Fallout: Equestria - Subject Deltaby DerpDaHerpChaptersChapter One: AwakeningChapter Two: PurposeChapter Three: DamnedChapter Four: RevelationChapter One: AwakeningI awake once again to the harsh, abrupt rattling of a heavy steel chain. Glancing upwards, I see an unkempt mare with a badly stained coat and a wide variety of grotesque piercings, carrying what appeared to be a large, dirty syringe full of an unknown liquid. Hearing her mutter "Just you fucking wait until we get a can opener big enough" brings a small smile to face. Lucky me. Normally they were more vocal than this. Clearly their attempts to force apart my armour have been futile so far. I imagine that I won't be allowed what little privacy my armour offers for much longer. Each day I am returned to my cell with a larger quantity of dents and scratches, each deeper than the last. I know in my mind that I must act soon, but I just cannot force myself to do it. On top of the heavy, near unbreakable chains that bind me, they subdue me with a sedative strong enough to knock me out for a long duration of time. I can only assume that this is what the mare is bringing to me. My imagination begins to run wild, picturing horrific scenes of an operating table, with a wide array of what can only be described as industrial grade metal working tools. Wait. Is this truly my imagination, or are these memories? Either way, I feel that it is safe to assume that the operations performed on me will not be of a particularly medical nature. Perhaps today will be the day that they pry open my suit, taking away my solitude, my only respite. I have long since learned that struggling is hopeless. But, I try nonetheless. Anything to make life a little more difficult for these bastards. I writhe in my chains, causing a large racket that the mare quickly tries to quieten with threats and insults. "Shut the fuck up!" Is repeated several times, and yet I continue, only to be rewarded with a shock from a strange baton like device, immediately blurring my vision. I feel a sharp, jarring pain in my arm before falling into the abyss of unconsciousness. "Lights out, Rust-bucket." oooooOOOOOooooo "Mister Wither, are you alright?" I am jerked back to reality, the grim face of a suited executive stares into my eyes. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. Just a little distracted, is all." His mouth curls into a slight smile, before turning grim once again. "This procedure will not be simple. You will undergo intense psychological and physiological changes. You will be a different pony, literally and figuratively." "Don't dress it up like I've got a choice in this, Doctor Spirit. That choice was taken from me long ago." I sigh to myself, having already accepted my fate. "I promise you, you'll be contributing massively to the war effort. Who knows, you might even end up saving one of the ministry mares!" He chuckles to himself, sounding strained and saddened. It sounds more like a sob than a chuckle, now that I think about it. I turn away from him, before speaking clearly. "Just... If I end up protecting anyone, don't let it be Pinkie Pie." He smirks, looking less strained than before. "Would you like me to explain the procedure?" I shrug, nonchalantly, and he continues in a rather monotone voice. "You've heard of Steel Rangers, I presume?" I respond with a curt nod. "Your armour will resemble that of the Steel Rangers. But with... extensive modifications. Among other things, your armour will be laced with soul binding enchantments, to bind you to both your ministry mare and your armour. If you become separated, for any reason, with either of these, for a large amount of time, then you will feel yourself weaken. Of course, these enchantments also serve to strengthen your armour beyond that of which a Steel Ranger could wish for. The soul is stronger than any steel." The room is filled with a pregnant pause, and I am the first to break the silence. "That sounds awfully light. You made it out to be a lot worse than that." He grimaces, his tone of voice now a lot darker. "I'm sparing you from the worst details." He stands up, stretching before striking the armoured steel door with his hoof. "Guards! We're finished here. Take him back to his cell." oooooOOOOOooooo Light pierces through my helmet into my eyes, and I hear a distinct buzzing sound, followed by muffled yells and shouts. "He's moving! Knock him out again! He could damage the components!" I attempt to raise my arm, only to find myself restrained by thick steel bands. Thick, but not as thick as the chains. I gasp to myself, before straining against the bands will all my might, earning a loud creaking sound for my efforts. A loud crack can be heard over the whines and shouts, before I notice a large, concealed figure approach me. I grunt and struggle, but I am powerless to stop the syringe from being injected into a port on my arm. I feel myself drift away once more. oooooOOOOOooooo A smiling mare drops a small sheet onto the table in front of me. It shimmers and glows unnaturally in the light, and I am forced to squint my eyes. The glow dies down quickly, and I am able to make out the vague shape of what appears to be a pony. Raising the sheet up to my eyes, I see the words "Series Alpha" written at the top of the sheet. Below it is an extremely detailed diagram of a heavily armoured pony, surrounded by scribbled notations and typed labels. "That's going to be you, sir." The mare smiles slightly, pity clear in her eyes. "I guessed." I reply sarcastically. The mare frowns and walks back to her desk. I'm pretty sure I caught a disapproving look there. Everyone seems to be judging me nowadays. Some look at me with pity in their eyes, some with anger, and some with indifference. But nobody knows how it feels to be me. To know what I have done, and to know how I'm going to be punished. They can call me a volunteer as much as they want, but my opinion is nothing to them. I'm nothing but a test subject. I turn my eyes back to the sheet, reading some of the annotations. I take note of all of the hidden latches, and begin to read through the talismans. At least 3 of them seem dedicated to binding me to the suit, with the rest enhancing my abilities or dulling my senses. One talisman in particular catches my eye. "Loyalty Talisman". What's that supposed to mean? I turn away from the sheet, intending to ask the mare, before I feel myself being tugged back to the world of the living. oooooOOOOOooooo My chains feel tighter than normal. Ever so slightly. Normally I wouldn't have even taken note of this, but there is very little else to take note of in absolute darkness. I strain against my chains for what seems like hours to no avail, and soon relax, resigned to the hopelessness of my situation. There was nothing to do but wait for my next visit from the scraggy mare. I rest my eyes for an indefinite length of time. Everything passes like a blur in here, hours synonymous with both seconds and days. I begin to recall the events of the previous week, and the memories I had uncovered. One particular memory stands out among the others, the fact that without a ministry mare and my suit, I would weaken and most likely die. As of yet, I am fairly certain that I am quite alive. Perhaps the operation was left unfinished? It is possible that I was left bound to my suit but not bound to a Ministry Mare. Such musings serve no purpose but to pass the time. Even if I was in danger of expiry, I have already proven beyond doubt that struggling is pointless. I resolve to bide my time, resting and feigning weakness until an opportunity presents itself. Although it is hazy and unclear, I am able to somewhat recall waking on a rudimentary operating table. The binds there were weaker, relatively easy to break. Perhaps then I can make my escape. I am disturbed from my plotting by the now familiar rattling of a chain, announcing the entry of the mare. However, it is not the mare that greets me, but a taller cloaked stallion. He seems much more... well off than the mare had been, perhaps holding more of a position of power. He does not taunt or goad me as he approaches, something that had become a kind of tradition with the mare. The light shining through the now open door lights up his features, allowing me to examine him. I see not an expression of contempt that was ordinary for the mare, but a look of curiosity and awe, akin to that of a foal. "What a marvelous creature..." He mutters to himself, before moving even closer to me. Strangely, I feel subdued, feeling no impulse to lash out at the stallion, instead simply watching with a calm attitude. He raises himself to his full height, just a few hands below me. Fairly tall for a stallion, I presume that most would feel intimidated or threatened by his height. "You are the most recent acquisition of Master Red-Eye. You are to serve him and a select few of his lessers, and nopony else. Do you understand?" I stare back at him, neither rejecting nor accepting his statement. This seems to satisfy him, as he steps back a few steps. "Behave well, and you shall be treated accordingly. Comply, and all will be simple. Rebel, and you will be punished. I cannot be clearer or more lenient than that. Do you understand?" 