Cold.

It’s the first thing I register—a deep, piercing cold that seeps into my bones, numbing everything. My body feels wrong, like I’ve been stretched too thin and left to freeze. I can’t move. Can’t think. Everything is dark, my mind a fog of half-formed thoughts and distant, echoing noise.

Then, suddenly a dim, flickering light burns against my retinas, and I gasp, choking on air that tastes like metal and chemicals. My breathing feels restricted, as if trapped underwater, unable to surface. My lungs seize, my chest heaves, and I cough, hard, my throat raw like I haven’t used it in days. Weeks? I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.

I blink rapidly, trying to shake the static from my mind, my vision swimming. My limbs are sluggish, unresponsive, like they don’t belong to me. I want to reach up to my face, to clear whatever obstruction is choking me, but a heavy pressure clamps around my hooves, my torso, and my neck. Restraints. The realization sends a spike of panic through me. I try to move, to struggle, but the cuffs hold tight.

I wrack my brain, trying to fill in the blanks, to try and make sense of whatever nightmare I awoke into. However, whenever I try to remember before all of this, my mind blanks. How did I get here? Why am I here? Who even is I?!

I can’t remember who I am.

Then, a sound.

A low hiss, like pressurized gas being released. A mechanical whirr follows, distant but growing louder. My surroundings lurch, and my stomach drops as if I’m suddenly in freefall.

Where am I? What is happening?!

I try to speak, but my lips barely part before a voice cuts through the noise.

Cold. Monotone. Uncaring.

"Preparing Subjects for drop."

A loud clunk reverberates around me, and suddenly—I’m falling.

The restraints let go all at once, and gravity takes hold. My stomach twists, my arms flail, but something catches me—a thick harness clamps tight around my chest, jerking me mid-air. The world around me spins as I dangle, helpless, from a mechanized rig, cables groaning under the weight of my iron sarcophagus.

I don’t belong here.

A deep tremor rumbles through the metal framework around me, distant but heavy. A warning. A heartbeat from something old beneath us.

Then, from above, the voice speaks again.

"Descend."

And the cables release.

And I scream as I am cast into Tartarus.

After several seconds, I will myself to open my eyes.

I am still falling.

I hear the woosh of floors and platforms rushing by.

Lights fly past me like shooting stars.

I wonder if I’ll ever see the stars again, or anything really. What if I am doomed to splatter all over the bottom of this pit. That is, if the pit has a bottom. Not a too bad way to go. Just a fall, a thud, then nothing.

“Subject 10102010!”

A grating artificial voice calls out, interrupting my thoughts. “Umm…” I start, barely able to hear myself over the sound of rushing wind, “are you…talking to me?”

“Affirmative, Subject 10102010. You have been selected for basic training before your first deployment.”

A slew of questions rushed into my mind. It was all I could do to not scream all of them at the mechanical voice, but I stopped myself. The voice referred to me as “subject”. The word “subject” suggests study. Data collection. Reason.

“Um, Excuse me, but I believe there may be a misunderstanding.” I said, the confusion clear in my voice.

There is no response.

This frustrates me, surely somepony is listening.

“Hey!” I call out, “This is wrong! I don’t belong-!”

A sudden lurch and screech emanate from the metal rig above me, and I feel the force of deceleration on my body.

Sparks fall down around me. The result of metal grinding on metal.

I force myself to look down, and I am met with a floor rushing up to greet me.

The harnesses holding me in place suddenly release before the rig has even come to a full stop.

The moment my hooves meet the ground, my legs buckle, and I collapse onto the cold, damp floor, my limbs still weak, my mind still struggling to keep up. The world is spinning, my breath coming in short, forced bursts.

I realize, My limbs are free. I can finally make sense of the pressure on my face.
I slowly move a hoof to my face, my leg protests with ache, and I groan.

Before my hoof even reaches my face, it stops short. Obstructed. A small smudge left at the point of contact.

A mask.

That explains the resistance I feel with each breath.

It covers my mouth, my nose. I can now feel the straps digging into the back of my head, compressing my mane, leaving little room for my horn. Tight and unyielding. My breath echoes inside it, shallow, frantic, adding to my sense of claustrophobia.

I have to get this off!

I scrape at it. Tug. Yank. Twist. It doesn’t budge.

Why won’t it come off?

