“Get a move on soldier, 'cause you don't belong here”
I hear them. Noises of life. Where am I? How did I get here? Voices around me whisper away, a soft hum of electronics adds ambience to the omnipotent darkness of my world. A repetitive beep sounds to the right of me, I feel a pressure on my right foreleg and my back is pressed into something soft. A bed.
A creak sounds to my far left, a slight squeak before the sound of hooves on wood tap away at the fragile atmosphere. Hushed whispers now surround near my hind legs, no names just opinions, “Nurse, what have you given him?”
“A weak healing potion, enough to stop the bleeding. Any more and the brain tissue that was lost will regrow and force its way out of the skull.”
A rustle follows, a metallic ping rings out as the bed shakes slightly. A sharp intake of breath follows, released as a murmur.“We need to operate right away if he's to survive the night.”
“It's too risky, and I don't care who's paying for the operation. I cannot, on any grounds, do this. He's a pony, not a machine.” New voice this time; male, a few years older than me at least, and it sounds like I’m in trouble. “We should just put him out of his misery.”
Ah. I’m definitely in trouble.
“The Ministries of Morale, Wartime Technology and Image have all banked on him surviving! I don't care about your moral opinion on the matter, just get the job done.” Thank Luna, I’m wanted alive.
“Why him? Why this poor bastard over every other dying pony in this place, huh? Why does it have to be him?”
The voices continue for a while, hushing until I can't hear them, before slipping away. My fate's uncertain, but one thing is for sure; I’m alive. For the moment.
By some stupid reasoning, I survived something that should have killed me outright. I just can't recall what I survived. I can barely remember a thing, my head's swimming in a sea of blackest black. It's claustrophobic, I’m finding it hard to breathe under all this darkness but the rise and fall of my torso is the only thing that can keep me going right now. I must breathe. Somepony wants me alive.
I start to check myself, I twitch my joints one by one. Hind legs, rear, tail, fore legs, hooves. Oh no. My left fore hoof, it's missing. Not numb, completely gone from the joint. I guess I’m not as untouchable as I thought I was. After all I went through in that battle, I’m surprised all I lost was a hoof. I feel a single tear run from my right eye, and searing pain from left.
And now the memories hit me. Lost brain tissue, no eyelids. No fucking eye. Oh Celestia, I was shot in the head. In. The. Fucking. Head! I feel my pace race, my heart hammering on my eardrums as if it can escape through my skull. Oh goddesses have mercy, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die!
And now I start screaming. The first is a pitiful squeak, my throat dry from the moisture free, germ killing artificial air, the second almost tears my voice box in two. The third finally breaks through and shatters the stagnant silence suffocating the room. I cough and splutter, warm blood forming at the back of my throat as I start flailing weakly, the left side of my head becoming sticky with the blood oozing from my fatal wound.
My cries evolve from just screams into words, obscenities spew into the world before dissolving back into yelps of agony. I try to rise up from my bed, feeling wires tighten around me as they try to tie me back to the bed. A new warmth appears, the sheets becoming sodden with my urine as my body informs the whole world that it is terrified and in pain. I don't care who wants me alive, just end this agony for me by any means necessary!
Out of the edges of my awareness, I hear a clamour. Hooves rush to my side as the machine continues to bleep at a rapidly increasing pace. I don't feel the needle penetrate my flank and veins underneath, and I barely hear the whine of magic being charged.
The voices yell out in the din as my world of darkness caves into a deeper black than ever before, “Three, two, one, clear!”
My body rocks upwards involuntarily, I let out a gasp as life is forced back into me and the whine starts again. Another countdown, another hit and I fall back exhausted. I let myself fall into rest as the bed turns and squeaks.
“OK, I'll do it. But I need a cybernetic specialist up here now...”
It was just over four years ago when the war was brought home. My family lived in a small town called Manehead, my father having moved there in years before meeting my mother where they met through a friend. It was small, quaint but there was always something going on. Traditions were held onto tight, as if the townsfolk were scared of a superstition on their superstitions.
