"Sarge! Braeburn's stirring!" Indeed, a distant, prolonged gunfire was dragging Signaller Braeburn from a shadowy unconsciousness. As he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a blurry, pastel blue shape, draped in a smudge of olive and brown. He recognized it must be somepony who air-dropped with him, but he could not tell who.

"Ah… can't-" Braeburn tried to speak, but each vowel dug into his throat. In fact, he realized most of him was sore- or rather all of him, save his left foreleg, which he thought instead burned with the whole strength of the Alicorn Princesses.

"Hey!" the shape warned, quiet but sharp, "Look at me, save your strength."

"Ah can't look," protested Braeburn, "Ah can't see."

"No, I guess not," as he spoke, the smudge of color carefully approached. By the time he stopped, Braeburn could see the outline of his face and the medic band on his arm. "The Changeling garrison is holed up in the hospital. If we don't take it soon, I'm afraid I won't be able to save your sight."

Braeburn recognized a different, browner form approaching, he figured it must have been the sergeant which the medic called for. "Signaller, I hate to give orders to a wounded pony," she admitted, "But B Company has secured a radio station, and we need it fixed."

The medic was close enough that Braeburn could see him turn towards the sergeant. "Sergeant Fig Fang, I cannot advise this," he warned, "He just lost a hoof!"

'A hoof? I lost a hoof?' Braeburn's eyes drifted down to his forelegs, the left of which was wrapped tight. Horrified, he realized it ended before his right leg did.

"Then may Celestia damn me, Compress," Fig Fang muttered, "If we can't send artillery coordinates, we can't hold our position, let alone advance."

"How-" Braeburn's inaudible response was halted by a coughing fit, "How far?"

"Braeburn, you are in no condition to be playing hero," Compress argued.

"Ah'm in no condition," retorted Braeburn, "To lie down and wait for nothin' short of a miracle."

"Doc, do we have any sort of crutch for him?" asked Fig. Braeburn could hear Compress snort in response.

"You didn't think to mention there was active combat between us and the station?" shouted Compress, dragging Braeburn into a sandbag-lined gutter. Green smoke erupted from the sandbags as a Changeling patrol opened fire. Thankfully, even with magic rounds, the triple lined barricade held.

Sergeant Fig Fang took hold of her rifle, kicking open its bipod as she dug it into the sandbags. She peeked over the barricade, and bit her firearm's trigger, a three-round burst shearing through the air. "They must have been hiding from our patrols," defended Fig.

"Those bugs," muttered Braeburn, "They shot at a medic! Ah can't see mah own tail, but ah saw yer legband."

Fig fired another burst, while Compress merely shook his head. "Trust me, they saw it," he replied.

"I think I got them," Fig announced, "Compress, get Signaller Braeburn behind that building. If any more Changelings peek their heads out, I'll make sure those heads don't stay connected to their bodies." Compress nodded, and strode beside Braeburn. Braeburn stumbled, but Compress's wing wrapped around him. Just before reaching the cover of a diner- or, at least Braeburn figured it was, given the large portion of awfully tablelike objects in the window, which still were set with dirty circles- three more rounds fired behind them. Fig galloped toward them. "Miscount corrected," she noted, "We're almost to the station."

Indeed, Braeburn could tell a disproportionately tall building lay at the end of the street, the open road splitting in a T-intersection. As the three advanced, Fig Fang reached into her saddlebag, extracting a grenade. Just before the intersection, Fig stopped, flaring her wings. With one wing close enough to brush against Braeburn's snout, he noticed they were the fleshy, membranous sort typical of a thestral. Fig rolled the grenade out to the street, and with a crack, a grey haze seeped out. For an impossibly long time- perhaps half a minute- the trio waited in silence as the haze encroached upon them. Once their legs were mostly obscured- not that Braeburn could see any of them- Fig plunged into the cloud.

Now it was Braeburn's turn to halt. "This won't make mah sight any worse, will it?" he asked. Compress wordlessly pushed him forwards, which he hoped meant there was nothing to fear.

By the time Braeburn saw anything but grey- which had quickly grown to be a very tiring color- he was inside.

"Sergeant Fig Fang, is this that radio colt?" asked a gruff, tawny stallion, trotting towards the group from a side room.

"Yessir, Major Conifer, sir!" Fig Fang saluted her superior officer. Braeburn tried to do the same before awkwardly realizing he raised his missing hoof.

"This is the best we have?" asked Conifer. At first, Braeburn felt insulted. As he looked at… something- he was the furthest pony from knowing what- he reflected upon his condition, and accepted despair. Major Conifer was not interested in a signaller's wallowing, and shouted, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Celestia damn you, Lieutenant Vapour Trail, get your bloody haunches over here and escort our new signaller!"

Before Braeburn had any opportunity to recall the familiar name, the tea green lieutenant dashed into view. Braeburn heard a gasp of awe from Sergeant Fig Fang, suggesting that Vapour must appear rather beautiful, or perhaps majestic, not that that would be his area of expertise, now for more reasons than one.

"Sweet Celestia! What's a flying ace doing down here?" exclaimed Fig Fang. Braeburn then understood who this was. Vapour Trail was an aspiring Wonderbolt cadet many years ago, but she drifted to the world of planes well before the Wonderbolts ever did. In fact, she was the first pilot ace Equestria ever saw. She fought, however, against the revolution in Severyana, a war that Equestria had no wish to remember, and so she was forgotten along with it.

"I got shot down," explained Vapour, "I was as unprepared for the Flakpanzers as everypony else." Silently, Braeburn noted how quickly the term had been adopted. "Signaller, I'll be your eyes and hooves today."

Vapour led Braeburn to the radio kit. When she brought it close enough for his blurry vision to discern a vague estimate of its condition, he sourly exclaimed, "Textbook problems, this will be right simple, 'cept for the fact that it's about every problem in one."

By the time Braeburn flipped the radio's power toggle to a successfully audible station, he noticed the light around him was no longer the hot afternoon sun, but instead solely mechanical. Unfortunately, the lights were about the most he could discern. As he twisted the radio from public bands to the proper military frequency, mostly catching Olenian folk songs along the way, he noticed one of the speakers had blown. He decided one speaker would serve its purpose.

As he finally reached the frequency he desired, he pushed another toggle, calling, "This is Diamond Dog Five, calling… whichever artillery battery survived the drop, over!"

"Sunrise Six copies," responded somepony, "We're holed up just outside town, Changeling snipers are pinning us away from our cannons, over!"

'Of course,' thought Braeburn, 'Things were starting to go too smoothly.'

Author's Note

What's this? One perspective this chapter? Eeyup, the second half of this act will be nothing but single perspective chapters, and next up is everyone's favorite little hjort*

*not actually everyone's favorite, not actually even my favorite, that would be Prince Mathias