//------------------------------// // 3 - Changing Lives // Story: The Adventures of Flesh and Bone // by Meep the Changeling //------------------------------// Tractor Pull - 7th of Snowfall, 08 EoH Falcon’s Hold, West Bloomfield - Equestria Today was a most unusual day for Tractor Pull. He had arrived at Falcon’s Hold at dawn as he always had, fifteen minutes early, alert, in uniform, and ready for duty. This time duty wasn’t ready for him. The very minute he had finished checking in and walked through the gates to the training ground, a Sergeant had ordered him to the tertiary courtyard and await further instructions with the rest of the Eighth Cavalry Battalion. An odd order to say the least, especially since all reserve members had been given a full briefing on the J-P9 Bronco last weekend. Trac did his best not to yawn as he stood at attention with the other six hundred assorted mares and stallions standing in the surrounding mud.  Standing in the open air for half an hour would have been lethal off base. Yesterday's’ storm still raged on beyond the invisible dome protecting the base from the ice and snow. The Hold’s tertiary courtyard was one of the worst meeting spots on base. It was located quite far away from everything except the proving ground. The sounds of a dozen different war machines moving, firing, and simulated explosions washed over it like a distant shouting match. Cinder block walls nearly three meters high enclosed the courtyard, leaving only the four gates open to what little view was to be had. The soldiers inside the courtyard had the option to look at muddy brown paths, a muddy brown field, or a gray concrete wall in desperate need of a good wash. The only object of note in the courtyard was the dais and podium on the north side. Equestria’s flag hung from a frame like a curtain, providing the only color to be had. Unfortunately, the pale blue sky, sun and moon device, and stars were too familiar to anypony present to be visually interesting. They never tell you just how boring most of a soldier's life will be. Trac mused to himself. The recruiters always say it will be endless mares, exotic locations, fighting monsters, and defending our nation’s borders from what few enemies we have. But it’s really this. Standing about. Waiting for orders. At least they climate control the grounds. We could be standing here in the cold. Magic one, technology… Probably also one. I’m sure someone could make a gizmo that could do the same. Trac stretched slightly, doing his best to move as little as possible. None of the soldiers who saw him would snitch. They all had to do the same on occasion. But there was still the risk of a Sargent spotting him and deciding the Corporal could stand to do a few more push ups. Fortunately, Trac’s quick three-second stretch went unnoticed. I wish Retort was better at weather manipulation. It would be really cool if he could get a few friends together every weekend and keep our house in permanent springtime. Trac wished, focusing on his personal life to avoid thinking about his itchy shoulder. I doubt we would ever want to change it. It’s not like we would want to train troops in fighting in all weather conditions. Trac’s shoulder always itched while he was on duty. His uniform jacket didn’t fit him properly, pushing the left shoulder seam of his jumpsuit against his skin every time he moved. Reserve members were not afforded the same level of care as full-time soldiers. If he wanted his uniform tailored, he would have to pay for it himself. Trac had thought about getting his jacket tailored several times but had never gone through with it. A tailor wasn’t too expensive, but if they didn’t stitch the sleeve back on correctly, or even mildly altered the jacket’s lines a Sargent would notice and there would be push ups to do. Besides, Trac liked his uniform’s looks. A gray-blue jumpsuit with plenty of pockets for tools, notepads, maps, and everything else a tanker could want. The light brown jacket with a built-in flak-vest in case something inside the tank (like its boiler) exploded, a main staple for a tanker. A simple gray-blue tight-fitting helmet made of a mystery material which made even the hardest hits feel like a light tap (A most welcome feature for anyone driving a vehicle with hard metal protrusions sticking out everywhere in the cabin.) along with what Trac was certain was a set of tinted snowboarding goggles from a local chain store painted brown. Light brown boots with rubber soles to prevent slipping on grease and grime when navigating the cabin, and to prevent pain resulting from stepping on a loose bolt or other random small objects on the floor. Simple. Understated. Function over form. Exactly the kind of clothing Trac liked. If only it fit right. Trac growled at himself. The sound of boots on mud reached Trac’s ears. The battalion immediately stiffened up, adopting the most rigid stance they could. For all command knew, that’s how everyone had been standing the entire time. Appearances were important in the guard. It sounds like there are about twenty ponies coming, Trac noted as she strained his ears to listen for the steps. That means a Captain wants to talk to us.  