Seven Meetings and a War

The 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