The Legionnaire and the unicorn

by twillale

Six months later, part II

The courtyard is a mess. Thick pillars of smoke roil and twist as they reach towards the sky, fanned by huge fires. Trucks full of people dart this way and that, trying to get away from the center of the base where the noise of battle is coming from. Bursts of weapons fire echo from the Canterlot-side gates, where most of the buildings are clustered.

Staying slow, I head down a narrow passage between two smaller buildings, peeking my camera arm around corners and over walls every now and then. Looks like this part of the compound is completely dead. I share my attention between the surrounding scenery and the tactical uplink.

“It looks like they’re staying close to the gates,” Twilight notes from behind me. I glance at her reflection, finding her peering at the slowly changing tactical map. I grin at the familiar furrowed brow, curiosity evidently winning out over fear.

“Yeah. They’re either badly under-equipped or out for a very specific goal. At least I hope it’s one of those options.”

“You do? Why?”

“Because the remaining alternatives are that they’re total amateurs, or fanatics looking for martyrdom. Unpredictable and willing to die for the cause. Or both.” I shudder at the thought, and slightly adjust our travel speed up.

“If we’re lucky we’re getting away with— shit!”

I step around a corner and almost walk straight into a frame, the canopy painted with a sloppy red ‘X’. It must’ve stepped out in the span of the one second that I retracted the camera arm. Apparently just as surprised as I am, the pilot of the labor frame clumsily swings a wildly spinning mining drill at us.

Still, it is to all ends and purposes just a re-purposed industrial machine. My Chub, stripped of all but the most essential armour, and with cylinder reflexes ingrained over a decade of active service, reacts almost faster than I can nudge the controls. Metal screams against metal as I violently deflect the incoming drill with one arm and shove the much lighter ST-1 frame off-balance with my assault cannon. With a twitch of my wrist I center the stubby barrel on the enemy’s cockpit.

I hesitate for the barest second, then aim and squeeze the trigger twice.

The Chub jolts. Molten metal and debris the size of small vehicles smatter against the cockpit. Twilight screams. The assault cannon cycles a new round into the acceleration chamber with a final clang.

I shove the broken frame to the side and step through the smoke, weapon at the ready. I hear a whimper behind my back, but my eyes never leave the battlefield.

“Stay calm, Twilight! He’s not dead!”

There’s a choked breath and the rustle of movement.

“He’s not?”

“No.” I twist the Chub’s torso slightly, to get a better view of the downed frame. The remaining arm and leg twitch wildly as clear cylinder fluid bleeds out from the burnt remains of the other two limbs. A tiny, bipedal shape crawls out of the intact cockpit, coughing, and retreats from the smoking frame at a limping jog.

Twilight lets out a relieved exhalation.

“...Thank you.”

“He wasn’t a real threat,” I grunt, feeling my face run hot for some god-awful reason. “And we’re not through this yet.”

I round the corner and stop to take in the scene. In front of what I realise to be the native trade liaison station, a number of both humans and ponies clad in what I assume is supposed to be some sort of red uniform stare at our Chub with obvious alarm.

What really catches my eye, though, is the line of tied-up humans and ponies, some of whom I recognised as cooperating locals or employees at the trade station. The prisoners are in the process of being roughly led into a pair of covered trucks.

“What the hell?”

Bullets harmlessly ping off the frame’s armour as the red-clothed humans panic and open fire with various small arms. I switch my microphone output to the external speakers and take a deep breath. Terrorists or not, whatever they are my priority here is to protect the members of the trade station. After all, we Legionnaires are primarily an heavily armed police force; cowing rabble like this is practically what we do.

“This is commander Eliaszadeh of the United Mars Foreign Legion! Lay down your arms and surrender!”

My massively amplified voice blasts through the alleyway, loud enough for some of the would-be kidnappers to clap hands or hooves over their ears. Twilight roughly pokes my shoulder.

“Put me through as well.”

I raise my eyebrow, shrug, and twist the microphone towards her.

“...and this is Twilight Sparkle, Representative of the Equestrian royal courts. Your actions are in direct violation of agreements between the Princesses and the Terran government. Comply to our requests and there will be no need for violence.”

Well, now. She would perhaps make a bad politician, but I think she’d make a pretty convincing leader. I nod appreciatively before underlining the implied threat with a few menacing steps forwards, hefting the stubby cannon on my right hand.

The alleyway devolves into a panic as the red-clad group scrambles into the trucks, leaving their disoriented captives hobbling back into the safety of the station. I take aim at the closest truck, then nudge the cross hairs off it.

“Crap!” Who knows how many civilians they managed to stow on board?

I stumble into a jog behind the escaping trucks, bursting out into the open near the northern edge of the compound. I cut into an ongoing conversation on the radio.

“Break-break-break! This is deep blue. I ran into a group attempting to kidnap trade liaison personnel. Human and pony, red clothing. I need something to stop two trucks with possible civilian hostages heading east, over.”

“Deep blue, this is Mission Control, copy report. Re-routing air wing there as soon as possible. Did you say human and pony? Over.”

“Yeah, I don’t—”

Concentrated on the transmission, I don’t see the launch trail before Twilight shouts a warning. I barely have time to raise an arm before the direct-fire missile impacts, throwing the Chub into a wild spin and slamming us into the ground, hard. Warning signals paint the cockpit red as I try to comprehend what just happened.