Weird… Unless we’re being sent into active duty? Trac’s eyes widened in terror as the thought stuck in his mind like broken glass. I wasn’t listening to the radio last night or this morning! If we’re at war I wouldn’t have heard! Think, Trac. What did the Threat Level sign at the front gate say? Trac closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to think back as the approaching ponies entered the courtyard. Yellow! It was yellow. We’re not at war, just on alert, like we’ve been for the last two months thanks to the Griffons’ border side war games. But then why on Equis would a Captain be— Trac opened his eyes and nearly yelped. Standing on the dais and behind the podium wasn’t a Captain. It was a Colonel. Piercing gray eyes. Dark red fur. Gray-yellow mane. A horn with a large notch taken out of one side. Tall. Imposing. Wrapped in the formal dress blues and golds. Chewing on a thick cigar which seemed as much a part of him as his nose. Colonel Ironclad, the one officer every single soldier at Falcon’s Hold knew by sight, sound, and smell. Oh, sweet Celestia’s cake fetish! Why does the BASE COMMANDER need to talk to us?! What did we do!?! Trac screamed internally. “At ease,” the Colonel said, his gravelly voice much different from the Command Voice Sergeant would use. Trac shivered, managing to hide his fear as he adjusted his stance to a less rigid posture. Why does he always sound like dad when he was disappointed in me? Ironclad looked over the battalion from right to left, then gestured for three of his attendants to start passing out papers. Each of them moved along the front most row of soldiers and handed them a large stack of papers along with a bundle of pens, instructing them to pass the papers out. “Soldiers, your battalion has been selected for a special assignment,” Ironclad informed while the papers were being handed out. “You will not be deployed, but you will be listed as Active Duty personnel. I am aware your battalion is primarily composed of reserve members. Anyone present who is a reserve member will not be required to increase their hours. You will receive your active duty pay. “In return, you will be expected to perform above and beyond your current level. You will show up fifteen minutes early to being fifteen minutes early, you will show up in the most pristine uniform possible, and you will put your all into even the smallest aspects of your duty. “Previously I ordered your Sargents to allow you all a little leeway with protocols, punishments, and duty assignments. These orders have been rescinded. Slacking off will not be tolerated for the duration of this assignment. It is of paramount importance that your entire division functions by the book so closely that I could write a new book using you as the example. “The details of this special assignment cannot be given until each of you has signed the oath of secrecy being handed out to you now. The document also includes an application for Top Secret Clearance. Should you refuse to sign the document you will be transferred to another battalion. Seeing as I command no other Armored Cavalry battalions, this means you will be sent to another base in Equestria. “There will be no repercussions for choosing not to accept this assignment. Anypony who wishes to leave is one less pony whose heart will not be in the task ahead. All of you who wish to leave, you have three minutes to exit by the south gate. Sergeant Diamond will help you with your transfer papers.” Trac’s heartbeat at a million miles per hour. Sister’s above, what could— No, don’t waste time. Three minutes to decide… The guard would pay for my moving expenses, but I would need to go full time because I wouldn’t have a place to stay. I would also need to transfer my college credits, and they never let you transfer them all. I’d probably have to do basic classes a second time and maybe even take a few required courses the new place demands all students take. The soldier in front of Trac turned around, handing him the now much smaller stack of papers and a hoofful of pens. Track kept one of each and passed the stack back. Guess I am staying for whatever kind of Tartarus this will be. Trac wanted to look around to see if anypony was leaving, but the order to stand “at ease” was not permission to stand however he wanted. He still had to keep his eyes forward and stand still. Ironclad looked over the battalion again, his piercing gray eyes daring anyone to leave. Three excruciating minutes later he turned to a Captain standing behind him. The Captain was pegasus mare. Cream Coat, blue mane, gold eyes, one clockwork wing. Gale Force, Trac’s Battalion Commander. “Not one quitter amongst the bunch. Outstanding work, Captain. I am glad to see you were ready for a large-scale command despite your rank,” Ironclad said to her with only a slight hint of pride. “Sir, thank you, sir!” Gale replied with a salute. Trac flipped his page over, reading it thoroughly. It is exactly what he said. Notice of a special assignment and a security clearance application. He quickly filled the document out, then looked around to see if anypony was collecting the papers. “Soldiers, pass those papers forward. They have to be in my hoof before any of you are allowed to hear the details of your assignment. Lieutenant, put a cone of silence over the courtyard,” Ironclad ordered. The sound of six hundred soldiers passing papers forwards in unison drowned out the sounds of the lieutenant's spell casting as they erected a pale red force field around the courtyard. The sound of distant machines at work stopped cold. Trac gulped again. Okay, now I have no idea what this could possibly be about. A sergeant passed Ironclad the final stack of papers, and the Colonel quickly flipped through the sheets, checking to ensure each one was signed. Once he was satisfied, Ironclad returned to facing his battalion