The Stetson Is Being Contested
The nine mercenaries of Teufort held several beliefs in common, and the first said that everyone else on the team was at least a little bit crazy. Every last one of them believed that about all of the others and as long as the crazy stayed focused on the job at hand, they didn't really mind. When their collective occupation basically worked out to 'professional killer', it was nice to have eight other people around who understood.
They also understood that weapons maintenance was utterly vital, because the goal in firing a gun was to kill the opponent: having a rust-produced backfire take off your own limb defeated the purpose. Proper weapons maintenance was essential and on this particular quiet day, they had gathered in the central workspace to do a lot of it.
It was something every last person on the team could manage. They had varying backgrounds, educations, intelligence quotients, and degrees of literacy. But they understood their armaments and for some, that knowledge shot through mere rote memorization and embedded itself in the border wall of savant. Of course, when you were dealing with the man who insisted on being called Jane Doe, there was a certain need to preface that with the word 'idiot' -- but Jane could build a functional bazooka out of components which had been pulled out of the garbage. And had. And, given the shot deviation on the thing, which basically worked out to 'It will hit somewhere in front of me, unless it somehow goes straight up. Again,' really should have put them back.
Still, he was capable of the feat. There wasn't a single one of them who couldn't field-strip a weapon while under fire, in the dark and, in the case of Tavish, while drunk.
For weapons maintenance, it would be mildly drunk. Tavish arguably required a certain amount of alcohol just to survive: his body had found strange ways to wring actual nutrients out of the stuff, and he had been immensely disappointed upon trying his first slice of wine cake -- but he was still an explosives expert. So he sat quietly in one corner of the room, working behind a clear, blast-resistant plexiglass shield. And as he tinkered with the yields, he took care to imbibe nothing more than small sips from the ever-present bottle. It was just enough to take the edge off while leaving the fingers on.
Jeremy was bluing one of his scatterguns, and the concentration involved had the point of his tongue occasionally emerging from between tightened lips: there was a certain question as to whether the boy could spell or define 'oxidation', but he certainly knew how to pull it off -- although the fried chicken tended to leave some extra grease on the parts. By contrast, Mikhail had all of the vocabulary -- in Russian. It was possible to learn some of the language simply from watching him as he crooned over the small parts, because he believed that giving the brass-laced minigun known as Oksana a 'spa day' clearly included a need for audiotherapy.
The... 'man' in the full mask and fireproof clothing... it wasn't so much wondering about whether 'he' knew what 'he' was doing as questioning what 'he' thought was being done. But no matter what went on in that head, the result was expert maintenance on the flamethrowers: clean the tanks, check the seals, make sure no stray fluid was leaking anywhere. The pyro worked with focus which bordered on rapture, and only occasionally paused to let out a short, muffled laugh. It was the most chilling thing about 'him'.
Mick was replacing the bolt-action on the Classic. Another corner of the room had been claimed by a slim man in an expensive suit, who was carefully working a whetstone against the edge of his knife while making sure none of the little slivers got anywhere near his balaclava. And Dell had the teleporters out on a table, less than a meter away from each other, with both platforms steadily spinning.
He placed a wrench on top of the entrance portal. Waited for the recharge period to run out, watched the tool sparkle and flash just before it vanished, silently counted to himself, and then quietly nodded as the metal reappeared at the exit. The wrench was removed and placed on the table, just before he reached for a spare screwdriver. Just about anything would do for the tests, with a single grain-based exception.
Sparkle and flash. Count. Emergence. Repeat...
"Something wrong, Dell?" a German-accented voice inquired from about three feet away. "You've been checking that over for considerably more time than the usual. And since all of our lives essentially depend on having it work..."
Dell nodded, mostly to himself. And then he turned to face the older man, reassuring smile at the ready.
He liked Ludwig (while acknowledging, in silence, that the German was still insane). They were both men of science. It gave them a certain connection, along with things to talk about after Jeremy finally stopped trying to thrust comics into the discussion. And there was a mutual respect between them, which expressed itself in a very fundamental way: Ludwig didn't call him 'doctor' and in return, Dell never addressed him as anything else. The German had lost his actual medical license years ago, but -- some degrees were possessed by the soul.
Dell was almost sure Ludwig had a soul, although there was some question as to whether it was the original.
"No problems with the transport," Dell told the mercenary. "But the timing ain't right."
A portion of the strong jaw attempted to crease across the breadth of a frown and nearly made it. "Somewhat more specific, perhaps?"
Dell nodded. "Nothing's gotten lost, and I don't think it can be. Not yet, anyway. But anything I send through is taking just a little longer to reach the other end than it should." With a tiny sigh, "I ain't seeing that much drift. But I've got to fix it before it gets any worse."
"And 'worse' would mean...?" Ludwig checked.
"'Lost' might be an option," Dell admitted. "So is a lot of other stuff. Which means the time to get it fixed is now. But I can't run down where the problem is." The Texan indulged in a soft groan. "That's the thing about quantum tunneling, Doc. It's got this nasty habit of trying to dig off to the side."
It got him a head tilt.
"I'm not certain you've ever explained how these work," Ludwig noted.
"I know you've never talked about how the medigun pulls off its stuff," Dell politely countered.
"Yes, well, one of us can still legally turn up at a patent office," the miffed German noted. "Not that I don't trust you, Dell, but we've had issues with spies before."
The man in the balaclava looked up.
"Other than yourself," Ludwig clarified. The man nodded and went back to work.
"And that's why I don't want to talk about it too much," Dell said. "Not the science end. But if you want a metaphor --"
"Please."
"-- picture the world as a mine. Lots of shafts, plenty of empty spaces down there in the earth. And then someone goes and folds it up. Carefully. Do it slow enough and anyone inside might not even notice. But if you knew where the right wall was, you could punch a hole from one shaft to another."
Jane scraped a bit of dirt away from a metal boot. Then he rubbed harder and got the clinging fragment of skull to come off behind it.
Slowly, the German nodded. "And the issue?"
"It's still going from Point A to B. But the drift means it's passing through an extra shaft somewhere. Slows down the teleport. So I've got to get it back up to speed and make sure nothing's gonna drop out, because I don't know where that shaft is and fetching y'all back from it is going to be a pain."
"Or," their medic grinned, "a new and exciting practical problem."
"Ain't sure the team wants to sit around in a strange mine shaft waiting for me to solve it. Okay, next test. Doc, could you pass me another spanner? Thanks. All right. Delay's holding steady at two-point-six. Sending..."
The wrench sparkled. Flashed.
Two things happened. The first, which Dell needed some time to fully reconstruct after the distraction, was that the delay went all the way to two-point-seven. The second was having the wrench reappear in a flash which distributed more than double the usual amount of light around the room.
