With Luna now on Earth, everyone's having to do a little adjusting. Governments scramble, religions proclaim, and mobs form. But among it all, the attack on board the Hornet raises an important question: who is responsible? And what do they want?
Things have been shaken up by Luna's surprise appearance and subsequent journey to Earth. As the world tries to find its footing in a universe much different then they expected, and as the strange phenomenon of "magic" begins to spread, everyone's having to make some accommodations-- Luna not least, with the Nightmare now an equal holder of her own body; not a great arrangement. But among all this, the attack onboard Hornet lurks, begging the question: Who was behind it? What do they want? And is it already too late to stop it?
Deep within the bowels of the aircraft carrier rested a vast sickbay, a well-equipped and modern facility designed to care for everyone on board the town-sized vessel at any time, from a peaceful cruise to a full-on battle. Doctors were always present, usually fussing over several of the crew who had suffered some minor injury or taken sick while on board. It held everything required to heal even the grievously wounded and the deathly ill.
Connected by a thick door to the sickbay, and isolated from any other entrances, was a far less welcoming room, one that until this moment had never actually been used. This was where those too injured to live went to die, and where the dead laid until they could be put to rest.
The morgue was usually a stark, empty room, clinically clean and sterile, with a stale odor of disuse, and, despite the fact that it had never been used, the oppressive feel of death. Today, however, it held its first real occupant. A team of doctors and the medical examiner, along with his assistants, circled the tattered body of the former Secret Service agent, who still dripped water from the melting ice crystals which had nearly encased the headless, burning man. The other body hadn’t been recovered, as it had apparently been tossed over the side before anything could happen.
“This is the most unique body I have ever seen,” the medical examiner commented, pulling on his sterile gloves and wheeling over his tray of equipment. “He appears to be severely burned, as though he was in a large fire, and yet he is wheeled in covered in ice crystals. Also, his head and one hand are missing. What happened to him?”
The others shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea,” one confessed. “There was some crazy stuff going on up there, is all I know, and then suddenly I’m carting off this dead guy, and everyone up there is running around like headless chickens.”
“Anyway,” the medical examiner dismissed, “it’s time to begin the autopsy.” He waved the assistants over. “Time of death?” It was faithfully reported and recorded. “Cause of death… undetermined at this point.” He began to carefully remove the scorched, ragged suit jacket the cadaver wore, inspecting the piece of clothing carefully before setting it off to one side, on another cart marked ‘Evidence.’
The shirt was unbuttoned and likewise examined, but just before it was about to be put aside, the examiner noticed a slip of paper in the shirt pocket. Carefully, he removed it, and looked at it quizzically. “It looks like a picture of some freighter. Why on earth would this be here?”
One of the other doctors asked, “Is there anything else on it?”
The examiner flipped over the picture. “Just a little bit of writing… the water and fire damaged some of the ink badly. I can’t read the first word, but the second word reads in part, ‘zgerald.’ There’s a number afterwards, but it’s been half burnt off. The two readable digits are one and nine.” He stared at the innocuous slip for a few moments. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
In the sickbay, there were a handful of patients. There were a few sailors, one recovering from the flu and a couple more with minor cuts and scrapes from shipboard accidents. A supervisor stood in the corner, scribbling an accident report down on his clipboard. A few nurses were tending to the handful of naval personnel, but the two doctors and the other nurses were all clustered around a trio of unusual patients.
One man, in charge of the President’s schedule while on board, lay unconscious, heart rate monitors beeping steadily. The administrative paper-pusher had been discovered by an off-duty crewman at an intersection, bleeding heavily from the head. Someone had slammed his head into the corner of the wall, several times. His skull had been fractured severely, and there were signs of internal bleeding. It was unsure whether he’d ever wake up after a beating like that, which begged the question: who had a reason to do something so brutal?
Another was the head of personal security for the president, who had suffered two bullets center-of-mass. He was critical, but stable, constantly watched by a doctor to keep his tenuous hold on life from deteriorating.
