Seven Meetings and a Warby BurgerFanManChaptersScene 4.5: FallScene 1: RationaleScene 2A: InvasionScene 2B: InvasionScene 3: VolleyScene 4: FallScene 5A: BreakScene 5B: BreakScene 6A: StormScene 6B: StormScene 4.5: FallSomething pushes at the edge of the Changeling's consciousness. That's... irritating. He doesn't want to wake up. It's warm here. "What's wrong, little one?" His brother stands across the street from him, nothing but warm concern in his gaze. A ball- the kind they threw back and forth for hours on end as nymphs- floats next to him, held aloft by shimmering blue magic. "I don't know," the Changeling replies truthfully. There's nothing to be upset about. It's an ordinary day. A beautiful one, even. Orange-red rays of sunlight cut through the cold, crisp air, brightly illuminating the hectic Vesalipolian street. Well-dressed changelings bustle by on their way to work, some stopping to buy a newspaper from the little corner shop, others grabbing warm coffees outside the bakery. It's just an ordinary, peaceful day. A single tear escapes the Changeling's eye. "I don't know," he repeats in a hoarse voice. "I think- I think I've done something wrong." The older brother tilts his head playfully. "You? You couldn't get into trouble if you tried." He reaches over to pat the Changeling. The Changeling backs away from his hoof. "I... didn't try." His brother picks up on his discomfort and switches to a more serious tone. "Well... when we do something wrong, we don't always mean it. Sometimes we just... act under pressure." "Someling else told me that." A distant memory pricks at him. "That was really long ago." "They gave you good advice." His brother stares into his eyes with a sudden intensity. "There's always a chance to make things right, little one. You just have to try." "I want to make things right," the Changeling sniffles. "I can try." His brother gives him a fanged grin. "Fine, then. Last chance." With a tremendous shake of the earth, the scene collapses around him, and the Changeling opens his bleary eyes to hell once more. "Half a liter of blood, just squeeze it till it's all in," someone barks in Equestrian language. From the mildly melodic voice, it's clearly a pony. "I need him alive." "And going too fast will kill him," another voice responds calmly. A changeling. "We've bandaged the wound, we can take our time." A dark figure shifts in the Changeling's vision. As the water clears from his eyes, it steadily resolves itself into a very, very familiar face. "Are you dead too, Captain?" he asks wearily. He feels numb all over. "Or is this my deus ex machina?" Aspen's eyes widen in shock. "Little one? That's- you looked so different..." "What's he saying, changeling? Is he on The List?" A white-furred unicorn stands behind Aspen, shifting around nervously. He clearly can't understand changeling language. The unicorn is ignored by Aspen. "What happened to you, little one? Who did this?" He sounds almost outraged. The Changeling never saw him this worked up during all their years of service together. "Topaz," the Changeling spits out. He feels immediately guilty for opening with such a harsh tone, and tries to change the subject. "We just got the news. Is it true? Is the Queen dead?" Aspen unscrews a blood tube attached to the Changeling's neck. "Yes. Most of the military has already surrendered or defected to Thoraxian command. Now tell me, what happened? Where's Topaz?" "Hey! Changeling! What are you two talking about?" the unicorn butts in with a vicious tone. The Changeling recoils from him, inching closer to Aspen. "I'm just asking him how he get there," Aspen explains matter-of-factly in Equestrian language. "Might as well have a chat while he recovers, before we... go ahead with your plan." The unicorn huffs and steps back, returning to rifling through a medical bag. "What plan, Aspen?" The Changeling is suddenly alert now that the elation of being saved has worn off. The whole situation feels strange- the presence of the unicorn, Aspen's sudden arrival. He hasn't heard from the Captain in nearly three years. From what he knows, Aspen was reassigned to the deadly Northern Front, where frequent hit-and-run yak raids as well as horrible weapons of war from the Crystal Empire turned each battle into a bloodbath. "Why did you stop writing to us?" "What happened to you?" Aspen asks again, pretending not to hear him. "Who are the 'Thoraxians', Aspen? Why are you with a pony?" Aspen hesitates. At last, he seems to cave in to the Changeling's barrage of questions. "You know of Thorax, little one?" The Changeling thinks on that, vaguely recalling the name from before the war. "The harmonist traitor? Didn't he flee to Equestria at the start of the invasion?" "He's the Supreme Commander of the harmonist military now, and they're crowning him king of the new changeling nation as soon as we take Vesalipolis. I joined them last year. I'm on a joint mission with the Equestrian military," Aspen deadpans. The Changeling's head spins. He's barely heard of Thorax, and remembers him only as a shy political activist who sometimes gave anti-war speeches over the radio. Now he's a general? Their future king? Even harder to wrap his head around is Aspen, of all changelings, being a defector. The former Captain wasn't a fanatic for the Queen, but he never raised any complaints about the government either, beyond the odd rant over supplies and bureaucratic mishaps. A lot must have happened in the couple of years since they last saw each other. "Now, tell me what Topaz did to you," Aspen demands firmly, his expression making it clear that there's no room for half-answers or delays. "Is he still around?" The Changeling licks a fang. "I... we got the news this morning, about the Queen, while we were waiting here to ambush the Equestrian advance. I wanted us to retreat and wait for orders. Topaz wanted to go ahead with the attack." He can feel the heavy rifle in his hooves, sharp bayonet glinting dangerously in the light. "It got heated. We fought." "And you won?" "I caught him by surprise." He can see the confusion on Topaz's face morphing into rage, and see his eyes pale as the life drains away from him. "He had a surprise for me, too, it turns out." The Changeling motions to his bandaged wound. "Topaz would never have gone down... so easily. I think I'd be dead right now if you didn't show up." He grins up at Aspen. "It's a miracle." "A miracle," Aspen mutters. He pauses, as if considering something, before continuing uncertainly, "Little one, what do you know about the Loyalist attack?" "Loyalist?" "That's what we're calling the remnants of the military." The Changeling sifts through his foggy mind, trying to piece together odd fragments of radio transmissions and recent letters from his brother. "Our intelligence says the Equestrians are bringing in some important convoy once they secure the city... they're preparing a large force to ambush it, I think. My brother's with them." Aspen nods grimly. "We know that much. The convoy is carrying some of our top generals, that's true, but it's actually a trap. We're going to obliterate the Loyalists when they strike, tomorrow evening. This is top-secret stuff." "What?" He gapes at Aspen. "But- my brother..." "I have to ask you this, little one." Aspen's voice is tight. Obscured by the smog, his visage suddenly seems like that of a predator waiting to strike. "Whose side are you on? Ours, or theirs? You must choose." The Changeling shakes his head even before Aspen is done speaking. He already knows the answer. "I'm done taking sides. I just want to find my brother, and get out of here. I don't want anything to do with this." The words come naturally to him. He feels suddenly emboldened. "I won't help you fight the Loyalists, Captain. I'm done." There's a pause as Aspen seems to absorb the Changeling's words, eyes slightly wide in surprise. He slowly nods and hangs his head. "I must apologise. I forgot how naive you were. I forgot there were still good changelings like you. But..." He speaks in a near whisper, not meeting the Changeling's eyes. "You're on The List. I can't do anything about that." With a hollow laugh, the Changeling replies, "I'm not a good changeling. You're a good changeling, Captain. You were always fighting for us. I'm just running away." He's not sure what Aspen means by 'The List'. "I hope you're done over there. We need to do this before Rhythm calls in civil defence." The unicorn levitates an innocently small needle in the air. "I think I've got the quantity right. I'm ready." "What's that, Aspen? Is it a medicine?" He hopes it's a painkiller. The aching pain in his abdomen still won't go away. Aspen looks up, mouth slightly agape. A dozen different emotions flick across his face. He looks between the Changeling, the unicorn, the needle, and finally, almost reluctantly, back to the Changeling. The war on his face resolves itself, settling into an intense determination. He inclines his head to the Changeling. "Stand up, Sergeant." Aspen's familiar, emotionless voice is back. "You might have to do some more running." The Changeling obeys, mildly confused. It takes some effort to bring himself to his hooves, but he feels a lot stronger than before. "Where are we running to?" "Hey, why's he getting up?" the unicorn shouts from the background. "Major?" "I wish I could explain, but... I just need you to gallop as fast as you can in that direction. Don't look back, don't stop until you're sure you're lost," Aspen instructs the Changeling hastily, barely stopping for breath. "Don't talk to any changeling, to any pony, to anyone, unless you absolutely have to. You're a medic, you can tend to your own wounds. Look for your brother and just go into hiding till all this is over" "What?" The Changeling is utterly lost. "Aren't you coming?" Aspen pulls him into an embrace. He returns it, shocked by this uncharacteristic display of emotion. "It will be over. Someday." "Major, what the hell are you doing?" The unicorn drops the medical bag and advances aggressively towards the pair. "Go, little one!" Aspen pushes the Changeling away. The unicorn reaches out to stop him, but is tackled to the ground by Aspen. The Changeling slowly backs away as they fight each other on the ground, simultaneously horrified and baffled. He turns and flees. The Changeling doesn't look back as the smog envelops him, guided forward only by the vague glow of the fire on either side. He has no idea what just happened, except for a vague notion that the unicorn meant some harm to him. Why else would Aspen turn on a fellow soldier? There is nothing to do but to think on this horrific idea as he bolts down the avenue. More violence, because of him. Why didn't he help Aspen? He didn't even consider the option, the possibility that he could do anything except run away. Even now, the Changeling doesn't turn back. Not because the Captain ordered him to escape, or out of his drive to save his brother. He's just scared. Eventually, the smoke begins to dissipate, giving way to a light smog that coats his vision in a thin grey filter. The rubbled husks lining the road gradually transition to shuttered apartments and stores, long abandoned by the fleeing Vesalipolians. The Changeling slows down to a steady march, painfully aware of his dirtying bandages. He distantly recalls this area from long before the war. His father worked here for a time, on the construction crew that installed the ornate electrical streetlights replacing the old gas ones. They are lifeless now, starved of power by the war. That same notion of isolation which gripped him earlier creeps up on him again. It isn't just the eerie emptiness of the streets. He repeatedly catches himself turning to ask Topaz for directions, to complain about his gnawing pain, to demand he stop hogging the water canteen. Years of Jaeger missions with his late comrade have ingrained the habits into him. Disturbing thoughts like these tear at him as the hours pass by. Listening to the direction that the booming of gunfire comes from, and using the most recent information he has on Loyalist positions, the Changeling can roughly gauge where the frontline is. He tries to stay as parallel to it as possible, keeping to a thin corridor of safety between the ensuing battle and the bulk of the advancing Equestrian military. Several times he's forced to hide in the shadows as military trucks speed noisily by, overflowing with heavily armed ponies. Their frequency only increases as the sun sets, giving the Changeling the uneasy impression the army is rapidly closing in. He has no doubts what any Equestrian soldier would do if they found a lone changeling in a tattered Jaeger uniform, far away from the keen eyes of higher officers or civilian watchdogs. After all, he's seen it happen in Vanhoover; packs of violence-hungry soldiers roaming the streets in that limbo where the law is dead, all are guilty, and justice is dealt at the end of a rifle. Not particularly eager to test his fears as the night closes in, the Changeling turns down a random back street and beelines towards the nearest front door. It's a large terraced house, looking no worse for wear from the war. He tries the handle to no avail. Casting a furtive glance around the street- it still feels wrong somehow, breaking into someling else's property- he aims his horn at the lock and focuses a sharp burst of energy at it. The metal bolt fizzles at the edges before falling to the ground with a clunk. The door gently swings open, revealing a tiny hallway. The Changeling quickly shuts the door behind him and wedges a coat hangar under the now boltless handle. At the very least, it'll slow down any unexpected visitors. He slowly creeps down the carpeted floor, guided through the darkness by the soft glow of his horn. The hallway opens up into a small, cozy lounge. Purple light illuminates a couple of sofas arranged around a central table, with an open doorway leading to what seems to be a kitchen. Framed pictures and even a portrait of the Queen fill the space between the doors lining the walls. The Changeling moves silently to the kitchen and opens a cabinet below the sink on instinct. Sure enough, a roll of cloth and bottles of strong alcohol sit cluttered around the plumbing, in the same place his own household kept them. Struggling to see in the darkness, he gingerly unties his filthy bandages and cranes his neck to observe the wound underneath. It's still covered in blood and ash. Whoever tended to him did an awful job. He opens the faucet. A trickle of muddy water sputters out deafeningly before ceasing altogether. He grimaces. The hard way it is. Locating a clean rag from the cabinet, he spills some alcohol over it. Biting down with his fangs, he dabs at the wound, ignoring the stinging pain as the cloth pulls away the largest clumps of dirt and dried blood. Without any water to clean the rest off, he tears off a section of bandage and wraps it back around the gash. His injury seen to, the Changeling hobbles over to the lounge. He hesitates at trying any of the other doors, glancing guiltily at one of the photos adorning the wall. A large group of changelings beam down at him, each making various silly poses to the camera. There's no family resemblance between most of them- changeling nymphs are raised away from their parents, after all- but they seem comfortable and at peace with each other. A clutch from the same nursery that decided to live together, perhaps. Who is he to disturb their home? Instead, the Changeling hops onto one of the couches and curls up there, resting his head on his forehooves. He puts out the light and lays staring into the dark, half-heartedly planning out the next morning in his mind. Strangely enough, the sounds of the battle outside seem to have mostly subsided. With luck, he'll be able to rest peacefully tonight. Tomorrow, though... tomorrow is uncertain. He has no idea how he'll slip past the military. He has no idea how to find the Loyalists and his brother- if he's still alive. He has no idea what to do. It's all starting to become too much, this uncertainty. Unsure of whether what he did was right, unsure of whether what he's doing is right, unsure of whether he'll do what's right. At least with the Jaegers, there was a goal, there was someling to tell you what to do, who knew what would happen whether you succeeded or failed, or a partner to take the fall with you. Now he's alone, and all the uncertainty rests on him. Should he have left Topaz alive? Helped Aspen, his Captain and comrade-in-arms? Picked a side, any side? Fled the other way down the street, to someplace no one would find him as he finally perished? Unable to bear it anymore, the Changeling finally breaks into hot, anguished tears. He has no idea. None at all. Here is a final chance, a path to the peaceful life he's wanted, granted in the blood of two changelings he still loves as comrades and family. And he has no idea if he's wasting it. At the end of the longest day ever, in the middle of a city that has been beaten and brutalized to silence, a bannerless changeling cries himself to sleep. "Traitor!" The Pony reels from Aspen's blow. As he watches on in shock, the injured Jaeger leaps off into the smog, quickly fading from sight. He can't believe what's happening. He can't believe Aspen would do this. But he is doing it, and one fact is undeniable. "Traitor," the Pony repeats in a growl. Aspen moves to blocks his path with a defensive stance. "There is no need to fight, pony. Let's just talk." The Pony yells and bounds forward, tackling Aspen to the ground. He's braced for the blow though, and throws the Pony back, leaving both of them lying dazed on the ground. Thinking quickly, the Pony levitates his rifle up from where it lies near Aspen. The changeling acts faster and kicks it away, out of the range of his magic. Seizing the opening, the Pony leaps ahead again. He aims a lethal forehoof at Aspen's neck. The strike is just barely dodged with a roll to the side. The changeling deftly climbs to his hooves to face the Pony. The two slowly circle around, watching each other warily. "Let's talk, pony. I have more experience than you. I'll win eventually," Aspen states. He's aloof as ever, no hint of boastfulness or pride in his voice. Just clear-cut facts. The Pony shakes his head in disbelief. "Talk? Talk? We're far past that." The rage, the outrage at being betrayed wells up inside him, filling his vision with red. "I trusted you, y'know. I thought you were one of the GOOD. FUCKING. CHANGELINGS," he screeches out, feinting another direct rush at Aspen. As the changeling prepares for his assault, he instead dodges past him and leaps for the gun. Too late, Aspen realizes what's happening and dives for cover. With some relish, the Pony lines up the crosshair with the changeling and pulls the trigger. Bang! A chunk of the street is thrown up as Aspen just barely makes it behind a pile of rubble, the blazing fire obscuring him from view. "Fuck," the Pony mutters, levitating the gun alongside him as he chases after Aspen. He spots the uniformed changeling slipping into a burning storefront, and quickly rushes to pursue. The scene inside is something straight from hell. An unbearable heat chokes the Pony, drenching his fur in sweat, as he navigates between rows of charred shelves. It's impossible to see through the thick, black smoke. "Hiding, are you, changeling?" he gasps out. "You're so wily and deceptive, aren't you?" He whips around as something moves at the edge of his vision. It's just a clump of paper, thrown about by the fiery air. Starting to feel uneasy, he forges onwards more cautiously. "Your kind is so eager to help us," the Pony continues more slowly, thinking over each word. "So willing to try and fix the tragedies of the past. And I was content with that, even though I shouldn't have been." The shelves open into a wider area, with large display racks that tilt precariously on their seared bases. "Because even if your apologies weren't sweet nothings..." He creeps towards a row of shelves, movement clearly audible from there. "And even if you backed up your promises of change with something, anything..." He stops at the edge of the shelf and stands up on his hind legs, grabbing the levitating gun from the air with his forehooves. "It wouldn't bring any of the lives back, would it?" With that, the Pony whips around the corner of the shelf, swinging his rifle expertly to aim down the aisle. There's nothing there. "No, it wouldn't," Aspen whispers to his right. Crack! A blow to the side of the head sends the Pony staggering backwards. Head ringing, he lifts the rifle and fires blindly into the smoke. The gunfire is greeted with a surprised yelp, and then deafening silence. The Pony throws his rifle to ground and stumbles towards the aisle. Aspen lays crumpled against the shelf, ventilating heavily. Suddenly exhausted from the oppressive heat, the Pony slides down to sit next to him. "I didn't think you would actually shoot me." Aspen chuckles, shaking his head in an exaggerated motion. "That was stupid. You already pulled the trigger earlier." "Why'd you do it, Aspen?" the Pony utters wearily. "Why'd you throw it all away for some worthless Jaeger?" Aspen stares upwards, muttering something in Changeling language. A prayer, perhaps. "Are you just that disloyal? Needed something else to betray?" he continues. "Disloyal? That was loyalty, there," Aspen heaves out. He turns to stare at the Pony, giving him a pained smile. "That was loyalty to my morals. To the world I want to build." Even through the ash clogging up the air, his eyes seem to glow with fiery conviction. "That was a good changeling, Major. That was a changeling who should live to see what peace looks like." The Pony shakes his head in disbelief. "Then he shouldn't have been a solider, yeah?" Aspen shrugs dismissively. "Life is not so simple. It sweeps you away, pulls you towards the center of the storm, no matter how hard you try to paddle in the other direction." "Oh, knock it off." He's starting to get tired of the changeling's flowery speeches. "You're a Loyalist, aren't you? That Jaeger had some important info you couldn't let slip. Shit, I was so stupid..." He buries his face in his hooves. "I really thought I could trust you." "I'm a Thoraxian, pony. Always was." Aspen grunts in pain. "Won't be for long, though." A glimmer of hope. He raises his head to look at Aspen. "Really? You were on my- our side?" The changeling reaches out feebly with a forehoof, gaze locked on something far in the distance. The Pony takes it, holding on to it firmly. He needs to know. "I- I must apologize. My nation, my peoples, have hurt yours. You're right... nothing will bring back the lives. Nothing will dig our comrades out of the- out of the earth," Aspen wheezes out. The Pony can feel his throat closing up. He thinks of Divine Sight, of Dream, of Fast Luck, of the hundreds of other soldiers he's watched die over his years of service. "But... we can save the lives that are left. We can protect these precious, precious people, and hold on to the hope that there are never any bodies to bury again." The agonized smile returns. "Like that changeling. If I stood by, and watched as you did those horrible things to him, I would be betraying that hope." The two sit in silence, listening to Aspen's raspy breathing and the crackle of fire around them. "Got a light?" "A light?" the Pony asks, befuddled. "Aren't we inhaling enough smoke already?" Both of them chuckle at that, the tension instantly dissipated. The Pony shakes his head. "Nah, I don't have any cigarettes. I don't smoke." "Shame. You think the medic- Algo Rhythm- has some?" "'Yes, Corporal, Major Aspen is dying, do you have a ciggie for him?' He doesn't strike me as one to smoke, anyways," the Pony replies. The mood suddenly turns sour again. Aspen sighs, running his hoof along the fin on the back of his head. "Shit. I really am going to die." His voice sends shivers down the Pony's spine. It is weak, hopeless, afraid. "I just wish-" Aspen's voice breaks. He draws air in a sob. "I just wish I could see my Kochite, one last time." He turns to the Pony. "Let me die under the open sky, Major. Not in this burning husk of a dwelling," he pleads. The Pony nods, silently getting to his hooves and supporting Aspen up. Together, they slowly hobble towards the entrance. Piles of ash crunch underhoof as they move past the smouldering shelves and burning piles of rubble, out into the blissfully cool air. "I'm letting you down now, OK?" the Pony informs Aspen as they reach the center of the street. No response. "Aspen?" He gently lowers the immobile changeling to the ground. "Who is Kochite, Aspen? Is that your wife?" The changeling stares up at the sky with dull eyes, not a sign of life in them. "Major!" somepony yells through the smog. Algo Rhythm comes bounding on the scene, rifle slung along his barrel, one forehoof desperately trying to keep a poorly-fitted helmet on. "I heard gunfire, did- holy shit, is that Major Aspen?" The Pony shuts his eyes tightly, trying to maintain his composure. The image of a dead changeling dances around in his vision. "What happened, sir?" This wasn't his fault. Ofcourse it wasn't. "By Celestia, he's dead. Oh my- Major? Major, talk to me." Was it his fault he followed protocol? His fault he saw an obvious threat, and disposed of it? No, it was that damn changeling who went and turned on him for an enemy soldier. For a Jaeger. Still, the Pony can show mercy. For a friend. "Are you alright, Major?" His eyes fly open. "Yes, I'm alright, Corporal," he snaps. "Go and call in civil defence, tell them we were ambushed by a sniper. Major Aspen was killed and I, luckily enough, managed to return fire and scare off the enemy soldier. Put out an alert for a dark grey changeling with purple eyes." The Pony considers for a moment. "No, scratch that, it's a fucking 'ling. Shapeshifting bastards. I don't want any soldiers interrupting the project, anyways... Just have civil defence collect the body and put out the fire." He blinks away some water leaking from his eyes. It must be all this ash in the air. "Yes, sir," Rhythm agrees in a subdued manner, no hint of his snarky attitude from earlier. Turning away to gather the medical supplies back into the bag, the Pony remarks over his shoulder, "Oh, and get a sheet over the body." "Yes sir!" Rhythm salutes and rushes off to the carry out the order, giving a wide berth to the corpse. The Pony nods back distractedly, already planning out the next course of action in his head. There are Jaegers to find, security to arrange, work to be done. And tomorrow, when the Loyalists finally shatter themselves on the Equestrian defenses, he will reap what has been sown. Scene 1: RationaleBlinding rays of light filter through wide, arched windows into the waiting room. Outside is a stunning view of the snow-capped mountain range stretching away from Upper Canterlot. The odd thin, misty cloud drifts lazily across the sky, breaking up the otherwise clear air. The pegasi swooping between them could be mistaken for birds at this distance. Real birds flick between the roofs of huge mansions more comparable to miniature castles than houses, complete with heavy stone walls and little streams forming mock moats. One such stream snakes around this very building. A gardener serenely clips at the hedges around it. Despite being a world capital, this part of Canterlot has seen none of the breakneck construction and industrialization projects littering every other major city. The skyline is made of brick and wood rather than concrete and steel, and the clip of hooves and trickle of water far overpowers the distant rumbling of automobiles and construction machinery. The Changeling in the waiting room pays no attention to these details. He sits wide-eyed on the floor in a shadowed corner of the room, clutching a thick piece of paper like a lifeline. His dress is a strange mix of Stalliongrad winter outfit and utilitarian changeling uniform; a heavy coat lies over a tie with a white shirt tucked into a thick pair of pants and a belt. A wallet is tied to one of the Changeling's front hooves. He carries nothing else. A pair of magazines lie on the table in the center of the room. The Changeling glances at them yearningly with his deep purple eyes, but restrains his curiosity. He instead simply waits patiently, idly listening to the quiet hubbub of laughter and shouted greetings filtering through the door to the corridor. Said door suddenly bursts open with a bang. The Changeling's head whips around to take in the source of this disturbance. A white-furred, silver-horned unicorn stands dramatically in the entrance. He looks around the little room, eyes flicking this way and that. After a moment, he sighs dejectedly. When his gaze lands on the Changeling, though, he perks up again. "Helloooo, mister changeling. What are you doing on the floor?" The words roll out of the pony's muzzle with a hint of amusement. The Changeling blinks. "Th- there was no space when I came here," he spills out in broken Equestrian. He realizes he must look foolish sprawled on the ground, and quickly shifts into one of the chairs under the windows. The Changeling squints against the sharp, unfiltered morning light. Here in the mountains the air is sweet and clear. There is no smog or mist to dilute the light like back in Vesalipolis. "I am waiting for the interview." The unicorn snickers. "What's that you're holding? Your résumé?" He sits next to the Changeling, reclining lavishly with no care for his now-crumpled fancy white cloak. "It is a note. From my brother," explains the Changeling. He sees no harm in making polite conversation- friendship, friendship!- and is glad to tell someone his story, at the very least. "Things are not good at home- at Vesalipolis. I came here to study at the University." The unicorn's smirk quickly fades into a frown. "You're here to be a student? I thought you were applying to join the staff and got lost or something." "No, no. I am going to study. I am going to learn about friendship and harmony," the Changeling replies proudly. He's travelled for months to get here. Despite the recent railway efforts, there is still no connection between Vraks and the Equestrian border. He had to travel on hoof along a dirt path while the main road was being torn up and widened to make room for the increasingly prevalent automobiles. And all that, only to reach a chaotic border where the Equestrian military was putting up fences and building roads to make their sovereignty absolutely clear after the failed changeling takeover of Canterlot. The unicorn's muzzle opens and closes with no words. Despite himself, the Changeling savours the unicorn's surprise. The unicorn finally finds something to say. He readopts his confident and slightly smug tone. "A changeling in the University of Friendship. Your kind aren't known for 'friendship and harmony', are they?" A bitter taste suddenly develops in the Changeling's mouth. "What do you mean, 'my kind'?" "I-" The unicorn shakes his head. "Nevermind." There's an awkward silence for a few seconds. The Changeling can't think of anything to say. He wants to make friends, yes, but he's not feeling inclined to chat with this strangely hostile unicorn. "So... where have you studied? What are your qualifications?" the unicorn restarts the conversation with a much warmer tone. The Changeling blinks hard again. "I- I am here to study. This will be my qualification. That is the job of the University of Friendship, no?" He chuckles. The pony laughs uncertainly with him. "Yeah, but this is a top Equestrian institution. They don't let just anyone in like they did in the School of Friendship days. Like"- he levitates a laminated paper from under his cloak- "here's what I've been doing for the past few years." The Changeling tentatively levitates the paper in front of his face and skims through it. 'Industrial Reform Committee', 'Junior Secretary to the Applied Magics Minister', and other such prestigious-sounding positions are listed. The Changeling is confused. He has come here to study, to learn the art of spreading friendship. What do fancy jobs and résumés have to do with friendship? He returns the paper. "I don't have any... 'qualifications', except my willingness to learn and the pull of harmony." The Changeling pauses, judging the unicorn's expression. He feels he is not getting his point across and continues more anxiously. "What you bring before the University is not about what you have learnt and what you have not, is it? It is simply a proof of your struggle to learn more. I have struggled. I have turned away from the path my parents took, and left what I loved to come here. You have struggled"- he nods at the paper- "and there is your proof." It still tears at him. Most of his nights these past few months have been spent sleepless, wondering about his family. The Changeling Lands are in chaos as competing factions fight to wrest control from Queen Chrysalis, and the Changeling cannot help but see bloody visions of faceless soldiers breaking into his home and doing ungodly things to his brethren. He thought that leaving would sedate the terror of being there, but all he's received is the terror of not knowing. He has struggled. The unicorn frowns, without malice. "But- if you're giving up on your home, and your family, you could do anything else. Why this?" "Why this...?" The Changeling isn't sure what he's referring to. "I mean, why not have an easy job? An easy life?" The bitter taste reappears. "We do not simply desire an easy life. I want to work hard for what I believe in." The Changeling thinks about what really draws him here. Why struggle? He has the answer. "I could have stayed in Vesalipolis, but I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living." The unicorn blinks uncomprehendingly. Once again, the Changeling feels that he doesn't understand. "Next!" comes a shout from inside the adjoining room. The Changeling stands up, staring at the unicorn. "Er... good luck, mister unicorn. I have a feeling we will see each other again. We could be friends." He offers peace. "I- yeah, good luck to you too. I wouldn't bet on the 'friends' part," the unicorn replies distantly. He is looking out the window, ignoring the Changeling. Declined. The Pony swaggers up the steps to the front door of the University of Friendship. His cloak billows out behind him in a dramatic fashion and his hooves create sharp clips on the stone. He's cool, he's confident, he's ready to take on the world. He doesn't particularly want to. Passing through the glass front doors, the Pony barely looks around the busy reception. He's already seen the magnificent sculpted chandelier hanging from the roof, seen the statues of the Elements, seen the important faces and busy hooves, seen the thought-provoking artwork adorning the walls that would speak to the very of a soul of a pony, if they have any. He knows his way around. He's getting late, though, and picks up the pace as he searches for the right door. The Pony finally locates it and stops outside. Takes a deep breath. This will be the first impression his potential classmates and, in the future, colleagues and business partners will have of him, he reminds himself. He strikes a dramatic pose, prepares his telekinesis and slams open the door. It bursts open with a bang. The Pony looks around an apparently empty room and sighs disappointedly. It seems every pony has already given their interview- or maybe not. From a shadowed corner of the room, two purple eyes glow curiously. The Pony can just barely make out the the little changeling laying like a cat in the corner. It lifts his mood up instantly. "Hellooooooo, mister changeling. What are you doing on the floor?" he purrs delightedly. He's never met a changeling before, but their reputation goes before them. Shapeshifting, devious monsters that recently tried to subtly overthrow the government in Canterlot and, failing that, launched a surprise invasion from hidden underground complexes around the city. So, to the Pony, it is the most fascinating species on Equus. The changeling blinks, startled by the Pony's entrance. "Th- there was not a space when I came." He suddenly scrambles to his hooves and sits down on one of the chairs. His face develops a slight tint of red. "I am waiting for the interview." The Pony snickers at that. This strangely-dressed changeling is lost. He knows the University is looking for a new lab assistant, and guesses the changeling has ended up in the wrong room. Poor thing. "What's that you're holding? Your résumé?" He sits next to the changeling, determined to keep him here as long as possible. The chances of him ever meeting a changeling again are slim. "It is a note. From my brother. Things are not good at home- at Vesalipolis," the changeling explains. Wherever that is. "I came here to study at the University." Baffling. "You're here to be a student?" the Pony blurts out. "I thought you were applying to join the staff and got lost or something," he elaborates, seeing confusion cross the changeling's face. "No, no. I am going to study. I am going to learn about friendship and harmony," the changeling explains with a fanged smile. His eyes seem to physically glow brighter with determination and passion for a moment. The Pony gapes at the changeling. So he really is serious. The Pony is disturbed to see the changeling's determined grin suddenly turn to an amused smirk, and rushes to make a comeback. "A changeling in the University of Friendship. Your kind aren't known for 'friendship and harmony', are they?" he responds in as neutral of a tone as possible. He'd love to know how a changeling, of all species, would end up wanting to study here. A pause. "What do you mean, 'my kind'?" the changeling responds in a suddenly frigid tone. The Pony realizes how that must have sounded to the changeling. "I didn't-" He catches the changeling's expression. Narrowed eyes, set muzzle... changeling or not, he recognizes the look from his time on the committee. It's that of a deeply insulted pony who won't stand for any pathetic excuses. The Pony shakes his head helplessly. "Nevermind." They both fall silent. The Pony looks around the room for some way to get out of this awkward situation, but... no, he wants to know why the changeling is here. He needs to know. "So... where have you studied? What are your qualifications?" he tries a more friendly tone. The changeling blinks at him. He's relieved to see the hostility has faded. "I- I'm here to study. This will be my qualification. That is the job of the University of Friendship, no?" The changeling laughs out loud as if he's made some joke. Trying to be polite, the Pony laughs too before trying to gently break reality to him. "Yeah, but this is a top Equestrian institution. They don't let just anyone in like they did in the School of Friendship days. Like"- he levitates a laminated paper from under his cloak- "here's what I've been doing in the past few years." It's a list of every job he's wasted his youth at. Months spent toiling away, day and night, slowly making friends and learning the ropes and settling in for once only for his parents to pull some strings and find him a supposedly better position halfway across the country. He knows the list by heart and can see exactly what the changeling is reading as if the paper was in front of him. 'Field Agent for the Industrial Reform Committee'. That's where he met a communist and a tsarist in the same room. He listened to them bicker every day till he loved it. He worked till he felt he was doing something, making some real change for Equestria. He felt pride and satisfaction when he went to tour and assess brand-new factories for the Committee. And then it was over. 'Junior Secretary to the Applied Magics Minister'. A dull, tedious job during the early months, stuck in an office in poverty-stricken Baltimare, till he met a mare and they felt they loved each other as young adults foolishly do. He'd never felt so alive. And then it was over. 'Imperial Servant'. A vague job title, and a vaguer job still. He did everything in the Crystal City from filling coffee cups to helping plan the railways that would tie the country together. Again, he suffered till his hooves bled and his back ached from long nights spent outside in the freezing cold, making sure work was getting done, and the moment he felt he had reached some stability, some contentment- it was over. Years of his youth that should have been spent building a life, reduced to words on a page. Every night he wishes nothing more than to have stood in place any one of those times and held on as firmly as he could, damn his parents or family expectations. The changeling returns the paper and takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a long monologue. "I don't have any... 'qualifications', except my willingness to learn and the pull of harmony." What is the changeling on about now? "What you bring before the University is not about what you have learnt and what you have not, is it? It is simply a proof of your struggle to learn more. I have struggled. I have turned away from the path my parents took, and left what I loved to come here. You have struggled"- he nods at the paper- "and there is your proof." The Pony frowns, trying his best to understand. This changeling hasn't come here out of some desire to escape, or live a good life. The University of Friendship is itself a struggle. Any other university in Canterlot could guarantee you an easy, well-paying job as a bureaucrat or an accountant from some noble. Why struggle for more struggling? He wants to know why. "But- if you're giving up on your home, and your family, you could do anything else. Why this?" He needs to know why. "Why this...?" "I mean, why not have an easy job? An easy life?" The Pony is almost desperate at this point. He feels this changeling has an answer he's been chasing for so long. "We do not simply desire an easy life. I want to work hard for what I believe in. I could have stayed in Vesalipolis, but I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living." Why? Why? The changeling still won't answer the question. He just gives the Pony a small smile of mild disappointment, or confusion. "Next!" comes a shout from the adjoining room. It is time for the changeling's interview. The Pony has no faith in the changeling making it into the school. The University looks for qualifications and scores, not one's passion for harmony. The Pony stares out the window. A gardener is carefully clipping hedges outside. Passion... is that why the changeling is here? Because he believes in a dream he can achieve? That is why. The Pony feels the sudden urge to stand up and declare it out loud, but the changeling has just said something. "Yeah, good luck to you too. I wouldn't bet on the 'friends' part," he replies distantly. One way or another, he won't be seeing the changeling again. He barely registers as the door to the adjoining room opens and shuts. Passion. The Pony has no passion for the University. He has no passion for wealth or titles. The changeling is here because he believes he can do something. The Pony is here because he believes there's no other choice, but that's not true. 'I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living.' What did he enjoy? Where did he feel alive? Where he got the chance to live, without his family's desires hanging over his head. He can seize it once again, can't he? Those months spent slowly lulling himself into a comfortable routine, getting to know his future colleagues and friends and lovers. This time, he'll do it free of the threat of it being suddenly ripped away again. There's nothing to fear. If this changeling could make it all the way to Equestria from whatever far-off land the changelings live, the Pony's own family certainly cannot stop him. Nothing can. He can go and live. The Pony's mind spins, giddy with possibilities. He stands up, looking around as if somepony might stop him. It can't be this easy. When nothing happens, he trots over to the door, and leaves behind an unwanted future. Author's Note There's the first chapter done! The second chapter should be published along with it, so feel free to continue reading. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy. FAQs: Q. You promised an Equestria at 'War' fic. Where's the war? A. Don't worry, your bloodshed and violence is on its way. Next chapter, please. Q. Is this just going to be two characters repeating the exact same events?? That's boring! A. Not at all. Next chapter, please. Q. Why are some things different between the perspectives? Is that a mistake? A. Nope, it's intentional. These are two different people who prioritize certain facts and diminish others. Ofcourse they'll recall events differently. Q. Hey, this reads a bit weirdly. Why is that? A. My apologies! English isn't my first language, and I'm still learning how to write stories. Tying together the narrative, characters, world, and themes is much harder than it seems. I'm open to any feedback and criticisms in the comments which could help me improve in the future. Q. Were roboponies involved in this? A. Nope! This fic is 100% written and proof-read by real ponies. (Real ponies could not fact-check this statement.) Scene 2A: InvasionBursts of tracers stream across the night sky. They meld with the fiery red of distant gunfire and explosions, illuminating the treeline with a ghastly red glow. The faint screaming of bullets and shells is drowned out by the planes roaring overhead as they chase each other through the sky in a backdrop of flak and smoke. An occasional burst of gunfire rattles from the fighters above, blending in with the chaotic orchestra of war. In the distance, pitch black clouds steadily encroach closer, flashes of lightning and booms of thunder indiscernible from the artificial show of light and sound. There will be no night sky tonight. Away from it all, in an occupied tavern on the edge of a normally quiet town, there is pure chaos as ponies try to prepare for the terror that has already consumed them. "The radio repeater is overloaded, sir!" Frequent Waves calls from behind the bar counter over the ruckus of the busy room. "I want a gun at every window! What the fuck are you doing on the radio?" barks their commander from a table in the center of the large room. By some unholy coincidence, the regular Captain of the small garrison is visiting the town, leaving Sergeant Fast Luck in his place to lead in his absence. "What do we do if we're attacked, sir? Are we allowed to fire back, sir? Without orders we can't-" "Shut the fuck up for two minutes! I don't see you at a window! And- Corporal, what are you doing with that table? You gonna fucking bludgeon the changelings to death?" Most of the soldiers present have been stationed here for months. Merely as a precaution against the minute possibility of a changeling invasion, they were assured. The town was just evacuated for 'safety reasons', they were assured. There would be no war, not in Equestria, they were assured. And now, on what should have been another silent night, their worst fears have come true. When artillery began firing and the planes buzzed overhead, the slow realization set into every pony; nothing would be the same again. Just a few measly trenches and a fence stand between them and the border to the Changeling Lands. Between these two dozen-or-so ponies and hell. "In case we need to block the door from the inside, Sergeant!" replies the Corporal in question. "Who's attacking us from the inside!?" Fast Luck screams with the incredulity of a drill instructor. "Our own damn stallions are up the stairs behind that, not 'lings. Window, window, find a window! And- hey, you, this isn't the time for a fucking drink!" The Pony calmly stacks bullets into magazines from his cover underneath a window, ignoring the chaos around him. Gone are his fancy coat, fashionable shirt, and lavish shoes. Here he wears the dull tan uniform of the Equestrian military, a simple steel helmet, and worn-out but clean boots. A single arrow adorns each of his shoulders. He enlisted to get away from it all, to go someplace even his overbearing family couldn't find him. He's spent the past couple of years just... whiling away the time. Doing menial tasks, chatting, sleeping, enjoying rare treats on his military pay. Living. The Pony isn't too concerned about the possible invasion. It's what he's been waiting for, after all. He's growing increasingly annoyed with the incessant mutterings and ramblings from the nearby ponies, though. Click. He slides another bullet into the clip. "Holy shit... holy shit... oh, god, no..." sobs the pony at the next window over, rifle abandoned at his side as he huddles in a ball. Private First Class Fragrant Flower. He used to grow plants behind the tavern. The flowers made for good tea. Click. "Our planes...? No, no, if those two are... those are enemy reinforcements... did something just move out there...?" A much younger pony incoherently mutters about the aerial battle to nopony in particular. Private Lengthy Tangent. His family thought military service would do him good, and packed him off to boot camp. Click. "Celestia give me strength and show me the way... may the Sun rise over this land and every other land and dispel the nightmares... Celestia give me strength and show me the way..." prays another under her breath. Like the Pony, she loads her ammunition with the practiced calm of a pony who has spent long nights mindlessly repeating the action. Private Divine Sight. She spent the free time between menial tasks meditating and preparing for war. The Pony engaged with her the most in the garrison, appreciating the quiet, calm atmosphere she exuded. Click. "Listen... if they come in here, you watch my back, yeah? You gonna watch my back?" Private Elegant Prose to Specialist Poetic Prose. The two brothers are separable only by their age and rank. Chick! The Pony sets aside the loaded magazine and picks up another empty one. He flinches as a nearby explosion sends rumbles through the building, throwing the magazine out of his hooves. The electrical lights flicker for a moment before returning to normal. The room falls silent as everypony waits for another explosion. It doesn't arrive. The only sound is that of the distant hum of gunfire and blasts, and planes buzzing past. "By Celestia, where was that?" shouts a soldier from across the room after a moment. Sergeant Fast Luck replies with a dark chuckle, "In the woods, I'd reckon. Must be our own artillery. Trust them to hit fuck all..." A faint shout erupts from upstairs. Everypony freezes in place as the distinct and clear sound of gunfire fills the building. "The windows! Look out the fucking windows, idiots!" Sergeant Fast Luck barks from his vantage point on the central table. The Pony, along with most of the soldiers, hesitantly complies and peers out into the dark. He rests his rifle on the window sill, head poking out above the frame only enough to see outside. It's empty field all the way to the thick forest nearby. A lonely grey road snakes past the tavern into the woods, and ahead, to the border. It seems like a natural place to defend, but the Pony has run the route back to the town enough times to know that it is a death trap should the enemy gain the advantage. Besides the tavern building itself, there's only a small shed they use to store the jeep and extra supplies. There's no cover all the way back to the town. He keeps his eyes on the treeline, ignoring the show of fire and flight in the sky. The storm has crept closer, much closer. The fire and brimstone below shades the clouds an eerie red. It only takes him a few moments to realize what's wrong. There is nothing to shoot at. There are no muzzle flashes and no dirt being thrown up by gunfire. There are no changeling soldiers or tanks approaching. What, then, are the ponies upstairs doing? For the first time tonight, a deep uneasiness settles on the Pony. It seems the rest of the soldiers have made the same conclusion. "Sir... they're not... they're not shooting outside...?" Poetic Prose announces uncertainly, just as the sound of gunfire ceases. The Pony looks to the Sergeant, leaving his gun at the window. Fast Luck's gung-ho, dismissive attitude seems to have finally worn off, and there is nothing but dead seriousness in his voice as he orders, "Frequent Waves, go upstairs. Yelp for help if you need it." Frequent Waves clambers over the bar counter to the door, rifle tucked under a wing. He pulls open the door. A bloodied earthpony in tattered uniform stumbles out. He desperately clutches a red cloth to his neck. His helmet is missing, his shirt is barely a rag, and his agonized eyes betray his pain. Deep scratches run down his chest, fur turned sticky with blood. "Help..." he gurgles weakly, reaching out to Frequent Waves for balance. Frequent Waves holds out a hoof. "Changeling!" barks Fast Luck. Frequent Waves understands. This could be a changeling, wearing the face and clothes of one of their comrades to get them to lower their guard. The hoof withdraws. Nopony dares to move, morbidly fascinated by the scene playing out in front of them. The earthpony stumbles forward and falls to the floor, wheezing in pain. A pool of blood coalesces on the floor, staining the dirty wooden planks. The Pony finally recognizes him. Corporal Deep Bass. He sang in the Equestrian National Choir, and still brought out his rusty voice to entertain the soldiers when they felt bored. As he lays bleeding on the floor, it occurs to the Pony that he will never sing again. He will never joke with them again. He will never talk about his late wife again, and his eyes will never shine with pride at pictures of his adult children again. A wave of terror rolls over the Pony. This is real. This is too real. He cannot process the bigger picture, the years of suffering and war to come, not now. It is out of his grasp. The bloodied pony on the floor, though? "Help me..." Deep Bass wheezes. With a tremble, his hoof reaches out to Frequent Waves, who simply stands there in shock. "By Celestia, help..." The terror curls up his chest and seizes his heart. "Help him!" shouts Divine Sight, rushing forward to assist. Changeling or not, the name of Celestia has been invoked, which the Pony knows is dear to Sight. Out of the corner of his eye, the Pony sees something shift in the shadows from the door Deep Bass came through. He and Fast Luck shout at the same time. "Stop!" "Sight!" Frequent Waves raises his rifle. "Grün!" "Feuern!" The Pony throws himself to the floor as a volley of bullets tears out from the shadows. Frequent Waves is ripped apart instantly, his body flung across the room into the wall. Divine Sight ducks for cover in front of the bar counter. Sergeant Fast Luck raises his rifle and fires twice through the doorway. He is forced to dive to the ground too, though, as bullets cut through the windows from outside and hit anypony unlucky enough to still be standing. The Pony lifts himself off the floor and tries to grab his rifle from the window, only to find himself staring directly at a black-uniformed changeling attempting to climb through, his own gun slung at his side. How is there a changeling here? They share a glance before simultaneously grappling for the rifle, desperately tugging on to it for dear life. The changeling hisses at the Pony, pure fury in his glowing green eyes. The Pony focuses his telekinesis and throws a nearby chair at the changeling. It crashes hard and pushes him out the window, onto the ground. He snatches back the rifle. Points it down, out the window. Pulls the trigger. With a sickening bang, the changeling's body jolts and he falls limp. The only thing on his face is surprise. There is no more fury. The Pony falls backwards and scoots back on his hind legs, gasping for air. He clutches the gun tightly to himself, looking around wildly. The room has descended into a chaotic melee. More black-suited changelings pour in through the windows, fighting tooth and nail with the desperate ponies still left standing. They bludgeon each other with whatever they can find; sharp or blunt. The heavy, unwieldly rifles are impossible to use here, and any sense of order or thought of strategy has been abandoned, every second spent trying to survive to the next. A small semi-circle of more level-headed soldiers has gathered around the door, rifles ready, but they don't dare to fire into the fray for fear of hitting any ponies. There's no other way out of the overrun tavern. The Pony takes a deep breath, straps the rifle to his barrel, and leaps to his hooves. He barrels as fast as he can around the edge of the room, stopping by Deep Bass to check on him. He lies still in a pool of blood, no longer breathing, eyes closed. A snarl erupts from the Pony's right. A sudden blow drives the air out of his lungs and flings him at a table. He lays crumpled against the table, stunned, as a sneering changeling stalks towards him. A green flash of fire, and a polar bear looms over the Pony. It stomps forwards, sending shockwaves through the floor with every step. The Pony tries to levitate his rifle. A weak purple glow surrounds it, and it shakily rises into the air. He can't focus. His head is pounding. He can't breathe. The bear raises a clawed paw, ready to strike. This is it. He can taste death. Bang! The Pony blinks out the flash of light from his eyes. Divine Sight stands above the crumpled corpse of a changeling, levitating a rifle with her telekinesis. Her eyes flash dangerously, without a hint of remorse or pity. "Get up. We're going to go for the door," she orders. The Pony stumbles to his hooves, swaying unsteadily, and reslings his gun. He spares the two corpses on the ground one last glance. It feels wrong to leave Deep Bass to lay here, so undignified. Nothing can be done now, though. They have to fight off the attackers first. With a shared nod, they both canter across the room, weaving between overturned tables and debris strewn on the ground. Clothing, parcels, papers, everything the soldiers stationed here used on a daily basis, strewn on the ground and trampled underhoof without care. They're pulled through a tight semi-circle of ponies and out the door, into the porch. Sergeant Fast Luck and another pony- Poetic Prose- stand there, talking grimly. Elegant Prose is nowhere to be seen. The Pony shields his face with a hoof against the howling wind. Without electric lights, and with the moon covered up by the smoke and clouds, it is almost pitch black here. Fast Luck nods at Sight and the Pony. "Ofcourse these fucking two survived. Take them with you, Specialist. Keys should be in the ignition." "What's- what's happening, sir? Why aren't we going in there and fighting?" the Pony asks in confusion. He readjusts his helmet. "We can beat them." Fast Luck grunts. "No, we can't. The ponies upstairs? They got wiped. We're only alive because we forced the 'lings into a crossfire, and they had to use their fucking hooves for once. The moment they wizen up and start shooting, we're done." The Pony gapes in horror as he realizes what Fast Luck is implying. "We're running away?" "No!" cries Divine Sight. "We're not. You're going with Prose to alert the town while we hold-" There's a loud series of bangs from inside, and the ponies duck as the glass in a window shatters. The rest of the soldiers rush out, coated in ash and soot, and slam the door behind them, huddling against the wall. There's only three of them. That means a vast majority of the ponies stationed here are either dead or still fighting for their lives inside. "They're overwhelming us, sir! There's too many of them," reports one of the ponies breathlessly. "We lost Teal and Lamp." Fast Luck draws his rifle, wings flared menacingly. "Do you need clearer fucking orders? Go, dammit! Tell them we're dead, and if you see any of us again, it's a changeling wearing our face." Lightning flashes across the sky above. For a brief second, the fear- and determination- on Fast Luck's face is sharply visible. "We can't leave our ponies to die in there!" Divine Sight protests loudly. "Let's go, Sight," the Pony mutters, putting a hoof on her shoulder. She flinches and backs away, towards the door. Fast Lucks blocks her path with a shake of his head. "Poetic! Your- your brother is still in there. I saw him, he's alive. You're not going to leave him, are you?" she pleads. Poetic Prose looks away, hanging his head. "He's dead." Another bang sends the ponies diving to the ground. Thunder rumbles alongside it. "We're running out of time, Sight! Let's go, let's go, please," the Pony begs from the wooden floor of the porch. "What are you trying to prove?" One of the soldiers pushes a rifle through a window, firing loudly at some unseen target within. "Fuck this," mutters Poetic. He takes off at a canter towards the shed. Divine Sight takes a step towards the Pony. "I'm going in, and if you don't come with me you're a coward and a disgrace to-" A small, round object tumbles through the window. It bounces off the fence of the porch and settles near the door. "Grenade!" shouts Fast Luck, diving at the object. Reacting on instinct, the Pony pulls Divine Sight towards himself and falls backwards, off the porch. He throws up a small magical shield in front of them just as the tiny, innocent grenade detonates. Shrapnel and wooden splinters are thrown in every direction. Fast Luck is torn apart instantly, and the roof collapses onto the two other ponies. The soldier by the window managed to get a shield up in time too, and is only knocked to the ground. The Pony drags Divine Sight up. