Chapter Five: Dead Ringer
Early evening once more. The storyteller was already there and waiting as the audience from last night filed into the small building. There were considerably more ponies than before, along with a few griffins.
Welcome back, everypony. Or rather, as I see a couple griffins, everyone. I'm glad to see a quite a few new faces, but you folks look a little more tired than last time, I think. Did I keep you up a little too late?
He smirked lightly.
Well, then I've got just the thing to wake you all right up. Because I've got one hell of a segment for you all. I assume the others filled you new faces in?
A string of nods and affirmations went out, and the storyteller smiled.
Good. Now, then. Stop seeing with your eyes. Clear your mind and relax. Focus on my voice as you slip into the void. Let it fill in the blanks.
Melt away.
* * *
Hours had passed by the time the last chord died away from the strings of that beautiful Steineigh. She had been with me the whole time, Her hooves moving with my ice hands as we played through my most recent repertoire of music.
Together.
“Thank you.” I smiled up at Her. But She was already gone. I looked back down at my hands, Her hooves nowhere to be seen, their comforting weight gone once more.
“Was that you, buddy?” I glanced behind me and found Sly standing in the doorway, smiling. I really had to get a proper lock on that. “That was amazing stuff, Frost. Really.”
I sighed, smiling in turn. “It's more amazing that you found this...”
“Well, Xamuros helped restore the woodwork.” He scratched the back of his head with a hoof, shrugging modestly.
“Regardless, I still very much appreciate it.” I got up and placed a hoof on his leg (couldn't quite reach his shoulder). “I think I'll be taking up your offer for the Rusty Steed.”
“Sounds great!” The giant of a stallion smiled. “So, Xamuros had me come and find you. Rig's pretty much finished up on training between the both of us. And... I kinda have some good news... and some bad news.”
I frowned, hooves back on the floor. “You've given the Chief a reason to turn you to pulp on the pavement, haven't you?”
“What?” He stared. “No, not that! Jeez, have faith in me, buddy! No, it's... about Rig. Namely her training.”
Knowing my luck, I just told him, “Alright, let's hear the bad news first.”
“It... kinda goes hoof-in-hoof with the good news.” Sly smiled weakly.
“Then what's the good news?” I stared blankly at him.
“Well, the good news is that Rig's completed her training for the day without another hitch.” He beamed. “Even better, she even found her favorite weapons! Can never have just one, like you say!”
“Okay, now what's the bad news?” I raised an eyebrow. This seemed pretty good so far.
Sly kicked a lazy hoof against the floor looking away. “Well...”
* * *
“The flamethrower?!” I exclaimed. I could feel my left eye twitching a little. “Are you shitting me?! The flamethrower?!”
We were back in the firing range, a vast space filled with a variety of training rooms- typical firing ranges with various types of targets, obstacle courses, and the armory. Oh, and Rig was currently spewing jets of blazing hydrazine all over the range, soaking the targets in liquid, flaming death- and damn effectively, too. She was cheering and whooping all the while, a very disturbing glow to those indigo eyes. I had to sheath myself in ice armor just to stand in the same room as her.
“Well don't look at me, I just taught her how to use it!” Xamuros shrugged helplessly. Sly was standing right beside him, offering an apologetic look.
“Of all the lighter, of all the better-ranged, more practical weapons with more plentiful ammo around in the Wasteland that are less dangerous to her and certainly less dangerous to me, she likes the flamethrower the most?!” I yelled, tossing my hooves over my head. “The flamethrower! Gah!” I fell back to the floor, hitting my forehead against the nearby wall. “Curse my luck, of course she picks the Mark Twelve! Of course she picks the pony-made, fire-breathing dragon!” I proceeded to hit my forehead a few more times.
“Hey, Frost!” Rig grinned from ear to ear as she trotted right up to me, Mark 12 telekinetically pulled with her, its pilot light still lit. Luna Almighty, her eyelashes were singed away! “You've absolutely gotta try this! It's so fun! Fire fire fire everywhere!”
I just stared at her in horror, backing away a little. “Uhh, no thanks, Rig! Youuuuu go right back to pointing that... thing in another direction, preferably back at the firing range. Away from us. Namely me. Please!”
She shrugged simply. “Suit yourself.” The young mare (A young mare, I tell you!) flipped the lever to switch the pilot light off, pulling out the cylindrical gas tank attached to the feed rung while simultaneously pulling a fresh one from a nearby rack. She screwed the new one in and flicked the pilot light back on.
And went right back to lighting stuff on fire.
“Good Goddess, I thought I knew her before all of this.” I just sat down, exasperated and forming a cup of water for myself as I placed a hoof on my head.
“Well look on the bright side, buddy.” Sly patted my back. “It's just one of her preferred weapons.”
A glimmer of hope at least. I sublimated the cup after I was finished and asked, “Well... what are they?”
“Well, there's grenades, grenade launchers, dynamite, landmines-”
I went right back to slamming my forehead against the wall. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-”
“Son of a cuss, Sly!” Xamuros growled. “Don't you have any sense of tact?”
The dark-blue giant shrugged helplessly.
“Frost!” The zebra pulled me away from the wall. He then noted my expression. “... uh... you alright?”
I laughed a little crazily and answered, “Ohhh, I think I just gave myself some permanent brain damage-age-age-age-age-age-”
“Frost, cut it out!” He thwacked me on the head. “Don't be so over-dramatic!”
“Sorry,” I laughed again, a little cracked, “it's just that the pony I plan to help obtain a water talisman, which will take Luna knows how long, apparently loves weapons that set things on fire and explode! Stuff that I hate with the intensity of a thousand burning suns!”
“Frost, Rig found something else other than high-explosives and fire-spewing weapons that she likes too!” he yelled in my face.
I blinked a tad awkwardly. “Oh.” I got back on my hooves, clearing my throat and regaining my composure. “Well... what is it?”
“I can answer that for you,” Chief Thunderhooves said as he entered through the doorway. “Rig! That is enough!”
Rig turned around (Luna Almighty, there went her eyebrows!) and shouted, “Oh, sorry!” With that, she put a halt to her fiery rampage and neatly placed the Mark 12 back on its rack in the armory, a light spring to her trot.
“So, what's up?” She beamed as she plopped down beside me. I had to remember for a second that she no longer had the flamethrower with her as I began to edge away from the earth-coated unicorn.
“Frost, she also like this.” The buffalo ghoul went to the armory and pulled out... a very familiar bullpup assault rifle for her.
My eyes widened as she took it up in her gray telekinetic grip, heading back to the range. “Is that... what I think she is?” I asked.
Chief Thunderhooves nodded. “Indeed she is. Still feminizing weapons I see.”
I watched as Rig aimed down the ironsights and began to take down targets, firing in two-shot bursts, handling the weapon's kick expertly. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and soon all memory of the previous few minutes was wiped from my mind as I turned my ice armor to mist and stepped closer.
I looked over the weapon from the side as she kicked a little under her fire. She was a rugged weapon, formed completely of stamped steel components. She was a factory-gray death machine born in the cold heat of Stalliongrad's factories. Her design may have been different from her predecessors. She may have had the equipment rails not seen on her ancestors. But the iconic length and curve of the magazine, the iconic, simple tab of a magazine release; the iconic charging handle, the iconic way the blowback system bent into the barrel, the iconic, familiar, powerful report that signaled a stinging rain of 7.62 Stalliongrad Rimmed...
She was a weapon that descended from a long line of the indisputably most infamous, most reliable, most iconic series of assault rifles ever built during the Great War.
The Avtomat Kalashneighkova Modernizirovanniy Bullpup. The AKMB. The great-grandson of the AKb2.
“Hey.”
I was jarred out of my stupor of awe by the cloud-maned mare as she looked at me. “You alright?” she asked. She stopped firing, and a tense silence clung to the room.
I had to be sure. I had to be sure it was really her. I opened my mouth slowly. “May I see her?”
“Uh... sure.” Rig levitated her over to me.
I took the cold weapon in my even colder hands. Now that I could see her up close, I could see it all. The carvings, the patterns so carefully etched into the body of the weapon. And the barrel.
On it were four inscribed words.
In laboribus et periculis.
The others knew it too as I looked back at them. Chief Thunderhooves nodded to me.
I looked back at Rig, who was looking over the weapon as well. She looked at me with those shining, indigo eyes. “Oh... oh, jeez, this wasn't the one I fired earlier! Frost, I'm sorry! I didn't kn-” I waved my hand, and her words caught in her throat. She silenced herself.
I leaned in close and told her, “This one will never fail you in battle. You can choke her up with sand, silt, mud, and she will still fire. She will support your weight and greater even if you do push-ups with only the magazine touching the ground, all your weight forced on it. She will never jam, never rust. She will survive every beating you give her and still stand ready for more. She will never break, short of throwing her under a tank. And she will cut down anyone who stands in your way.” I handed her to Rig, looking at me with those big, round eyes. “Luna's Fortitude. She will never fail you. For in labors and dangers, you will always draw strength from her.”
The weight of all the words fell upon the young unicorn mare, and she swallowed hard.
“Take her,” I said to her. “I've seen the way you handle her. You've tamed her. You are now her master.”
Rig smiled wide, bowing lightly as she enveloped Luna's Fortitude in her magic and pulled the weapon away.
“Well, then,” I smiled. “She's yours now. It's been a long time since I've wielded her, and times have changed. She must evolve. So. Are you going to add any furniture to her or what?” I nodded to a work bench near the armory.
She had a lovely smirk.
The storyteller paused to let out a chuckle, then nodded at a griffin leaning against the old jukebox.
Roanoke. Cue epic music.
The griffin elbowed the machine with a light grin, an orchestra gradually building up from the background with a bit of synthesized, electronic music blending in with the sound of striking iron accompanying it. It was... a shorter version of the music the storyteller associated with Rig. Epic music indeed.
I watched as she added a BS-03 Tishina (Russyin for “whisper”. Or was it “silence”?) suppressed grenade launcher. I didn't flinch at all in spite of myself. And I certainly didn't flinch the slightest as she sent a shell downrange with a light click, slamming into the husk of a powered wagon. Right through the window, I thought as I felt myself smirking. Impressive.
I watched as she retrieved a bayonet from the armory, the blade painted a matte-black that matched Luna's Fortitude. She used tools to modify the weapon's lug so that the bayonet was oriented to the side of the muzzle, allowing her to fire the BS-03 without it getting in the way. Luna's Fortitude was growing stronger. I could feel Rig growing stronger as well.
I watched as she nabbed a suppressor that Xamuros helped pick out for her, the nasty roar of the weapon muffled to a moderately quieter string of clicks and hisses. I just watched and listened on as he taught her to avoid firing full-auto with a suppressor to prevent from wearing it down too quickly, taught her how to hammer-tap one round at a time.
I watched as she had Chief Thunderhooves help her modify the weapon itself. They improved the barrel rifling. They reworked the firing assembly for a lower rate of fire and replaced the action and charging handle, providing for an optimal seal in the chamber when each round was fired.
