//------------------------------//
// Climax on Route 47 
// Story: All-American Girl: The Third Law of Motion 
// by Cody MacArthur Fett 
//------------------------------//




Perhaps the most disturbing part of this new conflict is that the enemy can appear from virtually anywhere, and the government in Canterlot is either unable or unwilling to defend the common Equestriani. It is for this reason that the EFP has been forced to step up. The Fascist Legions have been retrained as a combat force, deployed to those cities where the EFP is in political control, and tasked with either assisting any available Royal military units in the defense of the region or operating independently to accomplish the same mission if called upon.

If you have brought the Equestriani Fascist Party to power in your district, consider signing up for the Legions at your local recruiting office. If the EFP is not currently in power where you live, consider joining your local chapter of the EFP Forum to bring about real change in your community.

Together, we shall keep each other safe, and when security is achieved, it will because were united.

Section from a EFP recruitment ad, circa August 2047.







Brisk watched The Boss climb into the Redsprite the Praetorian Guard was using and don a face-concealing mask with apprehension. He knew that he shouldn’t question his leader’s orders, but it was just too strange. Why his contubernium? Why this mission? Why bring the leader of the entire movement along with them?

As the side doors closed, the inside of the rotorcraft got much quieter. He could still hear the sounds of the twin rotors above them and the propeller in the tail, but they were distant and muffled. It was a marvel of modern technology that it was so quiet, but for someone who had grown up being carried around by pegasi, it still felt so loud.

The Redsprite taxied out onto the tarmac, and as the pilots communicated with the air traffic control tower, Dive Bomb chose to strike up an important question.

“So, is anyone else worried about the government getting wind of this with a satellite sweep or something?”

“I asked the frumentarii girl about it after the armorer's demonstration, and she says that with the war going on, all available satellite coverage is focused on finding the changelings and their allies. Nobody is watching the homefront,” Munitia explained.

“That’s where we should be, out there on the front line,” Tantrum said resolutely.

“What front line? These guys come out of nowhere, destroy two major cities, attack bucking Canterlot, and then disappear for weeks? This is insane,” Headstrong complained.

The sound of the blades became louder, and amazingly to Brisk, the rotorcraft began to lift off into the air. It continued to ascend and then leveled out a few hundred feet in the air as it accelerated out over the airport. Brisk kept his eyes glued to the door’s windows the whole time, and so did Decanus Snow Serpent, amazingly.

“First time flying?” Black Out asked him out of the blue.

“First time out of the city,” Brisk answered without taking his eyes off the windows.

“How’s that possible? Weren’t you born in like Serbia or something?” Firefly asked.

“Hercegovina,” Brisk corrected. “And it doesn’t count if you’re only there when you’re a baby.”

“That’s debatable,” Rampage muttered.

“Youse guys hear about those Polish mercenaries being spotted down south?” Razorclaw interjected.

“Buck, Poles? What in the worlds are they doing here?” Black Out asked.

“He said they were mercs, so they were probably here doing some noble’s dirty work,” Dive Bomb reasoned.

“Heard about that. They say they were going monster hunting and had a Ukrainian exoframe for each of them,” Tantrum informed them.

Dive Bomb let out a whistle while Rampage let out a grumble. “Why can’t we ever get stuff like that?”

“Ukrainian tech is expensive,” Tantrum reasoned.

“Yeah, so expensive they can’t afford it themselves,” Firefly cracked.

Most of the people inside the rotorcraft laughed at that, and even Brisk had to chuckle a little at the joke, but he kept his focus on the window. Well, most of his focus; he still found it odd that the Decanus was looking out the window too. Even as that thought was crystallizing in his head, though, the person of interest turned his head to look at him with mournfully serious eyes.

“Legionary Brisk Printer,” Snow Serpent began, “when I die today, I want you to take command of the contubernium.”

“. . . What?” Brisk stated, dumbfounded. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

The rest of the contubernium was silent, their eyes darting between the two of them.

“I’m not going to live through the mission. Today is the day I die,” the white earth pony repeated.

