//------------------------------// // 1. Can't Say Goodbye to Yesterday // Story: Pony Gear Solid // by Posh //------------------------------// "Using the old cardboard box trick, huh? Looks good on you, Snake." “...and so then Pinkie Pie said 'oatmeal? Are you crazy?!” Laughter erupted around the table in the Sweet Apple Acres farmhouse's dining room as Fluttershy finished her anecdote. “Dangit, Fluttershy,” Applejack panted, fighting against the giggles as she wiped a tear from her eye with a shaking hoof, “I can't believe I weren't there for that one. That story's a right classic.” “Well,” said Fluttershy, pausing to take another sip of cider, “Ms. Cheerilee didn't find it all that funny at the time. The last time I paid her a visit, she still hadn't gotten the cheese smell out of her basement.” “She'll come 'round,” said Applejack. “Time has a funny way of puttin' these things inta perspective.” She slid the nearest bottle of cider down the table into Fluttershy's waiting hoof. “Top yerself off there, iffin you like. We got plenty in the cellar.” She spared a worrying glance to Big Mac. “We do still got plenty, don't we?” “Eeyup.” Big Mac smirked at Applejack, glancing at the half-empty cider bottle beside Fluttershy and arching his eyebrows. “Like I said, then!” She turned back to Fluttershy with a broad smile. “It's been a par-ticularly fruitful harvest, after all, an' we got plenty to spare.” “Oh, you're too kind,” said Fluttershy, pushing the bottle back down the table. “But I think I may have had just a bit too much already. I think it's startling to – starting to afflict – start – ” Fluttershy took a deep breath, exhaled, closed her eyes and concentrated. “Starting to affect the way I chalk – talk! Oh goodness, I can't even speak properly anymore.” Her voice had a fluttering, buoyant quality to it, despite her angst, and she maintained a dopey grin on her face, so very unlike her usual shy, quiet smile. “This is so embarrassing. Maybe it would be bitter – batter – better – if just stopped for the night.” “Aw, don't be s'darn self-conscious. You ain't the first pony to get a li'l bit tipsy after imbibin' in Sweet Apple Cider.” said Applejack, relieved to no end that Fluttershy was calling an end to her bender. Sure, it was modest by most standards, but for Fluttershy, who hardly touched the stuff if she could help it, it was noteworthy. She'd invited the bashful pegasus to dinner with the hope that a social occasion would bring her out of her shell the slightest bit, and in that, the plan had succeeded, though she had to ply Fluttershy with considerably more cider than she'd thought. The anecdotes, however, were certainly worth the effort; Fluttershy was spilling stories that she doubtlessly would never have thought about sharing if she were sober. “The stuff has a funny way of muckin' up words," Applejack added with a wink. "Loosenin' lips. Lowerin' inhibitions.” “Applejack says that cider's the reason I was born in the first place!” Apple Bloom chimed in cheerfully as she trotted into the dining room from the kitchen, precariously balancing a tray of apple fritters on her nose. She set the tray on the table, oblivious to the gobsmacked, open-jawed expression of her big sister, the blushing face and subdued giggling of Fluttershy, or the bemusement of Big McIntosh. Applejack flushed visibly beneath her orange coat. “Apple Bloom,” she said, gritting her teeth tightly together, “do we need to have another talk about what is and is not appropriate conversation when company's over?” “Shucks, sis!” said Apple Bloom, nuzzling Fluttershy's side affectionately. “It's just Fluttershy! She's practically family!” She turned to her sister with bright, shining eyes. “An' if I can't talk that way around family, who can I talk that way around?” “Preferably,” growled Applejack, “nopony. Yer too young t'be talking like that.” She paused. “Or to know what I meant when I said that.” “Puh-leeze,” said Apple Bloom, jerking her head in Fluttershy's direction. “Not like what I said's any worse than some o'the stories she's been telling.” Fluttershy smiled, genuinely touched by Apple Bloom's familial sentiments. “You're so sweet,” she said, leaning down to ruffle her mane and accidentally pushing a mop of hair into her eyes. “But m-maybe you should listen to your sister.” “'Maybe,'” Applejack huffed under her breath. Big Mac chuckled from across the table. “After all,” Fluttershy continued, picking an apple fritter from the tray. “As my mother always said, 'always keep your audience in mind,' I happen to know one or two stories about you that