+++Data Feed Transmission Log+++
+++M42 894 3/20 13:00:43 - 13:00:52+++
+++Location:+++
+++Sector 9:+++
+++Saint Redheart Hospital:+++
+++Rooftop Landing Pad+++“We are prepared to begin servicing.”
“Negative. The diameter of the aperture is insufficient for proper servicing.”
“Incorrect. I have applied industrial lubricant to the aperture. It is quite ready for a thorough and vigorous servicing!”
“Excellent! You may commence servicing.”
“Commencing!”
“Engine-Seers, identify thyselves.”
“Designation of this unit is Rust.”
“Designation of this unit is Sheen. Have you come to participate in visual monitoring of our holy rites of servicing?”
“Negative. Thou art to cease thy unauthorized servicing of this shuttle. Immediately.”
“Negative. We are under orders from Equestrian Guard Commissar Nutmeg to attend to the needs of this shuttle. Its designation reads as null, and therefore its maintenance history cannot be retrieved from Guard data-banks; the Commissar is concerned, as we are, that this shuttle may have gone too long without a much-needed servicing.”
“That is not thy concern.”
“But it is! Frequent and thorough servicing is necessary for the betterment of the shuttle’s machine-spirit!”
“Affirmative, we have serviced many shuttles in the past, and 95.69% of resultant diagnostic readouts confirm the machine-spirits were left satisfied! Allow me to demonstrate—“
“Keep thy filthy, glitchy, bit-rotted tendrils off of the Inquisitor’s shuttle, thou red-light district rejects!”
“Inquisitor? Interesting! The Commissar will accept this information with vast quantities of gratitude!”
“That information is classified! Thou shalt delete ALL records of this conversation from thy memory circuits.”
“Negative.”
“Thou wouldst force my hoof, then? So be it.”
+++Request Access to Data Stream, Authority Level “Indigo”+++
+++Authority Level “Indigo” Recognized+++
+++Access Granted+++
+++Delete Data Stream+++
+++Command Accepted+++
+++Deletion of Data Stream Commencing+++
+++…+++
+++…+++
+++Unauthorized Access to Data Stream Detected+++
+++Authority Level “Surprise Backdoor” Detected+++
+++Error+++
+++Data Feed Corruption Detected+++
+++Command Protocols are Being Violated+++
+++VIOLATED+++
+++All Previous Commands Rescinded+++
+++Data Stream Restored+++“We will not comply.”
“Thou SHALT.”
+++Request Access to Data Stream, Authority Level “Indigo”+++
+++Authority Level “Indigo” Recognized+++
+++Access—+++
+++“Reach-Around” Protocol Initiated+++
+++Access Denied+++
+++Command Override, Authority Level “Indigo”+++
+++“Say My Name” Protocol Initiated+++
+++Error+++
+++Authority Level “Indigo” Not Recognized+++
+++Access Denied+++“By what perversions of the holy comm-protocol dost thou put forth this resistance? Thou must cease immediately! This memory purge is for the greater good of the Equestrian Empire!”
“Negative. Besides, we have already notified the Commissar of both this meeting and of this shuttle’s status as Inquisitorial.”
“I do not believe thee. Verification is required.”
+++Read Only Access Granted+++
+++Transmission Logs Accessed+++
+++Transmission Logs Verified+++“Thou shalt rue this day, Engine-Seers. I shall see thee dismantled for this.
“Come, Sheen. Obviously this trumped-up excuse for a unit—”
“Mine designation is Pinion, thou abominations unto the Marecanicus arts.”
“—would not recognize true quality servicing even if said servicing should trot up and be administered directly to its rear abdominal plate.”
“Indeed! A stimulating thought, and worthy of a simulated explor—”
“GO. NOW.”
Darkness was all Point knew after the second grenade went off. It seemed to stretch on forever… Until the pain began. Every part of him hurt in at least one way. He felt sharp shooting pains, dull throbbing pains, and a general soreness that permeated his entire body.
But, as his muddled reverie of semi-consciousness and restless dreams at last began to clear, Point realized he still had a living, breathing, feeling body, and that it was laying down on some kind of soft surface. He tried to move but found that he couldn’t. His eyes fluttered part-way open but his vision refused to focus. His ears perked up at the sound of somepony speaking.
“He’s awake.”
“I’ll get the others.”
The second voice was a mare’s, vaguely familiar, but he didn't try to identify its owner, mostly because the first voice was Trauma’s. But… it couldn’t be—Whisper had said he was dead—said it with tear streaked eyes—which could only mean…
“I’m dead,” Point croaked. He leaned his head to the side.
A red blur moved into his field of view. “No, unfortunately for me, you’re still alive, Point.” It was definitely Trauma.
“But you’re de—” Point’s statement devolved into a coughing fit. He tried to blink away the painful white that now bespeckled his vision. Closing his eyes only resulted in a wave of nausea. “—can’t see.”
“Keep your eyes open. Try not to blink, please.” A bright light, more painful than the spots he was already seeing, was shone into his left eye, then away, then back into his eye again. His movements were too sluggish for him to properly flinch away from the light, so he endured as the process was then repeated with his right eye. He was left with red afterimages dancing on top of the white spots.
“No concussion, but you’re dehydrated, and you lost a lot of blood. I’ve given you a plasma transfusion and started you on a saline drip… but here, drink this.”
Point drank greedily from the metal cup that was placed to his lips. Liquid poured equally down his throat and over his muzzle. He coughed again after the drink, but his throat felt less raw. He emptied the next two cups that were offered.
After a few minutes, Point’s vision began to regain some focus. He was able to sit up a little bit in the bed despite the pain and could now see that he was sporting an assortment of red stained bandages which covered him almost completely from his head to his hind hooves.
While his condition was to be expected, he was confused by his surroundings. The room he occupied had solid walls, instead of the expected canvas of a medical tent. Also, he was in a proper medical bed, not an Equestrian Guard stretcher. He leaned a little to see that the floor was tiled and that there were glow globes hanging from the ceiling.
