//------------------------------// // Triple-Shot // Story: I Love the Smell of Friendship in the Morning // by Moosetasm //------------------------------// Whip-Crack The lasbolt cut Clapper’s battle cry short. His low bellow transformed into a high pitched wheeze of escaping air. His hands clasped against the smoking crater that was all that remained of his neck and he collapsed to the ground, never to clap again. Ham-Fist dove behind the closest stack of metal crates he could see. He looked back as his best friend ran to take cover with him. Whip-Crack Thumbs-Up was violently wrenched backwards as a blue-white bolt tore through his barrel. The stallion was true to his name, both hands showing approval as he flew through the air. Ham-Fist swore and punched a crate hard enough to dent it. This Equestrian dog couldn't kill him, he was Ham-Fist! He was no mere pony! He was more than pone! More than life! He. Was. A. God! Ham-Fist stood up defiantly from behind the stack of metal crates, completely unafraid. Whip-Crack Whisper smirked as she ejected the smoking hot-shot clip and loaded another. The heretic with the single giant fore-hoof, and no sense of self-preservation, had developed a sudden and severe case of exploding head syndrome. Probably had some ridiculous name like “Knocker,” she thought, stifling a snicker. “That was only three shots.” She frowned at Trauma’s comment. Aside from the sound of her rifle discharging, Trauma’s voice was the only noise to cut through the silence of their sniper nest. She usually welcomed his unique style of vitriolic banter, which she found quite charming, but not when he critiqued her combat style. “Yeah, and if three more show up at the same time, you’ll be glad I didn’t sit with just two shots in the clip.” “Yeah? Well, how many of those clips did you br— Four more, eight o’clock low.” “And this—” She blew a hole through one of the bipeds’ barrels. “is why—” another heretic’s head jerked back and they flipped remainder-of-head-over-hooves. “I'm ejecting with two left—” She shot the next to last pony through the throat and watched them grip their neck and spray red all over their horrified companion. Her final shot removed the shocked look, as well as pretty much everything else, from the last pony’s face. She ejected the clip. She allowed herself a smug look at Trauma. “Now that’s how it’s—” Trauma tensed. “Six more, right behind the last ones.” Whisper swore as she rammed a fresh clip home and sighted down to the new group of advancing bipeds. It took a hoof-ful of precious moments to acquire her targets, so she didn't have time to choose; she just fired five shots in rapid succession at the first heretics unfortunate enough to pass through her crosshairs. She hoofed the smoking clip to the ground and grabbed a fresh one from her saddle bag. While her eye was away from the scope, she saw that Trauma’s eyes were wide. “Celestia, she has a rocket launcher!” Whisper shoved the new clip into place and looked through the sights. Whisper quickly targeted and hoofed the trigger at the same time she saw an orange flash behind the rocket-mare’s launcher. Time slowed as Whisper saw the rocket speeding towards the sniper nest. She’d heard stories about this. A pony about to die would see the world slow, and see their life flash in front of their eyes in the instant before death. She and Trauma were both dead, there was no way she could adjust her angle fast enough to hit the projectile. As the moment stretched onward, she mused that the stories were only half true. Her life wasn't flashing in front of her. All she could see was the mare she had just shot through the barrel, who was trailing small droplets of crimson through the air as they fell backwards. And the look on their face was of smug satisfaction. Whisper couldn't believe it would be the last thing she’d see before she died. There was a sudden pressure on her side and she felt herself moving. There was a feeling of vertigo and her vision spun. Her eye was wrenched from the scope and she saw that she was spiraling through the air. Somehow she had fallen out of the hiding spot. Time continued to move at a snail’s pace. She saw the green of the small wooded area that was beneath the sniper’s nest. It rotated out of her field of view to be replaced by the stone face of the cliff she and Trauma had been occupying. She was surprised how far out she had fallen, the cliff was not completely vertical and she should have at least grazed off of it— The thought was dispelled as her view angled up enough to see Trauma's prone form sprawled across where she had been laying. His eyes were scrunched shut with exertion, his lips were drawn back to expose clenched teeth, and his front hooves were fully extended and thrust out above her. Trauma had shoved her out of the nest— She watched in mounting horror as Trauma struggled to rise to his hooves with the speed of a tortoise in wintertime. He wasn't going to make it. He could have rolled off his side of their hiding spot but he’d pushed her out instead. His eyes opened with the same glacial slowness as everything else. They were filled with rage and pain. She opened her mouth. In the everlong moment, she couldn't tell if she managed to make any sound as she mouthed a single word. “No.” Trauma locked eyes with her. His pained expression softened faster than Whisper thought was possible with everything moving so slowly. Trauma then did something which drove a dagger of ice through Whisper’s