The final man was similarly unconscious, and hooked up to even more machines than the second, though he bore no signs of injury. A pale pinkish scar shone over much of his throat, the only sign of what had been only hours before a mortal wound.
A few doctors stood huddled over by his bed, glancing at various papers and images. Most regarded were a pair of X-rays and a picture of the scar tissue.
“This scar looks like it’s a wound at least five years old,” one doctor insisted, jabbing the picture with a pen. “It bears all the signs of having been there a significant time, but it obviously hasn’t. Even if we had the capabilities to close and heal a wound like this in such a short time span, the scars would be significantly redder, more puckered, and sensitive.” The other doctor nodded.
“The X-ray points to similar results on internal tissue and the tracheal wall. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He pulled out the first X-ray. “What does this look like?”
“A normal neck, one that’s recovered from significant trauma,” the other doctor replied impatiently. “It’s obvious.”
“But that’s the point!” was the reply as the second sheet, an angle view, was revealed. “Here’s the entrance wound,” he pointed, marking on the sheet with his pen a small X at the indicated position. “And here’s the exit wound. Notice anything?”
“No,” the first replied, with a frown on his face.
“Let me show you.” There was a few seconds of concentration as two lines were drawn from entrance to exit point, marking the path of the large bullet. “Notice what this goes through?”
“It goes right through the vertebrae,” the other breathed, sudden realization dawning on his face. “But all responses were normal…”
The doctor looked up from his close examination of the petri dishes, just taken out of the incubation chamber. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a colony—not of even the stuff you’d normally expect.” He brandished the clear dishes around. “They’re the most sterile samples I’ve ever seen. Whatever she did, it worked.” He frowned. “Though this is probably going to wreak havoc with your digestive systems, if you’ve been completely sterilized.”
Neil waved it off. “We’ll be fine. Does that mean we can get out of this trailer?” Even with Luna’s assurances, for completeness’ sake, the samples had been dutifully allowed to incubate, searching for any trace of potentially harmful pathogens. It had taken several hours before there was positive confirmation of no growth, and even now, the aircraft carrier was within an hour of Hawaii. The doctor’s word would allow the door to be unsealed, just in time to face the cameras. Neil was sure that the president would want to milk this opportunity for all it was worth—if at all possible, he was going to trot Luna out on stage to rake in the good press.
Speaking of a certain alicorn, she was huddled over in the corner, sleeping. Immediately after the swabs, she’d slumped to the nook and fallen asleep, out like a light.
“Yes,” the doctor affirmed. “You’re free to go. There’s no sign of contagion.” He smiled. “On a side note, it means I’m also free to go.” He looked over at the soldier, who, after many hours of standing rigidly at attention, gun at the ready, had finally succumbed to boredom and was sleeping on his bed in the other section of the trailer, dead to the outside world.
“True,” Neil chuckled. “I’m sure that had nothing to do with your decision to break protocol.” He moved over to Buzz and Collins, who were over in another corner idly playing a card game, lazily throwing cards down at random, neither really paying attention to the game. “Hey. Doc says we’re good to go.”
Collins looked up. “Hey, that’s great news!”
Buzz immediately pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank heavens. I’m already tired of this tiny trailer. To think we would’ve spent two weeks in here…”
The doctor objected, “Actually, you’re all free to go… except you, Mr. Aldrin. You may be decontaminated, but you still have a severe concussion. You are going to head right down to the infirmary where we can keep you under observation.”
“What?” Buzz protested. “You can’t be serious.”
The flat look which he got quickly quailed any dissent. “Infirmary.”
He sighed and slumped over. “Fine.”
Michael shifted, pulling irritably on his sling. “Neil and I am good, right?”
The doctor gave them a onceover. “I suppose,” he conceded with a sigh. “Just be careful.”
Collins gave a discreet fist pump the moment the doctor’s eyes left him. Neil’s eyes crinkled as he silently chuckled, careful not to give the game away.
The doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper, rapped on the porthole, and held it up. Someone’s face appeared, quickly read the paper, and then disappeared just as fast. Before long, the two sides were frantically writing notes back and forth across the glass.
