//------------------------------// // Chapter Two // Story: Earning Wings of a Different Nature // by Strayan Phoenix //------------------------------// Earning Wings of a Different Nature By Strayan Phoenix Chapter Two [May 9th, 2020] [Somewhere in the middle of the Arabian Sea] If spending five years in the Navy had ever taught Mark anything about life in the military, it was that experiencing sleepless nights were bound to happen eventually. It was never a matter of if, but when. Tonight just happened to be what he feared to be the first of many, as he lay on his back in his bunk, with only the soothing sound of the ocean surging around them, and the deep rumble of Brisbane’s engines to provide any company for his restless mind. Perhaps the only thing of interest was that the Seahawk helicopter returned from its trip to Bandar Beheshti at some point around 12:30 in the morning. The onslaught of thoughts and potential outcomes for his current predicament never seemed to cease, and several times he glanced across at his digital clock embedded in the wall, to find that another whole hour or two had drifted by without any success for sleep. At this rate, he was going to need a rather strong shot of coffee to keep him awake tomorrow. Or rather, later on this morning, if the clock was anything to go by. To his annoyance, nothing really happened throughout the night as far as he was aware, and on one occasion, he thought that the cutie mark might not be as dangerously foreshadowing as he made it out to be. There was always the possibility that it had even disappeared overnight, and it would all turn out to be a strange hallucination. But alas, reality is a harsh mistress, and shining a small flashlight upon his leg at around 3am revealed that the cutie mark was indeed still there and was very much real. A silent, mocking omen of impending doom, as far as he was aware. ‘Well, let’s try look at this from a positive perspective,’ He thought with a grimace, in an attempt to keep himself from blowing this all out of proportion, ‘There are worse things which could’ve happened to me in this lifetime. If the reports in America are true, and people really are turning into ponies as I suspect, they obviously went through what I’m about to go through right now, and at least I’m not the only poor sod that has to endure this...’ He stifled a chuckle as a thought came to mind, ‘I’d almost feel sorry if some poor bastard ends up as Diamond Tiara...’ ‘That’s right. Think positive, happy thoughts. Who knows? Turning into a fictional character from a supposedly fictional universe might just end up being the best thing that ever happened to you... and at least you’ll be able to fly without the assistance of the chopper.’ ‘But then on the other hand... there’s too much to lose in my life right now. I have a flourishing career, great family and friends, and ‘dextrous’ is the last word I’d use to describe hooves...’ “Agh. I’ll never get to sleep at this rate. There’s probably at least someone still awake at this hour...” He hauled himself out of his bunk and slipped into his standard Disruptive-Pattern Uniform, a two-piece outfit which was standard-issue for sailors on deployment, which consisted of slate-grey, fire-retardant shirt and slacks, peppered from neck to ankles in a camouflage pattern of various, darker shades of grey and blue blotches. There was a reflective, white band around each arm, just above the elbow, to assist for visibility when in low-light conditions. The top of the shirt’s shoulders each had a patch to indicate his rank of Lieutenant; the upper right sleeve had a patch to indicate he was a member of HMAS Brisbane; the upper left sleeve had an Australian flag, coloured with blue stars on a white background, rather than the normal white stars on a blue background; the right side of the chest was emblazoned with the emblem of the Royal Australian Navy, and the left side had a simple black nametag with the word ‘Sheffield’ in yellow. Completing the outfit was a pair of tough black work boots, all spiffed-up and clean from regular polishing. He muttered incoherently under his breath all the while, and was careful to open and close the cabin door as quietly as possible. The corridors were almost completely vacant, and he encountered only two other sailors as he paced to the Wardroom. To his surprise, the kettle was still boiled. 'Now, where did they leave those double-shot expresso satchels...?' 'Ah, there they are, in behind the cappuccinos. What a funny place to put them... Usually they’re wedged in between the normal expressos and the lattés... Eh, whatever.' 'Oh, some bright spark has gone and moved the sugar container again. Why is it that there’s always that one bloody moron who can’t leave shit where he found it...?' 