//------------------------------// // Into the Coffee Grinder // Story: I Love the Smell of Friendship in the Morning // by Moosetasm //------------------------------// Blitz chewed his ration bar thoughtfully as everypony except Whisper gathered in the small clearing. Most, Blitz included, were seated and either eating something or drinking from their canteen. Nutmeg had his monocle in and had been reading a dataslate since he had returned from the side path with Trauma and made the announcement about the heretics. Blitz felt his brow furrow in anger as he remembered it. There weren't enough swear words in all of the combined Equestrian dialects to express his feelings regarding the presence of a Lyranite cult on-world. “Lyro-what-nows?” Blitz heard Point ask. Blitz waved a hoof dismissively. “Nopony cares, Pointy. Heretics are heretics and these ones need to be dead regardless of how many hooves they walk on.” “I know, but—” “Saint Star Swirl’s bells, Pointy! Isn’t it bad enough that you had to drag me out of a peaceful rest this morning? Why do you always want the colorful backstory?” Point attempted a retort. “Because… because… didn't some Sunny Zoo pony say something like ‘know thine enemy?’” “Dunno about everypony else, but I only need to know one thing, Pointy.” Blitz motioned a hoof to various points in the surrounding brush and pantomimed firing his grenade launcher with each of his words: “Where. They. Are.” The resultant frown on Point’s face and the chuckles from the rest of the squad brought a grin to Blitz’s muzzle. Revenge, however petty, for Point waking him up early had been served, and it tasted surprisingly like the alfalfa-bar he’d just eaten. “Sir,” Point pleaded at Nutmeg, “we need to know what we’re up against!” Nutmeg lowered the monocle from his left eye and looked up from his slate. “True enough, but I'm not in the mood to do exposition,” he said in an exasperated tone. “Trauma, fill them in.” He returned the monocle to his eye and began reading again. Trauma’s face looked like he had just bitten into a bitter dandelion pastry after being told it was filled with sweet apple. “...Lyranites. Followers of Lyra The Abominable. They think that the pure pony form is flawed and they revere some ancient bipedal monstrosity from before the Age of Harmony.” Trauma’s face contorted with overwhelming disgust as he continued to speak. “They undergo a series of surgeries to disfigure their backs, shoulders, hind legs, rear hooves, and…” Trauma raised his forehooves silently. Point blanched. “Why in Celestia’s name would a pony do that?” ”Well, first off, bipedal conversion is pure heresy and has nothing to do with Celestia. Second, their reasons make no sense; walking on two legs makes you trot and gallop slower than on four, a pony has less stability with only two points of contact on the ground instead of four, and it transforms a normal pony into a hideous monstrosity. There's just one thing they think makes it all worth it.” Trauma paused for a moment. His muzzle struggled to force out the heathen word. “Hands.” A visible shudder ran through him as he spoke. Blitz spat on the ground. He wasn't the only one. Trauma held up a hoof and continued. “Before you ask, Point, they're like mouths; you can grab and grip with them, but you can't taste what you’re holding on to and you can't eat with them.” Point’s brow scrunched in confusion and Blitz could practically hear the unasked question from the stallion whose stomach was as bottomless as the legendary ghastly gorge: Why have extra mouths if you can’t eat with them? Trauma continued. “The practical danger is that they can hold weapons in them and use them to grab at you. Their backs and limbs will be difficult to damage due to all of the bionics. You’ll have to aim for the underbelly which, thanks to their ridiculous vertical posture, should be quite exposed. Any solid hit to their fronts should cause them to go down as easily as ponies do.” Everypony sat for a minute to digest their ration bars as well as the information. Nutmeg shattered the silence like a pony thrown through a stained glass window. “All right ponies, we seem to have run out of expository dialogue—” He strode purposefully into the center of the impromptu camp and started clearing leaves to expose the soil underneath. “—Now, these heretics aren’t going to kill themselves—” Once a sizable area had been made leaf-free, he drug his hoof through the dirt and began to draw several boxes and curving lines. “—So, we’re going to need some semblance of a plan for retrieving all of that sweet, sweet coffee.” The end result was a rough overhead view of the refinery and the hills that surrounded it. Blitz noted it was still much better than the crayon version Nutmeg had presented to the team earlier. “Here is the general plan of attack. Pointer, Owlzark.” The two scouts shot to attention. “You two will engage the front gate from the east, here.” Nutmeg tapped at the ground. “You need to hit them hard; liberal use of frag grenades is authorized.” The two put on a set of fiendish grins. “You will then retreat.” The smiles turned upside down. “I mean it. They're going to send at least a dozen ponies after you. If you stay and get your dumb flanks