Heart and Hearth

Bistrena and Lockstep were heading back to her unit this morning. She and Lockstep marched silently through the biting cold toward the training town, their breath fogging the air. Frost clung to the track's edges linking the fort to the town, which crunched beneath their hooves. Snow dusted the oak and beech trees in the hills, while mist hovered low in the fields, veiling the distance in pale grey.

At the depot, a sour-faced MP mare handed them their uniforms, kit bags, and armour. She barely looked at them, shoving the gear across the counter with a sharp clatter. “Sign here,” she muttered, pointing to the ledger.

Lockstep’s face was pale, her usual commanding presence replaced by something frail. She scribbled her name without a word, her hoof trembling slightly. Bistrena followed suit, avoiding the MP’s glare.

The frost seeped into Bistrena’s bones as they walked on. The quiet between them felt as heavy as the mist. Lockstep broke it, her voice hoarse and uneven. “I feel like half the mare I was.”

Bistrena didn’t respond immediately. Her own thoughts were a tangle of half-formed images. The assault, the interrogation, the mnemonic spell, the serum—all of it left her head feeling disconnected. The nightmarish hallucinations had finally stopped, but the anticipation of going under again lurked at the back of her mind. It was as if those memories belonged to someone else - a story she'd read as a child but couldn't quite remember

They’d been made to sign forms before they left the heart of the fort. The fine print was clear: no speaking of the Domestic Security Agency, the attack, or the methods used on them—not even to each other. “Morale,” the agents had said, their voices chillingly synchronized.

Bistrena glanced at Lockstep, but the corporal kept just enough distance to make her position clear. No questions. No answers. Her gaze flitted back to the shadow of the fort behind them, shrinking in the mist as if the DSA’s watchful eyes extended even now.

Atop a hill overlooking the training town, they reported to Captain Wheatstone in his command post, a weather-beaten olive-green tent bustling with activity. Radios buzzed, maps sprawled across tables, and a small cadre of clerks shuffled papers.

Wheatstone looked up as they entered. For a moment, he seemed almost saddened to see them. His weary eyes took them in, and his expression softened. The stallion wasn’t one to be fooled. He understood what they’d been through.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “Flu, was it?”

Lockstep and Bistrena exchanged a glance, reluctant conspirators in the DSA’s cover story. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison, voices flat.

Wheatstone nodded, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Corporal,” he said, turning to Lockstep, “Sergeant Glaive is out of action. Fell into a ditch last night. I need you to take over his position on the line.”

Lockstep hesitated. “Anti-airship crew, sir?” she asked. “I’ve only had basic training. Never fired one of those things.”

Wheatstone gestured toward the tent’s entrance, where the dark silhouette of a massive cannon loomed. The gun’s sleek barrel stretched nearly two meters, its steel body mounted on a rotating platform. Beside it, a belt of brass shells gleamed faintly in the cold light.

“You’ll get plenty of practice,” he said, pouring himself coffee from a battered thermos. “Military Intelligence thinks there’ll be a raid tonight, so we’re digging in.”

Bistrena glanced at the map on his desk, squinting at the markers and notes. Wheatstone noticed and folded it over with a sharp flick. “No cheating, recruit.”

She snapped upright, like a child caught with her hoof in the biscuit tin. “Sorry, sir.”

Lockstep snorted softly. “Military Intelligence?” she muttered. “Now there’s an oxymoron.”

Wheatstone’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. He came around the table. “You’ll manage, Corporal,” he said firmly. Then, to Bistrena: “Recruit, 3rd Platoon is conducting riot training. Report to the long halls about 500 meters into town. Can’t miss them.”

They saluted and left the tent. The cold hit them immediately, sharp and biting.

As they reached the point where their paths would split, Lockstep hesitated. “Well… good luck, Bis—” She caught herself. “Recruit,” she corrected, her tone uneasy.

Bistrena studied her. The Corporal’s foreleg hovered awkwardly, as if she couldn’t decide whether to shake hooves, pat her on the shoulder, or just leave. Seeing no one nearby, Bistrena dropped her kit bag and armour, stepping forward to close the gap.