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" he screams into her ears, filled with sudden adrenaline and panic. She nods in a daze and doesn't resist as the Pony helps her towards the shed, eventually stumbling forward on her own. They race down the small dirt path from the porch to the shed, between rows of flowers that would be full of colour in the daytime. Now, they are simply vague black patches on the ground. They're about halfway to the shed when a shout rings out above the ever present, distant sounds of battle. The Pony stops and turns back to see a changeling driving a bayonet into the soldier they left behind, among the wreckage of the porch. Another changeling stands on his hind legs, pale purple eyes staring down the sights of a rifle. The Pony freezes in place. The still-functioning part of his brain screams that he should be dead, that he is dead, but the changeling simply stands there. The rifle gently sways with the breathing of the changeling, and his eyes seem to glow in the dark. "Hey!" Divine Sight suddenly appears, throwing up a giant blue shield. Almost immediately, a bullet slams into it. Sight grimaces, her horn flashing a bright blue. The Pony stares at the spot where the shield fizzles and cracks, right in front of his muzzle. "Holy..." He's shaken into action as another shot pummels the shield. Still, it expands, forming a curved wall on the path. Moving with a shield is impossible. "Ok, Sight, you drop the shield on my-" "If I drop the shield, we die," Sight gasps through her teeth. As if to prove her point, more shots ring out, peppering the shield with cracks. The Pony squints through the shield at a growing swarm of changelings with guns lining up outside the tavern. "We can make it to the shed. Fast Luck had a plan." Divine Sight's muzzle twitches in the ghost of a smile. "That plan involved somepony staying behind to hold them off." With a rumble of thunder, fat raindrops begin drizzling from the sky. The storm of bullets against the shield only intesifies. "What? No, no, we can make it, we can go," the Pony pleads, shouting above the storm. Why is she so insistent on throwing herself into danger? He can't understand. "Listen to me. Promise me you'll stop running away." Divine Sight tears her gaze away from the shield, locking eyes with the Pony. Her eyes glow softly as she speaks. "What you were doing before, throwing away everything for your responsibilities and family expectations? You're right, that wasn't living. But running away and trying to avoid doing anything isn't living either." "Sight..." The Pony isn't sure what he wants to say. There's a finality to her words that draws tears into his eyes and chokes up his throat. "It's dead people that don't do anything. We're dead. You can still live." She smiles at him, tears dripping from her own eyes. They drop to the ground like rain. "Don't waste it." The Pony takes one last look at the scene. Divine Sight, holding the shield up with sheer will of mind, the unending hail of bullets and incessant bangs, and the ruined tavern behind. It's where he lived, and he won't forget it. He tears his gaze away and gallops towards the shed. It's just a wooden frame holding up a roof to keep the contents dry. Poetic Prose taps anxiously at the wheel of a rumbling military jeep. The Pony silently climbs into the front seat. Poetic doesn't question where Divine Sight is. The rapidly shrinking shield and lonely silhouette is hard to miss. He smoothly drives the jeep out of the shed, down the road towards the town. "...holy shit. They really did it.," brings up Poetic after a few moments. The storm finally breaks through, heavy rain pouring from above onto the ponies in the roofless jeep. Cold water pours down their fur and seeps into their clothing. The Pony stares back at the tavern as it steadily shrinks from view. The blue light blinks, and disappears. "Yeah, they did," he finally responds, turning around to face forward. The sound of gunfire has stopped. In the distance, though, the orchestra of war carries on. Scene 2B: InvasionThe trees rustle as another gust of wind blows past. It is a comforting, familiar noise among the distant explosions and gunfire. The only familiar noise. The locusts and rodents and other wildlife of the forest are silent tonight, as if anticipating the coming bloodshed. An unseen fire blazes nearby, only indicated by its distinct sound and the rays of red light that filter between the trees. They cast a violent red shade over the otherwise pitch black scene. Something ignites, and smoke curls into the air. "Put it out," the Changeling says anxiously. He sits in the little clearing at the edge of the forest, one hoof curled around a medical bag and the other balancing a rifle against the ground. They've been waiting here for hours. "Put it out, please." The source of his anxiety smirks. "Or what?" Aspen lifts the cigarette to his muzzle and breathes in. Like the Changeling, he wears a sleek black military shirt and pants. A simple cap adorns his head, contrary to the standard steel helmet changeling soldiers wear. The Changeling adjusts his own cap absentmindedly. A red medical cross is emblazoned on it. He keeps the cap immaculate. "They might spot the light," the Changeling explains, nodding at the two-storey building visible through the trees. Small silhouettes flick between the windows facing the forest, and the lights clearly reveal long rifles pointed out in vague directions. The rest of the changelings in the clearing shift uncomfortably, knowing what's coming as Aspen stands up and looms over the Changeling. "You didn't answer my question, Private. Or what?" he snarls into the Changeling's face. The Changeling leans back, averting his eyes. "Or nothing, sir. It was just a request." "Let the little one go, Captain," another soldier- Topaz, a distinctly grey changeling- says with a chuckle that instantly defuses the tension. "He's just trying to help." Applied to anyling else, 'little one' would be an insult, but the Changeling is quite literally smaller than the rest of the Jaeger squad. To them, it's more of an affectionate nickname. "He should know better than to 'help' the veterans," grunts Aspen in annoyance, but he sits back down nonetheless, resigning himself to glaring daggers at the Changeling as he puffs on the cigarette. The Changeling shoots Topaz a grateful look. He was rushed through training along with hundreds of other drafted changelings to bring the Jaeger divisions up to strength before the invasion. The rest of the squad, well-trained, high-ranking veterans of the wars in Olenia and at home, don't hesitate to remind him of his inexperience. He is anathema to the fiercely loyal, expert infiltrators of the Jaegers. Topaz winks back. A plane buzzes directly overhead. None of the squad are concerned, comfortable in their hidden positions right at the edge of the treeline. The Changeling follows their lead and tries to stay calm, fighting a rising panic as the impending mission is brought back to the forefront of his mind. "That one of ours?" asks a soldier. The Changeling can't tell who's speaking above the faraway bangs. "Nah, EAF. Their propellers have the, uh, that rattle to them?" replies another. The voice is recognizable as Euchorite's. The first soldier whistles appreciatively. "Damn, I've never noticed that." "Quiet!" Aspen orders. At first it seems he's just annoyed by their conversation, but the Changeling realizes he's looking towards the building. A small blue light blinks from one of the upper-storey windows. "The signal!" he gasps, only to shut his muzzle as everyling glares at him. "Sorry..." Aspen ignores his outburst. "Remember: eight windows, two 'lings to a window, only one 'ling to each of the edge windows. Check your fire, especially with explosives. The little one stays with Topaz." He throws down the cigarette and crushes it with a hoof. "No prisoners." The Changeling can feel adrenaline coursing through his body. This is it. He slings his rifle to his side and levitates the medic bag up to his back. "If all goes well, we should be drinking beer with the spearhead by dawn." Aspen permits himself a small smile. "Move out." Quiet whispers of 'hoorah' and 'yes, sir' ring out. The Changeling watches as the soldiers slink out from the trees and silently move forwards in formation. With their perfectly black uniforms, and the moon drowned out by approaching storm clouds, they are nearly invisible. Topaz stops at the edge of the trees. "Keep behind me, and do exactly as I say. Don't panic," he says over his shoulder. The Changeling nods and follows as they gallop towards the building, his medical equipment and backpack full of various essential supplies both weighing him down. He feels suddenly exposed as they leave the trees, acutely aware of the guns ready to rip them apart in a merciless volley. It seems strange to charge towards their demise. The building comes into sharp detail as they draw closer. Heavy, worn stone blocks at the base tell of the building's age, with wooden window frames and a sloping roof with a distinct architectural style reminding the changelings they are now in Equestria. They slow down to a near crawl as they approach. The Changeling instinctively adopts a stalking posture, lowering his barrel to the ground to make himself less visible. Bang! Every changeling in the squad flinches as an explosion rumbles close by. Looking around wildly, the Changeling sees ash and debris being thrown up from the forest. "Stray shell," whispers Topaz. The Changeling nods back, heart pounding against his chest. The formation slowly begins moving forward again. They keep steadily creeping forward as a series of loud bangs erupts from the upstairs windows. The Changeling focuses on his breathing, trying to calm down; this is part of the plan. The ace in the hole: two infiltrators embedding themselves in the ponies' defenses, passing detailed information on to the changelings and, now, helping them take the enemy by surprise. They reach the wall just as the first burst of gunfire ends. The windows are set far above the ground here, probably to deter any wild animals. It provides the perfect cover for the changelings, who press against the wall just under the windows. A pony would only be able to spot them if they leaned out of the window and look directly down. Topaz and the Changeling duck under a window, just to the left of Aspen and Cilian. They unsling their rifles. The electric lights cast a soft glow on Topaz's face. It is cold, determined, focused. It barely seems like it belongs to a living changeling. The Changeling wonders what his own face looks like, right now. Does his terror show? They wait as the sound of gunfire ends. The Changeling knows what has to come next. He hates it. "Topaz." The word is a whisper, barely discernable above the ambience. Topaz's ear twitches in response. His glowing green eyes flick towards the Changeling. "Topaz, I don't want to do it." There is a pause. Topaz thinks, and nods. "Just stay behind me. You don't have to ki- to use your gun," he whispers back. The Changeling nods appreciatively. If it was anyling else, he would have been told to shut his muzzle and follow orders like a good soldier. He wouldn't have held it against them, either. This is no time to be modifying plans. There's some kind of commotion inside. The Changeling strains his ears, trying to filter out the noise as he listens for the signal. Sure enough, it comes. "Green!" "Fire!" orders Aspen. In unison, the changelings stand on their hind legs and point their rifles inside, unleashing a volley of death on any ponies there. The Changeling doesn't pull the trigger. As planned, he quickly slings his rifle and helps boost Topaz up through the window, then climbs through himself with buzzing wings. His small form and full saddlebags make it a struggle, but he eventually tumbles through the frame. It's pure chaos inside the large hall. The gunfire should have broken the ponies and left the changelings with the simple job of cleaning up. Instead, mostly uninjured and ready ponies crawl from behind scattered tables and decorative shelves to brawl with the changelings. They clearly had time to react to the ambush. Something has gone wrong. The Jaegers may be outnumbered, but they're elite units of a military hardened by war, facing against ponies who have only ever killed straw dummies and wooden targets. Topaz shoves a pony back from the window and drives a levitated knife into his exposed barrel. The Changeling winces and looks away, trying to process what's happening. With their backs to the wall, the Jaegers fight at a severe disadvantage, forced to gamble their lives with every step they take backwards. The Changeling realizes he's not helping in the slightest and fumbles for his rifle. He levitates it around wildly as Aspen is thrown to the floor next to him by a pair of ponies. "No firearms, Private! You'll hit our own 'lings." Aspen spits blood on the floor and gets up, drawing a knife into his mouth from its sheath on his hoof. "Stay wif Topaz," he mumbles around the knife before charging back towards the ponies. With some relief, the Changeling lets the heavy gun drop to the floor. He isn't sure he'd be able to pull the trigger if pressed with the decision. A sudden yell makes him spin around. A blue-furred pegasus hurtles past Topaz, charging straight at the Changeling with a raised rifle. The sharp steel bayonet quickly closes in on the Changeling's chest. He panics and grabs and holds a nearby chair in front of himself. The pony yells as he drives the bayonet into the thick wood, throwing the Changeling to the ground. He struggles to hold up the heavy chair as the pony presses the rifle down. The chair creaks as a leg snaps off, crushing his barrel between the seat and the floor. He can't breathe. The floor is so cold. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, lungs desperately trying to draw in air, as he attempts in vain to free himself. With nowhere else to look, he stares into the pony's eyes. Silently he pleads for mercy. Horror and disgust looks back at the Changeling. The pony's face flicks rapidly between the two emotions as he soundlessly mutters something. The Changeling can't hear it over the sharp ringing in his ears. All of a sudden, the weight lifts. The Changeling rolls onto his side, gasping for breath. Through his blurred vision he can see a grey form repeatedly driving a blade into the neck of the pony. Blood sprays into the Changeling's face. He shakily climbs to his hooves and reaches for his cap. He scrunches it up and tries to smear off the bright red ichor as best he can. "Are you alright?" Topaz stands over the lifeless form of the pony. He's drenched in sticky, scarlet blood, marring his grey and black surface and uniform. He blinks at the Changeling, as if confused by the stare he's receiving. "Little one? Do you-?" The Changeling stumbles to the window and leans out, retching. Nothing comes out. He simply stands there gulping down as much air as he can, forehooves and head resting on the windowsill. The grim scene of storm clouds steadily creeping closer only makes his chest feel tighter. As the nausea passes, he becomes aware of the commotion fading. He risks a glance back into the room, avoiding looking at the body of the pony. Rifles, ammunition, uniforms, bandages, letters, and other personal belongings litter the floor of the bar-like room. It's a strange mix of warzone and temporary living quarters. Jaegers move around the overturned tables and corpses. They check bodies and ruthlessly execute anyone unlucky enough to be left alive. No prisoners. A series of bangs suddenly erupts throughout the room. The Changeling dives away from the window and finds himself taking cover behind a table with Topaz, near the door. Waiting for a gap in the gunfire, the Changeling risks a peek over the table. A rifle pokes through the shattered glass of one of the windows in the front of the building, just besides the shut door. Scattered volleys tear through tables and walls, keeping the changelings cowering behind cover. "There's three or four ponies right outside," Cilian shouts above the noise. "I saw six," Aspen corrects. "We'll take them down. Check ammo and guns first. Is anyling injured?" "Scarlet, Crista, and Taxon are down, sir." "Down? Dead?" Cilian's voice cracks. "Dead, sir." "I see." "Euchorite's gone too," another changeling reports. "The bastards shot him before he had a chance to fight back." The Changeling winces. That's nearly a quarter of the squad, wiped out in just a couple of minutes. He doesn't recognize the name of Scarlet. He guesses it was one of the infiltrators. "Captain, I'm closest to the door. I'm going for it. Grenade through the window. Little one, you're with me," orders Topaz. "Roger that. The rest of you, move up as soon as that damn gun stops firing," Aspen shouts back. Topaz glances over his shoulder. "You're OK, little one?" "Yeah- yeah..." mumbles the Changeling. He's surprised to find his rifle still in his hooves. He doesn't recall picking it up. "Hey- don't worry." Topaz looks back, smiling at him. With his blood-drenched muzzle and cold, pale eyes, it's not very convincing. "We'll get through this." He suddenly drops the warm manner for a more matter-of-fact one. "We'll hug the wall till we reach the door, and I'll chuck 'em a grenade. The moment you hear the explosion, we're going through. Kill on sight." The Changeling's breathing speeds up. "I don't want to-" "Grow the fuck up, then," Topaz snaps in a suddenly harsh tone. "Four good 'lings are already dead. You want to be next?" The Changeling flinches. "No- no, sir. Sorry, sir." "Everything alright, Topaz?" Aspen shouts over. "Yes, Captain. We're going- NOW!" Topaz bounds out of cover and rushes for the door. Hesitating for only a moment, the Changeling gets up and follows, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his flanks. He keeps going even as the rifle continues firing- the enemy soldier can't see them at this angle, thanks to how close they are to the wall. They reach the door safely. After checking the Changeling is behind him, Topaz levitates up a grenade and pulls the pin with his mouth. He smoothly tosses it out the window. Four seconds of hushed calm. Then the storm. The entire front of the building rattles with the tremendous force of the explosion. Coughing out dust and wooden debris, the Changeling throws open the door and rushes out into the dark. "Wait!" Topaz shouts. The Changeling stops in his tracks, unable to see anything through the dark. There's a loud creaking sound all around him. Feeling uneasy, he starts backing up. The creaking intensifies above him. He looks up just as the roof of the porch caves in. Heavy pieces of wood and brick rain down, threatening to crush him under their weight. Topaz leaps out the door and covers the Changeling with his body, shielding him as the last bits of the roof and front wall collapse. The roaring noise subsides. Dust slowly settles on the Changeling's face. He blinks the soot out of his eyes. A heavy weight lies still over him. "Topaz?" he chokes out. The weight shifts. Debris tumbles to the ground as Topaz stands up, bruised and even more bloody. He silently helps the Changeling to his hooves. They stand among the rubble, catching their breath and listening to the pained moans of a surviving pony. "Lieutenant!" comes a shout from behind the collapsed wall. "Private! Anyling alive?" "We're here, Captain." Topaz sorts through the debris with labored movements and extracts a rifle. He passes it to the Changeling. "We're alright." "What were you thinking, Topaz? Anti-tank grenades? It's a hundred-year-old building, dammit, half the ceiling came down on us," Aspen shouts, his voice muffled. There's a distinct tremor to it the Changeling has never heard before. "Thank the Queen, we've only got minor injuries in here. We'll be with you in a minute." Topaz ignores him, still searching through the rubble. The Changeling peers out into the dark as his vision readjusts to the poor light. "Hey- hey, there's some ponies out there. I think they're running away." He can see two forms rushing down a trail away from the building, towards a small shed. He doesn't make a move. He's exhausted, barely able to balance on his hind legs. "What?" Topaz looks up, following the Changeling's gaze. His expression sharpens. "Give me the gun. We can't let them escape." The Changeling pauses, glancing down at his rifle, and back up. Topaz holds out a hoof. Behind him, a pony soldier rises to his hooves. The soldier raises a bayoneted rifle over his head. "Hey-" Topaz is already dodging to the side. He grabs the pony by the front hoof and they both tumble into the rubble, fighting for control of the rifle. "Take them out!" Topaz yells. "Don't worry about me, little one!" The Changeling nods even though Topaz can't see him. He rises up on his hind legs and looks down the sight of the gun, carefully selecting a target. The white-furred soldier is easy to see even in the dark, bright blue mane visibly poking out from beneath his helmet. The gun sways gently with his breathing, the sights lining up with the pony's mane. He can do it. He can pull the trigger now, and death will meet this pony. It won't hurt. It won't take very long. He puts his hoof on the trigger. It'll just take a little tap. There's a shout as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Topaz ruthlessly driving the bayonet into the soldier. A single drop of blood streaks across the air and lands on the Changeling's muzzle. It won't hurt. The pony turns, as if alerted by some higher force. Their eyes lock as the pony freezes. A deer in the headlights of a tank. He pulls the trigger. The rifle jumps in his hooves as a bullet screams towards the enemy... ...only to impact a suddenly materializing forcefield. It grows in size, forming a protective arc around the ponies. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Shoot it again!" Topaz raises his rifle and fires off a series of shots. They impact the shield with immense force, sending cracks through it like lightning, but still the shield holds. The Changeling unsteadily fires his own rifle. It feels somewhat cathartic to shoot at the inanimate shield. No hard choices to make here. "Don't stop," orders Topaz. He fishes around the debris for a magazine to fit his Equestrian gun. The Changeling complies, squeezing the trigger again, and again, and again, till the hammer clicks empty. He ejects the magazine and clumsily loads a second one as the rest of the Jaegers join them, having shifted apart the rubble enough to escape the building. "Lieutenant, what's going on?" Aspen pulls off his cap and shakes the dust out. His fin twitches irritably. "Captain, the little one-" Topaz hesitates and looks over to the Changeling. "I saw two ponies trying to escape, Captain. I tried to shoot them but missed," he says dully before letting off another few rounds. "Right..." Aspen nods at the shield. Even at this distance, it casts a soft blue glow over his face. "What are they trying to achieve? There's nowhere to escape to. The moment we destroy that shield..." The rest of the Jaegers take his implied order and spread out, slowly advancing on the shield. Like a well-oiled machine they slowly break it down with a constant volley of coordinated fire. A single raindrop falls on the Changeling's muzzle. He looks up. The storm is upon them. "You too, Private," says Aspen drily from behind him. "The faster we take down that shield, the faster we can move on." "Oh- yes, sir." He levitates the rifle alongside himself as he joins the formation. With such a huge target there's no need for the accuracy and stability that comes with physically holding the gun. The cracks in the shield rapidly spread in a web pattern, heavily distorting the light given off by the magical construct. Red, green, violet rays shine in every direction, cutting straight through the darkness. The rays only seem to grow in brightness as the soldiers continue firing. "That pony's suicidal," gasps one of the Jaegers. There can't be any other explanation. The amount of magic expended would have irreversibly damaged all but the best sorcerers. Unicorns are innately better at magic than changelings, yes, but this... this is unnatural. The Changeling goes through one, two, three magazines. Still, the light gets brighter, consuming the Changeling's vision till he is firing blindly. There is nothing left in his world but a show of light and sound and rain. And, just as suddenly, it ceases. There is darkness. The Changeling pulls the trigger one last time. A unicorn falls to the ground. He rushes forward, throwing his gun aside in his haste. Thunder booms and crashes as lightning burns distorted photographs of the world. The unicorn lays limp in the dirt. For a horrible second, the Changeling thinks he- no, she- is dead, but as he draws closer he can see her barrel rising up and down with shallow breaths. A pool of something dark- blood- soaks into the ground. The Changeling knows. He did this. He shot this pony. Did he do this? Did he shoot a pony? The shouting of his fellow Jaegers barely reaches his ears. They rush past, ignoring the Changeling and the stranger. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll be alright," the Changeling whispers in Equestrian language as he crouches down and sets his medical bag on the ground. He doesn't know if he said that to comfort himself, or the pony. He opens the bag and clumsily sorts through his carefully packed and organized supplies. He doesn't remember where anything is. The storm intensifies. Water drips down his muzzle and onto the pony's fur. The pony gurgles weakly, blood trickling down her muzzle. The Changeling finally locates the entry wound near the unicorn's neck; it's barely visible through her fur. He did this. It's bad. He cuts a bandage and lays it on the wound, pressing down. The bleeding barely slows. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it," he whispers. The unicorn's eyes open. Pale, pain-stricken pupils flick in his direction. Judgmental. He did this. "I didn't mean it," he cries more loudly. The blood soaks through the bandage, mixing with the rainwater till he can't tell what is water and what is life. Two sets of hooves near. The Changeling looks back. Aspen and Topaz are slowly approaching him. "Help me!" he begs. "She's in pain!" Topaz looks crestfallen. "Little one, it wasn't your fault. There's-" "Go round up the soldiers, Lieutenant." Aspen's cold, crisp voice cuts through. "Have them bury the bodies." "But, Captain-" "Go, Lieutenant," Aspen orders, more sternly. Topaz nods and gallops off down the path. "Help me..." The unicorn's time is running out. Aspen stares down at the Changeling. "Two of the ponies escaped. In a truck. We can't attack the town. We'll wait here for the spearhead to arrive." A pause. "What do you think about people, Private?" The question is so bizarre, so disconnected from reality, that the Changeling almost finds it... funny. "People? How is that-?" Aspen interrupts him, nodding at the unicorn. "This person killed a changeling. Your comrade. Shot her from behind without a thought." There's silence. The only noise is the rain pattering down and the quiet gurgles of the dying unicorn. Aspen fishes out a box of cigarettes from his uniform and carefully levitates one up. He attempts to light it despite the rain as he continues speaking. "And now this person has been shot herself, and all's right with the world, some would say." The Changeling tenses up, preparing a response. "It doesn't feel right, though," Aspen proceeds. "None of this feels right. It feels horrible." "...is this some kind of horrible psychology lesson to you? This pony is going to die," the Changeling gasps out. He's feeling increasingly disgusted with the aloof Captain. Aspen ignores him. "And I think that's because, if the two of you met in any other place? Two strangers, visiting a bar, or bumping into each other on the street? You might have been friends." He tries once again to light the cigarette in vain. "You wouldn't have shot her. Here... you simply acted under pressure." "That's not an excuse. I've killed her." The Changeling realizes he's not applying any pressure on the gushing wound. It doesn't matter anyways. He can't save her. He did this. A sob tears from his throat. "I've killed her..." Aspen shakes his head. "No, that's not it... that's not it at all. The calm is here, the pressure is gone, and you're trying to save this wretched pony." "Which do you think is the real person, Private?" He lights the cigarette a final time. "The one that acts in calm? Or the one that acts under pressure? Which is the real you? The real me? The real Topaz?" It stays lit. With a satisfied puff, Aspen begins to trot away. "Sir?" The voice is barely discernable above the storm. He stops, ear twitching in response. The Changeling runs a hoof along the pony's fur. Her eyes are closed again. "Does it get easier?" Aspen understands. "For some people." "I don't think I'm one of those people, sir." Another sob wells up. He doesn't feel disgusted anymore. Just exhausted. "God, I'm..." he trails off, unable to find the words. Aspen turns back. "Why are you still holding her, Private?" he asks gently. "She's dead." The Changeling thinks. "No. She's dying. Wouldn't you like someone to keep you warm as you die?" A beat. "...I think I would, Private." Aspen turns to go, inhaling another lungful of tobacco. "I think I would." A changeling sits alone in the storm, hooves and uniform bloodied, clutching a corpse. Scene 3: VolleyA pair of trucks slowly trundle in a line down the wide road, skirting around large craters and piles of rubble. It's littered with broken bricks, glass, and abandoned belongings. Whole suitcases, clothing, toys; anything and everything the fleeing inhabitants of the town found were too cumbersome to take with them. Collapsed storefronts and boarded windows face the street. The crumbled roofs cast strange, jagged shadows on the ground, brought into sharp relief by the setting sun. Every splinter of wood and dislodged brick can be traced just by looking at its silhouette on the cracked asphalt road. There is no sound but the quiet rumble of the trucks' engines and the crunch of debris beneath their rugged tires. No living thing moves here. Not anymore. The Pony shifts on the bench, bringing a hoof up to his head. Sharp claws tear at it with every jolt and rattle of the truck. The sunset rays shine right into his eyes, doing nothing to ease his headache. His bright teal mane is unkempt, and his ears itch from long hours wearing a poorly fitted helmet. A short, poorly trimmed beard adorns the bottom of his muzzle. His standard military shirt has been replaced by a much darker, brown one, denoting his higher rank. The Pony blinks the grit out of his eyes and taps at the pony sitting, slouched, next to him. "Water," he croaks. "Dude, you alright?" Dream sits up straight and unclips his canteen, letting the Pony levitate it over. "You look like shit." The Pony desperately guzzles the water, only just realizing how thirsty he was. A bit splashes into his face as the truck hits a bump. It helps jostle him awake. "I'm fine, it was just..." He pauses, looking around the truck. The open hull is filled with tired soldiers, most of them sleeping after a long day of travel. The Pony sits right at the end of the crowded bench, sharing leg room with a pegasus dozing off opposite of him. "It was just a nightmare, Dream," he finally says. He's not too sure. The thestral winces, his wings twitching uncomfortably. "Not the best choice of words, as you classier ponies would say, Lieutenant..." The Pony blinks, confused, before remembering what thestrals must think of when hearing the word 'nightmare'. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I'm not really a 'classy' pony either..." Dream hesitates for a moment before giving him a fanged smile. "Eh, it's fine. All of you Canterlot ponies are classy to us western lot, anywho." The far west of Equestria, while having a fairly sizable, urbanized population, is largely undeveloped due to its lack of any important trade routes or natural resources. The potential of the sheer volume of untapped labour in the west was a frequent point of discussion back on the industrial committee. The Pony recalls grand plans to build roads and rails to entice the banks and businessponies to build their factories here. And now they're leaving it all behind. The order came in just last night: disengage and reposition to the latest defensive line where the tide will surely, surely be turned. Disengage. Withdraw, retreat, flee. The Pony doesn't see the point in using fancy euphemisms. With nothing else to talk about, he vacantly stares past the sleeping pegasus, watching the ruined blocks slowly trundle by and listening to the purr of the engine of the truck directly behind them. Dream leans over, resting his head on the Pony's shoulder, and whispers, "You sure you're alright? You're not gonna drop dead on me?" "I wish, Dream," the Pony mutters into Dream's fluffy mane. He idly slides back the bolt on his rifle, making sure it's loaded. "I'm... fucking tired of it all," he spits out, seized by the sudden urge to rant about his worries. "Ay, you're picking up on the western lingo!" Dream whispers back cheerfully. He suddenly perks up as if he's gotten an idea. "Tell you what, once we get there we'll grab Poetic and-" A distant bang echoes across the street. It instantly jolts everypony awake. There's hushed muttering and whispers of 'What happened?'. The Pony is already scanning the nearby stores for the source of the noise. It could just be an innocent pop from an old tire or expiring rune... Another bang, and something pings off the bench right next to the pegasus. She yelps in surprise. "Sniper!" the Pony screams out. "Poetic, stop the truck! Stop the truck!" He hopes Poetic Prose can hear him from the cabin over the panicked shouting of the other soldiers. For most of them, this will be the first they see of the war. The truck only seems to speed up, though, throwing the ponies around like pills in a medicine bottle as it carelessly climbs over broken bricks and chunks of asphalt. With a start, the Pony realizes it's now his job to order them around. He still isn't entirely used to the concept. "Everypony, get on the floor! Off the benches!" he orders, trying to inject calm into his voice. Most of the ponies comply and scramble to find space on the relatively safe floor. He doesn't care to lean down himself, waiting to see that everypony is safe first. Dream follows his example and gestures at the truck behind them, alerting them to the danger. The pegasus across from him remains in place though, panickedly beating her wings in an attempt to escape the truck. They repeatedly bang against railing and struggle to find any air. She's a sitting duck. The Pony screams urgently into her face, "Get down! Get the fuck down!" Bang! Warm blood splashes onto the Pony's muzzle. Horror decorates the pegasus' expression. Her muzzle lies open in a soundless gasp as she stares to the side of the Pony. Cold dread grips the Pony's chest. He slowly, slowly, looks to the left. Dream is slumped across the now empty bench. His hoof weakly clutches a gushing wound in his neck. Deep red blood oozes down his blue-black fur. Stupid, stupid Dream. The Pony holds him tightly as the truck suddenly veers to the side. It turns into a wide alleyway, precariously tilting on two tires for a full second before slamming back down into a halt. He immediately hops out and lifts up Dream's limp body, not waiting for any of the stunned soldiers to help him. He gently lays Dream onto the cracked brick ground. The other truck smoothly turns into the alleyway past them, just barely finding enough room to park there. A pair of tall buildings shadow the small space, protecting them against the sniper- or snipers. Like the rest of the town, it's strewn with rubble and shattered lives. Dream coughs weakly. "Ah, fuck, that hurts..." he croaks out, still holding a hoof to his neck. "Why would you be so stupid, Dream?" The Pony mutters back, barely perceiving Dream's words. "Why didn't you take cover, you stupid, stupid bat?" The panic and fear of the last minute suddenly come crashing down on him. With the relief that Dream isn't dead, he feels an irrational rage stirring. Here is somepony to blame. "If you'd just listened to what I said, you stupid fucking bat, you wouldn't be lying there in pain right now, yeah!?" The Pony starts shouting as a soldier pulls him aside, making room for a medic. "You scared me! I don't need to lose anybody else!" "Dead," the medic pronounces. The Pony struggling ceases. The rage evaporates, doused in a whiplash of shock. "He can't be dead, doc, he was speakin' just a second ago," the soldier restraining him says in mild disbelief, loosening his grip. Stumbling back onto his hooves, the Pony creeps forward, pushing past the medic. Dream lays unmoving on the ground, eyes closed. On instinct, he tries to lift one of Dream's forehooves with his magic. It waves at him without resistance. Living things can't be moved by telekinesis. "Oh, Dream, I'm sorry," the Pony gasps, reaching out to nuzzle him. "You're not stupid, you're a wonderful pony. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Words become too much and he reduces himself to crying openly, burying his muzzle into Dream's fur. It doesn't seem possible that this life could have been ripped away so quickly. No whimper. No bang. How could a friendship rooted in months of shared trauma and hardship on the front lines be dissolved in a single, silent instant? How could he let Dream die with angry words in his tufted ears? He doesn't know how much time passes before he's suddenly, violently ripped back and spun around. "Pull yourself together, Lieutenant," Poetic Prose growls into his face. A throng of soldiers stands around uncertainly behind him. "Dream's dead, Poetic," the Pony replies numbly. He doesn't quite believe it himself. "Dream's dead, don't you know?" Poetic's features soften. "I know. I know, dude. I'm going to miss him, too. But we're in charge here. We're the top brass right now. How'd you feel if command started bawling over the radio the moment the tanks show up?" The Pony stares back. "That's not fair." "I know," repeats Poetic, pulling the Pony into a warm hug. "It isn't. But we've gotta deal with it. You need to keep everypony calm right now, remind them that they're alive, and once we're out of here you can... process." The Pony nods slowly. It helps to focus on Poetic's words rather than think about Dream. He pulls back from the embrace. "Right. Right. You- what about you? What are you doing?" Poetic looks to the side, his gaze set on something far, far away. "We could wait out the sniper and leave, but... I'm taking some soldiers. We're gonna find that sniper. We'll make them pay in blood." "I'll go instead," the Pony replies instantly. "You can stay behind and look after the ponies. You're better at it, anyways." He feels an unfocused urge for vengeance welling up inside him, sending adrenaline through his benumbed limbs. To make Dream's killers feel what he felt. With some hesitation, Poetic shakes his head. "This is something I've got to do. For Elegant," He says matter-of-factly. His face is set in cold determination. A pause. "Good luck, Poetic." The Pony finally offers a hoof. Poetic hoofbumps him back. "You too, dude. Let's move out, stallions, look sharp!" he orders the small squad of ponies behind him. They follow him out into a street with rifles readied and helmets tightened, hidden under the cover of dusk. The Pony is left standing among a crowd of twenty or so soldiers. They shift around awkwardly, looking anywhere except at him as he wipes the leftover tears out of his eyes and straightens his helmet. "You alright there, sir?" one of the soldiers asks tentatively. The Pony forces a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. We'll be OK, everypony," he announces in a much louder voice. "We're alive. Just relax and wait till Sergeant Poetic gets back." His gaze rests on Dream's corpse. "And somepony get a sheet over the... body." He looks away as the medic complies with his order. Most of the ponies move into action immediately, as if relieved to finally get some rest on solid ground. They find comfortable places to lie or sit down, settling in for the long wait that's to come. Some of the more senior soldiers pass around food and water from the trucks. The tension slowly dissipates as they strike up conversations interspersed with easy laughter. As the twilight gives way to the dark, the ponies huddle in tight groups around softly hissing gas lanterns. They make hushed conversation with each other, casting nervous glances around the alley. The ruins of the town that were previously merely unsettling are nightmarish in the gloom. The Pony sits alone against one of the trucks, not minding as the biting cold sweeps around to embrace him. The odd soldier occasionally comes by to offer him condolences, but he waves them off by half-hardheartedly assuring them that he's fine. Despite himself, the Pony's eyes occasionally dart towards the lone sheet-covered corpse on the ground. A wave of vertigo and confusion hits him each time. He can't believe Dream is really dead. "Hey, uh, cap'?" He glances up at a trio of younger looking soldiers- a pegasus, a unicorn, and an earthpony, the soldier from earlier- standing bunched up in front of him. The earthpony shifts nervously under the officer's gaze. "Uh, we was playing bridge, and we need another pony... you wanna join?" the earthpony mumbles. "Oh..." The Pony automatically opens his mouth to turn them down, but reconsiders as their expressions turn hopeful. He can't just sit here sulking for the next few hours. He has to pull himself together to keep morale up. "Sure," he replies quietly. The three ponies break into cheers and laughter. "Whoo! I call dibs on the Lieutenant," whoops the pegasus. "Nah, I's the one who asked 'em!" A sincere smile inadvertently slips onto the Pony's face as he listens to the trio bicker and tease each other. The sight doesn't immediately make him feel alright, or even better than before, but it does remind him. The world is getting darker, but his hooves still move and his lungs still gulp down air. He may feel dead inside, but outside he needs to show he's still functioning. If not for himself, then for the ponies who are still alive. And for the enemies who are yet to die. Golden rays cast dark shadows over the desolate town. Row upon row of dusty homes and gaping craters give way to overgrown fields that stretch endlessly into the horizon, patiently waiting for a harvest that will never arrive. A lone factory building sits alongside a distant road. The brick red chimney lies shattered in a small orchard, its base obliterated by some stray bomb or shell. The scene is so still, and so perfectly lit by the sunset, that it could be a mere tapestry. It feels as distant as one. A pair of binoculars stick out of the shattered window of an unusually tall building just off the main square of the town. They stare down the wide road that intersects the square, their view partially obstructed by the crippled silhouettes of the buildings lining said road. The binoculars are lowered as smoke wafts around the small space. "I didn't know you smoked, Topaz." Topaz winks at the Changeling as he offers a cigarette. "'nicked them from the Captain. He got them shipped straight from Olenia," he mumbles around the cigarette wedged in his own muzzle. "You take this and don't tell, little one." The Changeling levitates the binoculars back up to his eyes, freeing his hooves to accept the little roll of paper. He lights it with a spark of magic- it takes a couple of tries with the light breeze blowing through the window- and takes an awkward puff. "...huh," he comments in surprise at the sharp taste. "What's the flavour?" "Pine," Topaz responds, fiddling with his rifle. It's a long, heavy gun with a sniper optic affixed to the top. Perfect for the mission of the day. "Like I said, it's from Olenia." The Changeling takes another draught before tossing the cigarette onto the newspaper-covered floor. The flame sputters and goes out. He turns his gaze back to the binoculars, vigilantly watching the main road through the slight purple haze of his telekinesis. "Aw, what was that for?" Topaz complains in a teasing fashion. The Changeling doesn't reply. He nervously licks one of his own fangs, trying to get rid of a sudden, bitter taste in his mouth. Topaz instantly picks up on his silence. "Are you alright?" He asks in a more serious tone. He shifts uncomfortably, debating whether to confide in Topaz. He knows what the response will be, but he needs to tell someling. "I- my, uh..." the Changeling stutters, trying to buy time. He keeps his eyes glued to the binoculars. A hoof rests on his shoulder. "It's OK, little one. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'll understand." Topaz says this so warmly, with such conviction, that the Changeling believes him for a moment. He breathes in, composing himself, before stating matter-of-factly, "My brother's enlisted. Olenian Theater. He'll be reaching Vanhoover tomorrow." After a long pause, Topaz replies, "Isn't that good, little one? He's following your example!" The same warmth remains, but with an undertone that sets the Changeling on edge. It's the same tone a parent adopts when explaining a simple concept to a confused nymph. "Well, I'm just concerned-" Topaz boisterously interrupts him. "After all, there is no greater honour than the battlefield." "I get it, Topaz, you think going to war is a great service to the Queen or some other bullshit," the Changeling snaps irritably. "I don't, and you know I don't." The atmosphere suddenly turns cold. The Changeling can feel Topaz's eyes drilling into the back of his head. "You're strange, little one." he slowly pronounces as though reading out a sentence. "You cried your heart out over the death of that first unicorn, then gladly slaughtered the rest without a trace of remorse." The Jaeger's words lack any warmth. All pretense of being friendly is dropped in an instant. "I thought it strengthened your resolve. I thought you understood why we do what we must. But again you show this... cowardice." A strange weariness replaces the Changeling's irritation. He knew it would come to this. He shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking Topaz would show any sympathy for this specific worry of his. "I don't think anything was strengthened, Topaz. I think something broke." He's taken by surprise when a strong hoof pushes him to the side. The binoculars are knocked out of his grasp and tumble out the window as he slams into the ground. "Pony-loving filth," Topaz spits on the floor next to the Changeling. "You think the ponies give a fuck about your life? No, the only thing they'd be sorry about is that it didn't hurt more when they shot you." "We should be better," the Changeling mutters into the floor. Topaz roughly pulls him to a standing position. "What was that?" he asks quietly. The Changeling can't tell if he's calmed down or if he's just outraged into silence. "We should be better than them," the Changeling says, staring up defiantly at Topaz as he steps backwards. A strangled, dry laugh escapes Topaz's muzzle. "Aren't we better than them? I fight because it's my duty. I don't enjoy it. They, they enjoy it, they want to do it. Aren't we better than them?" The Changeling stares back at the distinctly grey Jaeger. How can a 'ling be so deluded? In his silence, Topaz rambles on. "I know what you think. You think I hate them. I don't, I don't hate them, I don't want to fight. This is the only way we can end it, though. If we win, we'll have our peace, and we'll have our food supply, and there won't be any more fighting." Topaz stops suddenly, gasping for air. He slowly sits down and raises a cigarette to his muzzle. The Changeling returns to the window. He peeks out. A small black object lies on the pavement far, far, below. He turns back to Topaz. "Then why do you think I'm a coward-" "Because you don't want to win." Pale green eyes lock with the Changeling's. "You want to have your cake and eat it too. You want to live an easy life where you don't have to fight, and where there's peace. Where you can go and live with your dear old brother back in Vesalipolis. "You would love to pretend there's only good and bad in this world. That's why you didn't want him to enlist? So he wouldn't find out the truth like you did? That it's all a big mess and we don't know if we can even do any good?" The Changeling looks away. He sticks his head into a bag of equipment on the floor, busily searching for another pair of binoculars as he mumbles, "No, that's not it. That's not it." "You don't have what it takes to fight for your own country. It disgusts me, little one. It really does," Topaz says with such sincere revulsion that the Changeling can believe he means it. "You're wrong, Topaz," He replies as he finally locates the small, grey optics. "You're wrong about me, and wrong about yourself." Topaz shakes his head. "You think I'm just spewing random bullshit here, huh?" he asks bitterly, tossing aside the spent cigarette. "You think that little of me?" The Changeling doesn't answer. He takes his place back at the window and gazes through the binoculars. "Well? Say something, little one!" The Changeling licks his fang. "They're here, Topaz." Two black forms slowly move down the main street towards them, flicking in and out of sight between the ruined townscape. He should have spotted them much, much earlier. Topaz instantly moves to action, resting his heavy sniper rifle against the windowsill. "What've we got?" "Two troop trucks, sir. Open hull. Six hundred meters, closing in about three minutes," the Changeling estimates with as much professionalism as he can muster. Personal arguments can come later. "We might have to abort. They're too close, you won't have a good angle." "Ofcourse you'd think that," Topaz snaps. "Just do your job and get me targets." He crouches down, peering down the scope of the rifle. The Changeling sighs in frustration but complies with Topaz's order. He focuses on the ponies in the trucks, straining his eyes to make out any important-looking soldiers. He doesn't see any of the distinct, darker tan officer uniforms on the ponies in the rear truck. As the front truck slides into view again, though, he spots a blur of brown at its extremity. "Officer in the front truck, near the end," he reports. Topaz hesitates. "Our end?" "Away from the cabin, sir." "Affirmative. You have final call to fire, little one." It's the Changeling's job to make sure the target is valid. He can call off the mission now, but they'll have to wait here till morning for another convoy to disrupt before they can leave. The thought of spending the next few hours continuing the hostile conversation with Topaz makes his skin crawl. The two Jaegers wait patiently as the truck passes behind another tall, ruined structure. It slowly drives back into sight, close enough now to make out the individual soldiers through the magnification of the binoculars. Most of them are hunched over on their seats, unmoving. He knows that stance. It's the posture of the injured, the depressed, the tired. A common enough sight in war, especially on the losing side. "I have the target." "Fire," the Changeling utters without hesitation. There is no time for any. Bang! A deafening explosion of sound rings throughout the room. Ten grams of silver-coated ammunition barrel towards the truck at a speed of nearly a kilometer a second with the promise of death. A small puff of dust is thrown up far down the street. "You missed." "Shit," mutters Topaz. He slides back the bolt and inserts another round. "It's speeding up, sir." The Changeling swings the binoculars down the road. "There's an alley just ahead, they're probably going to take cover there." He refocuses on the truck. The ponies shift around in alarm, heads wildly looking in every direction for the source of the noise. Bang! This time, the Changeling spots a bright spark strike off the bench of the truck, just barely missing one of the soldiers. The soldier starts flapping their wings in a panicked attempt to make themselves harder to hit. The rest of the ponies have wizened up to the danger and scramble for cover as the two trucks barrel onwards towards safety. "The target, Topaz, the target!" the Changeling shouts urgently, setting aside the binoculars to glance at Topaz. They have mere seconds left. If Topaz doesn't make this next shot, the trucks will escape and the hours spent waiting here will have been a complete waste. Topaz pulls the rifle closer to his face, peering intently down the optic as the barrel slowly turns to track the truck. He takes a deep breath and, with a calm, steady hoof, pulls the trigger. The Changeling looks back towards the truck. He only catches a glimpse of the blood-spattered officer before the two trucks turn into an alley, completely hidden from view by the surrounding buildings. Next to him, Topaz slowly ventilates in and out, still staring at the street. "Did you get the target, Topaz?" The Jaeger doesn't respond. "Topaz?" He slowly nods. "The target is... dead." His voice is tight. "Are you sure?" the Changeling asks in surprise. Topaz would have had barely a moment to see the impact of his shot. "That's a confirmed kill?" Ignoring him, Topaz gets up and hastily packs his rifle away. "Yes, little one, that's a confirmed kill. Mission success. Let's get out of here," he says in short, snappy phrases. The Changeling remains still. Something seems off. "Are you sure?" he repeats. "The truck was going pretty fast, you might have-" "Will you shut up for once?" Topaz groans as he locates a wastepaper can and levitates their random food wrappers and cigarette butts into it. "If I killed them, good for us, the mission was a success. If I didn't kill them, good for you, your petty morals are fulfilled. Now do I need to pull rank or will you start getting ready to exfil?" The Changeling hesitantly complies with the order and begins packing his equipment. Never before has Topaz threatened to use his authority as an officer over the Changeling. The two changelings silently bundle the packed gear onto their backs and prepare to leave. The Changeling stops at the doorway and takes one last look around the rapidly darkening room. Hints of the former occupant are visible everywhere: a wooden desk with an inbox on it, framed certificates adorning the walls, a pair of unopened letters on the ground, all coated with a fine layer of dust shepherded in through the shattered windows. He wonders if the pony who worked here is still alive, and if they would ever return. Would it occur to them that once, during a nightmare, two foreign soldiers laid here and dealt the cards their own kind would be forced to play? "Time to go, little one." Topaz speaks softly, as if regretting his earlier outburst. "Topaz..." Before the Changeling has time to reconsider, he utters out in a rushed manner, "A few years ago, I visited Equestria. There was a really famous school I wanted to study at, and I was so, so stupid in thinking I'd ever get admitted, but... I lived there for a while, earning money to get back home. And, well, I can say this for certain: they're just like us, Topaz. You think they want to be here, sleeping in the mud and crying ourselves to sleep and getting shot at, any more than we do?" He stops, panting heavily, and judges Topaz's expression. It's difficult to make out the set jaw and narrowed eyes in the dark. "...Topaz?" The voice is cold and clear. "I told you to stop your whining. Let's go." In that moment, any faith the Changeling had left for Topaz shatters. If a speech from the heart cannot convince him, nothing will. The soldier silently nods and follows Topaz out of the office, picking up the pace as they move down a narrow hallway, into a stairwell. They quietly rush down the long flight of stairs and exit via a back door. Like they were never there, the Jaegers slip out and disappear into the shadows and ruins. Scene 4: FallThe Changeling stumbles forwards as best he can, trying to ignore the bright red marks his wobbling hooves leave on the cobbled street. His vision swims with every step, his abdomen throbs with every jolt, and his throat burns with every lungful of ash and guilt. He has no idea where he's going, and he hardly cares. How could he have done that? He had to do it. But so easily and confidently? There was no other way. He should put it out of his mind. And forget how betrayed and shocked that face was? No, he won't forget. He just needs to focus on what's important right now. Something roughly pushes past the Changeling. His legs finally give way and he collapses onto the ground. With weak, laboured movements, he crawls to the side of the street in a bewildered daze. What's happening to him? Why can't he stand up? The Changeling rolls over and stares up at the sparse hints of azure sky peeking in between the deluge of ash and smoke. The gloom could be mistaken for fog on any other day. So great to just rest and take in the pretty sky. As he looks on, the chaotic vapours seem to twist and shift in a more defined pattern. They gradually form into the visage of a face that stares down at him with blazingly sky-blue pupils. Judgemental. Even in his fevered state, the Changeling recognizes that face. He sees it all the time in his dreams. The unicorn who died in the hooves of a foreign soldier so, so many years ago. He can feel her wet clumps of fur brushing against his hooves, soaked in rain and blood. The distant booms of gunfire and explosions, the patter of rain, the grumbling of a distant engine, all warmly embrace the soldier like a long lost friend, as he stares into that outraged, furious face. "I'm sorry," the Changeling mutters to the ghost. The eyes narrow. Still judgemental, even after all these years. "What do you want from me?" he continues wearily. He's so, so tired. Hasn't he been tormented enough? "I didn't want to kill anyone! I didn't want to tear you from your life! I just wanted to live in peace!" His voice cracks. "So why..." The Changeling stares down at his hooves through the mist and dark fumes. They are red with fresh blood. "Killed." "I... had no choice," the Changeling declares dubiously, barely convinced himself of the statement. "How can you hold that against me?" Hooves stained red. "Never again." He turns his gaze back to the heavens. "Never again!" he pleads. "I'm done! Just give me a chance, please! No matter what happens, I'll never do it again. I'm sorry. I really am." The mirage appears to sigh. The Changeling can almost hear it saying, 'Fine. Last chance.', as it fades away to a barely perceptible wisp. The roaring noises and the weight in his hooves lift away with it, leaving him suddenly lucid and sharply awake. He almost feels lonely, with nothing but his thoughts and the bright, clear sky to keep him company now. The sharp throbbing in his abdomen immediately threatens to overwhelm him, with no distractions to bury the pain under. With Herculean effort he pulls himself to a sitting position and presses his hoof against a gaping, bleeding wound. "Ohhhh, screw you, Topaz," the Changeling groans as he removes his cap. He holds it in his hooves for a moment, gazing wistfully at the spotless red-and-white cloth before pressing it against the cut. It doesn't feel too deep. It's probably just a light slash, but he's left it unattended for too long, slowly letting his precious lifeblood drain away. He can already feel a dull haze settling over his mind. Dark lines eat away at the edge of his vision. Holding the cap tighter still, he looks around the street for help. Huge piles of concrete and blackened steel lay scattered around the barely recognizable bases of the structures lining the street. Blazing infernos slowly discharge thick, black smog into the air as they eat away at the debris. A checkpoint lays abandoned at the end of the street, its orange-and-white barricades protecting nothing but the burning husk of a long-destroyed tank. He vaguely recognizes this place. When they passed here just a few hours ago, it was swarming with fresh soldiers from the north of the city. How easily they fell. It's impossible to see any further through the choking smoke. It's like the Changeling is in his own little world, a claustrophobic space slowly being consumed by hellfire. The feeling of isolation intensifies. In a panic, the Changeling tries to stand up. He doesn't want to die here. Alone, stained in blood, surrounded by the hellish ruins of his city. He collapses back down, unable to find the strength to get up. This is it. No ling is here to hear him. Perhaps that's why he saw that divine apparition, even if it was just a delirious hallucination. A final opportunity to reaffirm his belief that none of this was meant to happen. The dread is washed away by a sudden calm. There is nothing he can do now, except wait for some miracle rescuer to find the time to help a single half-dead soldier in the middle of a raging battle. A miracle. Unlikely. Either way, he's done. There are no choices left to make, no friends to betray, nothing to inadvertently tear down. If only he had one last chance to see his brother... but there's no use worrying about that either. He can just sit here, and enjoy his rest. The Changeling closes his eyes as Vesalipolis burns around him. There is finally peace. Dust slowly accumulates on the windshield of the jeep as it slowly forges ahead into the gloom, its headlights choked by the smog. Endless crowds of changeling refugees part like a school of fish to make way for it, as they flee in the opposite direction. They are strangely hushed, as though holding a vigil of silence for the city. The quiet is marred by sharp cracks of distant gunfire and the low hum of planes passing overhead, invisible through thick layers of sooty smoke. Wings twitch nervously and eyes flit quickly towards the car and back as the changelings pass by. Making eye contact with its occupants, no matter how fleeting, is clearly taboo. From his position next to the driver, the Pony stares back at them, thoroughly scrutinizing each and every face and uniform for a trace of suspicion. He spots a huddled group of changelings in tattered military uniforms and gives them a hostile glare, conspicuously shifting the rifles in his hooves. "Don't try anything, Major. Too many Vesalipolians have already died today," warns a buzzing voice from behind the Pony. He shifts his scowl to the green-uniformed changeling operating the machine gun mounted on the back of the jeep. "'Don't try anything'? Remember who's in charge here, changeling." The changeling has been talking back to him all day, making snarky comments about his temper and self-control. It's beginning to get irritating. "No one is in charge. This is a joint mission." The changeling speaks in an calm, emotionless tone that only serves to infuriate the Pony further. He can't tell if the changeling hasn't quite mastered Equestrian language, or if he's just that unfazed by the Pony's comments. "I'd, erm, like to ask about that, actually," the earthpony driving the jeep contributes in a high-pitched voice, cutting off any response the Pony was preparing. The earthpony absentmindedly adjusts his glasses with one hoof, quickly glancing at a map sprawled out on the dashboard. "See, our changeling friend here has The List, and knows what all the 'lings we're after look like. And you-" He motions to the Pony. "-are a Major who's headed the operation against the Jaegers for, what, three years now?" "Get on with it, Rhythm," the Pony snaps. Algo Rhythm shakes his head in exasperation. "Well, what am I doing here!? I could be back at camp, cracking Loyalist ciphers, and instead I'm here breathing in cement vapours and waiting for a bomb to kill all of us. I'm a desk worker, by Celestia, not a commando." The Pony removes his helmet and runs a hoof over his long mane as he stares off into the smog, suddenly nervous. He'd have gotten the hair cut a long time ago if the company barber wasn't busy helping tend to wounded prisoners all day. One of these days, he'll just go ahead and chop it all off himself. "I was under the impression you were to provide us with medical expertise?" the changeling questions. The Pony takes a deep breath, trying to take back control of the situation. "Rhythm, I'll need you to shut-" "Then what's the bag of mind control drugs for?" Rhythm howls incredulously, completely ignoring the Pony. "The...?" The changeling's tone betrays the barest hint of surprise. "Major, what are we doing, exactly?" There's a silence as the Pony pretends to be looking over the rapidly thinning crowds. The booming of gunfire is getting louder, and the smog thicker, as the jeep forges on. "Major?" "The mission... isn't what you think," he hesitantly admits. He can hear the changeling's wings buzzing anxiously. Despite himself, he feels some satisfaction at finally shaking the impassive soldier. "What do you mean, Major? What's going on?" "Yeah, Major, what do you mean?" whines Algo Rhythm as he turns the jeep down a deserted side street. It's eerily devoid of life. "I know I seem like a jerk, but I'm not cut out for lobotomizing anypony." "Well... we're rounding up any Jaegers we find, that part is true." The Pony is stalling, trying to get time to think. The only uncertain part of his plan is how the changeling will react. He's been compliant so far, but this might be a step too far. It has to be done, though. Better to reveal it on his own terms. "Before we formally detain them we need to... extract information. Corporal Rhythm singlehandedly wrote the manual on advanced interrogation. He'll be guiding us in applying the serum," the Pony says, trying to soften up his explanation with more appealing words. "What does this serum-" The changeling coughs at the thickening smoke. "-this serum do?" "It puts the receiver in a susceptible state for a few minutes, during which we can ask any question and expect an honest answer. It doesn't hurt at all." "And it's il-leeee-gal," Rhythm draws out in a singsong voice. "It permanently damages the reward system of the brain and leaves you feeling apathetic and physically weak for the rest of your life. Torture would be kinder, but it's not a reliable way of getting answers. You want to do it out on the field where command can't stop you, don't you, Major?" Rhythm has moved up on the list of annoying equines. "These are enemy soldiers, Corporal. They've done so much worse to us. They don't deserve your pity." "You don't know that," murmurs the changeling, eyes fixated on the empty street. The Pony takes no notice of him. "We need to know more about the Loyalist attack if we're going to fight them off. I'll gladly trade the comfort of some changeling scumbags for the lives of people of real fucking worth." He shifts to stare into the narrowed eyes of the changeling soldier. "We're going to be saving changeling lives, too. Bad changelings like them for good changelings like you. Doesn't that sound like a good deal... Major Aspen?" Aspen's head fin twitches irritably. The Pony holds his breath, waiting for an angry dismissal of his plan. Finally, Aspen slowly spills out, "It... does. That is why it's so... how do you say it? Suspicious." The Pony lets loose a relieved laugh at that response. "Really? I didn't expect you to be convinced so easily." Aspen giving him a suspicious glare, despite the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, only makes the Pony laugh harder. "Oh, no, seriously, I've told you everything, there's no more evil surprises. I'm not some sort of comic book villain." Comic books. Those are something he hasn't thought about in... years. He vaguely remembers a time when he fantasized and daydreamed about them all day, but that feels so distant now. No, he can't have his thoughts drifting off to unimportant matters. Focus. The Pony tunes back into what Aspen is saying. "Right." Aspen gives him a fanged smile. "And I know villains." He smiles back, not sure what Aspen is saying, but glad to have the apparent approval of the changeling. It assuages the doubts aroused by Rhythm's comments. This must be the right thing to do. "Sorry to interrupt your morally dubious discussion, but I think we've got something." Peering ahead into the smoke, the Pony can make out red flames licking at the silhouette of a large tank. The crackle of fire has grown to a deafening roar. "Company?" he asks, flicking the safety off on his rifle. Behind him, Aspen turns the gun with a heavy clink. "Errr... the front's about three blocks from here, according to the last report. I'd reckon the Loyalists abandoned it when the Thoraxian pincer moved up this morning." Rhythm carefully maneuvers the jeep forwards, letting the headlights illuminate a pile of charred sandbags and some scattered traffic barricades. Ahead of them, the extent of the blaze is revealed as smoke pours out of the buildings along the entire street. "By Celestia, the whole block's on fire. Should I radio it in?" "Not yet. We'll check it out first, then we can call in a civil defence squad." The Pony hops out, levitating an innocuous medical bag with him. "More time to find victims to maim and torture? Sounds fun," Rhythm replies sarcastically. "I'll wait here, I've inhaled my fair share of carcinogens." "No, you're coming with us, Corporal," the Pony growls, his bad mood rapidly returning. Rhythm has no sense of proper military decorum. "You're to administer the serum." "No..." the changeling pronounces. "I think it would be best to leave someone behind to keep a watch out. This part of the city still isn't secure. Is applying the serum particularly difficult?" Rhythm shrugs. "Not really? Just find a vein and inject an appropriate amount. All the vials are labelled with instructions too. Completely dummy-proof." "Fine, fine. Corporal, keep a lookout for Loyalists. Report to command if you see anything suspicious, or if we don't come back in about ten minutes," the Pony orders. "We'll just take a quick look for survivors." "Rooooger that, sir." "On me, changeling." Aspen nods and files in behind the Pony, levitating a rifle alongside himself. The heat grows as they pass by the barricades, forcing them to keep their distance from the blazing buildings and smouldering piles of debris. It's a wide, spacious avenue that must have been a busy commercial area before the military moved into Vesalipolis to try and finally take the changeling capital. The fire was probably triggered by a stray shell from either side, and spread unchecked without anyone to put it out. Looking around at the devastation, the Pony forcibly reminds himself of the aftermath of the battle for Vanhoover in Equestria. The changelings took a whole week to put out the fires, more concerned with pushing the Equestrian military back than keeping the city intact. The Equestrians and the Thoraxians have a whole civil defence department to protect Vesalipolis! And it was the changelings who started this war, after all. Why shouldn't they pay for it? ...still, an uneasiness claws at him, seeing the fire consume this place. They have to act fast. "Major, there!" The Pony shakes himself to the present and spots a uniformed changeling slumped against a mound of bricks, barely visible through the smoke. He rushes forward to inspect the unconscious 'ling. "He's injured," Aspen observes, motioning at a bloody wound. A grey rag is held against the injury, mostly halting the blood flow. Moving closer, the Pony sets down the medical bag and takes a good look at the wound. It's a light gash running down the side of the changeling's barrel. He starts cutting a roll of bandages to wrap around it before he stops and looks closer, faintly making out the colour of the outfit through the bloodstains. A grey uniform. The changeling is wearing a grey uniform. "Ohhh, it's a fucking Jaeger!" the Pony half-cackles in joyous realization. He can't believe his luck. A miracle indeed. End of Act 1 Scene 5A: BreakSolitary shafts of grey light sneak their way past the thick bars on the windows, jumping and scattering in time with every bump and jostle that shakes the cramped space. They're joined by the red glow of a rune at the back of the truck, dimly illuminating the thick metal door installed there. Gold-embroidered cuffs and endless ribbons of honour contrast sharply with the gloomy, sandy grey of the truck's interior. Those sitting here only wear clothing that is freshly scrubbed and ironed to a crisp, not a speck of dirt on the vibrant blue coats and tan shirts and white caps. These are the higher officers of the Equestrian military. Not the best of the best, but still, well dressed. At the end of the truck, two soldiers sit apart from the officers, perfectly blending in with the darkness with their dull clothes. The grime and sweat on their ragged uniforms cannot be hidden, though. Another thump sends the occupants of the truck scrambling for something to hold on to. A unicorn near the front chuckles madly. "Easier to shell the road than to rebuild it, eh?" she calls above the rattling of the chassis. Another unicorn sneers back, "Sorry, Colonel, did my ponies' lives cost you some gravel?" "Alright, alright, let's not talk about work now," an earthpony says in conciliatory fashion, idly dusting off an already immaculate cap. "This is a celebration, remember? Today, we'll drink to victory, and tomorrow we can talk about the budget." "Cheers to that!" "I drink to the Princesses, personally." "I'll drink to anything, I've been dry for a month," somepony comments. The whole cabin laughs at that. Sitting near the back, close enough to see the haunted eyes and shivering hooves of the soldiers, the Pony remains silent. "What are you so grim faced for, Major?" that same first unicorn asks above the rumbling tires and the dying laughter. "Your unit captured, what, two hundred Jaegers yesterday? They'll award you for that at the ceremony, surely." The Pony gives her a thin smile. His subordinates rounded up plenty of Jaegers, but hours of driving with a terrified Algo Rhythm yielded him nothing but wasted time. "Just thinking about security, Colonel Façade. I'm on the Operations Board, remember?" "Operations Board?" The unicorn adopts a curious tone. By now, everypony is quietly listening in to the conversation. "Like I said, Colonel, just security," he replies coolly. "The Changeling government may have surrendered, but there's still one last pocket left to deal with: the Loyalists in Vesalipolis. They are blending in with the civilians, quietly gathering their strength, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The Board is coordinating soldiers to defend us from the threat." The cabin is hushed as the officers mull over this. The Pony has to suppress a satisfied smile at their suddenly concerned expressions. "But- surely, there's no threat to us?" somepony speaks up at last. "We were assured-" "Ah, ofcourse. There's nothing to worry about," he soothes. "Merely a precaution." Most of the ponies seem reassured by this and slowly return to their idle conversations, leaving only Colonel Façade staring at the Pony with a lingering hint of suspicion. Keeping the officers in the dark is a vital part of the plot. While the officers themselves can be screened for changeling spies, the same can't be said for the secretaries and spouses and other people they are no doubt in contact with. Only the most trusted or essential officers are in on the plan to wipe out the Loyalists. The Pony understands that in his case, 'trusted' means he has no one at home to write to. The rest of the officers are only here to keep up the pretense of normality. From the outside, it'll seem like a vulnerable convoy taking important officials to an arrogantly timed victory party in city center, just like the carefully leaked documents and apparently insecure radio conversations detailed. An easy target for a desperate, final attack. There's a sharp tap at the wall separating the front of the truck from the back. A peephole slides open and two bright eyes stare in at the Pony. "We're one minute out, sir," a gruff voice reports above the noise of the engine and tyres. "52nd Platoon is lagging behind, but all other units are position." "Understood, Lieutenant. Report to me if there's any hiccups," the Pony calls back. He ignores the confused glances and mutterings from the other officers. The peephole remains open, as if the pony there is debating whether to say something. "Eh... Operations says you're not to leave the car, Major." The Pony stares right back. "I will be leaving the car, Lieutenant." "...I understand, Major. Good luck." The peephole quickly slides shut with a grating screech of metal. There's a lingering silence as the officers stare expectantly at the Pony, waiting for him to offer an explanation. He looks back impassively. "What was that about?" a unicorn finally asks at last. The Pony shrugs. "Nothing." Colonel Façade stands up, pointing aggressively at the Pony. "No, you're doing something, Major, and you're not telling us what it is. Do I need to pull rank?" A faint burst of gunfire filters through into the car, along with a shout of "Brace!" from the front cabin. The Pony winks at Façade, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline, and reaches out to hold onto the bench as the truck screeches to a halt. "There may have been some-" There's a thunderous crash from behind. Everypony is forcefully sent tumbling towards the front of the cabin. The Pony collides with one of the officers, hitting his head hard on the edge of a bench. His ears ring with the force of the impact. "Fuck!" Head spinning, he extracts himself from the pile of shocked ponies and climbs towards the back of the truck. One of the soldiers lies crumpled against her seat, head tilted at an unnatural angle. The other soldier stares at her with wide eyes, muzzle twitching in shock. "Here, Corporal!" the Pony directs as he presses against the door. The soldier slowly stirs and gets up to help him. Together, they gradually push open the heavy, armoured door. Light and sound rushes in all at once, like a torrent through a broken dam. Chaotic shouting and the crack of sniper fire fills the air, as trucks swerve to dodge or come to a stop to unload their occupants. Peeking around the side of the truck, the Pony can see flashing muzzles and smoke pouring out of the windows above the street. A few scattered soldiers return fire from behind cover, but the defense seems pitiful at best. In reality, he knows the positioning of the trucks is well-planned to get soldiers into the nearby buildings as fast as possible, while still appearing disorganized and chaotic to the ambushers. He's satisfied to see it working, as squads of troops cluster up safely behind brick storefronts or in alleyways. "Major!" Another soldier helps the Pony out of the truck, gaping past him at the carnage inside. "W-w-we- there was a rocket, sir, a-a-and-" "Find Captain Mantle once the reinforcements arrive, tell him to get a medical team over here," the Pony orders. He rubs the sore spot on his head, wincing. "Pass me your helmet, too." The soldier hands over his helmet and takes the Pony's ragged cap. He simply stands there, seemingly unsure what to do with it. "Just toss it on the ground, soldier, anywhere is fine." The soldier salutes and throws the cloth to the ground. He disappears off towards the next truck down the convoy, throwing up clouds of dust as he goes. Giving the straps on the helmet a good tug to check they're securely fastened, the Pony turns back to the truck. The Corporal has dragged the body of the dead soldier out to lay against the charred back of the truck. He whispers incoherently to her as he straightens her uniform with surprising care. "Leave her, Corporal. Check the condition of the officers, we need to secure them first." With a fearsome stamp of a hoof, the Corporal abruptly rounds on him, fur bristling. "Why? Are they more important? Huh? They're more important?" He says it more like a challenge than a question. His wings puff out menacingly, and his eyes betray a smoldering blaze waiting to ignite. "Steady on, Corporal," the Pony says sternly, holding his ground. "What's your name?" Seemingly taken aback, the Corporal blinks at him. "Held Breath," comes the tense reply. He shifts backwards uncomfortably, as if only just realizing what he's doing. "...s-sir." The Pony realizes the pegasus is shivering- no, trembling, and not just out of anger. His wings twitch as though ready to take flight at any second, and his eyes dart around wildly. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, the Pony gently lays a hoof on Breath's shoulder. "Corporal Breath... she's dead," he deadpans. "You can't help her now. The ponies in there-" the Pony nods towards the truck- "You can help them." Ears drooping, Breath lowers his head as the fight seems to go out of him. His wings lie limp at his sides. "Yes, sir," he mumbles. "I- yes, sir." He climbs back into the truck, giving the body a final, wistful glance. Something about that compels the Pony to speak. "What are you afraid of, Corporal?" He's shocked to hear his own voice. It is not the confident, commanding tone of a Major of the Equestrian military, but the quiet, shy whisper of the sheltered unicorn who ran off to enlist so long ago. "Sir?" He clears his throat and musters up a professional firmness. "You seemed afraid just now, Corporal. Of what?" "Ah." Breath gives the Pony a tiny smile that, for some strange reason, sends shivers along his spine. "I guess I was afraid of the Jaeger Hunter, sir." With that, he disappears into the dark cabin, leaving the Pony to stare after him. The Jaeger Hunter. That's who he is now. He lifts a hoof up to his face, wondering whether there is some marker there that tells ponies to make way, to be afraid, the Jaeger Hunter is here. It is a dangerous thought that is simultaneously disturbing... and thrilling. A fleet of jeeps and bikes roar by in a blur, shaking the Pony out of his musings. It's the reinforcements. He watches as a line of armoured cars roll by- a strange mix between a light tank and a truck- and another pair of motorbikes follows, both turning to stop behind the truck as one of the drivers spots the Pony. "Major!" The bike pulls up next to him, the driver flaring his wings to bring it to a complete stop. The armed earthpony behind him- notably lacking a helmet- hangs on for dear life as the bike tilts precariously backwards. The driver pulls his tinted visor up, revealing a stubby green-furred muzzle and a pair of bright blue eyes. "Y'alright, Major? Ya seem lost." The Pony blinks uncomprehendingly at the pegasus. He seems vaguely familiar. "It's Cap'n Mantle. Pleasure to meet ya," the driver drawls out, offering a hoof. Behind him, the turret on one of the cars swivels and fires up at a building with a massive boom. Someone screams from inside as showers of debris rain down from it. That kickstarts the Pony's brain. "Captain Mantle, good to see you," he responds curtly. The Captain is in charge of the real Equestrian force meant to counter-ambush the Loyalists; he's low-ranking enough not to warrant any attention from Changeling intelligence, but experienced enough in leadership and urban combat to hold his own. "The Loyalists have occupied the western block, just as we expected. Where are you setting up command? We need a field hospital, too, and a radio desk if we can get one." Mantle frowns, retracting his hoof. "Ah heard, we've got two medic squads leggin' it here with the supplies. Can't believe we've already got casualties. They 'ad to come in with 52nd but there's some sorta delay. Ah'm looking for Major-" "Major Ale?" the Pony cuts in impatiently. "He was in the truck behind us, you'll probably find him in that store to the left." Turning around, Mantle scans the shopfronts. "The boutique?" "Furniture store. Get in there and get a field command up. How far out is the armour?" Mantle nods at the other driver, who glances at a watch. "Both of the northern platoons arrived on scheduled and have secured the northern route as planned, sir. With that it should take the armoured company... three and a half minutes or so." Three and a half minutes. In 210 seconds, the Equestrian tanks will arrive to surround the block, and victory will be certain. In 210 seconds, they will see the fruits of a well-executed plan. And in 210 seconds, his chance for justice will have disappeared forever. "You remember the signal?" "Blue flare for victory, white for trouble, nothing means we're dead," Mantle recites as he dismounts the bike. "Good." The Pony taps the shoulder of the earthpony before he can get off. "You, stay on. I'll be borrowing your bike and your pony, Captain." "Aren't ya on the Board, Major? Shouldn't ya be somewhere safe?" "I had a word with them about how I like to lead from the front," the Pony lies through his teeth. "I'm all cleared for combat." Mantle gives him a knowing smirk. "Sure... Well, suit yerself, boss. Good luck." He trots away to the shop the Pony pointed out. The other driver rushes to join him, while the pony with him goes to the truck, probably to check up on the officers. With nopony to stop him, the Pony clambers onto the front of the bike, placing his forehooves firmly on the handlebars. The earthpony shifts back to give him some more space. "Where are we headed, er, Major?" the earthpony asks. The Pony carefully tests the pedals. The bike is light for a military vehicle, and has obviously been retrofitted from a regular cargo bike to carry a second pony. It's still a tight fit. "We'll link up with 75th, on the northern side of the block, and see if they need any help." He cautiously maneuvers the bike out of the cover of the truck, stopping to check that it's safe. The cars have advanced much further down the road and, along with soldiers from the convoy, are slowly moving to encircle the block. "The northern side? That's pretty dangerous-" "You seem young," the Pony interrupts, trying to derail these questions. The earthpony does sound young, but it's hard to tell over the gunfire and cannons. "Yep. I enlisted soon as I could, to help finish the war," the earthpony says proudly. "It's Private Spring. Coiled Spring. And you're Major, er..." "Just call me Major. 'Sir' is fine." Pressing down on the pedal, the Pony speeds up the street, weaving in between the abandoned trucks till he reaches the front line. This close, he can see the individual guns sticking out of the windows. There's pitifully few of them, unloading a measly couple of rounds at the comfortably protected soldiers below. The noise of combat has been switched out for the rapid marching of hooves and barked orders from Equestrian officers as squads of soldiers take up positions at doors and windows, getting ready to storm the buildings. Not wanting to drive right out in the open, the Pony swerves left at the line of cars, down a smaller street that runs along the block. More soldiers and another car stand in his way, but the street ahead is completely empty. The Pony stops the bike and calls out to the nearest soldier. "Hey! Where's the perimeter? What's going on?" The soldier glances at him and flinches in shock. "Th- Major! 52nd Platoon was supposed to cover this side, but they haven't shown up! We're stretched thin but we've got it locked- Major!" The Pony has already taken off, threading the needle between a cluster of sandbags and surprised soldiers who scramble to get out of the way. "Sir, what are we doing, if you don't mind me asking?" "Those idiots left an entire road open for the damn changelings. They might as well have rolled out the red carpet," the Pony growls as he guides the bike along the smooth curve of the road. His outrage at the incompetence of the soldiers is tempered by mild glee at his luck. Once again, he has an opportunity to find some Jaegers away from questioning eyes. He's not going to play nice and interrogate them this time. No, he's the Jaeger Hunter. He's going to hunt some Jaegers. "Won't, er, 52nd Platoon cut them off?" The Pony nods, speeding up. The wind starts to audibly ruffle his mane. "The main groups, yes. Any stragglers will slip through, though, and then we'll never find them." "Ah, that makes sense. That's smart, sir." Spring sounds genuinely impressed. They continue on in silence. The endless concrete monolith lining both sides of the road tells of how affluent this area was before the war. The grey sky and grey road and grey buildings seem to blend in till everything is grey. As the cracks of gunfire fade away behind them, the Pony starts to wonder if there are even any changelings here. Perhaps they concentrated all of their forces on the side of the block facing the main road, not even bothering to leave a token guard behind. "There! To the left!" Spring suddenly shouts into his ear. The Pony slams the brake and glances down the nearby alleyway. A pair of uniformed changelings stand in the distance, staring back at him warily. One of them slowly starts to back away, shouting something to the other changeling. And he wears a grey uniform. The Pony kicks against the ground, turning the bike to face down the changelings. Without hesitation, he revs the engine, quickly accelerating towards them as they disappear around the corner. "Be ready to fire, Private!" he calls out. The buildings whip by in a blur as they approach the sharp turn. "Whuh? From the bike!?" "Just do it," the Pony growls. "They're armed, and we don't have the sweet time to be chasing them around on hoof." The bike hurtles around the corner onto a wider street, tilting dangerously to the side as it climbs the sidewalk. It just barely clears the turn, narrowly avoiding crashing into a shuttered doorway. The grooves in the bricked path rattle the motorbike, forcing the Pony to slow down or risk being thrown off entirely. A row of decorative trees and benches blocks the way back onto the road, the only route out being the end of the sidewalk far ahead. "I've got them, Major, slow us down a bit," Spring yells excitedly. The Pony looks to the side. The changelings are running almost parallel to the bike, flicking in and out of sight between the thick, leafy trees. He's close enough to make out the shiny sweat on their faces and hear the strange, not-quite clipclop noise their changeling hooves make on the cobble. He slows the bike till they roughly match the speed of the 'lings. "Shoot them already, Private, what are you waiting for?" The Pony is painfully aware of the approach of the sidewalk's end, and the solid wall ahead of it. "Hoorah!" With a loud click, Spring arms the rifle and aims it towards the changelings. The Pony can see the barrel swaying wildly at the edge of his vision. Bang! The Pony's ears ring at the deafening crack. The changelings flinch, but carry on their wild dash forwards. The shot missed. Awkwardly shifting the gun in his hooves, Spring pulls back the lever and takes aim again. Bang! The Pony doesn't get the chance to see the product of Spring's work. He's forced to bring the bike to a near-stop to avoid crashing into the wall. He turns back to glance at Spring. "Well?" The Private shrinks away from his look. "I, er, missed. I'm sorry, sir." "...shit." The Pony can hear the hoofsteps of the changelings fading away into the distance. With some difficulty, he rolls the bike off the sidewalk and towards an even narrower alleyway that seems to stretch away into the darkness endlessly. He can still hear the scampering of the changelings, but the noise reverberates around the cluttered alley too much for him to pinpoint their direction. In the shadows of the looming buildings above, it is impossible to make anything out. "Do you hear them, Private?" he whispers back to Spring. They both pause to listen. The sound has disappeared entirely. "I don't know, sir. Have you tried the headlights?" "Oh." The darkness, mercifully, hides his blush. He fumbles around for the switch and flicks it on. Powerful headlamps flare to life. They clearly illuminate the changeling standing defiantly on his forehooves, gun aimed right at the two passengers of the motorbike. Reacting instantly, the Pony places a hoof on the ground and swivels the bike around with all his might, simultaneously throwing it forward with as much telekinetic power as he can muster. Both ponies are flung backwards and tumble to the ground. The Pony's helmet clangs loudly as it impacts the tough concrete, further tormenting his hearing but otherwise protecting his head from the fall. Private Spring has no such luck though, and he crumples against the floor with a sickening crunch. There's a deafening bang. Something whips through the air, perilously close to the Pony's exposed barrel. He flinches in shock and lifts his hooves to cover his face. His heart thunders against his chest, but with the fear, and the instinct to protect himself, comes an adrenaline and a rising outrage. Why is he cowering here? He is the Jaeger Hunter. He grasps around the dark till he finds the cold grip of a rifle. He is the Jaeger Hunter, and here are the Jaegers who have pillaged and stolen and burnt the future of Equestria. The Pony picks up the gun. The choking dread has vanished, replaced by cold determination. Like a ghost from a grave, he rises up to point the rifle down the alleyway, ignoring the cuts and bruises screaming in pain from all over his body. It is not just about Equestria's future. It is his own, too. His future, a life with the people who understood or loved or simply cared, lies in irreparable tatters. He lines up the sights with the fleeing form of a changeling. He breathes in coolly. Here is justice for a dead future. Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! With lightning-fast, well-worn motions he repeatedly pulls the trigger, cycling the lever just as quickly to unload several rounds towards the changeling. They disappear into the shadows unseen, but he knows they flew true. And then it is over. The noises suddenly rush back in, faraway explosions and guns mixing in with the ringing in his ears, and he is once again aware of the sharp pain shooting through his body. He can no longer hear his prey. They are gone. The Pony simply stands there, rifle in hooves, panting with both physical and emotional exertion. But he can't stop now. He needs to make sure. "Let's go, Private, on your hooves," he mutters between heavy breaths, glancing down at the curled-up form of Spring. "There's no time to rest, they're getting away." "Oh, Celestia..." Spring sobs weakly, apparently shivering on the cold ground. "Oh, nonono..." The Pony feels a ferocious wrath coming on. This pathetic excuse of a soldier is wasting his time with theatrics, and all the while the changelings are getting further away. "Get up, Private!" he shouts much more harshly, grabbing Spring by the shirt. "Get the fuck up!" "By Celestia, it hurts..." Spring whimpers. "It hurts real bad..." The Pony blinks in shock at this foalish crying. It violently thrusts him right back into reality. What is he doing? This is a teenager, barely an adult. The Pony takes in the cuts, the torn clumps of fur, the pathetic look on Spring's face. A horrible possibility flashes through his mind: Spring could have just as easily been shot just then. In another world, the Pony is carrying a corpse right now. He is explaining to an officer why, why he rushed off to kill Jaegers when an Equestrian soldier lay dead behind him. He is knocking on a door and coldly informing a mother that their foal is not coming home. He feels suddenly sober. Aware of the precious life he holds in his hooves. Slowly, gently, he lowers Spring's body to the ground. "It's alright," he murmurs soothingly. "Let's- we'll drive back, find a medic. Just- stay still, yeah?" He turns around to busy himself with the bike, not daring to even glance at Spring in his shame. His movements are clumsy and weak, and he struggles to lift the light motorbike to a standing position. Shaky breaths tear their way through his muzzle as his fatigued lungs desperately fight for air. "Sir? The- in the sky-" The Pony turns around, on alert for any danger. It is strangely quiet. He cranes his neck upwards. A thin strip of sky is barely visible between the humongous structures lining the alleyway. Thick trails of smoke stream upwards through the clouds, painting bright blue smears on the grey backdrop. Far in the distance, as though signing off the orchestra of war, a thousand faint voices seem to roar in- "Victory, sir." Private Spring's eyes tear up, either in pain or joy. "That's the sign for victory. We did it." "Victory." The Pony rolls the word over his tongue, tasting it. It is surreal to think about. The Loyalists are no more. Over a decade of bloodshed and mad carnage is finally over, and it ended with total victory. There will be no more snipers, no more terror, no more bombs, no more comrades to bury. They won. They won. So why, the Pony asks himself as he stares up the alley to where the Jaeger disappeared, why doesn't he taste anything? Scene 5B: BreakIt is quiet. Nothing drives down the street, no 'lings peruse the storefronts, no birds coo from the nests high up in the windowsills. Even the wind refuses to whistle by, leaving the air stagnant and hot with the memory of the fires that torched the city so recently. There is one, lonely sound, though. Hoofsteps echo off the largely featureless building exteriors, giving the Changeling the uneasy impression that he's being followed as he slinks down the street. It is an irrational fear; the noise is clearly of his own hooves. Still, he can't quite shake off his paranoia, and he regularly stops to take a quick scan of his surroundings. The Equestrian military has been strangely absent all day. He wonders if that has something to do with their knowledge of the planned Loyalist ambush. Earlier, the Changeling awoke to discover a steady stream of changelings returning to their homes or simply wandering the streets, apparently triggered by the unexpected surrender of the government and the conclusion of the battle in Vesalipolis. Through the gossip and rumours spreading among the refugees, he was able to discern the rough location of where the Loyalist remnants were congregating. It's one of the newer sections of the city, a series of massive housing complexes ordered in a neat grid right on the main street. Like alien monoliths, they loom over the alleyways, deposited onto the city with a cold efficiency only the Queen- no, Chrysalis, the Changeling reminds himself- could muster up. It's nothing like the cozy, cluttered streets he remembers. With a shiver, the Changeling wonders how much of Vesalipolis looks like this, quietly transformed in the years he was away. He's suddenly put on alert by a quiet, rustling noise coming from ahead. A changeling soldier leaps out from around the corner. He brandishes a short-barelled shotgun. A knife hovers dangerously close to the Changeling's neck, held aloft in a shimmering blue glow. "We've got one over here! You, halt! Halt in the name of Her Majesty!" he yells loudly, despite the fact that the Changeling is already standing stock-still. He's surprised by the sudden challenge, yet doesn't feel particularly threatened. From this position, he could easily disarm the soldier and gain control of the knife, but- should he? No. The Changeling promised: never again. He'll talk his way out instead. "It's alright-" he takes a quick peek at the rank markings on the soldier's uniform- "Corporal. I'm a Jaeger. You can stand down." The soldier's luminous eyes narrow. "A Jaeger, huh?" "Yes, a Jaeger," the Changeling agrees. He shifts uncomfortably under the soldier's stare. The gun and the knife are starting to look much more menacing. "I think I'll just be on my way-" "Last I heard, all the Jaegers were dead, or captured," the soldier spits out. "It's mighty suspicious, you showing up like this." The Changeling has to bite back his surprise. For the Jaegers to be utterly destroyed like that... no wonder the government surrendered so quickly. With all those elite soldiers gone, there is nothing left to counterattack the Equestrians with. "Yes, well, I got out," he mumbles. He's sharply aware of just how much danger he's in. "Listen, just- don't shoot, alright? Let's talk about this." "Corporal!" A buzzing voice calls. Two more changelings whip around the corner, guns at ready. One of them isn't even wearing a uniform, dressed instead in a labourers' coat and muddy pants. "Sergeant, we've got a 'Jaeger' over here. Permission to open fire?" The uniformed changeling pushes the soldier aside, taking a good look at the Changeling. His face flashes in surprise and he jumps up in shock, hovering just above the ground with buzzing wings. "Lieutenant! I- we- get that dagger out of the Lieutenant's muzzle, Corporal!" The soldier grumbles incoherently in response, but dutifully lowers the shotgun and tucks the knife into his coat. The Changeling blinks, equal bits relieved and confused. "Do I, uh, know you?" The Sergeant touches back down and salutes. "Sergeant Agate, 2nd Infantry Detachment, sir! I was on perimeter security at the Jaeger base." He nods at the Changeling's bandages. "You look like you've been through hell. What happened to your uniform?" "Got stabbed," the Changeling replies simply. "I heard the military's gathering somewhere nearby?" "Yep. It's this block, right down here. Major Thulite's in charge, you'll find him on the top floor." Agate leans in conspiratorially. "Though, personally, we're getting the hell out of here. I'd suggest you do the same; they said the airforce's coming in with reinforcements, but I'm not so sure." So much for 'in the name of Her Majesty'. The Changeling is glad that there's at least some soldiers who have the sense to flee the impending battle, though. "Right. Thanks for the offer, but there's someling I'm looking for. I won't leave without him." Agate shrugs. "Then I wish you good luck. If you want to get away without running into any soldiers, this side of the block's completely clear. Everyling's deserted already. Alright, let's move out!" The other two changelings file in behind Agate. The Corporal gives the Changeling a glare as he passes by, while the other soldier merely tips his hat at him. He watches as the trio disappears down the street, then turns to enter the block they indicated. Like the other blocks in this part of the city, it looks like a single massive building rather than a series of smaller ones, with no breakups in the facade or height differences to indicate otherwise. The Changeling pushes open one of the many cheap, identical sheet doors, into a narrow concrete hallway. It's littered with abandoned equipment: woodcutting boards, stacks of tiles, and hastily stored tools. There's a faint hubbub coming from ahead. The Changeling moves down the dark passageway, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor that leads deeper into the block. He's guided only by the whispers of sunlight coming from ahead, and the quiet noises that slowly define themselves as hushed chatter and hoofsteps. The bright light at the end of the corridor grows with every hoofstep. The Changeling raises a hoof to shield his eyes as he steps out of the corridor. His vision slowly adjusts, revealing swarms of changelings filling every available spot in a wide, open room lined with windows. The space seems to run uninterrupted along the entire exterior wall, more like a hallway than anything else. There is not even a semblance of order among the soldiers present. They chitter quietly to each other, they smoke cigarettes, they shout out crass jokes from across the room. Others simply mill around uncertainly. A confusing rainbow of different uniforms is assembled: there's the standard smart black outfit of the army, but also white navy attire, forest- and desert-patterned camouflages, and even some tan Equestrian uniforms. He guesses the latter was worn by the Loyalist infiltrators. A few of the soldiers give the Changeling interested glances that range from curious to outright hostile, but he's mostly ignored as he trots through the room, slowly weaving around tables covered in all manner of guns, ammunition, and bombs. Empty food wrappers and loose papers litter the concrete floor, carelessly tossed aside by the occupying soldiers. The Changeling tries to keep an eye out for his brother, but in this crowd there's no way of telling if he's already missed him. Thinking about the impossibility of the task, he finds it suddenly harder to force the precious air down his lungs Eventually, he comes across a much thicker group of changelings. They are strangely hushed, speaking in quiet whispers and looking at something ahead. The Changeling tries moving through them as best he can. As he pushes past the last soldier to an open space, though, he nearly trips over something on the floor. "Watch out!" A soldier next to him reaches out a steadying hoof. He looks down. A changeling stares back up at him with dull eyes. It's a corpse. There are rows and rows of them, all laid out on white sheets, packed together so tightly that the spaces between them are just wide enough for a single 'ling. The soldier notices him looking. "Gruesome, huh? We had some volunteers go and dig the poor bastards out of the rubble, right from behind the Equestrian lines. Brave, brave 'lings. Once we smash those ponies, we'll be able to put them to rest where they belong." The Changeling ignores him, staring at a vaguely familiar body at the other end of the makeshift morgue. Cold dread seeps through his chest. He moves forwards in a daze, arriving far too quickly for his liking to stand next to another soldier who quietly smokes a cigarette. Together, they stare down at the limp form of Topaz. The Changeling doesn't know what to think. Glancing over, the other changeling comments wearily, "You're short for a Jaeger, aren't you? Any chance you know uncle?" With a start, the Changeling realizes she is talking about Topaz. He gives her a half-nod. "He was..." He trails off, still staring at the body. A white sheet covers Topaz up to his head, mercifully hiding the wounds the Changeling knows are there. With his closed eyes and almost peaceful expression, it isn't hard to imagine him simply asleep. "He was a great soldier," the Changelings finally musters up. "My- my condolences for To- for your uncle." The other changeling snorts. "He's not really my uncle. He's the one who raised my lot but... I could never call him dad." Her gaze becomes unfocused, lost in some memory. The cigarette burns in her hoof unattended. "I remember when he would have us sit in a circle, and explain to us how great Chrysalis was and how horrible things were before the hives were unified." The filthy cigarette paper tears, its contents spilling out on the floor. "When the Queen called, he went to help take Olenia. I followed him the moment I was old enough, and that's why you have JCO Chrysolite here in front of you. I never found him again." Chrysolite raises her gaze to look at the Changeling. Her narrowed teal eyes water up with tears. "I'll fucking bet he was a good soldier! He was a shit dad!" A few other changelings glance over to see what the commotion is about. The Changeling simply gapes at her. It's easier than looking at Topaz. Not once did he mention that he had raised nymphs. It's difficult to imagine the hardened soldier playing games, reading out stories... even just writing a letter home. "But... I don't know," Chrysolite continues more quietly. "It was so damn easy to hate uncle when I thought he'd be around forever. I always imagined him turning it all around, that he'd start replying to the letters, maybe come back home with the rest of us on leave. Make amends." She shrugs. "And now he'll never do that. Isn't that horrible?" She looks to the Changeling expectantly, as though waiting for an answer. He backs away uncomfortably. He's horrified, but he tries his not to let it show. "I- I've got something to do-" he mumbles, spinning around. He bounds away as fast as his legs will take, passing ten, twenty, a hundred neatly laid out, horrifyingly ugly bodies, and eventually leaves them behind altogether, and disappears back into the faceless crowd. The Changeling doesn't know where he's going. He simply keeps pushing his way past the disorderly rows of soldiers in a vain attempt to get away from it all. The faces keep flashing through his mind, like a projector flicking through a reel of photos: Aspen's determined glare, Chrysolite holding back tears, Topaz looking shocked and disappointed and betrayed all at once. He wants to scream. He wants to curl in a corner and shrivel away. He wants to- "Woah, little one!" a surprised, mildly amused voice says. "Where are you off to?" The Changeling looks up, stopping dead in his tracks. His brother stares back, head tilted to the side inquisitively, bright purple eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. Without hesitation, the Changeling rushes forward to nuzzle the Brother, who returns it in kind. His worries feel suddenly distant. His brother is here. It's over. For a few seconds, they simply enjoy each other's company. "You look like sh- er, pretty bad," the