I watched her as she slid a gem-powered, holographic reflex sight onto the top equipment rail, taking the time to test-fire shots downrange to calibrate the reticule to the weapon's new accuracy. Rig set the reticule itself as a small, open circle. Slotted in a bit of quartz with Chief Thunderhooves' directions to give it multiple levels of magnification. Luna's Fortitude was turning into a weapon of greater accuracy and precision.
Lastly, I watched as she brought out all the magazines she could find, welding them together in threes for quicker reloads. She practiced firing her. After every third mag, she expertly drew a new one while simultaneously depressing the mag release and removing the spent magazine, slamming the fresh one home and ratcheting back the charging handle. In under two seconds.
Xamuros had taught the girl how to speed-load the unicorn way. I grinned at him and he grinned right on back.
Born in the cold heat of the factory forge so long ago, the weapon that had served me so well in the past was born again. More accurate. More destructive. And yet more elegant. More refined. Without sacrificing firepower or rugged durability and reliability. Luna's Fortitude was now tucked against her new master's side as she beamed with pride.
Aaaaand cue end of epic music.
Roanoke chuckled softly as he elbowed the jukebox off.
“No flamethrower?” I couldn't help but ask with a smile.
“Not practical.” The young mare shrugged. “And besides, where will I keep finding the ammunition for it?”
I nodded in agreement, chuckling in spite of myself, then asked, “No sidearm?”
“Glad you asked.” Rig smirked, a burst of gray-colored light setting off as it appeared at her side, already wrapped in her levitation spell aura. At first, I was wondering how she did that. Then I realized- right, she's not limited on what kind of magic she can do. Unlike me (dammit).
Her sidearm was a Heller & Coach KP-12 (a Germane acronym for Kriegpistole, or war pistol, if I recall correctly). Little more than a fully-automatic pistol with no slide, a longer barrel and a side-mounted magazine, its uniqueness came from its cartridge. The weapon was designed around the experimental THV round, standing for Tres Haute Vitesse (Very High Speed in Prench). Though the supersonic nature of the cartridge (and the muzzle energy behind those little bastards) prevented use of a suppressor, the speed of those dart-shaped projectiles allowed them to easily penetrate armor. It may have had a lower rate of fire than most conventional machine pistols, but it boasted a degree of accuracy and range unseen in any other firearm of its size. Germane engineering with Prench ammunition made for an interesting choice for sure.
“Got this done before you got here, actually.” Rig scratched her mane. “Honestly, I didn't really modify it outside of giving it a reflex sight. Because really, the only problem with it is the ironsights. And boy are they ick. Now then... my other weapons.”
“I... beg your pardon?” I couldn't help but blink a few times.
“Of course, you had me give her CQC training,” Sly smiled, walking to her side. “This little gal picked out a couple melee weapons, the first of which I think you'll like...”
Rig smirked wide as her horn flared up brighter, a small spade appearing next to her in a burst of light.
“Is that a Spetsnaz throwing shovel?” I gawked.
“You bet it is,” the unicorn smiled. “Tried out a lot of things with Slyther. Edged weapons of all sorts, bludgeons, and even a powerhoof! In the end, it came down to the crowbar and the throwing shovel for my first choice. I just love the idea of using melee weapons that have alternate uses. And since you already have a crowbar, well... I thought I might as well go with this for diversity.”
With that, she turned around and whipped the shovel out of her magical grip. It spun in a slight arc through the air before the sharpened spade embedded a tad off-center of a wooden target.
“She still needs practice, but I'm sure she'll do fine,” Sly grinned as she tugged the shovel back to her side. “Plus, she's got S.A.T.S. for the times where it really counts.”
“And my other melee weapon of choice...” Rig said, another flash of light popping next to her along with an... industrial pickaxe?
“... before I say anything, why don't you explain your reasoning for this?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Truthfully, it's just because I like it.” She shrugged. “It just sorta... 'clicks' with me. Plus, I guess this is for when I need something with a bit more bite than the throwing shovel.”
“Well, seeing as I'm using an over-elaborate knife, I can't judge you there.” I nodded, smiling.
“That just leaves one thing,” Chief Thunderhooves piped up. “Armor, saddlebags, and ammunition. Now, as I run a weapon store, I lack the first two. Benson should have a good selection at his general store however. I am sure you will find something there.”
“Thank you, all of you.” Rig nodded. “Well, Frost? Let's go!”
“You go on ahead with Xamuros and Sly.” I smiled. “I... think I'll talk to Chief Thunderhooves for a bit.”
“Are you sure?” She canted her head to the side.
“Yeah, don't you wanna see what she picks out?” Sly grinned. “I mean, you sure, buddy?”
“Quite sure.” I nodded. “We have business to discuss anyways.”
Another partial truth.
“Well, alrighty then.” Sly shrugged. “C'mon, Rig, let's go!”
As the three headed out the door, Xamuros muttered, “Wait, neither of us wear armor. Why are we the ones doing this again when neither of us are qualified?”
After they left, I approached the buffalo ghoul and bowed. “Chief Thunderhooves, I... I am forever in your debt. Thank you so, so much...”
“Considering the weaponry and ammunition your friend is getting, you may as well be,” he chuckled. He then sighed, “But that is not the reason you thank me for, is it?”
I rose, nodding. “The photographs.”
He nodded in turn. “You are quite fortunate that no one else happened to come across them before I did. It would have certainly raised many questions.”
“Where did you find them?” I inquired.
“We are still clearing rubble from when we took back the city from the raiders,” Chief Thunderhooves told me. “I found both of them together in a home just off of the site of the Memorial. Upon seeing them, I immediately tore off the right third of the photo just in case. But... the second one... I knew I could not damage it in any such way.”
“And... by any chance do you still have that third with you?” I asked.
The buffalo ghoul nodded toward the main room and I followed him behind the counter into the storeroom. It was a spacious place with a high ceiling. Many of the pre-war light fixtures were still working despite the weight of so many years. Earth pony ingenuity, folks. But in this room were aisles and aisles of racks, and on all of these racks were boxes- of ammunition, of weapon components, of things even I didn't know of.
He led me to an unmarked box in a seemingly random aisle. He knocked the top off to reveal a safe. Opening it, he fished around inside and presented me with that missing third.
Yes... just as I remembered.
I swiftly slipped it behind my breastplate, the chief closed the safe and replaced the box, and we were back in the main room. We were quiet for a while. We both knew the importance of it all.
“... do you still think of Her?” Chief Thunderhooves broke the silence.
“Very often.” I nodded. “It is for that reason that I am forever in your debt for that photograph.”
He snorted, closing his eyes and smiling lightly. “Forever is a long, long time for us.”
“I'm well aware.”
The ghoul breathed a light sigh. “Have you told anyone else?”
“No.” I shook my head. “You're one of the few who know. Because you were there. And you saw the Memorial before it was destroyed.”
Chief Thunderhooves nodded lightly. “It is not easy, is it? The lies you must make?”
“It's only gotten harder.” I breathed out a misty sigh. “Luna only knows when I'll have to let it all out.”
“And you still blame yourself for everything?”
“All of it, yes.” I nodded lightly, inhaling sharply. “Chief Thunderhooves, if you were in my position, how would you deal with all of it? What would you do?”
“Hard to say,” he said as we met gazes. “I have lived long and seen many horrible things just as you have, Frost. Perhaps not as many, but I have seen horrible things. I will not 'beat around the bush', as you say it. I would have likely become withdrawn, possibly lose my mind to some degree. Possibly worse.”
“... worse?” I ventured.
“Killed someone who did not deserve it,” he said. “Or some people. I understand you went through intense mental training, however. Would that change anything? I cannot say. I am not you, and you are not me.”
I nodded slowly. “Well, how about something a little less morbid to talk about?”
“That would be preferable, yes,” Chief Thunderhooves spoke up. “What is on your mind?”
I faced him. “Does the name 'Azrael' mean anything to you?”
“Azrael.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Hm... is that not a being related to pony mythology?”
“Equine theology, more specifically.” I nodded. “The Angel of Death. But, I'm namely speaking of a... griffin. A female one.”
“Ah... let me think.” He turned his gaze upward in deep thought. After a bit, he said, “Azrael... griffin. Yes, I heard her name a bit around here. If I recall correctly, I believe I heard some griffins talking about an Azrael recently moving into Stalliongrad with two others. This was about maybe three months ago, I believe? Three months, yes. I have heard little else. I cannot say I have personally met this Azrael of yours though.”
“Well... I thank you for telling what you know at least.” I sighed.
“What concerns you?” the buffalo asked.
“I have reason to suspect that this 'Azrael' is after my head,” I answered him. “During my most recent bounty hunt, I cheated a griffin of his prize in the process and perhaps humiliated him to some extent. I saw him talking with her before he trained his guns on me. Luckily, others around us took aim at them. They stood down and went away after that.”
“Was Azrael openly hostile to you?” he inquired. “You only stated that this male griffin you offended took aim at you.” Observant as always.
“Well... no.” I admitted. “But the griffin I cheated talking with another in such a manner... it doesn't sit well with me... especially because of this Azrael...”
“Go on.” Chief Thunderhooves pressed.
“Just... her eyes.” I bit my lip. “It was like she was tunneling into me with those eyes. And her voice... it's so much like the first Overmare of Stable Seventy-Two.”
“But she was not openly hostile to you?” he repeated.
“No, she wasn't,” I also repeated. “But I just can't shake the feeling.”
“Well, knowing your training, you will not have any problem taking her down if she is in fact hostile.” he leaned onto the counter with a smirk.
“I'll keep that in mind...” I sighed. Oh sure, training that I've long been out of practice with. “But let's cut the chit-chat. I have a feeling the others will be back soon. Let's talk actual business.” I waited as he nodded before continuing. “So, with what I have given, how much do I owe you for the training and weaponry?”
“At the moment, three-hundred caps,” he answered. Wow. He was being really generous to me today. “But remember, she has not yet purchased ammunition.”
Oh. Right.
“We're baaaaaaaaack!” Sly exclaimed in a sing-song tone as he swung the door open.
And because the Wasteland hates me with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, I had the luck of being right where the door would swing. Thank goodness I reacted fast enough to stop it with my hoof.
At the very least, I have some capacity to create my own luck.
“Hey, where's Frost?” I could hear the giant ask.
“Almost crushed to death,” I said, walking around the door to greet the-
Whoa.
Just... whoa.
Rig was wearing what looked like the typical Stable engineering utility/safety barding. Everything else was covered by a layer of what looked like cobalt-blue segments of armor with black, corrugated matte filling in between them. On her head was a welding helmet, currently flipped up. It consisted of a smooth, slightly bowled steel plate reinforced with additional pieces of the same cobalt armor along with a panel for unicorns so the horn wouldn't get in the way. A single, black, rectangular lens of reinforced glass would allow her to see once it was flipped down. A pair of standard saddlebags were slung across her back.
“Whatcha think?” The unicorn smiled.
“Modified engineering wear,” I chuckled. “Honestly, I should've seen it coming.”
“More importantly, what do you think?” Xamuros asked her.
“I love it!” she squealed. “It's just such a wonderful familiar feeling! Can you believe they had it on clearance? Only fifty caps!” Multiple flashes of light went off as a flurry of different types of wrenches, a pair of screwdrivers, a welding torch, a hammer, and all sorts of related things popped up next to her. “And I have my tools back!” She squeed in delight before teleporting them back into her saddlebags.
