Checkpoint Wishbone, Morning

Bistrena stood in the cold, wet streets of Baltimare, shifting her weight as the dull ache in her hooves crept upward. Ivy Team—her team—had been assigned to the checkpoint hours ago, paired with Clover Team to hold the line northeast of the hospital.

She and Dusklight had been reunited with their old induction mates, Stormchime and Brassforge, but now they had two new faces in their mix—Tailwind and Ironwood, all stallions pulled from a male platoon. Ribbonweave and Aurelia rounded out their numbers, standing under their hoods like wraiths in the grey morning.

The rain slicked off their black riot gear—pauldrons and chest plates hidden under thick ponchos, steel helmets weighing down their heads. Their visors, streaked with water, fogged up slightly every time they exhaled. It made them look bloated, and shapeless, more like moving barricades than ponies.

Bistrena adjusted her grip on the new piece of equipment they’d been issued—the baton. A steel rod, clad in thick rubber, long as a foreleg with a twin-pronged prod at the tip. Pressing the trigger sent a thin arc of blue electricity dancing between the prongs. She had tested it earlier, watching the spark jump, and let out a nervous laugh. Wouldn't want to get poked with that sucker.

"Five thousand volts," Ironwood had said, a hint of pride in his voice. "We used weaker ones to herd cattle back home. These’ll drop a full-grown bull."

Brassforge scoffed, shifting under his poncho. "Wouldn’t even need to use the prod. Get some momentum, could break a jaw with one of these."

Stormchime exhaled through his nose, wings rustling under the plastic draped over his armour. "They don’t want us breaking anything. Just holding the line."

Tailwind let out a short breath, flexing his wings beneath his own poncho. "Yeah? Let’s see what they say when a crowd of desperate refugees rushes us."

"It’s why we’re in teams," Dusklight muttered, adjusting her grip on her baton, “‘sides, we blow on our whistles and shoot up a flare, then half the division will be right here with us.”

Ironwood snorted, “Yeah, good luck with that, you’ll get your head kicked in and that whistle rammed down your windpipe before anyone at the park can turn their heads. An unruly mob's a lot like a herd of mean cows - better to drop one or two of the more violent ones… and the rest will fall in line.” He had a slightly cruel look on his face and beat one hoof with the baton.

Bistrena kept quiet, glancing north and wondering if her family were ok or not. The smog from the fires still hung over northern Baltimare, thick and oppressive, turning the skyline into a dull smear of grey. Every now and then, the sky would flash, followed by the distant crack of bolt fire. Pegasi squadrons arced through the haze, drawn to another Changeling flare-up. Even from here, they could hear it—the muffled echoes of the skirmishes still raging beyond the cordon.

The mayor was still moving ponies out despite the army’s warnings about infiltrators. Bistrena couldn't quite believe they were in the city. Her city, her home. This didn't make any sense.

She adjusted the baton at her side and exhaled. They’d been at this checkpoint all morning, stationed northeast of the hospital, standing under the rain as refugees trickled in from the warzone beyond. Those with valid passes were scanned, searched, logged, and sent further east toward the park, where medical tents and triage teams waited.

It had been slow. Tedious. But necessary.

A mare stepped forward, hesitantly holding out a damp, wrinkled pass in her magic. She looked exhausted—soot-covered and shivering in the cold drizzle. Dusklight took the pass wordlessly, scanning the enchanted sigil with her horn. A soft green glow confirmed its authenticity.

"Name?" Bistrena asked.

"Linen Breeze," the mare said weakly.

Behind her, a stallion clutched a foal under his wing, his stance protective, his eyes wary.

"You with her?"

"My husband," the mare confirmed, providing their names, voice barely above a whisper.

"Alright,” she logged the information, “Step forward. We’re just going to scan you and search your bags."

Brassforge and Ironwood moved in, their approach methodical, patting them down with the same thoroughness they’d used on every other refugee, while Dusklight used a detection spell. The shaken family barely reacted, and the stallion just held onto the foal tighter. Bistrena looked at the tiny bundle of fur and the small face that poked out of the wrappings, the child looked unharmed, Bisrena would have expected them to be crying their lungs out. But they were quiet, motionless.

From beyond the checkpoint, another sharp burst of bolt fire echoed through the city. More pegasi patrols veered toward the disturbance, their dark shapes vanishing into the thick skyline.

Stormchime, standing near the checkpoint's edge, narrowed his eyes. "They've been at it all morning," he muttered.

Ironwood exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose. "Probing for weaknesses, that’s all." Another distant burst. A sharp, chittering noise followed—just faint, almost lost to the rain.

“I’d rather just see one up close than all this cloak-and-dagger shit,” Tailwind murmured.

"Careful what you wish for."

Dusklight finished logging the mare’s information. "They're clear. Send them through."

Bistrena motioned them forward. "Next!"