Brother eventually comments, a measure of strain in his voice. That familiar tenderness he knows so well is still there, though. Nothing can take it away. "Got stabbed," the Changeling mutters back. "Stabbed- well, it could be worse." The Brother draws in a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes. "I heard the news about the Jaegers, and I thought-" His voice cuts off and he simply reaches out a hoof to give the Changeling a quick pat on the head. "I'm just glad to see you." For the first time, the Changeling takes a hoofstep backwards to really look at his brother. Above the black infantry uniform and slung rifle, the Brother's tight, anxious face tells the Changeling more than any words could. He feels suddenly selfish; he's not the only one under stress. He needs to pull himself together. He gives the Brother a determined glance. "It's good to see you too, but there isn't much time. We have to leave." "Leave, little one? Is there some kind of Jaeger mission going on?" the Brother asks, puzzled. The Changeling shakes his head. "Nonono, we're leaving," he says, lowering his voice to a hush. "We're- we're leaving, and we aren't coming back." The Brother's eyes widen in understanding. "Can we even do that?" he whispers back, casting a furtive glance behind him. None of the other soldiers seem to be listening. "Aren't there guards?" "They've deserted too. I don't think there's anything stopping us from just going." Still, the Brother seems hesitant, so the Changeling presses on. "Listen, the Equestrians know we're here. It's a trap. If we stay here, we'll die. Let's go," he pleads, trying to instill as much urgency as he can into his voice. At that, the Brother nods. "Right. You're right, little one. We'll go. I just need to pick up some things." The Changeling pauses. "There's really no time-" "It's important," the Brother cuts in. "It'll only take a few seconds, little one." "Fine, then. Quickly, quickly." The Brother leads the way back through the room, heading towards a disorganized pile of bags and suitcases dumped against the wall. He ruffles through them as the Changeling stands behind him, on constant lookout for any possible threat. After a minute or so of searching, the Brother extracts a saddlebag from the pile and ties it to his back, picking up an overstuffed folder with it. "Done. Let's get out of here." "What's in the folder?" the Changeling asks as they head towards the exit. "The photographs ma and pa sent." The Brother glances at the Changeling, as if judging his reaction. "Did you ever write them a letter?" The air turns suddenly cold. "No," the Changeling responds coolly. "I don't recall getting anything from them, either." He speeds up to trot slightly ahead of the Brother. "They love you, little one," the Brother says gently. "I know it. No matter what, they're still family." "So are the twenty other 'lings they raised. You think they have enough love to go around?" With an exasperated huff, the Brother stops dead in his tracks. "What's the matter with you? You were never like this." The Changling stops too, and stares up at his brother. "Yes, well, shit happens to a 'ling," he deadpans. "Language, little one!" He ignores the Brother and continues on. "They would have preferred I stayed in a warzone than left for Equestria. You know that, right? They hated the ponies so damn much, they thought it was safer here with the soldiers and the chaos than in the University of fricking Friendship. Where's the love in that?" "No, they didn't want you disappearing for years in a country that loathes us! That fears you!" A tangible level of bitterness has entered the Brother's voice. "And last I checked, you never got into the- the stupid University anyways! Ever wonder why that was?" The Changeling bares his fangs and turns away, trotting silently towards the exit. After a moment, the Brother rushes forward to pull him into a sideways hug, suddenly warm again. "OK, that was crossing the line," he admits sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I- I'm just glad you're alright- well, alive- and I think ma and pa would be glad to hear it too." Sighing, the Changeling returns the hug. It does calm him down a bit. "Yes. I don't really have anything against them, I just... how do I even fix that? How do I break a silence that's lasted, what, half my life?" "By talking," the Brother simply replies. He lets go of the Changeling as they reach the corridor that leads out. "Now, are you sure this is-" "Where do you think you're going, soldiers?" A cold voice rings out from behind them, crystal clear even above the chaotic noises of the room. The Changeling swivels his head to see an officer standing upright in a crisp black uniform, silver stars adorning his hat. The Brother stares back. "Well, we were, er-" "Lieutenant here, sir." The Changeling steps in front of his brother and gives the officer a sharp salute. "We've been ordered to secure a status report from the patrols. We were just on our way to do that." The officer's eyes narrow. "Strange, I was under the impression that that was my duty. And is that a Jaeger uniform? Where did you get that?" This is bad. The Changeling glances back at the Brother's rifle, slung along his barrel within easy reach. It's unloaded. If he's quick enough, he can load the magazine and pull the trigger with his telekinesis before the officer reacts, then flee in the chaos. That would be the easiest option. But that's not the path he wants to take, he reminds himself. He still has a chance to make things right. The Changeling puffs out his chest and draws himself to his full height. It still leaves him craning his neck to look upwards at the officer. "I am part of Her Majesty's Jaeger Corps, yes. And since our orders seem to conflict each other, I have the authority here. Respectfully, sir, return to the command post and receive new instructions." The officer doesn't seem convinced. "'Her Majesty's Jaeger Corps' didn't do all that much when the ponies arrived, did they?" he sneers. "They were a bunch of soldiers too old to fight, and cowards growing fat off the extra rations and pensions. No 'ling here thinks much of your 'authority'." The officer has made a mistake. The Changeling moves to capitalize on it. "Are- are you suggesting insubordination, sir?" His voice trembles, but he makes sure it rings loud and clear. Several soldiers look over curiously. "I'd like your rank and name, please," the Changeling continues. The officer hesitates, clearly aware of the watching soldiers. "I- I don't think that will be necessary," he mutters quietly, breaking eye contact with the Changeling. As if on cue, a series of urgent shouts cascades through the room. "Targets approaching!" "Affirmative, targets approaching!" "Fire Squad Beta, on me! Load weapons!" Soldiers rush around the room with sudden purpose, grabbing guns and ammunition from the tables and lugging them towards the windows. If it was loud before, it is now almost deafening with orders constantly being yelled by the few officers present. The floor thunders with hoofsteps, and heavy guns and carts of equipment roll along on improvised or worn-down wheels that constantly squeak in protest. "Go and receive orders!" The Changeling offers the officer a way out. "They need you here, not roaming the streets looking for some guards." Looking hesitantly between the preparing soldiers and the duo in front of him, the officer eventually nods. "The report goes through me first, understood?" The Changeling forces a grin in response. "Understood, sir." He turns and marches down the corridor, smile quickly slipping away. The Brother follows suit. "You did good back there," the Brother whispers once the commotion has faded away behind them. "I had my rifle, though, I could have-" "No. No killing," the Changeling growls. "- could have caused a distraction, I was going to say." The Brother's eyes are wide. "You think I would kill a fellow 'ling? I haven't even had the chance to shoot at a pony, yet." The Changeling lets out a deep sigh, trying to relax. His heart is still racing for some reason. A sense of impending doom has slowly invaded his chest. "I don't know. I never thought I'd kill anyling either. When we're under pressure, sometimes we just... do things." "You killed a changeling?" the Brother asks in disbelief. A nearby explosion sends a deafening boom through the corridor. The duo stops to listen to the unmistakable thunder of a full arsenal of guns opening firing at the same time. "We'd better go. More moving, less talking, please." The Brother shakes his head, but reluctantly complies. "You're not off the hook, little one." Both changelings pick up the pace with a newfound sense of urgency, the Changeling guiding them back down the route he remembers taking. They both stop at the noise of hoofsteps from ahead. A pair of soldiers rush by, but they barely spare a glance. They continue onwards. That dread in the Changeling's chest only seems to fester and grow in the darkness. The shadows in the corners pool together to form haunting faces, faces that disappear when he tries to look at them. Horrifying noises echo down the corridor, each and every distant explosion and gunshot setting the Changeling more on edge. He moves to trot a bit closer to the Brother, taking comfort in the soft clipclop of his hooves. With the seemingly random holes in their legs, every changeling's hoof has a distinct sound to it. The Brother's hoofsteps are almost as familiar to the Changeling as his own. After a couple of minutes, they emerge into the biting frost outside. The Changeling looks up at the grey sky. It might just rain soon. "Now what, little one?" "Hm..." the Changeling thinks for a moment. "There's a refugee camp near the center of the city. If we find some civilian clothing along the way, we can blend in and wait for this to blow over." "What about ma and pa's house?" the Brother offers. "They'll be glad to take us in, even if they know we're... I guess we're deserting, aren't we?" The Changeling shakes his head. It's not the notion of going back to his old home that scares him. He has no doubt it'd be safe there. What is terrifying is the thought of being turned away. "No. I can't. Maybe someday, but... not now. You should go, though." "Are you kidding?" The Brother looks aghast. "I just found my little brother, I'm not letting him go off to survive on his own." The Changeling decides against mentioning that he was the one who found his brother. He's admittedly relieved to have the Brother with him. It's going to be a long journey to the city center. "Fine, then. Refugee camp?" "Refugee camp," the Brother affirms. "Lead the way." They take off down the street, the cacophony of the battle quickly dying away behind them. As they turn down another, smaller alleyway, the Changeling tries to relax. He's done it. He's gone and found his brother, and gotten him out of the clutches of the Loyalists without even a scratch on either of them. They're not out of the woods yet, but they're pretty close. Brrrrr... Shivers run up the Changeling's spine. He and his brother both freeze at the sound of a whining motor rapidly closing the distance towards them. With a growing sense of foreboding, he turns to look behind him. A tan motorbike squeals to a stop at the end of the alley. A unicorn and an earthpony sit upright on the bike, balancing precariously on a cramped seat that looks too small for them. The two groups regard each other uncertainly, waiting for the other to act. The shock quickly wears off the Changeling. "Go!" he shouts. "Go, go, go!" They turn tail and flee in a mad dash. Behind them, the menacing revving of an engine indicates the ponies are pursuing them. The Changeling easily skids around the corner onto another street. Next to him, the Brother stumbles but manages to catch himself. He struggles to keep up with the Changeling's pace. "Where are they?" the Brother shouts between breaths. The noise of the engine has become muffled, as though something is in the way. Out of the corner of his eye, the Changeling can see the bike straddling the sidewalk alongside them, partially hidden by the row of thick trees in the way. He risks a glance to the right. The shaking barrel of a rifle stares back at him. Behind it, the earthpony squints at the duo, carefully lining up a shot. "Keep moving! Holy shit, don't stop!" The Changeling draws his body as close to the ground as possible without slowing down. He's agonizingly aware of the gun pointed right at him just a few meters away. "What-" Bang! A thick chunk of rock is thrown up near the Changeling's hooves. His heart thumps deafeningly against his chest. He tries to summon his magic to do something, anything, but he can't muster up the concentration to do so. He's powerless. Bang! Another shot whips past. "Are you alright, little one?!" the Brother yelps. His rifle levitates with him, as he desperately fumbles with the magazine. "Are you alright?" "I'm fine, just keep going!" the Changeling shouts back, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "There, the alley!" They thunder into a shadowy alleyway, hemmed in between two oversized structures. The Brother stops near the end, finally loading his rifle with a resounding click. The motorbike sounds distant now. "What are you doing? Let's go," the Changeling urges. There's something familiar in the Brother's dimly glowing eyes, a horrible, cold determination he's seen on another soldier's face. "Get behind me," the Brother orders coolly. He stands on his hindlegs and points the gun down the alley. "What are you doing?" the Changeling repeats. He wants to reach up, to smack the weapon out of his Brother's grasp, but his hooves feel firmly rooted to the ground. He simply looks on in horror. "We... we can just leave. This is our chance, what are you doing?" The Brother's face is obscured by the shadows. "They almost killed you, little one. I can't let that go unpunished." "You want to kill them? Forget it!" the Changeling snarls incredulously. "You- you'll get us killed too, you moron." This strange conviction the Brother has developed is disturbing. He finally finds the strength to reach out a hoof and grab at the rifle. The Brother lifts it out of his reach, shaking his head. "You're right, I've been a moron. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you." He sounds genuinely regretful. "I'm sorry I let you get swept up in this... madness. I'll make it right, starting now." The Changeling reaches up, rising to his hindlegs in frustration. "Just give me the gun-" They both go still. Something is coming. In the dim light, the Changeling can just barely make out the motorbike slowly rolling down the alley with its occupants. "Get down," he hisses quietly. Dropping to lie on the floor, he observes as the bike creeps closer, disappearing altogether in the gloom. "Let's. Go. Now." The Brother ignores him, still staring straight ahead despite not being able to see the ponies. A sudden flash of light blinds the Changeling. The headlight of the motorbike is clearly visible just a few meters ahead. A shining duck in a barrel. "No!" Adrenaline courses through him. Without hesitation, he reaches out and wrests the gun from the Brother's hooves. As he pulls it away, it goes off. The Changeling's ears ring as he stares down at the smoking gun, trembling in his hooves. He throws it aside and looks towards the ponies. They are faintly visible behind the discarded motorbike, lying motionless on the ground. The Brother stares up at him. "What was that for, little one?" He giggles hysterically, moving to trot out of the alleyway. "Figure it out, will you?" Behind him, the Brother gets up and hurries to trot alongside him. "I don't know what's wrong with you. I'm just trying to do the right thing, and you're-" Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! The Brother yelps, staggering forwards. Thick blood sprays into the air. Suddenly alert, the Changeling pulls him around the corner. He supports him with one hoof as they stumble down the street as fast as they can, going through street after street, alley after alley in a panicked rush, till he's certain that they're safe. "Stop," the Brother mutters. The Changeling halts. He sets the Brother against a nearby wall. Staring at the red splotches on his uniform, the trail of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, the unfocused gaze that looks at nothing, the horror of what has just happened finally sets in. "It's alright. You'll be alright. I'm a medic. I'm a medic." In a daze, he unbuttons the Brother's shirt. He's greeted with the sight of torn flesh, as if the bullets tore straight through him. Like paper. So fragile. "I'm a medic," he repeats hoarsely. His hooves fall back to the ground. He isn't surprised. It feels almost inevitable that this would happen. The Brother understands. He gives him a weak smile, poking out his fangs in a silly fashion. "It's alright, little one." A hopeless sob tears through the Changeling's throat. "Brother, no..." "I guess this is it." The Brother shifts his gaze upwards. To the sky. "I'm sorry." "Nononono, this isn't your fault." The Changeling shoves the Brother with an insistent hoof. "It's not your fault!" "No. I'm sorry this had to happen. All of this." Tears trickle down the Brother's face. "There's some world where you go to that university, and you get to- you were always so insistent about the idea. I don't even remember where you picked it up. But, in this world, there's no war, and you read my letters every day, and you meet new people- heck, I'm tired." The Changeling starts crying too, huge sobs that wrack his whole body. "It's alright. You don't need to speak." "It would have been really fun, reading your letters. Really fun, little one..." The Brother shuts his eyes tightly, as if he can't bear to talk anymore. His hooves reach out for a hug. Not knowing what to say, the Changeling simply leans forward to hold his brother closely. The memories are still warm. Wasting away sweet nymphhood playing pointless games and talking about nothing. Growing up in a world that was confusing and terrifying, but always with a beacon of tender light to guide him onwards. And now that light will never shine again. Like a candle on its last smidgeon of wax, the life inside his Brother slowly flickers and fades away. The heart stops beating, the chest ceases its rhythmic motion, and the Changeling is finally alone. Now what? End of Act 2 Author's Note Act 2 ends here, assuming you've read Scene 5A. The two main arcs of the story are basically over- the tragedy has concluded and what follows is our characters picking up the pieces. I do hope everyone has been, at the very least, enjoying reading. As always, feel free to leave your feedback in the comments. Scene 6A: StormAuthor's Note My apologies for the late upload; I was caught between work and travel and could not find the time to finish the new chapter(s). Thank you all for your patience and happy reading. Scene 6A: Storm Thin, grey lines of smoke waft into the air from the tip of a glowing cigarette. They are blown about by a single, rickety fan that lazily turns round and round on the ceiling. It provides a blissful measure of relief from the unbearable heat permeating the tiny, dimly lit room. A puff of smoke blows out from the Changeling's nostrils. He stares intensely at the row of cards held in his hoof. Two shabbily dressed changelings sit across the table from him, gazing down at their own cards with expressionless faces. The Changeling leans back in his chair, blinking away his drowsiness. The stool creaks loudly with the movement. "I'll raise." His horn lighting purple, he slides a pair of purple marks into a pile of similar notes at the center of the table. "Call," one of the changelings announces, but sits completely still. He makes no move to shift any money to the pot. The other changeling narrows her eyes. "The fuck are you waiting for, Canthus?" Canthus locks eyes with the Changeling. "Call... call your parents, tiny 'ling," he drawls out. "I'm getting sick of listening to them whine on the phone." Narrowing his eyes, the Changeling growls back, "They aren't my parents. And I told you to have them blocked the next time they ring." "The operator was bu-sy," comes the singsong reply. Canthus finally looks down at his cards. "Also, I fold." He tosses the cards across the table in frustration. "This game sucks without Maxilla. You all take it too seriously." The other changeling glares at him. "Yeah, ruin it for the rest of us, huh?" Canthus sticks out his tongue in response as he slips through one of the doors. "Later, Aether. Goodnight, tiny 'ling. When Maxilla gets back, send him in." "Goodnight, Canthus," the Changeling waves. The door closes with a soft thud. "He is so immature," Aether complains, rolling her eyes at the Changeling. "Why do you take that shit from him? He's so much younger than you." Deep in thought, the Changeling doesn't reply. His 'parents' have been trying to contact him for months now. When his brother died- he tries not to linger too long on that thought- he felt too ashamed to go and talk to them. He had wasted his last chance, after all. How could he go and explain who got his brother killed? Then, the announcement came. The new government was rounding up former Jaegers, looking to try them for crimes against harmony. If he showed up to his parents, they would either have to turn him in, or become accomplices in hiding him. So he stayed away. For years, there was nothing. He found good 'lings to live with- all former soldiers, like him- and steadily built up a life to call his own. The apartment is small, his job as a teacher is exhausting, and he has to keep a low profile everywhere he goes, but it's not bad at the end of the day. He drowns that aching emptiness in his chest under pointless games and mounds of tobacco. Sometimes he even musters enough willpower to sift through the endless volumes of literature on harmony and friendship theory. For what purpose, he doesn't know. No university will take in a nameless changeling with no ID. It was going smoothly enough till an envelope showed up in the mail, his mother's name scrawled on the front. He threw it away without looking inside. The calls started after that. His paranoia grew. If his parents can find his address and phone number, who else can? "He's right about one thing, though." The Changeling blinks, snapped out of his thoughts. "Hm? What was that?" Aether huffs in exasperation. "I said, he's right about your parents. Call them back." There's a distant bang and some shouting coming from lower in the building. They both ignore it, used to the occasional clamor that erupts in the building. "I don't see why I should. They'll give up eventually," he retorts. Reaching over the table, Aether places a surprisingly tender hoof over the Changeling's. "What if they're in trouble? What if they need you?" The Changeling snatches his hoof back and averts his gaze, choosing instead to study the grain of the table. "If there was an emergency, Canthus would have told me." "It's not always an emergency. And, OK, maybe they're not in trouble," Aether admits. "But- they're your fucking parents, little 'ling. They raised you. What if they just want their son back?" Head still lowered, the Changeling doesn't respond. Aether is poking at the uncertainties he's felt for a long time now. Though she can't possibly know the true cost of him going back- he's been selectively vague about his past in the military- he does feel selfish for not making contact at least. "You could give them a chance. A chance can't hurt." "Oh, it very much can." The Changeling pushes his chair back and gets up, mechanically making his way to another door. "It's getting late, Aether, we can talk plenty tomorrow. Get some sleep." Aether shrugs and stretches her forehooves. "You do you. I'll clean the place up a bit, first." There's more commotion outside, this time much closer. Both changelings look towards the exterior door. Someling screams, a piercing shriek that sends a chill through the Changeling's chest. There's a knock at the door a few moments later. "Police! Open up in the name of the monarchy!" a slightly accented voice booms out. "I'll see it. You wait here." For once, Aether sounds completely serious, as she gets up and moves to the door. Ignoring her command to stay put, the Changeling goes to a shelf and discreetly moves aside some textbooks. A tiny alcove is revealed, having carefully been dug into the wall one chip at a time. He reaches past the boxes of ammunition and bundles of money, pulling out a loaded pistol. He slips it into his shirt before joining Aether at the door. "It's the police outside?" he asks. It's not unheard of for common thugs to disguise themselves as police officers to break into flats. "Yeah, uniforms and shit." Aether confirms, turning away from the peephole. "They seem official. Have a look." Moving to the door, the Changeling stands on his hindlegs and looks through the tiny glass window. Surprisingly, it's an earthpony and a unicorn standing outside. They wear dark blue uniforms and carry rifles. These aren't beat cops. They're clearly special forces. "Looks- looks like the police," the Changeling stammers, trying his best to keep his voice level. "Told you so. What could they possibly want, though...?" muses Aether. The door rattles loudly with more, insistent, knocking. The Changeling takes a deep breath. He has a very good idea of what- or rather, who- the police want, but he doesn't want Aether to know that. "I'm going to talk to them. You check up on Canthus. Keep him from panicking." Aether scoffs. "Yeah, right. Move aside." Fumbling for a valid excuse, the Changeling responds, "I- I think I'll be able to communicate with them a bit better. You don't know what you're doing when it comes to talking to ponies." "I don't know what-?" Aether seems surprised. "What the fuck are you on about?" The Changeling winces internally, but presses on. "I mean, I am quite educated when it comes to the ponies." "Don't start getting a big head, little 'ling," Aether growls. "Get out of the way, or else." The Changeling snorts, feeling genuinely slightly irritated at that. "Sure, Chrysalis. We're not in the military anymore, and you don't get to order me around." The outraged look on Aether's face makes him feel a twinge of guilt, but he ignores it. "I want to talk to them. Go to Canthus' room, please." "Fine then, smart-ass. Do whatever the fuck you want. But we'll have a talk about this later." With the stamp of a hoof, Aether marches past the Changeling to Canthus' bedroom. She gives him a glare before finally disappearing inside. After rechecking that the pistol is concealed, the Changeling quickly pulls the bolt aside and lets the door swing open. A brown-furred earthpony stands in front of him, uniform ironed to a crisp and mane cut to a neat length. Behind him, the unicorn ruffles his own cotton-candy-blue mane. His shirt lies unbuttoned on his shoulders, seemingly thrown on as an afterthought. "Good night, sir. We're from the VPD, and we'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions." The earthpony speaks with a cold professionalism. "Questions?" he mutters in slight confusion. He looks past the duo to the dirty corridor outside, searching for the source of the scream from earlier. A few uniformed changelings are moving away down the corridor, but he doesn't see anything else. The earthpony steps forward, subtly blocking his view. "Yes, questions. We suspect there is Loyalist activity in this building. Do you know anything about that?" That throws the Changeling off. "Loyalists," he repeats dumbly. After the war ended, the new government offered a general amnesty to most 'lings who served under the military, but there were a few radical Loyalists who continued fighting in a scattered insurgency: violently ambushing police, sabotaging infrastructure, and generally humiliating King Thorax. Anything to do with them is a serious matter. The question offers him a glimmer of hope, though. If the ponies knew for certain he was a Jaeger, they'd have arrested him already. Or tried to, at least. There's a chance they don't know anything, in which case he can catch them off-guard. "Loyalists, changeling, Loyalists. Do you know of any?" the unicorn sneers with a heavy Equestrian accent. The Changeling ignores him, listening for the changeling police. He can't hear them anymore, but there's a lone set of hoofsteps quickly approaching. "What- what's going on?" A changeling wearing a visibly stuffed pair of saddlebags comes to a halt a bit down the corridor, bright green eyes nervously flicking between the ponies. It's Maxilla. He visibly relaxes a bit when he spots the Changeling. "There's police everywhere, did you see?" "Who the fuck are you?" asks the unicorn with no small amount of hostility. Taking a reflexive step backwards, Maxilla stammers, "I- I'm-" The Changeling finally finds his voice. "Get inside, Maxilla," he says firmly. When Maxilla doesn't react, he encourages a bit more gently, "Come on. I'm just having a word with these officers. There's nothing to be afraid of." The earthpony moves out of the way, giving Maxilla space to enter. The unicorn remains in place, though, still staring him down. "Is this your son?" "No, flatmate," the Changeling replies warily. He reaches out a hoof to pull Maxilla towards himself, but the unicorn slaps it away without even looking. "Flatmate..." the unicorn draws out in a suspicious manner. Without warning, he reaches out both hooves to slam Maxilla against the wall. Maxilla struggles to escape his grasp, wings buzzing in panic. The Changeling instantly moves his hoof to his shirt, just barely hesitating from drawing the pistol. Not yet. "Steady on!" the earthpony orders sharply. The Changeling isn't sure who he's referring to, but he doesn't lower his hoof. "What's in the bags, changeling?" the unicorn growls. "Come on, tell me." "Nothing, pony!" Maxilla cries out. "Let me go!" "'Nothing'? You'll regret that answer, changeling." The unicorn instantly raises a threatening hoof, as if to strike Maxilla. The Changeling grabs the handle of the pistol. The hoof of the unicorn is suddenly caught by the earthpony, before he can do anything. "What are you doing?" the earthpony whispers in Equestrian language. "There's no need for that." "He's refusing to comply," the unicorn replies in an obvious fashion. Still, at a glare from the earthpony- and to the Changeling's shock- he steps back and releases his grip. Maxilla instantly flies across to tackle-hug the Changeling. He extracts his hoof from his shirt and gives Maxilla an awkward pat on the back of the neck. "I think you'd better get inside," the Changeling whispers under his breath. "Aether is with Canthus, in your room." "Right." Maxilla casts the waiting ponies a wary glance. "You sure you'll be fine?" "I will. Don't come out, no matter what you hear." Maxilla nods and rushes away into the apartment. The Changeling turns back to the ponies. "Well? Seen any Loyalists, changeling?" demands the unicorn, seeming even more irritated than before. The Changeling pauses to think. With the element of surprise on his side, he could easily finish off these two ponies, shapeshift and disguise himself as one of them, and leave before anyling raises the alarm. So easily. But... If the unicorn had gone ahead with his attack, it would have been so easy to just pull out the gun and do away with these thugs. It might have been satisfying, even. Instead the two ponies remind him of another duo that, so long ago, disagreed on whether to attack an enemy. The gun feels strangely heavy in the Changeling's shirt. He remembers the consequences of that hesitation. If they had chosen one way, or another, his brother would still have been here today. And to take the easy way out now, when he couldn't afford it to his own brother, feels so so wrong. He heaves out a resigned breath. If luck isn't on his side, he's in for some serious hurt. "I'm afraid I don't know about any Loyalists." The Changeling maintains what he hopes is an impatient- but not hostile- tone. It's difficult given what just happened to Maxilla. "Is there anything else, or can I get back to bed, officers?" "Are you certain you haven't seen or heard anything?" the earthpony presses. "Rumours?" The edges of the Changeling's mouth twitch at that, despite the situation. If there really were any Loyalists here, they would be too well-hidden to be included in day-to-day gossip. The ponies must know that. He only shakes his head in response. "Well, in that case, can we do a quick search of your apartment?" the earthpony asks nonchalantly. There it is. The Changeling's mind flashes to the hastily hidden alcove in the wall, stuffed to the brim with illegally acquired ammunition and too much money for any teacher to have; his accumulated salary from his time as a Jaeger. Innocent details on their own, but enough to warrant a real investigation. What will happen to his innocent friends when the police discover that? "I don't think you can," he finally responds with a forced smile. The unicorn flashes a vicious grin from behind the earthpony. "Can't we? We're the ones with the uniforms here, changeling." "You..." The Changeling racks his brains. "You need a warrant, don't you?" The earthpony nods. "You're right, sir. We have a warrant to search the building." The Changeling licks one of his fangs. "...but do you have a warrant to search my apartment?" "On reasonable grounds," the earthpony replies calmly. "I haven't done anything wrong," the Changeling mutters. "What grounds are there?" The unicorn steps forward intimidatingly. "Alright, changeling, stop stalling. I was nice with that other 'ling 'cause he looked young. You think you'll be so lucky?" The Changeling flinches, reflexively raising his hoof to his shirt. Should he use the gun? No, he can't. "I- I'm not stalling. There's no need to search my apartment, I haven't done anything wrong," he repeats. trying again to talk his way out. Looking past the unicorn, he locks eyes with the earthpony who watches on with a troubled expression. "Please. I've done nothing wrong," he pleads. He lifts the hoof past the pistol, resting it on his chest where he can feel the deafening thumping of his heart. A pony gesture of supplication. "There's no need for- for anything bad to happen." "Move-" "That's enough," the earthpony announces. "We're done here." The unicorn glances back in shock. The Changeling feels just as confused, and has to force himself to keep his mouth from going agape. "What, we're just gonna leave him here?" the unicorn demands in Equestrian language. "We have other flats to see. Thank you for your time, sir." The earthpony tips his hat at the Changeling. He can only stare as the earthpony trots away down the corridor, leaving the unicorn to glance wildly between the two before finally stalking off behind his comrade with a frustrated huff. Their hoofsteps quickly fade away, leaving the Changeling alone with the dreadful thought that that could have ended very, very differently if he decided on drawing the weapon. He jumps, startled, as he hears a door open behind him. Aether stands there, tapping her hoof impatiently. "So... am I getting an explanation, if they're gone, then?" The Changeling only smiles back, melancholy mixing in with his relief. He knows he can't stay here. He can't put Aether and Canthus and Maxilla in any more danger. The police will be back eventually. He doesn't know when, but he doesn't plan on waiting for them. And, yes, a little selfishly, the Changeling realizes would like to remain free himself. He hasn't given up on his dream just yet. It's time to say goodbye, and see what the future holds. Scene 6B: StormUniformed changelings swarm every part of the narrow street, like oversized blue-grey insects: rushing out of trucks, deploying barricades, storming the towering apartment blocks under the cover of flashing cerulean lights. Any civilians with a scrap of sense would have vacated the area the moment the trucks arrived on the scene, leaving only a sea of blue on the normally quiet, midnight street. A nondescript, brown sedan is quickly waved through the barricades. It shudders to a halt in one of the last available spaces on the street, looking rather underwhelming among the armoured trucks looming on either side of it. Shutting off the ignition, the Pony steps out of the car and takes a look around. He easily spots the brown-furred earthpony he's looking for, sticking out like a sore thumb among the changelings. "Poetic!" he calls out as he briskly trots over. The earthpony turns around, breaking off the conversation he's having with a pair of changelings dressed in darker blue uniform. His face lights up. "You're late!" Poetic Prose doesn't sound particularly angry as he gives the Pony a tight hug. "It's been a while, dude. How are you?" The Pony breaks free of the embrace and shrugs. "Tired of all that desk work. Dep' office couldn't find any excuse to keep me off this one, though." "You still shouldn't be here, Jaeger Hunter," spits out one of the changelings with all the venom of a cobra. She looks up and down the Pony disgustedly. "Maybe if you had taken a few minutes to even button your shirt, we wouldn't have to deal with you at all." Raising his eyebrow, the Pony replies coldly, "And you are?" "Hey, we're all working together here," Poetic scolds. "I want to see everyone acting professionally. No nicknames, no comments." "Hoorah, sir." The Pony mock-salutes. "What are we doing today, where are our guns, and who do I have to foalsit?" Poetic pauses, as if debating whether to respond to that last comment, but decides on ignoring it. He pulls an official-looking yellow folder from his saddlebags. "This is retaliation for yesterday's attacks, but don't take that as an excuse to break things, yeah Our main force is conducting a sweep of the entire block. They're going to be knocking down doors with known Loyalists inside, as well as searching for tunnels and removing any Loyalist propaganda from the public space." "Our job, though, is to question locals and search flats which have been flagged with suspicious mail or phone activity. Less chance of danger, more paperwork afterwards." One of the changelings raises a hoof. "Eh, which building are we doing this in?" Poetic grimaces. "All of them. We'll start with Block A." The changelings audibly groan. The Pony, meanwhile, feels a tug at the corners of his mouth. An entire night out in the field? He'll take it. After the mishaps with Aspen and Spring, he was quietly relegated to become a desk worker at the newly formed Vesalipolian Police Department. Being put under the command of changeling harmonists, who weren't overjoyed to be working with a pony infamous for 'military brutality', was an effective dead end to his career. Nothing of the sort for ponies like Poetic, though, who rose through the ranks far faster than he did in the military. The Pony is fairly certain he's outranked by Poetic now, but he hasn't bothered to check. They needed the Pony's expertise in the end, after all. The Pony smiles at the thought. Ofcourse they did. Who else would be willing to take the hard choices to stop the Loyalists? The right choices? Not the harmonist changelings, with their pacifism and vague idealism. Not the other ponies, who would like to distance themselves as much as possible from the whole mess in the Changeling Lands. "Just me," the Pony mutters. "I can fix things." Everyone stares at him, pausing in the process of grabbing rifles from a nearby rack. "What was that?" asks Poetic, with some confusion. "Nothing." The Pony levitates one of the guns over and inspects it. It's a compact, stubby machinegun. Perfect for firing indoors. "Do we expect to be attacked?" "No... but because of your delay we're not getting an escort," Poetic explains, his eyes still narrowed. "Better to err on the side of caution." He raises his voice. "Now, everyone, here's the plan. Occiput and Meso, you two take the lower half- that's up to the tenth floor. We'll search the upper half. Meet at the ground floor once we're done, discuss and note down what we've found, and move on to the next building. Note down anything we could use to build a case. If things get a little heated, get a police team in there. All ready? Let's go." "Yes, sir!" the changelings shout in unison. The Pony simply nods and follows as they move to the end of the street. He lags slightly behind the group. Noticing that, Poetic deliberately slows his pace to trot alongside him. "Hey, uh..." he says in a casual manner. "Are you sure you're up for this?" The Pony ducks under a levitating crate, and asks as he straightens up again, "What do you mean?" Poetic averts his gaze. "We might have to deal with some tough situations." "You think I can't handle it?" the Pony guesses. Poetic snorts. "I'm sure you can handle anything. I'm more concerned about how you'll do it." He pauses. "We don't want to... get anyone killed." Does everyone think the Pony is some kind of killing machine? "Relax, I only have a thing against Jaegers. Loyalists too, maybe. You think they deserve your concern?" he challenges. "That's for the courts to decide," Poetic sighs out. "Dealing out justice isn't your job." They cross the threshold of an apartment entrance into a filthy and poorly lit lobby. A lone police officer stands guard with a rifle from the corner, completely hidden except for their wide, luminescent eyes. The changelings depart to the corridor on the left, leaving the Pony alone with Poetic. "Meso and Occiput are good 'lings," Poetic says suddenly. "I can trust them to get the job done, but that's not the only reason I put them together." He takes a deep breath. "I... I really want this to go smoothly. I know you have your... beliefs... but just for this one operation, please, don't do anything stupid." Taking a look at Poetic's face, the Pony has to bite back a snarky response. The earthpony is staring down at his own hooves with a resigned, almost fatalistic expression. As if he already knows what the Pony's response will be. Why not prove him wrong? The Pony hmphs. "Fine, ye of little faith. I'll keep myself in check, if that's what you want. For now." Poetic swivels his neck towards him in amazement. His face melts into an appreciative smile as he processes what the Pony is saying. "Thank you. I... that means a lot." Glancing away, the Pony runs a hoof along his mane. He's not sure how to respond to that level of warmth. "Right. Elevator?" Poetic moves to try the elevator. The gate creaks open when he tugs it aside, but the lift itself is nowhere to be seen. "Stairs it is. Double time, we need to move quickly." The two ponies rush up the stairs. The Pony has to keep a careful eye out to keep his hoof from slipping into one of the many gaps in the tiles. They exit the stairwell at the tenth floor, stepping into a narrow corridor with a moldy red carpet. A line of officers file past them, apparently having screened the area already. There are friendly nods given to Poetic, but the Pony receives only blank stares and suspicious glares. "Right, it's number... 1007," Poetic says, checking the dossier. "1045 is next." The Pony regards the cheap sheet door with '1007' printed in bold white letters. "Do we knock or just kick it down?" Poetic shoots him an unamused glare. "Knock. We're asking questions, not conducting an assault." He raps loudly on the door and shouts, "Police! Open up in the name of the monarchy!" Turning to the Pony, he instructs quietly, "I'll do the talking, you stay back and help me if there's any trouble, yeah?" "My Changeling language is pretty good too," the Pony snaps. He feels that familiar irritation stirring up at Poetic's constant attempts to shunt him to the back. "You think I can't ask some basic questions?" "Do you want to talk to any changelings?" points out Poetic. "I thought you wouldn't like it, dude, that's all. No need to bite my head off." The Pony ruffles his mane in irritation. "Yeah, well, give me a little consideration too, alright?" Before Poetic can respond, the lock of the apartment door clicks and it is thrown wide open. A changeling stares out with purple eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wears a tie and white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, as if he's just stepped out of an office. "Ah, good night, sir," Poetic begins, adopting a professional tone that tells nothing of the altercation that just took place. "We're from the VPD, and we'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions." The Pony notes that Poetic doesn't introduce them by name. It's probably not just for security reasons; they have Celestia-knows-how-many more flats to go through, and pleasantries take up time they don't have. The changeling looks taken aback. "Questions...?" he repeats. Poetic steps forwards, seemingly out of impatience. "Yes, questions. We suspect there is Loyalist activity in this building. Do you know anything about that?" "Loyalists," the changeling repeats again. It doesn't seem like any of the words are reaching his head. "Loyalists, changeling," the Pony articulates in Changeling language. "Loyalists, do you know of any?" He's suddenly aware of hoofsteps from behind. He turns around to see another changeling, with faint blue stripes along his head. "What- what's going on?" the blue changeling says in a wobbling voice. "There's police everywhere, did you see?" "Who the fuck are you?" The Pony isn't sure whether changelings wandering the corridors are supposed to be detained. The changeling recoils backwards, hesitating. "I- I'm-" "Get inside, Maxilla," the first changeling interrupts. There's a pause as 'Maxilla' does nothing, staring stock-still at the Pony. "Come on. I'm just having a word with these officers. There's nothing to be afraid of." 'Nothing to be afraid of.' That ticks off the Pony for a reason he can't quite pin down. He pointedly refuses to move out of Maxilla's way. "Is this your son?" he asks. Maxilla looks young enough, likely barely in his mid-twenties. The Pony has no idea how old the first changeling might be. "No, flatmate." The Pony sees a hoof shifting at the edge of his vision. He reflexively hits it away before he realizes the changeling is just reaching for Maxilla. "Flatmate, you say?" the Pony repeats suspiciously. He notes Maxilla's saddlebags, apparently full of something. Convenient of him to seek shelter just as the police are conducting their sweep. If this is a Loyalist trying to hide something sensitive, then they're also a threat. The Pony places both his forehooves on Maxilla's shoulders, and in a single motion propels him against the wall. He keeps the changeling pinned there. "Hey!" "Steady on!" Poetic yells. The Pony ignores him. "What's in the bags, changeling? Come on, tell me," he orders. He easily holds down the scrawny changeling, despite his best efforts to escape. "Nothing, pony!" The question seems to further agitate Maxilla. "Let me go!" "You're going to regret that answer." If words don't work... The Pony raises his hoof, planning on giving the changeling a light cuff on the head, but it's blocked by Poetic. The Pony looks to him in outrage. "What are you doing?" Poetic asks silently, a dangerous hint of rage simmering beneath his words. He keeps his hoof firmly on the Pony's. "There's no need for that." "He's refusing to comply," the Pony fumes, feeling more bewildered than angry now. He snatches his hoof back and tries to read Poetic's glowering expression. Why is Poetic stopping him? Ah, right. 'Don't do anything stupid'. Does Poetic think this counts as stupid? Sighing in frustration, the Pony lets go of Maxilla, who immediately rushes past him towards the other changeling. He can berate Poetic later. The two changelings hug, with the first changeling whispering something the Pony can't quite make out. Maxilla nods and disappears into the apartment, taking the suspect saddlebags with him. "Well? Have you seen any Loyalists, changeling?" the Pony snaps, eager to get this over with, now that he has the changeling's attention again. "I..." trails off the changeling. He shuts his eyes, thinking of a response, before reopening them. "I'm afraid I don't know about any Loyalists. Is there anything else, or can I get back to bed, officers?" If Poetic is surprised by the changeling's calm demeanor after what just happened, he doesn't let it show. "Are you certain you haven't heard anything? Rumours?" The changeling smirks and simply shakes his head. The Pony exchanges a subtle glance with Poetic. Suspicious. "Well, in that case-" Poetic begins in a casual manner- "can we do a quick search of your apartment?" The changeling's smile widens. "I don't think you can," he replies tightly, his tone not matching up with his expression. "Can't we? We're the ones with the uniforms here, changeling," the Pony says in a more relaxed tone. How amusing, the changeling thinking he has any power here. "You... you need a warrant, don't you?" The changeling is clearly starting to panic; the Pony is now almost certain he's hiding something that he doesn't want the police seeing. "You're right, sir," Poetic confirms. "We have a warrant to search the building." Poking out his tongue, the changeling runs it over one of his own fangs. Disgusting. "...but do you have a warrant to search my apartment?" he asks after a moment of thought. "On reasonable grounds." "I haven't done anything wrong. What grounds are there?" To the Pony's satisfaction, the changeling sounds increasingly distressed. He's digging his own grave at this point. Might as well help him along. Stepping forward past Poetic, the Pony says sternly, "Alright, changeling, stop stalling." It suddenly occurs to him how toothless this looks after Poetic's intervention earlier. "I was nice with that other 'ling 'cause he looked young. You think you'll be so lucky?" That does the trick. The changeling twitches and raises his hoof to his shirt once again and stammers out, "I- I'm not stalling. There's no need to search my apartment, I haven't done anything wrong." Staring past the Pony, the changeling lays the hoof on his chest. "Please. I've done nothing wrong. There's no need for- for anything bad to happen." The Pony rolls his eyes at this pathetic display. If they haven't reached reasonable levels of suspicion yet, they never will. "Move-" "That's enough," Poetic cuts in. "We're done here." The Pony whips his head around in shock. What is Poetic thinking? "We're just going to leave him here?" Poetic shoots him another glare. "We have other flats to see. Thank you for your time, sir," he says to the changeling. He tips his hat towards him, and simply trots off down the corridor as if nothing has happened. The Pony remains in place, too shocked to move. He looks between the changeling's stupefied face, and Poetic steadily getting further away. He can't just barge into the apartment by himself, with no idea of what- or who- is inside. "Grah!" he groans in frustration and turns to catch up with Poetic, leaving the changeling behind. "What the fuck were you doing back there?" Poetic whispers to him, stopping short a little way down the corridor. "What the fuck was I doing? That guy was obviously hiding something," the Pony replies incredulously, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Let's go back there and find it." "I called it off because you-" Poetic pokes a hoof at the Pony's chest for emphasis- "made the situation dangerous. I had no idea what you'd do next." "The only danger here is the Loyalist weaponry we're missing, jackass. You should have let me search that blue changeling's bags." "Search their bags?" Poetic repeats incredulously. "You just wanted to hit him! For no reason! That's somepony's son you were shoving into the wall, but you didn't care, did you?" "Someling's son," the Pony corrects, turning over Poetic's words in his head. He had a reason, didn't he? There was a reason. Poetic throws his forehooves in the air in exasperation. "What's the difference?" "You want to know the difference?" The Pony points back down the corridor. "'ling means they invaded your home. Maybe they didn't fire the guns, or drive the tanks, or fly the planes, but they sure as hell helped make the bullets and the fuel and the bombs. 'pony means they fought and bled alongside you." Poetic stares back blankly, his wrath quickly fading away. "What are you talking about?" The Pony resists the urge to grab Poetic by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. "The war, Poetic, the war." There's an awful silence. Poetic's eyes are wide. He takes a hoofstep back, as if the Pony carries some contagious disease. Of all the possible reactions Poetic could have had, this is the one that unnerves the Pony the most. He feels the urge to fill that silence. "The- the war, the one that got Dream and Divine Sight and everypony else killed, two million-" "No-" "-two million ponies, Poetic, they-" "Nonono, you can't still be going on about that." Poetic gives out a crazed chuckle. "Dude, we won the war... five, six years ago. What the fuck is wrong with you? How can that be the reason for all of this?" "Don't talk like I'm insane or something," the Pony snaps. "Just because the war is over, doesn't mean the Loyalists are finished. That's what we're doing, crushing them." Poetic snorts. "You're not 'crushing' anything. You're just looking for some changelings to beat up. You're sick." The Pony feels suddenly weary. He's heard comments like this before, but never from Poetic. "All I want is justice," he spits out, lowering his head. "That's it. Of all ponies, Poetic, I thought you would understand." Freezing up, Poetic quietly asks, "What do you mean?" "Your brother, Elegant. They killed him," the Pony states bitterly. "How could you let that go?" For a few, unbearable seconds, Poetic simply stares at him silently, expression unreadable. He's afraid he stepped over the line, and is just about to open his mouth to apologize when Poetic starts to speak. "I guess I couldn't believe you... I mean, dude, I was exactly the same way after they went and killed Elegant and everypony else. I wanted to punish them so badly for what they'd done. Justice." Poetic shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. "There are two problems with that kind of thinking. Who's 'they'?" He opens his eyes to stare at the Pony, waiting for an answer. "The Loyalists," the Pony states bluntly. The Pony can't see what Poetic is getting at, and is still wary of him after his earlier outbursts. "Who else?" "And yet you take your 'justice' out on random changelings," Poetic points out. "Just because they might be a Loyalist, or for whatever other reason. What's the point in that?" The Pony opens his mouth, trying to formulate a response, but he can't find any. When he apprehended the changeling earlier, did he have any real reason to suspect him? Or was he seeing danger where there wasn't any, just because it was a changeling? He recalls the disgusted look on the changeling officer's face, the suspicious glares from the police. Were they warranted? He doesn't know what to think. "And the other reason is... it doesn't change anything." Poetic gives the Pony a sad smile. "I can't bring back Elegant, no matter how much I want to. Nothing can." "So you gave up," the Pony says dully. "No. I decided to do something. Instead of inflicting more suffering, I decided to try my best to create a world where... where shit like that doesn't happen. You can't bring back Dream, or Divine Sight, or anypony else. And I thought you would have realized that by now. Give it up." The Pony shuts his eyes tightly, trying to control his breathing. He can see some sense in what Poetic is saying, and that terrifies him. Has he been doing the right thing? It would be so easy to say yes, to keep living that delusion, to keep blaming the Loyalists, or the changelings, for his misery. What other answer is there? He opens his eyes, silently pleading with Poetic for guidance. "You can be something more than the 'Jaeger Hunter', dude," Poetic says gently, as though he knows what the Pony is thinking. "When was the last time you've been to Equestria?" "I never went back," the Pony whispers hoarsely. "There's nothing for me there." "And there never will be, unless you go and look for it. You could be on a train home tomorrow. You have a nice title, you have more money than you can ever spend..." The Pony stares silently at the floor, contemplating. What future is there for him if he stays? A miserable existence of withering away at a desk, filling out forms for the changelings, waiting for a chance to do... what, he's not certain of anymore. He already knew the price was too steep to place on anypony else, after what happened with Private Spring. What about him? What is he paying for the illusion of doing the right thing? "Think about it. I'll be at apartment 1045." Poetic gives the Pony an awkward pat on the shoulder, and turns to go. "Poetic." Poetic stops. "Yes?" "I'd like to go home." He'd like to live.