'Do you understand' seemed to be some sort of catchphrase for this stallion. I feel compelled to neither nod nor shake my head, and remain in silence. He mutters something beneath his breath, before turning and trotting away. Author's Note The whole first part was intended to sound more official and stiff (for lack of a better word). If you think I overdid it, just comment about it. I know I sure think I overdid it. As said in the description, I'm new to this, so constructive criticism is welcome. Chapter Two: PurposeVisits from the cloaked stallion are becoming increasingly regular. He seems... kinder than the others. Or, at least, understands my plight more than the others. He talks to me. He would talk, and I would listen. Not responding, just listening. He told me of my discovery, of how ponies had been scavenging an old Ministry building when they found what they had thought to be my corpse. After several hours of trying to pry open my armour, they gave up and left me there. When Red-Eye announced that he was paying handsomely for pre-War technology, the ponies had 'sold' information of my whereabouts to Red-Eye. Apparently, they had been given the greatest reward possible. Service. What evades me is why this stallion refers to those ponies as 'Raiders'. He has also yet to explain this 'War' to me. I have no knowledge of any large-scale conflict recently. He implies that I have been unconscious, or deactivated. How long was I out? All of these questions, and no method of inquiring about a direct answer. The most puzzling thing of all is this 'Red-Eye' he speaks of. I recall the Stallion referring to him as 'Master', almost affectionately. To me, it seems as if this stallion has forgotten that I am not from his time. He speaks as if writing a journal, or a diary. I am an entity to him, not a being. "Your purpose will become clear, with time." He repeats this, every day, at the end of our conversations. They've also stopped injecting me. I am uncertain of whether they achieved their goal or just gave up. In fact, I'm not sure I even want to know. I haven't needed to eat, sleep, or drink since I've been in this cell. I don't think I could if I tried. They don't bring me food or water. That must be a luxury that is beyond my grasp. Occasionally, I hear a scream, shout, or high pitched whine that jolts me back to an alert state of mind. Many of these noises sound muffled, as if their source is on the other side of a thick wall. A rustling sound startles me, and I glance upwards to see the cloaked Stallion standing before me. A puzzled expression flashes across my face. How did he approach me without me noticing him? He stares at me for an eternity, before smiling and walking forwards at a steady pace. As he nears, I notice a large wrench like tool in his hand, and my mind races, running through all of the possible outcomes. Finally he reaches me, and raises his utensil menacingly. I cringe, pulling away from him with all my might, before he locks the wrench onto a small winch to the side of me. I freeze, staring at the winch, before he utilizes the tool. I immediately feel the chain loosen, lowering me closer to the ground and making my position a whole world more comfortable. He could have said something, before making me panic. I am wracked with doubt. Nopony has been this kind to me, even before this so-called war. He lowers the tool and places it beside me, just outside of my reach. Tempting. I stare at the stallion as he makes his exit. He turns and glances at me before walking outside and slamming the door shut. oooooOOOOOooooo "Hey, Floral! Wanna' fix up my garden?" Snickers a voice behind me. I groan. I'd dealt with enough of this today. "What kind of name is Floral, anyway? Surely something more like Xylophone would be better? Suits you!" Gutter cackles, and his cronies follow suit. "You ain't paid your rent. Cough up, fifty percent interest." I turn to face Gutter, and peer into his eyes. "It doesn't matter how your psychiatrist explains it to you, Gutter, prison isn't the same as living in an apartment." The gang fall into a shocked silence. He snarls at me, bearing his teeth in an extravagant threat. "It ain't for livin' in prison. It's for allowing you to live in Equestria! Now, I think I'd better take somethin' extra for all the trouble you're causin'. Your teeth should do nicely!" He swings a hoof, glancing my face. Lucky hit. I hadn't been expecting a conflict so soon. I stagger backwards, slightly stunned by the blow. "Stand back! This guy's mine!" yells Gutter, presumably to his crew. How very cliché. He moves forward to strike me again as I charge to headbutt him. My head collides with his stomach, dizzying me and toppling him. He roars a kind of guttural, primal scream and jumps to his feet, fueled by adrenaline and rage. Unfortunately, rage clearly doesn't give me the same benefit. I am still recovering when he tackles me to the ground. It is all I can do to shield my face as he repeatedly pummels me with his boulder-like hooves. I scream in agony and fear, a river of blood flowing from my face and chest, before a loud crack pierces the thuds of Gutter's fists. "Enough!" The crack sounds again, but Gutter still shows no sign of stopping. A third crack, and Gutter yelps in pain and slumps to the ground. I am able to vaguely recognize the shape of a pony approaching me, wearing a large, orange rifle on a battlesaddle. "Someone get the Para-medics! Gutter's been at it again!" I lie whimpering on the ground, clutching my face. As the figure nears me, I recognize him as the warden of my prison block. "Easy now. Just stay still..." His words fade into silence. I watch his lips move, but no sound comes from them. The world gradually does the same, until I wake once again. oooooOOOOOooooo These memories... don't feel right. They feel like my memories, but they feel wrong. It might have just been my imagination; maybe I'm just going stir crazy. Actually, I know I'm going stir crazy, but I'm not hallucinating yet. Hopefully. I feel as if I can no longer trust anything. Not even my own memories. I hear the clopping of hoofsteps from outside my cell. I look at the door, hoping to stare down anypony that enters. The hoofsteps pause. I can barely make out the sound of hushed speech. Either there's one crazy pony here, talking to themselves, or, there's more than one pony. Personally, I'd rather it be a group. Crazy ponies are unpredictable. However, it is not a group that enters, nor is it a pony. I'm not even sure what it is. Towering a few hands taller than me, this hulking slab of muscle appears to be some kind of eagle-lion cross. It views me with what can only be described as a look of amusement. It casually strides towards me, swinging a pistol around one of its claws, pausing a few steps from me. "You've got quite a reputation, without even doing anything!" He pauses, presumably for emphasis, before smiling at me and continuing. "That's the wonderful thing about ponies. You don't even have to do anything; their imagination does it all for you." "Some of the stories are quite ridiculous. They're saying that you're an Ursa Major, compressed down into a suit." He laughs. A gruff, grating laugh that might make lesser ponies cringe. "Others say that you're