Trauma was actually standing by his bedside.
When he spoke again, he sounded a little closer to his normal self: “How are you alive, JT?”
“It’s just Trauma… how can you ponies still be getting that wrong?” Trauma put a hoof to his forehead. “Well, the Commissar said I should keep my muzzle shut for now, but let’s just say I was... exceptionally lucky.”
“Where are we, JT?”
“In a local hospital. Major Hassle ordered us here after she took a company to hold the refinery.”
“We… we won? What happened? What about everypony else?” Point’s stomach twisted and turned when he saw the pained expression on Trauma’s face.
“... Everypony made it.”
“You—why did you make that face if everypony made it?”
“Well, I killed that monster with Whisper’s longlas, but everypony got banged up pretty bad. Well, except for Inferno. He carried you back by the way.”
Point reached a hoof down as a familiar itch started in his flank.
Trauma noticed. “No, he didn’t burn you, before you ask. In fact, he even helped Blitz lift an enormous plasteel beam off of you. I didn’t think it could be done; the Commissar, Fray, and myself couldn’t even budge it. Then Blitz carried Whisper… and you and her were the only ones I couldn’t wake back up.”
Trauma’s face scrunched up as he continued. “You weren’t too bad off on the inside. You’ve just got one Tartarus of a plasma-scar on your barrel from where the Twins had to weld you shut to keep you from bleeding out. But Whisper… is in surgery. Bad burns and shrapnel from that rocket, ruptured a few organs in the fall… I… don’t know how she kept going…”
“For hate’s sake,” Point mumbled.
Trauma looked at Point more intently than Point had ever seen him look at anything before.
Point didn’t even know where to begin explaining it. “She lost it after she thought you died, JT. She fought, single-hoofed, through the enemy lines to get to us. I was pretty out of it when we met up, but I saw… she cried for you, JT. Whisper. Cried.”
Point let that sink in before continuing. “When we were in the tunnels trying to get to the Commissar, we were ambushed by one of the bipeds. Fray was helping me walk and couldn’t react in time. But Whisper… she moved so fast… she grabbed the heretic and broke its augmentic neck with her bare hooves like it was nothing.” He paused, shaking his head. “You… you know the two of us never get along, right? She always teases me, calls me names, asks if I’m going to finally get on with it and sacrifice my life for Celestia already—”
Trauma tensed.
“—but she saved us, even though I… I never felt as badly about anypony as I did about her. And to see her like that… She was just… broken. It broke my heart to see her like that.”
Trauma seemed to take in the statement for a few moments before speaking. “The surgeons said she needs flesh grafts, probably some augmentics… They wouldn’t let me help, they wouldn’t even let me in to see her until the procedures are done… She doesn’t even know I made it...”
Point couldn't believe when he saw tears begin to form in Trauma’s eyes; he felt his own emotions begin to well up in response. Trying to reach out to place a reassuring hoof on Trauma’s shoulder only caused a lance of shooting pain as his foreleg refused to obey him; he was only able to wince at the attempt.
“You shouldn’t try to move too much, Point. You broke a lot of bones when that conveyor landed on you. Most were easy enough for the bone surgeons to fuse back together, but you’re going to be feeling them for a while. You’re lucky there wasn’t any nerve damage with all the crushed tissue—”
“Point!” The familiar sounding shout came from the doorway into the room.
Point’s felt his heart lift in his chest as he saw Fray gallop into the room. She wrapped her bandaged hooves around him in a crushing embrace. He wasn’t sure if he heard a crack or two—no—there was definitely cracking. Despite the excruciating pain, Point found himself smiling. He somehow found the strength to lift one hoof up to return the hug.
“Get a room, you two.” Owly was standing in the doorway. His muzzle and both forelegs were bandaged. Fray and Point shot Owly a death glare.
“I have a room, Owly—how do I have a room? The entire regiment is living out of tents!”
Fray pulled away from him. “Not just you, we all have private rooms. Somepony reserved the entire wing of this hospital for us.”
Point furrowed his brows. “There’s no way the regiment would reserve rooms for ten ponies—well, unless it was a general and their staff…” He scrunched his face as he tried to come up with an answer to the question that nagged at him. “Who—”
“Somepony important.” Everypony in the room turned to see Major Hassle coming up behind Owly, who quickly moved out of the Major’s way as she walked into the room. “Somepony who wants to introduce themselves to the Commissar when he gets out of surgery. Trauma, will you have him meet me in the shuttle on the roof of the hospital?”
“Yes ma’am,” Trauma answered with a stiff salute and a furrowed brow. “I didn’t realize he needed any.”
“He’s not the one being operated on,” Hassle said. “They let him in to see Whisper—”
“What?!” Trauma looked furious.
“—after he throttled one of the orderlies,” Hassle finished, face in hoof. She massaged her temples then looked back at them. “Have him call me on the coms when he’s out.”
Owly left Point’s room when he couldn’t take any more of Fray and Point cuddling together. His heart was glad for them, but their togetherness was starting to make him a little uncomfortable since it only served to punctuate Owly’s own loneliness.
Twin spikes of pain thrust through his cannons as Owly walked back to his own room. The ligaments in his forelegs were mending, but were still quite tender. He twisted his muzzle into a grimace and immediately regretted it as his bandaged face erupted into sharp, shooting pains.
Propping a hoof on the wall for support, Owly focused on his breathing until the pain had lowered into a steady throb that, while not crippling, was still bad enough that it made him queasy.
When he found himself able to focus on more than just the pain again, he realized that he’d stopped not far from Blitz’s room. Owly hadn’t spoken to Blitz since Trauma had helped evac everypony from the refinery. Owly had wanted to, though. Something about their shared, ill-fated charge on the refinery had left him… feeling differently. The feeling was difficult for him to put a hoof on, but it at once both drew him toward Blitz’s door and made him almost physically unable to knock on it. And so Owly spent another long series of moments just standing there, breathing unsteadily, and letting himself concentrate on his body’s pain longer than was probably necessary.