'What the hell is it doing all the way over there? Idiot can’t seem to connect that the sugar stays next to the Tea and the Milo, not left lying around on the bloody front bench.' He sat down at a table, slowly stirring his freshly-poured expresso, deep in contemplation about how to approach his current situation. 'Maybe I should just keep this all confidential. No-one really needs to know right off the bat, except for maybe Marty, Loz, and the Skipper...' 'I’ll have to request that we’re de-rostered from the flight schedule, but they’ll be able to understand, right? And then, I can just camp out in the cabin until the transformation blows over...' “Oh, Shef!” a voice broke his train of thought, “I didn’t expect you to be up this early.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Lieutenant Marshall wandering towards the coffee bench. “What’s happening, man?” Mark gave a tired smile. “I’m finished up for the night now,” Marshall idly placed a teabag into a fresh mug, “I’ll probably have one last drink and then hit the sack. Naval Stores is going to be busy today, what with the Replenishment-at-Sea exercise today...” Oh yeah. Today had been scheduled to be the day they’d link up with the replenishment oiler HMAS Sirius, to stock up on fuel, fresh water, and other vital supplies. “What time was that supposed to be, again?” asked Mark. “I think it’s some point around three PM, give or take, so we’ve still got ages until then,” Marshall replied off-handedly, concentrating on his tea. 'Right, so I have a little under eleven hours to come up with a way to deal with this little issue,' thought Mark, 'I have no clue as to if or when the transformation will actually kick in, nor whether I will actually feel anything beyond a new physical form.' 'Argh, I hate going into situations like this! Far too many unknown variables for my liking, and little to no time to identify them. Unknowns such as... why me? Why Daring Do? We don’t really have anything in common, maybe apart from a love for flying, but she’s a Pegasus. They’re born to soar with the wind.' 'Let’s see: she’s adventurous, cunning and witty, possesses a broad knowledge of geography and archaeology; she can keep her cool under pressure, and can handle herself well in a pinch. I should probably re-watch the Daring Do episodes to confirm my facts though...' 'For my part, I enjoy a fun adventure as much as the next guy. Hell, this deployment is an adventure unto itself. My grades in geography were fairly good, although not the greatest; Archaeology isn’t really my strong point, but it’s interesting nevertheless...' 'Alright, so we might have a little more in common than I thought, but that still doesn’t explain why this is happening...' “Are you alright, mate?” Marshall sat down beside him, “You look like you’re under a bit of stress. What’s on your mind?” 'Heh, understatement of the week'. “Well...” Mark furrowed his brow, unsure of how to approach this, “... you know how there have been reports of characters from My Little Pony popping up alive and well in America?” “Yeah?” Mark quickly turned about, checking that the Wardroom was completely empty, and took a deep breath. 'Here goes nothing.' “I think I have some evidence... that the claims are based on truth." “Pfft,” Marshall smirked amusedly, “Righteo, this I gotta see." “Alright then, what do you suppose this means then?” Mark stood up and dragged the right side of his trousers down, completely exposing the cutie mark for Marshall to see. “Well fuck me,” Marshall’s eyes widened, “That’s some pretty fancy ink-work there mate. Who drew that?” “No-one! That’s what worries me,” Mark pulled his trousers back up and sat down, “It just appeared out of the blue!” “Righto, pull the other one,” Marshall dismissed with a shake of his head, “Tats like that don’t just appear. Someone obviously put in the hard yards to get that little puppy right.” “Dude, we’ve been on this boat for two months now. These weren’t there when we left Australia, and I didn’t first see them until I went to take a shower last night,” Mark frowned, “I also do believe that I told you I wasn’t one for getting tattoos." “What do you mean ‘these’?” “There’s another, completely identical one on my other thigh as well,” replied Mark. Marshall heaved a sigh, “... Alright Shef, I’ll humour you. Let’s say that we are dealing with a force beyond nature here, and that those little tramp-stamps of yours really are magical in nature. What on earth does it have to do with the reports of ponies in America?” “This is the emblem of a character named 'Daring Do'. Just look that name up, and the pretty little picture on her arse is exactly the same as this! So based on the news reports, and the very-recent appearance of these images on my legs, my current theory is, and I hope to God above that I’m wrong, that the so-called ‘ponies’ are actually people that have turned into ponies from the show, by some unknown force of nature!” There was a very