//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Under the Cover of War // Story: Within, Without // by KvAT //------------------------------// Pheeeew… Boom. Pheeeew… Boom *Pheeeew…* *BOOM* That one was closer, a bit too close for comfort. Bombs, all around. Kilograms and tonnes of explosive material, condensed into a single metallic shell, exploding upon contact. Inventive bunch, the changelings. Whistling bombs, whistling planes. Psychological warfare, fit to crush spirits before they crush bodies. Earth shook as they detonated in a display of suicidal anger, as if it feared those who made them. Artillery fired from afar, demolishing structures and buildings with reckless abandon. Sometimes they would fire in tight clusters, sometimes random and far between. One of them even had their own carriage, pulled by a truck driven by a borderline suicidal soldier, bearing the golden insignia of Solar forces. The fighting lasted for days. The black rolling swarm arrived from the East, where Solar forces entrenched themselves, all guns pointing outwards, ready to take on the bugs.  Early birds evacuated via the East. The ports and open seas changelings never managed to drag their miniscule navy through. The middle birds flew by whatever few cargo planes heading out to Griffonia, New Mareland, or wherever else they saw fit to try and survive the siege. Late birds stayed. Not to fight and defend, not to work and stamp guns, for industries were all bombed to death. Their purpose was calculated, statistical, and numerical. Acceptable losses. Daybreaker ordered them to stay, as a wicked incitement of desperation, boosting morale of her soldiers and guards not from glory or victory, but from the urgency of defending. Death of civilians shouldered on them, as their responsibility. Still, the tide rolled on, eliminating everything along its path. What was once a bustling city of gleaming glam, now reduced to a rubble of grey ash, trampled by war machines of both sides as their guns blazed, bullets and shells travelling to and fro, aiming for each other in a morbid dance of death.  Such is the theatre of war, a performance I got to watch in front row seats. Without any valuable belongings, evacuation was foal’s play. Just pick up a gun and go, blend in with the tide of retreating soldiers. They favoured fighters more than cripples, after all, and my disguise earned me a single packet of ration. Better than anything I remembered eating, but terrible for those whose snouts stood taller than their own ranks. Her Royal Empress-General Daybreaker galloped along in the air without rest, with pillars of plasma-hot beam pulled straight from the sun moving back and forth under her whims, melting any daring changelings in her city. Even at night, her own reserve of magic proved more than disastrously lethal for the changelings. Still, the word ‘rolling tide’ was used for a reason.  Solar forces were akin to a strong, unmoving dam wall. Stout and tough, forever bracing against impact. A tide however, fills a certain space and over it. The tide splashed against the wall, and more often than not trickles of them would push through. Changelings however, were better than water at fighting. These trickled ones shot from behind, into the soft backs of the dam. It eventually cracked. Spider webs all over, and eventually it chipped. A single chip led to bigger chips, and the whole structure collapsed in a heap of rubble. I separated from the army into a lavish building. A noble would use the finest and toughest materials available for their ego-fueling piece of display structure, and it showed. The shop stood at half-mast, one slab of concrete standing proud and tall against its flattened neighbors.  One set of soldiers replaced by the next. Changelings, in all their holey glory, marched along the street, paying no second glances against the only building in a kilometer-wide radius. Actually, they did. Several changelings looked around for exactly ten seconds and decided a field hospital was in order. The structure was adapted, and the injured flooded in. A day later, they flooded out. Never a single glance spared for the collapsing second floor. Not once did a changeling visit my humble hideout. Good for me, I liked it better alone anyways. The tide of war moved along, as everything in the world should be. A single pony behind enemy lines. What do you call someone who isn’t exactly an ally but not really an enemy, but targeted by both anyways? Perhaps I was a bit too hasty in saying that the tide moved. If a wave crashed, drops of water scattered themselves everywhere. Behind me was no different. A lone changeling, aiming his rifle. Bad shooting stance, off-mark sight, and an open bolt handle.  It was my first time seeing a changeling up close. Holed limbs, partially obscured by his tattered uniform. Insectoid transparent wings. Black carapaced outer exoskeleton. Rifle trigger held in his mouth, two white fangs overlapping them. Blue, pupil-less eyes, edges slightly reddened. Wet trail on his cheeks, gleaming by the morning sun. Green, inexperienced, amateur.  Scared.  Both sides have equal weights in ballasts, and it showed. A veteran wouldn’t aim at an enemy whose back leaned in front of the only exit path. This guy did. The changeling army was quite well-fed. The remains of their rations made up for a great breakfast experience.  Although the young changeling didn’t kill me, he did kill the mood with his incessant barking in another language I couldn’t quite understand. I pointed at myself and said my name. “June Malaprop.” I pointed at him and he cocked his head.  It took me three times before he responded. “Steviosol Vesalova.” Vesalova, common name for Vesalipolis residents. Heard them a few times. A tank rolled behind me, out on the streets, caring for naught but it’s destination. The building shook. Ash fell from the ceilings. Steviosol’s grip faltered for a second, looking at the passing tank, tempted to charge past me. Another tank rolled by, another piece of ceiling fell. Straight onto his head. Poor guy.  Several more tanks rolled by. My gun dropped with the piece of ceiling below it. Muzzle pointing towards the changeling, as if instructing, ordering on what to do. Gun in teeth, bullet loaded, ready to shoot. I aimed at the downed junior. An easy target. Justified and reasonable. Rightfully mine.  My first kill… The gun loaded. My aim hung steady. Sights on his head.  Tongue on the trigger. Just push, and bam, he’s dead. ...maybe not. Shooting means choosing a side. Choosing a side means joining the war.  Not my war, not my problem. The war had entered the city proper. Thousands of deaths. Millions of bullets shot. Billions in damage. During retreat, a soldier chanted “I don’t wanna die” over and over. A stray bullet entered his head, silencing his prayers. Why the war spared me, I have no idea. Do wars favour those who don’t mind dying? Fate? Destiny? Luck? What about him? Was he supposed to die? Or did fate decide that he should encounter me and my decision, instead of a royal guard? Fate favoured the lucky and the enduring. Those who stared at shifting landscapes and paid no mind, accepted war for what it was. Maybe both of us were the luckiest of all.  Nopony deserves to know War, not even a single hello to the bad horse that he is. Maybe no changelings too? In his saddlebags were ammo, food, several vials with hearts on them, and a book. Not my interest. The saddlebags were comfy though. A pack of cigarettes? Better.  A lighter? Jackpot. Yet another tank slowly coasted into eyesight. Big and boxy, noticeably thicker and newer than the others. It stopped in front of the building, a hatch opening from the inside.  A changeling exited with a spray can, drawing a kilroy on the wall. He noticed Steviosol, and the tank left with them. The world has no need for this grounded pegasus. Not even the changelings. Upstairs I went, sorting food and water with lungfuls of smoke. Enough for several days. Funny how wartime fed me better than peacetime.