“Sir, this is insane. You’re not going to die today. How could you even know that?” Brisk reasoned.

The Decanus straightened up in his seat. “It’s just a feeling, but it’s a feeling that’s never been wrong before.”

“Sir, with all due respect . . .”

“Munitia, shut it; this is important,” Snow Serpent interrupted. “Brisk has shown the most ability to command, has political connections that will serve well, is devoted to the cause, and has the right temperament for the job. Now, I need to know that you’re all going to follow the new decanus’ orders when it happens and if he actually accepts the job.”

A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’s rang out through the cabin, but Brisk remained silent.

“Printer,” Snow Serpent demanded.

“I’m sorry, sir. Of course I’ll take the job, sir. Thank you, sir,” Brisk said quickly.

Snow Serpent brightened up at that. “Good! Now then, what’s this about Poles in power armor?”

After reeling from the surrealism of what had just happened, Tantrum went on to explain that they were exoframes, not powered armor, and some sort of normal conversation resumed. For Brisk, though, his uneasiness only grew. The decanus may have jinxed himself, but somehow, he knew that he would be the one paying the price.

Outside, the flight of Redsprites roared through the air in close formation over the treetops. Fifty years previous, it would have been a constant struggle to keep them from crashing, either into the ground or each other, but advances in avionics had turned the harrowing flight into a breeze. To the pilots inside, all they had to do was fly inside the green squares and listen to the nice voice of their helo’s VI when it told them to dodge.

It was those aerodynamics that made the transition from farmland and copses to rolling hills and forests so easy. All the pilots present had, of course, logged thousands of hours in and around the Manehattan area, as well as running routes between various fascist outposts throughout the worlds, but even still, flying nape-of-the-earth in close formation at 250 knots required absolute perfection, lest they all die in a horrible crash. A certain pair of pegasus twins would have called it exciting, but luckily, they weren’t on that flight, so instead, an air of calm professionalism permeated the cabins of the rotorcraft.

After just a few minutes, though, the range of mountains that was split by the valley Hollow Shades resided in started to loom large in the windshields of the Redsprites. They spotted a particular river and turned to follow it, eventually reaching a set of steel guardrails set on top of a miniature cliff above the river. There was a dirt road graded and beaten into the land, and just enough space was created where it curved to and away from the rocky river bank that the Redsprites would be able to land one at a time upon once the sensors finished their sweep.

The VIs informed the biologicals that it was clear, and so, the Redsprite carrying the Praetorian Guard and The Boss landed first, touching down with nary even a gentle bounce in the rubber tires of the rotorcraft’s retractable landing gear. With great rapidity, the Guards disembarked from their transport, carrying boxes of equipment and plentiful arms with them into the treeline. The Redsprite lifted off and passed by its fellow loitering above before speeding off to another location, its job done for now.

With its partner gone the Redsprite with 4th Contubernium inside repeated the process, gently touching down onto the gravel. In an instant, the collective contubernales slung their weapons, grabbed their gear, and filed out of the rotorcraft in good order. They ran towards the treeline, never looking back or stopping until they were under cover. Halfway there, the sound of the Redsprite lifting away could be heard.

They were all alone now. Twenty-one souls in a glacial forest on the foothills of a mountain range. As they made their way to their target location, the peaceful sounds of the forest were their only companions. It was there that they would make their trap, and it was there where old grievances would be settled.





Hours later, Brisk Printer found himself trying to resist the urge to scratch himself or urinate, having already filled up his bottle 45 minutes ago. He was lying prone in what felt like the dampest soil of his life with his shoulder wedged up against the backplate of the lead sled that was at that moment carrying his rifle, the sled itself being weighed down further with small bags of densely packed granules. His thumb briefly ran over the quadruple marks that decorated the stock of his Arisaka, leaving a streak of sweat over them.

Since the destruction of the Weather Factory in Cloudsdale, things had gotten weird for the residents of Equestria, with clouds moving on their own and raining as they pleased. For this region, that meant fresh rain the previous night and a great heat, even as the cloak of a new night fell around them. The result was that the humidity was unbearable underneath the active camouflage tarps that served as the hiding places of the fascists.