All activity froze. Nine people stopped what they were doing and looked towards the teleport exit, with eight frantically blinking until they could truly see again. (The pyro, who had to deal with the brightness of 'his' own flames, had installed optical protection.) And when their vision cleared...
"IT IS MINE!"
Half of a rocket launcher hit the tinkering station. Several small tools scattered before frantically-pounding feet, and big, grubby hands reached out to take possession of the treasure.
"Hey!" Jeremy shouted, already on his feet and looking as if he was about to sprint towards the target. "I wanted to look at that!"
"You CAN look at it!" Jane announced. "It will be on my head for your viewing pleasure!" And immediately jammed it into place atop the pot-metal helmet, where it made for a rather poor fit. "This is PERFECT for me! Imagine how jealous Merasmus will be when we see him again! All HE has is a skull! And one of the horns is broken! I have something PROPER!"
He grinned in advance triumph. Everyone else just stared at the new hat.
It was a pleasant medium shade of purple. The fabric looked soft -- a little too much so, because the point which ended the conical top sagged somewhat under its own minimal weight. The cloth was covered in stylized stars of all sizes, mostly in yellow and blue. The entire thing might have fit fairly well on the average head, but... helmet.
It was, in many ways, absolutely nothing special, and no one outside of the compound would have given it a second glance upon finding it in a shop window. Locating the thing upon someone's head would simply raise outsider questions as to why anyone felt the fairytale wizard look was a good idea.
For everyone else in the world, the chapéu, on its best day, might have represented nothing more than the topper part of a costume at a rather poor school play. But for the nine mercenaries of Teufort, it was a new hat.
One which Jane had just claimed.
Seven people briefly considered shooting him. (The eighth preferred a stab.) None of them actually did it. Allowing the thoughts was a good way to keep from acting on them and besides, it was everyone else who was crazy.
"Jane," Dell carefully began, "you mind if I look at that for a minute?"
"You have your OWN!" the addressed party loudly protested. "I can see it resting on the teleporter exit! I did not touch it because it is so clearly your style! This one is MINE --"
"-- I'll give it back," Dell promised. "Texan's word, Jane. Let me inspect it for about two minutes. You can stand right here and watch."
"Texan's word," Jane tried to thoughtfully consider. The man's brain, which wasn't used to that level of activity, valiantly attempted to keep up.
"I swear --"
"-- that's part of America, right?"
"...yeah."
"I MUST TRUST THE WORD OF A FELLOW AMERICAN!" Jane bellowed, and politely turned over the hat. "Right up until the CONSEQUENCES for LYING kick in! Two minutes!"
Dell looked it over. Ran his fingers across every surface, because a real engineer used all of his senses to solve a problem.
There wasn't all that much in the way of liner reinforcements. The wide brim needed more support. His best guess at the material was some sort of modified linen. And... one of the inner surfaces had an extra, shielding panel of material. Something which had been indented, as if something pointed and extremely dense had regularly been rubbing against the interior.
He pulled his bare hand back. Tiny strands of light blue fell away from his skin and drifted to the floor.
"Here you go, Jane," he said, and gave the hat back.
"With eight seconds left!" the other man happily noted. "A man of your WORD!"
"I may need to look at it again," Dell continued. "I'm not going to keep it. Just look it over."
"Promises about hats are IMPORTANT!"
"Sure are," the Texan agreed. "So is keeping everyone safe. The thing about that hat, Jane --"
But it was already back on top of the helmet.
"I am going to add it to my COLLECTION!" Jane announced. "So the time to look at it is now, because it is going away for a while! Until I wear it again tomorrow!"
He proudly strode out of the room. Eight people watched him leave.
Mikhail slowly shook his head. "Crazy," the Russian said. "Completely crazy."
"Mmmfff," the pyro agreed, and the group nodded. Jane was clearly crazy.
"Nutter," Mick passively observed. "We all know it, right?"
"I always say that!" Jeremy readily laughed.
"Yeah," Mick agreed. "But you say it because you like the sound of 'nutter'. Not because you know what it means."
The Boston kid stuck out his tongue. Mick's expression turned contemplative and slightly -- acquisitional.
"Nice hat, though."
They all nodded again.
The nine mercenaries held several beliefs in common. One of those common pieces of credence said that money was extremely important. It could be spent on weapon parts, ammo, fine silk ties, and sent home to family. But best of all, it could also be used to get hats.
They all had full collections of hats. Every piece was guarded zealously. You didn't touch another man's hat without permission. You always kept your eyes open for new hats. And since you had money, you turned a portion of it over to Teufort's haberdasher, because mastering the removal of organ juice from steel didn't necessarily mean you knew how to get it out of leather.
Every mercenary trusted the haberdasher implicitly. They received their wares by secured shipment, tipped handsomely, and collectively failed to see that their near-constant need to keep up their collections was about fifteen years away from creating the world's newest billionaire. Besides, it was worth it.
"Jane's right, though," Mick considered. "That other one's really more your style."
"Would look good on you," Mikhail grunted. "You'll keep it?"
"I'm at least gonna look it over for a while," Dell told them. "I'll let you boys know if I decide to let it go."
"Teleporters make hats now," Mikhail considered. "Dispensers don't even make hats. Teleporters are new favorite. You let Heavy know if more hats show up."
"Can do, boys."
Seven nodded and, with a studied lack of open attention, went back to their labors. Dell carefully reached out and lifted the other new arrival from the exit platform.
The second hat, in the long description, could be viewed as a modified Stetson. The crown was perfect. Pinches were precise. Someone had put in major work on the brim, the flange was textbook, and papers could have been written about the edge binding. The most major changes were a curved scoop of absence at the front of the brim, and a pair of odd points where pressure had left visible indentations: one on each side.
It was also perfectly maintained, ideally cleaned, possessed the faint equine scent which was the olfactory hallmark of a cowboy, and showed signs of near-constant care.
There was a word which could be used to describe the second hat, and it was 'loved'.
Ludwig carefully moved a little closer.
"Allow me to guess," the educated man softly requested. "You have concerns that your tunnel passed through an occupied mine shaft. This would be correct?"
"Could've just gone through a hat store somewhere," Dell's half-whisper tried to convince himself. "And if that's the case, we owe someone a wad of cash. Can't just take someone's hat, not unless you've beaten him fair and claimed the thing for your prize. So a hat store's the best case. But..."
"It's been used."
Dell ran his bare fingers along the inner lining. Tiny orange strands fell away. A longer yellow one drifted out.
"Almost guaranteed, unless it was in a thrift shop," the Texan said. "Maybe by someone who's dying their hair." Except that the texture on the strands didn't feel right. "But if the teleporter is picking up stuff in transit..."