a gift from Celestia. Sent to protect them, to purge the world of evil" He shakes his head, false pity in his eyes. "Now, we both know that isn't true." "If the documentation we've found is correct, all of your siblings went crazy. Or, at least, half of them did. The rest never woke up. We're searching for them at this very moment, you know, to give you some company." His features twist into a deformed expression of glee. "What am I saying? Monsters don't need company. Monsters are things to be tamed, to be used. You will be tamed, and we will use you." Just as I feel anger forming inside me, the room is filled with an abrupt silence. The griffin cocks his head, much like a hound. He frowns, before trotting back to the door, his claws clinking against the rough stone floor. "I'll be watching you, monster. We'll turn you into the perfect little attack-dog we need, just you wait." oooooOOOOOooooo Thump! My hoof slams into the pony shaped punching bag. Thump! The punching bag shudders violently. Thump! I can see the seams tearing apart. I raise my hoof to strike again, but pause. Was there any use in this? If I get caught, there'll be too many for me to fight hoof-to-hoof. "I see doubt in your eyes, unusual for one who soars and flies." I don't turn around to meet my elder eye-to-eye. "I am to be sent to Canterlot, where the fires of hatred burn red hot." I reply, still not taking my eyes from the punching bag. "We are aware that your task is no easy feat. Ponies of great stature, you must defeat. Alas, we must all do our duty, to preserve our great nation's beauty." It's all nonsense. Trivial, petty nonsense. I stay silent, ignoring my elder's presence. There is nothing more to be said, no more inspirational quotes to encourage me. I hear him sigh, then the gentle 'clop' of his hooves as he leaves me to my own devices. Oh so wise, yet oh so foolish. oooooOOOOOooooo The room is filled with light. For the first time, I am able to see my cell in its full glory. If you could call it glory; it was a mixture of broken plaster and exposed brickwork, with heavy iron blocks supporting my chains. I identify a glowing bulb as the source of the light, hanging from a tatty, stained cord. My gaze drifts towards the door, where what I had previously dismissed as idle scribblings catches my eye. Although it is difficult, after a second or two of concentrating, I am able to discern some text. 'Puppet' Author's Note I know that this chapter was mostly filler, but I just can't help it! I thought I should build on some character aspects, and set things up for future plot points. For the two of you that have looked on my profile, you'll know that I'm currently looking for editors and pre-readers. For the rest of you, you might be surprised to hear this. If you're willing to edit, then either comment down below or send me a PM. Thanks for reading, and as always, constructive criticism is always welcome. Chapter Three: DamnedoooooOOOOOooooo "I beg of you, don't go! Already, the tears of your children do flow!" Xendra's eyes seem to pierce into my soul, moist with tears, they bear down heavily on my heart and will. "The choice is not mine to make, my place among my brothers, I must take." Needless to say, it's difficult to console somebody while using the traditional rhyming tone, but, if I were to be caught speaking normally, it would bring disgrace upon my family and friends. Personally, I had no vendetta with the ponies. This conflict had nothing to do with me, or my tribe. But if we refused to contribute, we would be rejected by the others, openly denounced, slandered, and branded as traitors. They framed the ponies as the evil offspring of the stars, but I knew this was not the case. It was all to rile up the blood-lust among the more barbaric of the tribes. I rise to my true height, before embracing the now openly sobbing zebra. "All will be fine..." I coo to her, rubbing her mane gently. "Just bide your time." I know that this is a death mission. I'm not one to hide behind facades, but if there was any time for tact, it was now. If she was blissfully unaware of my impending demise, then who am I to force the truth upon her? I am to be sent straight into the heart of the flames. To Canterlot, the capital of our sworn nemesis. There is little to no chance of survival. oooooOOOOOooooo As it turns out, sight is not all that it was once cracked up to be. A room bathed with light is nothing more than a device of mockery when bound in chains. Unable to interact with my environment, I begin to consider whether darkness would be a preferable alternative. Previously, I had been caged alone. Now, I was surrounded by the tortured ravings of madponies. What had first appeared to be nothing but idle carvings soon begin to form script. I occupy my time by reading the (barely legible) scratchings that decorated my humble abode. With some being far more intelligent than others, mind you. Several merely read "Fuck you", whereas others seem to be highly detailed plans and calendars. Paying particular attention to the latter, I am able to roughly distinguish the date to around two hundred years forward from the Night of the Star-Birthed mare, a date which has been inexplicably imprinted upon my mind. I have had no further visits from... well, anypony. Not once have I been visited; both the Stallion and the Eagle-lion have been notably absent. I have seen neither hoof nor hide of the uncouth mare, either. I doubt they would forget about my presence; the stallion made me out to be some kind of great discovery. Despite how it may seem, my thoughts aren't completely clogged with the state of my cell. I also occupy myself with contemplating some of the many conundrums that puzzle me. The blackouts, in particular, are a notable object of consideration. Perhaps they are a side effect of the constant isolation I endure. Either way, they offer an escape from the mind numbingly dull brickwork of my cell. Curiously, they seem to happen most often after a visit, but occasionally occur when I have been left alone with my thoughts for too long. oooooOOOOOooooo Beautiful. This sleek monolith of a vehicle is absolutely beautiful. Twelve feet long, with a wingspan of eight feet. Although it appears to be a matte black and grey, camouflage talismans laced around the exterior maintain an actively-fluctuating screen. This screen simulates the natural colour of the sky, based on the pilot's vision. If this was a stealth bomber, then it would've been fitted with invisibility talismans, or perhaps camouflage talismans of a higher quality. But, alas, this was no bomber. This was a glider; cheap, easy to manufacture, but not capable of a return flight. "New Zebrica - 23156" has been engraved into the hull. Nothing more than a location of assembly, of little significance to anypony, or Zebra. Nobody had seen fit to designate this particular vessel a proper name. There were probably thousands of these, all across the nation, and thinking up a name would take valuable seconds. Seconds that could be used to make even more gliders. Glinting in the sunlight, a rounded glass pod catches my eye. Looking inside, I see what appears to be some kind of hide chair, and a luminous backpack. Embroidered on the backpack are the words 'Parachute', but that isn't what caught my attention. That award went to the navigational tools... or, lack of. My gaze was met by a garish red lever labelled 'Eject', and nothing else. Clearly, there was no expense spared. This was designed with cost efficiency in mind, not comfort, usability, or anything else. This was a vessel to be pointed and fired, not to be navigated. They didn't care where I landed, as long as I was able to cause some damage. Sighing, I pat the hull of my vehicle and turn away. Hopefully the trip would be a short one. oooooOOOOOooooo This definitely isn't right. My arms feel... light. I turn to identify the cause, and am shocked by a new revelation. The chains are gone. I lift my arms, and feel my features twist into a grin. Clearly they considered me docile enough to release; something I wish to prove wrong. At which point I was struck once again. This wasn't my cell. You know that phrase "You don't know what you have until it's gone"? Never has that been more