“Good to know.” I smiled. “How's the weight?”
“The armor plating weighs it down a little, but it's still pretty light even with my saddlebags,” Rig answered. “So! Ammo!”
“Alright, then, little one.” Chief Thunderhooves smiled. “What can I get for you?”
Well, she got her ammunition alright. I suppose her PipBuck made it easier on her with the inventory management system at least. She purchased at least one-hundred rounds of ammunition for both weapons in addition to shells for her launcher.
And grenades.
She definitely had that explosive personality... fragmentation, HE (high-explosive, kids, high-explosive), EMP (electromagnetic pulse, kids- you can put your hooves down), thermite...
The last one alone made me wary about being around her again.
“And that brings the total to five-hundred-seventy-two caps.” The buffalo ghoul finished typing it all into the register, eying me.
“Again, thank you, all of you.” I smiled at all of them as I fished through my saddlebags for the payment, taking a bit to get the number right before sliding the pouch to him.
A chime came from Rig's PipBuck, and we both looked at the screen. “Resupply at Stalliongrad” was marked as complete.
“A pleasure to do business.” The old buffalo nodded. “Now go and have fun. Something tells me Frost will be joining in, too.”
“What do you mean, Chief?” Xamuros raised an eyebrow.
“I was... going to tell you all that I'm taking you up on the offer for the Rusty Steed tonight.” I smiled.
“Oh you are, huh?” The zebra grinned.
“Yeah, and food and drinks are on me tonight,” I nodded, then glared, “but don't think about exploiting that too much. I don't want to see anyone get drunk.”
“Psshaw, I only get buzzed at best.” Sly swatted a hoof.
Chief Thunderhooves, Xamuros, and myself promptly provided blank, unconvinced stares at him.
“... shut up,” he grumbled.
“We didn't say anything.” The zebra sneered.
“I said shut up!”
“... do I really want to know?” Rig asked, blinking in confusion.
“You really don't,” I answered. And then something occurred to me. “Rig? How old are you anyways?”
“Seventeen,” she answered. “Eighteen in another month, actually. Why?”
“... close enough.”
* * *
The Rusty Steed was, from what I'm told, an indoor powered wagon dealership up to the day the megaspells fell. Back then, it was actually called the “Trusty Steed”. After taking the city back from the raiders, though, the “T” had apparently fallen off. The name stuck, and the Rusty Steed was converted into a pub. It had a nice, homey atmosphere to it. Luna only knows how they managed to get such nice seat cushions and tables. The bar was also a big one for lots of equines to enjoy- after all, it was an indoor autowagon dealership. It was also usually crowded around the hour we arrived.
And when it's crowded, it gets very noisy.
“Now I remember why I don't ever come here,” I grumbled, ears tucked back under the chatter of the other bargoers around us. And they were just talking at normal conversation volume, too. We're talking a pretty big pub here. We were even in the corner, in a booth all too ourselves with drinks and pub-grub for all of us.
“Aw, cheer up, buddy,” Sly grinned, pausing to guzzle a bit at his drink, “we're here to have fun, catch up!”
“What?” Rig rose her voice over the clamor, pausing in her meal for the moment. “What did you say?”
The three of us waved our hooves in panic. “Nonono, don't-”
And because of this rise in volume, it made everyone else have a harder time hearing anyone else. So they raised their voices to make sure they were heard. And the others raised their voices to make sure they were heard. And so it repeated again and again.
I facehoofed and promptly glared at her.
“Sorry.” She shrugged apologetically.
“Quiet down!” the magically-amplified voice of the bartender rang out.
And it got quieter again.
“Thank you...” Xamuros muttered under his breath.
Now that we could all speak at at a normal volume, I cleared my throat and smiled. “Xamuros, Sly... thank you so much for the piano. It means much to me.”
“The what?” Rig asked.
“Oh... right.” I facehoofed. I hadn't told her. “They uncovered a piano, a sort of pre-war instrument.”
“Yeah, I know what that is.” She nodded. “We had some books at our Stable too.”
“Right then, well... both of them were nice enough to work on restoring it for me. I'm very grateful.”
“Thought you'd love it.” The zebra smiled. “I actually didn't even know that you played until Sly told me how he found it. After that, though, I spent a bit of time during my off-hours restoring the woodwork and paint. I gotta say- finding reagents for the proper potions is not easy when we're so close to the Far North. But I'm glad you like it. That aside, how'd you two meet each other anyways?”
“Oh, us?” I motioned at Rig and then to myself. “We happened... to cross paths with my most recent bounty.” I didn't know if she was still touchy about it. I decided not to find out.
“I was in chains and a bomb collar.” Rig put flatly.
Oh. Well, I guess not.
“Heh, so the oh-so-overdone damsel in distress, hm?” Xamuros chuckled.
“Xamuros...” I frowned at him.
“Well... it's kinda true.” The young mare shrugged, kicking at the floor a little as she looked away. She then looked up with that sparkle in her eyes. “But not anymore.”
“Don't get ahead of yourself.” Sly took another swig. “You haven't been in a real firefight just yet. Targets? They move in predictable patterns or just plain stand still. Raiders? They don't. And targets don't shoot back at you either.”
Rig grumbled and cross her hooves.
“We'll get to that eventually.” I assured her with a pat on the back. “Raider nests always keep popping up around the Manehattan area. Just let me draw the fire first, alright? We'll get you up to speed one raider at a time.” That seemed to cheer her up a little at least, as she smiled lightly at me then took a look at her drink. “By the way, I never asked you about this, Rig. What kind of magic can you do?”
“Magic?” she chuckled, scratching the back of her head. “Well, not too much. I can do telekinesis just fine and I can do a bit of teleportation. Honestly, I haven't really gotten the hang of teleporting myself from place to place, but I can teleport other objects just fine. Just... not ponies. I also know a soldering spell.”
“Ah, that explains the weapons and tools then,” I nodded.
She nodded, taking a light sip at her drink. She promptly screwed her up face and slid the mug away. “Blegh, what is this stuff?”
“Alcohol,” I chuckled. “Now you know why I don't come here ordinarily.”
“Ponies drink this stuff?” Rig stared in amazement, eyes widening as Sly continued to guzzle his drink down. “Isn't it flammable?”
“Well yeah, and zebras and griffins and buffalo drink it too,” Xamuros shrugged, sipping at his own. “Pfft... Stable ponies...”
Rig looked at me with a bewildered expression, motioning at both of them. I just shrugged at her. “So, how's work in Stalliongrad?” I asked Sly, turning to him.
“Again, damn slow.” The giant sighed, setting down his drink. “I mean, you ever see a criminal here? Hardly any Regulator work, really. I have to head down south if I feel the itch. Otherwise, I just work on maintaining the walls.”
“And I already told you about what I do.” Xamuros took another sip. “Same old story.”
“By the way, I'm surprised you didn't tell your friend about us,” Sly snickered at me.
“Kinda wanted to surprise her.” I smiled. “But seriously,” I turned to the young mare, “would you have believed me if I told you I had a buffalo ghoul, a zebra, and a giant pony for friends?”
“Uhhhh... probably not,” Rig laughed a little. “We did chat a bit on the way to Benson's, though. They talked about how you met them.”
Oh dear Goddess.
“What about?” I inquired, hiding my worry behind a level tone and a light grin.
“I just asked how they knew you, that's it,” she answered. “So you really helped everypony here take back Stalliongrad from the raiders?”
“A few years ago, yes,” I nodded. “It's... nothing too much though.”
“You somehow knew about the sewer networks underneath the city.” Xamuros pointed a hoof at me, eyebrow raised. “And you knew enough to help us catch the raiders completely by surprise. I think that's more than 'nothing too much'... great, now I've gone and remembered the smell... and what a cussing labyrinth it is down there...”
“Yeah, how'd you know so much about that anyways?” Sly asked.
“You remember how I told you how we had this big library back at Stable Seventy-Two, right?” I brought up. “Stalliongrad sort of piqued my interest, so I did my research on the city and its involvement during the war. I had no idea it would actually help me and hundreds of others though. When I joined the camps and overheard how everyone wanted to take the city back but couldn't manage it, I just lent them my aid is all. Didn't remember every single tunnel, but I knew the main ones.”
“I'll say.” Xamuros slid his now-empty mug aside. “You nearly has us pop out under the ringleader's stronghold!”
“That was actually a lucky guess,” I admitted. “I was actually aiming for a more remote area of town so we could move into the city undetected. Kinda worked out in the end.”
“You'll have to tell me more about that sometime.” Rig smiled. “Sounds like a good story.”
“Hah, you bet it is!” Sly chuckled. “He's quite the storyteller, you know.”
“Really now?” She looked at me.
“Ehhh... it's only because we had the books.” I sprouted an ice arm to slip under my my helm to scratch the back of my neck. “I just add a little personal flair to them.”
“Well, you certainly have a way of telling them.” Xamuros smiled. “Oh, hey, did I ever tell you about the time that-”
I wasn't listening. I caught black movement on a table in the distance. And then I saw her.
Azrael.
The cloaked griffin was seated with Silas. From the looks of it, they'd been there for a while. How did I not notice that before?
Those blank, white eyes locked with mine for a split second. She turned away, appearing to say something to Silas. Despite Chief Thunderhooves words, I couldn't help but feel that something was going on...
But before I could do anything about it, the bartender yelped, “Radio on! Cut the chit-chat and listen up!”
The bar fell dead quiet. Everypony and everyone instinctively and immediately dropped their chatter (and proceeded to knock unconscious the ones too drunk to do so). I met a glance with the distant griffin for a moment longer before we all did the same. The mare bartender was adjusting the volume on the old set, wires sticking out all over the place.
“What's going on?” Rig whispered to me.
“City-wide radio,” I whispered back in response. “The only time it ever comes up is if we have unidentified people approaching the city. Now be quiet and listen.”
“This is Militia Chief Snowbourne to wall one, quadrant three,” the radio crackled with a male voice. “Is there an officer on station? If so, keep it Equestrian. Not all of us know Russyin.”
“This is officer-on-station Sparks,” came a female reply. “Copy that.”
“Officer Sparks, what is the situation?”
“We've got three griffins approaching the city. They have not stopped to identify themselves and are in our killzone.”
“Are they airborne?” Snowbourne queried.
“Negative, they're grounded,” Sparks replied. “Zasili is on-station and trying to hail them.”
“Any luck?”
“Hang on for a moment, chief, they're responding now.” A pause. The seconds ticked by. “The griffins identified themselves as members of the 'Dead Boys,' chief. Do we have any records on them?”
I felt my blood run colder than usual. I think Chief Thunderhooves was feeling the same thing at his store. I instinctively felt at my breastplate, the old photographs pressing against me. The Dead Boys... that brigade has been truly dead for a long time gone. What the fuck were these griffins doing, sauntering about with a title they didn't deserve?
“No solid copy, repeat your last,” Snowbourne crackled.
“The griffins are identifying themselves as members of the Dead Boys. Chief, do we have any records on these guys?”