and wasted no time in getting to the meat of the issue. “Your battalion has been selected for this assignment due to being the most typical example of an Equestrian Armored Division in one of her most remote bases,” Ironclad informed. “This is of critical importance as you will be the training division for a high ranking noble who wishes to train without political complications. Their identity will remain anonymous for now. “If we hear so much as a rumor of a noble coming to Falcon’s Hold for training, we will find out who let the cat out of the bag, and they will be dishonorably discharged. Furthermore, your battalion will be required to return all of your Active Duty pay. “The rest of the winter will be spent ensuring you can keep your tongues from slipping as well as playing intensive war games. These games will be scored by tank and by individual merit. Whoever proves to be the best of the best will be granted the honor of serving as our future trainee's crew. “You are to take this assignment as seriously as possible. A fact that her Majesty, Princess Celestia wishes to ensure you remember.” Ironclad reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed a parchment envelope bound shut with a ribbon and a wax seal bearing the image of the royal sun. Ironclad broke the seal, took the letter from the envelope, cleared his throat, and began to read. “Dear Eighth Cavalry Battalion, “I, Princess Celestia, thank you for your loyal service and regret that I must ask for more. The last eight years have brought much darkness to our Kingdom. Darkness which has been kept at bay primarily through the heroic actions of a few brave mares. When disaster has struck in the heart of our nation, the Guard has been nowhere to be found. This is unacceptable. “I have personally inspected our armed forces and have discovered our troops are still amongst the finest in the known world. The blame for this incompetence does not lie with you, nor your commanding officers. The blame lies with the generals and commanders within the core regions of Equestria. “When Discord escaped from his prison of stone and attempted to begin his reign of chaos anew, they failed to react. No troops attempted to contain Discord. No one ordered the Guard to begin evacuating civilians. “When Tirek escaped Tartarus and laid waste to our Kingdom, not one of my generals organized any form of counter-attack, forcing me to rely upon my protege, who was at the time an unproven Archmage as our sole means of salvation. “When Queen Chrysalis led her hive to attack our very capital, our Canterlot was saved by my protege and a few civilians who happened to be her friends. The commanders of the Royal Guard did nothing to help the situation, leaving my soldiers to operate at their own discretion. The day was won, but the casualties and damage could have been greatly reduced. “When the Lich King Sombra returned from the void, it was not a regiment of guards and a rain of high explosives that sent him back to the land of the dead. It was my personal protege, Princess Cadence, and her husband who was still recovering from long-term changeling feeding at the time who saved us all. “This pattern is unacceptable and can not continue. Nor will it. Our core is weak because our skin is made of iron. Over the last six hundred years, no army has made it into the core regions due to the discipline of soldiers in border forts like yours, and because your commanding officers understand what war is and how to fight it. “The constant monster attacks, pirate raids, and occasional border skirmishes you fight shield Equestria from harm. This has proven to be a double-edged sword for my core region commanders have seen little if any battle in their life. They choke up under the pressure of battle. Their world is one of looking proper and acting with dignity. “While all soldiers should know how to conduct themselves around the nobility, they should also know how to fight, seeing as that is their job. “Unfortunately I can not simply transfer select border region commanders to roles within the core. That would weaken our border defenses and the griffons are still doing their best to make a show of force. The transfer would make us look weak in their eyes, and would also mean incompetent buffoons are responsible for guarding our borders. “You might wonder why I’ve chosen to assign these nobles to border guards if all our soldiers, core and border are excellent soldiers. First and foremost, good commanders are taught by the example of excellent soldiers and great commanders. Fools train bigger fools. Second, this operation is classified. The core officers are not to hear of this to prevent potential complications, and if we trained the next generation in the core regions foreign diplomats could learn of the operation as well. “The only option available to us is to train new commanders to replace every last officer in the Core regions with fresh officers trained in the Border regions. You are Equestria’s shield. It is your duty to provide the example of a proper Equestrian fighting force for whomever you are assigned to train. “I wish you all good fortune and thank you for your service. Yours truly, Princess Celestia.” Trac stared at the podium, his heart hammering away in his chest as the words of his Princess sank in fully. The battalion was silent. The creak of boots and shush of fabric moving over fabric filled the silence. Someone to Trac’s right screamed in an odd mixture of terror and dread. Right there with you buddy! Track thought with