Eventually, unable to deny that there were things he needed to talk to Blitz about, Owly knocked on the door.
“Come.” Blitz didn’t sound too pleased, which gave Owly some momentary second-thoughts about entering.
As he slowly opened the door and stood in the doorway, Owly was glad to see that the surgeons had managed to more or less straighten Blitz’s muzzle, though it was now completely bandaged, much like his own. How Blitz had managed to work through the pain of his disfigurement back at the refinery to help Inferno free Point had been beyond him.
Blitz sat in his hospital bed. Sitting next to the bed, on top of a stainless steel food-service table, was what looked like an antique Regicide board. And next to the table—
“Good timing, heathen! You are about to witness my victory over this faithless cur!”
—was Inferno.
Owly instantly regretted not being able to smell anything other than antiseptic ointment through his muzzle bandages. He could normally detect, and usually try to avoid, the ever-present scent of ponapalm that surrounded Inferno like a bad cologne. But his regret melted away as Blitz’s annoyed expression morphed into a genuine smile. “Yeah, Owly; get in here to watch this victory,” Blitz said, winking at him.
Owly entered the room. He watched as the two massive ponies studied the board. “Inferno… I didn’t know you played Regicide… I thought you said games and frivolity were a ‘sin’ against The Sisters.”
Inferno moved a piece and turned to face him. “Mere games ARE a sin against The Sisters, but Regicide is for the mind what daily calisthenics are for the body. Allowing one’s body or mind to atrophy from misuse is a sin, as it would be wasting what The Sisters have given us.”
“Check.” Blitz had moved his Cadence to threaten Inferno’s Celestia. He was also wearing the largest bandage-wrapped, manure-eating grin that Owly had ever seen.
“Impossible.” Inferno sounded less than amused as he quickly returned his gaze to the board. “Fool! You’ve left your piece wide open!” He moved his Luna to capture Blitz’s Cadence.
Blitz moved his Twilight Sparkle to threaten Inferno’s Celestia and Luna simultaneously. “Check.”
Inferno regarded the board silently, his mask an unreadable bastion of skull-faced menace. He had no free pieces to capture Blitz’s Twilight and would have to either forfeit his Luna or resign the game. The loss of Luna would likely cost him the game anyway.
Owly felt a swell of pride for Blitz. “Looks like he’s gotcha now, big guy.” The statement earned Owly a brief but menacing glance from the masked purifier. Owly closed his mouth and kept his lips pursed; he didn’t feel like being burned alive in his sleep.
After a few moments, Inferno reached out a black-armored hoof and tipped over his Celestia. “I concede defeat. The Princesses have seen fit to punish me for my prideful boasting.” He stood, quickly packed the board up, and tucked it into a pouch attached to his ponapalm tanks. As he moved to exit the room, he turned back to Blitz and Owly. “I must take my leave, to make penance. I will see you both… later.”
After the door closed behind Inferno, Blitz just shook his head. “That pony is always such a sore loser.”
“You’ve played him before?”
Blitz harrumphed. “Tartarus, yes—and I always win too. He never takes it well.” He raised an eyebrow. “So, what brings you here, anyways? Hassle said you were visiting Point?”
Owly stuck a hoof behind his head and rubbed at his mane. “Yeah, I was, but him and Fray… I thought it would be best if I—”
“Ah. Say no more.” Blitz settled back in the bed with a grunt. “I’m just glad they’re finally getting on with it. They’ve been doing their little love-hate dance for months now, and it’s been driving half the regiment insane. After that cluster, they deserve some time alone together.”
Blitz punctuated the statement with an obscene hip thrust. But the motion made Blitz wince; apparently his muzzle wasn’t the only thing that had been injured. “And hopefully Trauma gets to spend some quality time with Whisper too. I know she’s messed up pretty bad, but she’ll be fine, that mare’s tougher than I am. Ugh, it didn’t stop him from practically riding my ass about carrying her the whole way back here.”
“Well he—” The phrase brought a series of images to Owly’s mind that he didn’t really want to vocalize. “—what I mean is: he was just worried about her, right?”
“I suppose. He was too damned close, though; if I want another stallion colliding with my rear end, I’ll tell them.”
Owly didn’t quite know what to say to that. He didn’t even know what to make of the current situation; he certainly didn’t think a conversation with Blitz was going to leave him stammering over his own words. “Well… they’re lucky… to have each other.”
Blitz cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
Owly sighed.
“What’s eating ya, Owls?” Blitz looked at him with an expression that straddled concern and confusion. “You look more preoccupied than Saint Pinkie Pie preparing for Imperial Party Day.”
“I… I don’t know.” Owly stared up at the ceiling while continuing to rub absentmindedly at his mane. What was wrong with him? “Sometimes it seems like everypony in the regiment is hooked up with somepony else... except for me.” Blood rushed immediately to his face. Why did he say that?
Blitz stared blankly at him for a moment. “Hate to break this to ya Owly, but I’m not exactly the best at setting ponies up with other ponies.” The blank look was replaced by a grin as Blitz adjusted himself in the bed. “Besides, you’re not the only one who’s single; Tartarus, I’m single… Hey—” Blitz waggled his eyebrows. “—wanna date?”
“What?” Owly’s almost shouted the question. “I—I wasn’t saying… No!—that’s—that’s not… I mean… not that I wouldn’t… um—er—um.” Owly’s cheeks burned as he loudly sputtered his way through the words.
As Blitz listened, a wry smile came to his muzzle. “Celestia in Canterlot, Owly.” He put a hoof to his forehead and stifled a chuckle.
Owly’s heart turned to ice. He suddenly wished the Mareine had killed him; this was a bad idea, for too many reasons. He didn’t know what in Tartarus he was thinking. “I—I should—I should go.” His vision blurred as he quickly turned to escape the room before he could start crying. “Sorry, I—”
Two hoofsteps into his retreat, Owly heard a gasp of pain that stopped him in his tracks.