“Solid copy, checking as we speak.” Another long pause. Every second that ticked by only made my heart hammer faster.
And then I caught sight of Azrael and Silas. They were shooting each other odd glances. That wasn't a good sign.
Wait... I focused and got a better look. Silas looked... worried?
Then that was an even worse sign.
Rig's PipBuck chimed. We both looked at the screen. It had a new mission. I read it, but I couldn't believe it. I blinked, but the words remained. My blood ran colder.
It read “Defend Stalliongrad”.
For everyone's sake, I hoped that Stable-Tec messed up on that behalf.
“Officer Sparks, we have no record of any Dead Boys of any sort,” Snowbourne finally sputtered out over the radio. “Any new developments?”
“One second, one second...” Sparks paused. Good Goddess, I hated these pauses! “Chief, they're demanding custody of three of our own.”
“Custody of who, Officer Sparks? Did they give any names?”
In spite of myself, the grammar policepony inside of me wanted to question whether or not it was grammatically correct to substitute “who” for “whom”.
“What?” Sparks seemed to be chattering with some one else. “Who? Uhhh, Chief, do we know any- Damn it, Vicks, what? Three?... Chief, do we know any griffins, last name Razorwing? They claim there's three of them.”
“Fuck.”
It was at this moment that everypony and everyone turned to look at the source of that voice: Silas. Or rather, Silas Razorwing.
“Affirmative on that, Officer Sparks,” Snowbourne crackled out, our attention shifting back to the radio set, “but tell them we don't.”
More speaking to someone away from the radio and yet another Goddessdamn pause. “Chief, these Dead Boy griffins claim that they have actionable intelligence that the Razorwings are in Stalliongrad and will refuse to leave without them in custody. Tried to call their bluff. Didn't work.”
“Clarify.”
“They're listening to us as we speak.”
The militia chief paused for a few seconds. Then he spoke, “Foxtrot Sierra.”
NETO code for F-S. In this case, it was their code for Frequency Switch. They were bringing the ghost channel online, but it would take a bit of time.
I glanced at Silas to find him starting to leave the bar with Azrael following behind him, every footstep generating a resounding thud on the tiled floor. Silas had his revolvers drawn. Everyone noticed.
I shot glances at my friends. Sly and Xamuros glanced back in turn. They seemed to realize what was about to happen. Rig just had an expression of worry.
“Tell them that we will not, I repeat, will not hoof over the Razorwings,” Snowbourne ordered after the wait was over.
Another pause.
“Chief, the griffins are not backing down and will take the Razorwings by force,” Sparks reported. “Permission to engage?”
“Permission granted,” the militia chief responded without hesitation.
The crack of a mortar shell explosion followed by the pop of rifle fire rang out over the radio.
A few seconds passed.
“Officer Sparks reporting. Hostiles neutral-”
The rest was lost over a ghastly whine. I knew that sound.
Incoming Ripper-class autocannon shells.
“Snowbourne to Officer Sparks, status report!” the chief crackled through the radio. “Damn it, come in!”
“Sparks to Snowbourne!” By the hurried voice and complete disregard for specified rank, things were escalating. “We've got incoming cannon fire from beyond our killzone and multiple airborne hostiles approaching the city! Request immediate-”
Oh Goddess. Zasili...
“Matchbox to Snowbourne, wall one, quadrant two! We've been hit hard by arty fire! Multiple casualties sustained and hostiles incoming by air! We need reinforcements on-”
“Flare to Snowbourne, wall one, quadrant four! Wall breached! I repeat, wall breached!”
Everyone was already rushing out, weapons drawn, some pulling out communications headsets as the radio blared, “This is Chief Snowbourne. All combat-ready personnel are to report to their stations, aerial threat designation. All non-combat personnel are to pull back and withdraw into the sewers. Mind that we've got griffins on our side too, people- watch your fire. Identify then shoot. Hostiles are wearing black combat armor and skull faceplates. Numbers unknown at this time. Use of heavy air defense weaponry permitted. Await further orders.”
“Chief Thunderhooves reporting!” I heard the buffalo ghoul over the radio. “Full discount on weapons and ammunition! Grab it and go!”
Ice armor solidified around me as I whipped out Luna's Judgment, swapping for a different drum. I snagged one that had a blue shell exposed on it. Flechette shells. Perfect.
“They hay we supposed to do?!” Rig cried out in panic as she scrambled along after me, Sly and Xamuros beside us.
“Fight back!” I told her, taking out Night Fang and quick-drawing Midnight Talon. “Sly, Xamuros- Rig and I are heading for Hammer and Horns first! I'll hook up later! Rig, stay with me and put that training to good use! No one's going to hold your hoof!” With that, we began to split off in the crowd and break into the streets.
Kids, you ever witnessed a firefight, even a small one? Ever heard a gunshot? I'm sure you all have at some point. Unless those things are suppressed, those things are damn loud.
Now imagine hundreds upon hundreds of them going off at once. Little cartridges. Intermediate cartridges. Machine gun rounds. Big, heavy, radio-proximity flak rounds. Outside was chaos.
And the poor girl wasn't ready for it.
Rig stumbled, covering her ears with her hooves as she fell to the cold, cracked road. Gunfire erupted around us, tracer rounds and flares lighting up the night sky as Stalliongrad was under siege once again. Anyone who wasn't properly armed scrambled for the factories or armories. Those that were proceeded to their stations, taking shots at the black-armored griffins as they did the same. Cracks. Pops. Shouted orders, shouted death.
Outside was chaos. Organized chaos. Organized, bloody chaos.
And in the organized, bloody chaos, I only just realized I left Rig behind. She was about twenty meters behind me, still down on the ground, covering her ears, so foreign to the cacophony of battle.
I rushed back to her and yelled, “Get up! Dammit, get! Up!” I yanked her to her feet and roared, “Get your head in the fucking game and get... up!”
I didn't mean to do that. I really didn't want to ever do that again.
But it had the desired effect as she snapped out of it, pulling her hooves away with a wince. She steeled herself and magically flipped her welding helmet down, teleporting Luna's Fortitude out as she weakly nodded at me.
“I can't walk you through everything anymore!” I yelled as we made for the Hammer and Horns double-time. “Start learning how to gallop!”
We made a break for the weapons store, taking potshots at the griffins that bore down onto us. One of these “Dead Boys” swooped down for a strafing gun, his battle saddle-mounted heavy machine guns tearing up the street.
“Side dive!” I yelled. I had no time to relay the full order, but Rig got the point as we dove out of the line of fire. Seconds later a streak of smoke and a deafening crack later, the griffin was a blood-red mist with sprinkles of metal. Sly sped past us like a blur, his dual rocket launcher battle saddle leaving a smoke trail behind him. That's my Sly, scoring a direct hit on an airborne target with a rocket launcher.
“Is there any way we can get to the store without getting shot up?!” Rig shouted unnecessarily loud over the clamor, voice oddly reverberating from her helmet.
My mind raced as we got to our feet. Then I realized we had dodged into an alleyway. “The alleys! We can use them for cover!”
We raced toward the other end, intent on reaching our position.
But the Wasteland decided it still hated me with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
I heard the flap of wings and time seemed to slow down. I reacted on instinct. I spun around, already knowing that the griffin was about to dive-bomb into me. And so I had a better look at these Dead Boys. He- scratch that. She wore skeletal armor, black with alternating bands the color of decaying flesh. And there was the face plate, that of a griffin giving a Rebel Yell, eyes exposed and bloodshot. And I saw those powerfists making their way down for me. My armor- ice and Lunar Guard- wouldn't protect me from those, not by a long shot.
Surprisingly, Rig fired first, the armor-piercing 7.62 SR rounds living to their name as the griffin twitched and slowly squinted her eyes in this slowly passing time, the bullets biting into her chest. I finished the job by filling her face with super-sharp, metal darts.
Time snapped back to the normal pace as the griffin's head snapped back and I kicked off out of the way before she fell on me, looking at Rig. “Okay, bad idea! Alleys suck, always have!” As we backed out for the streets, I added, “Oh, and nice shot!”
“Thanks!” she yelled back, still unnecessarily loud. She probably used S.A.T.S., but I didn't care. As long as it didn't become a crutch, I'm still satisfied. A dead enemy is a dead enemy, no matter how you kill it.
We reached the Hammer and Horns within ten minutes of hectic galloping and diving out of incoming fire, taking shots at the Dead Boys all the while. It looked like Chief Thunderhooves already cleaned the whole inventory out, as multitudes of ponies and griffins- even a buffalo- rushed out of the entrance, taking to the fight from the ground and meeting them in the skies. Others had taken up in freshly-fortified positions on the roof. That was where we were headed.
“Come on, Rig, up the fire escape!” I directed her toward an adjacent apartment building, where a wide plank bridge spanned the gap between the two buildings.
“The what?!” she yelled back.
“The-the-” I stammered. Goddessdamn it, she was a Stable pony. I growled, “Just get up the stairs and watch the gap!”
The unicorn mare began shooting up the rickety, metal steps. In the meantime, ice muscle tendrils snaked around my legs as I jumped about halfway up the side of the warehouse, kicking off of the wall and back to that fire escape to head up the rest of the way. Skipping stairs as I went and galloping over the plank that bridged the gap, I reached the top and slid into a wall of sandbags next to a group of battle saddle-equipped ponies.
“Sitrep!” I called out over the gunfire, now adding to it myself as I worked to keep incoming griffins at bay with my flechette rounds.
“We're holding, just barely!” a deep-red mare with two machine guns answered back. “Chyort, what the hay did those Razorwings do to warrant so many of these bastards?!”
“No idea!” I shouted back, ducking under the sandbags in time with the others as a volley of return fire pockmarked our cover.
I took this moment of forced respite to glance at the fire escape where I left Rig behind. The armored mare was now near the top, the only thing separating us being the five-meter gap between the two buildings. She was about to run across the plank that spanned the two buildings when the fire that had us pinned scattered across the roof deck, chewing up the time-eaten wood and causing it to snap, sagging in the middle. No way she was going across that.
“Dammit!” I growled. “Rig, stay back and get down! I'll meet you once the fire lets up on-”
It was then that she crouched down and flung herself across the gap, legs spreadeagled. She landed hard on the deck, crawling to my side. I could see her wink behind that welder's helmet.
“... nice.”
Yeah, that was honestly all I could remark at the moment.
“So what's the plan?!” she yelled, firing off quick hammer-taps from Luna's Fortitude.
“A little loud, aren't we?” the same red mare shot at her as we opened back up on the skies.
“She's new to this!” I explained then turned back to Rig. “Okay, you stay put here!” I could already see her opening her mouth behind that helmet. “Before you say anything, this isn't one of those 'so you can stay safe' things! This... is... a... test! I'm counting on you to keep the fire up on the griffins! Don't let 'em so much as set a claw through the front door! Now, you're practically all-quiet with that suppressor in this firefight, so try shooting at them from other angles! Get to another rooftop if you have to, alright? You hold the Hammer and Hooves with these ponies without losing it and without getting seriously injured, you've earned the right to fight by my side! Got it?”
“Got it!” she shouted back, determined eyes sparkling through the lens. “What about you?!”
