//------------------------------// // Chapter two: a good man and a pony // Story: Worlds Apart // by Elkia Deerling //------------------------------// Chapter two: A good man and a pony The dawn was already announcing itself as Triggerhoof neared Crossroads Bunker. Behind him, the yellow sun came up, looking like another nuclear explosion on the horizon. Another nuclear explosion… like the ones that destroyed America just a few years ago, transforming enormous cities bustling with life into crater-shaped mass graveyards. Beneath him, the ruins of skyscrapers, apartment buildings, schools, and many more buildings drifted slowly past. Triggerhoof was flying as close to the sickly green clouds as he could. High enough to spot hostiles before they spotted him, and to make himself as hard a target as possible. He didn’t dare to fly in the clouds, or fly through it. He didn’t know what they were made of, but they somehow looked… evil. Poisonous. And probably radioactive. Triggerhoof looked at his front leg, where scraps of ruptured protective suit were waving in the wind. He had bandaged it, alright,but he wasn’t at all at ease with the situation. It was one of the first lessons the general had taught him: never go outside without protection. Triggerhoof closed his eyes for a second, and tried his best not to think of the radiation or contamination that threatened him now. A shudder travelled through his body, making him lose some altitude. “Come on, you idiot. Snap out of it. Focus!” He forced his breathing to calm down, so that the filters of his gasmask wouldn’t suddenly clog up. That would make everything much worse. Triggerhoof found that he couldn’t calm down. The warmth of his rapid breaths began to manifest as a white haze on his visor. He cursed, and yelled at the clouds. “I said, SNAP OUT OF IT!” Then he got an idea. He looked on his Geiger counter, and saw something that reassured him. The needle was in the green. No need to worry. And to be extra extra sure, Triggerhoof reached back in his backpack, brought out the disc-like gasmask filter, and changed the used one with the new one. There. Done. Now stop worrying. He did manage to stop worrying about the danger of radiation. As he felt his nerves calm down, a sudden tiredness seeped in and slowly took hold of his body, as the strain of his wounds and the long distance he had flown in his heavy protective suit caught up with him. But he was content. His mission was a success. Soon, the sick would get their medicine and their lives would be prolonged, so they could spend even more time in this terrible, blasted world. Sometimes everything he tried to do in this world seemed so pointless. Didn’t matter. The mission was completed; he had once again proven his resourcefulness to the general. The familiar building with the neon red cross on it came into view, and Triggerhoof started to descent. From the outside, the building didn’t look like much, despite the neon sign. It looked just like another building ruined by the heat and shockwave of the bombs, and years of decay. But there was more to it than meets the eye. Beneath it was his home, Crossroads Bunker. He silently wondered if more people would have arrived during his absence, drawn to the light like moths. People dressed in filthy rags with improvised or no gasmasks came to Crossroads Hospital to find aid… and they found it. They usually came at night, when the light was even more visible. A light of hope in a dark and cruel world. Triggerhoof landed and walked through the doorway without doors. He went left, through a hallway, through the utility room, until he stood before the steel door of the bunker. All he had to do was follow the arrows. Triggerhoof rapped his hooves upon the door. Three short raps, three long raps, and then three short ones again. It was the Morse signal for ‘SOS,’ a message the general himself had taught him long ago. It meant that there was someone friendly at the other side of the door. Any other pattern, and the watchman at the other side of the door would be alarmed, bring backup, and be on his guard. There was no reason for that, of course. The intercom buzzed to life, and the camera above the door swiveled into position. Triggerhoof looked into it. “Hey hello, look who we have here,” A voice said through the intercom. It was a low bass voice with a heavy, mocking undertone. Triggerhoof knew who it was. “Just open the door, Andrei.” “Awwwwww…” Andrei said through the intercom. “Our pretty prancing pony wants in. Tell you what, I’ll let you in if you do a cute little trick.” Triggerhoof grumbled. A scowl marked his face. “Stop fucking