Brisk wiggled his nose and the skin above his ears in an attempt to adjust his HUD glasses in such a way that they wouldn’t fog up. It wasn’t any use though; vital information projected by one of the most advanced pieces of eyewear counterfeit money could buy was hidden behind a thin mist and tiny drops of sweat. It was a ridiculous sentiment in his mind, and not for the first time, he wondered what people were thinking when they said they loved nature.

“Sonar isn’t picking up anything; you should be free to wipe your glasses off,” Munitia reported helpfully from behind him.

Brisk gladly took the out and took off his glasses to wipe them off with the cuff of his sweater for what must have been the fifth time that day. Sun and stars, he was hot.

“It’s night time; it should not be this hot,” Dive Bomb complained from beside Munitia, voicing what was on all of their minds.

“I’m sure the temperature will go down; just wait,” Black Out said calmingly, despite his mouth being open like a canine’s.

“I like it,” Firefly said happily, rubbing the PPf-43 submachine gun in his talons affectionately.

“Quiet,” Minutia interjected, and quite involuntarily everyone followed her orders. “I think I hear something.”

The grey earth pony buried her face closer to the monitor of the device that was currently dug slightly into the ground with a parabolic antenna to boot. A dozen different lines flashed by over a waterfall display of green, until finally settling on something that the machine gunner found acceptable. She repeated the process and then brought out a small communication device and clicked the transmit button three times.

“Three Ford Witezes moving in close line formation. It’s them,” Munitia reported.

At that, the tension under the tarp rose greatly, the moment of decision fast approaching. Brisk tuned it out; he tuned it all out until his entire field of view was reduced to the iron sights of his rifle and the projections from his glasses. All he looked for was his target.

They soon came. Three black SUVs highlighted by the light of Luna’s moon rounded the corner of the road above. Brisk waited until the third vehicle’s radiator grill was exposed, right at the point that was predicted, and then acted.

His finger curled around the trigger, depressing the safety at its center and then pulling backwards with one swift twitch. The pulling of the trigger activated a simple spring-loaded lever system, compressing the spring at one end in front of the trigger by pushing it up into the gun, and then on the other end of the level behind the trigger a simple metal notch called a sear was dropped down. The sear had been holding in place another metal notch that was directly attached to the rifle’s firing pin, and with the dropping of the sear out of the way, the firing pin rushed forward under a great deal of spring pressure inside the bolt that was holding it to strike the small container known as a primer at the back of the 7.7x58mm Arisaka cartridge. Inside the primer, shock-activated explosives detonated, creating heat that jumped through a small hole in front of it to ignite the smokeless powder propellent in front of it. In actuality, the propellent was a cluster of crystalline explosives packed into the main body of the cartridge that rapidly expanded into hot gases to push against the back end of the snuggly fitted bullet. The fit was not nearly so snug as to make it unmovable though, and simple physics pushed the bullet out of the cartridge and into the barrel.

Once inside the barrel, the pointed ‘Spitzer-type’ bullet was pushed along by the still expanding gases behind into the twin grooves of the Metford style rifling. Using the rifling as a guide, the bullet spun down the length of the barrel, stabilizing itself for its eventual flight. At the end of the barrel, the bullet reached what was at once the most important part of the mission and its most redundant feature, the suppressor, essentially a metal can that had been precisely machined to match the dimensions of the 7.7mm Jacketed Armor Piercing bullet now passing through it. The hot expanding gases moved to fill the empty spaces of the suppressor, and with each passing baffle, grew weaker and weaker as they cooled and lost pressure. By the time the bullet passed through the rubber wipe at the end of the suppressor, the gases had slowed and cooled enough that they lacked both the sound of a muzzle blast and the characteristic flash that would give away his position. As a final precaution, the suppressor itself was wrapped in camouflaged insulation to prevent a heat mirage as the device heated up from repeated use.