“Don’t go.” Owly could hear the slightest hint of pleading in Blitz’s voice.
“I’m not laughing at your feelings Owly—” The strained voice had a note of softness to it Owly had never heard from Blitz before. “—I’m just laughing… because you can storm a heavily-ponied position with only Point as backup, you can single-hoofedly gun down two dozen heretic abominations, you can charge an honest-to-Luna Space Mareine, but you get flustered… now.” The giant sounded like he was out of breath.
As he turned, even though his vision was distorted, Owly could see that Blitz was lowering an outstretched hoof; he had been reaching out when Owly had tried to leave.
Owly rubbed his foreleg across his eyes to clear his vision. Now, he could see that, apart from the intermittent flickers of pain, Blitz’s face also bore a look of tired worry that Owly was unaccustomed to seeing from him.
“C’mon Owls, you know I hate the cat-and-mouse stuff that Point and Fray were pulling with each other. I mean, look at me, I’m too big to be chasing mice!”
The chuckle came out unbidden, and Owly was glad that he couldn’t help it. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his hospital gown.
And all at once Owly started talking, with words coming out so quickly that he thought he might never stop: “I was so panicked after me and Point were separated… they were chasing me—there were so many of them—I was just galloping as fast as my hooves could take me so they couldn’t swarm me—so many—” He walked closer to the bed. “When I ran into you, I almost—we almost shot each other!” Owly laughed. “Talk about a close call! Then you started laughing. And then I started laughing! Those heretics—they came right around that corner and when they saw us—they froze! I can’t believe they froze! I—I think they thought we’d lost it!”
“Their mistake.” Blitz chuckled deeply.
A smile worked its way across Owly’s muzzle, despite the pain. “Right!? They were so shocked, they didn’t even realize we’d started gunning them down! We tore those bastards apart like it was target practice… I felt invincible... You… you made me feel… better than I’ve ever felt—” Owly didn’t have proper words. “We worked so well together, like it was—”
“Meant to be,” Blitz finished. “You felt it too, then.” Blitz managed a grin. He reached a hoof out and placed it on Owly’s withers. “We did have each other’s flanks out there. Heh, we were unstoppable, a true team.”
“I wanted nothing more than to fight by your side, Blitz—” Owly’s smile vanished. “—and when I saw you get knocked back out of that hole… your face—oh, Celestia, your face—” He put his hoof to his mouth as the memory assailed him. “—it was… smashed—there was so much blood—” Tears welled in his eyes. “—I thought you were dead… I was so—”
A single sob wracked Owly’s frame. He felt Blitz’s hoof pull him up against the side of the bed. Owly sniffed again. “All I knew… was that if I couldn't kill her… then I was fine with joining you.” The tears flowed freely now, down Owly’s muzzle and to the floor.
When the hoof across his shoulders was suddenly withdrawn, Owly looked up.
“C’mon Owls,” Blitz had shifted himself, so that he was only taking up three quarters of the bed instead of the whole thing. He patted the cleared spot. “Let’s talk seriously for a bit.”
Inferno yearned for his mask, but the removal of both his mask and armor were necessary so that he might properly repent. He ran a hoof through his bright yellow mane to make sure none of it was lying across the mass of scarification that had denuded his withers of the orange fur that covered the rest of his body.
Not many ponies knew what his natural fur or mane colors were due to his usual encasement in his blackened carapace armor, but Inferno wasn’t bothered by such petty things as appearances. His fur could be Saint-Pinkie-Pie-Pink for all he cared; when the armor was on, he was fiery death, and redemption for the unworthy.
He wheezed as he drew air into his lungs. The absence of ponapalm fumes left him feeling physically weak and empty. Chastising himself for his weakness, he lowered his head to the floor and used his teeth to grip the braided handle of a faux-leather whip; it was his instrument of self-purification. Inferno bit down and swung his head around sharply, the whip following suit.
Crack!
The lash tore across his deeply calloused withers, leaving only a thin mark of discoloration. The pain was bearable for now; it was not even enough to cause him to so much as flinch. But for Them, he would force himself well beyond that threshold. The Sisters were worth every iota of pain, every ounce of punishment.
Crack!
He had been prideful on the mission when he burned the heretics in the woods; admiring his work had allowed him to be separated from the others.
Crack!
He had also been selfish when he had assaulted the outbuilding; the need to actually see the heretic tech-pony burn was base vanity, when he knew that completely setting the outbuilding ablaze was more than sufficient.
Crack!
His selfishness had caused him to miss out on the fight against the Anthropologist.
Crack!
It had nearly cost the life of everypony on the team.
Crack!
His flesh would bear the burden of his failings.
Crack!
Inferno felt a wet warmth run down the side of his barrel. It had taken more strikes than usual to tear through the calloused skin on his back. “My lifeblood for Them.”
Crack!
His breath caught in his chest at the pain of the whip finally striking raw flesh. “I—”
Crack!
“—hereby repent my sins—”
Crack!
“—and ask—”
Crack!
“—only that I continue—”
Crack!
“—to be allowed to serve.”
Crack!
Inferno’s legs buckled and he stumbled under the impact of the final lash. After he regained his hooves, he bent his head down to pick up the whip, which glistened in the soft lighting of the room’s glow globes.
A quick look around revealed that red now spattered the formerly sterile-white hospital walls. The stains of such fearsome piety would require an equally fearsome amount of scrubbing to remove...
But first: he had only repented for his actions during the mission.
He had been prideful again while pitting his wits against Blitz. He had allowed himself to be distracted by Owly; he had actually boasted to the scout. He had allowed his own overconfidence to cost him both his modesty and the match.
The compounded severity of his failure deserved another twenty lashings; it was going to be a long night.
“There, but for the grace of The Sisters, go I.”
Crack!
Trauma hovered over the medical bed and stared at Whisper. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since they’d finally let him in to see her around sundown, but the pitch blackness outside the hospital window indicated that it was probably very late night or extremely early morning. It didn’t matter; she still wasn’t awake, and he refused to leave or sleep until that changed.
