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.