My head feels like a lead weight, pulling my neck painfully sideways as I hang suspended from the safety harness. Uncomprehending, I let my eyes wander along the smoke trail leading from our badly damaged frame and into the high hills outside the base perimeter. And to what stands on one of those hills.

The impossible sight sobers my groggy brain up immediately. I painstakingly reach to tap the controls and, miraculously, the sensor dome manages to laboriously rotate enough to magnify the faraway image, sleek lines bristling with sensors coming into sharp focus.

The unmistakable outline of a gunmetal grey ST-10 Osprey is clear against the sky. A top-grade, custom-built special forces frame is calmly pretending not to be part of a poorly executed assault by a rag-tag, wannabe terrorist group. My brain’s ongoing short-circuit is interrupted by a loud groan.

“Ugh... What— What happened now?”

I turn to look at Twilight, scowling at the blood running down her face in thin streams. Niyoosha whimpers, so I know she’s still alive, but I have to prioritise. I’m sorry, girl. I fish a woollen cap out of a pocket and try to press it down on the unicorn’s head wound.

Twilight screams in pain.

“My horn! I’m hurt in my horn!”

I force her to hold the cap with her own hooves, turning back to the controls.

“Hold it, it’ll stop the blood flow. Can you use magic? Can you get us out of here?”

A second of concentrated silence is broken by a pained whimper.

“...I— no. I can’t.”

“Shit.” I flick the transmission key. “Any blue, come in any blue, over.”

Only static answers me. The damned comms array must’ve been damaged. Frustrated, I rack the controls, only succeeding in pitifully scooting a few meters across the open ground. I turn back to the screens, realising the frame that shouldn’t be is still observing us from the hill.

Too late I realise the Osprey was waiting to see if we were still alive.

Too late I notice the tall tube rising towards the sky.

I watch the shells leave the mortar.

A dozen contingency plans flash through my mind, all discarded in turn. There’s simply no time to run. I raise the mangled assault cannon in front of the cockpit, aware of the gesture’s futility.

The shells climb to the apex of their arc, then seem to stop and hover in front of my eyes. The world compresses into those little black dots against the sky.

I feel strangely calm even as my heart tries to leave my chest.

“Twilight.” My voice sounds odd over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I grasp a soft, furry hoof with my hand and turn to the pony with a wild, gritted smile.

“It’s been a true honour to call you my friend.”

Realisation dawns and I can see her work through the same flimmer of emotions that I did. She doesn’t panic. I knew she would’ve made a good leader. We stare at eachother for a silent moment, before I turn my eyes back to the sky, think of home, and wait for death.

A shadow falls over the cockpit.

...and the sky explodes.

I get about half a second to stare stupidly at the crossed scimitars of the UMFL before the third shockwave of the day hits me. A tinkling shower of shrapnel pelts the immediate area around us, dazzling sunlight reflecting off the tiny pieces of metal. A massive, rectangular riot shield angles down with a pneumatic hiss to better protect the wielder from the distant Osprey.

I stare at the very familiar blue and dark green arm holding up the shield. The static of the comms array is forced back by the close proximity of the overriding transmitter, the tense but controlled voice crackling over the loudspeakers.

“...suppressor reloading, deep blue is safe. Weapons free.”

Hell breaks loose around us. A coordinated battle line of blue and green frames sweeps into the field, compact rifles chattering behind Legion-standard riot shields. The hilltop explodes as hundreds of high-velocity shells impact with the packed earth, blowing trees and boulders into splinters.

The Osprey deftly dodges the destructive barrage, disappearing over the crest with a flash of booster jets. Fucking booster jets!

I realise I’m still squeezing Twilight’s hoof with a vice grip. It takes an effort of will to open my hand. I leave an imprint on her hoof.

“Sorry,” I sheepishly nod at the hand-shaped spoor.

“It’s all right,” she says seriously.

We look at each other. I snort at the dried streams of blood drawing a circle around her muzzle. That’s how tightly wound up I am. Twilight, in turn, giggles at my manic eyes, which sets me off laughing. Soon we’re both whooping with released tension, tears running down both our cheeks.

Niyoosha starts barking. I manage to undo her restraints even though I’m laughing so hard my whole body is shaking. Wagging her tail, the seemingly unharmed canine immediately attacks my face with licks, only driving me to laugh more.

“Are you all right in there? Open the hood!”

I release the locks to the cockpit. Tala’s look of worry softens several degrees as she finds Twilight laughing uncontrollably at my feeble attempts to ward off my dog.

“Well, looks like you’re still alive and kicking, boss.”

I chuckle and wipe a stray tear with a sleeve.

“Are you kidding? You’re not rid of me that easily.”

“I’m sure we aren’t, sir,” Tala replies with a grin. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Comments

[twillale]

Eh... Under Free Flag isn't really progressing, so I engaged in some literary self-satisfaction.
The reasons for this little exercise are three-fold:

1) Mecha action is awesome and fun.
2) Mobile Frame Zero: Rapid Attack is a fantastic game.
3) It's good practice in character development.

Let me know what you think, m'kay?

[alamais]

Well-written, amusing, feely. I approve.

[WordPlay]

Love a good mecha~ Though I can honestly say I've never seen this Lego game before, and I do love my Lego (well to be honest I haven't touched it in decades, but I still have a hoard of it back home). Interesting premise for a story!