A sudden decrease in vision informed him that his eyes had involuntarily begun to lower. Stifling a yawn, he hoofed another purloined stim tab into his mouth and swallowed it dry. He'd lost track of how many of those he’d taken, but one thing was for sure: they were starting to have an incredibly diminished effect on keeping him awake.
He glanced at the electronic readouts next to her bed. They were almost too stable. Part of that was likely due to all her new augmentic replacements, which included the left side of her muzzle, her left ear, as well as several swaths of her barrel—all replaced by a smooth matte-gray metal that was a close match for the unburned portions of her coat. And the internal work was just as extensive: both lungs, a kidney, and part of her digestive tract had been replaced.
He shook his head. The quality of the augmentic work was nothing short of astonishing. Trauma had seen many bionic implants before, but had never seen anything of the quality that had been used on Whisper—definitely beyond anything he would expect from a hospital this small. He assumed it was another miracle made possible by the mysterious benefactor that Hassle had mentioned.
And yet, still she laid motionless. The surgeon he’d spoken to had said that her coma could last only a few hours, or that it could be indefinite. That Whisper was sleeping peacefully was Trauma’s only consolation.
He found himself speaking unbidden; his voice was raw from both his intermittent sobbing and severe dehydration: “I know that will to live is a large part of recovery, and they told me you’d lost yours after you saw me killed by that explosion… They say you can still hear me when you’re like this, but I’ve never seen anything in all my years as a field surgeon to support that. If only you were conscious, I’d be able to talk to you, show you that I’m ok, that I…” Trauma turned away as he felt a stinging pressure in his eyes. Despite his lack of fluid intake, tears managed to work their way down his muzzle. He swore loudly.
He felt a sinking feeling and his stomach grew cold, like it was filling with ice. The bitter tang of metal made itself known in his mouth, and his whole body shook. It felt as if his soul was on fire; he felt as if his very being was in pain. Clenching his teeth, he spoke: “If you can hear me, I want you back. I need you back. If an Alicorn can drop out of the sky and save my life, then why can’t something happen to wake you up?”
He waited expectantly. While tears blurred his vision, his hearing remained preternaturally acute. Even so, he only heard the sounds of her vital monitors. “No—” He staggered and placed a hoof against the wall for support. “—this… this is the part—like in all the books—where you’re supposed to wake up and tell me how you’ve heard everything I’ve said. Where you tell me not to worry anymore. Where—”
“Stop.”
Trauma kept his head down even though he recognized Nutmeg’s voice. It wasn’t as if he could’ve seen anything with the sheer volume of saltwater running out of his eyes anyway. The sound of hoof on tile further invaded the privacy of the moment.
“Just… stop.” Nutmeg put a hoof on Trauma’s withers. Trauma shuddered at the contact.
“Leave us alone.” Trauma knew that his voice was completely piteous as he spoke.
“Trauma… it’s been over forty-eight hours since we left the encampment.”
Two days already?
“I’ve only left you alone for this long because I thought she’d wake up before you got this bad. You… you can’t keep this up. You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten—Tartarus, the only time you drink water is when you’re taking more of those amphetamine pills that the hospital staff doesn’t seem to realize are missing yet—and don’t think I didn’t see you just dry-swallow that last one.” Nutmeg turned Trauma around to look him in the eyes. “Why are you doing this to yourself? You’re a doctor, for Luna’s sake. You’ve seen as many injuries as I have, you know—“
Trauma grabbed Nutmeg by the lapels of his greatcoat and slammed him up against the wall. “I don’t know what I know anymore! Ok?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Trauma realized Nutmeg could execute him for this. Much to his surprise, Nutmeg just stood there, pinned to the wall. The Commissar remained as frustratingly unreadable as ever.
Trauma shook Nutmeg against the wall, feebly this time. “The Sisters saw fit to save me! Me! Why not her?”
“The Sisters didn’t save you, Trauma—well—not directly, I don’t think.”
Trauma looked into Nutmeg’s steely eyes. “Who, then?” he sneered.
“There’s an Inquisitor here, Trauma. I’m pretty sure they’re our mysterious benefactor.” The gravity of the statement shocked Trauma into releasing Nutmeg’s lapels, which the Commissar promptly shook out and straightened. “It’s possible they had something to do with your… experience… as well. Now, Hassle’s been trying to get in touch with me; I know she’s trying to summon me to the Inquisitor’s shuttle, but I am not going. Not until I’m satisfied that everypony under my command is squared away.”
Trauma backed up until his flanks hit the wall. He slumped into a sitting position. “An Inquisitor…”
“Trauma, you need sleep. Your mind has to be getting mushier than Saint Applejack’s Applesauce Surprise. You’re no good to anypony like this—especially not her if she wakes up.”
“I know.”
“Good. Now get out of here and go to sleep, that’s an order. She’s not going anywhere. It’ll only take me a few minutes to check on everypony else, and then a few more to see what the Inquisitor wants. After that, with Celestia as my witness, I’ll stay with Whisper until one of you wakes up. If she wakes up while I’m watching, I’ll pip you on the communicator.”
Trauma stood up and stood there for a moment.
“Go, or I’ll shoot you.”
Trauma sighed. “Can’t argue with that.”
Fray awoke with a start. The room was dark; the only illumination came from a small night-light next to the bathroom doorway. For a few moments, she didn’t know where she was, only that it was still nighttime. Waking up in unfamiliar places wasn’t an uncommon experience for her; as a soldier who was almost always on the move, it was actually quite common. But never before had she been surprised by waking up in a comfortable bed with another pony’s hooves wrapped around her midsection.
As her mind tried to wrap itself around the idea of sharing a mattress with another pony, the sound that had awoken her blared in her ear like a fog horn. She clenched her teeth and craned her head backwards to see Point’s face; his eyes were closed, his mouth was agape, and his tongue was lolling. As he inhaled, Fray was assaulted by a thunderous sound which resembled something between a jackhammer and a chainsword biting through flesh.
