Seven Meetings and a War

A 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 His standard military shirt has been replaced by a much darker, brown one, denoting his higher rank.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.