I remember the events leading to the end of those days perfectly.
It began with a celebration of my elder brother's recent promotion, he had been made executive of the town's local weapons manufacturer and our entire family was present. He was brimming with pride at the promotion, all set in motion by one simple innovation; a new method to mass produce battle saddles, bringing more fire power to the front line than the zebras could imagine. We hoped.
It was amusing, at least, the way he giggled like a school filly at the final designs for the saddles; the name “Ratchet Bolt” emblazoned on the side. It was as though the thought of hundreds of battle-hardened stallions slaughtering zebras with his name all over their equipment stroked his ego enough to make him stroke himself. Knowing my brother, he probably did that at the thought of said stallions.
My uncle was boasting about how the combined might of the Equestrian Armed Forces would wrap the war up in a matter of months, “Them Zebras may be better at fightin', but we got one thing they don't; flight! Their army may be tough as a dragon's hide but our air force is our trump, and now we're goin' hoof to hoof with the striped bastards instead of these cowardly sneaky tactics, we'll finish 'em for good!”
I remember how I was mesmerised by his tales of how pegasi would swoop overhead and shoot down entire battalions of zebra before they knew what hit them, how he was pinned down by a squad of the savages and killed them all with his ceremonial sword single hoofed. His tales of fantasy and romance, of near death and victory probably persuaded me to sign up as part of the infantry.
It was just after my favourite story of his, his squad's heroic stand in a settlement overran with the invaders from afar, when my mother came in. Back then, I couldn't stand how much she cried as she turned the radio on, why it made my father pale and all my other relatives follow suit. The report came through; there had been fighting at Little Horn.
“Not fighting,” my father grumbled after the broken voice of the presenter had stopped. “If nopony survived, then something's amiss there. That was a cold-hearted massacre.”
His words hit everyone hard, more so because he was right. The whole of Equestria fell silent it seemed, hundreds of foals were killed unnecessarily. Some shrugged it off, saying that they were casualties of war and casualties were to be expected, but it was the point that nopony survived the attack. Even if Luna hadn't propelled Equestria into the war hungry monster it became, the event fuelled the tension within the citizens.
A few weeks passed and my father received the call to arms, Ratchet being exempt from it due to his importance to the war effort on the industrial side. My parents tried to explain to me why he had to leave but I figured it out from the moment the colonel knocked on our door. In a way, the Bolt's gift was a curse as well; we understand everything, no matter how irrational. We just accept it.
The Bolt line had been blessed with the talent of ingenuity, if anypony had a solution to any problem be it mechanical or personal, we had a family member who could solve it. Just as the cogs on my flank represent, my talent was to understand all things; from mechanical faults to the irrational wailing of a foal. My Cutie Mark story isn't as whimsical or wonderful as most other ponies, my talent being discovered when I defused a heated argument between my parents after I finished repairing my grandfather's old watch. From that day onwards, they were convinced that I would become a grand politician while I preferred working with machines; much easier to understand and with less backlash.
When my father left, I only had one regret. I wished that I kicked up more of a fuss when they took him away. Instead, all I did was stand and watch as he was led off into a chariot full of stony faced stallions and mares, each looking ahead only to their deaths. Understanding, what sort of special talent is being able to understand anything and everything?
I took over the family shop, chariot repairs. Business was slow but enough to keep us fed and to live reasonably comfortable lives. A while after my father left, Princess Luna rose to the throne and the Ministries were created. Princess Celestia's abdication struck home the seriousness of Equestria's situation, the stallions who hadn't been drafted into service signed up and the town suffered from the lack of money. Taxes soared, the economy ground to a near halt, the only things keeping Manehead going were the factory, our chariot repair shop and a few other specialised businesses in the town.
