Para bellum

Back in the Saddle

If there was one thing that could be counted upon, it was the skill and precision with which the cooks in the cafe were able to whip up food and drink.  Soups, sandwiches, salads, entrees, confectionery, soft drinks, caffeine; all were the purview of the culinary wizards of Canterlot.  Having hot food brought all sorts of comfort to the otherwise stressed staff, not the least of which were the soldiers fighting the war and the officers directing them.  But to fight a war, the soldiers needed to know their enemy and the officers needed to know where to send their soldiers.  So behind the scenes toiled the intelligence community.

Steam rose steadily from the mug of coffee sitting dormant on a cafe table.  The brew had a peculiar pungency to it, a nutty aroma interspersed with hints of spiciness that nipped at the tongue and warmed the olfactories.  The mug was suddenly enveloped in the faint violet glow of unicorn magic, to which it responded by gingerly lifting off the table and floating to the lips of the unicorn it belonged to.  His coat was a striking ultramarine color, highlighted by a blaze of bone white upon his muzzle, the same color as his mane and tail.

Fletcher sipped at his Quaggan dark roast as he scribbled down notes in pen.  War had changed just about everything except the coffee at the company bar.  Guard reports on petty crime turned into casualty reports and dossiers on artifact traffickers and petty thieves turned into folios of information on Aquellian commanders, politicians, and underworld movers and shakers.

Fletcher tapped at the folded up newspaper on the cafe table with a white feathered hoof.  This was his break time.  He was supposed to take a few minutes off analyzing documents and grab some coffee, perhaps finish a number grid puzzle to take his mind off things.  But the number grid had been filled some time ago and his pen gyrations turned into unintelligible scribbles laced with mathematical calculations on ballistic trajectories and kinematic analyses of his past few sessions at the archery range.  The unicorn snorted.

This wasn't his job.  His job was field work.  Reconnaissance.  Pathfinding.  Ever since the Royal Equestrian Intelligence Network had picked him up, his daily life had gotten more and more sedentary.  Fletcher trained himself mercilessly in an effort to keep the desk job from making a doorstop out of him, but without Army PT and the constant pressure from missions, it got harder and harder to keep up with his regimens each day.  Still, Fletcher prided himself on his laser-like focus and he wasn't about to quit for the sake of a few pompous pains in the flank at HQ.

The coffee mug drifted to Fletcher's lips again as he took another sip.  Quaggan dark roast was one of the more unique brews that came through the cafe.  Originating from specialty growers in northern Unyasi — land of the Zebras — it was well known only by government workers and a select few students from Canterlot University who would often take pride in the fact that their peers had never heard of it.  Quaggan had a unique flavor to it; a taste akin to hazelnuts, but with a bit of burn to it not dissimilar to fresh jalapenos.  It was often served with cocoa, the bitterness of the unsweetened chocolate precursor serving to temper the spice.  Whatever it was, it was strong enough to keep Fletcher from having his muzzle face first in his paperwork.

"Hot drink?  And none for me?"

"Get your own," Fletcher replied curtly.

The voice belonged to a unicorn mare, a bit taller than average, leggy and dextrous with an eyecatching figure and plenty of swagger to match.  Her brilliant red mane and tail were long and luxurious, impeccably styled though oddly practical, constrasting heavily with her pearl white coat.  Fletcher didn't even have to glance up to know she was turning heads as she entered.  She always did that.  It was actually quite vexing.  For a field agent, she certainly attracted more attention than Fletcher cared to deal with.

"A 'nice to see you, Corona' would have sufficed."  The fire-maned mare slinked around the table, sliding herself onto the cushion across from Fletcher.

Agent Corona Borealis was simultaneously Fletcher's biggest asset at the "other government agency" and his biggest liability.  Highly intelligent, magically capable, and ever the charmer, Corona was one of the best illusionists and social engineers in the game.  Of course, that was a double-edged sword when it came to accountability.  Corona had a tendency to play fast and loose with the rules, meaning Fletcher was usually the one to rein her in and in the end cover for her shenanigannery before OGA dropped the hammer on them.

"That would have been too easy," Fletcher muttered, half his muzzle already buried in his coffee mug.  "Since you obviously didn't come to chat, I presume you're here to prematurely terminate my break."

