Imaginerian

Past the sheen of sweat covering his body and past the soundproofed walls of the shooting range, Tall looks up at his targets, riddled with bullet holes—mostly in bull's eyes. Gunpowder has left a mark—the dark roast it leaves on the senses, on the smell.

It's far from the first time he's noted the smell, though things came simple once upon a time. Back "home"—his Skyfall home—a little fish district stank to the skies. This was a meeting place, a hoof-off. His father was a notable figure in the local underworld, and following his school-of-hard-knocks brand of upbringing, he'd put a gun in Tall's foal-sized hooves, told him to hide it in his jacket. "Just point and shoot, it's that easy," were his only instructions.

Then again, he was just a foal. When a pony from the fabled land of Equestria came over—just his age—he asked what was the thing he was hiding in his jacket. A gun. It was a neat little thing, said the pony. They didn't have a lot of guns back there in Equestria. The soldiers, sure, but foals? The land of griffons and other weird creatures was truly different.

Tall remembers the foal's horrified face when he picked it up, pointed, and shot an assassin aiming for his father.

So that was how someone else said, hours later, when they'd successfully evaded the police, that Tall was on the path to greatness in the family, in the Clan. A good heir, a competent successor in the making. At worst, he'd be a legendary enforcer, far from the low-level chumps that would beg and grovel for anything higher before being shunted and ratted out in light of Governor Genevieve's anti-corruption laws.

The ring of a bell gets him out of his thoughts, his body in the middle of the motions for close-quarter battle training, preparing his equipment before a wooden replica of a house's insides.

Here, it's about coordination with his team. Eckhard is temporary squad leader, and he leads the way, wings held tight, barking out the orders, and Tall follows suit: check this door, flush out this corner. Each and every target is a crude drawing of a kirin or a nirik; signs of fatigue can be found in the tape covering old bullet holes.

The bell rings once more, and he finds himself on the other side of the replica. Apple Bloom's giving everyone an assessment of their skills—Eckhard is the clear winner thanks to his hardened battle experience that isn't obvious thanks to his experience as a tank commander; Nascente is more than decent, albeit a little paranoid and a bit jumpy.

"Tall," she then says, hoof pointed at him, "you're alright. Maybe a real natural."

Years ago, word came home that the war came for Skyfall. The merchants of the trade republic couldn't stay independent from the Empire for long, but it was always the traders—the innovators, the ones who look forward—who could see potential investments where others could see a defeated nation. A resurgent Empire, no matter how theocratically it preached, left a lot of room for sycophants, griffs praising the gods with their beaks but not with their hearts.

So they switched sides. Sided with the Emperor. Whatever politics was happening in the churches and the upper courts, Tall couldn't care less for. It was nevertheless a turning point, because that was when many of those sycophants, licking the regent's boots, crawled their way to Skyfall with their fundamentalist rhetoric that faith in Boreas was for griffons only. They pinched their beaks at the smell of the local kirin temples hidden away in Kirintown, and bribes meant nothing to a bunch of renewed converts to the faith who saw any moral failing as an affront to Boreas and His divinely appointed Emperor.

Which was a considerable weight to bear for a teenager, yet like many teenagers, the brain that he'd carried with it wasn't the brightest tool in the shed. Even now, he looks back with pride and confidence at his moment with some lowborn griffon noble whose name he's forgotten—a moment of defiance. "Ah, yes, the local crime family from a land of savages," so she had said. "I do respect your power here, but know your place, you pathetic excuse of a dragon. When the Gods have run out of patience, we'll evict you, plain and simple."

Against all advice for him to stay calm and to let her make a fool of herself, he replies, "The rabid priests are gonna come for your money first, so I'm not too worried."

On most days, the memories stop there, but for example, when he looks at the list of creatures who've passed the close-quarter battle and with how much time they took, only to find that his name is stamped in the bottom half—in moments like these, he continues remembering, for she then said, "Very rich of you to talk about priests. They already came for your family's money so long ago. And everyone else's, too. And the money and lives of everyone in your silly realm. At least Boreas is not as brain-dead as to tell every creature he's made to be a recluse, hmm?"