around and open the damn door, Andrei!” “I’d never thought a pony that cute could sound so mad,” Andrei said. The door remained closed. “Do a little dance, my little pony, and I will let you in.” “Just SHUT UP!” Triggerhoof turned around and bucked against the door. The sound rung through the air and through the intercom. There was silence for a while, then, a new voice spoke, but not to Triggerhoof; to Andrei. “Why do you let our top Heat Seeker stand outside, private? Don’t you even know how important his mission is? Open the door. Now!” Triggerhoof recognized the voice, and a crooked smile formed on his lips. He sprung up, and waved his hoof in front of the camera in a salute. “General Johansson, sir.” “At ease, soldier,” the calm voice of General Johansson sounded from the intercom. “We’ll get you in, and I promise you can kick that clown’s ass as a bonus reward—after you deliver the meds, of course.” “Of course sir,” Triggerhoof said. The rest of the conversation became interrupted by the hiss and the metal grating as the enormous vault door opened. They had improvised a little ‘airlock’, which also functioned as the guard chamber. Andrei, with his bald head, was sitting on a wooden chair, and the general was next to him. Both wore heavy protective suits, body armor, gasmasks, and automatic weapons, just in case the people on the other side of the door weren’t friendly. Triggerhoof did want to make another salute to the general, but he swayed on his hooves. His head swam from blood loss, and the hours he had spent fighting and scavenging weighed down heavily. He rocked back and forth, and then his knees gave way and he fell against the wall. “Andrei, close the door,” General Johansson ordered. Then he reached the pony with one step of his long legs, and helped him on his hooves. With any other person, Triggerhoof would have shrugged the hand off his shoulders. But this was his general, his commander, his leader. He let General Johansson help him back on his hooves, but didn’t look him in the eyes. He felt hot and the visor of his gasmask once again fogged. Yet this fog wasn’t produced by panic; it was the result of the shame he felt. He gritted his teeth and made a wobbly salute. “Thank you sir. Excuse me for the state I’m in.” A heavy thud and the hissing of the locks interrupted General Johansson’s answer, so Triggerhoof couldn’t find out whether the general was disappointed with his entrance. General Johansson eyed Triggerhoof’s saddlebags, stacked full of medication. “Well done, soldier. You saved many lives today.” “Mission successful, sir,” Triggerhoof said, finally meeting the general’s gaze, seeing them gleam. He really was proud of him. General Johansson smiled, but his smile quickly disappeared again as he gave the pony a closer look. Underneath Trigg’s hoof, a small puddle of blood had formed as they had been speaking. And little streams of blood cascaded down from his ear upon his suit. “Let’s get you to the infirmary, soldier. After that, debriefing in my office. I would very much like to know how you received these injuries.” “The infirmary won’t be necessary, sir,” Triggerhoof said, doing his best to stand straight. “I’m fine.” The general’s smile turned into a scowl. “No you’re not. Don’t be foolish. A real soldier takes care of his body.” “A real soldier doesn’t let a scrape and a bruise get in the way of his commander’s debriefing.” Doing a step back, the general once again looked Triggerhoof over. Then he shook his head. The smile reappeared on his face. “Let me give you a little analogy, soldier, a little analogy that is based on real life experience. You know how we got the Winter and ended up here?” “Of course, sir,” Triggerhoof said. He knew the general was talking about the tank. It was a legendary story. “Well, the damn thing broke down a couple of times during our trip. Hell, we had almost run out of gasmask filters when we got here, and only because that tin can broke down so many times.” Triggerhoof was silent and listened. Although he didn’t like the way General Johansson was talking about the tank, he kept in mind that the thing theoretically belonged to the general. “But every time the thing was broken, we patched it up so it would be able to get into many more fights. If a sturdy, armor-plated battle machine such as the Winter can get broken, than a little pony can too.” Triggerhoof winced, but kept listening. “So we need to patch you up as we patched up the tank. Now take off that suit and get your hindquarters to the infirmary. That is an order.” And with those words, Johansson turned around on the heels of his heavy boots. “Andrei, help