true. When I first awoke, I didn't think I'd ever describe that dank, musty cell as homely. How wrong I was. It isn't that this room is disgusting. Oh no, it isn't bad by any stretch of the imagination. I guess I've just grown agoraphobic during my time alone. Surveying the room, I see a large, glass mirror against one wall, and a (presumably reinforced) steel door on the opposite door. Pleasantly, the walls seem to have been freshly plastered and painted. A suspicious amount of effort for a beast. I approach the mirror, my hoofsteps thudding against the ground. A lumbering beast stares back at me. A single oval shaped port glows on the front of what I assume to be its head. It closely resembles the diving suits of old, before more sleek, maneuverable designs had been utilised. I twist and turn, viewing myself from all angles. On my flank is a large, dirty white triangle. I'm not afraid or ashamed of what I see when I peer into the mirror; I just feel... detached. I know both consciously and subconsciously that the image is of myself, but... at the same time, there's something more to it. Before I can continue my introspective musings any further, I hear a faint clicking sound. Almost immediately after, my reflection fades from the mirror, revealing a tall, crimson pony. At first, neither of us say anything. With me staying silent for obvious reasons, I can only guess as to the reasons behind his silence. I seize the opportunity to examine him, and I assume he is doing the same. His most notable features are his cold, glossy, black mane, and, probably first and foremost, his piercing, metallic, red eye. Author's Note An even shorter chapter today! Chapter Four: RevelationWith nothing but the whirring of the talismans and my own irregular breathing to occupy my senses, I consider it high time I activated the one possession I brought with me to hell: my radio. Clicking it on, I am initially greeted with static. I rotate the dial, clicking through preset channels. Apparently, zebra radio stations don't reach this far out. Sighing, I tap the side of the device, switching it to manual tuning. Almost immediately, my capsule is flooded with cheery, pseudo-inspirational equestrian singing. Something about giggling at spirits, sang in an all too high pitched voice. Grunting, I turn back to my surroundings. I suppose terrible music is slightly better than silence, with plenty of emphasis on 'Slightly'. Surely, I must be nearing my destination. Settlements are becoming more frequent, housing becoming much denser. According to my instructor, I would know when I had reached Canterlot. An extravagant fort perched on a mountain, spires scraping the stars; all surrounded by hundreds of modern skyscrapers. My target is the fort, residence of the princesses and frequented by the 'Ministry Mares'. Taking out all of them at once would be a blessing; ruining their morale and rocketing ours. The war would be won on that day. But of course, only a fool would hope for the impossible; I'd be lucky if I manage to kill even one figure of importance. Hell, even with a direct hit, I hear the princesses are tough to kill. This mission is as much a scare-fest as a suicide mission; if I manage to strike the nations capital, how can the other cities even hope to stay safe? A babble of equestrian splurts from my radio. I had, of course, been educated in equestrian, just like every other zebra warrior, but occasionally my mind struggles to keep up. Since it's most likely to be irrelevant nonsense, I cast it from my mind and focus once again on my destination. I glance upwards towards the pseudo-mirror, only to be greeted by my reflection. Either my extended periods of solitary confinement are finally getting to me, or someone's acting to leave an impression of mystery and wonder. Grunting, I raise my foreleg to the mirror and press my hoof against it, making it creak and give slightly underneath my pressure. Though not shoddily crafted, it clearly isn't meant to stand against much force, and, after a moment of contemplation, an obvious thought comes to my mind: to smash the mirror. Taking a few minutes to mentally discuss the situation, I conclude that the best path of action would be to postpone any drastic decisions, for at least a small duration of time. My reasoning is that, if, after waiting for a time, nobody comes to collect me, or to interact with me, I can only assume that they wish for me to take an action myself. I can see it upon the horizon. Fairy tale towers climbing well above the clouds, majestically peering down upon us mere mortals. Frankly, while they may sicken my peers, I feel nothing but pity for those that reside within. Clearly, they strive to achieve better, to help those around them while bettering themselves in the process; a quality that seems to be rare within Zebra cultures. In my home village, we are taught to be independent. If we require something, we get it ourselves. We guard secrets jealously, and consistently work to put ourselves above those around us. New farming or brewing techniques aren't shared, they're hidden. A small, flashing light that had previously gone unnoticed catches my eye. Scrawled above it (in what looks similar to chalk) are the words 'Talisman Alert'. Though there is no noticeable change from within my craft, I am sure that from the ground, a previously inconspicuous patch of blue sky has suddenly changed into a black speck in the clouds. Knowing the urgency of the situation, I prepare my parachute backpack and wedge my hoof underneath the Ejection lever. Already, I hear the whines of a siren, calling for citizens to evacuate the streets, and I suspect that any anti-air precautions are being trained upon my vessel at this very moment. Since time is so valuable, I waste no more and pull the lever, bracing myself for a heavy impact. A strange sensation washes over me, and I feel my senses be dulled, most likely to prepare me for the bitter cold of the skies and the deafening rushing of wind past my ears. Leaning forwards, I position myself so as to be as streamlined as possible, while still leaving the straps of my parachute readily accessible. Thuds akin to cracks of thunder fill the air, and streaks of light pass by my body, sizzling and hissing, scalding my skin through sheer aura. I feel myself accelerating to ridiculous speeds, and hastily activate my parachute. Though I had been told of the effects I would feel, nothing could prepare me for the wrenching of the tough straps on the trunk of my body, as the parachute slows me from massive speeds to a steady descent. Though I can still hear the sounds of weaponry on the surface, my sky coloured parachute seems to be disguising me fairly well, and I presume that fire is being concentrated on my empty glider. Now was the time for action. Nopony has visited me, so I can only assume that they intended for me to make the first move. I examine the door; a rusted and badly vandalized piece of metal, but still sturdy, and the hinges aren't even slightly loose. The walls, too, are strong and firm to the touch, leaving only the mirror as a potential route. Only now, as I trot around the room, do I realize the true impact that such long periods of inactivity has had on me. My joints and muscles ache, a biting pain shoots up my spine as I lift my head, and my hooves feel cracked and sore. As I lift my forehoof to the mirror, (metaphorical) daggers stab deep into my arm and force it back down. I clench my teeth and try again, managing to rest my hoof against the mirror. After a few seconds, the pain subsides and I can once again use my leg. Moving myself into a more suitable position, I rear up on my hind legs and raise my forehooves, before bringing them down upon the mirror with as much force as I can muster. A thump resonates through the room, as the mirror noticeably bends and quakes beneath my might. I strike the mirror once more, yet still the mirror does not give completely. Again, again and again, the mirror curves but does not break. Mentally shouting in anger, I throw my whole body into the mirror, sending myself flying through the mirror. Glass and metal shards fill the air around me, yet do no damage to me or my suit, before falling to the floor. Unlike the shards of glass, my descent stops much more abruptly, following my impact with a wall.