"You'll solve it," Ludwig confidently declared, and clapped Dell on the shoulder. "We all have confidence in you, ja?"
"Yeah," the engineer grinned. "Just give me some time."
"And," the German added as he moved away, "perhaps don't fix it too quickly." With a quick, sharp laugh which was only two registers from the border of madness (and no one was certain about which side), "Free hats!"
Dell went back to work. Tinkering, failing to run down the exact cause of the drift problem, and... thinking.
Every member of the team loved their hats. In Ludwig's case, it was a love stronger than any respect for the sanctity of human life and with Jeremy, greater than the youngest's chance of spelling 'sanctity'.
People would do a lot for the right hat.
(The texture on the hairs still felt wrong.)
They might do even more to get one back.
Four days passed with no more than the usual number of killings, explosions, frags, stylistic headshots, and what the man in the balaclava swore had been a spinning staircase leap backstab leading into a masterful escape: Jeremy, who had the most frequent conflicts with that party, sarcastically congratulated him on having recovered so well in mid-trip.
Dell sent word to the haberdasher, quietly asking whether anything had vanished. The "No, Mr. Conagher," was sincere and implicitly trusted. You had to have faith in a man who worked with hats, or what could you believe in?
The hairs remained... strange. They didn't feel anything like human hair. But Dell didn't exactly specialize in the biological sciences, and Ludwig had often talked about the fast-growing frontier in DNA investigations. Several strands were turned over to the German, along with a request to report back on whatever he found.
Four days of the usual routine, during which Jane rocket-jumped all over the compound with the conical tip of his new hat flying out behind him, shouting and laughing and occasionally asking people how long it would be until October. With a hat this good, you wanted to show it off in a hurry.
The problem turned up on the fourth night.
There were all sorts of little isolated spaces around the compound. Shadowed corners, empty patches which didn't get covered by the closed-circuit cameras. The man in the balaclava insisted on having a few blind spots, because that was part of what allowed him to do his work. The others had pointed out that those in the same profession could also use the spots, and their ally had huffily declared that if that was the case, at least he would know where to look.
Perhaps it was coincidence which brought the two in within one of those uncovered areas, deep into the night in a place where neither human nor electric lens could see.
Perhaps.
There was a flash: one which didn't quite manage to reach a camera. And then there were two more entities in the compound.
They immediately backed into each other, tails almost intermeshing as the pair quickly looked around. Large green eyes examined the strange materials of the nearest wall: blue hooves carefully shifted on a too-smooth floor.
Each glanced at the other. Both nodded. They oriented to face the same direction, and the blue's horn ignited with light. Grey-tinged magenta flowed up from the base of the skull, surrounded the horn all the way to the tip, and then projected forward. Slowly, as if testing the air.
The glow flared slightly, and did so on the eastern side of the corona.
That mare focused. The bright patch faded. Another appeared on a different part of the horn. Then it moved. Up, down, left, right, seemingly at random.
The light blue frowned. Concentrated, and the steadier glow came back.
There was a soft neigh. This was answered by a nicker and what any listener might have decided was a rather impatient sort of whinny. Both trotted forward.
Neither spotted the infrared break-beam sensor and if they had, then it was safe to presume they wouldn't have known what it was: the technology was fairly new, and Dell wasn't quite ready to hand it over to the rest of the planet. But he found the act of home testing to be -- practical.
Most of the alarm went off inside the residential area.
Mercenaries had to get used to waking up in a hurry. The Administrator helped there. Because the voice which came from the loudspeakers was female, strident, authoritative, and just looking for an excuse to say something unkind about whoever was the last to get their boots on. Or hat. She hated it when they took too long to pick out hats. Women just didn't understand.
"Alert!" the unseen older woman called out. "Our base is being invaded by --"
Dell, who was already out of bed and had managed to pull on half a glove while sticking two fingers into the same fourchette, felt his mind register the pause. The Administrator didn't pause. She didn't hesitate. She gave orders and she issued paychecks. You didn't exactly want her to stall on either one.
"There are," the Administrator tried again, "a pair of -- I'm seeing two..."
And she stopped.
Completely.
Stopped.
Nine mercenaries collectively held their breath.
"Mr. Conagher," she finally said, "have you found any issues with the camera feeds?"
"No, ma'am," the Texan told the air.
"No distortions of image?"
"No, ma'am."
"And none of the Teufort children would climb into a two-rugrat costume and go around playing silly buggers."
The Texan paused.
"Ma'am?"
"I spent my summers in England years ago," the Administrator tightly declared. "Don't judge me. Oh, this cannot be right..."
"Ma'am," Dell finally said, "if our base is being invaded --"
"-- I am going to presume camera problems, Mr. Conagher. Certain -- distortions. Because the alternative is madness." Another horrible pause. "So, once I adjust for those distortions... our base is being invaded by two very small horses. Except that the colors are wrong, the proportions are off, and the eyes..."
One more stop.
"Animals got in," the Administrator included. "Somehow. They are moving towards you. Consider doing something about that."
"Yes, ma'am," Dell politely told The Source Of All Paychecks.
"And you may wish to hurry," she tensely added. "I don't like the look of the glow around the blue one's horn."
Dell blinked.
"The what now, ma'am?"
But the loudspeaker, whose operator had just stepped out for some very badly-needed tea, went silent.
The mercenaries gathered by the weapons lockers. Just about everyone had already sorted out their hat choice. Jane was still displaying the wizard topper, largely because he couldn't seem to understand that October was that far off.
"Horses," Jeremy said. "She woke us up for horses?"
"Do we know where they are in the compound?" Ludwig asked.
Dell quickly shook his head. "Administrator gets pretty much all of the camera feeds. She prefers it that way. I didn't see much of anything, and she's not answering my calls." Grumbling, "I'd like to know how they got over the border fencing."
"This could," the man in the balaclava considered, with French accent strengthened by annoyance and lack of sleep, "be an enemy scouting mission."
"I didn't do anything --"
"-- I said enemy, Jeremy."
"And what makes you think that?" Tavish half-roared: the Scot seldom woke up well. "Why would horses be the enemy?" Followed by, after a second of demolition-oriented drunken thought, "Unless someone's strapped a bunch of bloody bombs to the poor things and sent them in to get us. And anyone who'd do that to horses..."
Nine mercenaries instantly got angrier. Killing men was something you did for a living. Women... well, only if they were trying to kill you, and even then you looked for any other way out first. But it took a special kind of lunatic to hurt animals, and that was the kind of person who needed killing.
"I have some very interesting experimental techniques in development," Ludwig too-calmly declared. "And if we both discover that there is someone behind this and manage to bring them here, then Archimedes can watch."
Several people darkly nodded. And then they all looked at Dell.