She wrapped a foreleg around Lockstep’s neck, pulling her into a firm embrace. “You’ll be alright,” she said, feeling the tension in the mare’s frame. “We both will.”

Lockstep tensed but didn’t pull away. When they separated, her eyes looked distant, unfocused. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You too.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Bistrena watched her go before picking up her gear. She slung her kit bag over her shoulder, adjusted her armour, and started toward the training town, her breath puffing in the icy air.

The hall was vast, cold, and crammed with bodies. Over a hundred ponies—mares and stallions alike—stood in loose rows, their black riot pauldrons and helmets glinting under the stark ceiling lights. The steady murmur of idle conversation ebbed and flowed as the stragglers found their places. The air was tinged with the metallic tang of sweat and equipment oil, the scrape of hooves on concrete mingled with the rustle of equipment, every sound carrying in the cold, cavernous space.

Sergeant Barnside stood on a raised platform at the front, her sturdy frame wrapped in a battered field jacket. Her expression was flat, eyes scanning the room with practised disinterest. On either side of her, junior officers shuffled about and adjusted a rudimentary map on an easel. When Barnside spoke, her voice was steady, cutting through the murmurs without the need to raise it.

“Right. Listen up.” She let the silence settle before continuing, her tone measured but brisk. “Today, you’re running formations, crowd control, and close-quarters drills. You ought to know the theory, so I expect it to look tidy. Shields locked. Steps in unison. No gaps, and no freelancing. Got it?”

The room responded with a half-hearted murmur of assent. Barnside didn’t seem to care whether they meant it. She adjusted the angle of her baton, tapping it idly against her foreleg.

“Third Platoon,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the cluster of mares near the back, “you’ll be in the south block for room-clearing drills. First and Second, you’ll be running dispersal manoeuvres on the east field. I want everypony geared up and in position in ten minutes. If you pay attention and follow your non-coms, we'll all get through this with as little bullshit as possible.”

The door creaked open at the side of the hall, a brief gust of cold air stirring the crowd. Heads turned briefly as Bistrena slipped inside, her kit bag still slung awkwardly over one shoulder. She hesitated for only a moment before moving to the edge of her platoon, finding a spot near Dusklight, Ribbonweave, and Aurelia.

Barnside didn’t miss the movement. Her gaze lingered on Bistrena for a fraction of a second, but she didn’t break stride. “Late arrivals,” she said with a faint edge of irony, “will need to learn fast. No room for catch-up.”

There was no laughter, no ripple of amusement. The ponies nearest to Bistrena barely glanced at her before returning their attention to the Sergeant. The briefing moved on seamlessly, Barnside pointing to the map as she outlined the specifics of today’s drills. Her voice was crisp, devoid of flourishes.

“You’ll run this as many times as it takes to get it right,” Barnside said, her voice carrying over the murmurs in the hall. “This is simulated disruption, so if you can’t handle it here, you’ll definitely fuck it up out there. When it’s real, you’ll have ten thousand angry voices bearing down on you, rocks pelting your shields, firebombs exploding at your hooves, and no option but to hold the line. Your job is to delay rioters, protect property, enforce the Crown’s will, or stop them from stealing supplies and rations. Whatever they’re after, you make sure they don’t get it.”

Her gaze swept the room. “Break formation or drag your hooves, and you’ll be back here after hours until you figure it out.”

Bistrena shifted uneasily, before setting her bag down quietly, her movements automatic. Dusklight leaned closer, her breath warm against Bistrena’s ear. “Took you long enough,” she murmured, her eyes filled with unspoken questions.

Ribbonweave elbowed her gently. “Don’t spook her, Dusty.” She glanced at Bistrena, adding in a softer voice, “Good to see you back.”

To her side, Aurelia caught her eye. Normally, the mare would’ve cracked a quiet joke or whispered something cheeky, but not now. All she offered was a small, encouraging smile and a quick wink.

Barnside’s voice cut back through the quiet exchange. “That’s all I've got for you. Move out. South block, east field—wherever you’re assigned, I expect you to be in formation on time. Dismissed.”

