//------------------------------// // Chapter 6: Concession // Story: Skyfall: Treason // by Dusk Quill //------------------------------// The door clicked shut behind him as Fleethoof stepped into his bedroom. The sound of the rain rapping against the glass windows filled the room with a mellifluous tranquility, and washing away any hint of the outside world. If only it could have done that with his mind…         Fleethoof snapped the deadbolt lock into place. He did not want to be disturbed again for the rest of the evening.         A heavy sigh left the fatigued stallion as he collapsed against the panel of the door. He felt drained, mentally and physically. But it came part and parcel with the job. Like he had read in the memoirs of a long-past officer, with rank came responsibility, and with responsibility came stress. Now he was at the stress stage.         Eyes closed, Fleethoof took a deep breath, holding it for as long as he could. Every muscle in his body felt tense and overtaxed, especially his brain. His lungs began to burn. He exhaled. Eyes opened.         His bedroom was dark. A flick of a switch next to the door illuminated the chandelier overhead, bathing the room in warm yellow light. Through force of will alone, Fleethoof was able to lift himself from the doorframe and trudged across the carpet. He didn’t even dare to look at his desk. The burdens of the world were already heavy enough on his shoulders without a reminder.         Fleethoof pulled the wooden box containing his present out of the saddlebags in his uniform and set it gently on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t wait to try it out. But that would come later. Right now, there was nothing the pony wanted more than a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.         Walking towards the bathroom conjoined to his bedchambers, the pegasus removed his sidearm and stripped of his damp uniform, letting it fall lazily from his body to the floor. He’d care about it tomorrow. A little water wasn’t going to ruin the carpet.         The bathroom always felt obscenely large to Fleethoof, although in retrospect, the room the princesses had so graciously given him to reside in was really meant for two ponies. A large, rectangular mirror ran the length of one wall, and a marble counter attached to the wall followed the mirror down. The walls themselves were painted a pale sky blue. Fleethoof couldn’t identify the type of tile beneath his hooves, but it was a light cream with ripples of pink running through it, and always felt cool to the touch.         But the feature the weary stallion was always grateful for was the shower. It was little more than a walk-in box made of frosted glass in one corner of the bathroom, but it was more than spacious for two, and mammoth for a solitary pony. It provided him with the freedom to move about, or to simply stand in one spot and think about life, if he desired. But more importantly, it gave him a quiet place to escape to and unwind.         Fleethoof set his pistol on the expansive counter and made his way over to the shower, starting the stream of hot water from the overhead faucet. Within a matter of minutes, a thin veil of steam had fogged up the mirror, leaving the entire room feeling pleasantly humid. Fleethoof stepped under the hot water and immediately felt the therapeutic effect washing away his stress.         He sighed deeply and let his blue eyes slide shut. The chronic ache in his wing's joint vanished into thin air under the soothing torrent. Now he had time to think, and let his troubles disappear. They didn’t exist in here.         The plans for tomorrow’s sessions with the Royal Guard crossed his mind briefly, but vanished in a haze as his mane practically melted over his eyes. The plans were solid—he had nothing to worry about there. Quarter Master’s new developments worked like a charm, and more testing had been scheduled in the near future. Skyfall was on hiatus. Beyond that, he didn’t need to know what his ponies were up to, as long as they were having a good, relaxing time. They’d certainly earned it.         Equestria was in a state of peace. The entire population seemed happier, and life progressed as it normally would. Time never faltered. There were no worries of war, of pain, or of death. Everything was right with the world, and the menial problems of the nation were none of his concern. It was like the entire nation was finally relaxing back into harmony again.         But a more pressing matter still lingered at the forefront of his thoughts, nagging and pounding at the inside of his mind.         Union.         They worried the captain, and put him on edge. They were far too green, far too unseasoned and inexperienced and unstable. He could continue going down the list for half a day. The entire project felt rushed and handled poorly. He’d gone over the briefings and debriefings a thousand times over, and the declassified reports another thousand. They performed competently, but only just so. It always hinged on the thread that tethered them all together: their steadfast leader. If something happened, and that string was cut…         Fleethoof shivered, despite the near-scalding water cascading down his body. He pushed the thought aside. He had no reason to doubt Union, given their track record thus far. Yet the lingering unease never disappeared. Things were still far too volatile for his liking. The missions, the team, even the officers in charge put him on edge. They were pushing these ponies to the extremes, and somepony was bound to get hurt sooner or later.         But why? Fleethoof wondered as he reached for the bottle of shampoo and began lathering up his coat and mane. Why are they drilling Union into the ground? They’re pushing them like…         Realization struck the stallion. His eyes snapped open, and he stared blankly at the wall in front of his eyes. They were pushing them to the same degree of performance that Fleethoof expected of his team. They were trying to drill ponies into being specialized operators, like Skyfall was.         