Chapter One: AwakeningI awake once again to the harsh, abrupt rattling of a heavy steel chain. Glancing upwards, I see an unkempt mare with a badly stained coat and a wide variety of grotesque piercings, carrying what appeared to be a large, dirty syringe full of an unknown liquid. Hearing her mutter "Just you fucking wait until we get a can opener big enough" brings a small smile to face. Lucky me. Normally they were more vocal than this. Clearly their attempts to force apart my armour have been futile so far. I imagine that I won't be allowed what little privacy my armour offers for much longer. Each day I am returned to my cell with a larger quantity of dents and scratches, each deeper than the last. I know in my mind that I must act soon, but I just cannot force myself to do it. On top of the heavy, near unbreakable chains that bind me, they subdue me with a sedative strong enough to knock me out for a long duration of time. I can only assume that this is what the mare is bringing to me. My imagination begins to run wild, picturing horrific scenes of an operating table, with a wide array of what can only be described as industrial grade metal working tools. Wait. Is this truly my imagination, or are these memories? Either way, I feel that it is safe to assume that the operations performed on me will not be of a particularly medical nature. Perhaps today will be the day that they pry open my suit, taking away my solitude, my only respite. I have long since learned that struggling is hopeless. But, I try nonetheless. Anything to make life a little more difficult for these bastards. I writhe in my chains, causing a large racket that the mare quickly tries to quieten with threats and insults. "Shut the fuck up!" Is repeated several times, and yet I continue, only to be rewarded with a shock from a strange baton like device, immediately blurring my vision. I feel a sharp, jarring pain in my arm before falling into the abyss of unconsciousness. "Lights out, Rust-bucket." oooooOOOOOooooo "Mister Wither, are you alright?" I am jerked back to reality, the grim face of a suited executive stares into my eyes. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. Just a little distracted, is all." His mouth curls into a slight smile, before turning grim once again. "This procedure will not be simple. You will undergo intense psychological and physiological changes. You will be a different pony, literally and figuratively." "Don't dress it up like I've got a choice in this, Doctor Spirit. That choice was taken from me long ago." I sigh to myself, having already accepted my fate. "I promise you, you'll be contributing massively to the war effort. Who knows, you might even end up saving one of the ministry mares!" He chuckles to himself, sounding strained and saddened. It sounds more like a sob than a chuckle, now that I think about it. I turn away from him, before speaking clearly. "Just... If I end up protecting anyone, don't let it be Pinkie Pie." He smirks, looking less strained than before. "Would you like me to explain the procedure?" I shrug, nonchalantly, and he continues in a rather monotone voice. "You've heard of Steel Rangers, I presume?" I respond with a curt nod. "Your armour will resemble that of the Steel Rangers. But with... extensive modifications. Among other things, your armour will be laced with soul binding enchantments, to bind you to both your ministry mare and your armour. If you become separated, for any reason, with either of these, for a large amount of time, then you will feel yourself weaken. Of course, these enchantments also serve to strengthen your armour beyond that of which a Steel Ranger could wish for. The soul is stronger than any steel." The room is filled with a pregnant pause, and I am the first to break the silence. "That sounds awfully light. You made it out to be a lot worse than that." He grimaces, his tone of voice now a lot darker. "I'm sparing you from the worst details." He stands up, stretching before striking the armoured steel door with his hoof. "Guards! We're finished here. Take him back to his cell." oooooOOOOOooooo Light pierces through my helmet into my eyes, and I hear a distinct buzzing sound, followed by muffled yells and shouts. "He's moving! Knock him out again! He could damage the components!" I attempt to raise my arm, only to find myself restrained by thick steel bands. Thick, but not as thick as the chains. I gasp to myself, before straining against the bands will all my might, earning a loud creaking sound for my efforts. A loud crack can be heard over the whines and shouts, before I notice a large, concealed figure approach me. I grunt and struggle, but I am powerless to stop the syringe from being injected into a port on my arm. I feel myself drift away once more. oooooOOOOOooooo A smiling mare drops a small sheet onto the table in front of me. It shimmers and glows unnaturally in the light, and I am forced to squint my eyes. The glow dies down quickly, and I am able to make out the vague shape of what appears to be a pony. Raising the sheet up to my eyes, I see the words "Series Alpha" written at the top of the sheet. Below it is an extremely detailed diagram of a heavily armoured pony, surrounded by scribbled notations and typed labels. "That's going to be you, sir." The mare smiles slightly, pity clear in her eyes. "I guessed." I reply sarcastically. The mare frowns and walks back to her desk. I'm pretty sure I caught a disapproving look there. Everyone seems to be judging me nowadays. Some look at me with pity in their eyes, some with anger, and some with indifference. But nobody knows how it feels to be me. To know what I have done, and to know how I'm going to be punished. They can call me a volunteer as much as they want, but my opinion is nothing to them. I'm nothing but a test subject. I turn my eyes back to the sheet, reading some of the annotations. I take note of all of the hidden latches, and begin to read through the talismans. At least 3 of them seem dedicated to binding me to the suit, with the rest enhancing my abilities or dulling my senses. One talisman in particular catches my eye. "Loyalty Talisman". What's that supposed to mean? I turn away from the sheet, intending to ask the mare, before I feel myself being tugged back to the world of the living. oooooOOOOOooooo My chains feel tighter than normal. Ever so slightly. Normally I wouldn't have even taken note of this, but there is very little else to take note of in absolute darkness. I strain against my chains for what seems like hours to no avail, and soon relax, resigned to the hopelessness of my situation. There was nothing to do but wait for my next visit from the scraggy mare. I rest my eyes for an indefinite length of time. Everything passes like a blur in here, hours synonymous with both seconds and days. I begin to recall the events of the previous week, and the memories I had uncovered. One particular memory stands out among the others, the fact that without a ministry mare and my suit, I would weaken and most likely die. As of yet, I am fairly certain that I am quite alive. Perhaps the operation was left unfinished? It is possible that I was left bound to my suit but not bound to a Ministry Mare. Such musings serve no purpose but to pass the time. Even if I was in danger of expiry, I have already proven beyond doubt that struggling is pointless. I resolve to bide my time, resting and feigning weakness until an opportunity presents itself. Although it is hazy and unclear, I am able to somewhat recall waking on a rudimentary operating table. The binds there were weaker, relatively easy to break. Perhaps then I can make my escape. I am disturbed from my plotting by the now familiar rattling of a chain, announcing the entry of the mare. However, it is not the mare that greets me, but a taller cloaked stallion. He seems much more... well off than the mare had been, perhaps holding more of a position of power. He does not taunt or goad me as he approaches, something that had become a kind of tradition with the mare. The light shining through the now open door lights up his features, allowing me to examine him. I see not an expression of contempt that was ordinary for the mare, but a look of curiosity and awe, akin to that of a foal. "What a marvelous creature..." He mutters to himself, before moving even closer to me. Strangely, I feel subdued, feeling no impulse to lash out at the stallion, instead simply watching with a calm attitude. He raises himself to his full height, just a few hands below me. Fairly tall for a stallion, I presume that most would feel intimidated or threatened by his height. "You are the most recent acquisition of Master Red-Eye. You are to serve him and a select few of his lessers, and nopony else. Do you understand?" I stare back at him, neither rejecting nor accepting his statement. This seems to satisfy him, as he steps back a few steps. "Behave well, and you shall be treated accordingly. Comply, and all will be simple. Rebel, and you will be punished. I cannot be clearer or more lenient than that. Do you understand?" 