you wouldn't want to come out at a time like this.” She chewed her fritter somewhat more sloppily than she would have had she been sober, and set it down upon her plate. “Is that right?” Applejack said, turning on Apple Bloom with a sinister grin on her face. “Now now, Fluttershy, don't y'all hold back on Apple Bloom's account. Let's hear some o'them tales.” Apple Bloom's heart skipped a beat as she pushed her mane out of her eyes. She wasn't certain what, exactly, Fluttershy had in mind, but whatever it was, she'd either never live it down, or be grounded long enough to ensure that she'd be a blank-flank forever. “Th-that's okay Fluttershy,” she said hastily. “No need to say nothin' you might regret later.” “Well,” said Fluttershy, leaning forward and resting her chin on her folded front legs, evidently oblivious to Apple Bloom's protest. Her voice was faintly distorted and her words noticeably slurred from a night of moderate cider consumption. “There was that one time with the Cockatrice...” Applejack's expression of sinister glee winked out of existence. She stared blankly ahead, her eyes going out of focus. She no longer looked at Apple Bloom at all. Rather, she seemed to be looking beyond her, at something not visible to anypony else. The filly, suddenly very nervous, edged uncomfortably away from her sister's unfocused gaze. “Cockawho?” asked Applejack, turning back to the table and staring blankly at Fluttershy. “Oh, you haven't heard of them before?” asked Fluttershy, who was clearly too drunk to notice Applejack's change in demeanor. “I do believe I have,” said Applejack in a slow, measured deadpan. “But why don'tcha remind me, jus' in case my memory's a tad foggy.” “You know. A Cockatrice. Head of a chicken, body of a snake. They can turn you to stone just by making eye contact, you know. Very dangerous creatures.” She nodded sagely at her own statement, leaning down to sip from her cider glass, forgetting momentarily that she had cut herself off for the night (and, more importantly, that her glass was empty). “Yes. That's what I thought it was.” Applejack's voice was still eerily calm. Apple Bloom gazed cautiously at her sister. Now, now, she told herself. Maybe she's not so mad. It's not like her eyelid's twitchy or nothin'. Boy, wouldn't I be in for it if it were. Applejack's eyelid spasmed subtly. Horseapples, thought Apple Bloom sourly, wilting. She tiphooved towards the kitchen door, hoping to escape before the torrent of Applejack's fury hit. “An' what, pray tell, were the circumstances of Apple Bloom's meetin' with that chicken-snake?” asked Applejack in her worryingly impassive voice. Please, Fluttershy, Apple Bloom thought, willing her thoughts to beam into the drunk pegasus' mind. Please, please say that your lips ain't that loose. “She and her friends ran into the Everfree Forest during their sleepover,” Fluttershy explained, her eyelids drooping sleepily. “And they almost got turned to stone too. Luckily I...” She yawned a graceful, gentle yawn, her closed eyelids preventing her from seeing the throbbing vein in Applejack's forehead. “Woke up and noticed they were out of bed,” she continued as the yawn drew to an end. “Otherwise, you'd have a rock for a sister.” Fluttershy giggled. “'Rockle Bloom.' Oh, the fillies at school would tease her so...” She smacked her lips, snuggled her head into her forelegs and began snoring. “Apple Bloom.” Applejack's sharp call froze the escaping filly in her tracks. Fluttershy jolted awake, startled by the sudden change in Applejack's tone. Sobriety hit her like a ton of bricks as she saw the joyless face of her friend and the fear that radiated off of Apple Bloom. A cold chill crept up Apple Bloom's back as she nervously turned back to her sister. “Is what Fluttershy's sayin' true?” asked Applejack, her voice reverberating with barely restrained anger. Big Mac's eyes darted from Fluttershy, to Applejack, to Apple Bloom and back. Apple Bloom shuffled her hooves nervously, eyes riveted to the ground. “Well... there's a li'l bit more to it than that...” “I didn't ask for no hemmin' and hawin',” snapped Applejack. Apple Bloom jumped at the harshness in her voice and looked vainly to Fluttershy for help. “You tell the truth now,” said Big Mac sternly, leaning forward onto the table as he gazed at Apple Bloom. Apple Bloom decided to stake her future on the chance that her family would treat her mercifully if she were simply honest. Planting her hooves and meeting Big Mac's gaze, she gave a firm, if timid, “yes.” “Applejack,” said Fluttershy hastily, “if I could just explain—” “I'm