Spitfire was in charge of creating a doppelganger Special Forces team. He refused to admit it to his team before, but they were right. They weren’t trying to replace Skyfall—they were trying to copy them.         This project is doomed to fail. No good can come from this.         Fleethoof shut the water off and flipped his dripping mane out of his face. He would have to make sure to find time to have a long conversation with Celestia and Luna. This was no game they were playing any longer.         Fatigue tugged at his body, and the prospect of collapsing facedown onto the waiting mattress was a welcoming thought. He dried off, and made his way to bed—and stopped.         From the doorway, he could see the gun box on his bed, lying open.         Fleethoof backpedaled a couple of steps, grabbing his pistol from the counter and stepping back into the doorframe. He could only see about half of his room from his vantage point, but from what he could see, it was clear. That meant whoever had his weapon was waiting for him at the other end of the room, by his desk and the door.         The pony cocked the hammer on his gun, and steadied himself with a deep breath. But where he had planned to shoot first and ask questions later, a sudden scent lingering in the air hit his nostrils and froze him in place.         Jasmine and vanilla.         No, you've gotta be kidding me…         Fleethoof dropped his tense stance, and swerved out into his bedroom. Sure enough, there was the intruder: seated at his desk, chair reclined and hooves up on the surface of it, the picture perfect definition of sloth.         Midnight Dasher glanced over when she heard the hoofsteps, and waved at the bewildered pegasus. In her hooves, she turned the shiny new pistol over a few times. Fleethoof was too dumbstruck to say anything, but it was soon clear Midnight wasn’t.         “Evening, Cap’n!” she greeted jovially, as if they were best friends sharing a table at the local bar. “You know, I've never seen you out of uniform before... Lookin' good. Aww, you’re all dry already. I missed the wet mane.”         Fleethoof was vaguely aware that he was just staring, not even sure where to begin reacting. “W… Wh…?”         “You take long showers, y'know. I've been waiting out here for... I don't even know how long,” Midnight said casually, locking the slide back on his gun and releasing it again as she noted his behavior patterns. “This is a really nice gun! I’ve never seen anything like it before! Is it a custom?”         Fleethoof’s jaw trembled, whether out of speechlessness or rage was yet to be determined. Finally, the bat pony set his gun down on his desk, and lifted a file up. ‘Classified’ was stamped in big, bold red ink across the front of it. Fleethoof felt his blood run cold. He hadn’t realized he’d left those files out.         "Who's Union?" she asked, passively studying the cover of the dossier.         “Midnight Dasher…” he breathed, words slow and spoken with vicious lethality. “Did you read those?”         “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name,” she said with a smile, letting her hooves hit the floor as she sat upright. “Why do they all say ‘Classified’? You are a spy, aren’t you?”         “Midnight… Did you read those?”         “Well, I was waiting an awfully long time…”         “Did. You. Read. Those.” Fleethoof was speaking through clenched teeth now, feeling a tremendous anger taking over his control.         “Relax, Fleet, I didn’t open them.” For once, it looked as if she was telling him the straight truth.         “Stop calling me that.”         Midnight cocked her head. “What, your name? Are you serious?”         “It’s ‘Captain’, ‘Captain Fleethoof’,” he snapped, blue eyes smoldering with pure unbridled ire at the mare. “Why do you have such a disregard for structure and rules?!”         “Well, aren’t you one to talk, Mr. Classified-Vanishes-Without-A-Trace.”         “How did you even get in here?”         That question seemed to rekindle the bat pony’s mirth. “Oh, that's easy. The balcony.”         For the umpteenth time, the pony had lost him.         “I followed you to your room,” Midnight continued to explicate. “Then I flew around to your balcony. It was easy to find once I knew where you lived.”         She had actually managed to follow him undetected? Fleethoof glanced toward the glass doors to the outside.         “I keep my balcony locked.”         “Yeah, I uh… sort of picked the lock.”         Midnight grinned guiltily while he just stared in disbelief. He was absolutely livid. In the back of his mind, Fleethoof wondered if this constituted as trespassing, and what the statute would be if he shot her right now. He decided she wasn't worth the bullet.         “Get out.”         “But, I wasn’t finished talking to you yet.”         Fleethoof snorted. “Well I’m done with you. Get out, and don’t ever come back.”         As he expected, the mare didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Not until you hear out my request.”         “Request?!” Fleethoof gave a weak, shocked laugh. “You’ve done nothing but pester me for the last few weeks! You haven’t said a word of substance to me all day, you break into my private quarters, you go through my belongings, and now you expect me to do anything for you?”         She nodded. “Yep.”         “Get out.”         “You don’t even know what I want yet!”         “Get out,” he repeated.         “But—”         “Get out!” he shouted.         Midnight Dasher raised her hooves in defense. “All right, all right! Let me just put this back.”         Cautiously, she picked up Fleethoof’s gun again, and slowly followed the wall of his room. She circled around past the captain, their gazes locked every step of the way, till she reached the foot of his bed. She gingerly placed the gun back in its home and closed the box.         “You know, this is a pretty big place for one stallion,” she teased with a grin, and with a flap of her wings, landed backwards on the bed. “And this is a nice bed! Is this where you entertain all your fillyfriends?”         Midnight yelped as Fleethoof walked around and grabbed her mane in his teeth, yanking her to her hooves and pulling her towards the door. Humor was clearly not going to work on him.         “Ow! Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! It was a joke!” she apologized rapidly, stumbling over her own hooves as she was practically dragged across the floor.         They made it most of the way before Midnight finally kicked a leg out, tripping the stallion and sending him crashing into the carpet. Now free, she backpedaled a few steps, putting a safety cushion between them as he got back up.         “You really don’t want to pick this fight,” Fleethoof said darkly, glaring across the space at the bat pony. “I am in no mood, Corporal. Leave. Now.”         “Not until you hear me out,” she argued, planting herself in place.         “What do you want from me? What could I possibly have that’s so damn important to you?!”         “Experience.” Midnight’s response had been so straightforward and abrupt, Fleethoof hadn’t been prepared for it. “Shining Armor gave me another division of guards to train, but these ponies are really advanced. Like, better than the other grunts I’ve had. I hoped you’d be available to teach them a thing or two, and let me join some of your classes, seeing as… well…”         The mare mumbled something inaudible to the pegasus’ ears.         “What?”         She huffed. “I said… you’re…” She drifted off into an incoherent mumble.         “I can’t hear you.”         “I said you’re a better fighter,” Midnight Dasher blurted out in one quick burst. “Happy?”         Fleethoof was surprised. From his experience, bat ponies were proud creatures, especially when it came to might and toughness. To admit somepony else was better than you was unheard of.         “And you didn’t just ask me from the get-go… why?” he asked, cocking a brow.         “Because last time, I jumped you. I didn’t think you’d say yes,” she confessed.         “And cheated, don’t forget that.”         “Hey! I didn’t cheat! That’s how we fight back in the Shades.”         Fleethoof rolled his eyes. “Your fights sound more like blitz attacks.”         “More than you know…” There was meaning behind her words, but Fleethoof couldn’t be bothered to pry further, not after this ordeal.         “So you tried sweet talking me, and pestering me, and breaking into my room?”         “And jokes. I never said it was a perfect plan, but it worked. You listened.” Fleethoof scoffed. Understatement of the year.         He was still fuming, but Midnight wasn’t the one truly benefitting from this in the long run. “All right. I’ll help, but only because I don’t want these ponies learning nothing from you.”         Midnight cast a venomous glare at the pegasus, even as a trace of a smile appeared on her lips. “Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”         “Now, really, leave. Please.” Fleethoof unlocked the door and held it open, waving a hoof to beckon her out. “And if you call me 'Fleet' or 'Fleety' again in front of anypony, I will hurt you.”         “Is that a promise?” the sly mare teased as she slinked past him out the door.         “I mean it…”         “Fine.” Another huff. Then a sniff. “Is that… peaches I smell?”         Her gaze turned to Fleethoof, who looked absolutely puzzled.         “Peaches? Wha— Oh, my soap.” He looked down at his coat, ears folded back sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s whatever stuff the Guard uses. I think it’s some sort of generic bulk brand or something. Not the most male scent, but it’s free, so whatever…”         “Well, I like it, but then again, fruit is sort of my thing, you know, being a bat after all,” she remarked, flashing her fanged teeth in her trademark grin. “Goodnight, sir.”         Her emphasis on the last word was enough for Fleethoof to roll his eyes. “Goodnight, Corporal. Oh, and Corporal...”         Midnight stopped in the hall, glancing back at him over her shoulder.         “Break into my room again, and I'll kill you.”         The look that came over her face was an expression that both terrified and annoyed the pegasus pony. Mischief. Daring. Rebellion. Humor. And then she was gone. Fleethoof groaned, and locked the door again. He slammed his head against the wood again, and again, and again, trying to get the headache to subside.         This day just did not want to end…         Blue eyes turned towards the mess of a desk, lingering on the set of Classified files strewn across the surface. Rising from the door, the tired pony took his seat and opened up the dossier Midnight had been handling moments before. Operation Union. The edges had been worn and dog-eared from the amount of times he had opened this file alone, and tonight added one more to the tally.         By now, Fleethoof could recite what was typed on these pages by heart, the words long-since burned into his brain. He looked over the first page yet again, reading the briefing over and over again. Fireteam Union is to be a specialized elite force of soldiers. As first responders to any terrorist-based offense to the nation of Equestria, each member is required to demonstrate exemplary physical, mental, and tactical performance. If successful, the Union Project is to be expanded to similar units within the Equestrian Armed Forces…         Fleethoof recognized the operation description. It was very similar to the Skyfall file. He frowned. He had never had any interaction with Union prior to today, but after seeing them operate, he had a sinking feeling things were not boding well for the team. And if things went south, he knew who it would fall to, to clean up the mess.         That was one job Fleethoof prayed he'd never have to prepare for.