'Do you understand' seemed to be some sort of catchphrase for this stallion. I feel compelled to neither nod nor shake my head, and remain in silence. He mutters something beneath his breath, before turning and trotting away. Author's Note The whole first part was intended to sound more official and stiff (for lack of a better word). If you think I overdid it, just comment about it. I know I sure think I overdid it. As said in the description, I'm new to this, so constructive criticism is welcome.
Chapter Two: PurposeVisits from the cloaked stallion are becoming increasingly regular. He seems... kinder than the others. Or, at least, understands my plight more than the others. He talks to me. He would talk, and I would listen. Not responding, just listening. He told me of my discovery, of how ponies had been scavenging an old Ministry building when they found what they had thought to be my corpse. After several hours of trying to pry open my armour, they gave up and left me there. When Red-Eye announced that he was paying handsomely for pre-War technology, the ponies had 'sold' information of my whereabouts to Red-Eye. Apparently, they had been given the greatest reward possible. Service. What evades me is why this stallion refers to those ponies as 'Raiders'. He has also yet to explain this 'War' to me. I have no knowledge of any large-scale conflict recently. He implies that I have been unconscious, or deactivated. How long was I out? All of these questions, and no method of inquiring about a direct answer. The most puzzling thing of all is this 'Red-Eye' he speaks of. I recall the Stallion referring to him as 'Master', almost affectionately. To me, it seems as if this stallion has forgotten that I am not from his time. He speaks as if writing a journal, or a diary. I am an entity to him, not a being. "Your purpose will become clear, with time." He repeats this, every day, at the end of our conversations. They've also stopped injecting me. I am uncertain of whether they achieved their goal or just gave up. In fact, I'm not sure I even want to know. I haven't needed to eat, sleep, or drink since I've been in this cell. I don't think I could if I tried. They don't bring me food or water. That must be a luxury that is beyond my grasp. Occasionally, I hear a scream, shout, or high pitched whine that jolts me back to an alert state of mind. Many of these noises sound muffled, as if their source is on the other side of a thick wall. A rustling sound startles me, and I glance upwards to see the cloaked Stallion standing before me. A puzzled expression flashes across my face. How did he approach me without me noticing him? He stares at me for an eternity, before smiling and walking forwards at a steady pace. As he nears, I notice a large wrench like tool in his hand, and my mind races, running through all of the possible outcomes. Finally he reaches me, and raises his utensil menacingly. I cringe, pulling away from him with all my might, before he locks the wrench onto a small winch to the side of me. I freeze, staring at the winch, before he utilizes the tool. I immediately feel the chain loosen, lowering me closer to the ground and making my position a whole world more comfortable. He could have said something, before making me panic. I am wracked with doubt. Nopony has been this kind to me, even before this so-called war. He lowers the tool and places it beside me, just outside of my reach. Tempting. I stare at the stallion as he makes his exit. He turns and glances at me before walking outside and slamming the door shut. oooooOOOOOooooo "Hey, Floral! Wanna' fix up my garden?" Snickers a voice behind me. I groan. I'd dealt with enough of this today. "What kind of name is Floral, anyway? Surely something more like Xylophone would be better? Suits you!" Gutter cackles, and his cronies follow suit. "You ain't paid your rent. Cough up, fifty percent interest." I turn to face Gutter, and peer into his eyes. "It doesn't matter how your psychiatrist explains it to you, Gutter, prison isn't the same as living in an apartment." The gang fall into a shocked silence. He snarls at me, bearing his teeth in an extravagant threat. "It ain't for livin' in prison. It's for allowing you to live in Equestria! Now, I think I'd better take somethin' extra for all the trouble you're causin'. Your teeth should do nicely!" He swings a hoof, glancing my face. Lucky hit. I hadn't been expecting a conflict so soon. I stagger backwards, slightly stunned by the blow. "Stand back! This guy's mine!" yells Gutter, presumably to his crew. How very cliché. He moves forward to strike me again as I charge to headbutt him. My head collides with his stomach, dizzying me and toppling him. He roars a kind of guttural, primal scream and jumps to his feet, fueled by adrenaline and rage. Unfortunately, rage clearly doesn't give me the same benefit. I am still recovering when he tackles me to the ground. It is all I can do to shield my face as he repeatedly pummels me with his boulder-like hooves. I scream in agony and fear, a river of blood flowing from my face and chest, before a loud crack pierces the thuds of Gutter's fists. "Enough!" The crack sounds again, but Gutter still shows no sign of stopping. A third crack, and Gutter yelps in pain and slumps to the ground. I am able to vaguely recognize the shape of a pony approaching me, wearing a large, orange rifle on a battlesaddle. "Someone get the Para-medics! Gutter's been at it again!" I lie whimpering on the ground, clutching my face. As the figure nears me, I recognize him as the warden of my prison block. "Easy now. Just stay still..." His words fade into silence. I watch his lips move, but no sound comes from them. The world gradually does the same, until I wake once again. oooooOOOOOooooo These memories... don't feel right. They feel like my memories, but they feel wrong. It might have just been my imagination; maybe I'm just going stir crazy. Actually, I know I'm going stir crazy, but I'm not hallucinating yet. Hopefully. I feel as if I can no longer trust anything. Not even my own memories. I hear the clopping of hoofsteps from outside my cell. I look at the door, hoping to stare down anypony that enters. The hoofsteps pause. I can barely make out the sound of hushed speech. Either there's one crazy pony here, talking to themselves, or, there's more than one pony. Personally, I'd rather it be a group. Crazy ponies are unpredictable. However, it is not a group that enters, nor is it a pony. I'm not even sure what it is. Towering a few hands taller than me, this hulking slab of muscle appears to be some kind of eagle-lion cross. It views me with what can only be described as a look of amusement. It casually strides towards me, swinging a pistol around one of its claws, pausing a few steps from me. "You've got quite a reputation, without even doing anything!" He pauses, presumably for emphasis, before smiling at me and continuing. "That's the wonderful thing about ponies. You don't even have to do anything; their imagination does it all for you." "Some of the stories are quite ridiculous. They're saying that you're an Ursa Major, compressed down into a suit." He laughs. A gruff, grating laugh that might make lesser ponies cringe. "Others say that you're a gift from Celestia. Sent to protect them, to purge the world of evil" He