heart. The expression that crossed his face was infinitely worse than the mocking grin of the heretic she’d just shot. Trauma smiled at her. The stallion never smiled. Ever. Yet Trauma continued to smile at her even as he was engulfed in the flames of the rocket’s explosion. Fingers pushed his way through the thick brush leading up to the base of the cliff. The sight that greeted him gave him pause. Dex had been right; there was a lightly smoking Guardsmare lying prone on the ground. The explosion must have blown her out of the sniper’s nest. He sneered at the corpse. It was covered in char marks and one of the forelegs was at a completely unnatural angle; obviously shattered. He spat on the ground. The monster had killed so many of his friends, she’d deserved to be blown to smithereens. He placed a hand to his earpiece. “Manual? This is Fingers. I have eyes on the sniper. She’s dead, either from the explosion or from the fall.” “Roger, Fingers. Join up with the others outside the Marecanicus shrine, two of the lapdogs are in there trying to—” Manual was cut off in a sudden burst of static. Fingers tapped the earpiece and started walking in a circle in an attempt to regain signal. “Manual? Come in, Man—” Fingers’ voice was cut off as something whipped around his neck and constricted with vice-like strength. He tried to gasp for air but only succeeded in causing a wave of searing pain to blossom across his throat. He reached up to try and alleviate the pressure. Before he could get his hands in position to grasp, a feral roar sounded in his ear and he felt a sudden intense pressure followed by a jerking motion and a sickening crunch in his neck. His entire body went numb and he fell to the ground. Fingers watched as three hooves limped into view. He tried to move, but the only parts of him that he could feel or could move were from the neck up. His ears perked and he strained his eyes to look up at the partially burned visage of his executioner. If he’d still retained any control over his bodily functions, he would have lost control of them after seeing the expression on what remained of her face. The mare’s voice was dry, raspy, and filled with loathing. “You'll die now, slowly. It's less suffering than you deserve.” Fingers had not even opened his mouth to speak when a shuddering breath wracked his twitching form. He had no control over his lungs. With the damage she’d done, it was a miracle that his body was still breathing on its own. Again his body shuddered. He realized he was wrong. It was no miracle. It was a curse. His eyes shot to the mare again. She was limping away. He opened his mouth, whether to curse her or beg her for a quick death, he did not know. All he did know was that he couldn't. The scream sounded in his mind, even though he couldn’t voice it. Whisper staggered towards the compound. In the moments after she’d awoken, she was full of determination and purpose. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, everything swam together and felt like a dream. She felt like she was on fire, both in body and soul. She remembered very little of the events that transpired between the stallion at the base of the cliff and when she reached the tunnel. All she could recall during her great deal of stumbling and pain was the Twins’ description of several servicing tunnels that they’d said were “aching to be penetrated.” Now that she saw it, she could see that the tunnel itself was as dark and foreboding as every other maintenance tunnel she'd ever shoved herself into. It somehow seemed appropriate for her to enter; wounded animals always wanted to crawl into a hole when it was time to die. But she didn't die. She only continued to limp through the poorly lit passageway. If she'd had the use of all four limbs, she might have been able to use some of the rusted piping for support. With her injuries hampering her, she had to make do with holding her broken foreleg against herself and limping through the gloom. Whisper’s ears perked up as she heard a sound in the tunnel ahead. It was a mare’s voice, but she couldn't make out anything they were saying. She reached her head back to grab her holdout pistol. Her lips wrapped around the weapon and she drew it as carefully as she could. Unfortunately the burns had rendered her mouth too slick and numb to get a sufficient grip and the pistol went flying into the darkness. The clattering of the bouncing weapon echoed throughout the tunnel. When it finally stopped, the voice could no longer be heard. Whisper swore under her breath, or tried to. The epithet was deafeningly loud in the confines of the tunnel, enough so that the other mare apparently heard it. “Whisper? Is that you?” The voice was Fray’s. Whisper limped forward into a juncture for almost a dozen tunnels. The floor was slick and she could see several corpses, or parts thereof, strewn about. She spied Fray looking up at her from the floor. “It is you!” Even in the dim illumination Whisper could see Fray’s eyes light up. “Thank Celestia!” Fray was cradling one of the corpses in her forehooves. “Quick! Where’s Trauma? Point’s hurt bad!” Whisper sat on her haunches and felt what she could only assume was blood seep into her fur. One side of her muzzle felt wet. The other stung from the salt of her tears running over her burns. “We’ll make them pay for this,” Fray said. Whisper could hear the hatred in her voice. “No, they'll suffer for this,” Whisper said, though her response sounded as dead as she felt.