awkward moment of silence hanging in the Wardroom. “Rrriiiight,” Marshall frowned and slowly took a slurp from his tea, “So what you’re saying is... that God is actually a brony, and is now amusing himself by turning people into his favourite characters?” “What? No, don’t bring theology into this. Where’d you get that idea from?” Mark exclaimed a little louder than he intended, “I wouldn’t pin this on the Good Lord just yet, but there certainly is something supernatural going on here, and it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to call it Magic." “And I suppose you’re going to blame your new contact lenses on ‘Magic’ as well, then?” Marshall quirked an eyebrow. Mark frowned in puzzlement. “...What?" “Because last time I checked, I’m pretty sure purple is against Navy regulations.” “What are you...?” “Why’d you wait until now to reveal you need contacts, anyway? And in a rather girly colour, as well. No wonder you don’t wear ‘em during the day. Maybe you have two pairs...” “... I don’t have contacts,” He mumbled. “Then I don’t know what to tell you,” Marshall shrugged and took another sip from his drink. “Excuse me for a second,” Mark skulled the rest of his coffee down in one swig and dashed out the door. Marshall blinked in confusion. “... He’s off his rocker.” ----- Mark stared vacantly in the bathroom mirror, dumbstruck by the sight before him. His eyes, which were normally hazel-green in colour, were now a vibrant shade of magenta. 'This is really happening. I really am slowly turning into Daring Do, aren’t I? First, her butt-picture, and now her eye colour. Next thing you know, I’m sprouting fuckin’ wings like in that Red Bull ad and flying off to South America to fight Nazis for God-knows-why.' 'And when that ‘next thing’ comes, what are the odds that it’ll pick the most inappropriate time to do so?' ----- Breakfast time on HMAS Brisbane was usually around 6am, and the Wardroom bustled with activity as a flowing stream of officers filtered through to get some morning grub before they started work for the day. Mark wisely decided to wear a pair of sunglasses in public as he sat down at an empty table. “Too bright indoors for you, is it Shef?” He remained silent, focusing on eating his bacon and eggs as Lieutenant Donaldson sat down across from him. “Lieutenant Daniels’ team scored the morning warm-up run in the ’Hawk, so if things remain quiet for the morning, we’ll be the ones flying the afternoon shift." “I am aware,” came his mumbled reply through a mouthful of bacon. “You alright, dude?” she inquired, leaning in slightly, “You’re rather quiet this morning”. “Laura, just a quick question... What would you do if you found out that the past twenty five years of your life might just be on the verge of being undone and rendered completely pointless?” he asked abruptly. She blinked, “Well... I dunno. Why? What’s going on?” He sighed and removed his sunglasses, allowing her a look at his newly-recoloured eyes. She stifled a giggle, “Goodness Shef, what the heck’s going on there? You look like something out of an anime movie!” “Oh, but wait there’s more!” He muttered, “There are now two completely identical tramp-stamps permanently etched into my thighs to go with the new eye colour." “Well... I suppose I wouldn’t exactly call that the manliest decision you’ve ever made...” She murmured, “But that’s no reason for alarm or concern. Nobody will notice if they’re hidden by your uniform”. “I didn’t get tattoos! They just appeared! My concern is that it all might be connected with the news reports of ponies appearing in America recently,” He said matter-of-factly. “Aaaannd now you’ve lost me,” she frowned. “The thing is, my hypothesis is that the ‘ponies’ they claim that they’re seeing are actually ex-humans, who have turned into ponies,” He kept his voice low, “The only unknown I can’t identify is why this is all happening...” Laura blinked blankly. “... What?” “Laura, I’m not wearing contacts here! My eye-colour really has changed! And it’s probably only the beginning of something bigger here,” He hissed. “I’m still lost here. Quit beating around the bush and tell it to me straight”. “Laura,” He looked her straight in the eye with deadly seriousness, “With all the evidence presented so far, it all adds up to one thing: I think I’m turning into a pony.” “Pfft, alright. And what am I supposed to do about it?” she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head skeptically, “And how come it’s only you who’s being affected?” “I’m obviously not the only one,” Mark rolled his eyes, “I’m telling you, the ponies in America are ex-people who probably underwent the exact same process as I am right now. I guess there isn’t really much you can do, to be honest”. She sighed and leaned her forehead against her hand, with her elbow resting on the table, “Well... in the worst-case scenario that you’re