“Are you ready, Celestia?”
“To send six mares to their possible death, one of whom is practically my own daughter?” Celestia snapped, before sighing and hanging her head in sorrow. “And a number of guards too, who all have families and loved ones of their own? No, Luna, I am not. But we have run out of choices.”
Luna crept close to her older sister, placing a hoof across her withers.
Celestia visibly relaxed at the touch, and moved to nuzzle Luna. “They could end up anywhere in the universe, Luna.”
“There is nothing more that can be done, Tia. We have this new world and the spell. We have used the most advanced-
Celestia jerked her sister, breaking her embrace. “Luna, nothing like this has been tested before.”
“It all adds up...”
“We are not mathematical statements,” Celestia replied. “Magic cannot be quantified. You, of all ponies, should know this.”
“Tia, it’s the best we can do. It’s our only choice.”
“I know, but...” she trailed off, hanging her head in worry.
“Even if the worst comes to pass, it would have happened either way. This is actually their best chance for survival. A slim chance is better than none at all.”
Celestia sighed, bracing herself for what she was about to do. “Very well. Let’s just get this over with.”
* * * * *
“Twilight, realize that you will be on your own once this spell is cast,” Celestia informed her student.
The unicorn nodded, a confident expression forming on her face. “I understand Princess.”
“No, you don’t,” she scolded, perhaps a little harsher than she meant. “Not even I do. Whatever you may encounter out there is something entirely beyond my control. I have done everything in my power to ensure your safety, but I am not a god. I can’t guarantee that nothing will go wrong.”
“You got it, Princess,” Rainbow Dash encouraged.
“I agree,” Rarity added. “I think you’re being hard on yourself.”
Celestia slowly shook her head in sadness. They were fools, really. She didn’t mean to insult them, and perhaps their ignorance wasn’t their fault, but Celestia never took blind optimism well.
However, those six young mares were right. They had never failed Celestia before. If they could not succeed, then all hope would truly be lost. She only hoped their lucky streak could hold.
“Bearers, please form a circle around the gem...”
“-a Cadillac! Number one with a bullet, I'm a power p-”
“For fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up, Ronnie!” the driver of the Humvee yelled at his squadmate. “You’re the last person who should be singing anything!”
“Just having some fun, Dave. Calm down.”
“Ronnie, you have the shittiest singing voice.”
A third voice, owned by a Marine manning the M2 machine gun, came in. “Yeah, Beckett-”
“Shut up, Boot,” Beckett, Ronnie, and another Marine in the back seat, Mason, interrupted without hesitation.
“Gentlemen, please,” a fourth man interjected, turning from the forward passenger seat to face the two sitting behind and next to him. “We’re in the middle of fuck-knows-where in the ass-end of Syria. There are buildings all around this road where any number of Syrian troops can be waiting with an RPG. Can you please pay attention for one Goddamn second!?”
“Yes, Sergeant Myers,” Ronnie responded as though he was scolded by a teacher. Myers ignored him and turned his eyes back to the road.
The ride continued for several more silent but tense minutes as they tailed the Marine-driven Maxxpro in front of him down the narrow street, while three Humvees followed in a column. David nervously eyed the numerous windows around his vehicle, each hiding a potential sniper or RPG-wielding soldier behind their curtains or the dark depths of the room.
Thankfully, nothing had happened so far. He was, however, morbidly curious as to why his patrol hadn’t been ambushed yet. Something else seemed to be holding the enemy’s attention for now.
“We’ll meet agaaaaain, don’t know where, don’t know wheeeeen-”
“Fuckdammit, Ronnie!”
Cloudhammer of the Royal Guard woke up with a headache. He rubbed a forehoof on his head, trying to ease the pain, but overall he was happy that he was hurting. It meant he was alive. The spell had apparently worked; they should be in an utterly new world.
He took a cautious glance around him. He was in a dark room with only a single window providing illumination. The walls were made of a dark sand-colored brick, and the room was sparsely occupied by wooden furniture. He could see the rest of his compatriots were in sight and uninjured, so at least he didn’t have to worry about finding them.
There was no one else in the room except some strange biped holding some wood and metal construction. From the way the creature was holding it, he assumed it was a weapon. He tried to get a closer look, but it was covered head-to-hoof in a green and black patterned cloth. It seemed to get uncomfortable when it noticed Hammer was looking at him, so the Guardspony looked away.