The hall began to stir, ponies moving in clumps toward the exits. Ribbonweave lingered for a moment, her hoof brushing Bistrena’s shoulder in an almost motherly gesture. “Stick with us,” she said quietly. “You’ll get back into it.”

Bistrena nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder again and falling in with her platoon as they made their way out. The day stretched ahead, heavy and unrelenting, but she welcomed the grind. Better to keep moving than to dwell on what had already happened.

After Lead Instructor Jetstream had intervened, welcomed her back, and given her new orders, Corporal Slate led Bistrena to the temporary barracks, a crumbling shed reeking of mildew and rat droppings. It was a sorry sight, but the slow burner in the corner provided enough warmth to make it bearable. Bistrena dropped her kit and armour onto one of the rickety bedframes, which groaned under the weight. Slate leaned against the wall, crossing her forelegs as she began to speak.

“Listen, rookie,” Slate started, gesturing toward the whiteboard with pre-drawn diagrams of riot formations. “You missed a lot yesterday. Camping drills, cooking stations, trench digging, theory lectures. All boring stuff. But that means you’re behind. We’re just getting into the riot control manoeuvres today, so consider yourself lucky you didn’t get stuck in the mud like the rest of the platoon.”

Bistrena nodded, reaching for her gear. Slate handed her a worn set of riot pauldrons, a helmet with a scratched visor, and a baton with the grip dulled from use. She ran her hoof over the battered equipment, wondering how many ponies before her had used the same tools.

“You’ll need these,” Slate added. “Not much use going through drills without the kit.”

Bistrena adjusted the gear, pulling it closer as she tried to ground herself. She needed to focus. The past few days had been a whirlwind of drama - an upset - but she couldn’t afford to let her thoughts spiral now. She pictured herself getting careless, distracted in the field, and shuddered at the imagined consequences. Forcing the worries aside, she turned her attention back to Slate.

It took her a moment to realize the Corporal was watching her intently, a rare softness in her otherwise sharp expression. “What happened to you and Lockstep?” Slate asked, her tone unusually quiet. “And where is she now?”

Bistrena stiffened. Slate was hardly one for small talk, let alone probing questions. “Flu,” she said flatly. “We both had it.”

Slate’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Flu? Lockstep seemed fine before, and you don’t just catch flu and shake it off in a day.”

Bistrena shrugged, feigning indifference. “That's what I was told to... what the doctor at the fort told me. She’s fine now. Captain Wheatstone reassigned her. She’s taking over for Sergeant Glaive.”

At that, Slate’s ears perked up. “Sergeant Glaive?” she echoed. “So they finally found him?”

“Found him?” Bistrena repeated, confused. “Wheatstone just said he fell in a ditch.”

Slate frowned, her expression hardening. “He didn’t show up to the staff meeting yesterday. He’s been missing.” She hesitated, then shook her head sharply. “Forget you heard that. End of discussion.”

Bistrena blinked, unsure how to respond. “It’s probably better that way,” she said carefully. “There’s clearly stuff neither of us is supposed to know.”

Slate’s lips twitched in a wry half-smile, her gaze lingering on Bistrena for a moment longer before she pushed away from the wall. “Maybe,” she said cryptically. “Now, let’s get back to the basics before you embarrass yourself in front of the platoon.”

She launched into an explanation of riot control manoeuvres, her tone brisk and authoritative once more. Bistrena let the words wash over her, absorbing the details as she tried to anchor herself in the present.

Corporal Slate marched Bistrena back to the south block, where three platoons were assembled behind a row of charred, crumbling houses. Looming over the scene was the concrete training tower, its second story engulfed in flames. Bistrena slowed, watching as ponies in soot-blackened firefighting gear scaled ladders, their hoses pumping water into the inferno. Thick smoke billowed out, obscuring the figures dragging smouldering dummies out of the structure.

Barnside stood under the awning of a building marked with the faded word "Saloon." She cast a brief smirk at the burning tower before turning to address the gathered platoons.

“That’ll be you lot tomorrow,” she called out, her voice carrying easily. “So pay attention today, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be that much more ready.” Her grin twisted into something grim. “I won’t sugarcoat it: today is gonna suck. One of those days. But if you want to save lives, you’ll get through it.”