correct in your assumption, and no-one can put a stop to this, why are you approaching me about it?” “Because you’re the leader of the flight team, and one of the closest friends I can rely on aboard this boat. I feel you need to be informed about this, and what I’m going through,” Mark shrugged, “So far, the only other person I’ve told is Lieutenant Marshall from Naval Stores, and he probably thought I was nuts.” “... Whelp, I might as well humour you for the time being, as long as you’re not trying to pull off the world’s greatest prank on us,” Laura shrugged, “If there is anything you need from me for your little gig, just ask." “Glad to know,” He grumbled. “Now come on, eat up. We need to make sure the chopper’s all in one piece for this arvo. As far as I’m aware, you’re still a human at the moment, and as long as that’s the case, you’re still expected to do as you’re told!” “Yes ma’am,” he smirked. “Just for the record, if you ever feel the urge to give free rides to children, please don’t come to me,” She grinned, “I don’t quite know how to help you there.” “Hardy-ha ha,” he pouted and placed his glasses back on his face, “You wouldn’t be saying that if it was happening to you...” “Maybe not, but it’s still funny regardless. I’ll see you at Briefing, Black Caviar.” “‘Black Caviar’? What...?” the joke fell on confused ears as Laura exited the Wardroom. “Black Caviar was a racehorse, not a pony. If you're gonna make a reference, get it right for goodness'...” He muttered, shaking his head and eating his breakfast in silence. ----- Fortunately, the morning routine was reasonably smooth and quiet, or at least as far as life on a Navy Destroyer would get anyway. The weather was calm again today, making for optimal flying conditions. As Brisbane lazily pulled alongside the supply ship HMAS Sirius. Mark quickly gave the ’Hawk a once-over, now fully kitted out in his flight suit with his sun visor down, as it sat patiently on the flight deck, eager to take off and take control of the domain it was built for. Laura idly sat in the left-hand seat in the cockpit, glancing from a notepad in her hand to the centre console, running through their pre-flight checklist. If ever they were to be needed on station in case something went wrong, they would be ready. He glanced across at the Sirius, making out several figures on the deck stacking crates into an orderly fashion for pick-up. At just over four hundred and eighty feet in length and sixty one feet wide at her thickest point, Brisbane was by no means a small vessel, but even she seemed small when placed in comparison with the six hundred and thirty foot-long ex-commerce tanker Sirius, as the latter extended a long boom stick across the gap between them with two hoses attached, one above the other; one for fuel and the other for fresh water. Both vessels had to synchronise their speeds at around 15 knots in order for this to work, at a distance of less than forty metres apart. The most dangerous part of the replenishment procedure was that as the ocean water was constantly being forced to travel in between the two vessels, it created an area of low pressure in between them. If the pressure dropped too far, a suction-effect would take hold, created by the higher pressure surrounding them cramming in to fill the void, and there was a very real possibility that Brisbane could collide with Sirius in the process, with disastrous consequences for everyone involved. Bridge crews on both ships had to stay on their toes throughout the entire operation, regardless of how long it might take. With trained professionalism, the boom connected and plugged in cleanly, allowing a steady stream of diesel fuel to pump through at around sixteen tonnes per minute. Meanwhile, another boom was set up so that the crates on the deck could be easily winched across, one at a time. All in all, the entire process could take anywhere from half an hour to half the day, depending on the circumstances. Mark clambered into the pilot’s seat, closing the door behind him and locking it with a soft clunk. He gave a soft sigh. As far as he was aware, this would probably be the last time he flew... well anything, be it helicopter or even just a generic aeroplane. If they were even needed, at that. 