While this impromptu exchange was taking place, Neil moved over to the sleeping alicorn and nudged her. “Hey, wake up; we’re getting out of here.”
She didn’t budge, and he poked her a little harder. “Luna, hey, wake up!”
Lazily, one eye opened, cat’s-eye pupils staring irritatedly at the astronaut, and even though it was just one half-asleep glare, his knees tried to betray him via wobbling.
“Luna’s not here at the moment,” a deep, foggy voice answered. “Try again later.” The eye slowly continued to open, its twin joining it, as not-Luna began to awake.
Neil took a wary step back, remembering all too well the events of this afternoon. Collins noticed the unusual event, and he paled. “Oh, crud,” he muttered, hand twitching towards his belt. “That’s the Nightmare.”
Its ears flicked over in his direction. “Such a brilliant deduction,” it said laconically. “What gave me away? My stunning intellect? My piercing wit? Or maybe just my voice?” Its eyes tracked Neil, though it made no move to turn its head or get up off the floor. “Your dear alicorn friend is still recovering from the aftermath of complete magical deprival. She won’t be responding to anything for, oh, eight more hours or so.” It paused, eyes narrowing. “Seven hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirteen seconds, give or take a few, to be exact.”
By this point, Neil, too, had reached out of instinct for his belt, but felt only cloth and leather rather than the familiar metal stock. Being an astronaut had its perks… but carrying a gun wasn’t one of them.
“Oh, stop it with the cautious approach and the reaching-for-weapons-sneakily thing,” it sighed, rolling its eyes. “Like that would make a difference if I wanted to kill you. But moonbutt here seems to like you, and you don’t bore me, so you’re safe,” it grinned lazily.
Neither of the humans moved a muscle, beyond glancing at Buzz to see if he’d caught on to it or was still sulking about his infirmary visit. (News flash: he was still sulking, and had evidently noticed a grand total of nothing. The doctor had been right to order bed rest; his concussion was bad enough that he still wasn’t noticing things he would’ve caught onto instantly had he been healthy.)
“What, you don’t trust me?” it said, amusement coloring its sarcasm.
“To be honest, we don’t,” Neil muttered. “You did just kill two people and laugh about it.”
“But they were shooting at dear Luna’s friends,” it said, finally moving another muscle as it waved a hoof slowly in the air. “Enemies are free game. It’s in the contract, you know.” This still didn’t garner a reaction, and it closed its eyes and pressed the lifted hoof to its face. “But, if you’re going to stand there and be idiots about it, I solemnly swear I won’t murder you unless you turn into a threat.” It paused expectantly. “That good enough for you?”
Michael whispered, “Did Luna ever mention a contract or how trustworthy it is?”
Neil made the hand signal for ‘negative.’
“Oh, and please don’t refer to me as an it,” the Nightmare huffed, stretching languidly before slowly standing. “As you can see, I’m most definitely a she.”
By this time, Buzz had finally noticed the subdued commotion (the doctor was still exchanging notes with the outside, absorbed in whatever he was talking about—but what was he talking about? It seemed to be taking an awful long time), glass of water to his lips, just in time for the Nightmare to cock her hips, flutter her eyes, and strike a provocative pose.
He promptly choked and fell out of his seat coughing. Neil and Michael looked away, clearing their throats uncomfortably and shuffling their feet. “That’s just wrong,” Neil muttered, so low that he could barely hear it, but the Nightmare’s mouth curled upwards in a predatory smile.
“Oh, if that’s all it takes, we’re going to have such fun together,” she purred excitedly.
It really was nice having a body all to herself, the Nightmare mused. Even before, when she’d had control, Luna had always been in the background, fighting and yapping like a little annoying dog. Even when the pony was sleeping, her subconscious was always protesting, “Don’t kill that family! You shouldn’t burn down the city!” So annoyingly moral.
Apparently, complete magical exhaustion even shut down the subconscious. Too bad it wasn’t something that could be repeated very often; it was obvious that the only way she would ever get any peace was this.