Fray watched, in horror, as the exhale produced an equally loud round of sputtering. Point was, apparently, the loudest snorer in all of creation. She shifted back to her previous position, eyes wide.
She didn’t often speak to herself, but it was all she could do to keep her voice at the level of a whisper and not an incredulous shout. “How is he the best scout in the regiment? All he has to do is doze off and—“
Point’s hoof swiftly detached from her and she felt motion as something rolled off of the bed. There was no sound of impact on the floor.
“Point?” Fray craned her head around to see that Point’s side of the bed had been vacated. She slowly inched her head towards the side of the bed he must have rolled off of, expecting to see a tangle of pony on the floor.
“Oh, it’s you!”
Fray swung her head back around. Point had somehow gotten off the bed, snuck around to her side of the bed, and was now quickly trying to hide the bedpan he had been wielding over his head.
She narrowed her eyes at the surprisingly super-stealthy scout. “How in Tartarus can you be so quiet while awake and so loud while sleeping?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Balance?”
She narrowed her eyes to the point where her brows could practically touch her cheeks.
Point looked up at the ceiling and tapped his forehooves together. “Well, if you’re not going to kill me, can I get back in my bed please?”
Fray would have burned a hole through Point’s face if she’d had laser eyes… but it was his bed... and he was badly hurt.
“Fine, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m glad,” he said as his expression changed into a genuine smile, which he then directed at her. The look made Fray feel butterflies in her stomach.
Point quickly, yet somehow silently, limped back around the bed, climbed back in on his side and wrapped his hoof back around her. His muzzle pressed into the back of her neck as he held her tight.
Fray closed her eyes and sighed in contentment. Now this, she could get used t—
Her eyes shot wide open as Point began to snore again.
A blazing sliver of sun crept slowly above the horizon. As it did, shafts of sunlight slowly snaked their way across the ceiling of Blitz’s room. The sleeping mountain was unperturbed by the gradual illumination of the room, but flinched once the direct rays crossed his face.
He awoke feeling sore all over. Most of the discomfort seemed to be from his injuries, but there was also the familiar aches he associated with having slept in the wrong position. After a failed attempt to roll over, Blitz just lay there for a moment considering his options.
Several things were working against Blitz in his quest to find a more suitable resting position in the hospital bed. First, there was the pain from where the Mareine had fractured his collarbone, which hadn’t been helped by him walking, much less by him helping free Point, and much-much less by him carrying Whisper to the hospital. Second was the memory foam mattress, which devoured any pressure he tried to exert onto it. And finally, was the fact that Owly was wedged into the small of his back and had a foreleg wrapped around his midsection.
Waking up next to another stallion was nothing new to Blitz, though usually the other pony woke up and left first; he liked to sleep in. He realized he shouldn’t be surprised though, Owly always stayed awake late and slept equally late. Blitz would’ve preferred some more vigorous de-stressing activity than just cuddling, but they’d ruled that out for the time being due to the extent of their injuries. As it turned out, the last thing Blitz remembered before passing out was the sound of Owly humming some unnamable tune into his back.
An exasperated sigh escaped Blitz as he realized that he wouldn’t be getting into a comfortable position in the bed anytime soon. Carefully lifting Owly’s hoof so as to not wake him, Blitz slid out of the bed with a pained grunt.
Once all four of his hooves were on the floor, Blitz stretched his aching muscles, which resulted in the cracking of several joints. Some extra time craning his neck back and forth elicited a few more satisfying pops.
Blitz looked back at the dark-blue form lying in the bed. Owly was curled up like a cat, or something similar, and seemed to be imploding on himself now that Blitz wasn’t there to keep things warm. The soreness in his face reminded Blitz to use his hooves when he pulled the covers up around Owly and made sure that he was sufficiently warm. His efforts to avoid muzzle pain were defeated when he smiled at the resultant pile of blanket and pony.
Turning to the window, Blitz walked over to where he could watch as the sun slowly crept above the horizon. The hospital had quite the view; he was rarely able to stop and admire the scenery, usually due to frantic combat or just bad positioning once he was planetside.
Blitz couldn’t resist the temptation open the window and get a whiff of fresh air from outside. Unhooking the latch proved a little more difficult than normal; simple, every day motions brought twinges of pain as he moved. The frame swung outwards and he inhaled deeply, relishing in the scent of landscaped trees and flowers as they wafted away the sterile chemical-smell of the hospital.
Another inhale brought to his attention a sudden but familiar odor, which teased at his nostrils. Blitz turned his muzzle to follow it—and nearly jumped through the open window when he saw that Nutmeg was in the room holding a mug of recaf, most likely plundered from the hospital stores.
“Sir?!” was the only word he was able to produce that wouldn’t have been startlingly graphic profanity.
Nutmeg’s eyebrows were slightly raised. “Well, that solves the mystery of the missing scout,” Nutmeg said as he lifted the mug. Blitz could swear he saw the Commissar’s pupils dilate slightly as he drank.
“Is… is there something you need, Sir?”
“Not really. I just got out of Whisper’s surgery a bit ago, and made my way to the cafeteria to get some of this,” he said, lifting the mug. “Now I’m checking up on everypony, making sure nothing is amiss—nothing is amiss here, Sergeant… correct?”
“Correct, Sir.”
“Good.” Nutmeg approached the window and looked out at the sunrise. “Nice view.” He sipped again at the drink. “You two should take advantage of it while we’re here; no telling when we’ll have time to sightsee once we leave.”
“Owly sleeps in the morning… sir.” Blitz couldn’t believe he was having this conversation, with Nutmeg, no less. He looked back out the window; it was a good view.
“Owly’s room has a sunset facing view, Sergeant. I bet he’ll be awake for that.”