The fire in his chest: he remembers it rise.

"Feeling lonely?" Apple Bloom asks after he's found the time to sit down, facing the array of wooden walls and shot-down targets.

He takes a second to find anything to talk about. "My squad members here are just... well, them."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I know you have other soldiers on board, but... I figured being funded by Equestria should've given you a lot of money and resources. Not...."

"Ah understand, sorta'." She shakes the burning cigarette off of her hoof. "We ain't fishin' in a small pond. Lots of armed an' dangerous fish in the sea. Most of 'em want the action, the fun stuff, not this peacekeepin' deal we've got. Them desperate ones sign up for shady stuff... next thing they know, it's gettin' strapped to a pick-up with nothin' but a mounted machine gun, and yer' prayin' nopony's got a lucky shot on ya'. More young'ns die that way."

"That's part of being in a country like North Kiria," he replies, scrounging up a bit of courage. "Private security and military groups rising in demand in thanks to a few recent wars? Most countries put a lid on that. North Kiria doesn't."

"And it's clear that throwin' money at a bunch of livin' flamethrowers ain't cuttin' it, is it?"

"...we're private security, right? We can handle a bunch of nirik problems for some companies here and there. We can wait for them to invent something that'll help solve it for sure."

"Like when Stalliongrad inven'ed the tank and that didn't help turn their revolution into somethin' global? Or when we got magic rifles goin' and that didn't stop the changelings from floodin' our cities for years? Or when they made helicopters and that suddenly didn't turn every nirik dead?"

"Okay, I get it," he says, "but it's... incremental. It adds up. There's only so much nirik can do before they can't brute-force a victory anymore."

"Big on saving Kiria no matter the cost, hmm?"

His heart flutters. "This land is our land. Don't you agree that it's heartbreaking to see your home go up in flames for a hundred years, hear that it's risen up, and then hear that they're fighting each other like it's the era of chaos all over again?"

"Not to demean the kirin goin' loose, but there's still tons of 'em gettin' killed if we had it Fickle's way of totally annihilatin' them. We're supposed to deter, keep 'em away, not get happy over makin' corpses we'd have to pick up anyway since we're technically an 'intervention force.'"

She then scoots closer to him. "When you walked up to the office back in Skyfall, there's some standard thing that they tell ya there. What was it?"

"'Security solutions for you and all, and for your friends, too.' That's what she said."

"Right. Something like that's supposed to happen for everyone we meet. That's what makes us different from everypony else: we don't just protect some rich pony's assets and hope for the best. We're supposed to be out there, bringin' real peace to lots of sufferin' folk. We've done refugee runs for the longest time—'s only now we've had to ease up 'cause our resources are runnin' thin and we're doin' a few jobs for some chairkirin and board members for the extra cash...."

He coughs. "So... uh, how did you getin here, though? You're an apple farmer... used to be, right?"

"While my friends got into more normal things, I served big time during the war. When Scoots and Sweetie returned to their old jobs, I found that I really liked helpin' other creatures durin' the war with Chrysalis... you've had tons of colts and fillies lyin' about their ages 'cause of all the propaganda, and I saw a few of them get their cutie marks on the field. It's a strange feelin'. But that's what we're here for...."

And her stomach growls, catching all two creatures' attention.

"Welp, guess that's the call for dinner. Tell your mates we're hittin' the road. There's a bar an' noodle shop nearby where the owner knows us."

Firm, thick noodles pass through his teeth, his magic working its way through the chopsticks. Dry noodles, with a simmering bowl of broth and vegetables to taste, along with a side of skewered and steamed dumplings—these are topped with cold iced water flavored with herbs and decorated with slices of grass jelly.

The smoke of the outside world can't help but penetrate the squad's little table. The warm evening glow of orange haze thanks to sidewalks bursting with lanterns and neon emits a sense of nostalgia—a golden hour, even long after the sun's set. It's enough to get a bunch of curious tourists snapping pictures—a few obnoxious ponies talk and talk and talk and ask several kirin for directions because they're lost and they can't read the map because it's not in Ponish, they say, all while somekirin's eyeing their stuffed bags most likely filled with souvenirs, money, and Equestrian trinkets.