Triggerhoof with his gear. And no fucking around this time. Understood?” Andrei straightened up and saluted. “Sir, yes sir.” “Very well.” General Johansson stepped through the door at the other end of the airlock and walked away. Andrei walked over to Triggerhoof and undid the straps of the weapons he was carrying. As soon as the weight of the two heavy guns was lifted from Trigg’s sides, he had an easier time standing up straight. Andrei placed the guns on a stand, next to other weapons. Machineguns, sniper rifles, shotguns with under-barrel grenade launchers, grenades, and even a missile launcher capable of shooting down a helicopter mid-air stood neatly arranged and next to each other. Triggerhoof looked at them as a father would look at his children, full of pride and eagerness to go outside and play with them. That last weapon run sure upped our arsenal, he thought with a smile on his lips. Andrei reached for the zipper of Triggerhoof’s protective suit and pulled it down. Once the suit was off, Andrei tossed it to a far corner into a bin, which stood underneath the ‘Danger! Radiation’ sign. It would be decontaminated, fixed, and made ready for use on the next mission. The moment the suit was off, Triggerhoof looked twice as small as with it on. He reached up, took the gasmask off his muzzle, and flung it in the bin too. Then he turned around and looked at Andrei. “Now what the fuck was that at the door?” Andrei shrugged and let a smile curl his lips. “Hey, you know, just having a bit of fun. We don’t get to have a lot of fun in this shit-ass world, right?” Triggerhoof did a step closer. “We don’t need fun in this world. We need to be vigilant, tough, professional. You’re a professional soldier, right? Then behave like one!” Trigg’s last words were so loud and carried such violence, that Andrei tumbled back down upon his chair. “At ease, soldier,” Triggerhoof said mockingly, then walked out the door. The bunker underneath Crossroads Hospital was slightly different than the one Triggerhoof had turned into a junkie graveyard. There was a big steel elevator, reinforced with thick bars of metal and carrying a cage that went down, deeper into the earth. This bunker was much more advanced than the other one, and certainly better stocked. It almost looked as if it was designed to live in permanently. From what the doctor had told Triggerhoof, it hadn’t been easy to get the massive generator back to full working order after the Electro Magnetic Pulse, or EMP, that the atomic bombs created. But once it was finally restored, thanks to the hospital’s mechanics who had been saved, there was power everywhere; a real luxury in this world. The residents knew they were lucky. On the ground floor, there wasn’t much. Even though the walls of the bunker were reinforced with layers of lead, the people in it still preferred to live and work a floor lower, just in case. There were a few airlocks which all lead to four different exits, and they were always guarded, day and night. The first sublevel was home to the military. Everything a soldier needed to protect the people in the bunker was there. A mess hall, offices, storage depots for weapons and armor, crew’s quarters, and even a shooting range. It was not as if those halls and rooms were meant to be used by the military, but when the soldiers came, they found sublevel one practical, and the space suited their needs. Sublevel one was Triggerhoof’s home. His world. A place where he was safe and where he was surrounded with fellow soldiers, comrades in arms, and sometimes even people who understood him. The medical personnel had made their home on the second sublevel. In contrast to the military’s first sublevel, which had been empty before the soldiers came, the second sublevel had been well-stocked and well-organized. The bunker stood beneath a hospital, after all, so all the operation rooms and offices and bedchambers were ready to use from the first day. An entire sublevel was dedicated to medicine, and always fully manned, because so many doctors had managed to flee into the bunkers the day that the world came to an end. Triggerhoof didn’t like going there. Hospitals were for weak people. He might be a pony, but he wasn’t weak. Triggerhoof pressed the button of sublevel two, and with the grating sound of metal accompanying him, the elevator went down. Once he reached the second sublevel, Triggerhoof stepped out and walked through the hallways. The walls were made of concrete, which were painted white. Every sublevel had its own color. White was for the medical quarters, grey for the military, and a light blue for the