I try again. My hooves slip against the edges, looking for a clasp, a buckle, something. But it’s seamless—part of me now.

Panic coils in my chest. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I can’t take it off. I can’t take it off.

It feels wrong. Like a muzzle.

Then the voice crackles through a radio in my ear. Calm and Unbothered as ever.

“Please refrain from your contagion filtration device. If the device is removed, then you will be dispatched within minutes; either from the airborne pathogen in the area of operation, or the implanted explosive in your Loyalty Pendent.”

That caught my attention and snapped me back to my senses. There was a bomb implanted on me? A small, collar-like instrument beeped around my neck, and I froze.

“Alright, noted. If I don’t do what you want I will die.” I mumble aloud, processing the information.

I take a brief moment to see where I’ve been dropped into.

It’s so dark. It feels as though the murkiness is physically closing in around me.

The first thing I notice is how cold I am down here. Even though I’m covered head-to-hoof in a grey jumpsuit, there is a deep, biting chill that seeps into my bones, as if the air itself has been dead for centuries.

Then, the lights come on.

A sickly red glow pulses through the room in slow, deliberate waves, barely strong enough to push back the suffocating darkness. The walls—if they can even be called that—are a tangled mess of corroded metal, thick industrial pipes, and jagged concrete, all slick with something.

Faint trails of moisture slither down the surfaces, disappearing into the grated floor below. The distant hum of machinery vibrates through the air, like a dying beast exhaling its last breath.

“Please stand by for training equipment”

The metal structure that had lowered me down whined as hydraulic arms pulled a crate from the rig and lowered it next to me.

The metal crate hisses as it unlocks.

Inside, there are two tools, or at least that's what they look like at a first glance. Upon closer inspection, I realize, they are indeed tools. Just for a more sinister purpose.

These were firearms.

I wasn’t too unfamiliar with guns, although relatively rare in the Equestrian armed forces, they were quickly implemented by the Crystal Empire. They were supposed to give less-trained soldiers more of an edge during battles.

…How did I know that?

The weapon isn’t sleek or refined. It looks cobbled together from spare parts, the barrel thick and reinforced, the grip wrapped in tattered cloth for comfort. A jury-rigged rail system runs along the top, rusted but sturdy.

I instinctively reach out with telekinesis, but I’m met with a sharp pain in my horn, resulting in my spell to fail.
I reach up to investigate what occurred. Had I damaged my horn somehow?

I trace along the crevices in my horn and discover a smooth, metal ring at the base, where my horn meets my skull.

A dispersion ring? These are reserved for unicorn prisoners-

“Feel free to make use of the Target Acquisition and Conventional Handling Unit provided to all non telekinetic assets.”

That voice was beginning to get on my nerves. Before I could curse my frustrations, another crate slammed down beside me and hissed open.

This one contained a cumbersome looking saddle pack. It was covered in mechanical gyroscopic mechanisms with picatinny rail slots, meant to hold and aim firearms. All of this was complimented by a robotic, clawed limb that adorned the pack, designed for picking up items with precision.

Without any other choice I began fumbling with the pack, trying to slide it over my back. Doing this without magic was a grueling process.

After finally tightening the last strap, I go to collect the rest of my “training equipment”.

Using the robotic claw, I pick up the first weapon, a compact submachine gun.

The weight is heavier than expected, the metal cold and unforgiving. My eyes scan over the mechanisms—how does this thing work? A slide, a latch—no, a bolt? The magazine was missing. Empty. Some weathered writing carved into the side read, “Van Auken LTC5”.

I slide the SMG onto one of the many picatinny rails and it clicks into place. The gyroscopics moving to match my head and eye movement.

The second gun I thought I recognized, a pistol, but it wasn’t like any pistol I had ever seen before. It was BULKY, and by analyzing the diameter of the metal-shrouded barrel, I could tell whatever caliber it shot would be both devastating to the target and the shooter. Engravings on the side read "Shelling Arid .50"

With both guns secured to me, I press forward into the darkness. Hoping for either answers or a way out.

Author's Note

Hello, Hello!
I'm so excited to finally get this concept down on paper!
Naturally, I'm a bit inexperienced with this, so you can expect a bit of a slow burner.
Either way, thank you for taking a peak at my first story, and I hope you keep an eye out for the next update. (Coming Soon)
Seeyas!