a wince. I did NOT need this pressure on top of having to do a term paper this semester! The Colonel's head turned, his eyes locking on the soldier's own like a hawk who had found a mouse. “Contain yourself, soldier! It’s a heavy assignment, but you can bear it. You had your chance to leave and you refused. You’re in for the long haul and I will not tolerate anything less than by the book conduct at all times,” he spat before turning his attention back to the rest of the battalion. “As for the rest of you, the change over from the F1 Spitfire to the J-P9 Bronco is related to this special assignment. You will proceed with training on the new tanks this weekend. Next weekend the war games will begin. That said, we will also be scoring you on how quickly you take to your new equipment. Dismissed!” The battalion left the courtyard in a daze. No one had expected this level of responsibility to be thrust upon them. The trip to the proving ground was short, silent, and chaotic. The moment the soldiers were out of the courtyard they broke formation, doing their best to find their crew mates on the walk over to the proving ground. Getting used to working by the book would take more than a little doing; the book said each crew was to stand in formation alongside one another. Border forts are not exactly known for following the book’s rules, Trac sighed as she searched the crowd for the other two members of his crew. We’re known for putting holes in hydras while following “field regulations”. I don’t know if the medals on my jacket are on right… Sarge said they were fine but is that fine for us or fine by the book? Trac’s jacket had three medals pinned to it. None of them were ones his fellow soldiers didn’t share. A small bronze sun pin everypony got for passing basic, a silver sword for two years service, and a little iron shield given out to every tanker who served in Operation Titanfall. The keyword being Served. Trac and spent exactly one week in the field and his tank hadn’t ever gone into combat. He didn’t even get to see any of the rock-golems which they had been deployed to slay. Heck, he had no clue who even sent the golems to attack the Equestrian border. As far as Trac knew, no one did. But he still got a medal. “Trac! Over here,” a mare’s voice called. Trac turned his head to see his Tank Commander, Bunker Bunny, waving at him with her silver and brass clockwork foreleg from a few meters away. Why her parents named her after a slang phrase for a coward, Trac would never know. Bunker was short which made many ponies in the battalion, including Trac, very jealous. She fit into nearly any space in a cramp tank’s interior like a hoof in a sock. Her fur and mane were the colors of grease and grime respectively, so she never showed any of the grunge which inevitably built upon a tank crew, and her stumpy horn fit neatly under an Earth Pony’s helmet. She would never wack it when going over rough ground and spend three minutes sobbing in pain like a stallion kicked in the family jewels. The only part of Bunker nopony was jealous over was her clockwork left foreleg. The mechanical limb was a momento from the time she served as a gunner. Fortunately the guard decided it was their fault that legs could get caught in autoloaders and purchased the replacement for her. Bunker had already found her gunner, who was also a rather tiny pony. Trac had always assumed Thunder Charge was a young colt who somehow managed to bluff his way into the army. No other stallion he had ever seen was shorter. Thunder came up to Trac’s shoulder on a good day. The banana yellow pegasus had almost been discharged for his size but had managed to produce medical papers proving he was not a midget and could perform all the duties his job demanded. Heavens knew why he had gone into the army instead of the air force. Thunder could fly better than anyone Trac knew. But he also could bullseye a pony-sized target two miles away in an old tank with a wonky turret. Trac made his way through the crowd to his crew, greeting them with a nod. “So… This is a hay of a mess isn't it?” Track asked. Thunder nodded. “Yep. But we’ll manage.” “Like Tartarus, we will,” Bunker grumbled, her eyes narrowing. “I got a look at the new tanks before anyone else showed up.” Oh, sisters… Trac groaned. “What’s the problem?” “You’ll see,” she replied. “We’re nearly there.” Trac wasn’t one to question his superiors. Bunker was a Staff Sergeant. If she didn’t want to say something, he wasn’t going to ask. The army isn’t about equality. It’s about teamwork. A big part of teamwork is trusting your leader. It’s not the end of the world if she wants me to spot the problem for myself. I am her driver, I’d want to know my driver could figure out what’s wrong with a new rig t— The line of J-P9 Broncos came into view around the hill. Two hundred of the new tanks had been arranged in a line, ready for their crews to inspect them inside and out. Despite the fact that this was one of the two times Trac had seen the whole battalion's vehicles all in one place, the grand display meant nothing to him. Instead, his eyes locked onto the J-P9 Broncos, only to widen as his jaw dropped. The tanks looked as one would expect a tank to look. Large, squarish, steel boxes with sloped sides resting atop two massive sets of tracks. Hundreds of thick armored plates, protruding rivets, all coated in a purple and charcoal regimental color scheme. The Broncos were short and squat, unlike the Spitfires which had a tall and narrow build. This change allowed the