Scene 4.5: FallSomething pushes at the edge of the Changeling's consciousness. That's... irritating. He doesn't want to wake up. It's warm here. "What's wrong, little one?" His brother stands across the street from him, nothing but warm concern in his gaze. A ball- the kind they threw back and forth for hours on end as nymphs- floats next to him, held aloft by shimmering blue magic. "I don't know," the Changeling replies truthfully. There's nothing to be upset about. It's an ordinary day. A beautiful one, even. Orange-red rays of sunlight cut through the cold, crisp air, brightly illuminating the hectic Vesalipolian street. Well-dressed changelings bustle by on their way to work, some stopping to buy a newspaper from the little corner shop, others grabbing warm coffees outside the bakery. It's just an ordinary, peaceful day. A single tear escapes the Changeling's eye. "I don't know," he repeats in a hoarse voice. "I think- I think I've done something wrong." The older brother tilts his head playfully. "You? You couldn't get into trouble if you tried." He reaches over to pat the Changeling. The Changeling backs away from his hoof. "I... didn't try." His brother picks up on his discomfort and switches to a more serious tone. "Well... when we do something wrong, we don't always mean it. Sometimes we just... act under pressure." "Someling else told me that." A distant memory pricks at him. "That was really long ago." "They gave you good advice." His brother stares into his eyes with a sudden intensity. "There's always a chance to make things right, little one. You just have to try." "I want to make things right," the Changeling sniffles. "I can try." His brother gives him a fanged grin. "Fine, then. Last chance." With a tremendous shake of the earth, the scene collapses around him, and the Changeling opens his bleary eyes to hell once more. "Half a liter of blood, just squeeze it till it's all in," someone barks in Equestrian language. From the mildly melodic voice, it's clearly a pony. "I need him alive." "And going too fast will kill him," another voice responds calmly. A changeling. "We've bandaged the wound, we can take our time." A dark figure shifts in the Changeling's vision. As the water clears from his eyes, it steadily resolves itself into a very, very familiar face. "Are you dead too, Captain?" he asks wearily. He feels numb all over. "Or is this my deus ex machina?" Aspen's eyes widen in shock. "Little one? That's- you looked so different..." "What's he saying, changeling? Is he on The List?" A white-furred unicorn stands behind Aspen, shifting around nervously. He clearly can't understand changeling language. The unicorn is ignored by Aspen. "What happened to you, little one? Who did this?" He sounds almost outraged. The Changeling never saw him this worked up during all their years of service together. "Topaz," the Changeling spits out. He feels immediately guilty for opening with such a harsh tone, and tries to change the subject. "We just got the news. Is it true? Is the Queen dead?" Aspen unscrews a blood tube attached to the Changeling's neck. "Yes. Most of the military has already surrendered or defected to Thoraxian command. Now tell me, what happened? Where's Topaz?" "Hey! Changeling! What are you two talking about?" the unicorn butts in with a vicious tone. The Changeling recoils from him, inching closer to Aspen. "I'm just asking him how he get there," Aspen explains matter-of-factly in Equestrian language. "Might as well have a chat while he recovers, before we... go ahead with your plan." The unicorn huffs and steps back, returning to rifling through a medical bag. "What plan, Aspen?" The Changeling is suddenly alert now that the elation of being saved has worn off. The whole situation feels strange- the presence of the unicorn, Aspen's sudden arrival. He hasn't heard from the Captain in nearly three years. From what he knows, Aspen was reassigned to the deadly Northern Front, where frequent hit-and-run yak raids as well as horrible weapons of war from the Crystal Empire turned each battle into a bloodbath. "Why did you stop writing to us?" "What happened to you?" Aspen asks again, pretending not to hear him. "Who are the 'Thoraxians', Aspen? Why are you with a pony?" Aspen hesitates. At last, he seems to cave in to the Changeling's barrage of questions. "You know of Thorax, little one?" The Changeling thinks on that, vaguely recalling the name from before the war. "The harmonist traitor? Didn't he flee to Equestria at the start of the invasion?" "He's the Supreme Commander of the harmonist military now, and they're crowning him king of the new changeling nation as soon as we take Vesalipolis. I joined them last year. I'm on a joint mission with the Equestrian military," Aspen deadpans. The Changeling's head spins. He's barely heard of Thorax, and remembers him only as a shy political activist who sometimes gave anti-war speeches over the radio. Now he's a general? Their future king? Even harder to wrap his head around is Aspen, of all changelings, being a defector. The former Captain wasn't a fanatic for the Queen, but he never raised any complaints about the government either, beyond the odd rant over supplies and bureaucratic mishaps. A lot must have happened in the couple of years since they last saw each other. "Now, tell me what Topaz did to you," Aspen demands firmly, his expression making it clear that there's no room for half-answers or delays. "Is he still around?" The Changeling licks a fang. "I... we got the news this morning, about the Queen, while we were waiting here to ambush the Equestrian advance. I wanted us to retreat and wait for orders. Topaz wanted to go ahead with the attack." He can feel the heavy rifle in his hooves, sharp bayonet glinting dangerously in the light. "It got heated. We fought." "And you won?" "I caught him by surprise." He can see the confusion on Topaz's face morphing into rage, and see his eyes pale as the life drains away from him. "He had a surprise for me, too, it turns out." The Changeling motions to his bandaged wound. "Topaz would never have gone down... so easily. I think I'd be dead right now if you didn't show up." He grins up at Aspen. "It's a miracle." "A miracle," Aspen mutters. He pauses, as if considering something, before continuing uncertainly, "Little one, what do you know about the Loyalist attack?" "Loyalist?" "That's what we're calling the remnants of the military." The Changeling sifts through his foggy mind, trying to piece together odd fragments of radio transmissions and recent letters from his brother. "Our intelligence says the Equestrians are bringing in some important convoy once they secure the city... they're preparing a large force to ambush it, I think. My brother's with them." Aspen nods grimly. "We know that much. The convoy is carrying some of our top generals, that's true, but it's actually a trap. We're going to obliterate the Loyalists when they strike, tomorrow evening. This is top-secret stuff." "What?" He gapes at Aspen. "But- my brother..." "I have to ask you this, little one." Aspen's voice is tight. Obscured by the smog, his visage suddenly seems like that of a predator waiting to strike. "Whose side are you on? Ours, or theirs? You must choose." The Changeling shakes his head even before Aspen is done speaking. He already knows the answer. "I'm done taking sides. I just want to find my brother, and get out of here. I don't want anything to do with this." The words come naturally to him. He feels suddenly emboldened. "I won't help you fight the Loyalists, Captain. I'm done." There's a pause as Aspen seems to absorb the Changeling's words, eyes slightly wide in surprise. He slowly nods and hangs his head. "I must apologise. I forgot how naive you were. I forgot there were still good changelings like you. But..." He speaks in a near whisper, not meeting the Changeling's eyes. "You're on The List. I can't do anything about that." With a hollow laugh, the Changeling replies, "I'm not a good changeling. You're a good changeling, Captain. You were always fighting for us. I'm just running away." He's not sure what Aspen means by 'The List'. "I hope you're done over there. We need to do this before Rhythm calls in civil defence." The unicorn levitates an innocently small needle in the air. "I think I've got the quantity right. I'm ready." "What's that, Aspen? Is it a medicine?" He hopes it's a painkiller. The aching pain in his abdomen still won't go away. Aspen looks up, mouth slightly agape. A dozen different emotions flick across his face. He looks between the Changeling, the unicorn, the needle, and finally, almost reluctantly, back to the Changeling. The war on his face resolves itself, settling into an intense determination. He inclines his head to the Changeling. "Stand up, Sergeant." Aspen's familiar, emotionless voice is back. "You might have to do some more running." The Changeling obeys, mildly confused. It takes some effort to bring himself to his hooves, but he feels a lot stronger than before. "Where are we running to?" "Hey, why's he getting up?" the unicorn shouts from the background. "Major?" "I wish I could explain, but... I just need you to gallop as fast as you can in that direction. Don't look back, don't stop until you're sure you're lost," Aspen instructs the Changeling hastily, barely stopping for breath. "Don't talk to any changeling, to any pony, to anyone, unless you absolutely have to. You're a medic, you can tend to your own wounds. Look for your brother and just go into hiding till all this is over" "What?" The Changeling is utterly lost. "Aren't you coming?" Aspen pulls him into an embrace. He returns it, shocked by this uncharacteristic display of emotion. "It will be over. Someday." "Major, what the hell are you doing?" The unicorn drops the medical bag and advances aggressively towards the pair. "Go, little one!" Aspen pushes the Changeling away. The unicorn reaches out to stop him, but is tackled to the ground by Aspen. The Changeling slowly backs away as they fight each other on the ground, simultaneously horrified and baffled. He turns and flees. The Changeling doesn't look back as the smog envelops him, guided forward only by the vague glow of the fire on either side. He has no idea what just happened, except for a vague notion that the unicorn meant some harm to him. Why else would Aspen turn on a fellow soldier? There is nothing to do but to think on this horrific idea as he bolts down the avenue. More violence, because of him. Why didn't he help Aspen? He didn't even consider the option, the possibility that he could do anything except run away. Even now, the Changeling doesn't turn back. Not because the Captain ordered him to escape, or out of his drive to save his brother. He's just scared. Eventually, the smoke begins to dissipate, giving way to a light smog that coats his vision in a thin grey filter. The rubbled husks lining the road gradually transition to shuttered apartments and stores, long abandoned by the fleeing Vesalipolians. The Changeling slows down to a steady march, painfully aware of his dirtying bandages. He distantly recalls this area from long before the war. His father worked here for a time, on the construction crew that installed the ornate electrical streetlights replacing the old gas ones. They are lifeless now, starved of power by the war. That same notion of isolation which gripped him earlier creeps up on him again. It isn't just the eerie emptiness of the streets. He repeatedly catches himself turning to ask Topaz for directions, to complain about his gnawing pain, to demand he stop hogging the water canteen. Years of Jaeger missions with his late comrade have ingrained the habits into him. Disturbing thoughts like these tear at him as the hours pass by. Listening to the direction that the booming of gunfire comes from, and using the most recent information he has on Loyalist positions, the Changeling can roughly gauge where the frontline is. He tries to stay as parallel to it as possible, keeping to a thin corridor of safety between the ensuing battle and the bulk of the advancing Equestrian military. Several times he's forced to hide in the shadows as military trucks speed noisily by, overflowing with heavily armed ponies. Their frequency only increases as the sun sets, giving the Changeling the uneasy impression the army is rapidly closing in. He has no doubts what any Equestrian soldier would do if they found a lone changeling in a tattered Jaeger uniform, far away from the keen eyes of higher officers or civilian watchdogs. After all, he's seen it happen in Vanhoover; packs of violence-hungry soldiers roaming the streets in that limbo where the law is dead, all are guilty, and justice is dealt at the end of a rifle. Not particularly eager to test his fears as the night closes in, the Changeling turns down a random back street and beelines towards the nearest front door. It's a large terraced house, looking no worse for wear from the war. He tries the handle to no avail. Casting a furtive glance around the street- it still feels wrong somehow, breaking into someling else's property- he aims his horn at the lock and focuses a sharp burst of energy at it. The metal bolt fizzles at the edges before falling to the ground with a clunk. The door gently swings open, revealing a tiny hallway. The Changeling quickly shuts the door behind him and wedges a coat hangar under the now boltless handle. At the very least, it'll slow down any unexpected visitors. He slowly creeps down the carpeted floor, guided through the darkness by the soft glow of his horn. The hallway opens up into a small, cozy lounge. Purple light illuminates a couple of sofas arranged around a central table, with an open doorway leading to what seems to be a kitchen. Framed pictures and even a portrait of the Queen fill the space between the doors lining the walls. The Changeling moves silently to the kitchen and opens a cabinet below the sink on instinct. Sure enough, a roll of cloth and bottles of strong alcohol sit cluttered around the plumbing, in the same place his own household kept them. Struggling to see in the darkness, he gingerly unties his filthy bandages and cranes his neck to observe the wound underneath. It's still covered in blood and ash. Whoever tended to him did an awful job. He opens the faucet. A trickle of muddy water sputters out deafeningly before ceasing altogether. He grimaces. The hard way it is. Locating a clean rag from the cabinet, he spills some alcohol over it. Biting down with his fangs, he dabs at the wound, ignoring the stinging pain as the cloth pulls away the largest clumps of dirt and dried blood. Without any water to clean the rest off, he tears off a section of bandage and wraps it back around the gash. His injury seen to, the Changeling hobbles over to the lounge. He hesitates at trying any of the other doors, glancing guiltily at one of the photos adorning the wall. A large group of changelings beam down at him, each making various silly poses to the camera. There's no family resemblance between most of them- changeling nymphs are raised away from their parents, after all- but they seem comfortable and at peace with each other. A clutch from the same nursery that decided to live together, perhaps. Who is he to disturb their home? Instead, the Changeling hops onto one of the couches and curls up there, resting his head on his forehooves. He puts out the light and lays staring into the dark, half-heartedly planning out the next morning in his mind. Strangely enough, the sounds of the battle outside seem to have mostly subsided. With luck, he'll be able to rest peacefully tonight. Tomorrow, though... tomorrow is uncertain. He has no idea how he'll slip past the military. He has no idea how to find the Loyalists and his brother- if he's still alive. He has no idea what to do. It's all starting to become too much, this uncertainty. Unsure of whether what he did was right, unsure of whether what he's doing is right, unsure of whether he'll do what's right. At least with the Jaegers, there was a goal, there was someling to tell you what to do, who knew what would happen whether you succeeded or failed, or a partner to take the fall with you. Now he's alone, and all the uncertainty rests on him. Should he have left Topaz alive? Helped Aspen, his Captain and comrade-in-arms? Picked a side, any side? Fled the other way down the street, to someplace no one would find him as he finally perished? Unable to bear it anymore, the Changeling finally breaks into hot, anguished tears. He has no idea. None at all. Here is a final chance, a path to the peaceful life he's wanted, granted in the blood of two changelings he still loves as comrades and family. And he has no idea if he's wasting it. At the end of the longest day ever, in the middle of a city that has been beaten and brutalized to silence, a bannerless changeling cries himself to sleep. "Traitor!" The Pony reels from Aspen's blow. As he watches on in shock, the injured Jaeger leaps off into the smog, quickly fading from sight. He can't believe what's happening. He can't believe Aspen would do this. But he is doing it, and one fact is undeniable. "Traitor," the Pony repeats in a growl. Aspen moves to blocks his path with a defensive stance. "There is no need to fight, pony. Let's just talk." The Pony yells and bounds forward, tackling Aspen to the ground. He's braced for the blow though, and throws the Pony back, leaving both of them lying dazed on the ground. Thinking quickly, the Pony levitates his rifle up from where it lies near Aspen. The changeling acts faster and kicks it away, out of the range of his magic. Seizing the opening, the Pony leaps ahead again. He aims a lethal forehoof at Aspen's neck. The strike is just barely dodged with a roll to the side. The changeling deftly climbs to his hooves to face the Pony. The two slowly circle around, watching each other warily. "Let's talk, pony. I have more experience than you. I'll win eventually," Aspen states. He's aloof as ever, no hint of boastfulness or pride in his voice. Just clear-cut facts. The Pony shakes his head in disbelief. "Talk? Talk? We're far past that." The rage, the outrage at being betrayed wells up inside him, filling his vision with red. "I trusted you, y'know. I thought you were one of the GOOD. FUCKING. CHANGELINGS," he screeches out, feinting another direct rush at Aspen. As the changeling prepares for his assault, he instead dodges past him and leaps for the gun. Too late, Aspen realizes what's happening and dives for cover. With some relish, the Pony lines up the crosshair with the changeling and pulls the trigger. Bang! A chunk of the street is thrown up as Aspen just barely makes it behind a pile of rubble, the blazing fire obscuring him from view. "Fuck," the Pony mutters, levitating the gun alongside him as he chases after Aspen. He spots the uniformed changeling slipping into a burning storefront, and quickly rushes to pursue. The scene inside is something straight from hell. An unbearable heat chokes the Pony, drenching his fur in sweat, as he navigates between rows of charred shelves. It's impossible to see through the thick, black smoke. "Hiding, are you, changeling?" he gasps out. "You're so wily and deceptive, aren't you?" He whips around as something moves at the edge of his vision. It's just a clump of paper, thrown about by the fiery air. Starting to feel uneasy, he forges onwards more cautiously. "Your kind is so eager to help us," the Pony continues more slowly, thinking over each word. "So willing to try and fix the tragedies of the past. And I was content with that, even though I shouldn't have been." The shelves open into a wider area, with large display racks that tilt precariously on their seared bases. "Because even if your apologies weren't sweet nothings..." He creeps towards a row of shelves, movement clearly audible from there. "And even if you backed up your promises of change with something, anything..." He stops at the edge of the shelf and stands up on his hind legs, grabbing the levitating gun from the air with his forehooves. "It wouldn't bring any of the lives back, would it?" With that, the Pony whips around the corner of the shelf, swinging his rifle expertly to aim down the aisle. There's nothing there. "No, it wouldn't," Aspen whispers to his right. Crack! A blow to the side of the head sends the Pony staggering backwards. Head ringing, he lifts the rifle and fires blindly into the smoke. The gunfire is greeted with a surprised yelp, and then deafening silence. The Pony throws his rifle to ground and stumbles towards the aisle. Aspen lays crumpled against the shelf, ventilating heavily. Suddenly exhausted from the oppressive heat, the Pony slides down to sit next to him. "I didn't think you would actually shoot me." Aspen chuckles, shaking his head in an exaggerated motion. "That was stupid. You already pulled the trigger earlier." "Why'd you do it, Aspen?" the Pony utters wearily. "Why'd you throw it all away for some worthless Jaeger?" Aspen stares upwards, muttering something in Changeling language. A prayer, perhaps. "Are you just that disloyal? Needed something else to betray?" he continues. "Disloyal? That was loyalty, there," Aspen heaves out. He turns to stare at the Pony, giving him a pained smile. "That was loyalty to my morals. To the world I want to build." Even through the ash clogging up the air, his eyes seem to glow with fiery conviction. "That was a good changeling, Major. That was a changeling who should live to see what peace looks like." The Pony shakes his head in disbelief. "Then he shouldn't have been a solider, yeah?" Aspen shrugs dismissively. "Life is not so simple. It sweeps you away, pulls you towards the center of the storm, no matter how hard you try to paddle in the other direction." "Oh, knock it off." He's starting to get tired of the changeling's flowery speeches. "You're a Loyalist, aren't you? That Jaeger had some important info you couldn't let slip. Shit, I was so stupid..." He buries his face in his hooves. "I really thought I could trust you." "I'm a Thoraxian, pony. Always was." Aspen grunts in pain. "Won't be for long, though." A glimmer of hope. He raises his head to look at Aspen. "Really? You were on my- our side?" The changeling reaches out feebly with a forehoof, gaze locked on something far in the distance. The Pony takes it, holding on to it firmly. He needs to know. "I- I must apologize. My nation, my peoples, have hurt yours. You're right... nothing will bring back the lives. Nothing will dig our comrades out of the- out of the earth," Aspen wheezes out. The Pony can feel his throat closing up. He thinks of Divine Sight, of Dream, of Fast Luck, of the hundreds of other soldiers he's watched die over his years of service. "But... we can save the lives that are left. We can protect these precious, precious people, and hold on to the hope that there are never any bodies to bury again." The agonized smile returns. "Like that changeling. If I stood by, and watched as you did those horrible things to him, I would be betraying that hope." The two sit in silence, listening to Aspen's raspy breathing and the crackle of fire around them. "Got a light?" "A light?" the Pony asks, befuddled. "Aren't we inhaling enough smoke already?" Both of them chuckle at that, the tension instantly dissipated. The Pony shakes his head. "Nah, I don't have any cigarettes. I don't smoke." "Shame. You think the medic- Algo Rhythm- has some?" "'Yes, Corporal, Major Aspen is dying, do you have a ciggie for him?' He doesn't strike me as one to smoke, anyways," the Pony replies. The mood suddenly turns sour again. Aspen sighs, running his hoof along the fin on the back of his head. "Shit. I really am going to die." His voice sends shivers down the Pony's spine. It is weak, hopeless, afraid. "I just wish-" Aspen's voice breaks. He draws air in a sob. "I just wish I could see my Kochite, one last time." He turns to the Pony. "Let me die under the open sky, Major. Not in this burning husk of a dwelling," he pleads. The Pony nods, silently getting to his hooves and supporting Aspen up. Together, they slowly hobble towards the entrance. Piles of ash crunch underhoof as they move past the smouldering shelves and burning piles of rubble, out into the blissfully cool air. "I'm letting you down now, OK?" the Pony informs Aspen as they reach the center of the street. No response. "Aspen?" He gently lowers the immobile changeling to the ground. "Who is Kochite, Aspen? Is that your wife?" The changeling stares up at the sky with dull eyes, not a sign of life in them. "Major!" somepony yells through the smog. Algo Rhythm comes bounding on the scene, rifle slung along his barrel, one forehoof desperately trying to keep a poorly-fitted helmet on. "I heard gunfire, did- holy shit, is that Major Aspen?" The Pony shuts his eyes tightly, trying to maintain his composure. The image of a dead changeling dances around in his vision. "What happened, sir?" This wasn't his fault. Ofcourse it wasn't. "By Celestia, he's dead. Oh my- Major? Major, talk to me." Was it his fault he followed protocol? His fault he saw an obvious threat, and disposed of it? No, it was that damn changeling who went and turned on him for an enemy soldier. For a Jaeger. Still, the Pony can show mercy. For a friend. "Are you alright, Major?" His eyes fly open. "Yes, I'm alright, Corporal," he snaps. "Go and call in civil defence, tell them we were ambushed by a sniper. Major Aspen was killed and I, luckily enough, managed to return fire and scare off the enemy soldier. Put out an alert for a dark grey changeling with purple eyes." The Pony considers for a moment. "No, scratch that, it's a fucking 'ling. Shapeshifting bastards. I don't want any soldiers interrupting the project, anyways... Just have civil defence collect the body and put out the fire." He blinks away some water leaking from his eyes. It must be all this ash in the air. "Yes, sir," Rhythm agrees in a subdued manner, no hint of his snarky attitude from earlier. Turning away to gather the medical supplies back into the bag, the Pony remarks over his shoulder, "Oh, and get a sheet over the body." "Yes sir!" Rhythm salutes and rushes off to the carry out the order, giving a wide berth to the corpse. The Pony nods back distractedly, already planning out the next course of action in his head. There are Jaegers to find, security to arrange, work to be done. And tomorrow, when the Loyalists finally shatter themselves on the Equestrian defenses, he will reap what has been sown.
Scene 1: RationaleBlinding rays of light filter through wide, arched windows into the waiting room. Outside is a stunning view of the snow-capped mountain range stretching away from Upper Canterlot. The odd thin, misty cloud drifts lazily across the sky, breaking up the otherwise clear air. The pegasi swooping between them could be mistaken for birds at this distance. Real birds flick between the roofs of huge mansions more comparable to miniature castles than houses, complete with heavy stone walls and little streams forming mock moats. One such stream snakes around this very building. A gardener serenely clips at the hedges around it. Despite being a world capital, this part of Canterlot has seen none of the breakneck construction and industrialization projects littering every other major city. The skyline is made of brick and wood rather than concrete and steel, and the clip of hooves and trickle of water far overpowers the distant rumbling of automobiles and construction machinery. The Changeling in the waiting room pays no attention to these details. He sits wide-eyed on the floor in a shadowed corner of the room, clutching a thick piece of paper like a lifeline. His dress is a strange mix of Stalliongrad winter outfit and utilitarian changeling uniform; a heavy coat lies over a tie with a white shirt tucked into a thick pair of pants and a belt. A wallet is tied to one of the Changeling's front hooves. He carries nothing else. A pair of magazines lie on the table in the center of the room. The Changeling glances at them yearningly with his deep purple eyes, but restrains his curiosity. He instead simply waits patiently, idly listening to the quiet hubbub of laughter and shouted greetings filtering through the door to the corridor. Said door suddenly bursts open with a bang. The Changeling's head whips around to take in the source of this disturbance. A white-furred, silver-horned unicorn stands dramatically in the entrance. He looks around the little room, eyes flicking this way and that. After a moment, he sighs dejectedly. When his gaze lands on the Changeling, though, he perks up again. "Helloooo, mister changeling. What are you doing on the floor?" The words roll out of the pony's muzzle with a hint of amusement. The Changeling blinks. "Th- there was no space when I came here," he spills out in broken Equestrian. He realizes he must look foolish sprawled on the ground, and quickly shifts into one of the chairs under the windows. The Changeling squints against the sharp, unfiltered morning light. Here in the mountains the air is sweet and clear. There is no smog or mist to dilute the light like back in Vesalipolis. "I am waiting for the interview." The unicorn snickers. "What's that you're holding? Your résumé?" He sits next to the Changeling, reclining lavishly with no care for his now-crumpled fancy white cloak. "It is a note. From my brother," explains the Changeling. He sees no harm in making polite conversation- friendship, friendship!- and is glad to tell someone his story, at the very least. "Things are not good at home- at Vesalipolis. I came here to study at the University." The unicorn's smirk quickly fades into a frown. "You're here to be a student? I thought you were applying to join the staff and got lost or something." "No, no. I am going to study. I am going to learn about friendship and harmony," the Changeling replies proudly. He's travelled for months to get here. Despite the recent railway efforts, there is still no connection between Vraks and the Equestrian border. He had to travel on hoof along a dirt path while the main road was being torn up and widened to make room for the increasingly prevalent automobiles. And all that, only to reach a chaotic border where the Equestrian military was putting up fences and building roads to make their sovereignty absolutely clear after the failed changeling takeover of Canterlot. The unicorn's muzzle opens and closes with no words. Despite himself, the Changeling savours the unicorn's surprise. The unicorn finally finds something to say. He readopts his confident and slightly smug tone. "A changeling in the University of Friendship. Your kind aren't known for 'friendship and harmony', are they?" A bitter taste suddenly develops in the Changeling's mouth. "What do you mean, 'my kind'?" "I-" The unicorn shakes his head. "Nevermind." There's an awkward silence for a few seconds. The Changeling can't think of anything to say. He wants to make friends, yes, but he's not feeling inclined to chat with this strangely hostile unicorn. "So... where have you studied? What are your qualifications?" the unicorn restarts the conversation with a much warmer tone. The Changeling blinks hard again. "I- I am here to study. This will be my qualification. That is the job of the University of Friendship, no?" He chuckles. The pony laughs uncertainly with him. "Yeah, but this is a top Equestrian institution. They don't let just anyone in like they did in the School of Friendship days. Like"- he levitates a laminated paper from under his cloak- "here's what I've been doing for the past few years." The Changeling tentatively levitates the paper in front of his face and skims through it. 'Industrial Reform Committee', 'Junior Secretary to the Applied Magics Minister', and other such prestigious-sounding positions are listed. The Changeling is confused. He has come here to study, to learn the art of spreading friendship. What do fancy jobs and résumés have to do with friendship? He returns the paper. "I don't have any... 'qualifications', except my willingness to learn and the pull of harmony." The Changeling pauses, judging the unicorn's expression. He feels he is not getting his point across and continues more anxiously. "What you bring before the University is not about what you have learnt and what you have not, is it? It is simply a proof of your struggle to learn more. I have struggled. I have turned away from the path my parents took, and left what I loved to come here. You have struggled"- he nods at the paper- "and there is your proof." It still tears at him. Most of his nights these past few months have been spent sleepless, wondering about his family. The Changeling Lands are in chaos as competing factions fight to wrest control from Queen Chrysalis, and the Changeling cannot help but see bloody visions of faceless soldiers breaking into his home and doing ungodly things to his brethren. He thought that leaving would sedate the terror of being there, but all he's received is the terror of not knowing. He has struggled. The unicorn frowns, without malice. "But- if you're giving up on your home, and your family, you could do anything else. Why this?" "Why this...?" The Changeling isn't sure what he's referring to. "I mean, why not have an easy job? An easy life?" The bitter taste reappears. "We do not simply desire an easy life. I want to work hard for what I believe in." The Changeling thinks about what really draws him here. Why struggle? He has the answer. "I could have stayed in Vesalipolis, but I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living." The unicorn blinks uncomprehendingly. Once again, the Changeling feels that he doesn't understand. "Next!" comes a shout from inside the adjoining room. The Changeling stands up, staring at the unicorn. "Er... good luck, mister unicorn. I have a feeling we will see each other again. We could be friends." He offers peace. "I- yeah, good luck to you too. I wouldn't bet on the 'friends' part," the unicorn replies distantly. He is looking out the window, ignoring the Changeling. Declined. The Pony swaggers up the steps to the front door of the University of Friendship. His cloak billows out behind him in a dramatic fashion and his hooves create sharp clips on the stone. He's cool, he's confident, he's ready to take on the world. He doesn't particularly want to. Passing through the glass front doors, the Pony barely looks around the busy reception. He's already seen the magnificent sculpted chandelier hanging from the roof, seen the statues of the Elements, seen the important faces and busy hooves, seen the thought-provoking artwork adorning the walls that would speak to the very of a soul of a pony, if they have any. He knows his way around. He's getting late, though, and picks up the pace as he searches for the right door. The Pony finally locates it and stops outside. Takes a deep breath. This will be the first impression his potential classmates and, in the future, colleagues and business partners will have of him, he reminds himself. He strikes a dramatic pose, prepares his telekinesis and slams open the door. It bursts open with a bang. The Pony looks around an apparently empty room and sighs disappointedly. It seems every pony has already given their interview- or maybe not. From a shadowed corner of the room, two purple eyes glow curiously. The Pony can just barely make out the the little changeling laying like a cat in the corner. It lifts his mood up instantly. "Hellooooooo, mister changeling. What are you doing on the floor?" he purrs delightedly. He's never met a changeling before, but their reputation goes before them. Shapeshifting, devious monsters that recently tried to subtly overthrow the government in Canterlot and, failing that, launched a surprise invasion from hidden underground complexes around the city. So, to the Pony, it is the most fascinating species on Equus. The changeling blinks, startled by the Pony's entrance. "Th- there was not a space when I came." He suddenly scrambles to his hooves and sits down on one of the chairs. His face develops a slight tint of red. "I am waiting for the interview." The Pony snickers at that. This strangely-dressed changeling is lost. He knows the University is looking for a new lab assistant, and guesses the changeling has ended up in the wrong room. Poor thing. "What's that you're holding? Your résumé?" He sits next to the changeling, determined to keep him here as long as possible. The chances of him ever meeting a changeling again are slim. "It is a note. From my brother. Things are not good at home- at Vesalipolis," the changeling explains. Wherever that is. "I came here to study at the University." Baffling. "You're here to be a student?" the Pony blurts out. "I thought you were applying to join the staff and got lost or something," he elaborates, seeing confusion cross the changeling's face. "No, no. I am going to study. I am going to learn about friendship and harmony," the changeling explains with a fanged smile. His eyes seem to physically glow brighter with determination and passion for a moment. The Pony gapes at the changeling. So he really is serious. The Pony is disturbed to see the changeling's determined grin suddenly turn to an amused smirk, and rushes to make a comeback. "A changeling in the University of Friendship. Your kind aren't known for 'friendship and harmony', are they?" he responds in as neutral of a tone as possible. He'd love to know how a changeling, of all species, would end up wanting to study here. A pause. "What do you mean, 'my kind'?" the changeling responds in a suddenly frigid tone. The Pony realizes how that must have sounded to the changeling. "I didn't-" He catches the changeling's expression. Narrowed eyes, set muzzle... changeling or not, he recognizes the look from his time on the committee. It's that of a deeply insulted pony who won't stand for any pathetic excuses. The Pony shakes his head helplessly. "Nevermind." They both fall silent. The Pony looks around the room for some way to get out of this awkward situation, but... no, he wants to know why the changeling is here. He needs to know. "So... where have you studied? What are your qualifications?" he tries a more friendly tone. The changeling blinks at him. He's relieved to see the hostility has faded. "I- I'm here to study. This will be my qualification. That is the job of the University of Friendship, no?" The changeling laughs out loud as if he's made some joke. Trying to be polite, the Pony laughs too before trying to gently break reality to him. "Yeah, but this is a top Equestrian institution. They don't let just anyone in like they did in the School of Friendship days. Like"- he levitates a laminated paper from under his cloak- "here's what I've been doing in the past few years." It's a list of every job he's wasted his youth at. Months spent toiling away, day and night, slowly making friends and learning the ropes and settling in for once only for his parents to pull some strings and find him a supposedly better position halfway across the country. He knows the list by heart and can see exactly what the changeling is reading as if the paper was in front of him. 'Field Agent for the Industrial Reform Committee'. That's where he met a communist and a tsarist in the same room. He listened to them bicker every day till he loved it. He worked till he felt he was doing something, making some real change for Equestria. He felt pride and satisfaction when he went to tour and assess brand-new factories for the Committee. And then it was over. 'Junior Secretary to the Applied Magics Minister'. A dull, tedious job during the early months, stuck in an office in poverty-stricken Baltimare, till he met a mare and they felt they loved each other as young adults foolishly do. He'd never felt so alive. And then it was over. 'Imperial Servant'. A vague job title, and a vaguer job still. He did everything in the Crystal City from filling coffee cups to helping plan the railways that would tie the country together. Again, he suffered till his hooves bled and his back ached from long nights spent outside in the freezing cold, making sure work was getting done, and the moment he felt he had reached some stability, some contentment- it was over. Years of his youth that should have been spent building a life, reduced to words on a page. Every night he wishes nothing more than to have stood in place any one of those times and held on as firmly as he could, damn his parents or family expectations. The changeling returns the paper and takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a long monologue. "I don't have any... 'qualifications', except my willingness to learn and the pull of harmony." What is the changeling on about now? "What you bring before the University is not about what you have learnt and what you have not, is it? It is simply a proof of your struggle to learn more. I have struggled. I have turned away from the path my parents took, and left what I loved to come here. You have struggled"- he nods at the paper- "and there is your proof." The Pony frowns, trying his best to understand. This changeling hasn't come here out of some desire to escape, or live a good life. The University of Friendship is itself a struggle. Any other university in Canterlot could guarantee you an easy, well-paying job as a bureaucrat or an accountant from some noble. Why struggle for more struggling? He wants to know why. "But- if you're giving up on your home, and your family, you could do anything else. Why this?" He needs to know why. "Why this...?" "I mean, why not have an easy job? An easy life?" The Pony is almost desperate at this point. He feels this changeling has an answer he's been chasing for so long. "We do not simply desire an easy life. I want to work hard for what I believe in. I could have stayed in Vesalipolis, but I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living." Why? Why? The changeling still won't answer the question. He just gives the Pony a small smile of mild disappointment, or confusion. "Next!" comes a shout from the adjoining room. It is time for the changeling's interview. The Pony has no faith in the changeling making it into the school. The University looks for qualifications and scores, not one's passion for harmony. The Pony stares out the window. A gardener is carefully clipping hedges outside. Passion... is that why the changeling is here? Because he believes in a dream he can achieve? That is why. The Pony feels the sudden urge to stand up and declare it out loud, but the changeling has just said something. "Yeah, good luck to you too. I wouldn't bet on the 'friends' part," he replies distantly. One way or another, he won't be seeing the changeling again. He barely registers as the door to the adjoining room opens and shuts. Passion. The Pony has no passion for the University. He has no passion for wealth or titles. The changeling is here because he believes he can do something. The Pony is here because he believes there's no other choice, but that's not true. 'I would have served a purpose I do not feel for. I would not really be living.' What did he enjoy? Where did he feel alive? Where he got the chance to live, without his family's desires hanging over his head. He can seize it once again, can't he? Those months spent slowly lulling himself into a comfortable routine, getting to know his future colleagues and friends and lovers. This time, he'll do it free of the threat of it being suddenly ripped away again. There's nothing to fear. If this changeling could make it all the way to Equestria from whatever far-off land the changelings live, the Pony's own family certainly cannot stop him. Nothing can. He can go and live. The Pony's mind spins, giddy with possibilities. He stands up, looking around as if somepony might stop him. It can't be this easy. When nothing happens, he trots over to the door, and leaves behind an unwanted future. Author's Note There's the first chapter done! The second chapter should be published along with it, so feel free to continue reading. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy. FAQs: Q. You promised an Equestria at 'War' fic. Where's the war? A. Don't worry, your bloodshed and violence is on its way. Next chapter, please. Q. Is this just going to be two characters repeating the exact same events?? That's boring! A. Not at all. Next chapter, please. Q. Why are some things different between the perspectives? Is that a mistake? A. Nope, it's intentional. These are two different people who prioritize certain facts and diminish others. Ofcourse they'll recall events differently. Q. Hey, this reads a bit weirdly. Why is that? A. My apologies! English isn't my first language, and I'm still learning how to write stories. Tying together the narrative, characters, world, and themes is much harder than it seems. I'm open to any feedback and criticisms in the comments which could help me improve in the future. Q. Were roboponies involved in this? A. Nope! This fic is 100% written and proof-read by real ponies. (Real ponies could not fact-check this statement.)
Scene 2A: InvasionBursts of tracers stream across the night sky. They meld with the fiery red of distant gunfire and explosions, illuminating the treeline with a ghastly red glow. The faint screaming of bullets and shells is drowned out by the planes roaring overhead as they chase each other through the sky in a backdrop of flak and smoke. An occasional burst of gunfire rattles from the fighters above, blending in with the chaotic orchestra of war. In the distance, pitch black clouds steadily encroach closer, flashes of lightning and booms of thunder indiscernible from the artificial show of light and sound. There will be no night sky tonight. Away from it all, in an occupied tavern on the edge of a normally quiet town, there is pure chaos as ponies try to prepare for the terror that has already consumed them. "The radio repeater is overloaded, sir!" Frequent Waves calls from behind the bar counter over the ruckus of the busy room. "I want a gun at every window! What the fuck are you doing on the radio?" barks their commander from a table in the center of the large room. By some unholy coincidence, the regular Captain of the small garrison is visiting the town, leaving Sergeant Fast Luck in his place to lead in his absence. "What do we do if we're attacked, sir? Are we allowed to fire back, sir? Without orders we can't-" "Shut the fuck up for two minutes! I don't see you at a window! And- Corporal, what are you doing with that table? You gonna fucking bludgeon the changelings to death?" Most of the soldiers present have been stationed here for months. Merely as a precaution against the minute possibility of a changeling invasion, they were assured. The town was just evacuated for 'safety reasons', they were assured. There would be no war, not in Equestria, they were assured. And now, on what should have been another silent night, their worst fears have come true. When artillery began firing and the planes buzzed overhead, the slow realization set into every pony; nothing would be the same again. Just a few measly trenches and a fence stand between them and the border to the Changeling Lands. Between these two dozen-or-so ponies and hell. "In case we need to block the door from the inside, Sergeant!" replies the Corporal in question. "Who's attacking us from the inside!?" Fast Luck screams with the incredulity of a drill instructor. "Our own damn stallions are up the stairs behind that, not 'lings. Window, window, find a window! And- hey, you, this isn't the time for a fucking drink!" The Pony calmly stacks bullets into magazines from his cover underneath a window, ignoring the chaos around him. Gone are his fancy coat, fashionable shirt, and lavish shoes. Here he wears the dull tan uniform of the Equestrian military, a simple steel helmet, and worn-out but clean boots. A single arrow adorns each of his shoulders. He enlisted to get away from it all, to go someplace even his overbearing family couldn't find him. He's spent the past couple of years just... whiling away the time. Doing menial tasks, chatting, sleeping, enjoying rare treats on his military pay. Living. The Pony isn't too concerned about the possible invasion. It's what he's been waiting for, after all. He's growing increasingly annoyed with the incessant mutterings and ramblings from the nearby ponies, though. Click. He slides another bullet into the clip. "Holy shit... holy shit... oh, god, no..." sobs the pony at the next window over, rifle abandoned at his side as he huddles in a ball. Private First Class Fragrant Flower. He used to grow plants behind the tavern. The flowers made for good tea. Click. "Our planes...? No, no, if those two are... those are enemy reinforcements... did something just move out there...?" A much younger pony incoherently mutters about the aerial battle to nopony in particular. Private Lengthy Tangent. His family thought military service would do him good, and packed him off to boot camp. Click. "Celestia give me strength and show me the way... may the Sun rise over this land and every other land and dispel the nightmares... Celestia give me strength and show me the way..." prays another under her breath. Like the Pony, she loads her ammunition with the practiced calm of a pony who has spent long nights mindlessly repeating the action. Private Divine Sight. She spent the free time between menial tasks meditating and preparing for war. The Pony engaged with her the most in the garrison, appreciating the quiet, calm atmosphere she exuded. Click. "Listen... if they come in here, you watch my back, yeah? You gonna watch my back?" Private Elegant Prose to Specialist Poetic Prose. The two brothers are separable only by their age and rank. Chick! The Pony sets aside the loaded magazine and picks up another empty one. He flinches as a nearby explosion sends rumbles through the building, throwing the magazine out of his hooves. The electrical lights flicker for a moment before returning to normal. The room falls silent as everypony waits for another explosion. It doesn't arrive. The only sound is that of the distant hum of gunfire and blasts, and planes buzzing past. "By Celestia, where was that?" shouts a soldier from across the room after a moment. Sergeant Fast Luck replies with a dark chuckle, "In the woods, I'd reckon. Must be our own artillery. Trust them to hit fuck all..." A faint shout erupts from upstairs. Everypony freezes in place as the distinct and clear sound of gunfire fills the building. "The windows! Look out the fucking windows, idiots!" Sergeant Fast Luck barks from his vantage point on the central table. The Pony, along with most of the soldiers, hesitantly complies and peers out into the dark. He rests his rifle on the window sill, head poking out above the frame only enough to see outside. It's empty field all the way to the thick forest nearby. A lonely grey road snakes past the tavern into the woods, and ahead, to the border. It seems like a natural place to defend, but the Pony has run the route back to the town enough times to know that it is a death trap should the enemy gain the advantage. Besides the tavern building itself, there's only a small shed they use to store the jeep and extra supplies. There's no cover all the way back to the town. He keeps his eyes on the treeline, ignoring the show of fire and flight in the sky. The storm has crept closer, much closer. The fire and brimstone below shades the clouds an eerie red. It only takes him a few moments to realize what's wrong. There is nothing to shoot at. There are no muzzle flashes and no dirt being thrown up by gunfire. There are no changeling soldiers or tanks approaching. What, then, are the ponies upstairs doing? For the first time tonight, a deep uneasiness settles on the Pony. It seems the rest of the soldiers have made the same conclusion. "Sir... they're not... they're not shooting outside...?" Poetic Prose announces uncertainly, just as the sound of gunfire ceases. The Pony looks to the Sergeant, leaving his gun at the window. Fast Luck's gung-ho, dismissive attitude seems to have finally worn off, and there is nothing but dead seriousness in his voice as he orders, "Frequent Waves, go upstairs. Yelp for help if you need it." Frequent Waves clambers over the bar counter to the door, rifle tucked under a wing. He pulls open the door. A bloodied earthpony in tattered uniform stumbles out. He desperately clutches a red cloth to his neck. His helmet is missing, his shirt is barely a rag, and his agonized eyes betray his pain. Deep scratches run down his chest, fur turned sticky with blood. "Help..." he gurgles weakly, reaching out to Frequent Waves for balance. Frequent Waves holds out a hoof. "Changeling!" barks Fast Luck. Frequent Waves understands. This could be a changeling, wearing the face and clothes of one of their comrades to get them to lower their guard. The hoof withdraws. Nopony dares to move, morbidly fascinated by the scene playing out in front of them. The earthpony stumbles forward and falls to the floor, wheezing in pain. A pool of blood coalesces on the floor, staining the dirty wooden planks. The Pony finally recognizes him. Corporal Deep Bass. He sang in the Equestrian National Choir, and still brought out his rusty voice to entertain the soldiers when they felt bored. As he lays bleeding on the floor, it occurs to the Pony that he will never sing again. He will never joke with them again. He will never talk about his late wife again, and his eyes will never shine with pride at pictures of his adult children again. A wave of terror rolls over the Pony. This is real. This is too real. He cannot process the bigger picture, the years of suffering and war to come, not now. It is out of his grasp. The bloodied pony on the floor, though? "Help me..." Deep Bass wheezes. With a tremble, his hoof reaches out to Frequent Waves, who simply stands there in shock. "By Celestia, help..." The terror curls up his chest and seizes his heart. "Help him!" shouts Divine Sight, rushing forward to assist. Changeling or not, the name of Celestia has been invoked, which the Pony knows is dear to Sight. Out of the corner of his eye, the Pony sees something shift in the shadows from the door Deep Bass came through. He and Fast Luck shout at the same time. "Stop!" "Sight!" Frequent Waves raises his rifle. "Grün!" "Feuern!" The Pony throws himself to the floor as a volley of bullets tears out from the shadows. Frequent Waves is ripped apart instantly, his body flung across the room into the wall. Divine Sight ducks for cover in front of the bar counter. Sergeant Fast Luck raises his rifle and fires twice through the doorway. He is forced to dive to the ground too, though, as bullets cut through the windows from outside and hit anypony unlucky enough to still be standing. The Pony lifts himself off the floor and tries to grab his rifle from the window, only to find himself staring directly at a black-uniformed changeling attempting to climb through, his own gun slung at his side. How is there a changeling here? They share a glance before simultaneously grappling for the rifle, desperately tugging on to it for dear life. The changeling hisses at the Pony, pure fury in his glowing green eyes. The Pony focuses his telekinesis and throws a nearby chair at the changeling. It crashes hard and pushes him out the window, onto the ground. He snatches back the rifle. Points it down, out the window. Pulls the trigger. With a sickening bang, the changeling's body jolts and he falls limp. The only thing on his face is surprise. There is no more fury. The Pony falls backwards and scoots back on his hind legs, gasping for air. He clutches the gun tightly to himself, looking around wildly. The room has descended into a chaotic melee. More black-suited changelings pour in through the windows, fighting tooth and nail with the desperate ponies still left standing. They bludgeon each other with whatever they can find; sharp or blunt. The heavy, unwieldly rifles are impossible to use here, and any sense of order or thought of strategy has been abandoned, every second spent trying to survive to the next. A small semi-circle of more level-headed soldiers has gathered around the door, rifles ready, but they don't dare to fire into the fray for fear of hitting any ponies. There's no other way out of the overrun tavern. The Pony takes a deep breath, straps the rifle to his barrel, and leaps to his hooves. He barrels as fast as he can around the edge of the room, stopping by Deep Bass to check on him. He lies still in a pool of blood, no longer breathing, eyes closed. A snarl erupts from the Pony's right. A sudden blow drives the air out of his lungs and flings him at a table. He lays crumpled against the table, stunned, as a sneering changeling stalks towards him. A green flash of fire, and a polar bear looms over the Pony. It stomps forwards, sending shockwaves through the floor with every step. The Pony tries to levitate his rifle. A weak purple glow surrounds it, and it shakily rises into the air. He can't focus. His head is pounding. He can't breathe. The bear raises a clawed paw, ready to strike. This is it. He can taste death. Bang! The Pony blinks out the flash of light from his eyes. Divine Sight stands above the crumpled corpse of a changeling, levitating a rifle with her telekinesis. Her eyes flash dangerously, without a hint of remorse or pity. "Get up. We're going to go for the door," she orders. The Pony stumbles to his hooves, swaying unsteadily, and reslings his gun. He spares the two corpses on the ground one last glance. It feels wrong to leave Deep Bass to lay here, so undignified. Nothing can be done now, though. They have to fight off the attackers first. With a shared nod, they both canter across the room, weaving between overturned tables and debris strewn on the ground. Clothing, parcels, papers, everything the soldiers stationed here used on a daily basis, strewn on the ground and trampled underhoof without care. They're pulled through a tight semi-circle of ponies and out the door, into the porch. Sergeant Fast Luck and another pony- Poetic Prose- stand there, talking grimly. Elegant Prose is nowhere to be seen. The Pony shields his face with a hoof against the howling wind. Without electric lights, and with the moon covered up by the smoke and clouds, it is almost pitch black here. Fast Luck nods at Sight and the Pony. "Ofcourse these fucking two survived. Take them with you, Specialist. Keys should be in the ignition." "What's- what's happening, sir? Why aren't we going in there and fighting?" the Pony asks in confusion. He readjusts his helmet. "We can beat them." Fast Luck grunts. "No, we can't. The ponies upstairs? They got wiped. We're only alive because we forced the 'lings into a crossfire, and they had to use their fucking hooves for once. The moment they wizen up and start shooting, we're done." The Pony gapes in horror as he realizes what Fast Luck is implying. "We're running away?" "No!" cries Divine Sight. "We're not. You're going with Prose to alert the town while we hold-" There's a loud series of bangs from inside, and the ponies duck as the glass in a window shatters. The rest of the soldiers rush out, coated in ash and soot, and slam the door behind them, huddling against the wall. There's only three of them. That means a vast majority of the ponies stationed here are either dead or still fighting for their lives inside. "They're overwhelming us, sir! There's too many of them," reports one of the ponies breathlessly. "We lost Teal and Lamp." Fast Luck draws his rifle, wings flared menacingly. "Do you need clearer fucking orders? Go, dammit! Tell them we're dead, and if you see any of us again, it's a changeling wearing our face." Lightning flashes across the sky above. For a brief second, the fear- and determination- on Fast Luck's face is sharply visible. "We can't leave our ponies to die in there!" Divine Sight protests loudly. "Let's go, Sight," the Pony mutters, putting a hoof on her shoulder. She flinches and backs away, towards the door. Fast Lucks blocks her path with a shake of his head. "Poetic! Your- your brother is still in there. I saw him, he's alive. You're not going to leave him, are you?" she pleads. Poetic Prose looks away, hanging his head. "He's dead." Another bang sends the ponies diving to the ground. Thunder rumbles alongside it. "We're running out of time, Sight! Let's go, let's go, please," the Pony begs from the wooden floor of the porch. "What are you trying to prove?" One of the soldiers pushes a rifle through a window, firing loudly at some unseen target within. "Fuck this," mutters Poetic. He takes off at a canter towards the shed. Divine Sight takes a step towards the Pony. "I'm going in, and if you don't come with me you're a coward and a disgrace to-" A small, round object tumbles through the window. It bounces off the fence of the porch and settles near the door. "Grenade!" shouts Fast Luck, diving at the object. Reacting on instinct, the Pony pulls Divine Sight towards himself and falls backwards, off the porch. He throws up a small magical shield in front of them just as the tiny, innocent grenade detonates. Shrapnel and wooden splinters are thrown in every direction. Fast Luck is torn apart instantly, and the roof collapses onto the two other ponies. The soldier by the window managed to get a shield up in time too, and is only knocked to the ground. The Pony drags Divine Sight up. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" he screams into her ears, filled with sudden adrenaline and panic. She nods in a daze and doesn't resist as the Pony helps her towards the shed, eventually stumbling forward on her own. They race down the small dirt path from the porch to the shed, between rows of flowers that would be full of colour in the daytime. Now, they are simply vague black patches on the ground. They're about halfway to the shed when a shout rings out above the ever present, distant sounds of battle. The Pony stops and turns back to see a changeling driving a bayonet into the soldier they left behind, among the wreckage of the porch. Another changeling stands on his hind legs, pale purple eyes staring down the sights of a rifle. The Pony freezes in place. The still-functioning part of his brain screams that he should be dead, that he is dead, but the changeling simply stands there. The rifle gently sways with the breathing of the changeling, and his eyes seem to glow in the dark. "Hey!" Divine Sight suddenly appears, throwing up a giant blue shield. Almost immediately, a bullet slams into it. Sight grimaces, her horn flashing a bright blue. The Pony stares at the spot where the shield fizzles and cracks, right in front of his muzzle. "Holy..." He's shaken into action as another shot pummels the shield. Still, it expands, forming a curved wall on the path. Moving with a shield is impossible. "Ok, Sight, you drop the shield on my-" "If I drop the shield, we die," Sight gasps through her teeth. As if to prove her point, more shots ring out, peppering the shield with cracks. The Pony squints through the shield at a growing swarm of changelings with guns lining up outside the tavern. "We can make it to the shed. Fast Luck had a plan." Divine Sight's muzzle twitches in the ghost of a smile. "That plan involved somepony staying behind to hold them off." With a rumble of thunder, fat raindrops begin drizzling from the sky. The storm of bullets against the shield only intesifies. "What? No, no, we can make it, we can go," the Pony pleads, shouting above the storm. Why is she so insistent on throwing herself into danger? He can't understand. "Listen to me. Promise me you'll stop running away." Divine Sight tears her gaze away from the shield, locking eyes with the Pony. Her eyes glow softly as she speaks. "What you were doing before, throwing away everything for your responsibilities and family expectations? You're right, that wasn't living. But running away and trying to avoid doing anything isn't living either." "Sight..." The Pony isn't sure what he wants to say. There's a finality to her words that draws tears into his eyes and chokes up his throat. "It's dead people that don't do anything. We're dead. You can still live." She smiles at him, tears dripping from her own eyes. They drop to the ground like rain. "Don't waste it." The Pony takes one last look at the scene. Divine Sight, holding the shield up with sheer will of mind, the unending hail of bullets and incessant bangs, and the ruined tavern behind. It's where he lived, and he won't forget it. He tears his gaze away and gallops towards the shed. It's just a wooden frame holding up a roof to keep the contents dry. Poetic Prose taps anxiously at the wheel of a rumbling military jeep. The Pony silently climbs into the front seat. Poetic doesn't question where Divine Sight is. The rapidly shrinking shield and lonely silhouette is hard to miss. He smoothly drives the jeep out of the shed, down the road towards the town. "...holy shit. They really did it.," brings up Poetic after a few moments. The storm finally breaks through, heavy rain pouring from above onto the ponies in the roofless jeep. Cold water pours down their fur and seeps into their clothing. The Pony stares back at the tavern as it steadily shrinks from view. The blue light blinks, and disappears. "Yeah, they did," he finally responds, turning around to face forward. The sound of gunfire has stopped. In the distance, though, the orchestra of war carries on.