thinkin' I've heard all the explanations I need,” Applejack interrupted, pushing away from the table. “Apple Bloom, you go to yer room and you stay there 'til I come talk to you. I'm gonna see our guest out.” She trotted to the front door, keeping her eyes locked steadily forward. “Fluttershy, you'll come with me now.” “Applejack—” Applejack stamped her hoof against the floor so hard that the wooden boards splintered and cracked beneath her. At that moment, the open, sociable, funny drunk Fluttershy evaporated. Drooping her wings and her ears in tandem, she slid off of her chair and sullenly fell in step behind Applejack. She glanced back, hoping to catch a glimpse of Apple Bloom, but the yellow filly was gone from sight already. All she saw was Big McIntosh, whose silent, judging gaze followed her to the door. “AJ, please don't be harsh with Apple Bloom—” Fluttershy began as they stepped outside together, before Applejack met her almost nose-to-nose and locked their gazes together, performing a near perfect simulacrum of the pegasus' legendary stare. “I don't know what them fillies was doin' in yer house when they was supposed to be with Rarity that night,” hissed Applejack, “and I don't rightly care right now, though I probably I will when I swing by her place tomorrow mornin' to give her a piece o'my mind.” She jabbed a hoof accusingly at Fluttershy, who recoiled. “But for whatever reason, they was in your care, an' truth be told, that wouldn't'a bothered me none, if I'd known. I woulda figgered I could trust you with somethin' as little as my baby sister's life. Guess I know better now, on account of you lettin' 'em sneak out an' get jumped by a chicken-snake!” “I-I didn't...” Fluttershy stammered. Abashed, she turned her head away from Applejack. “I-I wasn't... I wouldn't have—” “Wouldn'ta what?” asked Applejack, advancing on Fluttershy, even as the latter backpedaled. “Wouldn'ta let 'em get stoned? Or et?! I know what Cockatrices do to their prey, Fluttershy, oh do I ever know all too well what they do t'their prey! Yer dang right you 'wouldn't have,' 'cuz if I lost my sister on account o'yer negligence..." Her face darkened. Fluttershy's breath hitched and her chest heaved. She shut her eyes tightly, stifling the tears that Applejack's words had drawn out of her. But Applejack was unmoved, her anger providing a powerful shield against her friend's pathos. Still, unwilling to castigate the sobbing pegasus any longer – she had a sister who needed scolding, after all – she sighed and looked away. “'Git. We'll talk more 'bout this later, Fluttershy.” “Applejack... I'm s-so—" “Don't. Make me. Repeat myself." Fluttershy nodded with a sniffle. Turning her back to Sweet Apple Acres, she trotted miserably down the road home, leaving Applejack to sweep up the tattered shreds of what had been, up until moments ago, a pleasant night. Apple Bloom sobbed into her pillow, her muffled cries audible only to her. I'm such a loudmouth, she thought. Should'a never piped up. Fluttershy wouldnt'a got kicked out, I wouldn't be in no trouble, and we'd all be enjoyin' apple fritters right now. A fresh wave of tears spilled into her damp pillow. Or maybe if AJ weren't such a sourpuss sometimes. She didn't hafta be so mean to Fluttershy. Coulda let her explain... don't even understand what she's so rumphurt 'bout... There was a harsh rapping at her door. Apple Bloom stiffened, swallowing her sobs as the door swung open, the silhouette of a pony in a Stetson hat obscuring the light that now washed into her room. She remained still, her back turned to the door, as her sister trotted in, her telltale heavy hoofsteps giving the filly a glimpse at her older sister's anger. “You wanna tell me jus' what you were thinkin', chargin' into the Everfree Forest like it were some kinda game?” she demanded as she came to Apple Bloom's bedside. Apple Bloom made no reply. “Silly me, Apple Bloom,” said Applejack, “I said that like I was askin'. I ain't. Talk.” At length, Apple Bloom gave a sullen reply. “Why bother? Not like you'd listen to me anyways.” “Now don't go givin' me that bunk,” snapped Applejack. “Dangit, Apple Bloom, you're lucky I'm even givin' you a chance to explain! S'more than Fluttershy got, an' it's more than you deserve!” Apple Bloom pulled her pillow tightly against her chest, curling around it. “What in Equestria were you tryin' to prove?” Applejack pressed. “You got jumped by a cockatrice, Apple Bloom. You could'a died!” As if responding to a challenge, Apple Bloom whirled about, jumping to all fours atop her bed. “But I didn't, AJ!” she shouted furiously, tears clinging to her eyelashes. “Why are you even mad about this?! It was, like, forever ago! An' Fluttershy saved us 'fore anything could even happen!