“I've got to get to the nearby factory!” I ducked back down to reload. “Gonna hook up with Sly and Xamuros! Don't let me down, alright?”
Rig held a hoof up in affirmation.
Then a Dead Boy griffin sprung up from the side of the building, gripping the neck of the machine gunner mare beside me. She was yanked off down off the side of the warehouse, screaming as she plummeted the long way down. That skeletal griffin came back for more and I still hadn't replaced the drum magazine, but I still had one in the chamber. I took the shot, flechettes tearing into his chest, and I brought the hooked end of the crowbar down on his head for good measure, sending him plummeting down as well.
What I didn't count on was that he brought friends. Three more griffins clambered over the sides, and I knew Night Fang wouldn't be able to punch through that armor. Nor could I reload Luna's Judgment in time.
The world became an orange, smoky haze as flames consumed the Dead Boys, sending them falling to earth with horrid cries of agony. The stench of burnt flesh and feathers stung at my nostrils. I growled in pain myself, the heat sapping my magic once again. My ice armor fell off of me in cracked chunks, and my weapons clattered to the roof deck as my ice arms fell to pieces.
I craned my neck to see Rig, a recently-teleported M12 flamethrower floating next to her. She proceeded to look over the side of the roof into the alley below, ducking back when rounds bit at the air around her. She then hosed down the area with jets of flaming hydrazine, those horrid cries filling the air again.
“What the...” I stared. “What the fuck?! You could have killed me!”
“Well I didn't!” Rig retorted, levitating Luna's Fortitude alongside the M12. “So let me have my fun since I'm stuck here!”
By the looks of the other ones guarding this rooftop, they were just as keen on her idea of 'fun' as I was.
“Fine, fine, whatever!” I grumbled, getting to my hooves. “Just cover me so I can get rid of this damn burnout!”
“Got it!” the unicorn cackled as she continued to spew out liquid death into the alleys below, checking around the other sides while I closed my eyes and concentrated. My horn sparked once, twice. Flared up a little. I kept focusing on that feeling.
A bullet whizzed by and my restoration attempt imploded, a very uncomfortable tingle crawling up and down my horn as I winced from the sensation.
“Sorry!” I could hear Rig calling out.
Oh. That was her bullet.
“Just watch your fire!” I yelled before trying to focus again, trying so very hard amidst the cries, the gunshots, the explosions.
Spark, fizzle.
Spark.
Spark.
Spark.
Flare.
I focused on that flare and my horn was suffused with that familiar, soft warmth, a halo of ice forming and collapsing into it, my blue aura sheathing it once more before winking out.
I opened my eyes. Alright. This was the fun part.
I whipped up Luna's Judgment, reloading quickly as I iced down my saddlebags, ensuring they would stay shut. I sheathed myself in ice armor once more, sprouting six blade-like extensions from my back, three on each side. They extended out to about double my body length, bending in the middle. They were wide yet thin, and ice muscles were snaked around their bases.
Yeah, that's right, folks. I can make wings.
“You're kidding me!” Rig stared. “You can fly?!”
“Remember when I told you about how I couldn't travel like I normally could with you?” I grinned wide, my smooth, blade-like appendages crinkling as I tested them. “This is how I normally travel! Now don't let me down here, Rig!”
And with that, I dove off the roof and snapped my six wings shut behind me, thrusting myself down to the streets before whipping them open and gliding up higher and higher, leaving her behind as I made my way for the factories.
Ah... I loved the feeling of wind rushing past me like that.
Now I'm no natural flier. I can't pull all the fancy maneuvers you griffins can. I can climb, dive, roll, steer, accelerate, brake, and pull a jink maneuver. I could even fly backwards if I had to. But little else. No fancy acrobatics for me. At least I can be pretty fast if I need to.
And as my luck would have it, when those Dead Boys saw a unicorn in Lunar Guard armor flying with six ice wings, they couldn't resist turning to look, maybe take a few shots. Whatever the case, it distracted some of them long enough to get them killed. But, of course, it also got me some tailgaters.
I jinked up and down as bullets zipped past me. I formed a mirror to see I had two Dead Boys on my tail. I banked into another street, an ice arm whipping Night Fang out and spraying behind me. Given the fact that I wasn't exactly keen on flying backwards and that she wasn't exactly good for armored targets, I was just hoping to clip some unprotected wings. Should've known my luck better. My shots either cleanly missed or pinged off of their armor.
Yet another interruption, this time by a griffin who asked why he didn't just cloak himself and avoid having to go through all this trouble.
As much as I wanted to cloak myself, that requires a... very specific thickness of ice around me. A rather thin thickness. In most situations, sure, I would've cloaked. But in the middle of a massive battle? With bullets zipping everywhere already? Survival became more important. Especially since by now a good dozen or so lower-caliber rounds had pinged off of me.
But anyways... my griffin pursuers.
I pulled a slow, gentle roll, dodging incoming fire as I whipped out Luna's Judgment, focusing. I stopped mid-roll, looking down and behind me to aim as I mustered up my old training and experience. Time drew to a crawl, vision hazing and tunneling as I aimed down the simple, three-pronged sights of Luna's Judgment. Pull, quick-pump, pull, quick-pump. Two shots, aimed at the beating wings of the closer griffin. Shot one barely nicked my intended target. Shot two caught it on the downbeat, feathers, flesh, and muscle rent apart as the Dead Boy griffin dropped slowly, ever so slowly in this state of time. Not missing a beat, body straining as I struggled to keep focused, I trained Luna's Judgment on the second griffin, waiting for that upbeat. The moment it came, two pulls, two pumps. He started to bend back now as time resumed a normal pace, my focus breaking as a shot whizzed by. Target one dove spiraling to the ground, smashing into the pavement with a hard, raw crack, rolling a few times. Target two bent upwards, still carried a bit by his last wing-beat. Slammed hard into a lamppost, spinning back before landing on the cracked streets with a metallic yet fleshy thump.
Who says you can't double-tap a pump-action shotgun?
I had no more tailgaters. It was a straight shot to the factory, my objective, my designated area of protection. This one was one of the sturdy fortresses that were the lifeblood of the City of Blood and Iron- Izmash. I had no idea what it meant or what it translated to, but I knew what it meant to me.
AK heaven. For this was just one of the factories they were produced at.
Slanted, segmented roofing lined with blast-resistant surfaces. Large, shatterproof windows- all cracked but still holding together. Towering smokestacks, imposing obelisks of concrete and rebar. And gray. All gray. Those columns were still spewing out thick, black, acrid fumes as the factory still ran. Folks, the Stalliongrad factories stop for nothing- not even a firefight.
The Dead Boys appeared to have broken through the outer defenses and were taking the fight inside, Gunshots echoed out and flashes of gunfire lit up the darkened windows. Shouted commands rose above the din of battle. I touched down past the chain-link fence that surrounded the compound, ice wings sublimating as I quickly but quietly made my way to the factory doors to assess the situation.
The interior of Izmash was mayhem to begin with already. The shop floor- the large main room where the assembly line was located- consisted of cramped interiors filled with all manner of weapons assembly machinery dimly lit by the barely functioning pre-war light fixtures, catwalks criss-crossing the area high above. The mostly automated machinery continued working even under fire. Pistons jerked, gears turned, cranks swiveled, arms pivoted, and presses stamped. One wrong step, one loose bit of hair, feather, or clothing... and you could easily find yourself caught in the clockwork. There were only a few ways out of this area. Break rooms and entry to the weapons testing areas were accessible on the ground floor while the office complex was accessible only via the catwalks leading to a doorway a the back of the room.
But outside of these general ideas of finding one's way around the factory, it was nothing but a mess at Izmash.
So that made me wonder- why the hay was there so much fighting going on here? Dead Boys were all over the place- in the narrow aisles between machinery, in the air trying to reach the catwalks. Just absolutely all over the place, trying to make their way, as it would appear, deeper inside.
They weren't getting through primarily for two reasons.
One, our boys and girls knew the factory. They knew how to fight in them, too. The ponies knew there was a method to the madness of the shop floor- they knew the layout. And so they attacked from all sorts of odd angles, forcing the Dead Boys in between the machinery where they were at a disadvantage. They were using corners and the machinery itself to control the ranges and angles of engagement, never letting the enemy have a fair firefight.
Two, our boys and girls had some neat little toys. Remember that full-body ballistic armor I told you about, the ones factory workers wore while Stalliongrad was almost constantly under fire?
Yeah, they still had those lying around. And- forgive my choice words here- they were simply abso-fucking-lutely badass.
Yellowed and browned by age, the suits only looked even more imposing as the earth pony stallions behind them lumbered into battle, machine guns sputtering out brass death to keep the Dead Boys pinned (What, you think unicorns or griffins of lesser musculature could use those suits in a firefight? Hey, I'm a unicorn myself here! I know my kind's limitations!). While the others could use the layout of the shop floor to their advantage to engage the Dead Boys on their own terms, they couldn't pin them down from every angle. So whatever angle they couldn't take- open areas with little cover for instance- they brought in the fully-armored stallions. I didn't know what the Dead Boys were thinking, but if a near-direct hit from the odd howitzer shell that crashed through a factory roof couldn't tear those suits apart, small-arms fire and grenades wouldn't do the trick. Watching one of those ponies slowly but strongly advance through punishment after punishment and still come back for more could strike fear into even the most battle-hardened hearts.
And it certainly worked against the Dead Boys. They were panicked and fighting a losing battle in the dark, confusing twists and turns of the shop floor. They were getting chewed up, often unable to take flight from the danger of getting caught in the machinery.
But as they say, who dares wins. And those Dead Boys knew how to dare, I'll give them that much.
Some of them managed to slip through the maelstrom and clambered onto the catwalks, returning fire against the ones who formerly had the advantage. As more and more Dead Boys started to do this and almost ignore the sluggish, armored stallions, the ponies of Stalliongrad started to lose ground and pull back into the weapons testing areas and office complex, taking losses all the while. The Dead Boys were getting a much-needed morale boost from breaking the stranglehold and were pushing forward, deeper into the factory.
But they weren't expecting anyone from behind, I thought as I surveyed the action. And so I topped off my magazines, thinned my ice armor and cloaked myself, running along easily with my hoofsteps covered by the boisterous machinery.
I didn't know Izmash as well as the mares and stallions who worked it, but I knew the Haylorist theory of production streamlining enough and made guesses grounded on basic factory knowledge and how one would optimize production through architecture. I took a stairway up to the catwalks, working myself toward the office complex. I decided that the testing area had enough decent cover and confusion for the Stalliongrad citizens to use to their advantage, but the offices were straightforward enough for the griffins to make sense of. That's where most of the hell would go down, and that's where I was headed, shadowing the Dead Boy griffin that took the rear.
My suspicions turned out to be true. The offices were getting taken fast by the Dead Boys, the Stalliongrad ponies starting to panic and retreat under fire. The office complex was organized like any other typical one. Rows of cubicles formed of cheap plasters and fabrics were separated by wide aisles. There was little cover and it was near impossible to form a good defensive position here, and the Stalliongrad ponies knew it as they kept pulling back deeper toward the administrative sector. I saw a mare go down as she fled from the cubicles, shot in the hindleg by a lever-action rifle. She was still scrambling, reaching out for her comrades who were forced to leave her behind. A second shot through the back of her head finished the job as the Dead Boys pushed forth.