Scene 2B: InvasionThe trees rustle as another gust of wind blows past. It is a comforting, familiar noise among the distant explosions and gunfire. The only familiar noise. The locusts and rodents and other wildlife of the forest are silent tonight, as if anticipating the coming bloodshed. An unseen fire blazes nearby, only indicated by its distinct sound and the rays of red light that filter between the trees. They cast a violent red shade over the otherwise pitch black scene. Something ignites, and smoke curls into the air. "Put it out," the Changeling says anxiously. He sits in the little clearing at the edge of the forest, one hoof curled around a medical bag and the other balancing a rifle against the ground. They've been waiting here for hours. "Put it out, please." The source of his anxiety smirks. "Or what?" Aspen lifts the cigarette to his muzzle and breathes in. Like the Changeling, he wears a sleek black military shirt and pants. A simple cap adorns his head, contrary to the standard steel helmet changeling soldiers wear. The Changeling adjusts his own cap absentmindedly. A red medical cross is emblazoned on it. He keeps the cap immaculate. "They might spot the light," the Changeling explains, nodding at the two-storey building visible through the trees. Small silhouettes flick between the windows facing the forest, and the lights clearly reveal long rifles pointed out in vague directions. The rest of the changelings in the clearing shift uncomfortably, knowing what's coming as Aspen stands up and looms over the Changeling. "You didn't answer my question, Private. Or what?" he snarls into the Changeling's face. The Changeling leans back, averting his eyes. "Or nothing, sir. It was just a request." "Let the little one go, Captain," another soldier- Topaz, a distinctly grey changeling- says with a chuckle that instantly defuses the tension. "He's just trying to help." Applied to anyling else, 'little one' would be an insult, but the Changeling is quite literally smaller than the rest of the Jaeger squad. To them, it's more of an affectionate nickname. "He should know better than to 'help' the veterans," grunts Aspen in annoyance, but he sits back down nonetheless, resigning himself to glaring daggers at the Changeling as he puffs on the cigarette. The Changeling shoots Topaz a grateful look. He was rushed through training along with hundreds of other drafted changelings to bring the Jaeger divisions up to strength before the invasion. The rest of the squad, well-trained, high-ranking veterans of the wars in Olenia and at home, don't hesitate to remind him of his inexperience. He is anathema to the fiercely loyal, expert infiltrators of the Jaegers. Topaz winks back. A plane buzzes directly overhead. None of the squad are concerned, comfortable in their hidden positions right at the edge of the treeline. The Changeling follows their lead and tries to stay calm, fighting a rising panic as the impending mission is brought back to the forefront of his mind. "That one of ours?" asks a soldier. The Changeling can't tell who's speaking above the faraway bangs. "Nah, EAF. Their propellers have the, uh, that rattle to them?" replies another. The voice is recognizable as Euchorite's. The first soldier whistles appreciatively. "Damn, I've never noticed that." "Quiet!" Aspen orders. At first it seems he's just annoyed by their conversation, but the Changeling realizes he's looking towards the building. A small blue light blinks from one of the upper-storey windows. "The signal!" he gasps, only to shut his muzzle as everyling glares at him. "Sorry..." Aspen ignores his outburst. "Remember: eight windows, two 'lings to a window, only one 'ling to each of the edge windows. Check your fire, especially with explosives. The little one stays with Topaz." He throws down the cigarette and crushes it with a hoof. "No prisoners." The Changeling can feel adrenaline coursing through his body. This is it. He slings his rifle to his side and levitates the medic bag up to his back. "If all goes well, we should be drinking beer with the spearhead by dawn." Aspen permits himself a small smile. "Move out." Quiet whispers of 'hoorah' and 'yes, sir' ring out. The Changeling watches as the soldiers slink out from the trees and silently move forwards in formation. With their perfectly black uniforms, and the moon drowned out by approaching storm clouds, they are nearly invisible. Topaz stops at the edge of the trees. "Keep behind me, and do exactly as I say. Don't panic," he says over his shoulder. The Changeling nods and follows as they gallop towards the building, his medical equipment and backpack full of various essential supplies both weighing him down. He feels suddenly exposed as they leave the trees, acutely aware of the guns ready to rip them apart in a merciless volley. It seems strange to charge towards their demise. The building comes into sharp detail as they draw closer. Heavy, worn stone blocks at the base tell of the building's age, with wooden window frames and a sloping roof with a distinct architectural style reminding the changelings they are now in Equestria. They slow down to a near crawl as they approach. The Changeling instinctively adopts a stalking posture, lowering his barrel to the ground to make himself less visible. Bang! Every changeling in the squad flinches as an explosion rumbles close by. Looking around wildly, the Changeling sees ash and debris being thrown up from the forest. "Stray shell," whispers Topaz. The Changeling nods back, heart pounding against his chest. The formation slowly begins moving forward again. They keep steadily creeping forward as a series of loud bangs erupts from the upstairs windows. The Changeling focuses on his breathing, trying to calm down; this is part of the plan. The ace in the hole: two infiltrators embedding themselves in the ponies' defenses, passing detailed information on to the changelings and, now, helping them take the enemy by surprise. They reach the wall just as the first burst of gunfire ends. The windows are set far above the ground here, probably to deter any wild animals. It provides the perfect cover for the changelings, who press against the wall just under the windows. A pony would only be able to spot them if they leaned out of the window and look directly down. Topaz and the Changeling duck under a window, just to the left of Aspen and Cilian. They unsling their rifles. The electric lights cast a soft glow on Topaz's face. It is cold, determined, focused. It barely seems like it belongs to a living changeling. The Changeling wonders what his own face looks like, right now. Does his terror show? They wait as the sound of gunfire ends. The Changeling knows what has to come next. He hates it. "Topaz." The word is a whisper, barely discernable above the ambience. Topaz's ear twitches in response. His glowing green eyes flick towards the Changeling. "Topaz, I don't want to do it." There is a pause. Topaz thinks, and nods. "Just stay behind me. You don't have to ki- to use your gun," he whispers back. The Changeling nods appreciatively. If it was anyling else, he would have been told to shut his muzzle and follow orders like a good soldier. He wouldn't have held it against them, either. This is no time to be modifying plans. There's some kind of commotion inside. The Changeling strains his ears, trying to filter out the noise as he listens for the signal. Sure enough, it comes. "Green!" "Fire!" orders Aspen. In unison, the changelings stand on their hind legs and point their rifles inside, unleashing a volley of death on any ponies there. The Changeling doesn't pull the trigger. As planned, he quickly slings his rifle and helps boost Topaz up through the window, then climbs through himself with buzzing wings. His small form and full saddlebags make it a struggle, but he eventually tumbles through the frame. It's pure chaos inside the large hall. The gunfire should have broken the ponies and left the changelings with the simple job of cleaning up. Instead, mostly uninjured and ready ponies crawl from behind scattered tables and decorative shelves to brawl with the changelings. They clearly had time to react to the ambush. Something has gone wrong. The Jaegers may be outnumbered, but they're elite units of a military hardened by war, facing against ponies who have only ever killed straw dummies and wooden targets. Topaz shoves a pony back from the window and drives a levitated knife into his exposed barrel. The Changeling winces and looks away, trying to process what's happening. With their backs to the wall, the Jaegers fight at a severe disadvantage, forced to gamble their lives with every step they take backwards. The Changeling realizes he's not helping in the slightest and fumbles for his rifle. He levitates it around wildly as Aspen is thrown to the floor next to him by a pair of ponies. "No firearms, Private! You'll hit our own 'lings." Aspen spits blood on the floor and gets up, drawing a knife into his mouth from its sheath on his hoof. "Stay wif Topaz," he mumbles around the knife before charging back towards the ponies. With some relief, the Changeling lets the heavy gun drop to the floor. He isn't sure he'd be able to pull the trigger if pressed with the decision. A sudden yell makes him spin around. A blue-furred pegasus hurtles past Topaz, charging straight at the Changeling with a raised rifle. The sharp steel bayonet quickly closes in on the Changeling's chest. He panics and grabs and holds a nearby chair in front of himself. The pony yells as he drives the bayonet into the thick wood, throwing the Changeling to the ground. He struggles to hold up the heavy chair as the pony presses the rifle down. The chair creaks as a leg snaps off, crushing his barrel between the seat and the floor. He can't breathe. The floor is so cold. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, lungs desperately trying to draw in air, as he attempts in vain to free himself. With nowhere else to look, he stares into the pony's eyes. Silently he pleads for mercy. Horror and disgust looks back at the Changeling. The pony's face flicks rapidly between the two emotions as he soundlessly mutters something. The Changeling can't hear it over the sharp ringing in his ears. All of a sudden, the weight lifts. The Changeling rolls onto his side, gasping for breath. Through his blurred vision he can see a grey form repeatedly driving a blade into the neck of the pony. Blood sprays into the Changeling's face. He shakily climbs to his hooves and reaches for his cap. He scrunches it up and tries to smear off the bright red ichor as best he can. "Are you alright?" Topaz stands over the lifeless form of the pony. He's drenched in sticky, scarlet blood, marring his grey and black surface and uniform. He blinks at the Changeling, as if confused by the stare he's receiving. "Little one? Do you-?" The Changeling stumbles to the window and leans out, retching. Nothing comes out. He simply stands there gulping down as much air as he can, forehooves and head resting on the windowsill. The grim scene of storm clouds steadily creeping closer only makes his chest feel tighter. As the nausea passes, he becomes aware of the commotion fading. He risks a glance back into the room, avoiding looking at the body of the pony. Rifles, ammunition, uniforms, bandages, letters, and other personal belongings litter the floor of the bar-like room. It's a strange mix of warzone and temporary living quarters. Jaegers move around the overturned tables and corpses. They check bodies and ruthlessly execute anyone unlucky enough to be left alive. No prisoners. A series of bangs suddenly erupts throughout the room. The Changeling dives away from the window and finds himself taking cover behind a table with Topaz, near the door. Waiting for a gap in the gunfire, the Changeling risks a peek over the table. A rifle pokes through the shattered glass of one of the windows in the front of the building, just besides the shut door. Scattered volleys tear through tables and walls, keeping the changelings cowering behind cover. "There's three or four ponies right outside," Cilian shouts above the noise. "I saw six," Aspen corrects. "We'll take them down. Check ammo and guns first. Is anyling injured?" "Scarlet, Crista, and Taxon are down, sir." "Down? Dead?" Cilian's voice cracks. "Dead, sir." "I see." "Euchorite's gone too," another changeling reports. "The bastards shot him before he had a chance to fight back." The Changeling winces. That's nearly a quarter of the squad, wiped out in just a couple of minutes. He doesn't recognize the name of Scarlet. He guesses it was one of the infiltrators. "Captain, I'm closest to the door. I'm going for it. Grenade through the window. Little one, you're with me," orders Topaz. "Roger that. The rest of you, move up as soon as that damn gun stops firing," Aspen shouts back. Topaz glances over his shoulder. "You're OK, little one?" "Yeah- yeah..." mumbles the Changeling. He's surprised to find his rifle still in his hooves. He doesn't recall picking it up. "Hey- don't worry." Topaz looks back, smiling at him. With his blood-drenched muzzle and cold, pale eyes, it's not very convincing. "We'll get through this." He suddenly drops the warm manner for a more matter-of-fact one. "We'll hug the wall till we reach the door, and I'll chuck 'em a grenade. The moment you hear the explosion, we're going through. Kill on sight." The Changeling's breathing speeds up. "I don't want to-" "Grow the fuck up, then," Topaz snaps in a suddenly harsh tone. "Four good 'lings are already dead. You want to be next?" The Changeling flinches. "No- no, sir. Sorry, sir." "Everything alright, Topaz?" Aspen shouts over. "Yes, Captain. We're going- NOW!" Topaz bounds out of cover and rushes for the door. Hesitating for only a moment, the Changeling gets up and follows, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his flanks. He keeps going even as the rifle continues firing- the enemy soldier can't see them at this angle, thanks to how close they are to the wall. They reach the door safely. After checking the Changeling is behind him, Topaz levitates up a grenade and pulls the pin with his mouth. He smoothly tosses it out the window. Four seconds of hushed calm. Then the storm. The entire front of the building rattles with the tremendous force of the explosion. Coughing out dust and wooden debris, the Changeling throws open the door and rushes out into the dark. "Wait!" Topaz shouts. The Changeling stops in his tracks, unable to see anything through the dark. There's a loud creaking sound all around him. Feeling uneasy, he starts backing up. The creaking intensifies above him. He looks up just as the roof of the porch caves in. Heavy pieces of wood and brick rain down, threatening to crush him under their weight. Topaz leaps out the door and covers the Changeling with his body, shielding him as the last bits of the roof and front wall collapse. The roaring noise subsides. Dust slowly settles on the Changeling's face. He blinks the soot out of his eyes. A heavy weight lies still over him. "Topaz?" he chokes out. The weight shifts. Debris tumbles to the ground as Topaz stands up, bruised and even more bloody. He silently helps the Changeling to his hooves. They stand among the rubble, catching their breath and listening to the pained moans of a surviving pony. "Lieutenant!" comes a shout from behind the collapsed wall. "Private! Anyling alive?" "We're here, Captain." Topaz sorts through the debris with labored movements and extracts a rifle. He passes it to the Changeling. "We're alright." "What were you thinking, Topaz? Anti-tank grenades? It's a hundred-year-old building, dammit, half the ceiling came down on us," Aspen shouts, his voice muffled. There's a distinct tremor to it the Changeling has never heard before. "Thank the Queen, we've only got minor injuries in here. We'll be with you in a minute." Topaz ignores him, still searching through the rubble. The Changeling peers out into the dark as his vision readjusts to the poor light. "Hey- hey, there's some ponies out there. I think they're running away." He can see two forms rushing down a trail away from the building, towards a small shed. He doesn't make a move. He's exhausted, barely able to balance on his hind legs. "What?" Topaz looks up, following the Changeling's gaze. His expression sharpens. "Give me the gun. We can't let them escape." The Changeling pauses, glancing down at his rifle, and back up. Topaz holds out a hoof. Behind him, a pony soldier rises to his hooves. The soldier raises a bayoneted rifle over his head. "Hey-" Topaz is already dodging to the side. He grabs the pony by the front hoof and they both tumble into the rubble, fighting for control of the rifle. "Take them out!" Topaz yells. "Don't worry about me, little one!" The Changeling nods even though Topaz can't see him. He rises up on his hind legs and looks down the sight of the gun, carefully selecting a target. The white-furred soldier is easy to see even in the dark, bright blue mane visibly poking out from beneath his helmet. The gun sways gently with his breathing, the sights lining up with the pony's mane. He can do it. He can pull the trigger now, and death will meet this pony. It won't hurt. It won't take very long. He puts his hoof on the trigger. It'll just take a little tap. There's a shout as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Topaz ruthlessly driving the bayonet into the soldier. A single drop of blood streaks across the air and lands on the Changeling's muzzle. It won't hurt. The pony turns, as if alerted by some higher force. Their eyes lock as the pony freezes. A deer in the headlights of a tank. He pulls the trigger. The rifle jumps in his hooves as a bullet screams towards the enemy... ...only to impact a suddenly materializing forcefield. It grows in size, forming a protective arc around the ponies. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Shoot it again!" Topaz raises his rifle and fires off a series of shots. They impact the shield with immense force, sending cracks through it like lightning, but still the shield holds. The Changeling unsteadily fires his own rifle. It feels somewhat cathartic to shoot at the inanimate shield. No hard choices to make here. "Don't stop," orders Topaz. He fishes around the debris for a magazine to fit his Equestrian gun. The Changeling complies, squeezing the trigger again, and again, and again, till the hammer clicks empty. He ejects the magazine and clumsily loads a second one as the rest of the Jaegers join them, having shifted apart the rubble enough to escape the building. "Lieutenant, what's going on?" Aspen pulls off his cap and shakes the dust out. His fin twitches irritably. "Captain, the little one-" Topaz hesitates and looks over to the Changeling. "I saw two ponies trying to escape, Captain. I tried to shoot them but missed," he says dully before letting off another few rounds. "Right..." Aspen nods at the shield. Even at this distance, it casts a soft blue glow over his face. "What are they trying to achieve? There's nowhere to escape to. The moment we destroy that shield..." The rest of the Jaegers take his implied order and spread out, slowly advancing on the shield. Like a well-oiled machine they slowly break it down with a constant volley of coordinated fire. A single raindrop falls on the Changeling's muzzle. He looks up. The storm is upon them. "You too, Private," says Aspen drily from behind him. "The faster we take down that shield, the faster we can move on." "Oh- yes, sir." He levitates the rifle alongside himself as he joins the formation. With such a huge target there's no need for the accuracy and stability that comes with physically holding the gun. The cracks in the shield rapidly spread in a web pattern, heavily distorting the light given off by the magical construct. Red, green, violet rays shine in every direction, cutting straight through the darkness. The rays only seem to grow in brightness as the soldiers continue firing. "That pony's suicidal," gasps one of the Jaegers. There can't be any other explanation. The amount of magic expended would have irreversibly damaged all but the best sorcerers. Unicorns are innately better at magic than changelings, yes, but this... this is unnatural. The Changeling goes through one, two, three magazines. Still, the light gets brighter, consuming the Changeling's vision till he is firing blindly. There is nothing left in his world but a show of light and sound and rain. And, just as suddenly, it ceases. There is darkness. The Changeling pulls the trigger one last time. A unicorn falls to the ground. He rushes forward, throwing his gun aside in his haste. Thunder booms and crashes as lightning burns distorted photographs of the world. The unicorn lays limp in the dirt. For a horrible second, the Changeling thinks he- no, she- is dead, but as he draws closer he can see her barrel rising up and down with shallow breaths. A pool of something dark- blood- soaks into the ground. The Changeling knows. He did this. He shot this pony. Did he do this? Did he shoot a pony? The shouting of his fellow Jaegers barely reaches his ears. They rush past, ignoring the Changeling and the stranger. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll be alright," the Changeling whispers in Equestrian language as he crouches down and sets his medical bag on the ground. He doesn't know if he said that to comfort himself, or the pony. He opens the bag and clumsily sorts through his carefully packed and organized supplies. He doesn't remember where anything is. The storm intensifies. Water drips down his muzzle and onto the pony's fur. The pony gurgles weakly, blood trickling down her muzzle. The Changeling finally locates the entry wound near the unicorn's neck; it's barely visible through her fur. He did this. It's bad. He cuts a bandage and lays it on the wound, pressing down. The bleeding barely slows. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it," he whispers. The unicorn's eyes open. Pale, pain-stricken pupils flick in his direction. Judgmental. He did this. "I didn't mean it," he cries more loudly. The blood soaks through the bandage, mixing with the rainwater till he can't tell what is water and what is life. Two sets of hooves near. The Changeling looks back. Aspen and Topaz are slowly approaching him. "Help me!" he begs. "She's in pain!" Topaz looks crestfallen. "Little one, it wasn't your fault. There's-" "Go round up the soldiers, Lieutenant." Aspen's cold, crisp voice cuts through. "Have them bury the bodies." "But, Captain-" "Go, Lieutenant," Aspen orders, more sternly. Topaz nods and gallops off down the path. "Help me..." The unicorn's time is running out. Aspen stares down at the Changeling. "Two of the ponies escaped. In a truck. We can't attack the town. We'll wait here for the spearhead to arrive." A pause. "What do you think about people, Private?" The question is so bizarre, so disconnected from reality, that the Changeling almost finds it... funny. "People? How is that-?" Aspen interrupts him, nodding at the unicorn. "This person killed a changeling. Your comrade. Shot her from behind without a thought." There's silence. The only noise is the rain pattering down and the quiet gurgles of the dying unicorn. Aspen fishes out a box of cigarettes from his uniform and carefully levitates one up. He attempts to light it despite the rain as he continues speaking. "And now this person has been shot herself, and all's right with the world, some would say." The Changeling tenses up, preparing a response. "It doesn't feel right, though," Aspen proceeds. "None of this feels right. It feels horrible." "...is this some kind of horrible psychology lesson to you? This pony is going to die," the Changeling gasps out. He's feeling increasingly disgusted with the aloof Captain. Aspen ignores him. "And I think that's because, if the two of you met in any other place? Two strangers, visiting a bar, or bumping into each other on the street? You might have been friends." He tries once again to light the cigarette in vain. "You wouldn't have shot her. Here... you simply acted under pressure." "That's not an excuse. I've killed her." The Changeling realizes he's not applying any pressure on the gushing wound. It doesn't matter anyways. He can't save her. He did this. A sob tears from his throat. "I've killed her..." Aspen shakes his head. "No, that's not it... that's not it at all. The calm is here, the pressure is gone, and you're trying to save this wretched pony." "Which do you think is the real person, Private?" He lights the cigarette a final time. "The one that acts in calm? Or the one that acts under pressure? Which is the real you? The real me? The real Topaz?" It stays lit. With a satisfied puff, Aspen begins to trot away. "Sir?" The voice is barely discernable above the storm. He stops, ear twitching in response. The Changeling runs a hoof along the pony's fur. Her eyes are closed again. "Does it get easier?" Aspen understands. "For some people." "I don't think I'm one of those people, sir." Another sob wells up. He doesn't feel disgusted anymore. Just exhausted. "God, I'm..." he trails off, unable to find the words. Aspen turns back. "Why are you still holding her, Private?" he asks gently. "She's dead." The Changeling thinks. "No. She's dying. Wouldn't you like someone to keep you warm as you die?" A beat. "...I think I would, Private." Aspen turns to go, inhaling another lungful of tobacco. "I think I would." A changeling sits alone in the storm, hooves and uniform bloodied, clutching a corpse.
Scene 3: VolleyA pair of trucks slowly trundle in a line down the wide road, skirting around large craters and piles of rubble. It's littered with broken bricks, glass, and abandoned belongings. Whole suitcases, clothing, toys; anything and everything the fleeing inhabitants of the town found were too cumbersome to take with them. Collapsed storefronts and boarded windows face the street. The crumbled roofs cast strange, jagged shadows on the ground, brought into sharp relief by the setting sun. Every splinter of wood and dislodged brick can be traced just by looking at its silhouette on the cracked asphalt road. There is no sound but the quiet rumble of the trucks' engines and the crunch of debris beneath their rugged tires. No living thing moves here. Not anymore. The Pony shifts on the bench, bringing a hoof up to his head. Sharp claws tear at it with every jolt and rattle of the truck. The sunset rays shine right into his eyes, doing nothing to ease his headache. His bright teal mane is unkempt, and his ears itch from long hours wearing a poorly fitted helmet. A short, poorly trimmed beard adorns the bottom of his muzzle. His standard military shirt has been replaced by a much darker, brown one, denoting his higher rank. The Pony blinks the grit out of his eyes and taps at the pony sitting, slouched, next to him. "Water," he croaks. "Dude, you alright?" Dream sits up straight and unclips his canteen, letting the Pony levitate it over. "You look like shit." The Pony desperately guzzles the water, only just realizing how thirsty he was. A bit splashes into his face as the truck hits a bump. It helps jostle him awake. "I'm fine, it was just..." He pauses, looking around the truck. The open hull is filled with tired soldiers, most of them sleeping after a long day of travel. The Pony sits right at the end of the crowded bench, sharing leg room with a pegasus dozing off opposite of him. "It was just a nightmare, Dream," he finally says. He's not too sure. The thestral winces, his wings twitching uncomfortably. "Not the best choice of words, as you classier ponies would say, Lieutenant..." The Pony blinks, confused, before remembering what thestrals must think of when hearing the word 'nightmare'. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I'm not really a 'classy' pony either..." Dream hesitates for a moment before giving him a fanged smile. "Eh, it's fine. All of you Canterlot ponies are classy to us western lot, anywho." The far west of Equestria, while having a fairly sizable, urbanized population, is largely undeveloped due to its lack of any important trade routes or natural resources. The potential of the sheer volume of untapped labour in the west was a frequent point of discussion back on the industrial committee. The Pony recalls grand plans to build roads and rails to entice the banks and businessponies to build their factories here. And now they're leaving it all behind. The order came in just last night: disengage and reposition to the latest defensive line where the tide will surely, surely be turned. Disengage. Withdraw, retreat, flee. The Pony doesn't see the point in using fancy euphemisms. With nothing else to talk about, he vacantly stares past the sleeping pegasus, watching the ruined blocks slowly trundle by and listening to the purr of the engine of the truck directly behind them. Dream leans over, resting his head on the Pony's shoulder, and whispers, "You sure you're alright? You're not gonna drop dead on me?" "I wish, Dream," the Pony mutters into Dream's fluffy mane. He idly slides back the bolt on his rifle, making sure it's loaded. "I'm... fucking tired of it all," he spits out, seized by the sudden urge to rant about his worries. "Ay, you're picking up on the western lingo!" Dream whispers back cheerfully. He suddenly perks up as if he's gotten an idea. "Tell you what, once we get there we'll grab Poetic and-" A distant bang echoes across the street. It instantly jolts everypony awake. There's hushed muttering and whispers of 'What happened?'. The Pony is already scanning the nearby stores for the source of the noise. It could just be an innocent pop from an old tire or expiring rune... Another bang, and something pings off the bench right next to the pegasus. She yelps in surprise. "Sniper!" the Pony screams out. "Poetic, stop the truck! Stop the truck!" He hopes Poetic Prose can hear him from the cabin over the panicked shouting of the other soldiers. For most of them, this will be the first they see of the war. The truck only seems to speed up, though, throwing the ponies around like pills in a medicine bottle as it carelessly climbs over broken bricks and chunks of asphalt. With a start, the Pony realizes it's now his job to order them around. He still isn't entirely used to the concept. "Everypony, get on the floor! Off the benches!" he orders, trying to inject calm into his voice. Most of the ponies comply and scramble to find space on the relatively safe floor. He doesn't care to lean down himself, waiting to see that everypony is safe first. Dream follows his example and gestures at the truck behind them, alerting them to the danger. The pegasus across from him remains in place though, panickedly beating her wings in an attempt to escape the truck. They repeatedly bang against railing and struggle to find any air. She's a sitting duck. The Pony screams urgently into her face, "Get down! Get the fuck down!" Bang! Warm blood splashes onto the Pony's muzzle. Horror decorates the pegasus' expression. Her muzzle lies open in a soundless gasp as she stares to the side of the Pony. Cold dread grips the Pony's chest. He slowly, slowly, looks to the left. Dream is slumped across the now empty bench. His hoof weakly clutches a gushing wound in his neck. Deep red blood oozes down his blue-black fur. Stupid, stupid Dream. The Pony holds him tightly as the truck suddenly veers to the side. It turns into a wide alleyway, precariously tilting on two tires for a full second before slamming back down into a halt. He immediately hops out and lifts up Dream's limp body, not waiting for any of the stunned soldiers to help him. He gently lays Dream onto the cracked brick ground. The other truck smoothly turns into the alleyway past them, just barely finding enough room to park there. A pair of tall buildings shadow the small space, protecting them against the sniper- or snipers. Like the rest of the town, it's strewn with rubble and shattered lives. Dream coughs weakly. "Ah, fuck, that hurts..." he croaks out, still holding a hoof to his neck. "Why would you be so stupid, Dream?" The Pony mutters back, barely perceiving Dream's words. "Why didn't you take cover, you stupid, stupid bat?" The panic and fear of the last minute suddenly come crashing down on him. With the relief that Dream isn't dead, he feels an irrational rage stirring. Here is somepony to blame. "If you'd just listened to what I said, you stupid fucking bat, you wouldn't be lying there in pain right now, yeah!?" The Pony starts shouting as a soldier pulls him aside, making room for a medic. "You scared me! I don't need to lose anybody else!" "Dead," the medic pronounces. The Pony struggling ceases. The rage evaporates, doused in a whiplash of shock. "He can't be dead, doc, he was speakin' just a second ago," the soldier restraining him says in mild disbelief, loosening his grip. Stumbling back onto his hooves, the Pony creeps forward, pushing past the medic. Dream lays unmoving on the ground, eyes closed. On instinct, he tries to lift one of Dream's forehooves with his magic. It waves at him without resistance. Living things can't be moved by telekinesis. "Oh, Dream, I'm sorry," the Pony gasps, reaching out to nuzzle him. "You're not stupid, you're a wonderful pony. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Words become too much and he reduces himself to crying openly, burying his muzzle into Dream's fur. It doesn't seem possible that this life could have been ripped away so quickly. No whimper. No bang. How could a friendship rooted in months of shared trauma and hardship on the front lines be dissolved in a single, silent instant? How could he let Dream die with angry words in his tufted ears? He doesn't know how much time passes before he's suddenly, violently ripped back and spun around. "Pull yourself together, Lieutenant," Poetic Prose growls into his face. A throng of soldiers stands around uncertainly behind him. "Dream's dead, Poetic," the Pony replies numbly. He doesn't quite believe it himself. "Dream's dead, don't you know?" Poetic's features soften. "I know. I know, dude. I'm going to miss him, too. But we're in charge here. We're the top brass right now. How'd you feel if command started bawling over the radio the moment the tanks show up?" The Pony stares back. "That's not fair." "I know," repeats Poetic, pulling the Pony into a warm hug. "It isn't. But we've gotta deal with it. You need to keep everypony calm right now, remind them that they're alive, and once we're out of here you can... process." The Pony nods slowly. It helps to focus on Poetic's words rather than think about Dream. He pulls back from the embrace. "Right. Right. You- what about you? What are you doing?" Poetic looks to the side, his gaze set on something far, far away. "We could wait out the sniper and leave, but... I'm taking some soldiers. We're gonna find that sniper. We'll make them pay in blood." "I'll go instead," the Pony replies instantly. "You can stay behind and look after the ponies. You're better at it, anyways." He feels an unfocused urge for vengeance welling up inside him, sending adrenaline through his benumbed limbs. To make Dream's killers feel what he felt. With some hesitation, Poetic shakes his head. "This is something I've got to do. For Elegant," He says matter-of-factly. His face is set in cold determination. A pause. "Good luck, Poetic." The Pony finally offers a hoof. Poetic hoofbumps him back. "You too, dude. Let's move out, stallions, look sharp!" he orders the small squad of ponies behind him. They follow him out into a street with rifles readied and helmets tightened, hidden under the cover of dusk. The Pony is left standing among a crowd of twenty or so soldiers. They shift around awkwardly, looking anywhere except at him as he wipes the leftover tears out of his eyes and straightens his helmet. "You alright there, sir?" one of the soldiers asks tentatively. The Pony forces a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. We'll be OK, everypony," he announces in a much louder voice. "We're alive. Just relax and wait till Sergeant Poetic gets back." His gaze rests on Dream's corpse. "And somepony get a sheet over the... body." He looks away as the medic complies with his order. Most of the ponies move into action immediately, as if relieved to finally get some rest on solid ground. They find comfortable places to lie or sit down, settling in for the long wait that's to come. Some of the more senior soldiers pass around food and water from the trucks. The tension slowly dissipates as they strike up conversations interspersed with easy laughter. As the twilight gives way to the dark, the ponies huddle in tight groups around softly hissing gas lanterns. They make hushed conversation with each other, casting nervous glances around the alley. The ruins of the town that were previously merely unsettling are nightmarish in the gloom. The Pony sits alone against one of the trucks, not minding as the biting cold sweeps around to embrace him. The odd soldier occasionally comes by to offer him condolences, but he waves them off by half-hardheartedly assuring them that he's fine. Despite himself, the Pony's eyes occasionally dart towards the lone sheet-covered corpse on the ground. A wave of vertigo and confusion hits him each time. He can't believe Dream is really dead. "Hey, uh, cap'?" He glances up at a trio of younger looking soldiers- a pegasus, a unicorn, and an earthpony, the soldier from earlier- standing bunched up in front of him. The earthpony shifts nervously under the officer's gaze. "Uh, we was playing bridge, and we need another pony... you wanna join?" the earthpony mumbles. "Oh..." The Pony automatically opens his mouth to turn them down, but reconsiders as their expressions turn hopeful. He can't just sit here sulking for the next few hours. He has to pull himself together to keep morale up. "Sure," he replies quietly. The three ponies break into cheers and laughter. "Whoo! I call dibs on the Lieutenant," whoops the pegasus. "Nah, I's the one who asked 'em!" A sincere smile inadvertently slips onto the Pony's face as he listens to the trio bicker and tease each other. The sight doesn't immediately make him feel alright, or even better than before, but it does remind him. The world is getting darker, but his hooves still move and his lungs still gulp down air. He may feel dead inside, but outside he needs to show he's still functioning. If not for himself, then for the ponies who are still alive. And for the enemies who are yet to die. Golden rays cast dark shadows over the desolate town. Row upon row of dusty homes and gaping craters give way to overgrown fields that stretch endlessly into the horizon, patiently waiting for a harvest that will never arrive. A lone factory building sits alongside a distant road. The brick red chimney lies shattered in a small orchard, its base obliterated by some stray bomb or shell. The scene is so still, and so perfectly lit by the sunset, that it could be a mere tapestry. It feels as distant as one. A pair of binoculars stick out of the shattered window of an unusually tall building just off the main square of the town. They stare down the wide road that intersects the square, their view partially obstructed by the crippled silhouettes of the buildings lining said road. The binoculars are lowered as smoke wafts around the small space. "I didn't know you smoked, Topaz." Topaz winks at the Changeling as he offers a cigarette. "'nicked them from the Captain. He got them shipped straight from Olenia," he mumbles around the cigarette wedged in his own muzzle. "You take this and don't tell, little one." The Changeling levitates the binoculars back up to his eyes, freeing his hooves to accept the little roll of paper. He lights it with a spark of magic- it takes a couple of tries with the light breeze blowing through the window- and takes an awkward puff. "...huh," he comments in surprise at the sharp taste. "What's the flavour?" "Pine," Topaz responds, fiddling with his rifle. It's a long, heavy gun with a sniper optic affixed to the top. Perfect for the mission of the day. "Like I said, it's from Olenia." The Changeling takes another draught before tossing the cigarette onto the newspaper-covered floor. The flame sputters and goes out. He turns his gaze back to the binoculars, vigilantly watching the main road through the slight purple haze of his telekinesis. "Aw, what was that for?" Topaz complains in a teasing fashion. The Changeling doesn't reply. He nervously licks one of his own fangs, trying to get rid of a sudden, bitter taste in his mouth. Topaz instantly picks up on his silence. "Are you alright?" He asks in a more serious tone. He shifts uncomfortably, debating whether to confide in Topaz. He knows what the response will be, but he needs to tell someling. "I- my, uh..." the Changeling stutters, trying to buy time. He keeps his eyes glued to the binoculars. A hoof rests on his shoulder. "It's OK, little one. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'll understand." Topaz says this so warmly, with such conviction, that the Changeling believes him for a moment. He breathes in, composing himself, before stating matter-of-factly, "My brother's enlisted. Olenian Theater. He'll be reaching Vanhoover tomorrow." After a long pause, Topaz replies, "Isn't that good, little one? He's following your example!" The same warmth remains, but with an undertone that sets the Changeling on edge. It's the same tone a parent adopts when explaining a simple concept to a confused nymph. "Well, I'm just concerned-" Topaz boisterously interrupts him. "After all, there is no greater honour than the battlefield." "I get it, Topaz, you think going to war is a great service to the Queen or some other bullshit," the Changeling snaps irritably. "I don't, and you know I don't." The atmosphere suddenly turns cold. The Changeling can feel Topaz's eyes drilling into the back of his head. "You're strange, little one." he slowly pronounces as though reading out a sentence. "You cried your heart out over the death of that first unicorn, then gladly slaughtered the rest without a trace of remorse." The Jaeger's words lack any warmth. All pretense of being friendly is dropped in an instant. "I thought it strengthened your resolve. I thought you understood why we do what we must. But again you show this... cowardice." A strange weariness replaces the Changeling's irritation. He knew it would come to this. He shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking Topaz would show any sympathy for this specific worry of his. "I don't think anything was strengthened, Topaz. I think something broke." He's taken by surprise when a strong hoof pushes him to the side. The binoculars are knocked out of his grasp and tumble out the window as he slams into the ground. "Pony-loving filth," Topaz spits on the floor next to the Changeling. "You think the ponies give a fuck about your life? No, the only thing they'd be sorry about is that it didn't hurt more when they shot you." "We should be better," the Changeling mutters into the floor. Topaz roughly pulls him to a standing position. "What was that?" he asks quietly. The Changeling can't tell if he's calmed down or if he's just outraged into silence. "We should be better than them," the Changeling says, staring up defiantly at Topaz as he steps backwards. A strangled, dry laugh escapes Topaz's muzzle. "Aren't we better than them? I fight because it's my duty. I don't enjoy it. They, they enjoy it, they want to do it. Aren't we better than them?" The Changeling stares back at the distinctly grey Jaeger. How can a 'ling be so deluded? In his silence, Topaz rambles on. "I know what you think. You think I hate them. I don't, I don't hate them, I don't want to fight. This is the only way we can end it, though. If we win, we'll have our peace, and we'll have our food supply, and there won't be any more fighting." Topaz stops suddenly, gasping for air. He slowly sits down and raises a cigarette to his muzzle. The Changeling returns to the window. He peeks out. A small black object lies on the pavement far, far, below. He turns back to Topaz. "Then why do you think I'm a coward-" "Because you don't want to win." Pale green eyes lock with the Changeling's. "You want to have your cake and eat it too. You want to live an easy life where you don't have to fight, and where there's peace. Where you can go and live with your dear old brother back in Vesalipolis. "You would love to pretend there's only good and bad in this world. That's why you didn't want him to enlist? So he wouldn't find out the truth like you did? That it's all a big mess and we don't know if we can even do any good?" The Changeling looks away. He sticks his head into a bag of equipment on the floor, busily searching for another pair of binoculars as he mumbles, "No, that's not it. That's not it." "You don't have what it takes to fight for your own country. It disgusts me, little one. It really does," Topaz says with such sincere revulsion that the Changeling can believe he means it. "You're wrong, Topaz," He replies as he finally locates the small, grey optics. "You're wrong about me, and wrong about yourself." Topaz shakes his head. "You think I'm just spewing random bullshit here, huh?" he asks bitterly, tossing aside the spent cigarette. "You think that little of me?" The Changeling doesn't answer. He takes his place back at the window and gazes through the binoculars. "Well? Say something, little one!" The Changeling licks his fang. "They're here, Topaz." Two black forms slowly move down the main street towards them, flicking in and out of sight between the ruined townscape. He should have spotted them much, much earlier. Topaz instantly moves to action, resting his heavy sniper rifle against the windowsill. "What've we got?" "Two troop trucks, sir. Open hull. Six hundred meters, closing in about three minutes," the Changeling estimates with as much professionalism as he can muster. Personal arguments can come later. "We might have to abort. They're too close, you won't have a good angle." "Ofcourse you'd think that," Topaz snaps. "Just do your job and get me targets." He crouches down, peering down the scope of the rifle. The Changeling sighs in frustration but complies with Topaz's order. He focuses on the ponies in the trucks, straining his eyes to make out any important-looking soldiers. He doesn't see any of the distinct, darker tan officer uniforms on the ponies in the rear truck. As the front truck slides into view again, though, he spots a blur of brown at its extremity. "Officer in the front truck, near the end," he reports. Topaz hesitates. "Our end?" "Away from the cabin, sir." "Affirmative. You have final call to fire, little one." It's the Changeling's job to make sure the target is valid. He can call off the mission now, but they'll have to wait here till morning for another convoy to disrupt before they can leave. The thought of spending the next few hours continuing the hostile conversation with Topaz makes his skin crawl. The two Jaegers wait patiently as the truck passes behind another tall, ruined structure. It slowly drives back into sight, close enough now to make out the individual soldiers through the magnification of the binoculars. Most of them are hunched over on their seats, unmoving. He knows that stance. It's the posture of the injured, the depressed, the tired. A common enough sight in war, especially on the losing side. "I have the target." "Fire," the Changeling utters without hesitation. There is no time for any. Bang! A deafening explosion of sound rings throughout the room. Ten grams of silver-coated ammunition barrel towards the truck at a speed of nearly a kilometer a second with the promise of death. A small puff of dust is thrown up far down the street. "You missed." "Shit," mutters Topaz. He slides back the bolt and inserts another round. "It's speeding up, sir." The Changeling swings the binoculars down the road. "There's an alley just ahead, they're probably going to take cover there." He refocuses on the truck. The ponies shift around in alarm, heads wildly looking in every direction for the source of the noise. Bang! This time, the Changeling spots a bright spark strike off the bench of the truck, just barely missing one of the soldiers. The soldier starts flapping their wings in a panicked attempt to make themselves harder to hit. The rest of the ponies have wizened up to the danger and scramble for cover as the two trucks barrel onwards towards safety. "The target, Topaz, the target!" the Changeling shouts urgently, setting aside the binoculars to glance at Topaz. They have mere seconds left. If Topaz doesn't make this next shot, the trucks will escape and the hours spent waiting here will have been a complete waste. Topaz pulls the rifle closer to his face, peering intently down the optic as the barrel slowly turns to track the truck. He takes a deep breath and, with a calm, steady hoof, pulls the trigger. The Changeling looks back towards the truck. He only catches a glimpse of the blood-spattered officer before the two trucks turn into an alley, completely hidden from view by the surrounding buildings. Next to him, Topaz slowly ventilates in and out, still staring at the street. "Did you get the target, Topaz?" The Jaeger doesn't respond. "Topaz?" He slowly nods. "The target is... dead." His voice is tight. "Are you sure?" the Changeling asks in surprise. Topaz would have had barely a moment to see the impact of his shot. "That's a confirmed kill?" Ignoring him, Topaz gets up and hastily packs his rifle away. "Yes, little one, that's a confirmed kill. Mission success. Let's get out of here," he says in short, snappy phrases. The Changeling remains still. Something seems off. "Are you sure?" he repeats. "The truck was going pretty fast, you might have-" "Will you shut up for once?" Topaz groans as he locates a wastepaper can and levitates their random food wrappers and cigarette butts into it. "If I killed them, good for us, the mission was a success. If I didn't kill them, good for you, your petty morals are fulfilled. Now do I need to pull rank or will you start getting ready to exfil?" The Changeling hesitantly complies with the order and begins packing his equipment. Never before has Topaz threatened to use his authority as an officer over the Changeling. The two changelings silently bundle the packed gear onto their backs and prepare to leave. The Changeling stops at the doorway and takes one last look around the rapidly darkening room. Hints of the former occupant are visible everywhere: a wooden desk with an inbox on it, framed certificates adorning the walls, a pair of unopened letters on the ground, all coated with a fine layer of dust shepherded in through the shattered windows. He wonders if the pony who worked here is still alive, and if they would ever return. Would it occur to them that once, during a nightmare, two foreign soldiers laid here and dealt the cards their own kind would be forced to play? "Time to go, little one." Topaz speaks softly, as if regretting his earlier outburst. "Topaz..." Before the Changeling has time to reconsider, he utters out in a rushed manner, "A few years ago, I visited Equestria. There was a really famous school I wanted to study at, and I was so, so stupid in thinking I'd ever get admitted, but... I lived there for a while, earning money to get back home. And, well, I can say this for certain: they're just like us, Topaz. You think they want to be here, sleeping in the mud and crying ourselves to sleep and getting shot at, any more than we do?" He stops, panting heavily, and judges Topaz's expression. It's difficult to make out the set jaw and narrowed eyes in the dark. "...Topaz?" The voice is cold and clear. "I told you to stop your whining. Let's go." In that moment, any faith the Changeling had left for Topaz shatters. If a speech from the heart cannot convince him, nothing will. The soldier silently nods and follows Topaz out of the office, picking up the pace as they move down a narrow hallway, into a stairwell. They quietly rush down the long flight of stairs and exit via a back door. Like they were never there, the Jaegers slip out and disappear into the shadows and ruins.