But Tall being here—it's fun, it's salivating. His eyes glaze over soomeone cooking with a wok, and just this once, it's not foreign or weird to use it here. This is the norm. The fire lapping at the food, the noodles coming over to the next customer in a hodgepodge of starch and produce, all while the cook keeps abreast of the ever-growing pile of orders with this specific broth or that specific sauce or this specific type of noodle....

A bowl in his magic grip later, and he lets it fall down, now taking stock of what else his friends ordered: Nascente sitting with a plain bowl of noodles and not much else, Eckhard slurping on the belly and shoulders of some meat mixed in with his rice, and Apple Bloom munching on a few local apples.

"So," Eckhard cuts in, "they're not going to rat you out, right, Fescue?"

Tall blinks. "Who's they?"

"Don't be stupid, your Clan. In the mafia business."

"They're not a mafia—"

"I know," he says, "but it's fishy. I thought about your story—got the boot from your family, so you're trying to get your big break by saving the motherland. That's nice. But after that, what happens?"

"I give them a cut of whatever I earn here."

"You don't have to owe them if you can trick them into thinking you can't pay them anymore," Nascente says.

Tall quirks an eyebrow. "And how's that?"

"How can they verify your death?"

"I'd assume they have someone in the city keeping tabs on me, reading the news to look for my name, you know?"

"Oh, wait—they'll notify next of kin, right?"

"I only have a few distant cousins left, actually. I am not sure if they're supposed to be notified."

Eckhard whistles. "That's rough, buddy. So you really can just pretend it's a freak accident, you 'die,' then we tell your non-existent folks the bad news, and you can go scot-free. Need a new identity, sure, but when's that gonna stop us?"

Tall shifts in his seat. The heat and sizzle of noodles flying high over the wok catch his attention for the moment. "It wouldn't feel right. What would I tell the nirik we're saving?"

"'The nirik we're saving'—spoken like a true shill."

"Hey, what's shilly about that?"

"For someone young like you, I was expecting someone more contrarian. You'd think a kirin of all creatures should know there's more to a nirik than just being mad. I've heard of the stories, you see."

And Tall fixes a blazing glare at him. "Oh, yeah? How reliable are those tales, then?"

"Tales, rumors, whatever you call them, there are patterns: one, they're all mad; two, they're all mad about something specific; three, they're intelligent enough to keep the factories running and to have some kind of government. You'd need an organized force to resist the armies of a dozen corporations. A temper tantrum alone can't do that."

"But that's chaos, and chaos is the unraveling of order," Tall replies. "When you see ancient paintings, you see walled cities... outside is the mess the nirik have made, while inside is stability and freedom."

"Spare the lecture, Mr. Professor," Eckhard says with raised claws. "Next thing we know, you'll be separating problematic kirin away from 'real' society."

"Ah say we cut the chit-chat?" Apple Bloom pipes up.

That ices any further conversation between kirin and griffon for a while, leaving the griffon to finish his food while Nascente and Apple Bloom eat in silence, where Tall drowns in the deafening sizzle of yet more noodles in the kitchen.

With bellies full and guns concealed, they return to their van parked at a nearby school. The lights there blaze on despite the late hour; faint echoes of lectures mix with the clanks and clangs of metalwork. Its tiny playground, occupied by rusty slides and swing sets, is a lonely green patch in a sea of brown and black and gray and yet more rainbow neon.

The next stop is a bar, with Apple Bloom chiding everyone to not get too drunk—deployment is tomorrow, after all, but drinks are on her, so it's a night to get half-wasted. Assuming they'll get there, which the heavy traffic—both motorized and hoof, with kirin flooding the crossings, messing with the traffic-creature and the traffic lights—threatens to stop.

Then several police officers form a line at the next intersection, blocking everyone from passing through. Several kirin on the bridge ahead stare at what's happening at the underpass.

A procession of black cars bearing the flags of North Kiria.

"There's yer' guy," Apple Bloom quips. "The Chief himself. Also, look up."