“ “If it weren't for Fluttershy,” growled Applejack, “you wouldn't'a been there in the first place! If she'd kept an eye on you like a responsible mare—" “'Responsible mare?!'” Apple Bloom laughed a harsh, guttural, very un-fillylike laugh. “You mean like you? How many bits didja bring home from the Grand Galloping Gala, huh big sis? Didja fix the leaky roof yet, you responsible gal you? Can Granny Smith walk more'n two steps without fallin' over herself?!” Applejack planted both hooves onto her sister's bed and rose to stand on her hind legs. Beneath her Stetson, her eyes narrowed to slits, and her flared nostrils gave her the appearance of a bull about to charge. Apple Bloom wasn't quite sure what had gotten into her, that she was talking back to her big sister this way – they got on famously at the best of times, granted – but she rather liked being able to stick up for herself. Maybe the events of the night had brought a simmering undercurrent of sibling rivalry to the surface. Maybe the fumes from the cider had given her the extra nip of courage she needed to push back against her overbearing, overprotective guardian. Or, more likely, she'd gone insane from misery and didn't realize the danger she was putting herself in. “Yer the one in trouble there, li'l filly, not me,” said Applejack in that low, dangerous tone that she reserved for her most wrathful moments. “An' for your own sake, you better keep that in mind! I'm the one what puts food in your ungrateful belly, an' a leaky roof over yer head's miles better than no roof 't all! So I don't wanna hear that kinda backtalk from you, 'specially when I ain't done nothin' t'deserve it!” “Yer dang right I'm ungrateful!” Apple Bloom met her sister's stare, met it and returned it in full force. “An' who wouldn't be with you lookin' after 'em?! I didn't ask for you t'raise me, an' if Ma an' Pa were still alive, I wouldn't hafta put up with it!” Those words were the first to penetrate the armor of Applejack's anger, and her angry expression faltered slightly. “You don't know what you're sayin'.” “I know dang well what I'm sayin'!” said Apple Bloom. The momentum had swung her way, and now she moved in for the kill. “I'm sayin' that I wish you was dead 'n not them!” It was like being kicked full-tilt in the stomach. Applejack's eyes widened, the wind drained from her lungs, and her hooves slipped from Apple Bloom's bed, clopping against the floor. Apple Bloom knew she'd hurt her sister, though she couldn't have begun to guess just how deeply. And she didn't care. The fight now over, she lay on her bed and rolled around, once again treating Applejack to a view of her back. She heard the soft tapping of hooves against the floor as Applejack exited the room, then the click of her door as it shut securely. And, as she strained her ears to listen for signs of life outside, she swore she heard a quiet sob. Apple Bloom didn't give a good gosh-dangit-to-Heck how Applejack felt at that moment. She glanced at her window, still open a crack from that afternoon, when Applejack had told her to nudge it open a little bit to let the smell of their frying fritters waft out over Ponyville. “What better way t'drum up business for the Apple Family,” Applejack had said, “then by remindin' them what they're missin' out on?” The memory wasn't a pleasant one anymore. Apple Bloom fought it down. She needed to focus on the task at hoof, after all. She took her blanket in her mouth and, with a bit of finagling, began knotting it into a rope. I don't know how long I was out for. Couldn't have been much longer than a few hours. I could tell because I didn't feel any older. And maybe that doesn't sound so significant, but after Shadow Moses, I'd wake up after a full night's sleep, and somehow, I'd feel older. As if I could sense that I had aged, substantially, overnight. It was years before the physical signs of my aging began to show, and when they did, I can't say I was surprised that it was happening. I think part of me could tell all along. So it was important when I woke up from my nap, and I didn't feel any older. Meant that I hadn't been there too long, though that didn't help me in any event. The first thing I felt, as I was regaining consciousness, was something cold and wet pressed against my face. I brushed at it, still mired in that no-man's-land between sleep and waking, and it went away, only to be replaced by something warm and wet