He wasn't the leader. He probably should have been, because all of the others were at least a little crazy and he was... well, in his very expert opinion, he was fine. He could have been the leader -- but there were ways in which they didn't truly have one. They were a team.
None of them were looking for orders.
"Let me guess, boys," Dell told the group. "Because the Texan's gotta have horse experience, right?"
Eight people nodded, and collectively waited for a suggestion.
"Fine," he said. "But Spy said he thought it could be a scouting mission. Gonna need you to clear up what you meant."
The Frenchman politely nodded, then extracted the false cigarette case which served as the control center for his disguises.
"This allows me to simulate the appearance of another human," he reminded them. "It's not so much of a stretch to believe that one could be designed for appearing as a false horse."
"Mmmfff?"
"I am aware that they would be moving on all fours, Pyro," the Frenchman sniffed. "It is not something I would personally care to try for long. But there are situations in which it could prove useful."
"And," Dell carefully tried, "sending horses in here?"
"Testing," was the first part of the reply. "Malfunction. Poor choice of disguise." A rather loud sniff preceded "Or they are simply idiots. But there's also the possibility that the Administrator is, in fact, experiencing camera problems. Given the 'glowing horn' part."
"Or we could have wild horses," Tavish said. "Plus camera problems. Or she's drunk."
"The Administrator?" Jeremy laughed. "What makes you think she'd ever --"
"-- there are two experts on this team for seeing things which aren't there," Tavish snapped. "I'm the one who can give you details." A brown finger jabbed in the general direction of a fireproof mask. "Anyone want to get an opinion from 'him'?"
"Mmpfh?"
"'Her'. 'It'. It's early and alcohol wears off during the night. Don't ask me to be polite until I've gotten some breakfast."
Mick slowly shook his head.
"I don't know about the rest of you," the sniper told them, "but I'm not comfortable with shooting horses. It's one thing if they're carrying explosives and we have to drop them before they reach us, but... what kind of professional would go around killing horses?"
"A vet," Mikhail promptly answered. "But only when necessary. We do the same." He looked around at the others. "No lethal attacks, da? Not unless we see them carrying the boom."
"Done," Dell agreed. "Pick your loadouts carefully, boys -- and Spy, where are you going?"
"To do what Jeremy is not currently bothering with," the Frenchman tensely said. "Scouting. Let me find out what we're truly dealing with. I'll report back when I can."
He went to the weapons locker, extracted a yellow three-button watch with a crocodile-skin strap and put it on --
-- there was an odd shimmer. A fading. And then, for all visual purposes, there were eight people in the room.
"Horses on the base," Jeremy considered -- and the youthful face unexpectedly broke into a warm smile. "You know... we don't exactly have any pets around here. Not which belong to all of us."
"Maybe..." Tavish considered. "I had a few horses around the Keep when I was growing up. But they're a lot of work."
Jeremy wasn't quite listening. "Do you think Ms. Pauling likes horses?"
Dell was pretty sure that Ms. Pauling liked women -- but that was her decision and anyway, a polite Southern gentleman didn't discuss that sort of thing. "Ain't gonna find out unless we snag them. And we might have to return them to their farm. Let's fan out. Spread the group, cover as much of the base as we can." With open enthusiasm, "Time for a roundup, boys! And remember, if they're just animals, we keep it harmless!"
The remaining team members began to pick out their weapons for the night. Ludwig moved towards Dell.
"You're looking dapper," the Texan noted. "Most of the team's still pulling boots on and getting their contacts in."
"I was finishing the tests on those hairs," replied the German. "I should get a beep from the lap equipment when it's done. Interesting stuff, this DNA investigation. It may help me to correct for the little instabilities which arise from using mega baboon hearts." He pulled the crossbow out of his locker.
"Doc --"
"-- if they are equines who have been drugged into attacking," Ludwig said, "this may cleanse the poisons. I can turn off the identifying chip near the point: that will exclusively set the bolts to healing."
"No sourcing for parts," Dell told the German. It wasn't a joke. It could have been, but Ludwig was just a little bit crazy.
Ludwig sniffed. "If they are horses," the medical professional said, "then they are both incredibly durable and almost impossibly fragile. You know that, Dell. A horse can die from eating too quickly, too much, or consuming something they didn't have last week. What is there about a horse which could possibly benefit a man?"
The man in the balaclava had a name, and had also gone to some trouble in having it wiped from every last official record. In theory, it would be somewhat harder to issue a warrant for his arrest when no one was entirely sure who he was. The same could be said of court orders regarding child support, but the man paid his own way there. He'd even made sure that his son had a job.
He moved carefully, in short bursts with matching periods of stillness between them. The Frenchman had a choice of hypertech watches, none of which could render him invisible for very long -- if he was moving. With his current timepiece, standing still meant the camouflage effect was no longer burning power to update the cloaking image, and allowed it to recharge. He could approach, observe, retreat to a place where his radio communication would not be overheard, and then report back. It just had to take place in fits and starts.
Moving through shadowed corridors, taking one of his favorite flank routes while silently cursing the Administrator. It would have been helpful if the blasted woman had provided a hint as to where the horses -- or spies disguised as same -- in the latter case, he would absolutely need to get his hands on one of their kits --
-- the point was that he didn't know where they actually were. The Administrator's perpetual insistence on hogging both information and camera feeds came with consequences. And she hadn't come back to the loudspeakers.
(She was in her kitchen, investigating the restorative properties of tea when combined with sherry. Tavish would have approved.)
Carefully.
Keep the footsteps silent.
There were shadows up ahead. Quadrupedal shadows. And they were small --
-- the horn ignited again, and the Frenchman froze.
Impossible.
The orange mare was the larger of the two, and it didn't mean all that much. A little under four feet high at the shoulder. A pony. But she was a muscular specimen, with visible strength well-distributed across a sturdy body. There were rope loops around the gathered ends of her mane and tail: the latter kept lashing with poorly-hidden impatience, and the blonde mane didn't seem to be sitting properly. Something about the position of the long strands suggested they had never been meant for so much exposure.
The light blue (about six inches shorter) looked annoyed. The glowing horn kept testing the air: she turned her head, and the brightest patch of corona shifted to maintain orientation. Always facing in the same direction. Her streaked tail twitched, and the huge eyes narrowed.
She was also wearing a half-cape across her back. He was almost close enough to see the pattern.
The orange softly neighed. The light blue whinnied. Both moved in the direction of the brightest light patch and, coincidentally, towards him.
Judge carefully.
They have no weapons. No reason to suspect my presence. I am silent and invisible. They will pass within five feet, without contact.
...their eyes...
Large and bright. Far too large for a normal pony, and set in a head which had deviated significantly from the equine standard. And when it came to what that might say about the brain...