Bronco’s turret to be much wider, and the extra space had been used to install not just one main gun, but two. The Broncos featured a central canon which Trac judged to be a seventy-five millimeter, perfect for destroying heavily armored vehicles. Around the cannon a second weapons system had been built, a quad-barreled flak cannon. Assuming the turret traversed quickly, the Bronco would be able to engage airborne targets as well as ground targets. The briefing on the Broncos had failed to mention the flak cannon and the main gun were mounted to each other. Everypony had been expecting the AA-weapon to be mounted atop the turret. “Oh… no…” Thunder groaned as he caught sight of the dual-gun system. “That is going to be nothing less than pure dickcheese to maintain.” “Yeah, that looks bad,” Trac agreed. “But that’s not the worst problem.” “I know. I see it too,” the pegasus agreed. The real problem with the tank was one Trac would have to deal with every minute he was at the controls. The Broncos were not just “bigger” than a Spitfire like the briefing had told him. They were easily four times as large. The Bronco occupied a five by eight by sixteen cubic meter area, not counting the length of its barrels. Trac had never seen a Main Battle Tank in person before. The Spitfire was a light tank. “We’re in for one huge learning curve,” Trac moaned. “How am I supposed to move that thing without knocking trees over? Stealth is still important in tank warfare!” Bunker nodded. “Yep. It’s huge. It will be sluggish compared to what we know. But we’ll get used to it. Come on, we have two days to work out the kinks. I plan on winning that little competition.” Trac raised an eyebrow. “You think we have a shot?” “We’ve got an okay commander, an excellent gunner, and a good driver. Our maneuvering will be average for our unit, but our shooting is in the top ten. We’ve got a shot, and you just know they won't let anyone below a Master Sergeant mentor a noble. If we win this it will mean a promotion for all of us on top of the prestige we’ll have earned. That means more pay and more respect.” Thunder raised his foreleg and gave Bunker a salute. “I’ll do my best, Sarge, but those guns look like murder. Sisters forbid both systems have autoloaders… It’s going to be a real mess in there. I just know it.” “Will it hinder your shooting?” Bunker asked with a worried grimace. “For a bit.” “More than a couple days?” “Not if I can help it.” Bunker turned to Trac. “What about you?” “You've got my best too.” “Think you’ll have problems learning that big girl’s ins and outs for more than a few days?” Trac nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never seen anything that big, much less driven it. But they will all have problems too. Maybe a bit more than I will. I did grow up driving tractors. That’s almost heavy machinery.” The three continued to debate their chances as they walked up to the line of tanks and were assigned one at random by a Master Sergeant. Bunker ordered a full inspection of the vehicle and several hours passed opening each hatch, checking every compartment, examining the boiler, going over each individual tread and tread pin, and fully inspecting the hull before the three went inside. This was much more than any other tank crew had done. By the time Trac popped open the body hatch to slip inside the rest of the crews had pulled out from the parking area into the proving ground to begin learning the systems. This was quite normal. Bunker had always been extremely fastidious in her inspections. The thorough inspection of the tanks’ exterior was matched as they went over the interior. Each compartment, seat, control, nook, and cranny was thoroughly explored by everypony. By the time the inspection had finished and everyone took their seats to begin proper training, everyone knew the tank inside and out. There were several major problems. First, the guns were over engineered as Thunder had feared. The autoloaders indeed made the gunner’s seat a mess of moving parts and machinery. Bunker’s clockwork leg was at the forefront of everypony’s mind, leading to Thunder leaving briefly to get a unicorn’s jacket in order to keep his wings held close to his sides. Second, the tank was massive. A lot of the size difference sent into making each compartment bigger. While that made it more comfortable to operate, it meant everyone had further to move in the event of an emergency where someone would need to get to another station, stomp out a fire, or perform field repairs. Third, the Broncos were horribly over engineered in almost every system. But there was one upside to the situation. The Bronco’s had a bathroom. A first in tank design as far as Trac knew. This had better not be another example of Core Region favoritism. If I served two years in a Spitfire pooping in a bucket while those city slickers were rolling around with a proper toilet in their rigs, I just might have to punch somepony. “Okay, Trac. Fire her up,” Bunker ordered. Trac nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.” Trac took a deep breath and buckled himself into the driver’s seat. The unfamiliar controls surrounded him. The periscopes may have been adjusted to his eye level, but their wider fields of view were very distracting. Trac reached for the primer switch and flipped it. The tank hummed as the shields around the boiler’s fuel crystal retracted. The pressure gauge began to rise as the magical crystal radiated heat, and steam began to fill the Bronco’s capillary system, making the tank shudder