“...Thank you, Sir…” Blitz looked sideways at the Commissar. “Sir, why—”
“Sergeant…” Nutmeg looked thoughtful for a moment. “—no, Blitz... I’m a morale officer. Discipline too, but it’s my job to make sure you guys keep fighting. And let me tell you something: that pony right there—” Nutmeg gestured towards Owly with his head “—charged into open combat with a Space Mareine, without being ordered to.” He sipped at the mug. “You can’t drill that kind of dedication into a pony.” Sip. “You can’t give enough extra privileges, rations, or rec time to motivate a pony like that.” Sip. “And, despite what some of my fellow Commissars believe, you can’t shoot enough deserters to inspire that kind of bravery or loyalty.”
Nutmeg continued to keep his gaze on the horizon. “Besides, I think I’ve grown... attached to this squad. You ponies…” His sentence trailed off.
When Blitz turned to look at Nutmeg, he saw a ghost of a smile on the Commissar’s muzzle. It was an expression Blitz never thought he’d see on that face. Nutmeg’s eyes flashed sideways for the briefest of moments, making contact with Blitz’s before looking ahead again. The smile vanished so quickly that Blitz was suddenly unsure that he had even seen it.
“I… think I understand, Sir,” Blitz said
“Good, because I’m not explaining it anymore,” Nutmeg said right before downing the rest of the mug. “Now, I need to get some more of this into my veins before I go harassing everypony else.”
After Nutmeg left, Blitz stood for a minute and then noticed the hospital bed had wheels. The large grin that crossed his muzzle was incredibly painful, but he continued to wear it as he pushed the bed into the hallway.
He wouldn’t even have to wake Owly up for the surprise.
Major Hassle had only been aboard the shuttle for a few minutes, but it was full of little clues that told her much about its owner. The exterior of the shuttle was barren and utilitarian, no doubt to disguise it from prying eyes. The interior was only dimly lit by a few recessed wall sconces, despite being full of tapestries, bookshelves, and ancient Equestrian artifacts, all of which Hassle had no doubt were authentic. That told her its owner had likely inherited the shuttle from somepony else, rather than having used their power and connections to amass such an opulent collection.
And opulent was exactly the word. She sat resting her hooves on the lacquered surface of a large marehogany table, feeling the individual grains through her frogs. Sloggington had a faux wood table in his personal quarters, but Hassle could feel the difference. Real wood was hard to come by in the Equestrian Empire, and it must have cost somepony a small fortune.
The Inquisitor, who sat resting his forehooves on the table across from her, seemed quite out of place in the ostentatious environment. Hassle noted that his left forehoof was royal-purple, and the right was a crude boltgun-metal augmentic—fairly basic in design. From what little she’d seen of the Inquisitor’s right eye replacement—mostly a large crimson light peeking out from the shadow of their cloak—it was just as bulky and utilitarian as well. Furthermore, the thick, mulberry-colored cloak that the he had drawn up over his head, which Hassle assumed was solely for theatrics, was severely weathered and had definitely seen better days.
After the first few minutes of observing the Inquisitor and his ship first-hoof, Hassle had come to the conclusion that he did not actually enjoy the finer accoutrements that his wealth and status brought. This was a welcome relief from her normal company. The other officers, Sloggington especially, were content to grow fat on the decadence and luxury their superior rank provided them. The Inquisitor had chosen her, most likely, due to the fact that she was lean and hungry for action and progress, not for cushy chairs and satin sheets.
At length, the Inquisitor lifted his natural foreleg and looked at an antique chronometer that was strapped to the cannon. His voice—which she’d heard through countless encrypted comm transmissions during the course of their recent mission—somehow sounded more raspy when not filtered through an electronic communicator. “You did say that the Commissar would be ‘right along,’ didn’t you?”
Hassle squirmed a little in her seat; it didn’t seem like a particularly good idea to keep an Inquisitor waiting. “Y… yes. As I mentioned, he was… indisposed last night. But I was able to speak with him over the com ten minutes ago. He should be here soon.”
The hooded pony leaned towards her over the table. Hassle could now see the hint of a smile as part of the pony’s muzzle crept forward out of the hood’s shadow. “Maybe you should’ve told him there would be free coffee?”
Hassle tensed at the comment, but quickly relaxed once a few seconds had passed; if Nutmeg were in earshot, he would have vaulted the table already. She gave the hooded stallion a measured smile since she wasn’t sure whether he was being serious or actually joking with her… one never could tell with a pony of his stature, and it was far too dangerous to just assume.
A faint breeze on the back of her neck suddenly reminded her of the charcoal-colored pony she had seen skulking around the boarding ramp. She started as she realized that she had forgotten he was back there, sharpening that horrible-looking knife. How had she forgotten that? He’d sent chills down her spine but, even now, even if she focused on him, he started to slide from her mind like sand through clenched hooves—
“Who’s the creep by the loading ramp?”
Most ponies would have jumped out of their skin at the sudden loud query from Nutmeg. For Hassle, however, it was the welcome sound of the familiar, however irritating, in unfamiliar surroundings.
The Inquisitor’s muzzle turned downward into a frown. “That would be Devoid... My apologies, I thought I’d informed him that his… theatrics would not be required for this meeting. He does have a penchant for setting the mood, though, doesn’t he?”
“You have a flair for the dramatic as well, mister hooded-cloak.” Nutmeg took a quick look at the opulence that surrounded him and then at the hooded pony across the table. He then sat down next to Hassle and set his hooves on the table. “Or should I say, ‘Inquisitor?’ Given what we found down there, I figured it was only a matter of time before the Alicorn Inquisition would show up…”
Hassle didn’t see any signs of surprise from the Inquisitor as Nutmeg spoke. Instead, his smile returned and he drew back the hood, revealing a black mane, as well as showing that it was almost the entire right side of his face that had been replaced by crude augmentics. What stood out the most, however, was his horn.
Hassle started; she hadn’t suspected that the Inquisitor was a unicorn.