"Oh Fletcher, so brilliant!  However did you figure it out?" Corona exclaimed in the most mockingly dramatic fashion possible, complete with hoof emotes.

Fletcher scowled.  He really wasn't in the mood for silliness.  But if it got her out of his mane faster, he supposed he could indulge her.  "First, you didn't bring a hot beverage or a meal to the table.  Consuming food and drink occupies the space between conversation segments, making the pacing more natural and therefore less awkward.  Since food and drink occupy time, it can be assumed that you aren't going to be spending much time in the cafe.  You also made a direct line for my table at a brisk pace which was quite easy to hear, though probably not so easy for the mouth-breathers gawking at your flank two tables down."

Fletcher paused for a moment to set his mug down and refold his newspaper.  "Besides, it's kind of hard to miss that folio floating behind your head."

"Well, ace, you got me," Corona shrugged.  "Guess you get a prize!"

"Let's see it."  Fletcher tapped his hoof on the table impatiently.

Corona opened the folio daintily, producing a single document, this one stamped with the signet of the General of the Royal Equestrian Army.  Fletcher gripped the document with his magic, his hoof sliding along his chin as he read.  Body of text.  Fine print.  Approval signet.  This was the real deal.

"So the army wants me back?"

"Not quite.  The didn't forget Saraneighvo."

Fletcher gritted his teeth.  Saraneighvo.  The name still made him bristle.  "I should have figured they wouldn't.  Then again, neither should you."

"I haven't forgotten, Fletcher.  After all, I'm still — what's the word?  'Indebted.'"

Indebted.  A fancy euphemism for having saved her life in more ways than one.  Sometimes Fletcher had to wonder if it was really worth it.  Corona was a loose cannon, not just for OGA, but for him personally.  The situation was complicated in peacetime; now that there was a war on... Fletcher growled in exasperation.  He was going to have a hard time keeping things from breaking apart if Corona got on OGA's bad side.  But for better or for worse, they were saddled together and he wasn't about to let his partner fall.

"Right.  Indebted.  OGA seems to like you still.  Somehow.  Let's not change that."

Corona waved a hoof dismissively before leaning over and taking a whiff of Fletcher's caffeinated concoction.  "Quaggan dark.  As if your insides weren't bitter enough!"

"Cut to the chase, Corona."

"We've got a new assignment," she replied flatly.

"We?"

"Well, we're partners, after all," the fire-maned beauty smiled.  "You didn't think old Ironwing would let you off that easily, did you?"

Fletcher put a hoof to his forehead and sighed.  The former army captain was practically chomping at the bit to get back in the fight.  The field was where he belonged.  His skill set was much better suited to special activities than analyst work.  Corona knew it, Ironwing knew it, and he himself knew it.  If Ironwing could make that happen, he was going to jump at the opportunity... if he didn't buck Corona in the face first.

"When does he want to see us?"

"Now."

Fletcher groaned.  "At least give me time to get my hat and saddlebags."

Fletcher picked up his coffee as he stood up, doing an about face and heading straight for the door.  Corona slinked out from behind the table, flanking Fletcher as they made for the door.  Fletcher finished off his coffee, dropping the mug in the bussing bin as they left.  The two unicorns made their way out of the cafe, bound for Fletcher's office in the old wing of the building.

The REIN HQ was a mishmash of modern stylings and old architecture.  The cafe was a relatively recent addition to the building and thus carried with it a sleek, modern look with open spaces, curvy styling, and warm colors.  As they left the cafe and entered the office wing, the atmosphere changed dramatically.  The office wing was a shining example of old-school architecture.  Greco-Roaman pillars highlighting drab walls with creaking varnished hardwood floors that had seen far too many hooffalls were the highlights of the wing.  Despite its austerity, the office wing had a certain charm to it that Fletcher found comforting, especially after spending hours reviewing the perpetual deluge of reports coming from the western front.

"What do you think Ironwing has stowed in his saddlebags this time?" Fletcher mused as the trotted.

Corona shrugged.  "Hard to say.  He called me in, said he had new orders for you and then sent me to fetch you."

"Looks like the Army still doesn't want to touch me with a ten-foot pole."

"I'd like to think I'm far better-looking and far more functional than a ten-foot pole!"