Suddenly a door opened to his side and another one of the bipeds trotted in with two more in tow. But this time, none had the weird head-wrappings. Instead the two in the back wore some type of (what he presumed was) helmet, revealing an odd monkey-shaped face. Only with these creatures’ faces were much less wrinkly and angular, with a protruding nose and a short-cropped beard around the mouth on one of them. They, like the one already in the room, had the same type of weird weapon.
The biped in front wore a small, black, and unbilled cap on the head. He did not carry one of the weapons and carried himself with a much more confident stride.
He faced the leading creature fully and opened his mouth to speak. “Greetings.”
The creature stopped dead in his tracks and his compatriots snapped towards him, pointing their weapons at him, muttering something in a language he couldn’t understand. Eventually, the leader turned to the others and motioned with his arms and said something in his tongue that soothed them, although they still fingered their weapons nervously.
“I am sorry for my compatriots, friend,” the leader said, giving a slight bow. “We are simply in a rather... stressful situation.”
“I can imagine.”
David Beckett kept watch over the sparse Syrian street. There were still no enemy combatants in view, but that did little to calm him down. If anything, this was worse; when there were a bunch of assholes shooting at him, he knew where to drive and Boot (he hoped) knew where to shoot. But on patrol like he was, all he was doing was waiting to get ambushed.
There were few civilians to be seen through the grimy windshield of his vehicle, but most looked malignant. Most were milling about, either talking to friends or perusing the various shops lined up along the street. When the procession of Humvees passed through, most barely glanced in his direction. Perhaps they just wanted the damn war over already and just wanted their old lives back.
He felt the same way, honestly. He had no idea why he reenlisted in the first place. He had already done his part. He was married and had a kid on the way. He had a family farm to help with. How the hell was the military supposed to help with any of that? It wasn’t that he regretted his action, but perhaps he could have tried to transfer to somewhere safer.
Suddenly, the radio emitted a loud static. It persisted for several seconds before he smacked the front of the box and it cleared up.
“Buzzard One, this is Buzzard Actual,” a voice blared over the radio, and from the passenger seat Myers brought the microphone to his mouth.
“Buzzard Actual, this is Buzzard One.”
“Return to base. We have recently confirmed reports that the Syrians have found something. They are directing resources to guard it until proper transportation can arrive. We need to assault their position before they leave.”
“Affirmative, returning now,” Myers replied. He picked up a different radio and held it up to his head. “This is Sergeant Myers to Fireteam Bravo and Charlie. We are returning to the FOB. How copy?”
After a series of affirmative responses, he replaced the radio’s microphone and turned to the driver. “David, lead the other vehicles back to base.”
Myers shook his head in disbelief. “What am I looking at, sir?”
“A photograph of what one of our snipers saw when scoping the Syrians," Second Lieutenant Clarkson, commander of Second Platoon, answered.
Myers picked up the photograph, which was the size of a large folder, and examined it closer. He still couldn’t believe his eyes. It looked like a very poor photoshop, and yet...
“An orange horse wearing a cowboy hat,” he muttered. “Any hajis?”
“Yes. They found the horse and brought it back to their main encampment. We’ve intercepted radio calls about pickup. We don’t want that to happen.”
“So we’re assaulting them?”
“Had to do it sooner or later,” the second lieutenant remarked. He took a sip from a nearby cup of coffee and continued, “Our platoon will be storming the building itself. First Platoon will hit the barracks, and Third has the main compound. Weapons distributed where needed, but will be mostly off-site mortar support.”
Myers scratched his chin in thought. “This seems like a big deal.”
“You leave in one hour.”
Ronnie looked around the meager forward base the Marines had set up. He hadn’t had much time to look around as his platoon had mostly been assigned to numerous guard posts for the last few days, but now that his squad had been called back that was likely to change.
Something big was happening. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but the way Sergeant Myers composed himself let on that he was hiding something. And honestly, Ronnie couldn’t care less. If something was supposed to be hidden, it was supposed to be hidden. He’d find out when he needed to.
He took a sip from his canteen and peered around the encampment, trying to distract himself from the insane heat that contrasted greatly from his native Colorado. He tried to ration himself, as he couldn’t constantly refill his—
Just then, he spotted a group of water dogs fiddling with a huge tank of water. He gulped down the rest, walked over to refill his canteen, and traded an MRE pack with another Marine for a different type. With that issue dealt with, he returned to surveying the area. His eyes drifted towards the motor pool where Beckett parked the Humvee, and spotted the week-old addition to the squad.
He crept up to the unsuspecting man, although not deliberately. With the engineers working on numerous disabled vehicles and the Abrams revving up for some reason, and the constant clunking and screeching barely let Ronnie think. After a fair bit of walking and avoiding engineers he pissed off by simply existing, he made it to his destination.