'Better savour the moment.' “Alright, let’s go. Master Switch is ‘on’; batteries are ‘green’; radio is ‘on’ and set to the right frequency; all avionics are operational; wind is flowing east-south-east, at about ten knots; altimeter is set; wheel brakes are locked; rotor pitch is... set; throttle is at 10 percent for ignition; all clear on deck?” He glanced out at the deck hand, who gave him a thumbs-up to indicate they were ready to go. “Ignition primed, start-up commencing.” A low whine slowly started building up at the flick of a switch. As the whine steadily increased, the long, lanky rotor blades above them slowly started shifting. Within a few moments, the engines were idling smoothly to the distinctive, rhythmic tune of the rotors slicing the air with a loud thwok heralding each rotation. “We are cleared for take-off, throttle set to 80 percent; releasing brake locks." With a surge of power, the large ’Hawk gently drifted into the air, before settling into a crawling hover around ninety meters above and slightly behind the warship. From their vantage point, they could see Brisbane and Sirius almost directly side-by-side, ready to begin the replenishment procedure. “Charlie-Two, this is Hotel Actual, operation is a-go,” a voice spoke over the radio, “If we need you for anything, we'll let you know, over.” Mark shifted the stick forward and gradually opened the throttle, prompting the Seahawk forward with trained precision and grace, gently easing the ’Hawk into a stand-by postion above and astern of the two vessels. It only required small adjustments of the control sticks to make the ’Hawk go where he wanted, and it always seemed to respond well to his touch. "Hotel Actual to Charlie Two, man in the water, man in the water!" The radio suddenly exclaimed, "Sector two-one-zero!" "I see him," Laura pointed down near Sirius' aft, "Marty, get the rescue winch ready!" The Seahawk responded fluidly and obediently to Mark’s touch as he gently caressed her into a hover above the swimmer, who was struggling to keep himself out of Sirius' wake. “Almost... there... got it!” Martin called out, "Lowering the winch!" The swimmer desperately reached for the rescue line being lowered, and was all-too-eager to strap himself in. "Swimmer retrieved and secured," Martin called out, "Retracting rescue line." Within moments, the sailor was on board, and shivered as Martin guided him into the cabin bay. "What happened?" he asked. The sailor grinned sheepishly in embarrassment. "I wasn't watching where I was going and tripped." "Charlie Two to Hotel Actual, swimmer retrieved," Laura stated into the radio, "Where do you want him?" “Charlie-Two, drop him off back on Sirius, and then return to station," the radio replied, "Good catch." ----- Mark and his team remained on station for almost an hour. Fortunately, nothing else of interest took place, and besides the one sailor falling overboard, the replenishment turned out to be pretty routine. "Hotel Actual to Charlie-Two, replenishment operation is complete,” the radio squawked, “Flight deck is clear, you are cleared to land when you’re ready.” Mark glanced down at the warship with a sigh, “Probably the last time I look at her from this angle...” 'Where’s a camera when you need it...?' The Seahawk hesitantly inched closer to the deck, before touching down with a solid thump. “Wheel brakes locked,” Mark breathed out resignedly, “Initiating shut-down procedure...” “And we’re home,” Laura smiled, “Nice work, BC.” “‘BC’?” Martin’s confused voice spoke up, “Where’d that one come from?” “Oh, it’s an inside joke between him and I,” she replied dismissively. Mark silently flicked off every power switch within arm’s reach as the whine of the turbine engines gradually reduced to a low, hushed whisper, before silencing altogether. 'And thus, my last flight from the pilot’s seat of a Seahawk is over,' He grimaced, 'And what a short career that turned out to be.' ----- “Hey Shef!” a voice called out as He entered the hangar, which was bustling with activity as sailors scrambled to unload the supply crates. “Hmm?” He glanced at the source of the voice. Marshall approached him with a small brown box. “There’s a package here addressed specifically for you,” Marshall held it out, “It seems mailing things the old fashioned way isn’t quite dead yet.” He blinked in confusion as he accepted the parcel, “That’s odd. Why would anyone send me stuff? Must be a birthday present from someone... Thanks Marshall.” He gave the man a wave and continued his walk towards the equipment racks. The small parcel didn’t have any outstanding features, other than his name, an address directly to HMAS Brisbane, a packaging stamp displaying Ayers Rock, and a stamp to indicate it passed through Customs without a hitch. “Huh. No reply address,” He murmured, tearing the wrapping off, revealing a small white box inside. “Must be a birthday present from Mum or something like... a Daring Do plushie?” He frowned as he held the small toy up in his hand, “Oh, now that’s just cruel. Not funny, man. Not funny at all.” “Aww, that’s cute!” Laura cooed with a grin, “I didn’t know you were that attached to the idea of becoming a pony.” “It just arrived in the mail now!” He defended, “This can’t be a coincidence. Whoever sent it obviously either knew I was going to morph into her, or just had a really lucky guess.” “What do you mean, ‘morph into her’?” “I’m not just turning into a generic My Little Pony version of myself here! By the time this