The orange nickered. This was answered by a sort of shuffling grunt. The quiet discussion went back and forth from there.
...they are talking.
Disguise error? I've certainly been in situations where I went into battle while wrapped in a shell which didn't have a head. If these are spies trying to simulate normal ponies, and their tech had an error...
No, that didn't make sense. Say they were using a version of his tech. They wouldn't be able to see their own disguise -- but they would be capable of seeing each other. Every man -- plus whatever the pyro was -- on the team used special contact lenses. To look at the Frenchman while he was disguised would show him in his natural state -- along with a mask which showed the face of whoever he was pretending to be. A mask which tended to display every error.
They would know that orange and light blue were the wrong colors for horses. That the skulls were completely off. They would have retreated. Seeking repairs.
And the way the ponies moved...
They carefully advanced. The unicorn -- it had a single horn: there was no other word available -- kept testing the air, and the glow maintained its directional signal. Neither seemed willing to take the lead for very long. The light blue was figuring out where to go, but the orange was guarding and making sure the path was clear. They, too, moved in fits and starts.
They move like quadrupeds. Natural ones. No human could maintain that posture for long. I would be seeing slips.
Closer now. They were still set to pass well away from him.
I...
He considered himself to be the sane one in the group. (Of course he was: look what he had to compare himself against.) But a sane man had to give rational consideration to the evidence of his senses.
...I don't think these are disguised humans.
I'm certain --
The orange stopped moving, and did so when she was roughly nine feet away.
Her head turned. Facing the spot where he was crouched. Green eyes displayed no recognition.
Not a sound...
And then an equine snout sniffed the air.
The eyes narrowed. Orange lips pulled back from white teeth, and a furious right forehoof scraped at the floor. The only warning signals he got in the split-second before the charge began.
"Oh, merde --"
Jeremy was not a particularly intelligent individual. There were subjects for which his brain was specialized: for example, he was a positive genius when it came to hurting people. (Ludwig had helpfully been advancing his studies with charts of the human nervous system, because knowing where to hit someone with a baseball bat could mean just as much as the bat itself.) But he was a city kid. He understood that crosswalks were suggestions, the Red Sox had been robbed of the world championship for nearly fifty years, and he could identify cats, dogs, and pigeons nine falls out of ten: aberrations like emus and borzoi still gave him trouble. Just about every other piece of wildlife outside of the rats-and-cockroaches families remained a mystery.
He, as the second person to come across the mares, was the sort of person who felt that orange and light blue were perfectly natural colors for horses. They had to be, because here you had two horses of exactly those hues and the only unnatural act was the one you couldn't do. If mares existed in those shades, then they were the proper colors for mares and he just hadn't seen them up until now. But here they were. Q.E.Somethingorother.
The shape of the heads, size of the eyes, and one glowing horn didn't bother him. Bulldogs were weirder. Chinese Cresteds were practically aliens, and suggested that a lot of people with really solid bats probably needed to do something about China.
The speedy youth did something very rare when he saw the mares. He came to a full stop in the co rridor, and simply looked at them.
"Gosh, you two are just freaking beautiful," he poetically expressed. "I bet Miss Pauling is going to love you. Because girls love horses. They taught us that in school." Thoughtfully, half-lost in reminiscence, "I think that might have been the very last thing I learned before I dropped out."
The mares were staring at him, doing so from about forty feet away. Plenty of distance for someone with Jeremy's reaction time.
"Okay," the Bostonian self-corrected. "Expelled. But seriously, man, if you've never wanted to break a gym teacher's kneecaps, then you've never had a gym teacher. And the bat was right there! I've still got it. Want to see?"
Four huge eyes blinked.
"Maybe once I've got you under control," Jeremy decided. "It's back at the supply locker anyway. So... let me think..."
It was a rare request for Jeremy to make from the universe. The entire cosmos paused, took a step back, and awaited the results with dread.
"Ropes, right?" he said. "I'm pretty sure you get horses to do what you want with ropes. It was in a movie. And you, the blonde -- wow, you just looked at me like you knew I was taking about you -- you've got rope on you! No explosives, so we don't have to do anything dumb. But the rope's right there! So all I have to do is run straight past you, grab it, then loop it around your mouth and then I can go for you, Bluey!" He grinned. "I'll be gentle! I always am when it's girls. So watch this, you two. For as long as you can, because I am the fastest thing in Teufort and you might never see me move --"
Dell's current goal was to see something moving, and that was why he was frantically trying to rewire the closed circuit controls.
The Administrator wanted nearly-full dominion over the cameras, and he accommodated her whenever he could: the pay was that good. But most encounters had the mercenaries knowing what they were up against. This might have been nothing more than some very lost horses-- but they also represented an unknown. He needed a visual. And it had half of his body under a complicated console, both arms nearly entangled in wiring. Lying on his back and trying to get it all fixed, and doing that instead of putting up a sentry, dispenser, or the still-not-straightened-out teleporter. He was hoping it wasn't a mistake. But Spy hadn't reported in, none of the others had tried an allcall...
Information was precious. And if they were under attack --
-- they couldn't be --
-- just horses --
-- his earpiece went off.
"...medic," the little speaker painfully groaned.
"Wrong merc, Jeremy," Dell patiently said, then swapped the connections on two cables. "Ludwig's on another line --"
"-- they're fast," the scout forced out. "How can a horse be faster than me?"
"That's what horses do, son," the Texan heroically explained. "Eat, fart, and gallop."
"They shouldn't be faster!" Jeremy snapped. "Four legs! That's twice the time to move all of them, right there! Listen, Dell! I just wanted to tie them up, so I went for the rope and the orange one kicked me!"
"Eat, fart, gallop, kick," Dell self-corrected. "I can teach you about 'bite' --"
The talented hands stopped moving.
"-- did you say 'orange'?" asked the engineer, and wrapped one of the world's finest minds in armor of concern.
"Yeah!"
"Horses ain't orange."
"Obviously they are," the Bostonian countered. "Because I had one here, and it kicked me. While being orange." The full groan made it through the speaker. "I think she broke my freaking kneecap. And she looked like she was enjoying it. How do you tame a horse out of kicking? Because I still think Ms. Pauling might like them, as long as I can make sure she doesn't get kicked. I sure can't tame that one out of being orange, any more than I can do anything about the horned one being blue --"
-- the hats --
A thought was trying to take shape in Dell's mind. He wouldn't let it. He was the sane one.
"Send the freaking doc to me, willya?" Jeremy painfully demanded. "Because it's gonna be a while before I can limp back on a freaking broken leg --"
-- the earpiece beeped again.
"Hang on, son," Dell said to the youth who was absolutely not his offspring and when it came to identifying the actual male parent, no one knew how to tell him. "Gotta take this." He tapped the side of the speaker. "Go ahead."