shakes his head, false pity in his eyes. "Now, we both know that isn't true." "If the documentation we've found is correct, all of your siblings went crazy. Or, at least, half of them did. The rest never woke up. We're searching for them at this very moment, you know, to give you some company." His features twist into a deformed expression of glee. "What am I saying? Monsters don't need company. Monsters are things to be tamed, to be used. You will be tamed, and we will use you." Just as I feel anger forming inside me, the room is filled with an abrupt silence. The griffin cocks his head, much like a hound. He frowns, before trotting back to the door, his claws clinking against the rough stone floor. "I'll be watching you, monster. We'll turn you into the perfect little attack-dog we need, just you wait." oooooOOOOOooooo Thump! My hoof slams into the pony shaped punching bag. Thump! The punching bag shudders violently. Thump! I can see the seams tearing apart. I raise my hoof to strike again, but pause. Was there any use in this? If I get caught, there'll be too many for me to fight hoof-to-hoof. "I see doubt in your eyes, unusual for one who soars and flies." I don't turn around to meet my elder eye-to-eye. "I am to be sent to Canterlot, where the fires of hatred burn red hot." I reply, still not taking my eyes from the punching bag. "We are aware that your task is no easy feat. Ponies of great stature, you must defeat. Alas, we must all do our duty, to preserve our great nation's beauty." It's all nonsense. Trivial, petty nonsense. I stay silent, ignoring my elder's presence. There is nothing more to be said, no more inspirational quotes to encourage me. I hear him sigh, then the gentle 'clop' of his hooves as he leaves me to my own devices. Oh so wise, yet oh so foolish. oooooOOOOOooooo The room is filled with light. For the first time, I am able to see my cell in its full glory. If you could call it glory; it was a mixture of broken plaster and exposed brickwork, with heavy iron blocks supporting my chains. I identify a glowing bulb as the source of the light, hanging from a tatty, stained cord. My gaze drifts towards the door, where what I had previously dismissed as idle scribblings catches my eye. Although it is difficult, after a second or two of concentrating, I am able to discern some text. 'Puppet' Author's Note I know that this chapter was mostly filler, but I just can't help it! I thought I should build on some character aspects, and set things up for future plot points. For the two of you that have looked on my profile, you'll know that I'm currently looking for editors and pre-readers. For the rest of you, you might be surprised to hear this. If you're willing to edit, then either comment down below or send me a PM. Thanks for reading, and as always, constructive criticism is always welcome.
Chapter Three: DamnedoooooOOOOOooooo "I beg of you, don't go! Already, the tears of your children do flow!" Xendra's eyes seem to pierce into my soul, moist with tears, they bear down heavily on my heart and will. "The choice is not mine to make, my place among my brothers, I must take." Needless to say, it's difficult to console somebody while using the traditional rhyming tone, but, if I were to be caught speaking normally, it would bring disgrace upon my family and friends. Personally, I had no vendetta with the ponies. This conflict had nothing to do with me, or my tribe. But if we refused to contribute, we would be rejected by the others, openly denounced, slandered, and branded as traitors. They framed the ponies as the evil offspring of the stars, but I knew this was not the case. It was all to rile up the blood-lust among the more barbaric of the tribes. I rise to my true height, before embracing the now openly sobbing zebra. "All will be fine..." I coo to her, rubbing her mane gently. "Just bide your time." I know that this is a death mission. I'm not one to hide behind facades, but if there was any time for tact, it was now. If she was blissfully unaware of my impending demise, then who am I to force the truth upon her? I am to be sent straight into the heart of the flames. To Canterlot, the capital of our sworn nemesis. There is little to no chance of survival. oooooOOOOOooooo As it turns out, sight is not all that it was once cracked up to be. A room bathed with light is nothing more than a device of mockery when bound in chains. Unable to interact with my environment, I begin to consider whether darkness would be a preferable alternative. Previously, I had been caged alone. Now, I was surrounded by the tortured ravings of madponies. What had first appeared to be nothing but idle carvings soon begin to form script. I occupy my time by reading the (barely legible) scratchings that decorated my humble abode. With some being far more intelligent than others, mind you. Several merely read "Fuck you", whereas others seem to be highly detailed plans and calendars. Paying particular attention to the latter, I am able to roughly distinguish the date to around two hundred years forward from the Night of the Star-Birthed mare, a date which has been inexplicably imprinted upon my mind. I have had no further visits from... well, anypony. Not once have I been visited; both the Stallion and the Eagle-lion have been notably absent. I have seen neither hoof nor hide of the uncouth mare, either. I doubt they would forget about my presence; the stallion made me out to be some kind of great discovery. Despite how it may seem, my thoughts aren't completely clogged with the state of my cell. I also occupy myself with contemplating some of the many conundrums that puzzle me. The blackouts, in particular, are a notable object of consideration. Perhaps they are a side effect of the constant isolation I endure. Either way, they offer an escape from the mind numbingly dull brickwork of my cell. Curiously, they seem to happen most often after a visit, but occasionally occur when I have been left alone with my thoughts for too long. oooooOOOOOooooo Beautiful. This sleek monolith of a vehicle is absolutely beautiful. Twelve feet long, with a wingspan of eight feet. Although it appears to be a matte black and grey, camouflage talismans laced around the exterior maintain an actively-fluctuating screen. This screen simulates the natural colour of the sky, based on the pilot's vision. If this was a stealth bomber, then it would've been fitted with invisibility talismans, or perhaps camouflage talismans of a higher quality. But, alas, this was no bomber. This was a glider; cheap, easy to manufacture, but not capable of a return flight. "New Zebrica - 23156" has been engraved into the hull. Nothing more than a location of assembly, of little significance to anypony, or Zebra. Nobody had seen fit to designate this particular vessel a proper name. There were probably thousands of these, all across the nation, and thinking up a name would take valuable seconds. Seconds that could be used to make even more gliders. Glinting in the sunlight, a rounded glass pod catches my eye. Looking inside, I see what appears to be some kind of hide chair, and a luminous backpack. Embroidered on the backpack are the words 'Parachute', but that isn't what caught my attention. That award went to the navigational tools... or, lack of. My gaze was met by a garish red lever labelled 'Eject', and nothing else. Clearly, there was no expense spared. This was designed with cost efficiency in mind, not comfort, usability, or anything else. This was a vessel to be pointed and fired, not to be navigated. They didn't care where I landed, as long as I was able to cause some damage. Sighing, I pat the hull of my vehicle and turn away. Hopefully the trip would be a short one. oooooOOOOOooooo This definitely isn't right. My arms feel... light. I turn to identify the cause, and am shocked by a new revelation. The chains are gone. I lift my arms, and feel my features twist into a grin. Clearly they considered me docile enough to release; something I wish to prove wrong. At which point I was struck once again. This wasn't my cell. You know that phrase "You don't know what you have until it's gone"? Never has that been more true. When I first awoke, I didn't think I'd ever describe that dank, musty