I looked around. All enemy eyes were forward, confidence returning to the Dead Boys after pushing through such a choke-hold. I counted eleven of the bastards and made my move. Nobody bothered looking back now. Everything was perfect. Now was the time to strike.
I formed an ice arm, letting a gap show in my ice cloak for just a moment to whip out Midnight Talon. I turned her down into a reverse grip then performed a Viper to pop her open in a flash. With only an ice arm and an ebony blade showing, those griffins would have to look hard to spot me as I dashed forward, covered by the gunfire, shouts, and the machinery behind me. I overtook the Dead Boy taking the rear, plunging the hellhound blade into the back of his head and keeping it in as I kept moving, slicing his head open and spattering the nearby cubicle wall panel with fresh blood and cerebrospinal fluid. He crumpled in a heap, unnoticed by his now-cocky friends as they took positions to storm the hasty barricades erected in the administrative sector ahead. I took them down in order from behind, one by one, quickly and quietly, never stopping. I always went for the kill, went for the head. If I couldn't reach it, I tore open their necks. If I couldn't get at their necks, I slipped a hoof over to knock up their faceplates, muffling their cries of surprise with an icy hoof and plunging Midnight Talon through the shoulder into a lung and tearing back. By the time five griffins were down, the rest were wondering why it had gotten so quiet on their side... and noticed the bodies.
I took position on a desk overlooking my most recent kill, preparing an ambush as they sent a pair to investigate, not willing to sacrifice the momentum they built in this push. Fools.
The pair approached and I spurred into action as they passed the bodies. Now that they were listening for footsteps, they were already starting to turn around. But they weren't fast enough. I brought Midnight Talon up, slashing across the faceplate of the female griffin closest to me. The blade sheared right through the metal, letting out a horrid screeching sound as the plate was sliced cleanly off... along with her eyes. As she cried out in agony, I brought the blade back into the next Dead Boy, who reacted fast enough to block my ice arm, blade just barely too far away from his face. Now making myself visible and forming ice muscle tendrils along my hooves, I brought one up hard into his chest. The surprise of an ice-covered unicorn stallion in outlandish armor seemingly materializing out of thin air combined with the tendril-enhanced uppercut did its job and his breath went out of him and his block fell slack. I seized my advantage, pushing forth once more and Midnight Talon plunged into his throat. I tore sideways, ripping apart the jugular vein and whipped the body behind me into the blinded female behind me as she began to fire just that- blindly. Feeling the weight against her, she instinctively fired into the body of her dead comrade as it slammed into her and I stabbed through the temple to finish her off.
Instinct and experience took over and I vaulted over the cubicles and out of the hallway. The gunfire and cries of pain would surely draw attention, and I no longer had the element of surprise on my side. The four remaining Dead Boys ceased their advance and started to double back to engage the threat that had taken down so many of their brethren in such short order. Stowing Midnight Talon away and pulling Luna's Judgment out, I was prepared for up-close-and-personal business. Expecting heavier calibers, I increased the thickness of my ice armor, absorbing the muscle tendrils in the process. It would be a necessary sacrifice.
My guesses were spot-on as the first griffin who headed the quartet simply opened up with a machine gun, tearing through the thin cubicle walls and trying to flush me out. The full-sized rifle rounds pinged off of my thicker ice armor, saving my life this time as I poked out to engage my threat. A pop later, and there was one more dead, flechette-filled Dead Boy (Heh... dead Dead boy...). I had only pumped my spent shell and poked out to fire again and/or relocate when something metal and apple-shaped pinged along the floor past me.
I had no time to even curse. Everything was automatic as I moved to put as much distance and as many solid objects between me and the grenade as possible. I vaulted over the cubicle, casting ice behind me to form an impromptu blast shield that would be far too thin when that thing went off. I was only a couple meters away and past a cubicle when the grenade went off. My ice wall shattered as shrapnel scattered through the area, but that combined with the cubicles and their contents saved me from the blast.
Unfortunately, there was still the matter that I had been forced from cover and was looking at three very pissed-off Dead Boy griffins right now. And I was crumpled on the floor. Not a good tactical position to be in.
A good five or so bullets pinged or rolled off my sloped armor before a rocket slammed into the floor just far enough from me so that I was merely showered with debris but close enough to tear up the two nearby griffins and send the third stumbling in a daze. A fragmentation rocket smartly being used indoors to maximize blast while minimizing collateral damage. I already knew who was coming along as a familiar dark-blue blur sped up to the third griffin, Sly smashing his powerhooves into him. Even with that metal combat armor, pieces were dented and caved in, the griffin down on the ground and gasping for breath and clutching at his crushed chest. Sly simply lifted up a hoof and curb-stomped his head into a red, messy paste. I could barely hear the skull splintering into a thousand shards over the metallic, shockwave-inducing impact.
“Goddess, I love doing that...” Sly grinned wide, coming over to help me to my feet. “Buddy! Am I glad to see you!”
“Same.” I smiled back weakly as I got up with his assistance. “Thanks for the save, Sly.”
“Should say the same.” Xamuros strode in along with five ponies, looking worse for wear. But alive. “You took them out from behind just in time.”
“Casualties?” I asked, to the point.
“Eight dead in our squad, seven of them back on the shop floor,” the zebra told me. “We've got three wounded at the secondary fallback position, but they're stable and under the eyes of our medic.”
“Then I didn't come just in time.” I frowned. But I felt no remorse. There was no changing the past. “Any ideas why the Dead Boys are so intent on this place?”
“Honestly, no fucking clue,” Sly shook his head. I looked at the others. By their expressions, they were similarly baffled.
“Well regardless, we have to keep moving,” I told them. “The Dead Boys split up from the shop floor- here and the testing area. I don't know how well they're handling the situation down there, but any help we can offer-”
“You still talk too much,” Xamuros sneered as the rest got the message and headed back to the catwalks of the shop floor while I tagged along. “Come on, everyone! No rest for the weary! Let's hit them hard and from behind!” The others, Sly included, let out a guttural shout of approval and clambered down the stairs. Me? I just vaulted over the side and landed in a hard crouch on the floor below, breaking ahead to the testing area.
Unless if you've never heard anything about firearms, you should all know that the AK series is the pinnacle of reliability in weaponry. Practically never jams, never rusts, never breaks down short of throwing one under a tank. Izmash took that to heart with the testing areas it placed in each factory compound. Every firearm produced was to meet the minimum company standards for reliability and ruggedness. They would be filled with silt, sand, mud, dirt, all manner of grime. Then they would be test-fired. They would be submerged in water. Then they would be test-fired (Trust me, folks, you'd be surprised how many firearms would fail to properly expel the water, pressure often causing the chamber to burst or something). They would be subjected to extreme temperatures, highs and lows. Then they would be test-fired. They would combine these tests together. Then they would be test-fired.
For every. Single. Firearm. Produced.
If that bullet didn't clear the chamber after any of the tests, it didn't deserve to be an AK. The same went for any kind of furniture meant to go along with the weapon- it had to work under stress or it wouldn't be accepted. Optics, suppressors, launchers, bayonets, the like- everything was strained and put to the test.
So you can imagine just how intense and expansive the testing areas were. Though... after the megaspells fell, most of the stuff fell into disrepair. Heat chambers and freezers don't work anymore for instance. Given company reputation, it didn't matter in the end and Stalliongrad kept on cranking out the AKs once the city was taken back. Once, every so often, your AK miiiight just jam on you. But I'll be damned if it does it twice in a short span of time.
So this was the place we were headed. A mighty big place. A mighty big place very uniform in structure.
And also a place where a proper fallback position could be easily established.
The remaining Dead Boys in this factory were in a tight bind, taking cover by ducking into the many testing rooms that lined the hall. In front of them was a quickly but smartly fortified defense position of sandbags and blast plates in that easily controlled hallway where the Stalliongrad ponies were making their last stand. And also advancing on the Dead Boys from behind, the ballistic-armored stallions were slowly catching up to them, one-man armies practically impervious to conventional weaponry. They couldn't push forward, and they couldn't fall back. Talk about getting caught between a rock and a hard place.
We were about to throw in a brick wall into the mix.
Sly rushed ahead of me alongside the heavily-armored stallions, sending out a pair of rockets from his battle saddle before ducking into the nearby testing room for cover, blowing out a wall and the griffins behind it. Xamuros took position behind one of the ballistic armor stallions, standing up on his hindlegs and whipping out a DSA-58OSW SOPMOD (Special Operations Peculiar Modifications, folks).
The storyteller paused, glaring at a stallion who was slowly raising his hoof to ask a question. The stallion slowly began to drop it under his stare.
All you need to know for the moment is that the DSA-58 is essentially a sawn-off battle rifle, a battle carbine if you will. The magazine was practically as long as the barrel, folks. Xamuros slapped on a suppressor and a variable-zoom scope onto it as well as removing the trigger guard. Yeesh... scope's practically half the length of the weapon...
But anyways, the zebra stood up on his hindlegs, holding up his weapon in a pretty peculiar way. He was holding it as if he were a griffin, with his left hoof supporting the barrel and the other at the trigger. No idea how he managed it, but if you ever get a chance to see a zebra shoot like that, it's a rather imposing, intimidating sight. Even worse with how quickly and how accurately he can put hammer-tapped rounds downrange, and the Dead Boys were swiftly learning this. I was at his side shortly after, taking cover behind another heavy and opening up with Luna's Judgment.
Those Dead Boys didn't stand a chance, and they were getting pinned. The heavy stallions advanced into the rooms one by one to mop those bastards up, and now that they moved out of the way...
I saw her. Azrael. She was there, still in her cloak with her cowl draped over her head, those piercing, empty eyes unblinking. I was about to aim and pull the trigger when I realized two things.
One- the cloaked griffin was behind the barricade and nopony was shooting at her. That meant she was on our side. The fact that she soon sent a good few rounds into a Dead Boy with the misfortune of peeking out at the worst possible time reinforced that fact.
Two- her weapon. And looking at it, I realized just why she had such a big hump hidden behind her cloak.
Folks, I'm sure you've seen all sort of weaponry. Why, we even have a freaking plasma cannon here at Junction R-7! But let me tell you... I was kinda ready to shit myself at the sight of Azrael's weapon.
The Kord 6P50. A big, ugly, rugged monster of a machine gun. Fired at around seven-fifty rounds-per-minute. And what did it fire at seven-fifty rounds-per-minute? The monstrous 12.7 millimeter NSV cartridge. Now, most assault rifles fire the 5.56 NETO. The NSV... well, think of something bigger than that. A lot bigger than that.
Azrael had a fuckin' Kord 6P50. Mounted on a battle saddle. And she could somehow withstand- hell, control the recoil of that monstrosity. Again, I was kinda ready to shit myself.
That poor bastard with the misfortune of peeking out at the worst possible time? His head (and a good portion of his chest) was fucking gone, folks- it was spattered all over the place. And the sound of that thing firing down a hallway indoors... my ears were ringing a bit from that heavy, guttural thrum of that weapon.