“Boot, this is your first foray into combat, so I just thought I’d give you some pointers,” he announced, taking a seat next to and startling the young Marine. “I know you’ve been told this, but chances are you’re a fucking moron just like everyone else here. One, cover is your best friend. The best way to get killed is to pop your dumb ass out long enough to get shot. They’ve told you that in camp, right?”
Ronnie received a nod in reply.
“Good. Two: don’t go automatic unless someone who knows what he’s doing tells you. You won’t hit anything. And if you try to suppress someone for longer than two minutes, you’ll run dry. That’s why we have big guy over there,” he continued, motioning towards Mason, “with the SAW.”
Another nod.
“And three: this war isn’t as clear cut as you’d think it is. Some towel-wearing asshat comes at you screaming ‘ALOHA SNACKBAR’ just shoot him. That’s something most civvies don’t do.”
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” Boot replied. He got started to get up from his seat before Ronnie tapped him in the arm for more attention.
“You better. Ain’t a fun place out there,” Ronnie warned. “And not everyone who might be shooting at us really cares about UN uniform rules.”
David sighed from a few feet away. “Ronnie, we ain’t getting insurgents, and I think the legit Syrian troops are a little less... fucked in the head.”
“I know that, Beckett. But it’s not like Achmed really cares who kills us as long as we’re dead. They’d be perfectly happy to let Towelie take a shot.”
“Fuck, how many names do you have?” David muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“I said ‘Not like we really differ in that.’”
“Except the ‘throw kids with bomb vests’ part,” Ronnie countered.
David rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “You know what I mean.”
“Gentlemen!” boomed Myer’s voice from across the makeshift motor pool. The nearby squadmembers turned to listen to him. “Load up. We’re gone in a half hour for the Syrians. They found something and we don’t want it getting to the Syrian capital.”
He glanced around the room he had followed the creature into. It was sparsely populated by any furnishings; it looked as though it had been hastily cleared out a short time ago. There were no windows, but there was a ventilation opening near the ceiling by the door. Other than himself and the leader of the strange beings, there was a single guard with another of those strange weapons.
After a second, his eyes settled across the shoddy wooden table to the creature across the surface. “Captain Cloudhammer of the Royal Guard,” he offered, reaching out a hoof in greeting.
The creature tentatively reached out, but confidently shook after a second of hesitation. He gave a small smile at the shared form of greeting. “Captain Sabbagh of the Syrian Arab Army.”
“I’m surprised we both speak the same language.”
“Not natively. I only happen to speak English. My men have no idea what we are saying.”
“Interesting,” Cloudhammer responded. The creature didn’t reply immediately, and several seconds of awkwardness reigned. “You know, I’m not good at these things. Let’s just spill the facts.”
“Ah, that could work,” the creature replied with a relieved smile.
“My species is called ‘pony’. We have three pony subspecies, and several members of other species live within our borders. I am a Royal Guard, and on a mission to guard the six mares who don’t have armor on while they do an extremely important task.”
“When you say ‘subspecies’ do you mean... ethnicity?”
“No, I literally mean an almost separate species. If you’ll notice, I have wings,” he informed, spreading his feathered limbs into sight. “Two of my Guards have horns, and two of the VIPs have neither.”
“I see. And species?”
“Griffins, minotaurs, zebras, and several more,” he answered.
The creature leaned back and scratched at his beard as if to express skepticism, but sighed in apparent acceptance. “And this important mission those six are doing?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you as of right now.”
“Of course. I understand,” conceded the creature. He leaned forward on the table, folding his hands under his face. “Well, I suppose it is my turn. I am a ‘human’ of the nation of Syria, and you appeared in the middle of a desert city in the middle of a war.”
That surprised Cloudhammer, but after a second of thought, the shock went away. After all, it should have been quite obvious, with all the weapons and soldiers around him. “With who?”
“Mainly, an invasive parasite of a nation called Israel. They were formed decades ago by a conglomerate of nations led by one called the United States of America. They kicked the native people out into the desert and fortified their conquered territory. Even now, they further persecute, occupying their new home.”
“I can see a reason for fighting, then,” Cloudhammer replied, nodding his head slightly. “But to the topic at hand, what is next?”
“I have called for transport to a higher authority a few dozen kilometers away from here,” answered the human. “They will be here in anytime from twelve hours to two days. We are currently on the front lines of this war. We must simply hope they make it before the Americans make a move.”