised a brow.

“I changed my mind, councilstallion, sir.”

He squinted and spent a silent moment of consideration.

“If…that is the case, then I suppose we’ll move on to sentencing.” He looked to Forthright, then to Mrs. Intel. “Considering nothing new has been presented, the general and I have reached a verdict. With your prior judgment, councilmare–provided you don’t have any new objections to it–the decision is unanimous.”

“And when would the date be?” She inquired politely

“Tomorrow, Mrs. Intel,” Forthright said. Her eyes fell upon him and he withered. Good, at least I knew she’d make him miserable as long as she held that ‘favor.’ There was a macabre satisfaction in that. A shame I wouldn’t be around to see it.

The councilmare turned. A thin, strained smile curled along the curve of her lips. It piqued at the edges. I knew the verdict before it even left her mouth.

"The acting jury and judges have seen fit to reach an undisputed verdict. Captain Ace Molder has been found guilty of all accusations leveled against him. This court has deemed his execution as recompense. Celestia bless the Enclave."

Footnote: Level up!

New Perk:
Cantankerous Compulsion – You just can't help but be mouthy! While in dialogue, you can choose to be more argumentative, uncooperative, or temperamental. Doing so may unlock particular paths and options previously inaccessible. However, be warned; some may want to shut you up!