"I'll have to think about that," Fletcher smirked.  "You make it tough to tell sometimes."

"Well, I never!"  Corona replied in mock consternation.

"You never, but I do."  The two shared a chuckle as they entered the office cluster.

Fletcher's office wasn't so much an office as it was an oversized cubicle with a desk, plenty of writing utilities, an amanuesis plate, and an impressive set of filing cabinets.  Not that anything terribly important was kept there; they had merely been a holdover from the previous occupant.  Fletcher would have had them thrown out and burned, but REIN seemed intent on keeping them there as a reminder of his new profession.

"The papers say to meet Ironwing in the war room." The former captain retrieved his fedora and suit jacket with his magic as he spoke, standing on his hind legs to replace both on his person.  "Ironwing must be desperate for adjutants if he wants to poach me from REIN just to do paperwork.  I wonder how comfy the desks are in the war room..."

"They never said which unit we were being attached to or what we were doing with them, only that we were being transferred in preparation for some new REA operations that were coming online soon."

"And?"

"Wake up, Fletcher.  Vagueness?  Wishy-washy wording?  Leveraging administrative authority?  Don't you think this smells like wetwork to you?"

"Smells like irony to me."

"Ugh, fine," Corona huffed, rolling her eyes.  "Stew in your little bin of self-pity over Saraneighvo while the rest of Equestria burns."

Fletcher glared at Corona, his expression a mixture of disbelief and ire.  Something clicked inside, causing a distinct change in Fletcher's ordinarily calm demeanor.  The former captain gritted his teeth as all desire to mollify his rage evaporated.

"You can't stand there and tell me REIN hasn't made every legal attempt to put me out to pasture short of firing me outright!"  His voice sank into a terse whisper from where it had risen to a shout.

"Look at this!"  He growled, waving a hoof around the cubicle.  "This is my punishment for doing what I thought was right!"

Fletcher was visibly trembling now, his voice still steady but his glare and the tremors making him look like he was primed to explode at any moment.  Putting his muzzle close to Corona's and glaring until he was sure he could shoot lightning into her eyes, Fletcher spat his retort, venom dripping from every word.  "So don't come and complain to me about self-pity.  Don't tell me I can't do my job.  I have no delusions about REIN treating me nicely.  I wouldn't expect them to.  But let it be known that I'm here to make sure Equestria doesn't burn to the ground and you can be gods damned sure I'll do my job until I die!"

Corona stared straight through Fletcher, her face expressionless, but her eyes clearly searching his.  What for, Fletcher would probably never know.  As long as he'd worked with Corona, she had been forever inscrutable.  Growling in frustration, Fletcher broke eye contact, whirling around to sling his saddlebags onto his back.

"It's an opportunity, Fletcher.  I've never known you to throw opportunities away." Corona was perfectly calm as she spoke, unfazed by Fletcher's outburst.  "Think of it as way to get OGA off your back for a bit.  Ironwing isn't the kind to get pushed around by sniveling REIN spooks with their own agenda.  He'll take care of you."

Corona was incisive and precise with her remarks, knowing just how to push the right buttons, while hardly seeming vulnerable to it herself.  But though Fletcher still seethed inside, Corona's subsequent pronouncement was strangely comforting.  Fletcher sighed.  She was right.  Again.  It was a way to escape the OGA watchdogs and get back into what was surely shaping up to be wetwork.

"I'll take your word for it," Fletcher finally replied.  "Let's go see the General."

************

The walk from headquarters to the palace complex was thankfully short.  The two continued into the main entrance of the palace complex, flashing their badges and being ushered in by the guards out front.  A tip of the hat, a wave of the hoof, a flash of the badge, and the two agents passed through the palace gates unmolested.

Finally, the Fletcher and Corona arrived at the Southwest Colonnade.  The covered walk's open side faced out into the valley.  Below lay the suburb of Solstice Heights, perhaps best known for its vineyards and wineries.  Farther out lay Ponyville, home of the Element Bearers and one of the better-known small towns in the Heartland region.  But it was neither the suburbs nor the quaint country village that caught Fletcher's eye.  Out near the horizon, thin plumes of black smoke rose high into the sky.  From the far distance, the sound of distant thunder reached Fletcher's ears.  Despite the calm in Canterlot, Equestria was still at war.

"Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?"  Corona quietly uttered.

Fletcher quickly glanced at Corona.  "About what we'll do once the war finally gets here?"

"No.  What started this all.  I mean I'm sure you've read the reports, but with something this big, how did REIN miss the signs?"

"I don't make the decisions, Corona.  I just inform the ponies who do.  Furthermore, I wasn't on assignment for the dispatches that came through on the eve of war."

"I wasn't blaming you, Fletcher."

"Who you blame now doesn't matter.  Eventually we'll all pay for our sins."

"Noble Fletcher, ever the martyr."

To Fletcher's dirty look, Corona replied only with a shrug and a gesture of her head to keep moving.  Finally, they arrived at the board room.  Corona stopped just short of the guards at the door, turning to face her partner, the slightest of smirks tugging at her lips.  Fletcher looked at her quizzically.

"Something up?"

The fire-maned mare lit her horn, enveloping Fletcher's tie and collar with her magic.  The former captain felt a tug left and a tug right before subconsciously gagging as Corona tugged down on the short end of the tie, fitting it snugly to his neck.  His scowl was rebutted with the smile of a filly who had just gotten away with mischief.

"Your tie was crooked," she nickered happily.  "Have to be presentable for the General!"

"Right..." Fletcher grumbled.

One more flash of ID badges admitted them to the inner sanctum of the Equestrian war effort.  Fletcher instantly tuned out the shifting of papers, the chattering of conversation, and the buzz of radio traffic around him, instead focusing on the brightly lit table that served as the war room's centerpiece.  As he approached, Fletcher was already analyzing the war map, guesstimating Aquellian troop movements and playing out possible scenarios in his head.

Fletcher's youth had been spent vexing the teachers with both his mathematical prowess and inability to remain focused in class.  While his parents had kept him occupied with advanced reading material and later on advanced classes, he had perpetually been a thorn in academia's flank.  The Army and REIN support work with V Order provided him the kind of engagement that kept him out of trouble.  His tactical brilliance had placed him on the fast track to promotion, which meant better pay, better assignments, and more challenges to cut his teeth on.

But his genius was a double-edged sword.  Ennui was a constant problem that Fletcher struggled with.  If he wasn't engaged, he wasn't happy and if he wasn't happy, neither was anypony else in the company.  After his first deployment in Stalliongrad, the local Guard units had even given him a nickname for his ferocious need to keep himself occupied: "Akula," Stallian for "shark."

"General Ironwing?  Agents Fletcher and Corona reporting for duty."

The former captain shook his head and blinked several times, suddenly realizing that he had been staring unblinking at the war map for the better part of a minute.  He hadn't even announced their presence or greeted anypony there!  Fletcher took a deep breath and turned his attention away from the map, instead focusing on the broad-shouldered uniformed stallion at the far end of the table.

The General stepped out from behind the war map, trotting towards the two with a smile.  Reaching Fletcher, Ironwing extended a hoof to shake.  "Agent Fletcher.  It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Don't remind me," Fletcher muttered, returning the shake.  "OGA's had me locked in the archives running intel analyses ever since the war broke out."

"So I've read," Ironwing replied, returning to all fours.  "OGA appreciates your talents, Fletcher."

"I'm sure they do, sir.  But if it were my choice, I'd rather have my bars back."

"I can't give you your bars back, Fletcher, but I can get you away from that desk."

To the General's remark, Corona could only issue a smirk, which Fletcher caught out of the corner of his eye.  Was he really putting them back in the field?  Were they really back to conducting direct action and strategic reconnaissance?  Was this the chance Fletcher had been waiting for since he'd been thrown into the bureaucracy?

"Color me interested," Fletcher piped up, perhaps a little more excited than he intended to sound. "What have we got?"

"Call it a special assignment," the General answered.  "I'll brief you all when the rest of the team arrives, which should be any minute now..."

General Ironwing could not have timed it any more perfectly.  With a loud clack, the doors to the war room unlocked, slowly opening to reveal three silhouettes backlit by the glow of twilight outside.  Fletcher squinted to make out faces and bodies, but could not until the three stepped past the threshold into the war room proper.  Fletcher's eyes first went wide with surprise before quickly narrowing as the switch of recognition clicked in his mind.

"You..."