Once in the air, the bullet spun lazily as it traveled through the warm summer evening air. By the time the bi-metal bullet had left the end of the suppressor, it was traveling around 5,000 feet per second, and at the range involved in the ambush, it crossed the distance to its target at a speed that was functionally instantaneous to Brisk and the other three snipers in the ambush. They couldn’t miss, and they didn’t.

The 7.7mm jacketed armor piercing round slammed into the front radiator of the rear SUV at nearly the same speed it had left the barrel at. Being a device of the communist scourge, it was, of course, armored, but just as demonstrated earlier that day, the round barreled through and ignited inside the engine block. They would not work again, certainly not that night.

Even as his mind noted the flashes of light coming through the holes made by Brisk and his contubernalis, his body was automatically cycling the action to repeat the process. His right hand slammed into the straight-pull bolt handle and pulled it back, revealing the internals that had been sealed by the bolt itself and the dust cover over it. The extractor claw of the bolt had worked perfectly, bringing with it the still smoking casing of the first 7.7mm JAP-DU round as it was pulled back, then, just as quickly, ejecting the spent casing out to the right side of the rifle. With the firing chamber now free of obstructions, he disabled the magazine disconnect and hammered the bolt handle forward again, the bolt picking up the cartridge in front of it that had popped up slightly from the magazine of the weapon in the absence of anything above it in the process. As the bolt came forward, the back of the firing pin latched onto the sear in front of it, then the bolt itself was turned into place as the six double-stacked locking lugs near the front end of the bolt were sealed without the possibility of leak.

All of this had happened in the span of about a second, and as his finger curled around the trigger, the process readied to be started all over again. Not now though, the Purehoof vehicles with their smoking engine blocks were rolling to a stop. It was time for The Boss to make his speech.

“Attention, this is a jacking. Exit your vehicles, surrender, and you won’t be harmed. If your friends and family pay the ransom, you might even get to home with nothing more than an interesting tale to tell them. Resist, and you shall be killed without mercy. You have sixty seconds to comply,” a booming mechanical voice echoed through the forest.





Inside the front SUV, the fear was palpable, but they all reminded calm outwardly. If nothing else, they were too scared to do anything else. One earth pony stallion in the back though was focused.

“Can we radio for help?” he asked.

“No, comrade, we are being jammed,” the pegasus in front reported, getting nothing but static from the communication system.

“Turn on the smoke generators, all of them,” the earth pony ordered before pointing at one of the many rocky hills in that forest. “The shots came from there, they had to. As soon as the smoke generators are going, you are to target that position for counterfire while we make our advance. These are not bandits, this I swear; these are enemies of the revolution, without a doubt. Monarchists or fascists, perhaps; the liberals do not have the stomach for this.”

“But Comrade Chieftain, surely they will cut us down from their prepared positions,” the driver complained, even as a great deal of smoke came up from beneath the vehicle.

“Our special surprise will take care of that, comrades. Do not worry.”





Brisk cursed internally as he saw smoke rise out of the SUVs to blacken the night air, suddenly very glad he had charged his magazine with APHE rounds hours earlier. As soon as the order came through, he would commence firing on the last position he had for the vehicles. He would be prepared.

Out of the smoke, a red laser stabbed out and swept across their positions.

“Searching . . . I see you.” 

The laser settled over the position of the Praetorian Guards.

“Dispensing product.”

There was a mighty brrrrrrrrrt as thousands of tracers tore through the night air, kicking up dirt and the shattered skull of one of the Guards. Brisk barely had time to rip his CCA-1h from its stand and roll back down into his contubernales before the lead sled and weighted bags were torn apart in a hail of shrapnel. Across the lines, the Fascisti scrambled to get a hold of themselves, for the ambushers had become the ambushed.

That damn dirty cyborg haridelle! I knew she couldn’t be trusted! Brisk thought irrationally as he untangled himself from Dive Bomb and the now largely useless tarp.

“Where did you go?”

The group managed to right themselves just in time for Decanus Snow Serpent to rush over to them with the rest of the contubernium in tow. “Printer, you and and Headstrong need to get a bead on that damn autoturret before it kills us all!” he yelled, struggling to be heard over the suppressive fire of the minigun.