and groan as systems began to spring to life. Track opened the drive valve the second the gauge’s needle touched the green line. Their tank shuddered again, rumbling almost eagerly as Track grabbed hold of the control levers and released the parking brake. “Good to go, Ma’am!” Trac called over the hiss of steam and the hum of pressurized pipes. “Roll out!” Trac pressed both drive levers, carefully moving them forwards. The levers didn't seem to want to move, pushing back against his magically increased strength. Weird. This is taking way more force than it sho— The tank began to slowly creak forwards, a loud pop echoed through the cabin as the pressure on the control levers increasing sharply as a safety Trac failed to remove gave way under his rough shove. The levers flew forwards amid a terrifying screech of metal and steam, slamming against the console. The Bronco roared, leaping forwards in a way the uninitiated would never believe fifty tons of steel could. Before Trac would pull the levers back towards him to slow her down, the tank shot up and over the hill it had been parked behind, sending twin sprays of earth up into the sky as it charged forward. “AAA! Sorry! He uh, he likes to run!” Trac called behind him as he brought the tank back under control. “I saw,” Bunker laughed. “This thing may be big, but it can charge over a hill like a proper crusader!” “Hey! That would be a good nickname for this overbuilt guy,” Thunder remarked excitedly. “Big, bulky, tons of armor, fast, and I can already tell we're going to stink to high heaven in this thing. They definitely forgot to put in an air conditioner. It’s going to smell medieval in here real quick.” “Good points, Thunder. Trac, let’s see how well Crusader handles rapid direction changes first. Take us to the agility course,” Bunker ordered. “Yes, ma’am!” Trac replied, pulling one control lever back to rotate the tank eastwards. At least they aren't yelling at me for that goof up. Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas - 7th of Snowfall, 08 EoH Retort Family Home, West Bloomfield - Equestria Ameili sat in the snow outside Retort’s house staring at the setting sun. The cold winds washed across her suit, rippling its fabric and sucking what little warmth she had from her. Not that such things mattered to Ameili. The cold was of no consequence, she had much bigger problems on her mind. Retort hadn’t been allowed to call out of work, pushing their shopping trip back by a day. That had left her with an opportunity to choose another path to follow. But was that the right choice? Retort has not come home yet. Trac will be gone all weekend. If I leave now, Retort will assume I got bad news from the doctor and left. They can’t know I never went to them. The simplest way to prevent that would be to leave town. Ameili sighed, her voice box transforming the sound into a melodious galvanic shushing sound. “What’s wrong, darling?” Vulcan asked. The Elemental was incorporeal at the moment but remained as always by their love’s side. Since an Elemental’s voice is silent to those who do not know how to hear it, to any passers-by, it would seem as if Ameili was talking to thin air. “I’m tired of leaving people behind,” Ameili said quietly. “Yet we must,” Vulcan reminded her. “Especially this time. Trac is well versed in history, if you stay with him for too long he is certain to connect the dots.” “Yes, he is. But would that be such a bad thing? He may be a soldier, but he’s not an infantryman. If worse comes to worst, I can overpower him and escape. It shouldn’t come to that. He’s nice.” “He would want to see your old home…” Vulcan warned. Ameili flinched. “Yes… He would indeed. That would be a significant problem.” “Then it is settled. We leave before Retort returns. If you write a note and leave it on the door it will be easy to make him believe you had to travel to say, Canterlot for specialist medical treatment.” Ameili looked down to the gleaming snow, then turned her head to look at the warm glow within the log house’s windows. “I could, but I need friends, Love. Everypony needs friends,” she sighed. “This life is depressing.” “Sometimes I wish you were content to live with your partner’s company… But you’re not an elemental. I understand you have different needs,” Vulcan said sadly. Ameili turned and reached out, wrapping a leg around where Vulcan’s shoulders would be if they had a body at the time. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, love. I do love your company, and I don’t ever want to leave you. But you are right. I am not an elemental. I need more than one other for company.” “We could return to the southern badlands,” Vulcan proposed. “The bug people there already know who you are and were most friendly.” Ameili laughed. “You just want to burn more of their… Honey? What did they call the green stuff they spit up?” “I remember them calling it “Dross”, and yes I want to burn more of it. It is very tasty,” Vulcan said hopefully. “If we sneak aboard a freight train we could be there in but a week. What do you say?” “No,” Ameili said firmly, but kindly. “Why not?” Vulcan asked. “The same reason I left their hive in the first place. I do not like living in a hole in the ground, Vulcan, even if that hole is a very nice one. Besides, there’s something about these two… They remind me of my old friends. “I do not believe they are reincarnations, and there obviously isn’t any sort of resemblance physically… But they feel like they did. It’s been a long time, Vulcan… I get very lonely…” Vulcan