The doctor was still singularly unimpressed, apparently completely unaffected by the subtle (at least for her) aura of unease she was gleefully pressing upon the astronauts. They were squirming in discomfort, deliciously uncomfortable, but the lab-coated man didn’t seem to feel it at all.
“Are we done in here?” he asked blandly. “Got all your stuff?” Without pausing for an answer, he continued, “Never mind, I’m sure someone will be around to grab it. We’re anchoring in half an hour; Mr. Armstrong, the president is waiting for you on the flight deck.”
He banged on the door and grabbed the unwieldy wheel set in the center of the door. He twisted it, wheel resisting heavily at first, but then beginning to spin freely with a hiss as the seal was broken open.
“Mr. Aldrin,” he said sternly, “You’re going to come with me. We’re going down to the infirmary to put you under observation.”
Hurriedly, Buzz put down his half-empty glass and agreed readily, eager to escape her. Her smile grew only wider as she watched them scramble to the door, desperately squishing closer to the door. The doctor pushed open the door, where several other people stood. The doctor took Buzz’s shoulder and steered him over to the hallway.
Neil nearly dived out of the door, and the Nightmare sniffed in annoyance as she watched the other humans begin to stiffen. It wouldn’t do to be too obvious with flaunting her abilities. These humans were far too inquisitive for their own good, and while that made them endearingly amusing, it was also bound to make her an object to be studied rather than feared if she was too obvious.
Stupid humans. Why couldn’t they be amusing and bow down at the same time? Tch. All the same, she reluctantly toned it down, keeping only a slight sense of awe and fear niggling at their subconsciouses.
Michael couldn’t move as spryly as Neil could, but he, too, was soon out of the room, sighing in relief.
“Keep moving,” she said, stepping out herself, while consciously willing her eyes back to that horrid original form. These underlings presumably didn’t know anything about her, unless their leader was a fool, and he certainly hadn’t struck her as a fool. She had liked what she had seen of him, for that brief moment, but it had been hard to judge off of one moment.
…But it wasn’t like he was all that impressive in total terms, anyway. No magic, no obvious prowess with weapons (though that was one of the few things she was delaying judgment on), and, most importantly, he wasn’t one of her kind. That was what mattered when all was said and done, anyway. They were all unimpressive compared to her majesty.
The humans fell into step around her, and only then did she deign to survey them, realizing they were all carrying weapons of the same type as the two suited men had been carrying at their hips—as well as much larger weapons in their arms. Keeping a respectful distance from her, they nonetheless completely boxed her in.
“What’s this?” she asked in annoyance. “Am I under guard?”
“No, ma’am,” one of them said. “Given the recent assassination attempt, security has been stepped up on all persons near the President or considered to be vital to national defense.” More men filed into the hall, taking up similar positions around the two astronauts. “We will also be serving as your honor guard.”
It was all said perfectly reasonably, and the honor guard ploy was a nice flattery, but the charade didn’t fool her for an instant. This was a guard. Polite, yes, and probably also dedicated to keeping people away from her, but the inverse was to keep her away from anyone else.
“Very well,” she sighed magnanimously. “I suppose you’re being too courteous to ignore. Lead on.”
The two men in front moved in perfect unison, boots stamping on the hard deck, and the others in the box moved along with them, shepherding her along the hallways and corridors upwards. The final stair led to a large metal door which was pushed open, revealing the large deck from earlier.
This ship was strange. Why such a large, flat space on top? There were no weapons—or sails, for that matter. Perhaps the paddlewheel was on the other side of the ship, behind the large tower she had just emerged from.
To her amusement, no one had yet gotten around to actually cleaning up the mess from the traitors and her swift disposal of them. They simply lay behind yellow tape, presumably waiting for a janitor to get around to them. How inefficient.
“Mr. President,” her escort announced. “Mr. Collins, Mr. Armstrong, and the alien are here.”