ordeal is over, this is what I’ll be looking like, minus the hat and shirt.” He held it up for her to see. “What, some kid’s toy made in China?” she furrowed her brow skeptically. “No, the colours and the general physique,” He clarified, “I’ll be a full-sized, living breathing version of this.” “Interesting. Well, you’re already 5 percent on the way there, so it’ll be interesting to see you once you’re all complete.” “The problem is, I don’t know how to break this to the rest of the ship,” he shuffled uncomfortably, “It’s going to be rather awkward to just up and say ‘Hey, look everyone! I can’t do my job anymore because apparently my body’s having a bit of an aesthetical crisis!’” “Maybe if we discuss this with the Skipper, maybe he’ll be able to find a way to help you through this,” Laura offered, “I mean, he’s going to have to know that one of his pilots is going to be indisposed sooner or later.” “Probably,” he sighed and took off his flight helmet, “And then... we’ll have to improvise from there.” He turned about to see Laura staring at him with a dumbstruck expression. “...What?” “Your hair’s changed colour,” she pointed out, “Here, pass me the plushie...” She held it up against his head for comparison, “You’ve gone grey, Mark”. “What...?” A quick glance in a nearby reflective surface revealed that his hair was indeed changing colour, with three thick bands of differing shades running through his hair, mimicking the style of the monochromatic rainbow that was Daring Do’s mane. He ran a hand across the back of his head. His hair had grown several centimetres during the flight, and was now sitting just above his collar. Navy Regulations would chuck a fit if they saw him like this. “I guess that’s the last sign I need to be convinced,” Laura murmured, “This really is happening, isn’t it?” An unsettling silence momentarily settled in between them. “Yes, I suppose it is,” He looked her in the eye, “All we can do is sit out the ride and see where it goes from there.” “You seem to be taking this all rather well,” she remarked, concentrating on unbuckling her flight gear, “If I found out I was turning into a creature from a kid’s show, I’d be more than a little flustered and confused. I'd be asking a lot of questions about a lot of things.” “Oh trust me, I’m confused by this as much as you are,” Mark shrugged, “But I at least have evidence here about about what’s going on. All I need to figure out now is why. Why there are people turning into ponies, and why this is happening to me? Was it by random chance? Or is there really such a thing called ‘destiny’? I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.” “And another thing...” Laura murmured, “Is perpetually standing on your toes part of the process?” “Hmm? What are you... oh,” He glanced down at his feet, which were indeed raised up at the heels. “I didn’t even notice that,” he admitted, trying to force himself back down. Frustratingly, the posture with his feet flat on the ground no longer felt comfortable. “And so it begins,” she breathed out, “I suppose we should inform the Skipper about this, just so that he’s in the know.” Mark grimaced with tense apprehension. It was going to be rather awkward explaining something like this to your boss. “Ugh, we might as well organise a good moment with him now and get it over with,” His shoulders sagged slightly in defeat. ----- [2030 Hours, May 9th] A soft rapping sound at the door drew the man’s attention away from his laptop. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened, and two neatly dressed officers stepped inside, one of which had the strange idea to wear sunglasses indoors at eight thirty in the evening, closing the door behind them. The office was quite spacious, as far as cabins on board a warship went, with a decent-sized work desk, a rather comfy-looking lounge area. “Ah, Leftenant Sheffield and Leftenant Donaldson. Please, take a seat,” the man offered, placing the laptop aside. Emblazoned on the screen was a news tabloid website, with a silhouette of what appeared to be Twilight Sparkle stamped with a large white question mark, and the headline ‘Are the claims legit, or just horsing around?’ “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule for us, Captain Stevenson,” Laura nodded. “Nah, not to worry,” Brisbane’s Commanding Officer, Captain John Stevenson shrugged, “You said you have something important on your mind, and I’m always here for anyone on my ship, so... what’s up?” “Sir, we’d like you to take another look at that article there,” Mark gestured. “I know what it said; I just finished reading it a few moments ago. Why?” “I... believe I have evidence that those claims are based on truth, and that there is something big going on here.” Stevenson narrowed his eyes with an amused smirk, “... Go on...” “You might want to get comfy sir, this may or may not take a while...”