sighed. “Yes, it has been a long time… I’m sorry you will never seem them again. But you must remember that you are not indestructible. When they learn the truth it will almost certainly spell your doom… I don’t know what I would do if you passed on.” Ameili shook her head slowly and looked up at the setting sun once more. “What am I supposed to do then? Continue traveling from place to place avoiding all I encounter for more than a day or so? Am I to remain isolated from civilization until the last eagle flies over the last crumbling mountain, so I can stand atop its peak and watch as the last moon is cast over the last morning and hope I too end with the world? “No, Vulcan. I refuse to accept that fate. I will find a place where I can live, contribute my fair share, make friends, and obtain for you any treats you wish to have.” “You could live with the bugs. They liked us.” “I also refuse to live in any place which reminds me of a tomb.” “Metal walls, paint, galvanic lighting, air conditioning, and industry are not what I think of when I think ‘tomb’,” Vulcan snorted. “It’s no different from any other corporal dwelling. Aside from being underground. Oh, and it is made entirely of metal.” Ameili shook her head. “That is your opinion. But when I see small corridors with chambers at regular intervals, all of which are buried deep beneath the ground and have had corpses remain in them for ages and ages, I can only think “tomb”. No matter how nice the place has been made to look. I can not live there, though I will most certainly visit them again.” “Okay, it was a tomb. But then the bugs found it, moved in, cleaned it up, and transformed it into a city. It’s not a tomb.” Ameili chuckled. “Yes. It hasn’t been a true tomb for generations, but it reminds me of one, and that’s depressing. I have enough to be sad about, love.” “Perhaps you could return home? It’s been so long. They might allow you to come back.” “They sent me out here to die, Vulcan. It was a death sentence issued in politically correct phrasing. A fate I have thus far defeated. I will not let circumstance rule me, Vulcan. I am the master of my own destiny. Besides, if I return home, I will never be able to help them. They may have exiled me, but I am still a soldier. It is still my civic duty to protect and serve.” “If that’s how you feel, why are you having a hard time deciding to stay?” Vulcan asked skeptically. “Because… If I stay here— You know where this place is. Home isn’t too far away, it’s so sad to see Retort’s people failed to become their own nation. We protected them. In another world, they would have joined us one day. Perhaps the first to do so. “I… I want friends, but this land holds many sorrows.” “You can be sad because you are without any of your own kind, or you can be sad because of where you are. Choose,” Vulcan said sagely. Ameili pretended to close her eyes in thought. Her eyes hadn’t closed in many years, but she found the make-believe helped her think. Friends. I need friends. Security is not worth the pain of isolation, and there’s only so much Vulcan can do as my companion. We could both use friends, come to think of it. He may believe elementals need only their mate, but I remember when they would travel the land in packs. “We stay for the winter. If they haven't found out by springtime, we move on,” she decided. “And if they do find out?” Vulcan asked. “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes.” Vulcan was about to reply when the soft flutter of distant feathered wings caught his attention. “Retort is back. It’s too late to leave today. Unless you say you just came back for your belongings.” “We're staying, Vulcan,” Ameili said as she stood up, the sound of flapping wings reaching her own ears now. Ameili turned to the west and looked above the treetops. Spotting the rather puffy form of an extremely well bundled up Pegasus in flight, she raised her hoof to give them a friendly wave. Retort landed in front of her a few moments later, his face hidden behind a thick ski-mask and flight goggles. “What are you doing outside? The weather isn’t as bad as it was yesterday but it’s still below zero!” Retort scolded. Vulcan smiled. “I like how he cares about you. At least they are nice to the you they know so far.” “I went for a long walk to empty and then incinerate the contents of my waste-pouch,” Ameili lied, drawing on her magic to put a fiery rendering of an embarrassed blush in front of her visor. Retort coughed and took a step back. “Oh. Uh, thank you. Let’s not talk about your… Um, leavings again. Unless, it’s some sort of emergency. Why don’t you come on inside? I’m cold and tired, but with some coffee in me, we can talk for a while.” “More interrogation?” Ameili joked, manifesting a fiery wink. Retort waved a hoof dismissively. “Nah, just the usual get to know one another chatter. I feel like boring someone with tales of outdated high school glory and hearing the horror stories a full-time soldier has. Trac’s got some great stories about evil drill sergeants and terrible coworkers, but he’s just part-time. You’ve got to have some better ones.” Hmm, better not tell him a truly personal story. Not yet. He doesn't trust me as much as Trac… But he is less educated. Perhaps if I rephrase things a little... Yes, that will do. Ameili chuckled. “That I do. Tell me, Retort, have you ever heard the tale of… Well in your tongue his name would be Cold Iron.” Retort shook his head no. “Can’t say that I have. But out of curiosity, if your names translate into Equish, what