Nixon was leafing through a stack of papers, and he briefly looked up before returning his attention to the sheets. “Good, good,” he said. “Neil? Michael? I’ve had the liberty of having some speech outlines typed out for you.” He held out some of the stack. “They’re really general, so feel free to improvise and add your own stuff—you know the drill.”
Their escorts accepted the offerings and passed them back to the two men, who also immediately began to leaf through what were apparently speeches.
After a few moments of this mind-numbing stupidity, she cleared her throat. “I suppose you’ll want me to give some speech, as well?” she asked.
“If you’d be willing to,” the president responded with an easy smile.
“Full of platitudes, empty words, and other pandering, I suppose?” she asked laconically.
His smile faltered momentarily, but then returned just as bright. “Actually, it won’t matter much—you won’t be speaking in English.”
Now that genuinely threw her for a loop. “What?” Her estimations of this man suddenly spun into a death spiral as that one sentence directly contradicted all of her predictions. It had been a long time since her first impression of someone had been wrong—and they always underimpressed, if she had been wrong.
What kind of king was this Nixon to throw away such a valuable propaganda opportunity? She was at a temporary loss for a suitably acerbic response to that idiocy as she recalculated his intelligence downwards.
“You understand, it’s not common knowledge that you already speak English, and the longer we keep it that way the better it will be,” Nixon continued blithely as he walked down the deck. “There will already be enough factions in the government fighting for your time without knowing that little fact, not to mention others.” His grin, though it didn’t change an inch, lost some of its charm. “Also the reason for the guards, which I apologize for. Recent events show that the security arrangements already made were insufficient.” He gestured at his own phalanx of military guardsmen. “As you can see, I’ve taken the same precautions.”
They reached the end of the deck, and he looked out over the ocean. “See that, ahead? That’s Hawaii,” he said, pointing over towards a greenish lump which dominated the horizon.
Someone called out from behind them, “Mr. President, where do you want the podium?” and the president turned. “Right on the edge there, Devin,” he called. “Excuse me,” he asked with yet another easy smile, “but I need to finish setting up for the speeches as we’ll be docking in just a few minutes.” With that, he walked away, already calling instructions out to the swarm of flunkies coming out on deck with various pieces of… stuff. She had no idea what any of it was or what it was for, but she assumed it was for the speech. Perhaps props of some kind?
At any rate, the information the president had unintentionally given her was enough to keep her mulling over it for the next quarter-hour. So, Nixon was not as powerful as she had thought. Perhaps he was even just a figurehead as opposed to an actual ruler. His government was powerful enough under him to result in significant infighting which he implied he would be unable to stop.
As well, he needed to rely on ordinary soldiers rather than a specific guard unit for added security. These males standing obtrusively around her wore no special insignia nor clothing, unlike the first agents which had been his nominal “protection.”
Taken in that light, his wish to keep what little leverage he owned completely secret made sense. Unless, of course, the ever-present spies for the other factions had overheard any of his discussions, which was also a high possibility, given his horrendous grasp of secrecy.
With that, her previous personal intelligence calculations still applied, a vindicating feeling confirming her superiority. Her communal calculations had been skewed, but those were much less likely to be accurate for a significant amount of time. Give it a few months, she figured, before she started relying on those because groups were far more complicated than one pitiful human mind.
The next five minutes told her exactly what to do to get the man’s favor, but it was a boring idea. A boring, pandering, stupid plan. Even if it would screw her calculations up, she just had to do something fun.
So she waited the few remaining moments in silence like a good little guest, stepping away from the deck when they got close like she was asked and going inside like she was asked. As she and the astronauts, along with their combined guard details, waited in the hall, she never voiced her impatience with the whole waste of time. As the astronauts were called out to give their speeches and she listened to the crowds of peons cheer for their heroes, she didn’t spit on the ground in disgust like she wanted to so badly.
Finally, they finished, as did the president, after what seemed like hours and hours of applause and pauses to allow the unabashed admiration of the masses to shine forth.
Nixon returned at least, wiping sweat from his brow. “Right, I’ve introduced you and set it up so you can say whatever you want in your own language,” he said. “Right to plan; go knock them off their feet, Ms. Nightbringer.”
