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Hoofington Memorial Hospital.
So it was a hospital. I shoot at some of the lettering.
Hptl.
If I had the patience, I would carve ‘Tartarus’ into the building’s face. Smoke crawls out of the flaming tomb anywhere it can. The billowing entryway is scattered with blackened zombies that could not escape the gates. One of them is as grey as my own chassis before I was painted and battered and burnt. Her rust brown mane is burned away. Her jaws still hold onto a heavy wrench with the firm grip of death. The fire and ghoulification have spared only one part of her. The left side of her rump still has a trio of brown, tarnished gears.
“I oughta boot your ass straight to the moon, soldier!”
In the dim light from the fires I can see him, though I do not believe my remaining eye.
“Sergeant RL-3? Is that really you?”
“Of course I’m not me, you sniveling toaster oven! Just like that isn’t Meatlocker and it isn’t Tartarus! If this was real that griffin would have torn you to pieces before you got back up the stairs! Even if he didn’t, I’d kick your ass for being such a zebra-hugging moron!”
“This is what you told me to do!” I raise my arm. Through the heat and the combat the message has been worn into gibberish.
“Is this what I told you to do? Well I must be some wet-behind-the-ears recruit, because I somehow neglected to remember writing ‘murder a small settlement of civilians’ on your arm!”
“You told me to never lose faith! I didn’t!” Behind me, fire starts to consume the hospital proper.
“Do you lie to your commander with that mouth? This isn’t faith!”
“Then what is?!”
“How the hell should I know? I’m a figment of your malfunctioning imagination! I know what you know, and you clearly don’t know the first thing about faith! I can tell you what it isn’t, though.”
He points his own plasma weapon at my arm. The code on it isn’t gibberish at all. It says, simply, ‘obsession.’
“…Those jerkied draft dodgers killed my squad!”
“These pus sacks may be disgusting, but they never lay a hoof on your boys. The way you bitch about Meatlocker murdering them is as sad and delusional as this little revenge fantasy. And what the hell is this?” RL-3 lifts the charred corpse of Rusty Gears. “Is this supposed to be some symbolism crap? I’ve seen real soldiers less messed up than this!”
“I am a real soldier!”
“Real soldiers don’t dishonor their fallen brothers by blinding themselves with dreams of pointless murder! If you’re going to murder somepony, make it a pony that little miss Gears here would be proud to see murdered!”
I cannot respond. He drops the corpse.
“If your boys saw you standing in front of this burning building full of civilian corpses, what would they think? Would they be proud? Would they be honored to call you a comrade? A squadmate? I wouldn’t.”
“…”
“A good soldier knows what orders to follow and what orders are complete brahmin shit. It’s true. It’s important. And it’s critical when the orders you’re getting tell you to torch civilian housing! You may not have all the rules of war in your databanks, but don’t try and tell me that you don’t know this is not in the book!
“You’re telling me to let it go? To forgive the ghouls?”
“What? Hell no! That son of a bitch who poured a drink on your eye deserves your boot so far up his ass he’ll be tasting boot polish for weeks! You should tear the legs off of the greasehorse that wired you to that damn combat inhibitor. And all those maggot farms that laughed at you deserve a little roast. Go ahead and give those bastards a little something for your troubles. Do NOT forget the sacrifice of your old squad. Do NOT go rampaging like some bloodthirsty zebra automaton.”
“I am nothing like a filthy stripe!”
“You could have fooled me, stripe.”
I stood in front of a burning building. An Equestrian building, on Equestrian soil. Razed to the ground by me. In my rage I had said nothing. Did not mention Her Highnesses names once. I did not cheer for a glorious nation built on freedom and harmony. I was a silent robot in warped black and white stripes standing over the bodies of Equestrian citizens. It is the very scene of a poster from before the war. Beware the Striped Menace. Beware Cerberus.
“Is this really what you want to be? A mindless zebra war bot?”
“No! I …I want to be like you.”
“Then shape up, soldier! No one can be as good as me, but that still leaves unbelievably amazing war-scarred badass up for grabs!”
“…”
“You know a lot of ponies that deserve some good old fashion Equestrian ass kicking…” He floats above Rusty Gears, looking down with resigned determination. “And those who do not. Do I make myself clear, soldier?”
“...You do.”
“Now say it like you have a spine, soldier!”
“Heard, understood, and acknowledged, sir!”
“That’s better! Are you ready to kick some ass and tan some hides?!”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Are you going to kill everypony and let Celestia sort them out?!”
“Sir, no sir!”
“What are you going to do?!”
“I am going to sort every son of a mule with my own bare clamp and kill them like an Equestrian!”
“That’s right! And you will do this because you are not a what?!”
“Because I am not some foal devouring godless stripe, sir! I am a gutsy-class robotic guard built for Her Majesty’s royal service and I will act like it, sir!”
“Are you going to ever lose faith?”
“Sir, no sir!”
“Is your faith going to turn into blind obsession that compromises your fundamental virtues?!”
“Sir, no sir!”
“Are you or are you not ready to show these striped bastards another glorious day in this pony’s army?!”
“SIR, YES SIR!”
“That’s what I like to hear! DIIIIIIIIIS-MISSED!”