civilian levels, where Triggerhoof never came. On the third sublevel there were living quarters, workstations, schools, and even little farms, illuminated by UV lamps that made it possible to grow their own food. Those were the people Triggerhoof helped to protect, yet he never took the time to visit them. It had never been necessary. A darker grey was for the deepest sublevel, where they kept supplies and where the generator hummed twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Nobody went there but technicians. At the end of the hallway was the doctor’s chamber. Triggerhoof could have gone to the chambers closest to the elevator, but instead, he hovered to the last one. The sound of typing came from it. As soon as Triggerhoof’s head appeared in the doorway, however, the typing stopped. “Raspberry! It is you!” Doctor John Goodman stood up and almost ran towards the pony. “You know I don’t want you to call me—“ Triggerhoof began, but was cut short by the doctor’s embrace and a sharp pain in his front leg. Doctor Goodman ended his embrace later than Triggerhoof would have wanted. “I’m so glad you are back, alive!” “What did you expect? Trigg said. John Goodman stepped back and looked the pony over with an experienced doctor’s eye, searching for possible injuries. He didn’t need to search for long. Seeing the wounds, he let out a gasp. “Oh my! What happened out there?” “Long story,” Triggerhoof said, “but I got the meds.” “Indeed you do.” Doctor Goodman grabbed Trigg’s saddlebags and called his assistant. Minutes later, a young doctor walked into the room, and Goodman gave him the meds. The young doctor retreated, but not before complimenting the pony soldier. “Thanks to you, many will live to see another day. Thank you, Mister Triggerhoof.” “Don’t mention it,” Triggerhoof said without looking at the doctor. Instead, he looked at Goodman. “Can you patch me up, John?” “But of course, of course,” Doctor Goodman said. He motioned to a bench standing in the middle of his office. “Please take a seat.” Triggerhoof hovered over and sat down, as the doctor ran a diagnostic. “Hmm… You don’t seem to have broken something. Your ear is grazed by a bullet, but it looks worse than it is. And for your leg…” He unwrapped the dirty bandage and looked closely at the wound with a pocket flashlight. “It’s not infected but— oh no!” Triggerhoof looked up. “What is it?” Doctor Goodman looked the pony in his deep green eyes. Worried look met worried look. “I’m afraid the bullet is still in there,” Doctor Goodman said, as if the pony had just an hour left to live. Triggerhoof snorted and shifted his position. “Well, just get it out then.” “Eh…” Doctor Goodman took off his glasses and put the flashlight down. “The pain will probably be excruciating; the bullet is very deep. Can you manage it?” “Can I manage it?” Triggerhoof said, imitating the doctor’s high voice. “I’ve been through worse than you, doc. Just do it.” “A-a-alright.” Doctor Goodman turned his back to the pony and gathered his supplies; a stool, a bowl, water, disinfectant, tweezers, scalpel, and some more stuff. Then he rolled up his sleeves, pushed his glasses firmly on his nose, and began. “I just can’t believe they sent you on a solo mission. I mean, anything can happen out there! A little pony alone on Ground Zero… You know, Raspberry Trick, I didn’t like Johansson’s decision. Didn’t like it one bit.” He kept his pocket flashlight in his hand as he lowered the scalpel in the wound. “It was a calculated decision,” Triggerhoof said, looking at the ceiling. “I was the only one able to cover such a big distance on the wing. You know all the other hospitals in the neighborhood have already been ransacked. General Johansson knew the risks, I knew the risks. My safety has never been in— AH! A burst of pain cut Triggerhoof’s answer short. He yelled, and gritted his teeth against the white hot flares. Doctor Goodman’s treatment hurt more than the raider’s shot had done. But unlucky for the pony, Goodman wasn’t done yet. “I just cut away some tissue to have a better view at the wound. Just hold still.” “Affirmative.” But the word was spoken through gritted teeth, and might as well have been a curse. Doctor Goodman reached back, grabbed a smaller scalpel, and resumed his operation. “Oh my! I have rarely seen a wound so deep. Oh Raspberry, what have they done to you?” Triggerhoof grunted. “I told you my name isn’t—GTSKHA!” Trigg’s words were deformed by the second burst of pain, which rolled through his body like a molten rock. He almost felt like fainting, but kept himself conscious by a mental slap in the face. “I almost lost my little