dragging across my cheek. “Cut it out, Meryl,” I muttered sleepily, rolling over to escape. But it persisted and intensified, even after I batted at my cheek to knock it away. I opened my eyes slowly, expecting to still be surrounded by the brilliant light that had knocked me out in the first place. But to my surprise, it was dark. Not pitch-dark; I could make out what was hovering over me, but dark enough that I had to strain a little bit to see it. Beady black eyes stared into my own. Now very much awake and alarmed, my own eyes flew open, and I immediately scrambled into a sitting position, my hand shooting toward the Beretta on my hip. The thing that had watched me in my sleep cocked its head quizzically, and my mind registered it as a familiar, recognizable shape. It was a dog, probably a collie, given its coat and general look. Friendly enough, too. But then, I'd always been good with dogs. I relaxed immediately after discerning that what had roused me was a harmless dog. It wore a collar with a dangling gold tag around its neck – a domesticated dog at that. So wherever the portal had taken me, it was at least someplace civilized. The first thing I thought to do was to call Otacon on the Codec. There was no answer but static on his frequency, nor on the emergency frequency that we'd set aside for rainy days. I'd been afraid of that, but I'd left him with instructions. All I could do was hope that he wouldn't have to follow them. I figured that'd be an adjustment. I'd been a lone wolf for most of my career, but for years by that point I'd had Otacon looking over my shoulder, giving me intel, advice, technical knowledge whenever I needed it or asked for it. He was like a guardian angel. A nerdy guardian angel who liked crapping up my stereo with his anime soundtracks, but at least I always knew where he stood. Still do. Putting that aside for the time being, I took in my surroundings. There was a wooden crate sitting just behind me, lidless and propped upside down, the open end stuck into the ground. Had to wonder what the point of that was, but it was me-sized and conveniently located, so who was I to complain? Figured whoever it belonged to wouldn't mind so much if I borrowed it without asking. If it was just dumped here haphazardly, then what right did he have to complain? My muscles were a little cramped from laying and sitting for who knows how long, so I decided to stand. I climbed to my feet, shaking off the cobwebs and stretching as I rose. Felt good to move again. The dog darted between my ankles, looking up at me with a lopsided, tongue-wagging grin. Whoever owned this dog evidently did not train it to be a guard dog. Not that I'm complain. I like dogs, always have; I'd sooner kill a person on a mission than a guard dog, and I'd always avoid it if I could. I reached down and scratched behind its ears, reasonably sure it wasn't going to bite me. It liked that. I figured it would. I used to race dogs, you know. I was in a barn, I realized, as I wandered around the place. On an apple farm, no less. There were dozens of barrels all over the damn place, each one stuffed like a turkey with apples in all the various hues and shapes that apples come in. A wheelbarrow full of hay, too. My stomach growled. That was the second indicator for how long I'd been asleep; not long enough to have aged, but long enough to have an empty stomach. Well, I thought, I'm on an apple farm, surrounded by barrels of apples. When in Rome. Or wherever the hell. But then, I reasoned, wouldn't any farmer worth their salt-lick notice that someone had pilfered an apple or two from their harvest? It could raise an alarm. Could get me into trouble. Could get me noticed. Could make carrying out my mission that much more difficult to do. Then again, I was damn hungry. And there were so many that, honestly, who would have noticed if one was missing? I guess I had started assuming, in my delirious, hungry state, that these farmers were not worth their salt-licks. I reached into a barrel and selected a nice round golden delicious. I breathed on its skin, rubbed it off on the front of my suit (probably a bad call, given the amount of grime that's accumulated on that old thing over the years) and raised it to my lips. The dog didn't like that. It started growling as soon as I picked the apple, but just before I could take a bite, it started barking this high-pitched, piercing yelp. “There are plenty of other apples,” I said to the dog. “Who cares if I take one? Nobody'll notice.” The dog didn't like common sense almost as much as it didn't like apple thievery. Its