is yours?” “It would be Iron Rival, but since that translation is approximate please use my proper name,” Ameili said as Retort opened the door and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Oh! Thank you. Now then, let me regale you with the story of Cold Iron, the immortal warrior with armor made from wolf!” Retort pushed his goggles up and raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t that be “a wolf” or “wolves?” “Yes, but that sounds less awesome,” Ameili admitted, flashing a sheepish grin. Retort stroked his chin then nodded as he closed the door. “Granted… Okay, so what’s the story?” “A thousand years ago, Cold Iron sailed across the Trade sea, leaving behind Prance for the untamed wilds of the Equestrian north lands. Of course, they weren't a part of Equestria back then. Back then they were ruled by a host of dictators who quibbled over these lands. A host of dictators who fell like wheat before Cold Iron’s battleaxe! “But there was one who did not fall, one who snapped up all the land Cold Iron conquered in the name of, uh, himself. Sombra, who would later be known as the Lich King. The two clashed head-to-head in many a glorious battle as Cold Iron forged a city-state through his conquests, one which Sombra could not take from him in his quest to rule all the north. “Over the years, the wizard’s youth waned while Cold Iron remained strong, youthful, and only improved his skill at arms. This vexed the dark lord, and he spent many a year studying his rival. Those years delayed his ascension to Lichdom, buying the world precious time. But in time Sombra learned Cold Iron’s secret, the stallion was immortal! “Nothing could take his life. Not age, not disease, nor the blade. Where this power came from I can’t say, but he had it, much like your Princesses do.” “He was an Alicorn?” Retort asked with a skeptical eyebrow. “No, that’s why I can’t say how he had that power. Yet he did. Also, I was under the impression an Alicorn can be killed. Cold Iron is historically documented as having been torn into quarters. His limbs returned to his body at the first opportunity, allowing him to crush the skull of his would-be-executioner with his bare hooves.” “Ah. Well, as far as I know, an Alicorn can die. It would take a lot of magic to do it though,” Retort said as he finally started to take off his coat, having been engrossed in the story. “Well, Sombra found the means by which Cold Iron’s immortality had been bestowed unto him and did what no warrior could have done. The next time the two faced off against one another, Sombra cleaved Cold Iron’s head from his body and cast a spell upon it before it could be reattached. “He corrupted the magic which gave his foe eternal life and spat it back not at Cold Iron, but at those who called him King. Cold Iron aged to dust in the blink of an eye, and the fragments of his immortality were dispersed into untold thousands of ponies where they festered like a disease. All they loved rotted. All they cared for withered but did not die. The spark of their dead king sustained them, even as the flesh fell from their bones. That evil inflicted upon them served another purpose, Cold Iron could never reform until all who bore one of his fragments were destroyed. “Perhaps they could have been saved, but Sombra was a very clever bastard. People call him insane, but he wasn’t. That was an act he performed. He was a genius in a fool’s costume, the larger nations treated him like any other warlord in the barbaric north until it was too late and ultimate power was his. “Ultimate power with which he smote his rivals one last time. They were stricken from the minds of everyone who had known them. Their friends forgot them, as did their enemies. Maps suddenly lacked their nation’s place upon them. The world moved on. Help never came. “They grew bitter, hostile, and hateful. Many degenerating into mindless animals. Now, anyone who ventures to the wrong part of the Northlands will be torn asunder by the walking dead. And that is the story of the birth of the undead kingdom.” Retort shivered, not having expected that twist to the tale at all. “Yeah, I heard that Sombra invented necromancy… I’ve never that part though. Then again I was the guy who slept through history class. “I uh, meant like personal stories. Not old military tales you knew. But that was cool!” “Well, seeing as how I’m a walking pile of bones and rotting meat, stories about the undead is a little personal,” Ameili said, forming a fiery smile. Retort blinked, smirked, then laughed. “You can joke about your condition? That’s actually impressive.” Ameili shrugged. “Not to me. If you can’t laugh at your fate, you have no right to laugh at all. As for the personal aspect of my story, I collect stories about the undead. I’ve investigated quite a few myself. I’m always hoping to find genuine proof of their existence outside of a necromancer’s control. It would be interesting to see how one would treat me.” “Mm, so you have a “For science!” attitude towards your death? I get it. I mean, you can’t have too long left, right? Might as well die for something if it’s inevitable,” Retort asked as he hung up his coat. Ameili shrugged. “I could last for a few more years. Or just a few weeks. I’m not entirely sure, nor do I care. I want to have fun while I am here.” “Then let's talk about something more fun. Come on, I need to go brew up more ginseng coffee.” Retort said as he walked towards his living room. Ameili smiled and went after him. Yes. Friends was the correct choice.