She laid out the plan. First, they’d work through the half-flooded trenches nearby. Then, they’d move into town to practice field formations. There’d be plenty of yelling, sweating, and fire—and no room for mistakes.

The training began with hours of brutal repetition. In the trenches, mud clung to their legs as they waded through stagnant water, shields held high despite the strain on their shoulders. Out in the field, shouted orders rang out as the platoons practised moving as one. Shields locked, hooves stomped, and muscles burned. The endless cadence of Barnside’s bellowing drove them forward:

“When the flames are licking at your legs, you’ll want to run. That’s normal. That’s natural.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “But you’re not gonna give in to instinct. You’re gonna get used to the heat. Sit in it. Bear it. Because when it matters, you’ll trust the gear to keep you safe—even when it feels like you’re getting cooked.”

Bistrena grit her teeth as the exercises dragged on, every muscle in her body protesting. The enchanted riot gear kept her safe from the mock flames, but it didn’t stop the sweat or the oppressive heat that sapped her strength.

Eventually, they moved into the town, where the real hardship began. The three platoons rotated through roles: one held formation, while the other two acted as rioters.

It was madness.

Bistrena’s platoon moved down the street in tight formation, shields locked together, as “rioters” hurled bricks, rocks, and flaming projectiles at them. The enchanted firebombs rolled beneath their hooves, erupting in plumes of heat and smoke. Firecrackers exploded near their legs, deafening in the enclosed space. One of them caught on her shield above her head and went off with a crack. The ringing and muted sound made her cringe inwardly, she hoped her hearing would come back.

The noise was overwhelming—chanting, shouting, the clatter of projectiles against their shields and helmets. Bistrena flinched as fire spread across her shield, racing up her legs. Her breath came in short gasps, her vision narrowing as panic clawed at her mind. That dammed ringing wouldn't stop. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee the inferno, but she couldn’t. She was pinned in place by the tight formation, jostled on all sides by the mares around her.

It stopped being about the flames or the oppressive torrent of thrown projectiles and became a desperate struggle to stay upright. She forced herself to listen for shouted orders, to match the movements of the platoon even as her body begged for relief.

After what felt like an eternity, they were granted a brief reprieve. Bistrena stumbled out of formation and collapsed onto the edge of an awning, too drained to care about the grime streaking her coat. Dusklight slumped beside her, groaning about cramps and pouring water over her head in a vain attempt to cool down.

Bistrena didn’t say a word. She stared at the ground, watching the restless shuffle of hooves as the other platoons switched roles, and listened her ears ringing. Her turn to act as a rioter came soon enough.

Throwing rocks and firebombs was cathartic, if fleeting. The brief thrill of revenge somehow made the misery worth it.

They cycled through the drills again and again, formations locking and breaking under the strain of simulated riots, until the whistle blew for lunch. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, the ponies crowded into the fake saloon, where they found no alcohol waiting to soothe their aching bodies—just lukewarm water and ration packs.

After lunch, her platoon had regrouped at one of the larger structures for drills. They sparred lightly with batons and shields, the movements precise but without the bone-rattling stakes of dummy rioting, or the gruelling damp of trench work. It was almost a relief to be in the warmth of indoor air, to face padded swings instead of charging stallions twice her weight.

As the sun dipped and the temperature plummeted, Corporals Jetstream and Slate corralled them into a quick run around the town. Their hooves struck the frozen ground in rhythm, breath steaming in the icy air. By the time they were released to the showers, Bistrena’s muscles hummed with exertion, the lukewarm water washing away the day’s sweat and strain.

Dinner followed, and with it, the inevitability of questions. The cover story—flu—felt paper-thin even to her. She hated lying, especially to them, but what choice did she have?

In the cafeteria, she picked the table farthest from the crowd, her back firmly to the wall. She needed to see the door, to watch who came and went. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just felt necessary now. She wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

She’d just started poking at her stew when they arrived, trays in hoof. Ribbonweave sat across from her, Aurelia slid in beside her, and Dusklight flanked the other side. There was no escape.

Ribbonweave was the first to speak. “So,” she began her voice light but pointed. “Flu?”