The Ministry Mares were ponies above and beyond all of us, rivalling the Princesses in fame, but that didn't stop me from my fantasies. From when I was a colt, there was only one mare that I could ever have my eyes on; the Ministry Mare of Peace, Fluttershy. I had seen a banner of the mare enjoying a Sunrise Sarsaparilla, that quickly became my favourite drink of all time, and was smitten ever since. It seemed unusual to be in love with a pony I had never met, especially one that was significantly older than me, but I assured myself that I would make it work somehow, convincing myself as I got older that the age would add other benefits too.
My mother had joked when I was young, saying that one day I’d meet her and sweep her off her hooves while my father promised to pay for a grand wedding when we were engaged. Ratchet naturally joined in on the fun, teasing me about my Special Some-Pony every Hearts and Hooves Day until he began work at the factory. That factory took him away from the start, now that I look back at it.
Ratchet had always been somewhat egotistical, earning his Cutie Mark at a remarkably young age and constantly inventing new methods and designs which maximised output without increasing price. He was the ideal son to the Bolt family, excelling in everything mechanical and being the soul of the party when it suited him. When he came out, my parents didn't seem to care a single bit. To most ponies, it would be the idealised “we accept you for everything you are” thought process, but I could tell their disappointment. They were just too damn proud of him to protest.
My mother was a gentle mare, brought up in the nearby town of Ponyville, and often visited her friends there. I had visited her old home on numerous occasions, and was often subject to her stories of her exploits as a filly in the town. She didn't have the hooves for physical labour, nor the finesse for fine tool work. It was a blessing, I suppose, that she wasn't there when the news arrived.
My father had been gone for just over a year and a half, and I had grown into a stronger stallion than he. I stood roughly at his height, still shorter than my brother though, and had acquired the same black mane. A friend of the family once said that I was the spitting image of him, much to my embarrassment. I was working on a custom built chariot for a local merchant when two stallions in the Army's colours arrived, sullen and with an air that this scene was all too familiar to them.
They didn't even need to make it to the door. The folded flag said it all.
My father's unit were doing a standard border patrol when they were ambushed by zebras and zebra sympathizers. One mare survived the attack though had lost use of her rear limbs in exchange. She described how my father was the last to fall, having been shot, stabbed and kicked into a bloody pulp yet he still stood, adrenaline fuelling his body. The enemy patrol broke morale, fleeing from the demon pony who couldn't die.
That was it. No goodbyes, no dramatic final words, nothing. My father was dead and gone. The stallions offered their condolences, but they were empty words, rehearsed and practised within an inch of their worth until they seemed forced. I didn't blame them, you don't shoot the messenger.
I didn't cry until the funeral, and even then I couldn't shed a tear until his body was laid to rest. His brown coat had been patched up to preserve his dignity, a pointless gesture but one I was grateful for. It was soul crushing, knowing that the last time I saw my father he was covered in stitches and had a glass eye in place. The image haunted me for longer than I could remember, being unable to look at his photo for fear of throwing up at the memory of his desecrated body.
I stayed strong for my mother, and held my place as the new head of the family. My brother hadn't even bothered to tell us he wasn't going to attend. A messenger pony arrived a few days afterwards with a letter, Ratchet explaining his absence.
Rivet, you know I loved dad more than anything but I’m on the edge of something huge here. There is a war going on, death is to be expected and I’m one of the ponies who refuse to let those deaths be in vain. Meanwhile, you sit at home and play with your chariots. Grow up and act your age, I don't see you doing anything to help us win!
I couldn't read beyond there, I knew what he was saying was right and it made sense, but he was all but dead to me as family. He wasn't the same pony I grew up with, looked up to. My mother took it worse, refusing to come out of her room for days on end. All I heard were her cries of anguish and choking sobs every night, followed by her screams as the nightmares came.
Two weeks passed before she came out the door, her eyes had sunk into her skull and her body had become lifeless. Her auburn mane had lost it's sleek sheen, and her cream coat was dirty like she had tried to bury herself away from the pain of loss. It was all I could do to hold her before my tears came again, my hooves around her heaving body as we lamented our loss. Two members of our family, gone in less than a month and now it was taking its toll on our souls.