Scene 4: FallThe Changeling stumbles forwards as best he can, trying to ignore the bright red marks his wobbling hooves leave on the cobbled street. His vision swims with every step, his abdomen throbs with every jolt, and his throat burns with every lungful of ash and guilt. He has no idea where he's going, and he hardly cares. How could he have done that? He had to do it. But so easily and confidently? There was no other way. He should put it out of his mind. And forget how betrayed and shocked that face was? No, he won't forget. He just needs to focus on what's important right now. Something roughly pushes past the Changeling. His legs finally give way and he collapses onto the ground. With weak, laboured movements, he crawls to the side of the street in a bewildered daze. What's happening to him? Why can't he stand up? The Changeling rolls over and stares up at the sparse hints of azure sky peeking in between the deluge of ash and smoke. The gloom could be mistaken for fog on any other day. So great to just rest and take in the pretty sky. As he looks on, the chaotic vapours seem to twist and shift in a more defined pattern. They gradually form into the visage of a face that stares down at him with blazingly sky-blue pupils. Judgemental. Even in his fevered state, the Changeling recognizes that face. He sees it all the time in his dreams. The unicorn who died in the hooves of a foreign soldier so, so many years ago. He can feel her wet clumps of fur brushing against his hooves, soaked in rain and blood. The distant booms of gunfire and explosions, the patter of rain, the grumbling of a distant engine, all warmly embrace the soldier like a long lost friend, as he stares into that outraged, furious face. "I'm sorry," the Changeling mutters to the ghost. The eyes narrow. Still judgemental, even after all these years. "What do you want from me?" he continues wearily. He's so, so tired. Hasn't he been tormented enough? "I didn't want to kill anyone! I didn't want to tear you from your life! I just wanted to live in peace!" His voice cracks. "So why..." The Changeling stares down at his hooves through the mist and dark fumes. They are red with fresh blood. "Killed." "I... had no choice," the Changeling declares dubiously, barely convinced himself of the statement. "How can you hold that against me?" Hooves stained red. "Never again." He turns his gaze back to the heavens. "Never again!" he pleads. "I'm done! Just give me a chance, please! No matter what happens, I'll never do it again. I'm sorry. I really am." The mirage appears to sigh. The Changeling can almost hear it saying, 'Fine. Last chance.', as it fades away to a barely perceptible wisp. The roaring noises and the weight in his hooves lift away with it, leaving him suddenly lucid and sharply awake. He almost feels lonely, with nothing but his thoughts and the bright, clear sky to keep him company now. The sharp throbbing in his abdomen immediately threatens to overwhelm him, with no distractions to bury the pain under. With Herculean effort he pulls himself to a sitting position and presses his hoof against a gaping, bleeding wound. "Ohhhh, screw you, Topaz," the Changeling groans as he removes his cap. He holds it in his hooves for a moment, gazing wistfully at the spotless red-and-white cloth before pressing it against the cut. It doesn't feel too deep. It's probably just a light slash, but he's left it unattended for too long, slowly letting his precious lifeblood drain away. He can already feel a dull haze settling over his mind. Dark lines eat away at the edge of his vision. Holding the cap tighter still, he looks around the street for help. Huge piles of concrete and blackened steel lay scattered around the barely recognizable bases of the structures lining the street. Blazing infernos slowly discharge thick, black smog into the air as they eat away at the debris. A checkpoint lays abandoned at the end of the street, its orange-and-white barricades protecting nothing but the burning husk of a long-destroyed tank. He vaguely recognizes this place. When they passed here just a few hours ago, it was swarming with fresh soldiers from the north of the city. How easily they fell. It's impossible to see any further through the choking smoke. It's like the Changeling is in his own little world, a claustrophobic space slowly being consumed by hellfire. The feeling of isolation intensifies. In a panic, the Changeling tries to stand up. He doesn't want to die here. Alone, stained in blood, surrounded by the hellish ruins of his city. He collapses back down, unable to find the strength to get up. This is it. No ling is here to hear him. Perhaps that's why he saw that divine apparition, even if it was just a delirious hallucination. A final opportunity to reaffirm his belief that none of this was meant to happen. The dread is washed away by a sudden calm. There is nothing he can do now, except wait for some miracle rescuer to find the time to help a single half-dead soldier in the middle of a raging battle. A miracle. Unlikely. Either way, he's done. There are no choices left to make, no friends to betray, nothing to inadvertently tear down. If only he had one last chance to see his brother... but there's no use worrying about that either. He can just sit here, and enjoy his rest. The Changeling closes his eyes as Vesalipolis burns around him. There is finally peace. Dust slowly accumulates on the windshield of the jeep as it slowly forges ahead into the gloom, its headlights choked by the smog. Endless crowds of changeling refugees part like a school of fish to make way for it, as they flee in the opposite direction. They are strangely hushed, as though holding a vigil of silence for the city. The quiet is marred by sharp cracks of distant gunfire and the low hum of planes passing overhead, invisible through thick layers of sooty smoke. Wings twitch nervously and eyes flit quickly towards the car and back as the changelings pass by. Making eye contact with its occupants, no matter how fleeting, is clearly taboo. From his position next to the driver, the Pony stares back at them, thoroughly scrutinizing each and every face and uniform for a trace of suspicion. He spots a huddled group of changelings in tattered military uniforms and gives them a hostile glare, conspicuously shifting the rifles in his hooves. "Don't try anything, Major. Too many Vesalipolians have already died today," warns a buzzing voice from behind the Pony. He shifts his scowl to the green-uniformed changeling operating the machine gun mounted on the back of the jeep. "'Don't try anything'? Remember who's in charge here, changeling." The changeling has been talking back to him all day, making snarky comments about his temper and self-control. It's beginning to get irritating. "No one is in charge. This is a joint mission." The changeling speaks in an calm, emotionless tone that only serves to infuriate the Pony further. He can't tell if the changeling hasn't quite mastered Equestrian language, or if he's just that unfazed by the Pony's comments. "I'd, erm, like to ask about that, actually," the earthpony driving the jeep contributes in a high-pitched voice, cutting off any response the Pony was preparing. The earthpony absentmindedly adjusts his glasses with one hoof, quickly glancing at a map sprawled out on the dashboard. "See, our changeling friend here has The List, and knows what all the 'lings we're after look like. And you-" He motions to the Pony. "-are a Major who's headed the operation against the Jaegers for, what, three years now?" "Get on with it, Rhythm," the Pony snaps. Algo Rhythm shakes his head in exasperation. "Well, what am I doing here!? I could be back at camp, cracking Loyalist ciphers, and instead I'm here breathing in cement vapours and waiting for a bomb to kill all of us. I'm a desk worker, by Celestia, not a commando." The Pony removes his helmet and runs a hoof over his long mane as he stares off into the smog, suddenly nervous. He'd have gotten the hair cut a long time ago if the company barber wasn't busy helping tend to wounded prisoners all day. One of these days, he'll just go ahead and chop it all off himself. "I was under the impression you were to provide us with medical expertise?" the changeling questions. The Pony takes a deep breath, trying to take back control of the situation. "Rhythm, I'll need you to shut-" "Then what's the bag of mind control drugs for?" Rhythm howls incredulously, completely ignoring the Pony. "The...?" The changeling's tone betrays the barest hint of surprise. "Major, what are we doing, exactly?" There's a silence as the Pony pretends to be looking over the rapidly thinning crowds. The booming of gunfire is getting louder, and the smog thicker, as the jeep forges on. "Major?" "The mission... isn't what you think," he hesitantly admits. He can hear the changeling's wings buzzing anxiously. Despite himself, he feels some satisfaction at finally shaking the impassive soldier. "What do you mean, Major? What's going on?" "Yeah, Major, what do you mean?" whines Algo Rhythm as he turns the jeep down a deserted side street. It's eerily devoid of life. "I know I seem like a jerk, but I'm not cut out for lobotomizing anypony." "Well... we're rounding up any Jaegers we find, that part is true." The Pony is stalling, trying to get time to think. The only uncertain part of his plan is how the changeling will react. He's been compliant so far, but this might be a step too far. It has to be done, though. Better to reveal it on his own terms. "Before we formally detain them we need to... extract information. Corporal Rhythm singlehandedly wrote the manual on advanced interrogation. He'll be guiding us in applying the serum," the Pony says, trying to soften up his explanation with more appealing words. "What does this serum-" The changeling coughs at the thickening smoke. "-this serum do?" "It puts the receiver in a susceptible state for a few minutes, during which we can ask any question and expect an honest answer. It doesn't hurt at all." "And it's il-leeee-gal," Rhythm draws out in a singsong voice. "It permanently damages the reward system of the brain and leaves you feeling apathetic and physically weak for the rest of your life. Torture would be kinder, but it's not a reliable way of getting answers. You want to do it out on the field where command can't stop you, don't you, Major?" Rhythm has moved up on the list of annoying equines. "These are enemy soldiers, Corporal. They've done so much worse to us. They don't deserve your pity." "You don't know that," murmurs the changeling, eyes fixated on the empty street. The Pony takes no notice of him. "We need to know more about the Loyalist attack if we're going to fight them off. I'll gladly trade the comfort of some changeling scumbags for the lives of people of real fucking worth." He shifts to stare into the narrowed eyes of the changeling soldier. "We're going to be saving changeling lives, too. Bad changelings like them for good changelings like you. Doesn't that sound like a good deal... Major Aspen?" Aspen's head fin twitches irritably. The Pony holds his breath, waiting for an angry dismissal of his plan. Finally, Aspen slowly spills out, "It... does. That is why it's so... how do you say it? Suspicious." The Pony lets loose a relieved laugh at that response. "Really? I didn't expect you to be convinced so easily." Aspen giving him a suspicious glare, despite the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, only makes the Pony laugh harder. "Oh, no, seriously, I've told you everything, there's no more evil surprises. I'm not some sort of comic book villain." Comic books. Those are something he hasn't thought about in... years. He vaguely remembers a time when he fantasized and daydreamed about them all day, but that feels so distant now. No, he can't have his thoughts drifting off to unimportant matters. Focus. The Pony tunes back into what Aspen is saying. "Right." Aspen gives him a fanged smile. "And I know villains." He smiles back, not sure what Aspen is saying, but glad to have the apparent approval of the changeling. It assuages the doubts aroused by Rhythm's comments. This must be the right thing to do. "Sorry to interrupt your morally dubious discussion, but I think we've got something." Peering ahead into the smoke, the Pony can make out red flames licking at the silhouette of a large tank. The crackle of fire has grown to a deafening roar. "Company?" he asks, flicking the safety off on his rifle. Behind him, Aspen turns the gun with a heavy clink. "Errr... the front's about three blocks from here, according to the last report. I'd reckon the Loyalists abandoned it when the Thoraxian pincer moved up this morning." Rhythm carefully maneuvers the jeep forwards, letting the headlights illuminate a pile of charred sandbags and some scattered traffic barricades. Ahead of them, the extent of the blaze is revealed as smoke pours out of the buildings along the entire street. "By Celestia, the whole block's on fire. Should I radio it in?" "Not yet. We'll check it out first, then we can call in a civil defence squad." The Pony hops out, levitating an innocuous medical bag with him. "More time to find victims to maim and torture? Sounds fun," Rhythm replies sarcastically. "I'll wait here, I've inhaled my fair share of carcinogens." "No, you're coming with us, Corporal," the Pony growls, his bad mood rapidly returning. Rhythm has no sense of proper military decorum. "You're to administer the serum." "No..." the changeling pronounces. "I think it would be best to leave someone behind to keep a watch out. This part of the city still isn't secure. Is applying the serum particularly difficult?" Rhythm shrugs. "Not really? Just find a vein and inject an appropriate amount. All the vials are labelled with instructions too. Completely dummy-proof." "Fine, fine. Corporal, keep a lookout for Loyalists. Report to command if you see anything suspicious, or if we don't come back in about ten minutes," the Pony orders. "We'll just take a quick look for survivors." "Rooooger that, sir." "On me, changeling." Aspen nods and files in behind the Pony, levitating a rifle alongside himself. The heat grows as they pass by the barricades, forcing them to keep their distance from the blazing buildings and smouldering piles of debris. It's a wide, spacious avenue that must have been a busy commercial area before the military moved into Vesalipolis to try and finally take the changeling capital. The fire was probably triggered by a stray shell from either side, and spread unchecked without anyone to put it out. Looking around at the devastation, the Pony forcibly reminds himself of the aftermath of the battle for Vanhoover in Equestria. The changelings took a whole week to put out the fires, more concerned with pushing the Equestrian military back than keeping the city intact. The Equestrians and the Thoraxians have a whole civil defence department to protect Vesalipolis! And it was the changelings who started this war, after all. Why shouldn't they pay for it? ...still, an uneasiness claws at him, seeing the fire consume this place. They have to act fast. "Major, there!" The Pony shakes himself to the present and spots a uniformed changeling slumped against a mound of bricks, barely visible through the smoke. He rushes forward to inspect the unconscious 'ling. "He's injured," Aspen observes, motioning at a bloody wound. A grey rag is held against the injury, mostly halting the blood flow. Moving closer, the Pony sets down the medical bag and takes a good look at the wound. It's a light gash running down the side of the changeling's barrel. He starts cutting a roll of bandages to wrap around it before he stops and looks closer, faintly making out the colour of the outfit through the bloodstains. A grey uniform. The changeling is wearing a grey uniform. "Ohhh, it's a fucking Jaeger!" the Pony half-cackles in joyous realization. He can't believe his luck. A miracle indeed. End of Act 1
Scene 5A: BreakSolitary shafts of grey light sneak their way past the thick bars on the windows, jumping and scattering in time with every bump and jostle that shakes the cramped space. They're joined by the red glow of a rune at the back of the truck, dimly illuminating the thick metal door installed there. Gold-embroidered cuffs and endless ribbons of honour contrast sharply with the gloomy, sandy grey of the truck's interior. Those sitting here only wear clothing that is freshly scrubbed and ironed to a crisp, not a speck of dirt on the vibrant blue coats and tan shirts and white caps. These are the higher officers of the Equestrian military. Not the best of the best, but still, well dressed. At the end of the truck, two soldiers sit apart from the officers, perfectly blending in with the darkness with their dull clothes. The grime and sweat on their ragged uniforms cannot be hidden, though. Another thump sends the occupants of the truck scrambling for something to hold on to. A unicorn near the front chuckles madly. "Easier to shell the road than to rebuild it, eh?" she calls above the rattling of the chassis. Another unicorn sneers back, "Sorry, Colonel, did my ponies' lives cost you some gravel?" "Alright, alright, let's not talk about work now," an earthpony says in conciliatory fashion, idly dusting off an already immaculate cap. "This is a celebration, remember? Today, we'll drink to victory, and tomorrow we can talk about the budget." "Cheers to that!" "I drink to the Princesses, personally." "I'll drink to anything, I've been dry for a month," somepony comments. The whole cabin laughs at that. Sitting near the back, close enough to see the haunted eyes and shivering hooves of the soldiers, the Pony remains silent. "What are you so grim faced for, Major?" that same first unicorn asks above the rumbling tires and the dying laughter. "Your unit captured, what, two hundred Jaegers yesterday? They'll award you for that at the ceremony, surely." The Pony gives her a thin smile. His subordinates rounded up plenty of Jaegers, but hours of driving with a terrified Algo Rhythm yielded him nothing but wasted time. "Just thinking about security, Colonel Façade. I'm on the Operations Board, remember?" "Operations Board?" The unicorn adopts a curious tone. By now, everypony is quietly listening in to the conversation. "Like I said, Colonel, just security," he replies coolly. "The Changeling government may have surrendered, but there's still one last pocket left to deal with: the Loyalists in Vesalipolis. They are blending in with the civilians, quietly gathering their strength, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The Board is coordinating soldiers to defend us from the threat." The cabin is hushed as the officers mull over this. The Pony has to suppress a satisfied smile at their suddenly concerned expressions. "But- surely, there's no threat to us?" somepony speaks up at last. "We were assured-" "Ah, ofcourse. There's nothing to worry about," he soothes. "Merely a precaution." Most of the ponies seem reassured by this and slowly return to their idle conversations, leaving only Colonel Façade staring at the Pony with a lingering hint of suspicion. Keeping the officers in the dark is a vital part of the plot. While the officers themselves can be screened for changeling spies, the same can't be said for the secretaries and spouses and other people they are no doubt in contact with. Only the most trusted or essential officers are in on the plan to wipe out the Loyalists. The Pony understands that in his case, 'trusted' means he has no one at home to write to. The rest of the officers are only here to keep up the pretense of normality. From the outside, it'll seem like a vulnerable convoy taking important officials to an arrogantly timed victory party in city center, just like the carefully leaked documents and apparently insecure radio conversations detailed. An easy target for a desperate, final attack. There's a sharp tap at the wall separating the front of the truck from the back. A peephole slides open and two bright eyes stare in at the Pony. "We're one minute out, sir," a gruff voice reports above the noise of the engine and tyres. "52nd Platoon is lagging behind, but all other units are position." "Understood, Lieutenant. Report to me if there's any hiccups," the Pony calls back. He ignores the confused glances and mutterings from the other officers. The peephole remains open, as if the pony there is debating whether to say something. "Eh... Operations says you're not to leave the car, Major." The Pony stares right back. "I will be leaving the car, Lieutenant." "...I understand, Major. Good luck." The peephole quickly slides shut with a grating screech of metal. There's a lingering silence as the officers stare expectantly at the Pony, waiting for him to offer an explanation. He looks back impassively. "What was that about?" a unicorn finally asks at last. The Pony shrugs. "Nothing." Colonel Façade stands up, pointing aggressively at the Pony. "No, you're doing something, Major, and you're not telling us what it is. Do I need to pull rank?" A faint burst of gunfire filters through into the car, along with a shout of "Brace!" from the front cabin. The Pony winks at Façade, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline, and reaches out to hold onto the bench as the truck screeches to a halt. "There may have been some-" There's a thunderous crash from behind. Everypony is forcefully sent tumbling towards the front of the cabin. The Pony collides with one of the officers, hitting his head hard on the edge of a bench. His ears ring with the force of the impact. "Fuck!" Head spinning, he extracts himself from the pile of shocked ponies and climbs towards the back of the truck. One of the soldiers lies crumpled against her seat, head tilted at an unnatural angle. The other soldier stares at her with wide eyes, muzzle twitching in shock. "Here, Corporal!" the Pony directs as he presses against the door. The soldier slowly stirs and gets up to help him. Together, they gradually push open the heavy, armoured door. Light and sound rushes in all at once, like a torrent through a broken dam. Chaotic shouting and the crack of sniper fire fills the air, as trucks swerve to dodge or come to a stop to unload their occupants. Peeking around the side of the truck, the Pony can see flashing muzzles and smoke pouring out of the windows above the street. A few scattered soldiers return fire from behind cover, but the defense seems pitiful at best. In reality, he knows the positioning of the trucks is well-planned to get soldiers into the nearby buildings as fast as possible, while still appearing disorganized and chaotic to the ambushers. He's satisfied to see it working, as squads of troops cluster up safely behind brick storefronts or in alleyways. "Major!" Another soldier helps the Pony out of the truck, gaping past him at the carnage inside. "W-w-we- there was a rocket, sir, a-a-and-" "Find Captain Mantle once the reinforcements arrive, tell him to get a medical team over here," the Pony orders. He rubs the sore spot on his head, wincing. "Pass me your helmet, too." The soldier hands over his helmet and takes the Pony's ragged cap. He simply stands there, seemingly unsure what to do with it. "Just toss it on the ground, soldier, anywhere is fine." The soldier salutes and throws the cloth to the ground. He disappears off towards the next truck down the convoy, throwing up clouds of dust as he goes. Giving the straps on the helmet a good tug to check they're securely fastened, the Pony turns back to the truck. The Corporal has dragged the body of the dead soldier out to lay against the charred back of the truck. He whispers incoherently to her as he straightens her uniform with surprising care. "Leave her, Corporal. Check the condition of the officers, we need to secure them first." With a fearsome stamp of a hoof, the Corporal abruptly rounds on him, fur bristling. "Why? Are they more important? Huh? They're more important?" He says it more like a challenge than a question. His wings puff out menacingly, and his eyes betray a smoldering blaze waiting to ignite. "Steady on, Corporal," the Pony says sternly, holding his ground. "What's your name?" Seemingly taken aback, the Corporal blinks at him. "Held Breath," comes the tense reply. He shifts backwards uncomfortably, as if only just realizing what he's doing. "...s-sir." The Pony realizes the pegasus is shivering- no, trembling, and not just out of anger. His wings twitch as though ready to take flight at any second, and his eyes dart around wildly. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, the Pony gently lays a hoof on Breath's shoulder. "Corporal Breath... she's dead," he deadpans. "You can't help her now. The ponies in there-" the Pony nods towards the truck- "You can help them." Ears drooping, Breath lowers his head as the fight seems to go out of him. His wings lie limp at his sides. "Yes, sir," he mumbles. "I- yes, sir." He climbs back into the truck, giving the body a final, wistful glance. Something about that compels the Pony to speak. "What are you afraid of, Corporal?" He's shocked to hear his own voice. It is not the confident, commanding tone of a Major of the Equestrian military, but the quiet, shy whisper of the sheltered unicorn who ran off to enlist so long ago. "Sir?" He clears his throat and musters up a professional firmness. "You seemed afraid just now, Corporal. Of what?" "Ah." Breath gives the Pony a tiny smile that, for some strange reason, sends shivers along his spine. "I guess I was afraid of the Jaeger Hunter, sir." With that, he disappears into the dark cabin, leaving the Pony to stare after him. The Jaeger Hunter. That's who he is now. He lifts a hoof up to his face, wondering whether there is some marker there that tells ponies to make way, to be afraid, the Jaeger Hunter is here. It is a dangerous thought that is simultaneously disturbing... and thrilling. A fleet of jeeps and bikes roar by in a blur, shaking the Pony out of his musings. It's the reinforcements. He watches as a line of armoured cars roll by- a strange mix between a light tank and a truck- and another pair of motorbikes follows, both turning to stop behind the truck as one of the drivers spots the Pony. "Major!" The bike pulls up next to him, the driver flaring his wings to bring it to a complete stop. The armed earthpony behind him- notably lacking a helmet- hangs on for dear life as the bike tilts precariously backwards. The driver pulls his tinted visor up, revealing a stubby green-furred muzzle and a pair of bright blue eyes. "Y'alright, Major? Ya seem lost." The Pony blinks uncomprehendingly at the pegasus. He seems vaguely familiar. "It's Cap'n Mantle. Pleasure to meet ya," the driver drawls out, offering a hoof. Behind him, the turret on one of the cars swivels and fires up at a building with a massive boom. Someone screams from inside as showers of debris rain down from it. That kickstarts the Pony's brain. "Captain Mantle, good to see you," he responds curtly. The Captain is in charge of the real Equestrian force meant to counter-ambush the Loyalists; he's low-ranking enough not to warrant any attention from Changeling intelligence, but experienced enough in leadership and urban combat to hold his own. "The Loyalists have occupied the western block, just as we expected. Where are you setting up command? We need a field hospital, too, and a radio desk if we can get one." Mantle frowns, retracting his hoof. "Ah heard, we've got two medic squads leggin' it here with the supplies. Can't believe we've already got casualties. They 'ad to come in with 52nd but there's some sorta delay. Ah'm looking for Major-" "Major Ale?" the Pony cuts in impatiently. "He was in the truck behind us, you'll probably find him in that store to the left." Turning around, Mantle scans the shopfronts. "The boutique?" "Furniture store. Get in there and get a field command up. How far out is the armour?" Mantle nods at the other driver, who glances at a watch. "Both of the northern platoons arrived on scheduled and have secured the northern route as planned, sir. With that it should take the armoured company... three and a half minutes or so." Three and a half minutes. In 210 seconds, the Equestrian tanks will arrive to surround the block, and victory will be certain. In 210 seconds, they will see the fruits of a well-executed plan. And in 210 seconds, his chance for justice will have disappeared forever. "You remember the signal?" "Blue flare for victory, white for trouble, nothing means we're dead," Mantle recites as he dismounts the bike. "Good." The Pony taps the shoulder of the earthpony before he can get off. "You, stay on. I'll be borrowing your bike and your pony, Captain." "Aren't ya on the Board, Major? Shouldn't ya be somewhere safe?" "I had a word with them about how I like to lead from the front," the Pony lies through his teeth. "I'm all cleared for combat." Mantle gives him a knowing smirk. "Sure... Well, suit yerself, boss. Good luck." He trots away to the shop the Pony pointed out. The other driver rushes to join him, while the pony with him goes to the truck, probably to check up on the officers. With nopony to stop him, the Pony clambers onto the front of the bike, placing his forehooves firmly on the handlebars. The earthpony shifts back to give him some more space. "Where are we headed, er, Major?" the earthpony asks. The Pony carefully tests the pedals. The bike is light for a military vehicle, and has obviously been retrofitted from a regular cargo bike to carry a second pony. It's still a tight fit. "We'll link up with 75th, on the northern side of the block, and see if they need any help." He cautiously maneuvers the bike out of the cover of the truck, stopping to check that it's safe. The cars have advanced much further down the road and, along with soldiers from the convoy, are slowly moving to encircle the block. "The northern side? That's pretty dangerous-" "You seem young," the Pony interrupts, trying to derail these questions. The earthpony does sound young, but it's hard to tell over the gunfire and cannons. "Yep. I enlisted soon as I could, to help finish the war," the earthpony says proudly. "It's Private Spring. Coiled Spring. And you're Major, er..." "Just call me Major. 'Sir' is fine." Pressing down on the pedal, the Pony speeds up the street, weaving in between the abandoned trucks till he reaches the front line. This close, he can see the individual guns sticking out of the windows. There's pitifully few of them, unloading a measly couple of rounds at the comfortably protected soldiers below. The noise of combat has been switched out for the rapid marching of hooves and barked orders from Equestrian officers as squads of soldiers take up positions at doors and windows, getting ready to storm the buildings. Not wanting to drive right out in the open, the Pony swerves left at the line of cars, down a smaller street that runs along the block. More soldiers and another car stand in his way, but the street ahead is completely empty. The Pony stops the bike and calls out to the nearest soldier. "Hey! Where's the perimeter? What's going on?" The soldier glances at him and flinches in shock. "Th- Major! 52nd Platoon was supposed to cover this side, but they haven't shown up! We're stretched thin but we've got it locked- Major!" The Pony has already taken off, threading the needle between a cluster of sandbags and surprised soldiers who scramble to get out of the way. "Sir, what are we doing, if you don't mind me asking?" "Those idiots left an entire road open for the damn changelings. They might as well have rolled out the red carpet," the Pony growls as he guides the bike along the smooth curve of the road. His outrage at the incompetence of the soldiers is tempered by mild glee at his luck. Once again, he has an opportunity to find some Jaegers away from questioning eyes. He's not going to play nice and interrogate them this time. No, he's the Jaeger Hunter. He's going to hunt some Jaegers. "Won't, er, 52nd Platoon cut them off?" The Pony nods, speeding up. The wind starts to audibly ruffle his mane. "The main groups, yes. Any stragglers will slip through, though, and then we'll never find them." "Ah, that makes sense. That's smart, sir." Spring sounds genuinely impressed. They continue on in silence. The endless concrete monolith lining both sides of the road tells of how affluent this area was before the war. The grey sky and grey road and grey buildings seem to blend in till everything is grey. As the cracks of gunfire fade away behind them, the Pony starts to wonder if there are even any changelings here. Perhaps they concentrated all of their forces on the side of the block facing the main road, not even bothering to leave a token guard behind. "There! To the left!" Spring suddenly shouts into his ear. The Pony slams the brake and glances down the nearby alleyway. A pair of uniformed changelings stand in the distance, staring back at him warily. One of them slowly starts to back away, shouting something to the other changeling. And he wears a grey uniform. The Pony kicks against the ground, turning the bike to face down the changelings. Without hesitation, he revs the engine, quickly accelerating towards them as they disappear around the corner. "Be ready to fire, Private!" he calls out. The buildings whip by in a blur as they approach the sharp turn. "Whuh? From the bike!?" "Just do it," the Pony growls. "They're armed, and we don't have the sweet time to be chasing them around on hoof." The bike hurtles around the corner onto a wider street, tilting dangerously to the side as it climbs the sidewalk. It just barely clears the turn, narrowly avoiding crashing into a shuttered doorway. The grooves in the bricked path rattle the motorbike, forcing the Pony to slow down or risk being thrown off entirely. A row of decorative trees and benches blocks the way back onto the road, the only route out being the end of the sidewalk far ahead. "I've got them, Major, slow us down a bit," Spring yells excitedly. The Pony looks to the side. The changelings are running almost parallel to the bike, flicking in and out of sight between the thick, leafy trees. He's close enough to make out the shiny sweat on their faces and hear the strange, not-quite clipclop noise their changeling hooves make on the cobble. He slows the bike till they roughly match the speed of the 'lings. "Shoot them already, Private, what are you waiting for?" The Pony is painfully aware of the approach of the sidewalk's end, and the solid wall ahead of it. "Hoorah!" With a loud click, Spring arms the rifle and aims it towards the changelings. The Pony can see the barrel swaying wildly at the edge of his vision. Bang! The Pony's ears ring at the deafening crack. The changelings flinch, but carry on their wild dash forwards. The shot missed. Awkwardly shifting the gun in his hooves, Spring pulls back the lever and takes aim again. Bang! The Pony doesn't get the chance to see the product of Spring's work. He's forced to bring the bike to a near-stop to avoid crashing into the wall. He turns back to glance at Spring. "Well?" The Private shrinks away from his look. "I, er, missed. I'm sorry, sir." "...shit." The Pony can hear the hoofsteps of the changelings fading away into the distance. With some difficulty, he rolls the bike off the sidewalk and towards an even narrower alleyway that seems to stretch away into the darkness endlessly. He can still hear the scampering of the changelings, but the noise reverberates around the cluttered alley too much for him to pinpoint their direction. In the shadows of the looming buildings above, it is impossible to make anything out. "Do you hear them, Private?" he whispers back to Spring. They both pause to listen. The sound has disappeared entirely. "I don't know, sir. Have you tried the headlights?" "Oh." The darkness, mercifully, hides his blush. He fumbles around for the switch and flicks it on. Powerful headlamps flare to life. They clearly illuminate the changeling standing defiantly on his forehooves, gun aimed right at the two passengers of the motorbike. Reacting instantly, the Pony places a hoof on the ground and swivels the bike around with all his might, simultaneously throwing it forward with as much telekinetic power as he can muster. Both ponies are flung backwards and tumble to the ground. The Pony's helmet clangs loudly as it impacts the tough concrete, further tormenting his hearing but otherwise protecting his head from the fall. Private Spring has no such luck though, and he crumples against the floor with a sickening crunch. There's a deafening bang. Something whips through the air, perilously close to the Pony's exposed barrel. He flinches in shock and lifts his hooves to cover his face. His heart thunders against his chest, but with the fear, and the instinct to protect himself, comes an adrenaline and a rising outrage. Why is he cowering here? He is the Jaeger Hunter. He grasps around the dark till he finds the cold grip of a rifle. He is the Jaeger Hunter, and here are the Jaegers who have pillaged and stolen and burnt the future of Equestria. The Pony picks up the gun. The choking dread has vanished, replaced by cold determination. Like a ghost from a grave, he rises up to point the rifle down the alleyway, ignoring the cuts and bruises screaming in pain from all over his body. It is not just about Equestria's future. It is his own, too. His future, a life with the people who understood or loved or simply cared, lies in irreparable tatters. He lines up the sights with the fleeing form of a changeling. He breathes in coolly. Here is justice for a dead future. Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! With lightning-fast, well-worn motions he repeatedly pulls the trigger, cycling the lever just as quickly to unload several rounds towards the changeling. They disappear into the shadows unseen, but he knows they flew true. And then it is over. The noises suddenly rush back in, faraway explosions and guns mixing in with the ringing in his ears, and he is once again aware of the sharp pain shooting through his body. He can no longer hear his prey. They are gone. The Pony simply stands there, rifle in hooves, panting with both physical and emotional exertion. But he can't stop now. He needs to make sure. "Let's go, Private, on your hooves," he mutters between heavy breaths, glancing down at the curled-up form of Spring. "There's no time to rest, they're getting away." "Oh, Celestia..." Spring sobs weakly, apparently shivering on the cold ground. "Oh, nonono..." The Pony feels a ferocious wrath coming on. This pathetic excuse of a soldier is wasting his time with theatrics, and all the while the changelings are getting further away. "Get up, Private!" he shouts much more harshly, grabbing Spring by the shirt. "Get the fuck up!" "By Celestia, it hurts..." Spring whimpers. "It hurts real bad..." The Pony blinks in shock at this foalish crying. It violently thrusts him right back into reality. What is he doing? This is a teenager, barely an adult. The Pony takes in the cuts, the torn clumps of fur, the pathetic look on Spring's face. A horrible possibility flashes through his mind: Spring could have just as easily been shot just then. In another world, the Pony is carrying a corpse right now. He is explaining to an officer why, why he rushed off to kill Jaegers when an Equestrian soldier lay dead behind him. He is knocking on a door and coldly informing a mother that their foal is not coming home. He feels suddenly sober. Aware of the precious life he holds in his hooves. Slowly, gently, he lowers Spring's body to the ground. "It's alright," he murmurs soothingly. "Let's- we'll drive back, find a medic. Just- stay still, yeah?" He turns around to busy himself with the bike, not daring to even glance at Spring in his shame. His movements are clumsy and weak, and he struggles to lift the light motorbike to a standing position. Shaky breaths tear their way through his muzzle as his fatigued lungs desperately fight for air. "Sir? The- in the sky-" The Pony turns around, on alert for any danger. It is strangely quiet. He cranes his neck upwards. A thin strip of sky is barely visible between the humongous structures lining the alleyway. Thick trails of smoke stream upwards through the clouds, painting bright blue smears on the grey backdrop. Far in the distance, as though signing off the orchestra of war, a thousand faint voices seem to roar in- "Victory, sir." Private Spring's eyes tear up, either in pain or joy. "That's the sign for victory. We did it." "Victory." The Pony rolls the word over his tongue, tasting it. It is surreal to think about. The Loyalists are no more. Over a decade of bloodshed and mad carnage is finally over, and it ended with total victory. There will be no more snipers, no more terror, no more bombs, no more comrades to bury. They won. They won. So why, the Pony asks himself as he stares up the alley to where the Jaeger disappeared, why doesn't he taste anything?
