Seven Meetings and a War

Solitary 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?