cell as homely. How wrong I was. It isn't that this room is disgusting. Oh no, it isn't bad by any stretch of the imagination. I guess I've just grown agoraphobic during my time alone. Surveying the room, I see a large, glass mirror against one wall, and a (presumably reinforced) steel door on the opposite door. Pleasantly, the walls seem to have been freshly plastered and painted. A suspicious amount of effort for a beast. I approach the mirror, my hoofsteps thudding against the ground. A lumbering beast stares back at me. A single oval shaped port glows on the front of what I assume to be its head. It closely resembles the diving suits of old, before more sleek, maneuverable designs had been utilised. I twist and turn, viewing myself from all angles. On my flank is a large, dirty white triangle. I'm not afraid or ashamed of what I see when I peer into the mirror; I just feel... detached. I know both consciously and subconsciously that the image is of myself, but... at the same time, there's something more to it. Before I can continue my introspective musings any further, I hear a faint clicking sound. Almost immediately after, my reflection fades from the mirror, revealing a tall, crimson pony. At first, neither of us say anything. With me staying silent for obvious reasons, I can only guess as to the reasons behind his silence. I seize the opportunity to examine him, and I assume he is doing the same. His most notable features are his cold, glossy, black mane, and, probably first and foremost, his piercing, metallic, red eye. Author's Note An even shorter chapter today!
Chapter Four: RevelationWith nothing but the whirring of the talismans and my own irregular breathing to occupy my senses, I consider it high time I activated the one possession I brought with me to hell: my radio. Clicking it on, I am initially greeted with static. I rotate the dial, clicking through preset channels. Apparently, zebra radio stations don't reach this far out. Sighing, I tap the side of the device, switching it to manual tuning. Almost immediately, my capsule is flooded with cheery, pseudo-inspirational equestrian singing. Something about giggling at spirits, sang in an all too high pitched voice. Grunting, I turn back to my surroundings. I suppose terrible music is slightly better than silence, with plenty of emphasis on 'Slightly'. Surely, I must be nearing my destination. Settlements are becoming more frequent, housing becoming much denser. According to my instructor, I would know when I had reached Canterlot. An extravagant fort perched on a mountain, spires scraping the stars; all surrounded by hundreds of modern skyscrapers. My target is the fort, residence of the princesses and frequented by the 'Ministry Mares'. Taking out all of them at once would be a blessing; ruining their morale and rocketing ours. The war would be won on that day. But of course, only a fool would hope for the impossible; I'd be lucky if I manage to kill even one figure of importance. Hell, even with a direct hit, I hear the princesses are tough to kill. This mission is as much a scare-fest as a suicide mission; if I manage to strike the nations capital, how can the other cities even hope to stay safe? A babble of equestrian splurts from my radio. I had, of course, been educated in equestrian, just like every other zebra warrior, but occasionally my mind struggles to keep up. Since it's most likely to be irrelevant nonsense, I cast it from my mind and focus once again on my destination. I glance upwards towards the pseudo-mirror, only to be greeted by my reflection. Either my extended periods of solitary confinement are finally getting to me, or someone's acting to leave an impression of mystery and wonder. Grunting, I raise my foreleg to the mirror and press my hoof against it, making it creak and give slightly underneath my pressure. Though not shoddily crafted, it clearly isn't meant to stand against much force, and, after a moment of contemplation, an obvious thought comes to my mind: to smash the mirror. Taking a few minutes to mentally discuss the situation, I conclude that the best path of action would be to postpone any drastic decisions, for at least a small duration of time. My reasoning is that, if, after waiting for a time, nobody comes to collect me, or to interact with me, I can only assume that they wish for me to take an action myself. I can see it upon the horizon. Fairy tale towers climbing well above the clouds, majestically peering down upon us mere mortals. Frankly, while they may sicken my peers, I feel nothing but pity for those that reside within. Clearly, they strive to achieve better, to help those around them while bettering themselves in the process; a quality that seems to be rare within Zebra cultures. In my home village, we are taught to be independent. If we require something, we get it ourselves. We guard secrets jealously, and consistently work to put ourselves above those around us. New farming or brewing techniques aren't shared, they're hidden. A small, flashing light that had previously gone unnoticed catches my eye. Scrawled above it (in what looks similar to chalk) are the words 'Talisman Alert'. Though there is no noticeable change from within my craft, I am sure that from the ground, a previously inconspicuous patch of blue sky has suddenly changed into a black speck in the clouds. Knowing the urgency of the situation, I prepare my parachute backpack and wedge my hoof underneath the Ejection lever. Already, I hear the whines of a siren, calling for citizens to evacuate the streets, and I suspect that any anti-air precautions are being trained upon my vessel at this very moment. Since time is so valuable, I waste no more and pull the lever, bracing myself for a heavy impact. A strange sensation washes over me, and I feel my senses be dulled, most likely to prepare me for the bitter cold of the skies and the deafening rushing of wind past my ears. Leaning forwards, I position myself so as to be as streamlined as possible, while still leaving the straps of my parachute readily accessible. Thuds akin to cracks of thunder fill the air, and streaks of light pass by my body, sizzling and hissing, scalding my skin through sheer aura. I feel myself accelerating to ridiculous speeds, and hastily activate my parachute. Though I had been told of the effects I would feel, nothing could prepare me for the wrenching of the tough straps on the trunk of my body, as the parachute slows me from massive speeds to a steady descent. Though I can still hear the sounds of weaponry on the surface, my sky coloured parachute seems to be disguising me fairly well, and I presume that fire is being concentrated on my empty glider. Now was the time for action. Nopony has visited me, so I can only assume that they intended for me to make the first move. I examine the door; a rusted and badly vandalized piece of metal, but still sturdy, and the hinges aren't even slightly loose. The walls, too, are strong and firm to the touch, leaving only the mirror as a potential route. Only now, as I trot around the room, do I realize the true impact that such long periods of inactivity has had on me. My joints and muscles ache, a biting pain shoots up my spine as I lift my head, and my hooves feel cracked and sore. As I lift my forehoof to the mirror, (metaphorical) daggers stab deep into my arm and force it back down. I clench my teeth and try again, managing to rest my hoof against the mirror. After a few seconds, the pain subsides and I can once again use my leg. Moving myself into a more suitable position, I rear up on my hind legs and raise my forehooves, before bringing them down upon the mirror with as much force as I can muster. A thump resonates through the room, as the mirror noticeably bends and quakes beneath my might. I strike the mirror once more, yet still the mirror does not give completely. Again, again and again, the mirror curves but does not break. Mentally shouting in anger, I throw my whole body into the mirror, sending myself flying through the mirror. Glass and metal shards fill the air around me, yet do no damage to me or my suit, before falling to the floor. Unlike the shards of glass, my descent stops much more abruptly, following my impact with a wall.