"Given the circumstances," a German accent declared, "I thought you would want to know that the lab equipment just beeped."
-- no.
It's too crazy --
"On the hairs?"
"Ja."
"So what are they?"
"One could say," Ludwig carefully stated, "that the base is equine."
"The... base..."
In tones of extreme caution, "There are certain -- rather extensive -- variations. Mutations, if you like. Variant evolution. I would need to see actual living cells to know more, or get a full specimen. Problems which may be on the verge of solving themselves."
Dell's eyes widened.
He was the sane one. He knew that for a fact, in the same way that all of the others knew it about themselves. They just happened to be wrong.
But you didn't solve practical problems without giving fair weight to all of the evidence.
Two more cables were swapped. Connections were rerouted, and then he went back to Jeremy's channel.
"Give me your exact location."
"You're sending the doc?"
"When I can," Dell promised. "But right now, I'm trying to get an eye on our guests. They can't be that far from you, even at the speed horses can move. Tell me where you are and I can try to check the cameras around you."
"Got it," the city boy said. "You know that one weird corner just before you hit the turbines?"
"By heart," the Texan declared, and thrust himself out from under the control panel. Scrambled to his feet as loose cables tried to ensnare his legs, did everything he could to operate rewired controls --
-- the first glimpse was of a passing horizontal back. Adjusting for a black-and-white picture suggested it could have been a light blue one.
It wasn't the first thing he truly saw. The shape of the heads, the obvious intelligence -- that got backburned for a few seconds.
He saw the cape.
He saw the patterns on the cape.
Designs which precisely matched those on Jane's newest treasure.
Mikhail hadn't expected to intercept the ponies. (At his size, much like his habit of viewing full-grown men as babies, he considered just about every horse to be a pony: this time, he was correct.) But non-lethal measures had been suggested -- by him -- and as much as he loved all of his flesh-shredding girls, it was rather hard to use a minigun non-lethally. So he'd reluctantly left them all behind.
The Russian was built like a bear, and had a good chance to outwrestle one. He was one of the strongest men in the world. But he wasn't currently carrying eighty-five pounds of minigun, plus an additional near hundred-weight of ammunition. It meant he'd moved somewhat faster than usual.
It occurred to him that the light blue pony, while visibly the weaker of the two, would probably be capable of doing more damage. The horn looked solid, and he was familiar with animals who charged into their attacks. The orange had noticeable physical power, but -- she was small.
Mikhail didn't have a lot of respect for small things. Men. Tiny cars. Books of less than five hundred pages with happy endings. All pointless, especially that last. A real man with a degree in Russian literature was in a position to know.
They were small and so if he was careful to keep an eye on them, they would be harmless.
They were also orange and blue, which meant they weren't quite natural. And Mikhail, in his time as a mercenary, had seen some things. Details which would have driven a lesser man crazy. Fortunately, he was the sane one. He just happened to be the sane one who was facing down a pair of ponies from about thirty feet away in a narrow corridor, while armed with a pair of holiday-themed warm mittens and a sandwich.
...they were the most non-lethal things he owned. He didn't want to hurt the mares. Even the pyro had gone out there with an experimental weapon: one which could do no more than offer up blasts of compressed air, although it was capable of managing considerably more of those than the usual.
"Cute," he declared. "You could almost be cute. Heavy can see that. Animator somewhere would probably love you. Whole film made. Maybe series for children."
They were silent. Orange fur rippled across the surface of some very real muscles.
"But this is where you stop," Mikhail informed the ponies. "Heavy stands in your path. No one gets past Heavy. If you try, I pick you up by scruff and hold you straight out from body. Helpless."
The one without the dark horn took a hoofstep forward, eyes narrowing. It was a challenge.
"Oh?" Mikhail laughed. "Testing yourself against Heavy? And you think you're the threat? Then Heavy takes care of other mare first! Not going to hurt, of course. Just neutralize --"
He took a step towards the light blue mare, who backed up just a little --
-- the orange shifted position. Got in front of the light blue, blocking. Guarding.
"Oh," Mikhail bemusedly noted. "Stupid friendship. Does not matter."
He moved forward. Raised a mitten-clad hand, reached out --
-- there was glow surrounding his arm.
It was magenta, tinged with grey. It sparkled here and there as it made the entire limb tingle.
He strained. He pushed. The matching glow around the now-lit horn flickered, wavered -- but did not vanish. And his arm refused to move.
"Oh," said a decidedly less bemused Russian. "Stupid magic..."
The orange charged.
She stopped just before reaching him. Reared up on her hind legs, slammed dense forehooves into his chest, and Mikhail staggered.
"Not bad!" Respecting your opponents was important -- when they deserved it. "Pony has some power! But Heavy is strong! Not so easy to --"
She dropped down again.
Spun.
The hind legs lashed out.
Mikhail had named his miniguns. It was the sensible thing to do. They were his girls. It was perfectly sane, especially when most of the mercenaries had nicknames for their favored weapons.
It still would have given him very little comfort to know that he'd just been dropped by Bucky McGillicuddy and Kicks McGee.
The sandwich fell out of his ammo vest. Light projected from the horn, picked it up, sorted through the layers, removed the meat, and then resealed the whole thing.
The mares split the spoils of war and trotted away, contentedly munching.
"Oh my God," the Texan breathed. "They want their hats back."
It might have been the best night of the masked figure's life.
The one who brought the flame lived in a world of bright colors and rainbows. There was happiness, laughter, and the occasional musical number. The purpose of existence was to take those who intended violence and show them how perfect everything could be, if they simply embraced the light. And because one had to be helpful, various tools allowed the offering of light. Bright, colorful, hot light.
The order had been given to seek out horses. The masked figure wasn't going to enlighten a horse. It wasn't sure horses were capable of understanding how beautiful the world could be, because it was intelligence which darkened existence and that meant a horse had to live in the ideal reality all the time. It might have been fun to be a horse, except that they couldn't really use the things which gifted the light.
But it searched, because that was what the others wanted. The masked figure liked to make friends happy.
It found the ponies.
It saw their bright colors.
Light ignited on the blue one's horn.
And the masked figure knew.
Carefully, it stopped moving. Took two steps back, then held up gloved hands and gestured. Asking for time and distance. The mares watched.
Gloves were removed. Anything faintly resembling a weapon was dropped, then kicked backwards out of reach. The masked figure peacefully sat on the floor of the corridor.
Then it took the mask off, lowered bare burn-scarred hands to its lap, and patiently watched.
The mares looked at the one who sat and waited. The blue tilted her head a little, and the orange nodded.
They both approached.
After a few seconds, they allowed those rough fingers to gently brush through warm fur, and did so as their snouts nuzzled the warped flesh of nose and cheeks. Doing so without fear.