Bistrena shrugged, her gaze fixed on the door. “That’s what they said.”

“Flu for a day?” Dusklight raised an eyebrow. “You were fine yesterday morning. And then—poof.”

“I’m a fast healer.”

“Uh-huh,” Aurelia said, leaning forward. “And I'm an Equestrian Princess... what about Lockstep? She disappeared the same morning. We heard she’s outside the camp now. Sitting on a cannon or something.”

Bistrena finally looked at them. “Strange times,” she murmured.

Ribbonweave frowned. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Why?” Dusklight pressed. “Careful of what?”

Bistrena tapped a hoof against her cocoa mug, her gaze sliding back to the door. “Eyes and ears everywhere,” she said softly.

Aurelia blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, drop it,” Bistrena replied, her tone sharpening. “Please.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The conversation shifted to the earlier riot drills without much ceremony, Ribbonweave absently rubbing the dark bruise under her eye.

“That stallion from 1st,” she started, shaking her head. “He’s lucky we’re not using our swords. I’d have gone for his knees.”

“Sure,” Aurelia snorted. “Right before he turned you into a ribbon pretzel.”

“Hey, at least I tried to help,” Ribbonweave snapped back. She gestured toward Bistrena. “She got flattened, and I wasn’t just gonna stand there. And what do I get for it? A shield to the face.”

“I mean,” Dusklight chimed in, “you did sort of run right into it.”

Bistrena stared into her cocoa, and frowned while swirling it slowly. “We did okay. We held our own.”

Ribbonweave ignored the faint compliment. “Tell me it didn’t feel good, though,” she said, leaning forward. “When you swept him? Nailed him right in the balls.”

“It did the job,” Bistrena said simply, though her lip twitched upward for a fraction of a second.

“Did the job,” Aurelia mocked with a smirk. “You hear that? She’s out there cracking stallions in the walnuts, and it’s just another Tuesday for her.”

“Hey, whatever works,” Dusklight said. “Rest of them stallions calmed down after seeing that. They thought they were gonna steamroll us, and we made it messy for them. That’s what counts.”

Ribbonweave gave a satisfied grunt, leaning back. “Damn right.”

The chatter ebbed, and they turned to nurse their cocoa and eat, soft clinks of metal trays breaking the lull in conversation. It had been a long day, sweat-soaked and muscle-aching, but this—the warm food, the low hum of voices, the faint buzz of the overhead lights—was familiar, comforting.

Then the sirens started.

It wasn’t a sharp sound. It rose low and steady, a deep, keening wail stretching across the horizon, trembling in the bones. It pulled heads up, ears swivelling toward the ceiling as if the doom bearers were on the roof.

The cafeteria froze. A fork hovered mid-air, forgotten in the grip of a trembling hoof. A stallion by the serving counter turned slowly, his tray sliding against his chest as his gaze darted toward the windows. For a moment, it was like the whole building held its breath.

Then the lights died.

Panic erupted, voices overlapping in a rush of confusion and fear. Ponies scrambled to their hooves, questions flying—“What’s happening?” “Is it them?” “What do we do?”—only to vanish into the deafening murmur of the crowd.

Bistrena sat unmoving, her breath quickening but steady. Immediately she remembered what Lockstep had said, Military intelligence, now there's an oxymoron. She almost smirked, seems they were right this time. That thought didn't comfort her. Her heart kicked in her chest, the echoes of nightmares and old memories stirring to life—the port, the Changelings, the bombing. The crush of heat and smoke. She clenched her jaw, and, as usual, anger sparked through her instead of fear. Those bastards are coming, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. She accepted the helplessness—the sheer inevitability— the feeling raced through her, white-hot and steadying.

The door slammed open, the sirens outside cutting sharper and louder. New alarms joined the cacophony, shrill and urgent, and the base’s once-calm air was now saturated with chaos. A platoon instructor burst into the room, a red flashlight gripped in his teeth, its beam slicing through the blackness.

“Okay, recruits! You know the drill!” he barked, voice raised above the din. “Get outside to the parade ground! Bugs don’t usually come this far inland, so you’ll be fine. Just get into the fields, find your holes, and take cover! Move, move, MOVE!”