Just to add more shock and confusion to the already chaotic scene, the night was lit in a dull red glow as multiple flares were lit, some shooting up into the sky while others were thrown over the hills. The fire stopped for a moment, and an exceptionally loud war cry rang out through air that only seemed to be getting hotter despite the drop in temperature. In retaliation, two of the remaining Praetorian Guard and The Boss himself tossed grenades over the embankment, but one was caught in the magical aura of a unicorn’s grasp and hurled back to whence it came.

That grenade was in turn caught in another aura before falling down onto the dirt road that separated the two Fascist positions. It hit the ground with a loud bang that coincided with the detonation of the other two grenades, sending shards of broken rock and dirt flying in every direction. On instinct, the 4th Contubernium ducked down to shield their heads from the blast, though when they stood up again, several of them noticed tears in their clothes that hadn’t been there before.

“Firefly, Dive Bomb, escort them. Munitia and Rampage, lay down suppressive fire on any Red that shows their face, pin down the hill tops. Tantrum, grenades. Razorclaw, Black Out, with me to The Boss,”  the Decanus ordered in rapid fire.

The contubernium moved at once to follow his orders.

One of the Purehooves tried to crest the ridge, and the CCA-2 assault rifle mounted to a small gimbal on the right side of Munitia’s saddle fired, sending dozens of 7.7mm rounds into the hill in front of him and tree besides, spraying up dirt and making him duck down. A well timed shot from one of the Praetorian Guard ended that threat, sending up a spray of viscous red blood and gray matter as the pony’s right eye and everything behind it exploded. As if to add insult to injury, a 37mm grenade -- bearing only distant resemblance to the flare design it was once based on -- fired from the six-shot underbarrel launcher mounted to Tantrum’s CCA-2 blew apart the tree besides him, sending splinters in all directions as the thin alpine trunk of the tree shattered; the remains of the unfortunate communists were flung away from the scene in pieces. To add punctuation to the whole incident, the tree collapsed and toppled over, its top catching on the branches of other trees as its bottom slid down the hill.

Brisk and his fellow marksperson paid no heed to those events as they ran away from the combat with the heads held low, trying to keep behind rocks and mounds to avoid the autoturret’s sight. Time seemed to slow for the four street thugs turned soldiers as they pounded through the brush, each new explosion and gunshot feeling like it was in time with their own heartbeats. Despite their warped sense of time, however, in good order and with great rapidity, they reached a spot they felt was off center enough that the turret wouldn’t notice them.

“I won’t hurt you.” 

Rampage rolled his eyes at the contradictory statements of the autoturret’s AI as it let out another burst of fire to continue the deforestation of the region. It was continuing said deforestation upon their previous position though, so he felt it wise to stick his head up and see what was about. He managed to see the disabled convoy, the smoke drifting away from it towards the ambush point, still coated in red light, then the autoturret that had come out of the top of the rear vehicle with its laser sweeping across the land.

He then saw something else and quickly ducked down before a bullet passed through the air that his head was previously occupying.

“Sniper!” he hissed. “Of course there would be a thrice Princess-damned sniper.”

“Ideas?” Firefly asked from behind the short but long boulder that he and Dive Bomb had taken cover behind not twenty feet away.

“Take your hats off and put them on sticks to draw his attention. Oldest trick in the book,” Brisk replied helpfully, and, though grumbling, the two fliers followed his orders.

“I got soft-point in mine,” Headstrong said while holding up his rifle.

“APHE for me. I’ll take out the turret; you take out the sniper?” Brisk asked rhetorically.

“Can do.”

“Sir, we’re ready,” Firefly reported, him and Dive Bomb holding their woolen caps by broken branches.

A brief nod passed between the two snipers. “Do it,” Brisk ordered.