They understood. They already knew about the light: in fact, the blue came with her own. There was nothing to teach, for they were part of the higher truth.
The figure got up. Carefully put everything back on, gathered up tools, and then nodded to the mares: follow me. They did.
After a little while, they found two more mercenaries. And that was when the night truly became magnificent.
Because the others could see them too.
Reports were coming in from all over the base.
"...Heavy will be all right," groaned the Russian. "With time. And Doctor. They have not reached Doctor?"
"Ludwig's with me."
"Hello!" called out a cheery German voice. "I will be on the way shortly! Just waiting to be sent out!"
And that hadn't happened because Dell didn't know where to dispatch medical assistance first. "I'm trying to find them on the cameras again. Last I saw, they were --" and the earpiece went off. "-- oh, dagnabbit! Hang on, Mikhail -- Tavish? Talk to me."
Speech ensued.
"Talk slower," the shaken Texan qualified. "Dear God, man, I know you can operate with the alcohol, but you've got to at least sound like you're making some sense --"
Clarity was offered.
"You were moving with Mick."
A rather wet assent crackled through the receiver.
"You both saw them. And it was supposed to be non-lethal, so Mick yelled 'Jarate!' and flung the fluid at them."
Irritation dripped into the control room.
"Mikhail just reported in. The blue one's light moves things. We could have magic on our hands again, or something weirder. Telekinesis, maybe. Listen, Tavish: they're after the hats. It's not right to just take another man's -- another mare's hat! We haven't beaten them fair and square! I'm trying to bring in Jane, but he's not answering again!" With half a mutter, "He took the rocket jumper. Completely non-lethal. Also lets him bounce around off the walls and ceiling as much as he likes. Might have forgotten what the mic was for after the fourth roof head hit --"
The speaker crackled.
"-- the unicorn didn't grab the jar," Dell slowly said. "The pyro used the airblast and reflected it back at you?"
"Do I need to bloody repeat myself?" the demolitions expert shouted. "They've joined up! Bloody pyro is leading them around by the nose! Noses! Snouts! And if they start doing more than pushing us into walls --"
"-- I'll get back to you, Tavish," Dell hurriedly declared. "Dry off, both of you come in when you can." Followed by cutting the connection, and looking directly at Ludwig.
"You are certain they want the hats," the medic checked.
It struck the Texan as a rather nonsensical question. "Doc -- what in every world which could ever exist is so important that two completely alien forms of life would chase it this far?"
"Hats," Ludwig promptly replied. "Point taken. Do you know where yours is?"
"Hers," Dell automatically corrected. "Based on the fur, it belongs to the orange. It's close. But Jane's got the blue's headgear, and I'm trying to get a bead on him. On everything. Wiring isn't letting me get more than two cameras up at a time, we're losing men, I lost track of the mares and now the pyro -- wait." The gloved hand hit the earpiece. "Tavish, where are you and Mick? Exactly. You're the latest report. I've got to know how close you two are."
The Scotsman answered, and Dell felt himself pale.
"That close," he said. "And if you're that close, then the three of them are -- oh, cripes..."
He cut the connection.
"Can't kill them," the Texan said. "Not when we're not being paid for it, and sure not when they're not making a real try to kill us. Not when it's about hats, and we've got theirs." He started to move. "I'm going to fetch the one I've got. Coming with?"
"Always, when you need me," Ludwig said. "This is refreshing! We so seldom get to work together in battle!"
"This ain't battle, Doc. This is trying to stop the fight before they get hurt." Or we get hurt worse.
"Understood." Thoughtfully, "Still... telekinesis. Or another source of magic, one more reliable than what Merasmus tends to scatter about. Perhaps something which does not randomly inflict tiny heads. And they are not animals -- well, only on the level that a human is also an animal. If I could get a sample -- or a specimen --"
"-- don't, Doc. Don't."
The German pouted. "Oh, very well. Peaceful resolution it is, then. Which shall include some very peaceful boredom. Do you think they're controlling the pyro's mind? Because a reasonable man would have to conclude that's worth a brain tissue sample. Via voluntary donation."
"Appealed to aesthetics, more like," Dell grumbled. "Pyro should come back to our side just as soon as we get theirs to leave."
They scrambled down corridors.
"Your personal hat storage?" Ludwig asked.
"Only place to keep it. Backpack doesn't have that much space."
"...do you hear hooves?"
"No."
"I swear I hear hooves approaching us," the German insisted. "Rather quickly --"
"-- I don't hear them," Dell snapped, "and you don't either."
He reached the marked door. Ludwig respectfully looked away as Dell negated a dozen security measures, but it was all details which took time and now the hooves were requiring that much more effort to ignore, he wrenched the door open and --
-- hats.
The stuff of life, or at least of high fashion. (Dell especially felt that way about the one which looked like the top half of a severed rabbit's cartoon skull, and only wore it on special occasions.)
Rows upon rows of hats. Shelf after shelf. A few of them glowed. Two appeared to be on heatless fire. One sang to itself, which was a perfectly sane thing for a hat to do. Dell had cracked open a lot of crates to get a hat that sane --
-- he went directly for the modified Stetson. Picked it up, held it, registered the perfection for what felt like the last time.
"I still have more than you," Ludwig noted as he entered the sacred temple.
"Some of us go more for quality than quantity."
"We are friends," the German generously said, "and so I forgive you for that. Also, you are American and have very little idea of when you are being rude -- oh, dear..."
The sounds of approaching hooves had stopped. There was no need for the noise to continue. Approaching ended when those who were moving reached their destination.
Both men turned.
The mares were in the doorway. The pyro was standing directly behind them, compression blast at the ready. And the orange pony was looking at the Stetson through narrow, angry green eyes.
It was easy for her to look at the hat, because Dell had turned to look at her. It was being held directly in front of his chest.
"Ma'am," the Texan politely offered.
The squint of fury got narrower. The orange mare grunted, neighed, and scraped forehooves against the floor. At her side, the light blue's horn allowed the bright patch to wink out. Another appeared, then rotated until it was at the back of the spiraling cone.
"It was an accident," Dell tried to explain. "Some of my tech --" and stopped. "Reckon you don't care about the details."
The blonde tail lashed. Both mares stalked into the room, with the pyro close behind.
"Just know that I didn't mean to take it," the Texan told them. "Either of them. And... I apologize. We take our hats seriously around these parts. There's rules for claiming someone else's, and I broke them. By accident. But when I've got you here..."
The trio was fully in the storage room now. The new bright patch, as evidenced by the display of illumination on the blue mare's forehead, was bouncing around the back of the horn.