Scene 5B: BreakIt is quiet. Nothing drives down the street, no 'lings peruse the storefronts, no birds coo from the nests high up in the windowsills. Even the wind refuses to whistle by, leaving the air stagnant and hot with the memory of the fires that torched the city so recently. There is one, lonely sound, though. Hoofsteps echo off the largely featureless building exteriors, giving the Changeling the uneasy impression that he's being followed as he slinks down the street. It is an irrational fear; the noise is clearly of his own hooves. Still, he can't quite shake off his paranoia, and he regularly stops to take a quick scan of his surroundings. The Equestrian military has been strangely absent all day. He wonders if that has something to do with their knowledge of the planned Loyalist ambush. Earlier, the Changeling awoke to discover a steady stream of changelings returning to their homes or simply wandering the streets, apparently triggered by the unexpected surrender of the government and the conclusion of the battle in Vesalipolis. Through the gossip and rumours spreading among the refugees, he was able to discern the rough location of where the Loyalist remnants were congregating. It's one of the newer sections of the city, a series of massive housing complexes ordered in a neat grid right on the main street. Like alien monoliths, they loom over the alleyways, deposited onto the city with a cold efficiency only the Queen- no, Chrysalis, the Changeling reminds himself- could muster up. It's nothing like the cozy, cluttered streets he remembers. With a shiver, the Changeling wonders how much of Vesalipolis looks like this, quietly transformed in the years he was away. He's suddenly put on alert by a quiet, rustling noise coming from ahead. A changeling soldier leaps out from around the corner. He brandishes a short-barelled shotgun. A knife hovers dangerously close to the Changeling's neck, held aloft in a shimmering blue glow. "We've got one over here! You, halt! Halt in the name of Her Majesty!" he yells loudly, despite the fact that the Changeling is already standing stock-still. He's surprised by the sudden challenge, yet doesn't feel particularly threatened. From this position, he could easily disarm the soldier and gain control of the knife, but- should he? No. The Changeling promised: never again. He'll talk his way out instead. "It's alright-" he takes a quick peek at the rank markings on the soldier's uniform- "Corporal. I'm a Jaeger. You can stand down." The soldier's luminous eyes narrow. "A Jaeger, huh?" "Yes, a Jaeger," the Changeling agrees. He shifts uncomfortably under the soldier's stare. The gun and the knife are starting to look much more menacing. "I think I'll just be on my way-" "Last I heard, all the Jaegers were dead, or captured," the soldier spits out. "It's mighty suspicious, you showing up like this." The Changeling has to bite back his surprise. For the Jaegers to be utterly destroyed like that... no wonder the government surrendered so quickly. With all those elite soldiers gone, there is nothing left to counterattack the Equestrians with. "Yes, well, I got out," he mumbles. He's sharply aware of just how much danger he's in. "Listen, just- don't shoot, alright? Let's talk about this." "Corporal!" A buzzing voice calls. Two more changelings whip around the corner, guns at ready. One of them isn't even wearing a uniform, dressed instead in a labourers' coat and muddy pants. "Sergeant, we've got a 'Jaeger' over here. Permission to open fire?" The uniformed changeling pushes the soldier aside, taking a good look at the Changeling. His face flashes in surprise and he jumps up in shock, hovering just above the ground with buzzing wings. "Lieutenant! I- we- get that dagger out of the Lieutenant's muzzle, Corporal!" The soldier grumbles incoherently in response, but dutifully lowers the shotgun and tucks the knife into his coat. The Changeling blinks, equal bits relieved and confused. "Do I, uh, know you?" The Sergeant touches back down and salutes. "Sergeant Agate, 2nd Infantry Detachment, sir! I was on perimeter security at the Jaeger base." He nods at the Changeling's bandages. "You look like you've been through hell. What happened to your uniform?" "Got stabbed," the Changeling replies simply. "I heard the military's gathering somewhere nearby?" "Yep. It's this block, right down here. Major Thulite's in charge, you'll find him on the top floor." Agate leans in conspiratorially. "Though, personally, we're getting the hell out of here. I'd suggest you do the same; they said the airforce's coming in with reinforcements, but I'm not so sure." So much for 'in the name of Her Majesty'. The Changeling is glad that there's at least some soldiers who have the sense to flee the impending battle, though. "Right. Thanks for the offer, but there's someling I'm looking for. I won't leave without him." Agate shrugs. "Then I wish you good luck. If you want to get away without running into any soldiers, this side of the block's completely clear. Everyling's deserted already. Alright, let's move out!" The other two changelings file in behind Agate. The Corporal gives the Changeling a glare as he passes by, while the other soldier merely tips his hat at him. He watches as the trio disappears down the street, then turns to enter the block they indicated. Like the other blocks in this part of the city, it looks like a single massive building rather than a series of smaller ones, with no breakups in the facade or height differences to indicate otherwise. The Changeling pushes open one of the many cheap, identical sheet doors, into a narrow concrete hallway. It's littered with abandoned equipment: woodcutting boards, stacks of tiles, and hastily stored tools. There's a faint hubbub coming from ahead. The Changeling moves down the dark passageway, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor that leads deeper into the block. He's guided only by the whispers of sunlight coming from ahead, and the quiet noises that slowly define themselves as hushed chatter and hoofsteps. The bright light at the end of the corridor grows with every hoofstep. The Changeling raises a hoof to shield his eyes as he steps out of the corridor. His vision slowly adjusts, revealing swarms of changelings filling every available spot in a wide, open room lined with windows. The space seems to run uninterrupted along the entire exterior wall, more like a hallway than anything else. There is not even a semblance of order among the soldiers present. They chitter quietly to each other, they smoke cigarettes, they shout out crass jokes from across the room. Others simply mill around uncertainly. A confusing rainbow of different uniforms is assembled: there's the standard smart black outfit of the army, but also white navy attire, forest- and desert-patterned camouflages, and even some tan Equestrian uniforms. He guesses the latter was worn by the Loyalist infiltrators. A few of the soldiers give the Changeling interested glances that range from curious to outright hostile, but he's mostly ignored as he trots through the room, slowly weaving around tables covered in all manner of guns, ammunition, and bombs. Empty food wrappers and loose papers litter the concrete floor, carelessly tossed aside by the occupying soldiers. The Changeling tries to keep an eye out for his brother, but in this crowd there's no way of telling if he's already missed him. Thinking about the impossibility of the task, he finds it suddenly harder to force the precious air down his lungs Eventually, he comes across a much thicker group of changelings. They are strangely hushed, speaking in quiet whispers and looking at something ahead. The Changeling tries moving through them as best he can. As he pushes past the last soldier to an open space, though, he nearly trips over something on the floor. "Watch out!" A soldier next to him reaches out a steadying hoof. He looks down. A changeling stares back up at him with dull eyes. It's a corpse. There are rows and rows of them, all laid out on white sheets, packed together so tightly that the spaces between them are just wide enough for a single 'ling. The soldier notices him looking. "Gruesome, huh? We had some volunteers go and dig the poor bastards out of the rubble, right from behind the Equestrian lines. Brave, brave 'lings. Once we smash those ponies, we'll be able to put them to rest where they belong." The Changeling ignores him, staring at a vaguely familiar body at the other end of the makeshift morgue. Cold dread seeps through his chest. He moves forwards in a daze, arriving far too quickly for his liking to stand next to another soldier who quietly smokes a cigarette. Together, they stare down at the limp form of Topaz. The Changeling doesn't know what to think. Glancing over, the other changeling comments wearily, "You're short for a Jaeger, aren't you? Any chance you know uncle?" With a start, the Changeling realizes she is talking about Topaz. He gives her a half-nod. "He was..." He trails off, still staring at the body. A white sheet covers Topaz up to his head, mercifully hiding the wounds the Changeling knows are there. With his closed eyes and almost peaceful expression, it isn't hard to imagine him simply asleep. "He was a great soldier," the Changelings finally musters up. "My- my condolences for To- for your uncle." The other changeling snorts. "He's not really my uncle. He's the one who raised my lot but... I could never call him dad." Her gaze becomes unfocused, lost in some memory. The cigarette burns in her hoof unattended. "I remember when he would have us sit in a circle, and explain to us how great Chrysalis was and how horrible things were before the hives were unified." The filthy cigarette paper tears, its contents spilling out on the floor. "When the Queen called, he went to help take Olenia. I followed him the moment I was old enough, and that's why you have JCO Chrysolite here in front of you. I never found him again." Chrysolite raises her gaze to look at the Changeling. Her narrowed teal eyes water up with tears. "I'll fucking bet he was a good soldier! He was a shit dad!" A few other changelings glance over to see what the commotion is about. The Changeling simply gapes at her. It's easier than looking at Topaz. Not once did he mention that he had raised nymphs. It's difficult to imagine the hardened soldier playing games, reading out stories... even just writing a letter home. "But... I don't know," Chrysolite continues more quietly. "It was so damn easy to hate uncle when I thought he'd be around forever. I always imagined him turning it all around, that he'd start replying to the letters, maybe come back home with the rest of us on leave. Make amends." She shrugs. "And now he'll never do that. Isn't that horrible?" She looks to the Changeling expectantly, as though waiting for an answer. He backs away uncomfortably. He's horrified, but he tries his not to let it show. "I- I've got something to do-" he mumbles, spinning around. He bounds away as fast as his legs will take, passing ten, twenty, a hundred neatly laid out, horrifyingly ugly bodies, and eventually leaves them behind altogether, and disappears back into the faceless crowd. The Changeling doesn't know where he's going. He simply keeps pushing his way past the disorderly rows of soldiers in a vain attempt to get away from it all. The faces keep flashing through his mind, like a projector flicking through a reel of photos: Aspen's determined glare, Chrysolite holding back tears, Topaz looking shocked and disappointed and betrayed all at once. He wants to scream. He wants to curl in a corner and shrivel away. He wants to- "Woah, little one!" a surprised, mildly amused voice says. "Where are you off to?" The Changeling looks up, stopping dead in his tracks. His brother stares back, head tilted to the side inquisitively, bright purple eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. Without hesitation, the Changeling rushes forward to nuzzle the Brother, who returns it in kind. His worries feel suddenly distant. His brother is here. It's over. For a few seconds, they simply enjoy each other's company. "You look like sh- er, pretty bad," the Brother eventually comments, a measure of strain in his voice. That familiar tenderness he knows so well is still there, though. Nothing can take it away. "Got stabbed," the Changeling mutters back. "Stabbed- well, it could be worse." The Brother draws in a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes. "I heard the news about the Jaegers, and I thought-" His voice cuts off and he simply reaches out a hoof to give the Changeling a quick pat on the head. "I'm just glad to see you." For the first time, the Changeling takes a hoofstep backwards to really look at his brother. Above the black infantry uniform and slung rifle, the Brother's tight, anxious face tells the Changeling more than any words could. He feels suddenly selfish; he's not the only one under stress. He needs to pull himself together. He gives the Brother a determined glance. "It's good to see you too, but there isn't much time. We have to leave." "Leave, little one? Is there some kind of Jaeger mission going on?" the Brother asks, puzzled. The Changeling shakes his head. "Nonono, we're leaving," he says, lowering his voice to a hush. "We're- we're leaving, and we aren't coming back." The Brother's eyes widen in understanding. "Can we even do that?" he whispers back, casting a furtive glance behind him. None of the other soldiers seem to be listening. "Aren't there guards?" "They've deserted too. I don't think there's anything stopping us from just going." Still, the Brother seems hesitant, so the Changeling presses on. "Listen, the Equestrians know we're here. It's a trap. If we stay here, we'll die. Let's go," he pleads, trying to instill as much urgency as he can into his voice. At that, the Brother nods. "Right. You're right, little one. We'll go. I just need to pick up some things." The Changeling pauses. "There's really no time-" "It's important," the Brother cuts in. "It'll only take a few seconds, little one." "Fine, then. Quickly, quickly." The Brother leads the way back through the room, heading towards a disorganized pile of bags and suitcases dumped against the wall. He ruffles through them as the Changeling stands behind him, on constant lookout for any possible threat. After a minute or so of searching, the Brother extracts a saddlebag from the pile and ties it to his back, picking up an overstuffed folder with it. "Done. Let's get out of here." "What's in the folder?" the Changeling asks as they head towards the exit. "The photographs ma and pa sent." The Brother glances at the Changeling, as if judging his reaction. "Did you ever write them a letter?" The air turns suddenly cold. "No," the Changeling responds coolly. "I don't recall getting anything from them, either." He speeds up to trot slightly ahead of the Brother. "They love you, little one," the Brother says gently. "I know it. No matter what, they're still family." "So are the twenty other 'lings they raised. You think they have enough love to go around?" With an exasperated huff, the Brother stops dead in his tracks. "What's the matter with you? You were never like this." The Changling stops too, and stares up at his brother. "Yes, well, shit happens to a 'ling," he deadpans. "Language, little one!" He ignores the Brother and continues on. "They would have preferred I stayed in a warzone than left for Equestria. You know that, right? They hated the ponies so damn much, they thought it was safer here with the soldiers and the chaos than in the University of fricking Friendship. Where's the love in that?" "No, they didn't want you disappearing for years in a country that loathes us! That fears you!" A tangible level of bitterness has entered the Brother's voice. "And last I checked, you never got into the- the stupid University anyways! Ever wonder why that was?" The Changeling bares his fangs and turns away, trotting silently towards the exit. After a moment, the Brother rushes forward to pull him into a sideways hug, suddenly warm again. "OK, that was crossing the line," he admits sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I- I'm just glad you're alright- well, alive- and I think ma and pa would be glad to hear it too." Sighing, the Changeling returns the hug. It does calm him down a bit. "Yes. I don't really have anything against them, I just... how do I even fix that? How do I break a silence that's lasted, what, half my life?" "By talking," the Brother simply replies. He lets go of the Changeling as they reach the corridor that leads out. "Now, are you sure this is-" "Where do you think you're going, soldiers?" A cold voice rings out from behind them, crystal clear even above the chaotic noises of the room. The Changeling swivels his head to see an officer standing upright in a crisp black uniform, silver stars adorning his hat. The Brother stares back. "Well, we were, er-" "Lieutenant here, sir." The Changeling steps in front of his brother and gives the officer a sharp salute. "We've been ordered to secure a status report from the patrols. We were just on our way to do that." The officer's eyes narrow. "Strange, I was under the impression that that was my duty. And is that a Jaeger uniform? Where did you get that?" This is bad. The Changeling glances back at the Brother's rifle, slung along his barrel within easy reach. It's unloaded. If he's quick enough, he can load the magazine and pull the trigger with his telekinesis before the officer reacts, then flee in the chaos. That would be the easiest option. But that's not the path he wants to take, he reminds himself. He still has a chance to make things right. The Changeling puffs out his chest and draws himself to his full height. It still leaves him craning his neck to look upwards at the officer. "I am part of Her Majesty's Jaeger Corps, yes. And since our orders seem to conflict each other, I have the authority here. Respectfully, sir, return to the command post and receive new instructions." The officer doesn't seem convinced. "'Her Majesty's Jaeger Corps' didn't do all that much when the ponies arrived, did they?" he sneers. "They were a bunch of soldiers too old to fight, and cowards growing fat off the extra rations and pensions. No 'ling here thinks much of your 'authority'." The officer has made a mistake. The Changeling moves to capitalize on it. "Are- are you suggesting insubordination, sir?" His voice trembles, but he makes sure it rings loud and clear. Several soldiers look over curiously. "I'd like your rank and name, please," the Changeling continues. The officer hesitates, clearly aware of the watching soldiers. "I- I don't think that will be necessary," he mutters quietly, breaking eye contact with the Changeling. As if on cue, a series of urgent shouts cascades through the room. "Targets approaching!" "Affirmative, targets approaching!" "Fire Squad Beta, on me! Load weapons!" Soldiers rush around the room with sudden purpose, grabbing guns and ammunition from the tables and lugging them towards the windows. If it was loud before, it is now almost deafening with orders constantly being yelled by the few officers present. The floor thunders with hoofsteps, and heavy guns and carts of equipment roll along on improvised or worn-down wheels that constantly squeak in protest. "Go and receive orders!" The Changeling offers the officer a way out. "They need you here, not roaming the streets looking for some guards." Looking hesitantly between the preparing soldiers and the duo in front of him, the officer eventually nods. "The report goes through me first, understood?" The Changeling forces a grin in response. "Understood, sir." He turns and marches down the corridor, smile quickly slipping away. The Brother follows suit. "You did good back there," the Brother whispers once the commotion has faded away behind them. "I had my rifle, though, I could have-" "No. No killing," the Changeling growls. "- could have caused a distraction, I was going to say." The Brother's eyes are wide. "You think I would kill a fellow 'ling? I haven't even had the chance to shoot at a pony, yet." The Changeling lets out a deep sigh, trying to relax. His heart is still racing for some reason. A sense of impending doom has slowly invaded his chest. "I don't know. I never thought I'd kill anyling either. When we're under pressure, sometimes we just... do things." "You killed a changeling?" the Brother asks in disbelief. A nearby explosion sends a deafening boom through the corridor. The duo stops to listen to the unmistakable thunder of a full arsenal of guns opening firing at the same time. "We'd better go. More moving, less talking, please." The Brother shakes his head, but reluctantly complies. "You're not off the hook, little one." Both changelings pick up the pace with a newfound sense of urgency, the Changeling guiding them back down the route he remembers taking. They both stop at the noise of hoofsteps from ahead. A pair of soldiers rush by, but they barely spare a glance. They continue onwards. That dread in the Changeling's chest only seems to fester and grow in the darkness. The shadows in the corners pool together to form haunting faces, faces that disappear when he tries to look at them. Horrifying noises echo down the corridor, each and every distant explosion and gunshot setting the Changeling more on edge. He moves to trot a bit closer to the Brother, taking comfort in the soft clipclop of his hooves. With the seemingly random holes in their legs, every changeling's hoof has a distinct sound to it. The Brother's hoofsteps are almost as familiar to the Changeling as his own. After a couple of minutes, they emerge into the biting frost outside. The Changeling looks up at the grey sky. It might just rain soon. "Now what, little one?" "Hm..." the Changeling thinks for a moment. "There's a refugee camp near the center of the city. If we find some civilian clothing along the way, we can blend in and wait for this to blow over." "What about ma and pa's house?" the Brother offers. "They'll be glad to take us in, even if they know we're... I guess we're deserting, aren't we?" The Changeling shakes his head. It's not the notion of going back to his old home that scares him. He has no doubt it'd be safe there. What is terrifying is the thought of being turned away. "No. I can't. Maybe someday, but... not now. You should go, though." "Are you kidding?" The Brother looks aghast. "I just found my little brother, I'm not letting him go off to survive on his own." The Changeling decides against mentioning that he was the one who found his brother. He's admittedly relieved to have the Brother with him. It's going to be a long journey to the city center. "Fine, then. Refugee camp?" "Refugee camp," the Brother affirms. "Lead the way." They take off down the street, the cacophony of the battle quickly dying away behind them. As they turn down another, smaller alleyway, the Changeling tries to relax. He's done it. He's gone and found his brother, and gotten him out of the clutches of the Loyalists without even a scratch on either of them. They're not out of the woods yet, but they're pretty close. Brrrrr... Shivers run up the Changeling's spine. He and his brother both freeze at the sound of a whining motor rapidly closing the distance towards them. With a growing sense of foreboding, he turns to look behind him. A tan motorbike squeals to a stop at the end of the alley. A unicorn and an earthpony sit upright on the bike, balancing precariously on a cramped seat that looks too small for them. The two groups regard each other uncertainly, waiting for the other to act. The shock quickly wears off the Changeling. "Go!" he shouts. "Go, go, go!" They turn tail and flee in a mad dash. Behind them, the menacing revving of an engine indicates the ponies are pursuing them. The Changeling easily skids around the corner onto another street. Next to him, the Brother stumbles but manages to catch himself. He struggles to keep up with the Changeling's pace. "Where are they?" the Brother shouts between breaths. The noise of the engine has become muffled, as though something is in the way. Out of the corner of his eye, the Changeling can see the bike straddling the sidewalk alongside them, partially hidden by the row of thick trees in the way. He risks a glance to the right. The shaking barrel of a rifle stares back at him. Behind it, the earthpony squints at the duo, carefully lining up a shot. "Keep moving! Holy shit, don't stop!" The Changeling draws his body as close to the ground as possible without slowing down. He's agonizingly aware of the gun pointed right at him just a few meters away. "What-" Bang! A thick chunk of rock is thrown up near the Changeling's hooves. His heart thumps deafeningly against his chest. He tries to summon his magic to do something, anything, but he can't muster up the concentration to do so. He's powerless. Bang! Another shot whips past. "Are you alright, little one?!" the Brother yelps. His rifle levitates with him, as he desperately fumbles with the magazine. "Are you alright?" "I'm fine, just keep going!" the Changeling shouts back, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "There, the alley!" They thunder into a shadowy alleyway, hemmed in between two oversized structures. The Brother stops near the end, finally loading his rifle with a resounding click. The motorbike sounds distant now. "What are you doing? Let's go," the Changeling urges. There's something familiar in the Brother's dimly glowing eyes, a horrible, cold determination he's seen on another soldier's face. "Get behind me," the Brother orders coolly. He stands on his hindlegs and points the gun down the alley. "What are you doing?" the Changeling repeats. He wants to reach up, to smack the weapon out of his Brother's grasp, but his hooves feel firmly rooted to the ground. He simply looks on in horror. "We... we can just leave. This is our chance, what are you doing?" The Brother's face is obscured by the shadows. "They almost killed you, little one. I can't let that go unpunished." "You want to kill them? Forget it!" the Changeling snarls incredulously. "You- you'll get us killed too, you moron." This strange conviction the Brother has developed is disturbing. He finally finds the strength to reach out a hoof and grab at the rifle. The Brother lifts it out of his reach, shaking his head. "You're right, I've been a moron. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you." He sounds genuinely regretful. "I'm sorry I let you get swept up in this... madness. I'll make it right, starting now." The Changeling reaches up, rising to his hindlegs in frustration. "Just give me the gun-" They both go still. Something is coming. In the dim light, the Changeling can just barely make out the motorbike slowly rolling down the alley with its occupants. "Get down," he hisses quietly. Dropping to lie on the floor, he observes as the bike creeps closer, disappearing altogether in the gloom. "Let's. Go. Now." The Brother ignores him, still staring straight ahead despite not being able to see the ponies. A sudden flash of light blinds the Changeling. The headlight of the motorbike is clearly visible just a few meters ahead. A shining duck in a barrel. "No!" Adrenaline courses through him. Without hesitation, he reaches out and wrests the gun from the Brother's hooves. As he pulls it away, it goes off. The Changeling's ears ring as he stares down at the smoking gun, trembling in his hooves. He throws it aside and looks towards the ponies. They are faintly visible behind the discarded motorbike, lying motionless on the ground. The Brother stares up at him. "What was that for, little one?" He giggles hysterically, moving to trot out of the alleyway. "Figure it out, will you?" Behind him, the Brother gets up and hurries to trot alongside him. "I don't know what's wrong with you. I'm just trying to do the right thing, and you're-" Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! The Brother yelps, staggering forwards. Thick blood sprays into the air. Suddenly alert, the Changeling pulls him around the corner. He supports him with one hoof as they stumble down the street as fast as they can, going through street after street, alley after alley in a panicked rush, till he's certain that they're safe. "Stop," the Brother mutters. The Changeling halts. He sets the Brother against a nearby wall. Staring at the red splotches on his uniform, the trail of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, the unfocused gaze that looks at nothing, the horror of what has just happened finally sets in. "It's alright. You'll be alright. I'm a medic. I'm a medic." In a daze, he unbuttons the Brother's shirt. He's greeted with the sight of torn flesh, as if the bullets tore straight through him. Like paper. So fragile. "I'm a medic," he repeats hoarsely. His hooves fall back to the ground. He isn't surprised. It feels almost inevitable that this would happen. The Brother understands. He gives him a weak smile, poking out his fangs in a silly fashion. "It's alright, little one." A hopeless sob tears through the Changeling's throat. "Brother, no..." "I guess this is it." The Brother shifts his gaze upwards. To the sky. "I'm sorry." "Nononono, this isn't your fault." The Changeling shoves the Brother with an insistent hoof. "It's not your fault!" "No. I'm sorry this had to happen. All of this." Tears trickle down the Brother's face. "There's some world where you go to that university, and you get to- you were always so insistent about the idea. I don't even remember where you picked it up. But, in this world, there's no war, and you read my letters every day, and you meet new people- heck, I'm tired." The Changeling starts crying too, huge sobs that wrack his whole body. "It's alright. You don't need to speak." "It would have been really fun, reading your letters. Really fun, little one..." The Brother shuts his eyes tightly, as if he can't bear to talk anymore. His hooves reach out for a hug. Not knowing what to say, the Changeling simply leans forward to hold his brother closely. The memories are still warm. Wasting away sweet nymphhood playing pointless games and talking about nothing. Growing up in a world that was confusing and terrifying, but always with a beacon of tender light to guide him onwards. And now that light will never shine again. Like a candle on its last smidgeon of wax, the life inside his Brother slowly flickers and fades away. The heart stops beating, the chest ceases its rhythmic motion, and the Changeling is finally alone. Now what? End of Act 2 Author's Note Act 2 ends here, assuming you've read Scene 5A. The two main arcs of the story are basically over- the tragedy has concluded and what follows is our characters picking up the pieces. I do hope everyone has been, at the very least, enjoying reading. As always, feel free to leave your feedback in the comments.
Scene 6A: StormAuthor's Note My apologies for the late upload; I was caught between work and travel and could not find the time to finish the new chapter(s). Thank you all for your patience and happy reading. Scene 6A: Storm Thin, grey lines of smoke waft into the air from the tip of a glowing cigarette. They are blown about by a single, rickety fan that lazily turns round and round on the ceiling. It provides a blissful measure of relief from the unbearable heat permeating the tiny, dimly lit room. A puff of smoke blows out from the Changeling's nostrils. He stares intensely at the row of cards held in his hoof. Two shabbily dressed changelings sit across the table from him, gazing down at their own cards with expressionless faces. The Changeling leans back in his chair, blinking away his drowsiness. The stool creaks loudly with the movement. "I'll raise." His horn lighting purple, he slides a pair of purple marks into a pile of similar notes at the center of the table. "Call," one of the changelings announces, but sits completely still. He makes no move to shift any money to the pot. The other changeling narrows her eyes. "The fuck are you waiting for, Canthus?" Canthus locks eyes with the Changeling. "Call... call your parents, tiny 'ling," he drawls out. "I'm getting sick of listening to them whine on the phone." Narrowing his eyes, the Changeling growls back, "They aren't my parents. And I told you to have them blocked the next time they ring." "The operator was bu-sy," comes the singsong reply. Canthus finally looks down at his cards. "Also, I fold." He tosses the cards across the table in frustration. "This game sucks without Maxilla. You all take it too seriously." The other changeling glares at him. "Yeah, ruin it for the rest of us, huh?" Canthus sticks out his tongue in response as he slips through one of the doors. "Later, Aether. Goodnight, tiny 'ling. When Maxilla gets back, send him in." "Goodnight, Canthus," the Changeling waves. The door closes with a soft thud. "He is so immature," Aether complains, rolling her eyes at the Changeling. "Why do you take that shit from him? He's so much younger than you." Deep in thought, the Changeling doesn't reply. His 'parents' have been trying to contact him for months now. When his brother died- he tries not to linger too long on that thought- he felt too ashamed to go and talk to them. He had wasted his last chance, after all. How could he go and explain who got his brother killed? Then, the announcement came. The new government was rounding up former Jaegers, looking to try them for crimes against harmony. If he showed up to his parents, they would either have to turn him in, or become accomplices in hiding him. So he stayed away. For years, there was nothing. He found good 'lings to live with- all former soldiers, like him- and steadily built up a life to call his own. The apartment is small, his job as a teacher is exhausting, and he has to keep a low profile everywhere he goes, but it's not bad at the end of the day. He drowns that aching emptiness in his chest under pointless games and mounds of tobacco. Sometimes he even musters enough willpower to sift through the endless volumes of literature on harmony and friendship theory. For what purpose, he doesn't know. No university will take in a nameless changeling with no ID. It was going smoothly enough till an envelope showed up in the mail, his mother's name scrawled on the front. He threw it away without looking inside. The calls started after that. His paranoia grew. If his parents can find his address and phone number, who else can? "He's right about one thing, though." The Changeling blinks, snapped out of his thoughts. "Hm? What was that?" Aether huffs in exasperation. "I said, he's right about your parents. Call them back." There's a distant bang and some shouting coming from lower in the building. They both ignore it, used to the occasional clamor that erupts in the building. "I don't see why I should. They'll give up eventually," he retorts. Reaching over the table, Aether places a surprisingly tender hoof over the Changeling's. "What if they're in trouble? What if they need you?" The Changeling snatches his hoof back and averts his gaze, choosing instead to study the grain of the table. "If there was an emergency, Canthus would have told me." "It's not always an emergency. And, OK, maybe they're not in trouble," Aether admits. "But- they're your fucking parents, little 'ling. They raised you. What if they just want their son back?" Head still lowered, the Changeling doesn't respond. Aether is poking at the uncertainties he's felt for a long time now. Though she can't possibly know the true cost of him going back- he's been selectively vague about his past in the military- he does feel selfish for not making contact at least. "You could give them a chance. A chance can't hurt." "Oh, it very much can." The Changeling pushes his chair back and gets up, mechanically making his way to another door. "It's getting late, Aether, we can talk plenty tomorrow. Get some sleep." Aether shrugs and stretches her forehooves. "You do you. I'll clean the place up a bit, first." There's more commotion outside, this time much closer. Both changelings look towards the exterior door. Someling screams, a piercing shriek that sends a chill through the Changeling's chest. There's a knock at the door a few moments later. "Police! Open up in the name of the monarchy!" a slightly accented voice booms out. "I'll see it. You wait here." For once, Aether sounds completely serious, as she gets up and moves to the door. Ignoring her command to stay put, the Changeling goes to a shelf and discreetly moves aside some textbooks. A tiny alcove is revealed, having carefully been dug into the wall one chip at a time. He reaches past the boxes of ammunition and bundles of money, pulling out a loaded pistol. He slips it into his shirt before joining Aether at the door. "It's the police outside?" he asks. It's not unheard of for common thugs to disguise themselves as police officers to break into flats. "Yeah, uniforms and shit." Aether confirms, turning away from the peephole. "They seem official. Have a look." Moving to the door, the Changeling stands on his hindlegs and looks through the tiny glass window. Surprisingly, it's an earthpony and a unicorn standing outside. They wear dark blue uniforms and carry rifles. These aren't beat cops. They're clearly special forces. "Looks- looks like the police," the Changeling stammers, trying his best to keep his voice level. "Told you so. What could they possibly want, though...?" muses Aether. The door rattles loudly with more, insistent, knocking. The Changeling takes a deep breath. He has a very good idea of what- or rather, who- the police want, but he doesn't want Aether to know that. "I'm going to talk to them. You check up on Canthus. Keep him from panicking." Aether scoffs. "Yeah, right. Move aside." Fumbling for a valid excuse, the Changeling responds, "I- I think I'll be able to communicate with them a bit better. You don't know what you're doing when it comes to talking to ponies." "I don't know what-?" Aether seems surprised. "What the fuck are you on about?" The Changeling winces internally, but presses on. "I mean, I am quite educated when it comes to the ponies." "Don't start getting a big head, little 'ling," Aether growls. "Get out of the way, or else." The Changeling snorts, feeling genuinely slightly irritated at that. "Sure, Chrysalis. We're not in the military anymore, and you don't get to order me around." The outraged look on Aether's face makes him feel a twinge of guilt, but he ignores it. "I want to talk to them. Go to Canthus' room, please." "Fine then, smart-ass. Do whatever the fuck you want. But we'll have a talk about this later." With the stamp of a hoof, Aether marches past the Changeling to Canthus' bedroom. She gives him a glare before finally disappearing inside. After rechecking that the pistol is concealed, the Changeling quickly pulls the bolt aside and lets the door swing open. A brown-furred earthpony stands in front of him, uniform ironed to a crisp and mane cut to a neat length. Behind him, the unicorn ruffles his own cotton-candy-blue mane. His shirt lies unbuttoned on his shoulders, seemingly thrown on as an afterthought. "Good night, sir. We're from the VPD, and we'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions." The earthpony speaks with a cold professionalism. "Questions?" he mutters in slight confusion. He looks past the duo to the dirty corridor outside, searching for the source of the scream from earlier. A few uniformed changelings are moving away down the corridor, but he doesn't see anything else. The earthpony steps forward, subtly blocking his view. "Yes, questions. We suspect there is Loyalist activity in this building. Do you know anything about that?" That throws the Changeling off. "Loyalists," he repeats dumbly. After the war ended, the new government offered a general amnesty to most 'lings who served under the military, but there were a few radical Loyalists who continued fighting in a scattered insurgency: violently ambushing police, sabotaging infrastructure, and generally humiliating King Thorax. Anything to do with them is a serious matter. The question offers him a glimmer of hope, though. If the ponies knew for certain he was a Jaeger, they'd have arrested him already. Or tried to, at least. There's a chance they don't know anything, in which case he can catch them off-guard. "Loyalists, changeling, Loyalists. Do you know of any?" the unicorn sneers with a heavy Equestrian accent. The Changeling ignores him, listening for the changeling police. He can't hear them anymore, but there's a lone set of hoofsteps quickly approaching. "What- what's going on?" A changeling wearing a visibly stuffed pair of saddlebags comes to a halt a bit down the corridor, bright green eyes nervously flicking between the ponies. It's Maxilla. He visibly relaxes a bit when he spots the Changeling. "There's police everywhere, did you see?" "Who the fuck are you?" asks the unicorn with no small amount of hostility. Taking a reflexive step backwards, Maxilla stammers, "I- I'm-" The Changeling finally finds his voice. "Get inside, Maxilla," he says firmly. When Maxilla doesn't react, he encourages a bit more gently, "Come on. I'm just having a word with these officers. There's nothing to be afraid of." The earthpony moves out of the way, giving Maxilla space to enter. The unicorn remains in place, though, still staring him down. "Is this your son?" "No, flatmate," the Changeling replies warily. He reaches out a hoof to pull Maxilla towards himself, but the unicorn slaps it away without even looking. "Flatmate..." the unicorn draws out in a suspicious manner. Without warning, he reaches out both hooves to slam Maxilla against the wall. Maxilla struggles to escape his grasp, wings buzzing in panic. The Changeling instantly moves his hoof to his shirt, just barely hesitating from drawing the pistol. Not yet. "Steady on!" the earthpony orders sharply. The Changeling isn't sure who he's referring to, but he doesn't lower his hoof. "What's in the bags, changeling?" the unicorn growls. "Come on, tell me." "Nothing, pony!" Maxilla cries out. "Let me go!" "'Nothing'? You'll regret that answer, changeling." The unicorn instantly raises a threatening hoof, as if to strike Maxilla. The Changeling grabs the handle of the pistol. The hoof of the unicorn is suddenly caught by the earthpony, before he can do anything. "What are you doing?" the earthpony whispers in Equestrian language. "There's no need for that." "He's refusing to comply," the unicorn replies in an obvious fashion. Still, at a glare from the earthpony- and to the Changeling's shock- he steps back and releases his grip. Maxilla instantly flies across to tackle-hug the Changeling. He extracts his hoof from his shirt and gives Maxilla an awkward pat on the back of the neck. "I think you'd better get inside," the Changeling whispers under his breath. "Aether is with Canthus, in your room." "Right." Maxilla casts the waiting ponies a wary glance. "You sure you'll be fine?" "I will. Don't come out, no matter what you hear." Maxilla nods and rushes away into the apartment. The Changeling turns back to the ponies. "Well? Seen any Loyalists, changeling?" demands the unicorn, seeming even more irritated than before. The Changeling pauses to think. With the element of surprise on his side, he could easily finish off these two ponies, shapeshift and disguise himself as one of them, and leave before anyling raises the alarm. So easily. But... If the unicorn had gone ahead with his attack, it would have been so easy to just pull out the gun and do away with these thugs. It might have been satisfying, even. Instead the two ponies remind him of another duo that, so long ago, disagreed on whether to attack an enemy. The gun feels strangely heavy in the Changeling's shirt. He remembers the consequences of that hesitation. If they had chosen one way, or another, his brother would still have been here today. And to take the easy way out now, when he couldn't afford it to his own brother, feels so so wrong. He heaves out a resigned breath. If luck isn't on his side, he's in for some serious hurt. "I'm afraid I don't know about any Loyalists." The Changeling maintains what he hopes is an impatient- but not hostile- tone. It's difficult given what just happened to Maxilla. "Is there anything else, or can I get back to bed, officers?" "Are you certain you haven't seen or heard anything?" the earthpony presses. "Rumours?" The edges of the Changeling's mouth twitch at that, despite the situation. If there really were any Loyalists here, they would be too well-hidden to be included in day-to-day gossip. The ponies must know that. He only shakes his head in response. "Well, in that case, can we do a quick search of your apartment?" the earthpony asks nonchalantly. There it is. The Changeling's mind flashes to the hastily hidden alcove in the wall, stuffed to the brim with illegally acquired ammunition and too much money for any teacher to have; his accumulated salary from his time as a Jaeger. Innocent details on their own, but enough to warrant a real investigation. What will happen to his innocent friends when the police discover that? "I don't think you can," he finally responds with a forced smile. The unicorn flashes a vicious grin from behind the earthpony. "Can't we? We're the ones with the uniforms here, changeling." "You..." The Changeling racks his brains. "You need a warrant, don't you?" The earthpony nods. "You're right, sir. We have a warrant to search the building." The Changeling licks one of his fangs. "...but do you have a warrant to search my apartment?" "On reasonable grounds," the earthpony replies calmly. "I haven't done anything wrong," the Changeling mutters. "What grounds are there?" The unicorn steps forward intimidatingly. "Alright, changeling, stop stalling. I was nice with that other 'ling 'cause he looked young. You think you'll be so lucky?" The Changeling flinches, reflexively raising his hoof to his shirt. Should he use the gun? No, he can't. "I- I'm not stalling. There's no need to search my apartment, I haven't done anything wrong," he repeats. trying again to talk his way out. Looking past the unicorn, he locks eyes with the earthpony who watches on with a troubled expression. "Please. I've done nothing wrong," he pleads. He lifts the hoof past the pistol, resting it on his chest where he can feel the deafening thumping of his heart. A pony gesture of supplication. "There's no need for- for anything bad to happen." "Move-" "That's enough," the earthpony announces. "We're done here." The unicorn glances back in shock. The Changeling feels just as confused, and has to force himself to keep his mouth from going agape. "What, we're just gonna leave him here?" the unicorn demands in Equestrian language. "We have other flats to see. Thank you for your time, sir." The earthpony tips his hat at the Changeling. He can only stare as the earthpony trots away down the corridor, leaving the unicorn to glance wildly between the two before finally stalking off behind his comrade with a frustrated huff. Their hoofsteps quickly fade away, leaving the Changeling alone with the dreadful thought that that could have ended very, very differently if he decided on drawing the weapon. He jumps, startled, as he hears a door open behind him. Aether stands there, tapping her hoof impatiently. "So... am I getting an explanation, if they're gone, then?" The Changeling only smiles back, melancholy mixing in with his relief. He knows he can't stay here. He can't put Aether and Canthus and Maxilla in any more danger. The police will be back eventually. He doesn't know when, but he doesn't plan on waiting for them. And, yes, a little selfishly, the Changeling realizes would like to remain free himself. He hasn't given up on his dream just yet. It's time to say goodbye, and see what the future holds.
Scene 6B: StormUniformed changelings swarm every part of the narrow street, like oversized blue-grey insects: rushing out of trucks, deploying barricades, storming the towering apartment blocks under the cover of flashing cerulean lights. Any civilians with a scrap of sense would have vacated the area the moment the trucks arrived on the scene, leaving only a sea of blue on the normally quiet, midnight street. A nondescript, brown sedan is quickly waved through the barricades. It shudders to a halt in one of the last available spaces on the street, looking rather underwhelming among the armoured trucks looming on either side of it. Shutting off the ignition, the Pony steps out of the car and takes a look around. He easily spots the brown-furred earthpony he's looking for, sticking out like a sore thumb among the changelings. "Poetic!" he calls out as he briskly trots over. The earthpony turns around, breaking off the conversation he's having with a pair of changelings dressed in darker blue uniform. His face lights up. "You're late!" Poetic Prose doesn't sound particularly angry as he gives the Pony a tight hug. "It's been a while, dude. How are you?" The Pony breaks free of the embrace and shrugs. "Tired of all that desk work. Dep' office couldn't find any excuse to keep me off this one, though." "You still shouldn't be here, Jaeger Hunter," spits out one of the changelings with all the venom of a cobra. She looks up and down the Pony disgustedly. "Maybe if you had taken a few minutes to even button your shirt, we wouldn't have to deal with you at all." Raising his eyebrow, the Pony replies coldly, "And you are?" "Hey, we're all working together here," Poetic scolds. "I want to see everyone acting professionally. No nicknames, no comments." "Hoorah, sir." The Pony mock-salutes. "What are we doing today, where are our guns, and who do I have to foalsit?" Poetic pauses, as if debating whether to respond to that last comment, but decides on ignoring it. He pulls an official-looking yellow folder from his saddlebags. "This is retaliation for yesterday's attacks, but don't take that as an excuse to break things, yeah Our main force is conducting a sweep of the entire block. They're going to be knocking down doors with known Loyalists inside, as well as searching for tunnels and removing any Loyalist propaganda from the public space." "Our job, though, is to question locals and search flats which have been flagged with suspicious mail or phone activity. Less chance of danger, more paperwork afterwards." One of the changelings raises a hoof. "Eh, which building are we doing this in?" Poetic grimaces. "All of them. We'll start with Block A." The changelings audibly groan. The Pony, meanwhile, feels a tug at the corners of his mouth. An entire night out in the field? He'll take it. After the mishaps with Aspen and Spring, he was quietly relegated to become a desk worker at the newly formed Vesalipolian Police Department. Being put under the command of changeling harmonists, who weren't overjoyed to be working with a pony infamous for 'military brutality', was an effective dead end to his career. Nothing of the sort for ponies like Poetic, though, who rose through the ranks far faster than he did in the military. The Pony is fairly certain he's outranked by Poetic now, but he hasn't bothered to check. They needed the Pony's expertise in the end, after all. The Pony smiles at the thought. Ofcourse they did. Who else would be willing to take the hard choices to stop the Loyalists? The right choices? Not the harmonist changelings, with their pacifism and vague idealism. Not the other ponies, who would like to distance themselves as much as possible from the whole mess in the Changeling Lands. "Just me," the Pony mutters. "I can fix things." Everyone stares at him, pausing in the process of grabbing rifles from a nearby rack. "What was that?" asks Poetic, with some confusion. "Nothing." The Pony levitates one of the guns over and inspects it. It's a compact, stubby machinegun. Perfect for firing indoors. "Do we expect to be attacked?" "No... but because of your delay we're not getting an escort," Poetic explains, his eyes still narrowed. "Better to err on the side of caution." He raises his voice. "Now, everyone, here's the plan. Occiput and Meso, you two take the lower half- that's up to the tenth floor. We'll search the upper half. Meet at the ground floor once we're done, discuss and note down what we've found, and move on to the next building. Note down anything we could use to build a case. If things get a little heated, get a police team in there. All ready? Let's go." "Yes, sir!" the changelings shout in unison. The Pony simply nods and follows as they move to the end of the street. He lags slightly behind the group. Noticing that, Poetic deliberately slows his pace to trot alongside him. "Hey, uh..." he says in a casual manner. "Are you sure you're up for this?" The Pony ducks under a levitating crate, and asks as he straightens up again, "What do you mean?" Poetic averts his gaze. "We might have to deal with some tough situations." "You think I can't handle it?" the Pony guesses. Poetic snorts. "I'm sure you can handle anything. I'm more concerned about how you'll do it." He pauses. "We don't want to... get anyone killed." Does everyone think the Pony is some kind of killing machine? "Relax, I only have a thing against Jaegers. Loyalists too, maybe. You think they deserve your concern?" he challenges. "That's for the courts to decide," Poetic sighs out. "Dealing out justice isn't your job." They cross the threshold of an apartment entrance into a filthy and poorly lit lobby. A lone police officer stands guard with a rifle from the corner, completely hidden except for their wide, luminescent eyes. The changelings depart to the corridor on the left, leaving the Pony alone with Poetic. "Meso and Occiput are good 'lings," Poetic says suddenly. "I can trust them to get the job done, but that's not the only reason I put them together." He takes a deep breath. "I... I really want this to go smoothly. I know you have your... beliefs... but just for this one operation, please, don't do anything stupid." Taking a look at Poetic's face, the Pony has to bite back a snarky response. The earthpony is staring down at his own hooves with a resigned, almost fatalistic expression. As if he already knows what the Pony's response will be. Why not prove him wrong? The Pony hmphs. "Fine, ye of little faith. I'll keep myself in check, if that's what you want. For now." Poetic swivels his neck towards him in amazement. His face melts into an appreciative smile as he processes what the Pony is saying. "Thank you. I... that means a lot." Glancing away, the Pony runs a hoof along his mane. He's not sure how to respond to that level of warmth. "Right. Elevator?" Poetic moves to try the elevator. The gate creaks open when he tugs it aside, but the lift itself is nowhere to be seen. "Stairs it is. Double time, we need to move quickly." The two ponies rush up the stairs. The Pony has to keep a careful eye out to keep his hoof from slipping into one of the many gaps in the tiles. They exit the stairwell at the tenth floor, stepping into a narrow corridor with a moldy red carpet. A line of officers file past them, apparently having screened the area already. There are friendly nods given to Poetic, but the Pony receives only blank stares and suspicious glares. "Right, it's number... 1007," Poetic says, checking the dossier. "1045 is next." The Pony regards the cheap sheet door with '1007' printed in bold white letters. "Do we knock or just kick it down?" Poetic shoots him an unamused glare. "Knock. We're asking questions, not conducting an assault." He raps loudly on the door and shouts, "Police! Open up in the name of the monarchy!" Turning to the Pony, he instructs quietly, "I'll do the talking, you stay back and help me if there's any trouble, yeah?" "My Changeling language is pretty good too," the Pony snaps. He feels that familiar irritation stirring up at Poetic's constant attempts to shunt him to the back. "You think I can't ask some basic questions?" "Do you want to talk to any changelings?" points out Poetic. "I thought you wouldn't like it, dude, that's all. No need to bite my head off." The Pony ruffles his mane in irritation. "Yeah, well, give me a little consideration too, alright?" Before Poetic can respond, the lock of the apartment door clicks and it is thrown wide open. A changeling stares out with purple eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wears a tie and white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, as if he's just stepped out of an office. "Ah, good night, sir," Poetic begins, adopting a professional tone that tells nothing of the altercation that just took place. "We're from the VPD, and we'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions." The Pony notes that Poetic doesn't introduce them by name. It's probably not just for security reasons; they have Celestia-knows-how-many more flats to go through, and pleasantries take up time they don't have. The changeling looks taken aback. "Questions...?" he repeats. Poetic steps forwards, seemingly out of impatience. "Yes, questions. We suspect there is Loyalist activity in this building. Do you know anything about that?" "Loyalists," the changeling repeats again. It doesn't seem like any of the words are reaching his head. "Loyalists, changeling," the Pony articulates in Changeling language. "Loyalists, do you know of any?" He's suddenly aware of hoofsteps from behind. He turns around to see another changeling, with faint blue stripes along his head. "What- what's going on?" the blue changeling says in a wobbling voice. "There's police everywhere, did you see?" "Who the fuck are you?" The Pony isn't sure whether changelings wandering the corridors are supposed to be detained. The changeling recoils backwards, hesitating. "I- I'm-" "Get inside, Maxilla," the first changeling interrupts. There's a pause as 'Maxilla' does nothing, staring stock-still at the Pony. "Come on. I'm just having a word with these officers. There's nothing to be afraid of." 'Nothing to be afraid of.' That ticks off the Pony for a reason he can't quite pin down. He pointedly refuses to move out of Maxilla's way. "Is this your son?" he asks. Maxilla looks young enough, likely barely in his mid-twenties. The Pony has no idea how old the first changeling might be. "No, flatmate." The Pony sees a hoof shifting at the edge of his vision. He reflexively hits it away before he realizes the changeling is just reaching for Maxilla. "Flatmate, you say?" the Pony repeats suspiciously. He notes Maxilla's saddlebags, apparently full of something. Convenient of him to seek shelter just as the police are conducting their sweep. If this is a Loyalist trying to hide something sensitive, then they're also a threat. The Pony places both his forehooves on Maxilla's shoulders, and in a single motion propels him against the wall. He keeps the changeling pinned there. "Hey!" "Steady on!" Poetic yells. The Pony ignores him. "What's in the bags, changeling? Come on, tell me," he orders. He easily holds down the scrawny changeling, despite his best efforts to escape. "Nothing, pony!" The question seems to further agitate Maxilla. "Let me go!" "You're going to regret that answer." If words don't work... The Pony raises his hoof, planning on giving the changeling a light cuff on the head, but it's blocked by Poetic. The Pony looks to him in outrage. "What are you doing?" Poetic asks silently, a dangerous hint of rage simmering beneath his words. He keeps his hoof firmly on the Pony's. "There's no need for that." "He's refusing to comply," the Pony fumes, feeling more bewildered than angry now. He snatches his hoof back and tries to read Poetic's glowering expression. Why is Poetic stopping him? Ah, right. 'Don't do anything stupid'. Does Poetic think this counts as stupid? Sighing in frustration, the Pony lets go of Maxilla, who immediately rushes past him towards the other changeling. He can berate Poetic later. The two changelings hug, with the first changeling whispering something the Pony can't quite make out. Maxilla nods and disappears into the apartment, taking the suspect saddlebags with him. "Well? Have you seen any Loyalists, changeling?" the Pony snaps, eager to get this over with, now that he has the changeling's attention again. "I..." trails off the changeling. He shuts his eyes, thinking of a response, before reopening them. "I'm afraid I don't know about any Loyalists. Is there anything else, or can I get back to bed, officers?" If Poetic is surprised by the changeling's calm demeanor after what just happened, he doesn't let it show. "Are you certain you haven't heard anything? Rumours?" The changeling smirks and simply shakes his head. The Pony exchanges a subtle glance with Poetic. Suspicious. "Well, in that case-" Poetic begins in a casual manner- "can we do a quick search of your apartment?" The changeling's smile widens. "I don't think you can," he replies tightly, his tone not matching up with his expression. "Can't we? We're the ones with the uniforms here, changeling," the Pony says in a more relaxed tone. How amusing, the changeling thinking he has any power here. "You... you need a warrant, don't you?" The changeling is clearly starting to panic; the Pony is now almost certain he's hiding something that he doesn't want the police seeing. "You're right, sir," Poetic confirms. "We have a warrant to search the building." Poking out his tongue, the changeling runs it over one of his own fangs. Disgusting. "...but do you have a warrant to search my apartment?" he asks after a moment of thought. "On reasonable grounds." "I haven't done anything wrong. What grounds are there?" To the Pony's satisfaction, the changeling sounds increasingly distressed. He's digging his own grave at this point. Might as well help him along. Stepping forward past Poetic, the Pony says sternly, "Alright, changeling, stop stalling." It suddenly occurs to him how toothless this looks after Poetic's intervention earlier. "I was nice with that other 'ling 'cause he looked young. You think you'll be so lucky?" That does the trick. The changeling twitches and raises his hoof to his shirt once again and stammers out, "I- I'm not stalling. There's no need to search my apartment, I haven't done anything wrong." Staring past the Pony, the changeling lays the hoof on his chest. "Please. I've done nothing wrong. There's no need for- for anything bad to happen." The Pony rolls his eyes at this pathetic display. If they haven't reached reasonable levels of suspicion yet, they never will. "Move-" "That's enough," Poetic cuts in. "We're done here." The Pony whips his head around in shock. What is Poetic thinking? "We're just going to leave him here?" Poetic shoots him another glare. "We have other flats to see. Thank you for your time, sir," he says to the changeling. He tips his hat towards him, and simply trots off down the corridor as if nothing has happened. The Pony remains in place, too shocked to move. He looks between the changeling's stupefied face, and Poetic steadily getting further away. He can't just barge into the apartment by himself, with no idea of what- or who- is inside. "Grah!" he groans in frustration and turns to catch up with Poetic, leaving the changeling behind. "What the fuck were you doing back there?" Poetic whispers to him, stopping short a little way down the corridor. "What the fuck was I doing? That guy was obviously hiding something," the Pony replies incredulously, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Let's go back there and find it." "I called it off because you-" Poetic pokes a hoof at the Pony's chest for emphasis- "made the situation dangerous. I had no idea what you'd do next." "The only danger here is the Loyalist weaponry we're missing, jackass. You should have let me search that blue changeling's bags." "Search their bags?" Poetic repeats incredulously. "You just wanted to hit him! For no reason! That's somepony's son you were shoving into the wall, but you didn't care, did you?" "Someling's son," the Pony corrects, turning over Poetic's words in his head. He had a reason, didn't he? There was a reason. Poetic throws his forehooves in the air in exasperation. "What's the difference?" "You want to know the difference?" The Pony points back down the corridor. "'ling means they invaded your home. Maybe they didn't fire the guns, or drive the tanks, or fly the planes, but they sure as hell helped make the bullets and the fuel and the bombs. 'pony means they fought and bled alongside you." Poetic stares back blankly, his wrath quickly fading away. "What are you talking about?" The Pony resists the urge to grab Poetic by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. "The war, Poetic, the war." There's an awful silence. Poetic's eyes are wide. He takes a hoofstep back, as if the Pony carries some contagious disease. Of all the possible reactions Poetic could have had, this is the one that unnerves the Pony the most. He feels the urge to fill that silence. "The- the war, the one that got Dream and Divine Sight and everypony else killed, two million-" "No-" "-two million ponies, Poetic, they-" "Nonono, you can't still be going on about that." Poetic gives out a crazed chuckle. "Dude, we won the war... five, six years ago. What the fuck is wrong with you? How can that be the reason for all of this?" "Don't talk like I'm insane or something," the Pony snaps. "Just because the war is over, doesn't mean the Loyalists are finished. That's what we're doing, crushing them." Poetic snorts. "You're not 'crushing' anything. You're just looking for some changelings to beat up. You're sick." The Pony feels suddenly weary. He's heard comments like this before, but never from Poetic. "All I want is justice," he spits out, lowering his head. "That's it. Of all ponies, Poetic, I thought you would understand." Freezing up, Poetic quietly asks, "What do you mean?" "Your brother, Elegant. They killed him," the Pony states bitterly. "How could you let that go?" For a few, unbearable seconds, Poetic simply stares at him silently, expression unreadable. He's afraid he stepped over the line, and is just about to open his mouth to apologize when Poetic starts to speak. "I guess I couldn't believe you... I mean, dude, I was exactly the same way after they went and killed Elegant and everypony else. I wanted to punish them so badly for what they'd done. Justice." Poetic shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. "There are two problems with that kind of thinking. Who's 'they'?" He opens his eyes to stare at the Pony, waiting for an answer. "The Loyalists," the Pony states bluntly. The Pony can't see what Poetic is getting at, and is still wary of him after his earlier outbursts. "Who else?" "And yet you take your 'justice' out on random changelings," Poetic points out. "Just because they might be a Loyalist, or for whatever other reason. What's the point in that?" The Pony opens his mouth, trying to formulate a response, but he can't find any. When he apprehended the changeling earlier, did he have any real reason to suspect him? Or was he seeing danger where there wasn't any, just because it was a changeling? He recalls the disgusted look on the changeling officer's face, the suspicious glares from the police. Were they warranted? He doesn't know what to think. "And the other reason is... it doesn't change anything." Poetic gives the Pony a sad smile. "I can't bring back Elegant, no matter how much I want to. Nothing can." "So you gave up," the Pony says dully. "No. I decided to do something. Instead of inflicting more suffering, I decided to try my best to create a world where... where shit like that doesn't happen. You can't bring back Dream, or Divine Sight, or anypony else. And I thought you would have realized that by now. Give it up." The Pony shuts his eyes tightly, trying to control his breathing. He can see some sense in what Poetic is saying, and that terrifies him. Has he been doing the right thing? It would be so easy to say yes, to keep living that delusion, to keep blaming the Loyalists, or the changelings, for his misery. What other answer is there? He opens his eyes, silently pleading with Poetic for guidance. "You can be something more than the 'Jaeger Hunter', dude," Poetic says gently, as though he knows what the Pony is thinking. "When was the last time you've been to Equestria?" "I never went back," the Pony whispers hoarsely. "There's nothing for me there." "And there never will be, unless you go and look for it. You could be on a train home tomorrow. You have a nice title, you have more money than you can ever spend..." The Pony stares silently at the floor, contemplating. What future is there for him if he stays? A miserable existence of withering away at a desk, filling out forms for the changelings, waiting for a chance to do... what, he's not certain of anymore. He already knew the price was too steep to place on anypony else, after what happened with Private Spring. What about him? What is he paying for the illusion of doing the right thing? "Think about it. I'll be at apartment 1045." Poetic gives the Pony an awkward pat on the shoulder, and turns to go. "Poetic." Poetic stops. "Yes?" "I'd like to go home." He'd like to live.