barks and growls rose in both volume and pitch. I wasn't so hungry that I'd lost all reason; I knew that I was on a farm, and I knew that the dog could raise an alarm, call in its owner and get me spotted. So I undid the holster on my hip and drew out my Beretta. I didn't like killing dogs, and I didn't like killing animals in general, Raven's ravens notwithstanding (bastards startled me, alright?!), but tranq'ing them seldom, if ever, had any long-lasting side effects. So I was guilt-free. But apparently, I was too late on the draw, because I heard a voice calling “Winona? Whassamatter girl?” It was a man's voice – deep and rich, with a Southern twang to it. The farmer, no doubt. That damn dog (Winona? Really?) had drawn some unwanted attention to my activities, something which, in my line of work, is generally considered a bad thing. The upshot was that farmers generally carried guns with them to chase out rustlers, so if nothing else, I'd get some genuine armament out of this. Three cheers for on-site procurement. I made for the upturned crate and raised the lip, sliding underneath into utter darkness. I could still hear the dog barking outside, giving away my location. Not that I forgot to tranq it in my hurry; it was a tactical decision to leave the dog awake and to let it narc on my hiding spot. I settled into a kneeling position, holding my Beretta tightly with both hands. I heard hooves. Hooves. What kind of farmer rides a horse into a barn at whatever hour of the night it was to catch a rustler? The kind that doesn't need both hands to use his gun, that's what kind of farmer. So I'd get a handgun. Hoped it wasn't a revolver. My stomach growled again. I wished I hadn't dropped that apple. “What is it, Winona?” said the farmer's voice. He was right outside now, close enough that I could hear him clearly, even through the crate. “Somethin' under the box?” How many unwary sentries had inadvertently made those words their last? Not that I was going to kill him. He was an innocent bystander in all of this. Probably. "I ain't havin' a good night,” said the farmer. “Got no patience for this. I'mma count to three, an' I wanna see you in the open. No tricks. One.” I had this trick, back in my youth. Whenever some poor dumb soul noticed me slipping from here to there in my box, I'd sit still and turtle up while he examined my hiding place, and just when he started to lift the box to see what was underneath, I'd throw it aside, startling him, grab him in a chokehold, and snap his neck. Or I'd just shoot him. Or tranq him, or get him in a sleeper hold. It was a flexible maneuver, one of my favorites for that reason. I planned to do just that when the farmer inevitably finished counting down. “Two.” I thumbed off the safety of my gun. “Three. Now, I warned y'all—” I exploded from beneath the box, tossing it rather higher into the air than I'd meant to, and raised my gun to what I had assumed would be eye level. I was, however, stymied by the fact that the farmer was not at eye level with me. He was several feet lower than that. Also, no less importantly, he wasn't a farmer with an antiquated gun, but a small red horse with freckles. And he stared at me with the same incredulity that I stared at him with. The surprise made me hesitate for a heartbeat before I regained my wits, adjusted my aim, and fired. The gun emitted a pop, its report suppressed by its silencer, as the tranquilizer dart stung him in his throat before he could say a word. He hit the ground at the same instant that the box did, out cold. The dog didn't like that either. It coiled its legs and pounced at me, driven to attack by what it probably assumed was the death of its master. It only got up to hip level, and its teeth weren't so sharp, but it startled me, got the drop on me before I could ready my gun for another shot. I kicked my leg to dislodge it, sending it skittering across the barn's floor, but it wasn't done with me yet. It got its footing back and charged at me, barking madly. I raised my gun, racked the slide, and fired a second shot. The dog's momentum carried it a few feet more as it skidded along the ground, knocked unconscious, just like its master. Its master who was a small red horse. With freckles. I've seen and done some crazy shit in my time, and had crazy shit done to me in turn. Roasting my mentor being roasted alive. Seeing my best friend being ground underfoot beneath a giant robot. Being sniffed and groped by a bisexual knife maniac. But as far as sheer shock value is concerned, nothing quite beats the revelation that, wherever I had