The air stank of ice and death, the walls themselves covered in a thin veneer of glass that collected the rays of dim hanging bulbs. The rusted sheet that made the room shown like giant, flimsy slabs of jet, chocolate, and silver under frost and bulb light. Nothing was left untainted by the dawn of winter; chairs, terminals, desks, all painted with the whites and nothing of chill.

Cold, Torrid thought, breath leaving a sizable cloud, all this is.

Under layers of steel, kevlar fibers, cotton, and wool, the air still managed to pierce his heart, leaving the pony shivering and his ill fitting battle saddle clattering. Here, only the dead resided; corpses of countless brothers, left to rot inside their tombs of metal and ice. Torrid was faintly discouraged looking among the dead, shriveled things that he had once called Carmine, Sable, Fawn, Argent…

The names seemed only the swirl in the blank, dutiful mind of the knight as he went about stripping his brothers and sisters of their dog tags, each glowing with the faint blue of their transponder crystal. Endless, the task seemed with around twenty of the metal discs clinking around Torrid's own neck, family spanning the entire length of the shack. It took a bit of courage to clench his teeth around each beaded chain, knowing the pony behind the helm

Monster, the knight fumed, ripping another chain, not even that. Thing. A fucking thing.

A thin crackle filled the icebox, having the only living being within the room perk up slightly. “Tango respond. Over.”

Pulling another tag around his neck, Torrid clicked the receiver button at the side of his helmet. "Command, this is Tango. Over”

Crackle. “Tango, have you recovered the package? Over.”

Torrid hesitated to raise a hoof, but pressed the button again. “Negative. Alpha Company is dead. Over.”

There was a small pause. “All of them? Over.”

“Roger,” Torrid grunted, ripping another dog tag for his collection.

Crackle. “ Cause of death? Over.”

That never seemed to have dawned on the frigid knight, having only seen the bodies of metal colts and mares. A quick look around the room revealed what he’d only assumed, tears in the kevlar spacing of their armor, frozen crimson now sealing the wounds and the lakes they had produced on the rough wooden floor. Chips in the ionized metal of some of the bodies armor proved to indicate a number of things, but primarily the possibility of a fire fight.

Too small, Torrid thought as he snatched the last tag off a rather bloodied paladin, too small for a fight like that.

The room the pony found himself was fixed to the entrance of a cave system, it's entrance blocked by the various bodies of the deceased, who also managed to crack the metal door open a tad; wind whistling into the caverns beyond. A small, half circle of red found it's home on the rigid slab of aluminum, with a much larger smear nearer to its base.

Torrid clicked his receiver. “Command, likely Alpha company hit a rough patch on the way to Base. Took shelter from the blizzard here and expired,” the pony bit his lip as such rigid professionalism in such a personal matter. “Might have a survivor. Over.”

Crackle. “Roger. We have one live transponder, due east Tango. Pursue. Over.”

“Roger,” Torrid responded gruffly, pushing open the door with one smooth motion, only to be battered by another bitter gust of winter.

Cold, Torrid thought, fixing the thirty tags that hung from his neck, all it is.

Unlike the room, the caverns seemed to emanate darkness rather than consequently spawn it, with the grey stone barely reflecting the brightness of the frigid knight’s helm light. Stalagmites hung like wicked teeth, the cylindric roots barely constituting thin. They lined the near entirety of the ceiling, threatening to crash upon Torrid as rain of earthen shards, leaving the comparatively diminutive pony on edge. With every step, the echoes grew louder, giving the impression of an army of plate and steel marching down into the depths of Tartarus.

Giving ore back to the rock, Torrid joked to himself half-heartedly, steel back to the forge.

Hours seemed to pass, with no sign of any survivors. Small speckles of blood did spot the cave floor early on, but even that was gone, leaving the pony with nothing but his army of ghosts and beckoning rock. Taking another step down the void, a robust chink echoed throughout the cavern.

“Stop or die,” were the words that followed, from a rather weak, though, instantly recognizable voice.

Torrid turned to the voice involuntarily. “Ochre-” he managed to face the voice completely before a magically veil laser rifle was wedged between them. The unicorn was in bad shape, his power armor smeared with blood and covered in dents and dinks. The pale pony’s side was cut open wide, kevlar torn to frays, but little blood escaped, if any.

“Drop it.” Orche demanded, tone ever weakening.

Torrid complied, shrugging off the battle saddle, which hit the floor with a dry clank. Little went through the frigid knight's mind due to circumstance, all that did was the sight of his brother’s sunken emerald eyes. And the prime rifle that separated them.

Minutes passed, nothing said.

Torrid glanced down at the olive briefcase that sat at Orche’s side. “Is that it?”

Orche simply nodded, adjusting the weapon in his veil slightly.

“So you just-”

“No!” the wounded unicorn spat, aim wavering slightly. “ Never! No matter how fucked the situation.”

Ever so slightly relieved that his betrayal wasn't so severe, Torrid pressed on. “ So?”

“Enclave,” The pony grunted, in clear pain. “ Knew we were coming. Killed everyone but me. Hid down here.”

“Didn't see any top side.”

“They left,” Orche croaked, crimson spittle finding this place onto his lips. “Don’t know why.”

Torrid eyed the package again. “You know what's in there.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he barked, raising his rifle level with the frigid knight’s head. “You move, and I'll burn a hole to you memories of childhood.”

Torrid looked Orche dead on, into those sunken, dead emerald eyes, “This can change everything-”

“Nothin-” Orche began to shout, but delved into a subdued coughing fit that lasted half a minute, through the entirety of it he managed to keep the weapon level. “Nothing will fucking change! Lost Valley is gone! Hidden Hill gone! Us! Even we're fucking dead.”

Torrid took a step closer. “ Elder Ce-”

Orche tensed. “Cerise is the bitch who got us all FUCKING killed! And you want to give her the keys to the Frontier?”

“Orders are-”

“Oh, okay,” Orche said, tone thick with aspersion, “Another tin colt in her fucking machine now aren't you, Torrid?”

He stood, face and emotion shielded behind his metal helm.

“Give her the keys, the whole Frontier goes up- no, give it to anyone and we’ll be living on borrowed time.”

Torrid took another step, to be immediately struck by a bright flash. A moment later he was on the ground, dazed, with the thick scent of oxidized air in his throat. The world clumped into a blur for a moment, with the heat from the flash now choking him. Struggling, he was barely able to pull off his helm to find the surprisingly refreshed Orche atop him. He’s there long enough to land a glancing blow to his ribs, with Torrid using some of that force to sweep the unicorn to the ground.

His vision melted into nothing but a pale unicorn, who he was hovering over instantly and struck with a gloved hoof. Over, and over, and over, and over…

Sensory returned, the frigid knight saw more than his brother. He saw the bruises, the cuts, the blood, and, once again, his now one emerald eye, the other nothing more than a bloated pink orb residing in a swollen socket. Disgust filled him, staring at the pulp that he’d called Orche, a brother of his order, a member of his family and a friend.

He pushed off the barely living pony, finding himself a few feet away on his haunches. Breath failed to find him fast enough, his pants loud and thunderous. Minutes pass before Torrid is able to ground himself properly on his hooves, albeit a bit spastic. Collecting himself further, he retrieved his helm, battle saddle and the olive case his opposition had fought to protect. It secured in a saddlebag, he went over to Orche, who had expired, single eye looking onward into the field of spires above.

Torrid and his now thirty one fluorescent tags trekked back topside, where they were once again greeted by the raw winds that cut through him like knives.

Cold, the frigid knight thought as he forced himself through the whiteout, all this is.