Raspberry Trick,” Doctor Goodman said. His hands were smeared with blood, and he reached for a wet towel to wipe them off. “The general shouldn’t put you on dangerous missions like this.” He looked the pony in the eyes, and waited until he looked back. “I couldn’t bear to lose you…” “Don’t be so sappy, doctor,” Triggerhoof said, gazing at his foreleg. But Doctor Goodman didn’t resume his operation yet. “Why do you never call me ‘father,’ or at least ‘dad?’” Triggerhoof narrowed his eyes. “Because you’re not my dad. My dad died with the world I came from.” “I… I… I don’t think that is true.” Doctor Goodman felt tears coming and wiped his eyes with a new napkin. “T-t-that just… just couldn’t have happened.” “Just because you watch that little girl show My Little Pony doesn’t mean you’re an expert on Equestria. I saw it with my own eyes, even though I was bleeding out.” “And still I don’t believe it,” Doctor Goodman said. He wiped away his tears one last time before returning to his work. He grabbed the tweezers and switched on his flashlight. “I believe everything happens with a reason. God makes sure everything does. He has a plan for each of us, although I’m still trying to figure out the plan He has for you.” Triggerhoof flung his other foreleg in the air. “God, God, it’s always your God. Well, if your God exists, why didn’t He save the world, instead of destroying it? Why did He let that happen? Goddammit, Goodman, I—AAAAAAHH!” “No blasphemy in my office,” Goodman said. “I will gladly tell you about Him, but only if you keep an open mind.” “Spare me the lecture,” Trigg said, trying to mentally destroy the pain, just as he destroyed that raider junkie compound. As if he were reading the pony’s mind, Goodman said, “What on Earth did happen there anyway?” “Raider compound,” Triggerhoof said. “Cleared it.” “You mean…” “Yes, I destroyed them all.” Doctor Goodman stepped back and let out a sigh. “Good heavens, little Raspberry. Why did you have to do that?” “Because they would have done the same to me. Doesn’t your Bible say to do with others the same things they would do to you?” “No,” Goodman said. “’Treat others as you yourself would like to be treated.’” “Whatever.” Goodman looked at the wound again, and handled the tweezers. “And how did that make you feel?” “What do you mean?” Trigg said. “How did killing all those human beings make you feel?” Trigg sighed. “Oh please doc, not this again.” “Yes, this again,” Doctor Goodman said, his gentle and high voice gaining some sort of strictness, without losing his gentle tone. “Your psychological wellbeing is just as important as your physical wellbeing.” “Negative. A tank doesn’t need psychology to function. It just needs to fight and be patched up, that’s all. I think you’re overreact—AH!” The pain felt as if Doctor Goodman was putting something in Triggerhoof, instead of taking something out. A white-hot railroad spike, perhaps. “There we go.” Doctor Goodman said. Trigg’s eyes were closed, but he heard the metallic clang of the bullet falling in the bowl. He knew the job was done. Finally. Doctor Goodman proceeded to clean the wound and the one on Trigg’s ear and put some new bandages on both of them. “Now that didn’t hurt, did it?” Triggerhoof disagreed, but said nothing, knowing that a curse would sprout another lecture—maybe even a lecture about God, if he was unlucky. He looked at Doctor Goodman, who stepped back after finishing the bandage around the pony’s ear. “Are we done now?” But the doctor didn’t answer. He stepped further back, seeming to look entranced at Triggerhoof, as if he were a painter looking at his latest work. He whispered the pony’s name. “Oh, my little Raspberry Trick. Just… just look at you. Look at the stallion you have become.” Triggerhoof wasn’t sure whether Doctor Goodman sounded disappointed or appraising. Or maybe he was just stating a fact. Trigg had always been a stallion, although the years on this hellish earth had changed him. Not that he gave that much thought. Triggerhoof considered himself to have grown. He saw himself as somepony who bought clothes that are too large, and then grew into them. He had grown into the world. A year of intense training, scavenging missions, and other military operations had earned him his place in the Heat Seekers. In a sense, he had got something back after all he had lost. Doctor Goodman was still silent, but Triggerhoof knew that silence wouldn’t last long. He knew that something sappy would come now. He knew that Doctor Goodman would remind him of his youth, or perhaps the moment he had found him, in that crater filled with strange lights and