She nodded as she stepped out the door, but right as it opened, but before she stepped into view of the crowd, she leaned in and whispered, “There’s only one problem.”
“What?” the president asked concernedly.
“I’m not Luna,” she whispered, letting her illusion drop for a moment, showing her eyes. She grinned wickedly.
His mouth dropped open in surprise and recognition, but before he could say anything, she skipped out the door and practically pranced to the podium (interestingly, it was the same shape as on her host’s native planet, despite the obvious biological differences), before looking out into the crowds and constant flashing of lights. Whatever those annoying pops were, there were an awful lot of them.
She let her smile stretch to her fullest extent as she reinforced her illusion, pushed out an aura of serenity, and opened her mouth.
-----
Luna frowned. “What did she say?”
Neil shrugged. “I don’t speak your language,” he said. “No idea. There are tapes, and it’s being played on live TV constantly, though—“
He was shaken violently. “Give them to me. Now.”
It took only a few minutes for them to scrounge up a TV with a connection, and he found a channel that was just beginning to repeat the historic speech.
With the first word out of the Nightmare’s mouth, Luna’s ears flattened. At the second, she blanched. By the end of the first sentence, she looked queasy.
She sat in horrified silence for the entire three-minute speech, eyes shrunken down to pinpricks and mouth open, and for some time afterwards. Her first and only reaction was to say in a small voice, “I need some bleach…” and to meander drunkenly to the bathroom, where she stayed for some time.
The speeches were over, the sun going down, and as the motley group gathered in their penthouse hotel room, the mood was largely celebratory. The astronauts were thoroughly enjoying their five-star meal after three days of terrible freeze-dried rations, the guards were chatting in their spots, lounging near all the doors and windows, and nearly everyone had a soda or (in the case of the astronauts) a beer.
Except for Luna. She was shivering in a corner, still traumatized by whatever the Nightmare had said. Neil had been very pleasantly surprised to find that the Nightmare hadn’t killed anyone in her little jaunt, but Luna had sworn that “the words of that speech will never be translated into English, ever.” After that, she’d had an amusing and mildly disturbing argument with the Nightmare (if they got heated, things started being spoken out loud, and seeing two very different voices come out of one mouth, often nearly simultaneously), which ended in a victory for Luna, as far as he could tell.
It might have had something to do with her threat to kill herself and take the Nightmare with her in the event of a repeat. Whatever that speech had been, it had been bad. Really bad.
Even though he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help imagining what it could have been. That was probably the beer’s fault.
In any case, he felt sorry for the alicorn, and, slightly wobbly, he moved over to her. “Hey, Luna,” he said brightly. “Enjoy the moment! We made it, we’re safe, and we’re heading to the mainland tomorrow.” He took another drink. “Then we’ll have a fun time answering a whole bunch of questions. This is the only time you’ll have for a while to relax, and more importantly the only time to have a beer.” He offered her a bottle.
Slowly, she looked up. “Is imbibing alcohol a popular activity among humans as well?” she asked, tilting her head. “Ponies drink as well, but I have never seen the point of becoming mentally impaired.”
The Nightmare included, “You’re already stupid enough when you’re sober.”
Neil blinked. “Have you ever actually gotten drunk?” he asked.
“No, my duties did not allow for overdue consumption of drinks,” she replied. “And I never liked the taste, anyway.”
“Then that’s why you don’t understand,” he insisted. “It has to be experienced to be understood, Luna.” The offered beer jabbed itself forwards, and he placed it in her folded hooves. “Just let free for the night. Things’ll be serious enough tomorrow.”
She looked down with a frown. “I don’t believe I’ll…” In one fell motion, her horn glowed, the cap popped off, and the bottle deposited itself in her mouth. Reflexively, she swallowed, before grabbing it out of her mouth with a gasp.
“What was that?” she demanded. The Nightmare just laughed maniacally.