Right now, I was glad she was on our side. At least, for the moment so it seemed. Still remembered her talking with Silas. She caught sight of me looking at her and simply nodded at me.
And then a string of explosions sounded off, causing all of us to drop to a crouch, ducking toward the nearest piece of cover.
“Incoming midway, my left!” Azrael cried out.
I was about to ask how exactly she knew that but scrambled behind the closest ballistic armor stallion nonetheless. “Incoming what?” I shouted down the hall to her.
Another flurry of explosions, this time far too close for comfort, sent my ears ringing as the sound of crumbling walls likewise filled the air. It was followed by the heavily-armored stallion that entered that doorway staggering back under fire.
“You know what?” I yelled to her. “Never mind!”
Okay, granted the armored stallion was still alive and pretty much unharmed, but something with the firepower to send one of them backwards and sent out that shrill whine at the same time...
Ripper-class autocannon.
FFFFFFFFFFFFuck.
“Fall back,” Azrael ordered the ponies around her as the last of the string of shots sent the stallion toppling over onto his side, alive but out of commission. “I'll handle this.”
“Handle an autocannon?!” Sly yelled from the testing room he'd taken cover in. “I'd like to see you do it!”
The griffin stepped over the barricade with an even, determined, purposeful stride, each step generating a resounding thud. “Is that a challenge?” she asked calmly. If I was an uneducated pony, I would've said she sounded downright arrogant right there. But I wasn't. She was very, very sure of herself. I honestly wanted to see what would happen, taking cover behind the stallion in front of me and thickening my ice armor regardless.
I also noticed how Sly didn't make a comeback on that one...
The explosions settled and Azrael peeked into the doorway for only a moment before kicking backwards. She landed heavily a good ten meters away with a heavy impact lost in the explosions from the shells that chased after the griffin, blowing through the wall. Finally, the explosive threat we were all looking for peeked through.
It was a Dead Boy griffin, clad in full-body armor. It was skeletal, spiny, ebony, intimidating. Covered everything save for the wings and tail. The Rebel Yell faceplate was absent, replaced with a respirator-equipped helm. Yeah... that was power armor. Oh, yes, folks, it was a griffin in power armor, alright. How else could he have hefted that monstrous Ripper-class autocannon on his battle saddle otherwise?
With surprising speed, Azrael ducked into another of the testing rooms, cloak flowing behind her as the Dead Boy griffin opened up, explosive shells blasting at the ground she was standing just split seconds before, chasing her into the room and blasting through the wall. He was completely ignoring us, and I certainly wasn't complaining as everypony else and I began to lay down fire on that heavily-armed and heavily-armored griffin.
He only grunted and buckled a bit under fire, probably just from my flechettes punching into his flank.
On second thought, that might not have been such a good idea as he now glared directly at me, autocannon swiveling in my direction.
Oh dammit...
Chuunk.
… heh?
The autocannon clicked empty, and the Dead Boy griffin looked at the barrel in surprise. He kicked the side of his battle saddle to start the reload cycle.
Too bad that was just what Azrael was waiting for.
I found my ears ringing (Goddessdammit!) yet again as she opened up on him from behind, the massive 12.7 NSV rounds tearing the bastard up, even if he was clad in power armor. It only protected him enough to prevent him from getting gibbed inside as he slumped over, crying out in pain with his power armor crackling with electricity as it failed him. Azrael calmly stepped around the fallen griffin as he hissed and grunted in agony, likely from the big holes put in him, before leveling the Kord down at his face and firing once.
It was a gruesome, sickening, wet sound. The helmet was strong enough to withstand the shot, but his head exploded inside of it, liquefied by the heavy-caliber round. The body slumped to the side.
“... well?” Azrael turned to us, the clinking of an ammunition belt audible as her Kord reloaded. “There are still some left hiding in the testing rooms. Clear them out.”
The last gunshots echoed out at Izmash. The Dead Boys, and whatever they were trying to do at the factory, were finished here. Heh, bit of humor- one of them was so desperate by the time one of the ballistic armor stallions poked through the doorway that he pulled the pin on a grenade and rushed at him. In a sick sort of way, it was kind of funny to see the suicidal griffin get torn to ribbons by the shrapnel while the stallion just stood there for a couple seconds in surprise and walked right on.
“Okay... casualties?” Sly asked down the hallway. “And good Lorn, you really did do it.”
The storyteller facehoofed as he watched several ponies raise their hooves on that one.
It's... not a commonly used term. It's a short way to say “alicorn,” another way to refer to the Goddesses in other words. “Ali” sounds... just disrespectful and “corn” makes no sense at all. So Lorn it is.
“Four wounded, zero KIA,” Azrael replied. Goddess how I hated that voice. “We have enough healing potions to stabilize them. They'll be alright.” She then added, “And I wasn't kidding when I said I would handle it.”
The city-wide radio let out an electronic whine as it kicked up again, causing me to tilt my head away from the nearest broadcaster as it blared, “Chief Snowbourne to all personnel. Hostiles appear to be withdrawing. Proceed with mop-up. I want casualty and damage reports ASAP.”
“Quick as that, huh?” Xamuros raised an eyebrow. “Has it even been an hour yet?”
“Something tells me they're regrouping,” I said, knowing my luck.
“Or they're retreating after seeing Stalliongrad was more than they bargained for.” Sly shrugged. He was really too optimistic sometimes.
“Sure.” I sighed at him. “They wouldn't have been here in the first place in that case. Either they're pulling back to regroup or they...”
… got what they came for.
I was questioning myself of my stance on that griffin, but I still didn't want to ask her. So I turned to my friends and inquired, “Do either of you know a Silas Razorwing? His station perhaps?”
“Nope,” Xamuros shook his head. Sly similarly shrugged, slanting his lips in quite the humorous fashion.
“Silas has no station,” Azrael spoke calmly as she stepped heavily toward me. “If you're that intent on him, you will find him at his dwelling. It will be down the alleyway you met us at just a few hours ago.”
I faced the female griffin once more. Now that she was this close, I noticed that she was... quite simply, gargantuan. She was a tad taller and larger than Sly (who seemed similarly uneasy). If that was all muscle (most likely the case), then I suddenly found myself less surprised at how she managed to wield a Kord so effortlessly...
“And... you're just going to tell me, just like that?” I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Yes,” she said simply. Her voice was unwavering, even. She betrayed no sign of an ulterior motive nor any sign of deception. I had to take her word for it. For now.
“Right,” I nodded slowly and then turned back to my friends. “Look, I'm going to check on Rig and then try to find him, alright? Sorry that things didn't really turn out how we wanted tonight.”
“There's always another time, buddy.” Sly reached out to pat me on the back.
I whipped away, exclaiming, “Hey! Hey! Powerhoof!”
“Oh, right.” He blinked. “Well... see ya.”
I nodded, waving back at them as I ran for the exit, sprouting ice wings and taking to the skies again.
Things were different after such a huge firefight. Shots still rang out, but they were fewer in number now. The black, skeletal Dead Boys were nowhere to be seen save for the dead or those too injured to fly to safety. They were quickly put down or taken in for questioning by others. But for now, the airspace was secure and the long, nervous process of assessing the damage and checking for friends and family began.
News spread quickly through Stalliongrad. Multiple sections of the first wall were blown apart by autocannon fire, and some buildings inside the city had sustained minor explosive damage. No structures were reported to have collapsed, however. But as reports came in, I learned that we lost fifty-six ponies, nine griffins, and eight of our already tiny population of buffalo. Many of them were due to these heavier, autocannon-equipped griffins...
I was glad to hear that Zasili was not among them, but it all still nagged at me. Maybe... maybe it was because I'd just become numb to what was going on around me, or maybe it was just because Stalliongrad was so huge and I was simply in a sector that saw less action. But I hardly saw any of these staggering deaths.
And again, I didn't feel anything.
But, I still couldn't help but smile a little upon seeing Rig's scorched welding helmet flipped up as I touched down on the roof of the Hammer and Horns, her face blackened with soot but turned up in a great, big grin. “Everything alright?” I asked as I gently touched down, wings turning to mist.
“A couple cashew-tees while you were gone, but we managed to hold out up here alright,” the earth-coated mare answered.
“... casualties.” I corrected her.
“I know, that's what I said.” Rig cocked an patch of skin above her eyes. It took a moment for me to remember she burned her eyebrows off.
“Ca-su-al-ties,” I repeated with a sigh, stressing every syllable.
“... oh.” She winced.
“Anyways, I'm glad you're okay. I have to look for someone else now, but I'll be back soon. Just stay in the Hammer and Horns, got it?” As I turned to leave, I couldn't help but look back at her. There was the earth-coated girl from Stable Three, not even a mare yet. But yet... she was growing up so fast. She had a maturity far greater than what I expected of someone her age. I smiled back at her and told her, “You did good tonight. Something tells me we'll be just fine traveling together. Stay frosty, Rig.”
She did have a lovely smirk.
I sprouted wings and took off once more in search of answers, having bid her a too-short good-bye after a too-short check-up. I thought of what to say, what to do when I found Silas. The Razorwings must have done something to piss these “Dead Boys” off enough to warrant such a high-profile attack with so many griffins committed to the effort. I wanted to find out what that “something” was.
I touched down on the road leading to the center of town, wings sublimating as I found the alleyway I had glanced down only a few hours before. Ghostly visions played across my eyes as I could almost see those empty eyes stare back at me. I proceeded into the narrow pathway, Luna's Judgment drawn. I slotted in a fresh drum of flechette shells before I stowed it away. My ice armor flattened as I cloaked myself. The path led me down a couple turns to a passageway with a door in the side of one of the buildings. Seeing no other alternative, I approached and strained my ears. I was greeted by the barely audible sounds of argument. One of the voices sounded like Silas'. Seems like I found the Razorwing residence.
And, of course, the door was locked. My concern was less of the lock and more of the fact that I would be risking opening the door on Silas and this other party. Well, I would just have to risk that and be ready to defend myself.
Looking around to ensure I was indeed alone, I made myself slightly visible as I sprouted an ice arm, palm placed against the lock. I seeped my ice into it, feeling for the tumblers. In no time, I formed a matching key and turned the cylinder. I immediately sublimated my ice arm and listened again. The muffled argument continued. I hopefully hadn't been noticed. I cracked the door open and slipped into the building, turning the door handle on the other side so the latch didn't catch on the frame as I closed it. Letting the handle shift quietly back to its neutral position, I surveyed the situation.
I was standing in a rather cluttered apartment home, more accurately in the kitchen area. Empty food cans were scattered across the cracked, wood floor and dining table (with seats for three, I noted). The place was dirty and unkempt, a layer of dust and dirt covering almost every surface. A doorway lead to a living room area where there were a couple sofas... and two very angry griffins.
One of them was Silas, and boy was he furious. The other one, another male dressed in what looked like trader wear and appeared a bit older, looked just as furious. They were also trading blows.
“Langson, you lunkhead!” Silas roared, catching the other griffin with a fist to the cheek that sent him stumbling. “You're so damn lucky that my dad ain't here right now! You are so damn lucky he told me not to kill you!”