killed, you're going to get the rest of us killed too; and if that happens, there will be no safe place in Tartarus for you to hide from my wrath.” They nodded quickly. “You hit and gallop, make sure they're following you, and bring them between these two ridges.” Nutmeg turned towards Blitz. “Blitzkreig, Infernus.” Blitz instinctively straightened his posture as the approximation of his name was spoken. There was a sloshing of ponapalm tanks as Inferno came to attention as well. “You two will cover this valley. Neither of you can fire your weapons until every last heretic has entered.” Nutmeg motioned at Owly and Point, “When they do, you two will turn back around and catch them in a crossfire.” The Commissar’s hoof swept between the four of them. “Nopony can make it out alive. You can't afford to let even one of those bastards out. I don't fancy being shot in the flank when the rest of us make our approach.” Nutmeg turned and pointed to Fray and the Twins and then to himself. “The four of us are going to storm the refinery’s Marecanicus shrine. Twins, you need to re-sanctify the servitors; we’ll need them to help take and keep this place. Frazzle and me will escort you in and keep the heretics off of you until you can get them up and running.” The Commissar tapped the edge of the floor sketch and turned to Trauma. “Trombone, you and Whisp need to get to one of the surrounding hilltops and take out and stragglers, or anypony that looks like they're packing heavy firepower.” Nutmeg turned to address everypony again. “When you run out of targets, make your way to the main building. We’ll try to regroup for the primary assault, but most likely we’re going to end up going in piecemeal, so watch your targets. Any questions?” “No? Good,” he answered before anypony could raise hoof or voice, “we move in ten minutes, ponies. Let's do this.” • § • § • § • A las bolt ricocheted off of one of one of the side barrel plates of Blitz’s carapace armor. He spun around and fired the grenade launcher. Foomp. The sound of the launching explosive was immediately followed by an explosion and a Wilhelm scream. “A dozen, my flank!” he yelled at Inferno. “There's at least thirty!” ”Celestia smiles upon us then,” Inferno boomed, “with so many, it will be hard to miss!” He unleashed a stream of fire, and the scream of a pony-torch reached a horrible crescendo. Blitz ducked behind a small boulder to avoid a sudden hail of las-fire. He popped back up and targeted a quartet of bipeds. Foomp. Assorted ponies and parts thereof flew through the air like sick parodies of party streamers. As heretics rained from the sky, so too did a fusillade of las-fire rain on his position. Blitz ducked and swore. “Point and Owly aren't going to be able to swing back around like we had planned, there's too many of these thrice-damned bipeds between us!” Instead of a reply, he heard the distant whoosh of Inferno’s purifier and more screams. He risked a glance from his cover to see that Inferno was quite far from him now and chasing down some of the cultists who had, in their blind panic of being burned alive, thrown down their weapons and routed. "Inferno!" Blitz called to the mass of retreating ponapalm tanks as he lobbed another grenade at a closing cluster of bipedal monstrosities. Foomp. "Inferno! Where in Tartarus are you going?" Blitz swore again. “We’re already separated from Owly and Point; we don't need to be separated from each other as well!” A nearby snarl prompted him to spin around and fire another round—foomp—which caught one of the mare-things square in the chest. He turned away and didn't watch the resultant explosion, which blew his mane about in a very cinematic fashion. He scanned his surroundings for more targets, but quickly realized he was alone. The only things around him were corpses, soon-to-be corpses, and clumps of sod. Of those things, most were either smoking or on fire. The only close sounds were the moans of the dying and the crackle of several spreading fires. He could hear the occasional, and becoming even more distant, Whoosh of Inferno's purifier and the resultant screams. "What in Celestia's name is he thinking?" • § • § • § • Inferno uttered another prayer of salvation for the ponies he was saving. Another of the pseudo-stallions threw up their false, gripping forehooves, as if to ward himself from the cleansing touch of the holy ponapalm that Inferno bestowed upon him. The heretic's screams were benedictions of salvation as his fur burned away; the sounds that came afterward testament to the cleansing of his sins. The smell of ponapalm fueled Inferno. Many of the uninitiated ponies in the regiment thought his respirator filtered the air around him and allowed him to breathe. The device, in fact, pumped ponapalm fumes directly into his muzzle. He would rather die than deny himself the fragrant aroma of petrol and the flowery bouquet of burning flesh. He paused to savor the scene before him. Where once there had been twelve heretics, there now lay twelve redeemed ponies. Celestia would find use for them in the hereafter. He scolded himself for pausing to admire his work. Pride was a sin and, besides, more blessings awaited; more ponies needed to be saved from their own depredations.