The gryphon and pegasus poked their hats just into the line of sight of the convoy, and almost instantly, Dive Bomb’s hat was blown off with a new 0.311 inch hole in either side of it. Headstrong rolled out of cover and took aim at where he had seen movement previously. He was not disappointed when he saw a dark shape moving underneath the rear SUV in the convoy. He pulled the trigger of the CCA-1u held in his magical aura, and his suppressed weapon let out a sharp crack. The shape jumped, and then fell still.

Simultaneously with this, Brisk took aim at the turret that was turning to face them.

“Hello!” 

For the second time that night, Brisk’s Arisaka spoke, sending an armor-piercing high-explosive bullet into the ammo feed system of the turret just as it was winding up again. The bullet plowed through the thin plating guiding the ammunition for the minigun and into the casing of one of the stowed rounds, and the explosive core of the 7.7mm bullet detonated. That explosion set off a chain reaction in the ammo feed, rounds cooking off even as the feed itself flew apart.

“Ooohh noooooo!” the turret’s AI screamed in horror and pain, firing off the last of its available ammunition wildly.

“You got a screamer, Brisk,” Headstrong said appreciatively.

“Yeah,” Brisk agreed faintly with a grimace, trying to ignore the AI that was still screeching its all-too pony wail in simulated pain and the small flames that were coming up from the turret.

“Oh, buck, I think I’ve been shot,” Dive Bomb complained, looking dumbly at his left wing and the dark liquid dripping from it.

“Headstrong, tend to him,” Brisk said, slinging his Arisaka over his shoulder before pulling out his Mokrushin pistol out of its leather holster. “Firefly, top cover.”

Headstrong grunted in acknowledgement, pulling out a roll of bandages as he moved to work on a deliriously curious Dive Bomb. Firefly launched himself into the air with a flap of his wings, disappearing into the gloom. Brisk brought out the stock for his Mokrushin and attached it, bringing it up to his shoulder as he ran into the fiery night where the sounds of battle still raged.

By the time the young human reached the original ambush point, he found it in chaos. Trees lay splintered and broken, the ground was soaked with the blood of ponies whose allegiance could no longer be determined through anything less than an expensive examination, and all semblance of battle lines had broken down.

He saw Munitia lying on the ground in front of him, one of her back legs bent at an unseemly angle. She was still wearing her battle saddle, with the ammo box on her back and the feed for her CCA-2pe still attached with fresh 7.7mm rounds visible in the harsh red light of the flares. She was not responding to anything around her, and silently, Brisk prayed she was still alive. Whether Destiny or any of the princesses chose to intercede on their behalf before it was too late had yet to be seen.

He passed her, bounding over stone and soil with his Mokrushin held in both hands, stock digging into his shoulder. As he crested over one man-sized obstacle, his heart froze. Two Purehooves stood over Snow Serpent, who lay on the ground and was snarling in defiance. Brisk knew he had to act fast, and so he chose to shoot at the Red bastard who was aiming his gun at his decanus. He chose poorly.

A screwdriver-shaped bullet shot from the barrel of the pistol in a massive cloud of fire, leaving the slide to rush forward under the force of the third law of motion before coming back to chamber another 9mm Luger +P round. The bullet hit the pegasus communist square in the neck, the shape of the metal slug passing through leading to his flesh and spinal column being torn apart like wet tissue paper; the two rounds that hit other parts of his body soon after were no less bloody.

While that was happening, the earth pony brought his hoof down on Snow Serpent's skull. Bone snapped and buckled under the brutal assault, grey matter and ocular jelly escaping their prison much like what happened when a familiar gryphon had met his fate years previous. The now ironically named Purehoof showed neither pleasure nor sadness at the act.

In retaliation, Brisk fired several more shots at his decanus’s killer. The earth pony dashed at him, and the bullets either missed or were deflected off the Purehoof’s armor plating. The pony slammed into the human fascist’s gut and sent him bowling over into a rock.

Brisk coughed and wheezed as he struggled to right himself, sending moist carbon dioxide and spittle into the cooling night air.

“Do not despair, foalish counter-revolutionary,” the Purehoof said pitifully.

“Rot in Tartarus, demon,” Brisk coughed out, getting back to his knees.