Weeks slipped by and became months, the business growing as the demand for specialised pegasus chariots surged; the Army had begun utilizing para-troopers as shock tactics, placing ponies deep in enemy territory to sabotage their war machines and supply lines. More news came as other mares and stallions from the village were killed in action, the blows heavy but necessary I told myself. Then our world was rocked again.
It had been two years since I heard those stories, and now they will never be heard again. My uncle had fallen too.
My aunt spluttered the news as she arrived, my cousins staying home to lament. He was killed by a cloaked zebra, killed in the middle of the mess hall. The strike was a demoralising blow for all of Equestria, nowhere near the scale of Little Horn but the message was clear; the zebras' technology was far more advanced than we thought. Nopony was safe any more.
Panic grew in the streets, ponies packing up and retreating to the furthest reaches of Equestria to escape the zebra menace. Mother did the same, moving in with my aunt in Manehatten to help her with the loss, leaving me alone with the shop and my estranged brother with his factory. I could feel the panic affect me as well, working twice as hard on my jobs to prevent any speculation that I was a zebra sympathizer; one job done wrong led to suspicions. Suspicions led to rumours. Rumour led to a visit from the Ministry of Morale and nopony came back from the Ministry's visits.
We had the rare opportunity of meeting one of the Ministry Mares after such an incident; a buck was taken away on suspicion of supplying illegal zebra drugs to younger colts and fillies under the pretence that they were sweets. The Mare in question was the infamous Pinkie Pie, renowned for her insane parties, who arrived in a bright pink hot air balloon with a ready-to-go party towed underneath. Of all the ways I want to see my hard paid taxes being used, this was the most unusual.
She personally greeted every pony in Manehead, knocking on their door and inviting them via singing telegram. When she came to my shop, I had half a mind to slink away and pretend I wasn't in, only to find it futile when she entered through the chimney. Face to face with one of Fluttershy's closest friends, the position I was in finally dawned on me; my secret fantasy could become true!
This fleeting moment was then shattered by the arrival of an alligator.
The Ministry Mare didn't stop laughing until I had descended from on top of my personal chariot, explaining between breaths that Gummy was harmless due to his namesake. I was later reacquainted with the abnormal pet at DJ-PON3's set, Pinkie dancing along with him.
After four days of non-stop partying, the Ministry packed up and left. Manehead was shell shocked and slightly more wary of alligators than before, but at ease. No matter how hard the war went, we could never stop smiling because we will win. We were better than the zebra scum and we won't loose to something that's lesser to a pony!
It wasn't long after that I finally decided to sign up and do my part for the good of all Equestria. Not for personal glory, nor to avenge my father's death but to keep the world smiling and bring back this peace. In one of his letters, my father described to me how the zebra prisoners would sing to one another to keep themselves smiling despite their predicament and how they were greeted upon their return, usually before the cowards opened fire on the ponies sent to release them.
My mother protested and threatened to disown me if I joined the army, an understandable threat. If I died, my brother would be all that's left, and she stopped seeing him as a son years ago, but it wasn't about her any more. With a brave face, I gave her my word that I would come home in one piece no matter what. I would become home a hero of peace and justice for all. My time as a humble chariot repair pony had ended, and the name Rivet Bolt would be forever echoed in time as one of the heroes of Equestria.
She never wrote to me again. I know she's doing well, my aunt writes to me time to time telling me how they're coping but my mother has never said a word to me since the day I disobeyed her.
Three weeks later, the chariot for basic training rolled up in the town square and I alone stepped aboard. I remember looking fondly at the town I grew up in, dismally the factory I lost my brother to and wistfully at my old home. I collected myself and sat next to a mud-brown coloured unicorn, his coat looking worse for wear but a keenness in his eyes, like he was ready for anything the world had to throw at him.
“Bolt, Rivet Bolt.” I said, holding out my hoof with a smile on my face.
The unicorn looked back, smiled a little, and took it in his own. “Xander, pleased to make your acquaintance.”