And past the van windows, movements against the harsh lights of the city. Soldiers on the rooftops, a few snipers detected—a pegasus hovering overhead, getting a bird's eye view of the sudden parade, likely protecting the Chief Executive.

To think that Fickle is in one of those cars for Tall. Tinted black, hidden—

A crash—down the road, a track having turned over, spilling its payload of food, blocking Fickle's way. Gasps and panic grip all onlookers, then he catches a whiff of potent food powder. The soldiers on the rooftop and every other place in the air scramble, speaking to their radios.

"Apple Bloom," Tall says, "how often do trucks tip over in this city?"

"How would I know?"

"What's the rush hour for noodles here, anyway? We're reaching midnight and—"

Though too far ahead to see the details, the procession's detour route is blocked by another truck. Right on time. Car windows open, the commands above go frantic—

"Situation!" Apple Bloom shouts, raising her rifle.

Out the van, traffic becomes an obstacle course, civilians fleeing the fight scene—distant gunfire, and Tall lets out a curse. First targets he can see are the trucks where enemies fire from behind. Police officers join the fray, their cars' sirens unintentionally jamming his senses—some sneak might fire from behind and he won't know until it's too late.

Fire streaks across the road—nearby buildings, he marks, downs one at the window, then a second about to toss a burning Angriver cocktail. Rocks rain from several more windows, and still more fire. He races to an abandoned sedan for cover, grateful for its bulletproof windows—didn't have many of those back when inter-Clan rivalries exploded.

He checks back to see who's safe. Eckhard's down by another car, not yet hurt but definitely alert. Nascente's the same, though at another car. Then he sees Apple Bloom on the car across him as the ground rumbles, erupting in more fire and commands meshed in Ponish and Kirian, and it's as if they're paranoid—the opposing forces seem to be firing from everywhere, every direction.

"Grenade!" someone shouts, and Tall falls over, vibrations racking him—now, he's face to face with freshly paved asphalt. More shooting from the windows, both cars' and buildings'. A storefront explodes, firing missiles of fragmented vases and other fine wares, scarring the few combatants unlucky enough to be stationed there.

"He's right there!"

Tall swings his head around, but all he can see and hear is a car revving up, burning tires, and squealing away down the other side of the avenue. More cars do the same, assaulting his ears as they sped away, following the leader.

"What're we waitin' for?" Apple Bloom yells, yanking Tall by the withers and planting him inside a car. "We're driving!"

He hits the accelerator once Eckhard and Nascente are in, now tailing the herd of black cars barreling down these wide roads, their little flags hole-ridden and ripping apart at high speeds, now taking the first available exit and into the urban maze that is inner Fragrance.

Tall swerves, barely dodging walls and running over who knows how many garbage bins, his eyes keeping tabs on creatures to not run over every time he blasts his way into a new block. Lights flicker in and out of view, zooming into blurs—

A pick-up truck blocks the way out onto the next road, machinegunner ready.

He crashes into the truck, whole body screaming at him to please stop the pain, endures the shockwave, notes that said truck hasn't fallen over but the machinegunner's busy trying to get back up, and Apple Bloom shoots him down from the open side window. The rest of the pick-up's crew, now also dead thanks to Eckhard and Nascente's well-placed shots.

Yet engines roar from behind. More pick-ups, and they keep shooting. Searching fast for a way out, he spots a gap. A bridge. "Get 'em down!" Hitting hard on the accelerator again, he speeds out of the alley, bobs and weaves through yet more scared civilian cars, then against every inhibition and his past driving teachers to not hit guardrails, he rams into one.

Falling down a bridge and back onto a lower-level avenue, he catches a glimpse of the speeding cars, though now they're finally slowing down. Skid marks on the street tell him that Fickle's crew have taken the long way around before making it here.

"Private hospital," Apple Bloom murmurs before stepping out of the car, Tall and the rest of the squad with iron sights aimed at those incoming pick-ups.

Though, this time, the machinegunners scream long, manes melting away into little infernos lighting up the night, eyes white-hot like the very core of the sun.