radiation. Trigg decided to take away the chance. “There was another pony.” The doctor seemed to wake up from his trance. “Another pony? What do you mean?” “I mean it as I said it. There was another pony in that bunker, a mare.” It took Doctor John Goodman a long while to process Triggerhoof’s words. They sounded unreal, illogical. His brows shot up, and then settled down into a thinking frown. “How… how remarkable. What did she look like?” Triggerhoof told him what she looked like. “Well I’ll be,” Goodman said, his voice growing to a whisper. “Nurse Redheart is here too…” With a flap of his wings, Triggerhoof jumped off the bench and landed on the ground gently. Then he looked up to the doctor. “You know her?” “Yes,” Goodman said. “I saw her in Baby Cakes, an episode of My Little Pony.” Triggerhoof was about to say how girly and childish that sounded, but chose not to disturb Goodman’s musings. Puzzled as he was, Goodman sat down in his office chair. “How strange… another pony on Earth… What does that mean…?” “Why don’t you think this over alone?” Triggerhoof said. “I have to go to general Johansson for debriefing. We can talk more later.” But Doctor Goodman didn’t seem to notice him anymore. He threaded and unthreaded his fingers, while his dark brows remained furrowed. Good, Triggerhoof thought as he left the doctor’s office behind. At least he’s not gonna tell me how he found me for the hundredth time. ** One year ago. “Are you sure it is a good idea to search this close to the city?” John Goodman shouted to prevent his words from being blown away by the harsh, radioactive winds. Goodman noticed that they blew in from the city, and his voice was laden with worry. Behind him, the small squadron of soldiers, five of them, fanned out to let their leader step forward. “Well, you have to get your supplies from someplace,” General Johansson said. “And besides, we have protection.” But still Doctor Goodman’s mind was not at ease. He looked forwards, where the contours of yet another ruined hospital arose in the haze ahead. He hoped it wouldn’t be raining. He wasn’t sure the suit would protect against a long fallout, a rain made of radioactive dust. He had been the unlucky one to go to Ground Zero. The inhabitants of Crossroads Bunker needed supplies. Fast. By now, supply runs had become so common that they had to send out at least one party of Heat Seekers a day. Goodman was the most experienced medical man, so people were glad that it was his turn. He wasn’t. The other scientists and doctors put their faith in him, knowing that he would make sure that the right things were gathered, and the junk was left behind. But Goodman was a scientist, not a soldier, and least of all a hiker. He moved clumsily in his lead-lined suit. The suit made every step more difficult and heavier than the last. Needless to say, Goodman was puffing and panting. The soldiers had an easier time moving around; they had had plenty of practice. Goodman walked in the middle, while the squadron of Heat Seekers covered the rear and the flanks, looking out for threats. So far, they hadn’t encountered much, but they still were on high alert. Raiders had the tendency to pop up in places where you least expected them. And of course, there could be reds nearby. Hell, even General Johansson could only guess where the Russian checkpoints were situated. Despite his suit and his helmet, General Johansson tried to listen to sounds carried by the wind. The sounds of gunshots. “How far do you think the commies are?” Andrei asked another soldier to his right, Amanda. “I don’t know,” came the firm voice of Simon. “Why don’t you ask them yourself?” “Haha, very funny,” Andrei said. “You know I came from the other side of the city. Came all the way just to help you. You should be thankful.” Simon scoffed. “You came all the way to help us? Yeah, sure.” “It’s true,” Andrei said. “You can ask President Yaroslav yourself if you want.” Now Simon was sure Andrei was lying. He saw the mental picture, him going to the president of Russia and asking if his soldier spoke the truth. Why does this man always say such strange things? They marched on for a while, moving carefully over the cracked asphalt towards the hospital. The roads weren’t exactly smooth anymore, but they were the fastest way towards big buildings. According to General Johansson’s maps, this road had to lead right to it. The road curved upwards, making way for another road snaking by underneath. They stood on a viaduct. General Johansson held a fist in the air. “Everyone, stop!” The squadron plus Goodman stopped. Doctor Goodman looked with fearful eyes at the