“You brought this on yourself.” this Langson fellow got to his feet, blocking the next blow and shoving Silas away. “For fuck's sake, I told you what would happen if you didn't have the caps!”
I just eavesdropped, unseen. For all I knew, they could answer all the questions and I didn't have to raise a hoof.
“So you sold us out?!” Silas exploded, whipping out a revolver and using the butt to strike. Langson blocked, but it still hurt him enough for Silas to catch him in the gut and send him sprawling to the floor. “Unbelievable... you actually sold us out and caused all those people to die just for those caps?!”
Okay, hold up.
What? What?!
“Ugh, do I need to say it again?” Langson grunted, getting back to his feet. “Yeah, I did. Wasn't that what we agreed to? You didn't keep up your end of the bargain, so I didn't have to keep up mine when the Dead Boys offered their caps.”
I could feel rage simmering under my skin. A whole city attacked, seventy-three good people killed. Over caps.
Suddenly, finding answers was pushed to the back of my head and I found myself prioritizing something else instead...
Silas just stared, mouth agape. He then expertly flipped the revolver back around. “Fuck dad's orders. You're dead.”
“Hold up, Silas,” I spoke, dropping the cloak, walking up to them. “Hold up.”
The storyteller's tone changed. And it came back. That same, all-consuming cold...
My heart was racing excitedly. I didn't know what came over me, I just acted on instinct. I could feel a sly grin turning up my muzzle as the two turned to stare at me.
“The hell are you?” Langson asked.
“What the-” Silas stared. “You?! How the hell did you get in here?”
Langson used Silas' distraction to his advantage to strike out. I didn't let him. I moved faster, an ice arm sprouting to block his blow, forcing his arm inward across his body so he couldn't retaliate with it in his way. I then curled my arm around his elbow, straightened out... and applied pressure. Langson growled in pain as his arm was dislocated and I shoved him to the floor.
“It wasn't too difficult,” I finally answered a now-bewildered Silas, words smooth and crisp. I knew I had to speak just the right way to convince him. “Now... you want this guy dead. I can understand that. But... how about you let me have some time with him alone...? I'm sure you'll be pleased with the results.”
Silas opened his mouth to object, but then he paused in thought. I could just imagine him remembering what I did to Sewn Britches as he slowly grinned and said, “You know what? Sure. Go right on ahead.”
I kicked out with a hindleg as Langson tried to yank me off my feet. “Good. Now then... do you have a some place where I can get some... private time?”
* * *
A grimy, rusted-out bathroom wasn't quite what I had in mind but it would serve well enough as I shoved Langson against the wall. He slumped down to the floor and I bound him there with ice, making sure to lock his crippled arm in a very uncomfortable position. I looked back at Silas with a rather evil grin before I shut and locked the door. I didn't care if he listened in on it. Just as long as there wasn't anyone breathing down my neck, I could do my work...
“So, Langson, is it?” I paced around. This time, I let my victim have full sight of me. Hm, not a whole lot of space to do this pacing thing. What a shame... I like to pace around as I do these things. “I just want to understand the situation.” I leaned in, perhaps a little too uncomfortably close. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were... extorting the Razorwings to keep them hidden from the Dead Boys, yes?”
“And so what if I did?” the griffin hissed.
I regarded him with a very disappointed expression. I snaked a line of ice along the floor and up the wall to behind where his wing was pinned. And then I formed a spike right through that point.
“I'm the one asking the questions here, Langson.” I reminded him, speaking with that calm smile with that calm grin over his grunts of pain. “And trust me, I'm only asking a few easy questions. So, answer me. With clear, concise statements. And for your sake they better be answers I like.”
“Fuck... you,” he spat.
I widened the spike by a few inches, forcing the wound wider. I savored the screams.
“Answer me,” I repeated.
“Yeah, I did... I did...” he panted out between the grunts.
“How long has this been going on?” I questioned. “How long have the Razorwings been paying you to keep them secret?”
“Three months...” Langson groaned. “The three months they've been living here...”
“And how much have they been paying you?” I asked him, leaning in close.
“Two-thousand caps,” he hissed. “Per month.”
Oh. Oh dear.
“And... what happened this month?” I asked. But I already knew the answer.
“Came up short...” Langson growled, pathetically trying to pull his wing away. “Came up short by eight-hundred...”
So when I killed Sewn Britches before Silas...
My Goddess. Now I felt so, so rotten...
He must have caught my expression of realization, as he looked at me a little quizzically.
“And how much did the Dead Boys pay for your information?” I continued, eyes on him again as I backed away.
He looked like he wasn't going to say, mistaking my pause for weakness. I reminded him who was in control by widening the spike a little more, extracting a wince from him.
“Nngh, three-thousand!” he spat out, squinting an eye in pain.
“And when was this exchange?” I inquired.
“Yesterday, outside the city,” he sputtered out.
“And do you know if the Dead Boys succeeded in capturing or killing any of the Razorwings?” I inquired. “Other than Silas?”
“No, no, they didn't...” Langson grunted.
Well thank goodness for that at least... I'd find out more from them later on...
But now was the time for a little payback.
“You know, Langson, you were much more cooperative than my last one,” I sublimated the spike, and he let out a light sigh of relief. “Kudos to you for that.”
“Great, now let me out of-”
“Oh no.” I leaned in unbearably close again, letting him see the darkness in my eyes. “You won't be going anywhere soon. You let seventy-three people die for caps. You know how much their lives were worth? Were they worth any sum of pieces of stamped metal? Huh? Answer me, Langson!”
“Don't fuckin' care,” he spat in my face. “We had a contract. Griffins abide by the contract.”
I wiped my face clean and backed up, standing above him. “Seventy-three people, Langson. Seventy-three good people, far better than you. Or me.”
Midnight Talon danced into my fingers as I formed an ice arm, playing with her as the griffin stared, eyes wide. Oh, how I loved that rush of adrenaline coursing through me, my heart beating faster in anticipation. Oh, how I wanted to just kill him! Kill him in bloody death, bloody death! But I had to contain myself... I had to let this play out. I had to... enjoy it.
Hm, I forgot to clean the blade from earlier this night. I would fix that shortly.
“Seventy-three good people died for pieces machine-stamped metal,” I hissed at him. “You know, I'd like to venture that we're quite a bit alike, you and I. You know, Langson, I once thought something so insignificant was so much more important than the lives of many just like you.” I paused in my play to point the exposed blade at him.
For... you know.
Emphasis.
“Yes, something that I cherished so much, so very, very much...” I began twirling, fanning, spinning Midnight Talon round and round again. “I would've gladly given everything I had for that insignificant little thing, I felt it so important to me. And... so many good people died for it. So yes... we're quite a bit alike, you and I. But we're not quite the same. You see, I feel regret for what I did in the past.” I stopped again, Midnight Talon now held in a reverse grip.
“You don't.”
I plunged her diagonally into his gut, stabbing in deep as he cried out in pain. I twisted to keep the wound open and pulled away. I wiped her on Langson's clothes, stowing her away in her place on my left forehoof. His blood dribbled out, flowing down his side and to the cracked tile floor.
“Seventy-three good people died tonight in this city, Langson,” I spoke to him with a grin. “I aim to make it seventy-four, and yours I will aim to make the most painful. Having all of your internal organs bathed in stomach acid is a very painful way to die.”
“Nnngh... damn it, fuck you!” Langson roared. Wow. Such bland, two-dimensional words from such a bland, two-dimensional griffin. I'd heard so much better from Sewn Britches.
“Tell me, Langson, did you eat well recently?” I creased my lips into a sinister, vile smile. “That means more acid... more pain...” His facial feathers seemed to grow paler. “Oh, you did? Mm, then this will be very enjoyable indeed. I'll savor every moment. But!” I beamed at him. “You answered my questions, and you were much more cooperative in doing so than most of my... victims. So I'll grant you the luxury of choice.”
His eyes opened wide. “Wh-What?” he sputtered.
“The choice for a quicker death of course,” I answered. Oh how I loved that expression of crushed hope. “I'm going to kill you, and there's no stopping that. But... do you want to die slowly, your internal organs acidified by your own stomach enzymes, or do you want to do a... slightly quicker death?”
“What... what is it?” Langson coughed, gasping from the pain it brought.
I formed a large cylinder of ice, my horn flaring as I melted the inside so that it gave way to water.
And big enough to cover his head.
“Drink.” I sneered. “It'll make death come faster for you. Trust me...”
I held out the cup within easy reach, to let him contemplate it.
I didn't have to. He went right for it, drinking deep as I kept on forming more ice to melt. I continued to slip the block of ice over his head, locking it closed around his neck. Water filled up around his face, and I reveled in watching the frenzied gulps turn to bubbles of death, watching his eyes widen and grow bloodshot as he began to drown...
“That's it...” I seethed, my horn casting an eerie glow over us both. “Drink, you swine. Drink...”
* * *
The cold... that tone... both were gone now. All was well again.
A good five minutes later, I unlocked and opened the door, stepping outside to find Silas waiting, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. He had been listening to what went on the entire time.
“You sure are a sick pony, you know that?” he told me.
“But did you enjoy it?” I asked him.
Silas sighed, then cracked a thin smile. “Yeah. I enjoyed it. Little... gruesome, though, don't you think? Steeping his organs in stomach acid?”
I stared at him.
And then I began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. I whooped with uncontrollable laughter, almost laughing myself to tears as I finally composed myself enough to answer the creeped-out griffin. “Oh, that's the best part! That was never going to happen! Sure, I punctured his gut, but I did it in such a way that his stomach acid would have had to work against gravity to leak out the way he was lying down!” I stopped laughing now and just grinned so vilely. “I just lied. He was never really in any danger of dying. He chose to kill himself. Isn't it so poetic?”
“... you are a sick, evil bastard.” Silas stared.
“Well are you going to try to kill me now?” I raised an eyebrow. I was still in my high, fueled by the adrenaline still running through my veins.
“What for?” the griffin blinked.
My heart began to slow down from its frenetic beat, cold calm flooding my body as I straightened myself out. I inhaled deeply and expelled cool mist as I sighed. “Oh come on, you know, Silas. You were short on caps because of me. I'm as much at fault as this Langson fellow. So. Are you going to try to kill me now? You know I'm not going to make it easy if you are.”
It was Silas' turn to sigh now. “Honestly, we would've run into cap problems with the bastard anyways,” he said. “Bounty hunting's hard stuff, and it doesn't help when you run into better competition.” That... wasn't quite a glare he was shooting at me at least. “Besides, killing you isn't my call. Not anymore at least.”
“Then whose call is it?” I asked.
I heard a light, polite cough behind me, and I wheeled around already knowing who I'd find.
I wheeled around to find Azrael looming behind me, empty eyes staring down at me.
“My sis's of course,” Silas smirked.
Fuck.
Me.
* * *
Footnote: Maximum Level
Unlockables added: Soundtrack- Cue Epic Music
Soundtrack- The Dead Boys
Bonus features added!
Rig's S.P.E.C.I.A.L.
Strength: 5
Perception: 6
Endurance: 6
Charisma: 5
Intelligence: 8
Agility: 4
Luck: 6