wound up, it was populated by sapient, talking ponies who practiced agriculture. Not a turn that I could have predicted. Wherever that Stargate-looking thing had sent me – wherever it had sent Pegasus Wings – it sure as hell wasn't anywhere on Earth I knew about. The pony would be out for a while (those tranquilizers could take down an elephant) but there was always the odd chance that someone would come across him and the dog. That wasn't a chance that I wanted to take. I stooped beside the body and placed my hands beneath it, straining to lift it into the air. For something that was half my size, the bastard was heavy. His body was thick, powerful, and bulged with muscles beneath his red coat. This was a workhorse, one that could probably have done some serious damage to me, had my trigger finger not been so quick. After a bit of effort, I got him into the air and slung him over my shoulder. Carrying him to the wheelbarrow of hay, I lowered him into it, then carefully arranged the hay over his body, leaving him room to breathe while still concealing him from prying eyes. I had meant to put the dog in there with him, but the pony was so big that there wasn't enough room for two. So I took the crate that I'd hidden beneath and placed it over the sleeping collie. The thing needed air holes though, so I picked up a pitchfork that rested beside the wheelbarrow and jabbed it through the top of the box. Instant air holes. I returned the pitchfork where I had found it and stepped outside. On a hill, not far from the barn, sat a red farmhouse, two stories tall and kind of narrow. I didn't think much of it at the time, but one of the second story windows of the farmhouse was open, and a blanket, knotted into a rope, dangled from it to the ground. I figured that some rebellious country girl had snuck out for a rendezvous, and briefly wondered how a horse would have been able to tie a knot with its hooves in the first place. The night sky was alien, but beautiful – a sea of rich purple, studded with stars. The moon was waxing, but even with a portion of it obscured, it was a good size bigger than the one I was used to seeing, at least four times as large. Gorgeous as it was to look at, that really got to me. It wasn't my moon. The craters scarring its surface weren't my craters. This wasn't my world. What an unsettling realization to come to. I drew a pack of cigarettes (a new brand that I was trying, The Boss) and lit one up. I missed Otacon's presence like hell, but if anything good came from being separated from him, it was that I could smoke in peace, without hearing the Surgeon General spiel. And I needed a smoke, right then and there. I inhaled a breath of rich tobacco. The nicotine filtered into my system, and my nerves steadied. I held the smoke in my lungs for a few moments, then exhaled slowly, watching it curl and dissipate in the cold night air. I wanted to savor the few moments that I had to myself, outside of that big red barn, beside that big red farmhouse, because I knew, deep down, that I wouldn't be having too many like it for a while. So I stood there, alone in the nighttime chill, smoking my cigarette and reflecting on the turn that my day had taken. There was a distant crack, a rapid sound, faint, but unmistakable as gunfire. I whirled in its direction, drawing my Beretta again. The sound had come from a ways away, I could tell, and there wasn't much else down the way it came from but a forest. I drew my scope and held it to my eyes, zooming in as far as it'd go, but I didn't have much luck. I couldn't penetrate that dense wall of foliage. I heard the sound again – three-round burst fire, terminating as quickly as it had started – and asked myself what the odds were that a race of animals who didn't have the digits necessary to operate firearms could have made that sound. I didn't have an answer for myself. Pegasus Wings had gone through the same portal that I did. Obviously, they didn't wind up in the exact same location as me, or else there wouldn't have been a farm left to wake up in. I found that curious. In any event, it meant that they were here, somewhere. I didn't have any back-up, nor any intel to guide me, and nothing at all by way of clues to go on besides the distant sound of gunfire. But something to go on was better than nothing at all. I drew out my portable ashtray (a birthday gift from Otacon) and dropped my cigarette into it, hoping that I'd get another opportunity to smoke before too long. Taking one last look around the serene farmland, I stalked away, down the path that would lead me into the forest.