general. “Amanda, can you do a quick sweep before we enter the ruins?” Johansson said. “Something about this place feels… off. Check if you see any reds on the scope. We’ll fan out and keep a close eye on the perimeter.” “Roger that,” Amanda said, and raised her sniper rifle. She looked through the long-range scope, keeping the building in the crosshairs. She turned the knob to increase her vision and sharpen it. Scanning the surroundings of the building, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just crumbled walls without windows and many roofs. She watched the dull, grey block closely, trying to spot the color red somewhere, but she didn’t see anything. Then, just to be sure, the crosshair traveled upwards towards the top of the building. No red flag waved in the air, but Amanda saw something entirely different. A falling star shot through the heavens, leaving a red trail behind itself. “Wow,” Amanda whispered, and made a wish. Unless she wished for the falling star to change direction, her wish didn’t yet come true. The tail the falling star dragged along shortened. It took Amanda two seconds to realize what was happening. “Look alive, everyone, we got incoming!” She called. “There! In the sky!” General Johansson’s finger jabbed at the incoming projectile, lighting up a fiery red. “It’s a missile!” Amanda shouted. She had to shout, because a rumble like a jet engine filled the air, growing louder as the projectile soared onwards. Doctor Goodman looked at the ‘falling star.’ His voice caught in his throat. “I-i-i-it’s heading straight for us!” General Johansson tried his best to remain calm. Even though he knew that a nuclear missile strike this close would kill them all, he was not going to go down without at least some attempt to save his—and his squad’s—life. “Everyone! Get down!” His last thought before the thing struck home was, Where the hell did they get their hands on nukes? With a thundering roar, the red, shining object covered the last few miles, and struck home. It transformed into a ball of vicious, red fire, sweeping over the asphalt viaduct. Goodman and the Heat Seekers could feel the heat on their skin, threatening to boil them alive in their protective suits. But the fire was just a halo, and it passed over them, traveling further and setting scrawny, dead trees on fire. Johansson knew very well what would come next: the shockwave. Heat, shockwave, radiation; those were the components of a lovely atomic bomb. Yes, the shockwave came, but it wasn’t at all as heavy as they all thought. They would have been blown away and smashed to pieces, their limbs torn from their bodies by the sheer force of the bomb, even though it was just a tactical nuke. It didn’t happen that way, and they could hold on to the crash barriers on both sides of the freeway. They managed to keep their feet on the ground. Johansson was the first to open his eyes, and saw what had happened. The flying danger had passed them by. It had landed instead in an old bomb crater, making it even bigger than it already was. Johansson looked around at the rest of his squad. “Everybody alive? Any injuries?” “What?” Andrei yelled. “Any injuries!” Johansson repeated. Apart from some, probably permanent, ear damage, they were alright. “We’re good,” Goodman said, who was the only one who had covered his ears. After a minute or two, everybody was standing next to each other behind the crash barrier, looking at the trail of smoke rising from the crater. “You think the warhead didn’t detonate?” Andrei asked. Simon, their sixty-year-old survival expert, frowned behind the visor of his gasmask. “In all my years in the military, I have never seen such a strange tactical nuclear bomb. My closest guess is an EMP, but my digital watch is still working.” Johansson turned to Simon. He knew how valuable his advice was, for he had seen many things, many weapons, and somehow always came out alive. “What do you say, Simon?” “I say investigate it,” Simon said. “Then we know what we are dealing with and find a way to counter, or at least avoid it in the future.” Johansson thought for a moment, then nodded. “I say that is a good decision. Whatever that thing was, learning how to avoid it is a tactical gain.” He led the way. “Let’s go.” With much effort, sweating and panting, Doctor Goodman managed to catch up with the long-legged general. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” “Affirmative,” Johansson said. Doctor Goodman wanted to ask another question, but fell behind. He didn’t have the strength to keep up with the general. Goodman was exhausted. They walked down the viaduct and headed towards the crater, all the while staying alert and scanning the surroundings for hostiles. At last, they reached the rim of the smoking crater, and they all took a peek. Inside, on the bottom of the blackened soil, was a strange structure. It shone and shimmered in their flashlight beams, reflecting the light and breaking it into a spectrum of colors. It looked like ice, but that was impossible. If it were ice, it should have melted. No, it looked more like a crystal of some sorts. The core of the thing glowed blood-red, further adding to the ominous looks. It looked almost like a flower which hadn’t bloomed yet. Everyone let out a gasp. Suddenly, light pulsed from the crystal. Everybody flinched and covered their eyes with their hands. Sparks of sizzling light sprouted from the crystal flower, running along its sides and gathering at the top. Then the crystal cracked, and the flower opened its petals. There was something inside of it. As soon as the hellish light retreated, the Heat Seekers jumped into position. They scattered and crouched around the crater, keeping their guns trained on the figure that lay inside. But they didn’t shoot yet. They waited for the command of their general. “What do you think it is?” Andrei said. “I have no idea,” came the answer from Amanda. Andrei clicked the safety off his gun. “Should we shoot it?” Everybody waited in silence. Doctor Goodman, who had recoiled from the strange light source, crawled back towards the rim of the crater. With shaky hands, he grabbed his automatic and took his position between the Heat Seekers. When he looked into the crater, however, he lowered his gun and uttered a cry. “What? What is the matter, lad? Do you know what it is?” Simon asked. “I… I think so,” Goodman said slowly. “It looks like… a creature?” Amanda said. “Yes. Like a horse,” Johansson added. Andrei looked through the sight of his gun. “Maybe it’s a mutant. I say we shoot it!” Simon gave him a sidelong glance. “There are no mutants, Andrei; that is just a myth.” Suddenly, Doctor Goodman jumped into the crater. General Johansson’s eyes went wide. “Goodman, what are you doing! That thing might be dangerous!” “I don’t think so,” John Goodman said. He slid down further into the crater, stirring the blackened dirt and rocks that formed the slope. When a clicking noise appeared, Goodman watched his Geiger counter. The needle was still in the green, but it was crawling towards the red the further he walked downhill into the crater. Johansson heard it too. “There’s radiation in there, Goodman. For God’s sake, get out of there!” But Doctor Goodman didn’t stop or slow down. He recognized the shape that lay curled up at the bottom of the crater. Johansson proved to be right, because there, lying as if asleep on the pedestal of crystal, was a pony. He had a blood red hide and a frazzled, black mane and tail, Goodman saw. But there was also some red beneath him. He was bleeding. Goodman gasped. The wound looked grievous, and kept on bleeding. Quickly, he opened his backpack, and grabbed his emergency first aid kit. Seconds later, a tourniquet was secured to the pony’s leg, and the fountain of blood subsided. Ignoring the rapid clicking of his Geiger counter, Doctor Goodman crouched down and tried to pick up the pony. It was a full-grown stallion, and even though it was just a pony, Goodman’s failing attempts only made him look comical—if he weren’t standing in a pit full of radiation. “Can somebody please give me a hand?” “On it!” And before General Johansson could stop him, Brockheart jumped into the pit. Together with the strong Brockheart, Goodman returned to the Heat Seekers, who still kept their guns aimed at the pony. As he reached them, a whole chorus of clicks sounded. “Jesus, that thing is practically glowing,” Andrei said. “We should kill it now and be done with it.” Johansson gave Andrei a piercing glare. “No, Andrei, we’ve got suits. We can handle the radiation. And I will assess its threat level.” Goodman and Brockheart put the pony on the ground. Goodman raised his hands. “Don’t worry, everyone. He is not going to hurt you.” Johansson stepped closer. “You know more about this, Goodman. What is that?” “A pony, a My Little Pony, and it’s hurt. We have to return to Crossroads as quickly as possible!” “My Little Pony?” Amanda asked with a voice as soft as silk. “Like, the tv show? Hm... now that you mention it, it does look like one.” Johansson lowered his gun slowly. “And may I ask you, Doctor Goodman, how you know so much about this ‘My Little Pony?’” Concerned as he was, Doctor John Goodman still managed a thin smile. “That’s a strange and awkward story.”