The line shuffled again.

She barely paid attention to the next pony stepping forward. Her mind had drifted, her hooves moving on instinct. She barely remembered half the faces she’d checked that morning. It was a blur of tired eyes, soot-covered coats, and damp ponchos. None of them are familiar.

Her mind wandered to her family.

Were they safe? Had they gotten out? Or were they buried like she’d imagined in her worst moments, crushed under the weight of their home when the bombs fell?

Or were they on the road right now, slogging through the same muck and ash as the refugees passing through this checkpoint?

She wanted to leave. Just for an hour. Just to find out.

But there was no slipping away. No sending letters. No answers.

The rain started hammering down in heavy sheets, pooling on the muddy road and turning the checkpoint into a miserable, waterlogged mess. Bistrena barely felt it. She stood watch, half-listening to the distant roll of thunder, and occasional burst of bolt fire as ponies trudged through, their heads bowed against the downpour.

Dusklight’s horn glowed, her magic sweeping over each pass as they came through. The enchanted spell flickered brightly whenever the document was real. The line moved steadily and thinned again until there wasn’t anyone. After a few minutes, another pony approached from the row of buildings by the stream—a lone stallion wrapped in a rain-slicked coat.

Dusklight took his pass, her horn flashing as she checked it.

Nothing.

The spell should have reacted instantly. Her eyes darted up to Bistrena, wide and uncertain—

And then the stallion moved.

The strike came fast and brutal. A hoof smashed into Dusklight’s face before she could react. Her head snapped sideways, and her magic winked out as she crumpled to the ground.

Bistrena barely had time to flinch before the next blow crashed into her. A shoulder slammed full force into her chest, sending her sprawling onto the soaked dirt. Fuck! The impact drove the air from her lungs, and she lay gasping up into the rain.

A heartbeat later, Ironwind and Stormchime were on him. Ironwind lunged in first, baton swinging. But the stallion was fast. Too fast. He slipped under the arc of the strike and drove an uppercut straight into Ironwind’s jaw. The sound it made was ugly—a wet crack of hoof on bone. Ironwind reeled, blood spitting from his mouth, as he dropped.

Stormchime was next, bringing his baton down like a hammer. The thwack was sickening, sending a jolt through Bistrena as it connected with the stallion’s cheekbone. A flash of sweat and rainwater made a small vapour cloud. The stallion staggered, but only for a second.

Ribbonweave scrambled to the side, grabbed her warning whistle, and blew. The shrill sound cut through the storm, sending nearby ponies into panic.

“Move! Move!” Brassforge and Tailwind shouted, shoving at the already accepted refugees. But they were already scattering, shoving past each other in a blind scramble to get away.

Aurelia stormed forward, her horn sparking to life. “Get back get clear!” she barked, her voice sharp. The others barely had time to register the warning before her stun baton crackled to life—a violent arc of electricity snapping between the prongs.

She drove it into the stallion’s ribs.

The effect was immediate. A sharp static sound, the crackling snap of energy jumping through wet fur and skin. The stallion’s body jerked violently, his back arching as a hoarse snarl tore from his throat.

Then he collapsed.

A long, awful silence stretched over them, broken only by the weather and their hard breathing.

Ironwind wiped blood from his mouth, managing to get to his hooves, but he looked shaky. “Fuck me,” he muttered, voice thick with pain. “That dude can throw a mean right hoof.”

Bistrena exhaled, forcing herself to her hooves as well.

The stallion twitched. A muscle spasm. Then another. Then his whole body jerked like a puppet yanked upright by invisible strings.

No.

The air shifted. A pressure—wrong and suffocating—pressed against her lungs. Then came the heat. Green fire erupted from his body in a blinding flare, the sheer force of it knocking them back. The energy hit like a burn, Bistrena biting down a cry as it sizzled against her skin.

Then the stallion was gone.

Or rather, the disguise was.

What rose in his place was not a pony.

The creature towered over them, wickedly thin yet grotesquely strong. Its ebony-black carapace gleamed in the rain, segmented and unnatural, a twisted mockery of equine form. Two massive insectoid wings flared from its back, translucent membranes flickering in the dim light.

It hissed.

Bistrena froze.

Slitted eyes—sickly green—locked onto her. Fangs bared. Spittle dripped from its jagged maw, crystalline teeth refracting the dim light like shards of broken glass. Its limbs—pitted with twisted holes—flexed, and its horn, a spiralled, bladed thing, glowed.

Bistrena's heart slammed against her ribs.

They exist. She’d known, of course, but in the back of her mind, she had never truly believed it. Not until now. Not until she was staring at one. And in the next few seconds, she might die for it.

Author's Note

Hello viewers, our first real look at the black menace! I went very Aliens on this one. If you've read my other story, you'll see how they're portrayed there.

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That's it, goodbye.