The room broke into motion, ponies pouring toward the door in a frantic tide. The air outside was cold, biting, and filled with a franticness so overwhelming, that it vibrated in their chests. Bistrena joined the throng, moving alongside them toward the parade ground, her eyes catching the dim glow of red lights strung along the route like breadcrumbs. It was so dark she could barely make out the shapes of her platoon mates, only the vague impressions of ponies and the shuffle of hooves.

Over the distant skyline of Baltimare, the night lit up with solid searchlight beams, followed by ribbons of orange fire streaking across the sky like burning threads of silk. Bistrena squinted, pausing to watch the bursts crisscross the blackness—anti-airship fire, she guessed. The guns were answering something.

She tilted her head, focusing. There—just faint shapes, sleek and large, gliding through the flashes like shadows swimming beneath ice. The hum came next, droning and invasive, the kind of sound that made the inside of her teeth buzz. One of the shapes flared bright, caught in the path of those burning threads. It burst into a rolling fireball that scattered across the sky, the glow reflecting in the distant cloud cover before fading away.

She watched as tiny points of light began to rise, barely visible against the night sky—unicorn interceptors. Their glowing wings shimmered faintly, their colours muted by distance, but unmistakable. Bistrena’s eyes narrowed as she followed their ascent, tracing the streaks of magic they sent arcing into the black.

One of the massive Changeling airships veered too low, caught in a net of spells. For a moment, it seemed to hesitate in the air, its sleek hull illuminated by its own sputtering fire. Then it erupted. The explosion rolled through the night, a bloom of angry orange and red that painted the smoke-choked sky. Pieces of the ship scattered, falling like streaks of shadow into the city below.

Bistrena’s breath hitched as she tracked one of the falling fragments. It tumbled through the air, a smouldering silhouette against the rising flames. The crash came moments later, distant and dull, but she felt it like a punch to the chest. Her stomach tightened as she realized where it struck—just north of the docks, near where her family’s home had been.

She stared at the growing plume of fire, her anger flaring hot and laced with something sharper—worry. Her chest tightened as the thought stabbed through her: It wasn’t them. It couldn’t be them. But even as she tried to convince herself, doubt crept in, insidious and gnawing. No. Please. Let it be someone else’s home. Not mine.

Her teeth clenched, a bitter taste rising in her throat at the cruelty of the thought. But wasn’t that the truth of it? She didn’t want to lose them. Her gaze fixed on the flames as they climbed higher, painting the night in hues of destruction, and a fresh spike of guilt churned in her gut. Someone’s family was in there. Someone’s world was ending. The knot in her stomach wouldn’t untangle. Every part of her screamed to be there, to know. But she was here—miles away, useless.

Bistrena pulled her gaze down, pushing it out of her head, blinking at the residual light on her vision. Somewhere in front, the line of recruits moved on, marked by the faint pulse of red lights strung through the trees. The world around her darkened again, the sky disappearing beneath the swaying canopy of branches.

Bistrena focused on the trail, locking onto the light bobbing ahead of her—Jetstream, she thought, or a pony like him. She followed it to the edge of the field, hopping into a shallow hole where her head just barely poked above the rim. Before she could settle, another pony slid in beside her, their body pressing into hers.

“Who—” she began.

“Me,” came the shaky reply. It was Dusklight.

Bistrena turned, but couldn’t make out the other mare’s face in the dark. Dusklight’s voice trembled as she spoke. “What in Celestia’s name is going on? I can’t take another night like this, Bistrena. I can’t—” She broke off, breath hitching. “The last time… the bodies. I saw them—”

Her voice cracked, and she started to hyperventilate, each breath coming in ragged gasps.

Bistrena blinked, stunned. Just minutes ago, they’d been sitting in the cafeteria, talking over stew and cocoa. Now this. It didn’t feel real. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was all some elaborate ruse, a test by the instructors to see how they’d handle a real emergency.

Then the sound of distant cannon fire rolled over the hills, the deep, resonant booms followed by the sharper cracks of explosions. It rumbled through the ground, rattling the hole’s edges, and there was no mistaking it anymore.

This was real.