“The outcome of this battle was never in doubt,” he continued, his left hoof coming down on the Mokrushin in Brisk’s hand to pin it to the ground. “After all, you’re only human.”

Before he could do anything, the Purehoof’s head exploded in a shower of gore and .223 TIMBS rounds. The tiny bullets and their discarded sabots rained down from above, piercing through armor and flesh with equal aplomb. After a short burst, the fire stopped, and the stallion’s body crumpled, the life gone out of him.

Brisk took a moment to breathe heavily before sliding his pistol out from under the corpse of the Purehoof. That done, he got back onto his feet and flashed a thumbs up to Firefly in the trees above. They had only one objective now: ensure the safety of The Boss.

They needn't have worried, though. They found The Boss just ten yards away, CCA-2 held in his magical grasp with a saw-toothed reciprocating bayonet attached, suppressor obviously discarded some time during the fight. He moved swiftly, the bayonet pistoning dozens of times a second, and with one fluid motion, gutted the Purehoof in front of him like a fish.

“It’s over,” The Boss said, the mask he wore distorting his voice into a mechanical gravel as he walked away from the fresh kill. He was addressing what was likely, from the the lack of sound, the last remaining Purehoof. The Fascists who were able were starting to gather around.

“It’s not over, it’s never over. The Revolution is without end,” the one-eyed unicorn declared melodramatically as he stood up.

“Cut the manure, Firebrand. Your ponies are dead, your convoy disabled, and you’re surrounded,” The Boss reminded him as he took a holstered knife from the captive pony with his magic and attached it to his own chest.

“Oh, you’ll find that I have plenty of tricks left,” Firebrand said dramatically, his singular eye brimming with mirth.

His horn lit up in a magical aura, but before any spell could come to pass, there was a deafening crack. His horn was cut in twain, and from it, a geyser of blood lanced up into the sky in a grisly red arc. As Firebrand fell to the ground in convulsions, The Boss whirled to find the barrel of Brisk’s pistol smoking.

Wasting no time, The Boss used his telekinesis to tear up a massive lump of earth and throw Firebrand’s still twitching body into the hole. The mound of dirt came down, and the unicorn was buried alive. With that dark deed done, the forest fell quiet for the first time in what felt like hours; the only sound that could be heard was the crackling of various fires that had started over the course of the battle.

“Hooooooo . . ."  The Boss sighed. "Head count. How many did we lose?”

“Decanus Snow Serpent is dead,” Brisk reported vacantly.

“The rest of the contubernium is alive, but some of us have pretty bad injuries,” Headstrong reported as he hauled Munitia through the air with his magic, her leg in place only with his effort.

A single black unicorn stood at attention. “I’m sorry, sir, I think I’m the only member of your Praetorian Guard detachment left. "

“Don’t be too sure, Decimator,” The Boss said solemnly. “It seems you have a new squad right here.”

Decimator turned to face the assembled members of 4th Contubernium, 6th Century, 9th Cohort, 1st Legion, many of them beaten badly, but alive. “Thank you, sir,” he said earnestly.

“That goes for the rest of you; you’re all part of the Praetorian Guard now,” The Boss said with volume before focusing in on the lone human of the group. “Congratulations on the promotion, Decanus Brisk Printer.”

Brisk merely stood silent for a moment, dumbfounded, before saluting. “Thank you, sir! I won’t let you down, sir!”

“See that you don’t,” The Boss said before the sound of a massive rotor blade cut through the night followed by several smaller ones. “Looks like our ride is here. Let’s help load up the convoy before we let the Frumentarii pick this place over.”

Brisk looked up and saw the large form of a Garrote superheavy transport helicopter darken the stars, three Redsprites close behind. It was strange, he mused. He should have been happy, but the promotion and recognition from his fearless leader turned to ash in his mouth. The ambush had been a failure, and they had lost far too much. His face grew hard as he remembered the faces of all those lost, and a certain song Gabriel had showed him years ago when the two of them had just met.

What’s the price of a mile?