Heirs of Chaos

Monsoon cannot get rid of the ghosts of the past. No fancy metaphor, his factor has gone out of control, and both of the ghosts he's previously summoned- Daring Do and Petunia- are stuck with him.

'So you can't even keep just one ghost either, huh?' Petunia mocks, 'I suppose this is what you get for not even giving me one moment with my son.' She tries, pointlessly, to slam Monsoon's antique tea kettle onto the ground, but her ghastly hoof barely stirs the heating water.

'I didn't ask for this either,' remarks Daring Do, 'There I was, exploring some tomb, when somepony with an odd, geometric cutie mark and that other weird mark shoved me into a spike pit- I can only hope my contingency reached Dash- but now I'm a ghost, and Monsoon can't even put my soul to rest. Honestly, you lived with him?'

Good grief, thinks Monsoon. He ignores the ghosts, walking past them to his stove, picking up the now whistling kettle. He fills two cups with the water, placing them on opposite sides of the nearby table.

Petunia's will gave the family house to Eventide, leaving Monsoon to move to a studio flat in the center of Lunavale. Even three years later, Monsoon still hasn't had the will to furnish it more than his redwood dining table. Not even his bed was more than a short frame and mattress.

He opens a cupboard, scanning through the tea blends, until he finds a tangerine and mango herbal tea, which he takes, and places a bag into one cup. He puts it back, and grabs a different blend without caring to look. Petunia looks over, curiously, as Monsoon sits down opposite the cup of herbal tea, placing the random bag in his own cup.

'Is somepony else coming?' asks Petunia, scornfully.

Monsoon lightly blows into his steaming cup, then looks up into her eyes, answering, 'I made it for you.'

Petunia gives him a slow blink. She waves a hoof at the tea, her ghastly foreleg passing through and stirring the water. 'Do I fucking look like I can drink this?' she retorts.

'It is symbolic,' Monsoon mutters, 'Good heavens, you've gotten an attitude ever since you died.' Monsoon picks up his tea, ignoring Daring's snickering. He waits for another snark from Petunia, but gags as his tongue reaches the liquid inside his cup. He nearly slams the cup onto the table, black tea spilling out. 'Eugh, I thought I tossed out all these shoddy Trottingham exports.'

Daring glances out the window. 'You've got a harbor right out there,' she suggests. Monsoon follows her gaze, informing,

'I am not interested in treason; that's a naval base.' From his top level flat, the coast lies in full view. Ironclad ships litter the port, their recent obsolescence overshadowed by sheer number. Lunavale is a dumping ground for old armament; though Canterlot assures the city that it is enough to deter any sort of griffin invasion, many still call it the legion of ten thousand toothpicks. Monsoon halts his survey as he notices a shadow over his windowsill. So that's what's going on, he thinks, It must be the work of an enemy ability, forcing out mine. Fuck, if East-Northeast Wind enters its range, this whole block would be torn apart.

'Is something the matter?' Daring asks.

'See a hot mare?' scoffs Petunia.

'There's somepony on the roof,' theorizes Monsoon, 'They're forcing my ability to manifest.' In response, Daring Do disappears into the ceiling, and Monsoon looks up at where she exited. 'What are- of course.' Daring returns promptly, recounting,

'Yep, there's someone right nasty looking up there. A diamond dog. He looked awfully fit. If you plan on taking him, you best be prepared to fight dirty.'

'I couldn't imagine him fighting any other way,' snarks Petunia.

'It isn't like I can just wait for Wind to take care of him,' notes Monsoon, 'I will need your help, though.' He is halfway out the door before Daring asks, confused,

'Umm, ghost here, what do you expect me to do? It's not like I can kick him.'

'I know that.' Monsoon gives a wry smile. 'He doesn't.' He trots up the stairwell, kicking open the door to the roof.

A heavy wind buffets Monsoon's fur, and the midday sun presses down on his back. The reported diamond dog, sitting on the ledge, engrossed in reading a magazine, doesn't notice him. Monsoon sizes up the dog, a mastiff who's certainly as buff as advertised. Complementing his canid muscles, the dog's fur is a wiry, tan coat. The mark on his shoulder glows clearly, matching Monsoon's. 'Oi, cur!' shouts Monsoon.

The mastiff leaps back onto the main part of the roof and carefully folds his magazine. He takes off a pair of reading glasses, revealing sunglasses underneath. He mutters, 'What a pain.'

'You may have forced out my ability,' states Monsoon, 'But can you control it? Specters, attack!' As soon as Monsoon calls, Daring Do and Petunia fly from the floor. Monsoon points a hoof at the diamond dog. 'Any last words, mongrel?'

'Hmm, unfortunately,' the dog states, 'Garm has to call your bluff.' As the ghosts zip towards Garm, he claps his paws together, and they disappear. 'Maybe Garm does have rather good control. Now you must fight as a warrior!'

'Ah, excuse me one second.' Monsoon rushes downstairs, and Garm presses a paw against the bridges of his snout, shrugging. He picks up his magazine, putting on his reading glasses as he examines a comic.

Monsoon returns, carrying his steaming kettle, which he tosses into the air before leaping and punting it at Garm. Garm expertly tosses the magazine away from the water, but is himself slammed by the kettle, its boiling contents drenching him. He trips on the edge of the roof, both pairs of glasses flying off, but he catches the edge with one paw.

Garm tries to get his other paw onto the ledge, but the winds force all his efforts onto keeping his grip secure. He feels the weight of the sunlight lessen as a great, dark cloud rolls in. The first drops of rain tell Garm that he needs to take action quickly, and he calls to his opponent, 'This downpour, Garm cannot keep a grip! A dishonorable death is far higher a price than master promises.'

Monsoon trots to the ledge Garm hangs from. 'This is the clearest setup for a trick,' notes Monsoon, 'And you're assuming I have a better nature to appeal to.' He places a hoof atop Garm's paw. A distant crack of lightning highlights the edges of Monsoon's form as he presses down. 'Lucky bastard, I really do have one. This master of yours I'm assuming wouldn't be interested in sacrificing such an asset as yourself.'

Monsoon crouches down, moving his hoof from Garm's paw, stretching towards the other. Garm takes hold of Monsoon, slowly dragging himself up, then plants his hind legs on the wall. 'Of course,' says Garm, 'You should have assumed she wouldn't let such an asset risk a fight without some extra tricks.'

Monsoon widens his eyes as Garm pulls him over the edge.