“I know the real reason you don’t imbibe,” it hissed smugly. “Any second now…”
Luna’s eyes widened, then shrunk to pinpricks. “Oh my.”
Then, without any fanfare, her eyes rolled up in her head and were promptly replaced by the Nightmare’s gleeful ones. “Heh,” she chuckled. “You poor souls stuck in bodies are so weak, aren’t you?”
Neil blinked muzzily. “What did you do?” he asked.
“Alcohol doesn’t mix well with magic. For the usual magic-user, it just means they can’t hold their liquor. But for an alicorn like moonbutt here, the stuff screws up stuff big-time almost instantly. It’s like a tranquilizer, so I made her gulp a bottle of the stuff. She’s so drunk and woozy it was child’s play to take over.” She snickered. “Ironically, now that I’m not fighting her directly, it’s much easier to take over.”
She attempted to go somewhere, but she stumbled and swayed so badly Neil couldn’t tell what direction she’d intended to go. Several tries only resulted in her successfully slamming facefirst into the wall before slumping against it.
“Why are these hooves so clumsy?” she lamented with a frown.
“Well,” Neil guessed, “If Luna’s drunk, you’re sharing bodies, right?”
“Yes, but I… oh.” Hoof tried to meet face, but ended up missing by several inches, and the overbalance deposited the Nightmare on her rump.
“So I think you’re drunk, too.”
“I am a Nightmare!” she flared, stumbling to her feet. “I am beyond pitiful things like being drunk…” She tottered, only barely catching herself. “I cannot express my disgust with this pitiful sack of flesh adequately in any language.”
Luna’s voice slurred out, “Serves you right, you sneaky parasite.”
The Nightmare snarled, “Shut up!” and punched herself in the mouth. Then, she blinked, temporarily slightly more lucid from the pain. “…I’m not just drunk. I’m completely wasted. My superior mind has reverted to assaulting my own body. I’m going to save myself the embarrassment.”
The cat’s-eyes fled, replaced by normal pupils, as Luna (still drunk) returned to dominance. “That sneaky little creature,” she mumbled. “Get back here so I can yell at you for getting me drunk!”
Neil suddenly found he couldn’t stop laughing as Luna began to rap on her own head in retaliation. He solved that problem by downing another drink. -----
A heartbeat monitor sped up.
“He’s waking!” ------
Shots rang out in the early morning, the area under the thick foliage still as dark as night. Soldiers called out to each other in confident tones, “We’ve got this ambush counterpinned well and good!”
“Two gooks down!”
“Braley’s hit! I need a medic!”
“Just die already!”
Away from the calls and the gunfire, two terrified men huddled, injured, in the shelter of some tree roots. Or rather, one terrified man and one corpse. Softly he muttered prayers to any god he could think of to save him as the gunfire petered out, occasionally punctuated by calls of discovery. These were invariably followed with jeers, and then two shots.
A flash of light blinded him, and he brought his one working arm up to shield his eyes.
“Hello there,” a voice whispered softly. “I suppose you’re hoping that someone will save you?” It chuckled. “Well, your prayers have been answered, though maybe not in the way you think. I’ll give you the power, but you’ll have to save yourself.”
Another flash heralded a rush of fire through his veins, burning every nerve in his body, and as he screamed, he heard, “I’m sure they heard that. Just remember, the fire is your friend.”
He gazed in wonder at the flickering flames on the ends of his fingertips, bright and burning though they did not hurt. Then, a terrible smile graced his face as he rose to confront his enemies.
The night had fled, the party was over, and the guards had dutifully watched over the cleanup of the mess their charges had made. The room was clean and ready for a new day.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said of its occupants.
Michael and Buzz were still asleep, one lying haphazardly above his sheets and the other not even on a bed at all, simply passed out on the floor.
Neil, meanwhile, was sitting against the wall, head in his hands. “I knew I should’ve stopped drinking after #3,” he moaned. “I need some aspirin!”
“Right away, sir,” one of the guards said, slipping out the door.