"Take it," Dell offered, and carefully held out the Stetson. "Just this one, mind you. Even if you take a fancy to the others. But this one's yours. Not mine. I've got no claim, no beef with you. We'll settle up, fetch your friend's hat --" and what would Jane do? "-- and then you can go home."
He needed them to go home. They'd already made the pyro act stranger than the usual. It was as if their mere presence could drive a man crazy.
The orange slowly moved forward. Stretched out her neck, moved her head forward, and delicately nipped the hat's brim. Dell let go, and a complicated flip placed the Stetson on her head. Strong ears locked against the sides, and of course that was where the pressure had come from.
"It looks good on you," the Texan sincerely said, because it did. Some people were just born to wear certain hats, and that now included 'some ponies'. Also, he'd finally found a woman who understood about hats: it was just that she happened to be a mare. "Now we just have to find --"
Humans froze. Pony ears rotated. The sound of the distant explosion echoed in the room.
Then there was the sound of a not-so-distant explosion.
"SCREAMING EAGLES!"
And then a blast-jumping Jane Doe flew through the door, landed on his feet, and pointed the orange-and-white striped harmless bazooka at a pair of mares who didn't know it wasn't capable of hurting anypony.
"I HAVE ARRIVED!" shouted their freeroamer, and did so as powerful pony muscles tensed and the corona around the horn doubled in brightness -- doing so at the same moment when the light blue's eyes widened, because she'd just seen what was jammed on top of the helmet. "ONCE AGAIN, IT WILL BE AMERICA WHICH SAVES --"
'Anypony', Dell found himself dazedly thinking. So as long as that word never pops into my head again, I'm probably okay --
Jane pointed the jumper's non-business end at the unicorn. Her light flared as her lips pulled back from her teeth in the surest sign of equine hostility, the projection of lumens was going right for him and if she didn't get there first, then the compression blast nozzle was coming up --
-- the rocket jumper, freshly dropped, clattered on the floor.
The mare's horn dimmed -- but did not lose all of the sparkling light. She simply looked at Jane, and waited.
"That is a very nice cape," Jane decided.
The blue mare nickered.
"It goes perfectly with my hat," said the self-assigned patriot. "A complete match."
The sound repeated, and was punctuated by a forehoof stomp. The orange lowered her head, getting ready to charge --
"-- because," Jane sadly finished, "it is actually your hat."
Slowly, carefully, the soldier knelt down. Big grubby hands reached up to the top of the helmet.
"There are rules for hats," Jane Doe declared. "And it looks better on you."
Gently, with utter tenderness, he placed the wizard's cone on the light blue mare's head.
The unicorn slowly nodded.
Both mares looked at each other. Then they glanced up at the pyro, who carefully knelt down to be closer to their level. Each nuzzled against the mask, and did so as their manes were gently stroked. And then, with their quest completed, they turned, trotted past a silently saluting Jane Doe, and went down the corridor. Moving out of sight.
They all heard the hoofsteps proceeding across the floor. Then there was a flash of light. And when they looked into the hallway, the mares were gone.
It was another weapons maintenance day. Ludwig had healed everyone's injuries. The pyro had been caught indulging in muffled whistle-songs for most of a week. Mikhail had declared his intent to learn how to ride horses, most likely in revenge. It was just a matter of finding a draft steed who could carry him.
"And," the Russian announced as he tinkered with Svetlana, "I have commissioned a new hat. With a horn, and flowing mane."
That got everyone's attention.
"Really?" Jeremy asked. "Why?"
"It will look good on me."
"Oh, come on. Even you can't be that stupid --"
"-- do you wish to argue?"
"Depends," Jeremy decided. "Are we doing it one on one? Because I'm kinda sick of having Svetlana dominate the conversation."
"Inspired by the ponies?" Jane asked, putting down the rag which had been blackened with bazooka backblast.
"Of course!"
"I think I miss them," the mercenary said. "They were interesting to have around. And I saw the magic." Paused. "Which means at least ONE of YOU went and LIED TO ME!"
"...lied?" Tavish asked. "It's bad enough to be barked at by an Administrator who doesn't know how to manage her hangover, but now you go and accuse us of lying?"
"How do you figure any of us lied?" Mick checked.
"The calendar! We only get magic in OCTOBER! I knew it wasn't that far off! And then it turned out that we were in October THE WHOLE TIME --"
"-- oh, Soldier," the Frenchman groaned. "Let us try this one more time..."
"Mpfmph?"
"No, pyro, I will not discuss your theories on time travel! So. This is a calendar --"
"-- dear god," Jane reverently whispered.
"It has more pages."
"No..."
The argument kicked into high gear. Dell, who was far too sane to get involved with that sort of thing, continued to tinker. Ludwig came over.
"Are the teleporters fixed?" the German asked.
"Yes and no."
"A little clarification, perhaps?"
"I can't seem to get the quantum tunnel straightened out," Dell reluctantly admitted. "But I saw the math on where it went the last time. Couldn't redirect to the original numbers. There's still some buzz in the fractals. But I at least managed to make sure it won't go near that last mine shaft again."
"So no more ponies," Ludwig considered. "Pity. I never did get anything more than some fresher shed tail hairs..."
"I'm still having a hard time believing that really happened," the Texan confessed. "It was like something out of a madman's dream."
"No," the German promptly disagreed. "It was not."
"And what makes you say that, Doc?"
"I've seen madness," Ludwig cheerfully admitted. "It's much less controlled! Until you get to know it and make it work for you. So the teleporters are functional, correct? The 'yes' part. But there's still some -- drift."
"Right. Pass me that wrench? Thanks. Let me try another cycle..."
The sending platform spun. Light sparkled. Flashed.
Then there was a wrench on the receiving end.
Along with two other things.
"THAT IS MI --"
"No one touch it!"
Jane halted the advance.
"Selfish," he decided, and went back to maintenance.
Engineer and medic stared at the receiving platform for a while.
"I just want to make sure of something," Dell finally said. "You're seeing that too, right?"
"A genuine Poet Fedora," Ludwig reverentially said. "Well-worn. It needs some repairs. Our usual haberdasher would be thrilled at the chance to take care of it." Paused. "I also see some hairs. Brown, curly. I'm almost certain they're human. Of course, if you want me to look --"
"-- and the other thing?"
"A scarf," the German promptly answered. "Overly long, and ridiculously so. Stripes of various colors. Almost rainbow-themed. Rather hideous, frankly. I appreciate the hat -- well, it's a real Poet: who wouldn't! But the scarf takes pride in its sheer degree of travesty. What are your plans, Dell?"
The Texan sighed.
"Clean them up," he said, gathering the items carefully into his arms. "And then get ready for a guest."
Ludwig tilted his head slightly to the right. The strong jaw attempted to project an aspect of careful thought.
"Really?" the doctor inquired. "Who?"