Neil blinked. “Huh. Having servants is kinda… nice.” Still cradling his head with one hand, he got up slowly, squeezing his eyes shut against the throbbing pain banging behind his forehead. “I’m gonna get a cup of water.” He shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and reached for one of the paper cups. Filling it to the brim, he guzzled it down, before filling it up again and repeating.
The third cup was splashed in his face, waking him up a little bit more as he toweled off. He wasn’t quite as thirsty, and his face felt less crusty.
He still felt terrible, though.
A guard knocked on the door. “Your aspirin,” he said, handing Neil a small bottle of the painkiller.
“Thank you,” Neil muttered gratefully. Taking out one of the tablets, he tossed it in his mouth and drank another cup of water to wash it down.
Setting the cup down on the large counter, he tugged at his shirt. “Shower.”
He locked the door. Moving over to the large shower, curtain drawn, he shucked off his off-duty shirt and was working off his undershirt as he drew the curtains aside, blindly reaching for the handle and shoving it to max heat.
The water began to pour down, and almost immediately there was a shriek of surprise that quickly metamorphosed into a shriek of pure rage in two terribly familiar voices.
“WHO DARES SOAK NIGHTMARE MOON—ow.” The water shut off, and Neil looked down, mortified, to find a now-soaked alicorn with eyes clenched shut, holding two hooves to her head in a gesture he well recognized, as he had been doing the same thing only seconds before. What had originally been a snarl designed to frighten hardened warriors had degraded into a pained (yet still fanged) grimace, complemented well by the wet fur plastered to her sides, completely ruining any kind of menace which she might have been attempting on the foolish man who had assaulted her with cold water.
“Um.” He backed away, closing the curtain behind him. “You can take a shower first.”
Then he fled despite his headache as she mumbled at him in her native language (judging from yesterday’s debacle, it was probably some very inventive curse), slamming the door behind him.
“Sir?” The guards looked at him strangely, and only then did Neil realize that he was only half-wearing an undershirt and no overshirt at all.
Palm met face, back met wall, and he slid to the ground. “I’m such an idiot.”
One of the nearby guards said, “If you say so, sir.” He swore he heard one of them suppress a snicker.
“Oh, shut up.”
“If you say so, sir.” -----
As the water squeaked to a halt and the pipes in the walls ceased their rumblings, the bathroom door opened a sliver and one cerulean eye glared daggers over at Neil, who hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall, still nursing a headache (though the aspirin had taken much of the bite out of it, thank goodness). “You soaked me!” she hissed angrily through the door. “That was NOT a pleasurable sensation!”
“Sorry,” Neil muttered back. “I have a hangover. You understand.”
“No, I do not understand why a ‘hangover’ would cause you to be so careless as to not even check the shower before using it—ow.” She winced. “Or perhaps I do.”
“Well, first of all, why were you even in the shower instead of somewhere normal?” Neil shot back, his headache getting the better of him. “It’s not like I’d need to check the shower for someone normally!”
The door opened a bit more, and Luna peered out, head cocked. “I am unsure. I do not remember much of last night, past the first drink. I think I was… what is the saying?... ‘plastered’ last night.”
“Mhm.” Neil nodded. “And now you understand why I wasn’t exactly in a frame of mind to check the shower floor before I turned it on.”
“You are forgiven,” she decided after a moment.
Then the Nightmare snarled, unbidden, “Well, I don’t forgive you, you idiot! If you were anyone else, I’d have you spitted!”
“So,” Luna teased, “I take it you have a liking to him?”
The Nightmare snorted. “As if. He’s just too visible to spit right now.” She glared at him once again. “Maybe later.”
“How about I introduce you to aspirin,” Neil suggested. “Then you won’t want to spit me, I’m sure.”
“Aspirin?” both asked.
“Ohoho.” He rubbed his hands. “Aspirin, my friends, is a pill with a few miraculous properties, but chief among them is relieving headache pain.”
“Give them to me. Now,” the Nightmare demanded.
Neil chuckled. “They’re in the pill bottle in the bathroom. Take one to start with and wait 15 minutes.”