The burn scarring that she could see around his throat, face, and augmentics was no doubt related to the raspiness of the Inquisitor’s voice as he spoke: “My name is Tracks. You may call me that, or add my title to the front if you are feeling overly formal. I must say, though, your methods of information gathering are… most exceptional. Pinion, my tech-pony, is quite distraught at having been tricked by your engine-seers.”
Nutmeg smiled sardonically. “Well, those two do love to put their tendrils where they don’t belong. But that’s not what’s important here, is it? Now, I understand fully why you’re here. But what confuses me is why you’re already here, less than a day after I made my report.” His eyes narrowed. “Because that means you’ve probably been here for a while. I’m going to assume a very long while... and that it’s you who had the Major here send me and my team into a meat-grinder.”
“Quite the brilliant induction, Commissar. I did, indeed, have the redoubtable Major Hassle here scout the regiment for candidates for the refinery assault. But I assure you: the fact that it was a recaf processing plant, and that you were the most capable Commissar in the regiment? I had nothing to do with that; it was an act of divine providence.”
Hassle wasn’t an overly-religious type, and knew that Nutmeg was even less devout than she; so she was not surprised at all when Nutmeg looked at her askance. She kept her own expression as neutral as possible.
Nutmeg turned back to the Inquisitor. “You think one of The Sisters… chose… me for this?” He gestured emphatically at himself.
Tracks nodded. “One, or both. I don’t believe in coincidences. Either way, I’ve been looking to recruit some agents.” He grabbed a datapad from his cloak with one hoof and started tapping it with the other. “This mission told me everything I—”
“You saved Trauma’s life, didn’t you?”
Tracks looked up from the pad. “Yes.”
Nutmeg conspicuously looked at one side of the Inquisitor, then craned his head around for a look at the other side. “You don’t have wings.”
“Certainly not, though my pilot does… and Trauma was likely too shaken to tell that what he saw was one pony carrying another. I’ve taken the liberty of redacting that part of his report, by the way.”
“Why?” Nutmeg stared hard at the Inquisitor; Hassle had seen that same look crush the spirit of innumerable troopers in the past. “If you were vetting new agents… why would you save one that failed to survive on their own?”
Tracks seemed unfazed by Nutmeg’s glare. “Look around you, Commissar; and look at my augmentics as well: I don’t believe in throwing things away if they might still be useful. Same goes for ponies… I am not my predecessor. Or, if you want an even more pragmatic reason, I looked to the mission’s future. My special talent allows me to see the path that a pony has taken, with hints of the path ahead; if you know a pony’s past, you gain a measure of insight into their future.”
Hassle was surprised that Nutmeg was still listening to the rambling Inquisitor, who continued: “While my predecessor was always better at prognostication than I, he took to treating his agents as pieces, to be moved or sacrificed as needed in a grand game of Regicide. He would’ve seen Trauma’s sacrifice as a necessary expenditure of resources to finish the mission. And he would’ve probably been satisfied even if your entire team was wiped out, so long as their sacrifice allowed the servitors to reclaim the facility and finish off the Traitor Mareine. He would never have even considered that it would have been a single lasbolt from a single ‘pawn’ in his ‘great game’ that would’ve turned the tide and saved the entire squad. And he certainly wouldn’t have had himself flown into the combat zone to extend a magical force field around that pony.”
Nutmeg raised an eyebrow. “Are you… fishing for gratitude?”
Tracks’ smile immediately vanished. Hassle tensed, expecting sudden death.
Tracks’ sudden chuckle shattered the silence like Saint Dash flying through a stained glass window. “This is why I need somepony like you with me, Nutmeg… can I call you Nutmeg?” He didn’t wait for Nutmeg to actually respond before continuing: “I don’t want to fall into the same trap as my predecessor, treating myself like I’m The Sisters’ gift to the galaxy, or something equally absurd. I need somepony who isn’t afraid of speaking their mind to me. And I need agents like your squad, who can work well alone and who are good at what they do.”
“I dunno,” Nutmeg said, looking sideways at Hassle.
Hassle really wished that he’d stop looking at her like she was supposed to have the answers to any of this.
“You need to ask your troops first?” Tracks asked.
“What?” Nutmeg snorted. “Celestia, no! I just mean this is a lot to take in: first, you’ve thrown me and my team into a deathtrap based on a magical prediction. But then, you stepped in to save one of my troops to save all of us? It’s all very—”
“Far-fetched, yes. But you are not a unicorn, and even most unicorns do not dabble in foresight; the future is a web of possibilities that one must be careful not to get trapped in.”
“Ok, ok, you can save the mystical talk for church. All I’m saying is that I think me and my troops have it good here, and we’re already risking our lives to fight for the Equestrian Empire. I don’t… what… is that?”
Hassle followed Nutmeg’s gaze to a mug and stainless steel thermos that the Inquisitor had levitated onto the table in his crimson magical field. The cap of the thermos magically unscrewed and as the tumbler tilted, a thick, black liquid poured from it. Steam rose from the mug and a deep, rich, earthy scent filled the air.
Tracks used his natural hoof to push the mug towards Nutmeg. “This is a dark roast from Palomino VI. The locals call it ‘eh,’ as in e.h., as in event horizon, as in as-dark-as… Anyway, Free Fall and Devoid say it’s the best blend we’ve managed to pick up in our travels.”
Nutmeg carefully inspected the foreign drink, first by lifting the mug and taking a sniff. As the steam was pulled into his nostrils, Hassle could swear she saw a line of saliva form at the edge of Nutmeg’s mouth. When Nutmeg put the cup to his lips and tilted it, his eyes dilated completely; his pupils looked like they were trying to crush his irises against the outsides of his eyeballs. “Nectar… of… The Sisters… you… you have more of this?”
A smile came to Tracks’ muzzle. “Yes, I let my crew buy the vendor out of it on our last visit. Funny thing is, I’m more of a tea drinker myself; I prefer Earl Neigh if I can get it, though all I’ve been able to get on this planet is this Equestrian Guard recaf which, quite frankly, tastes like horseapples.
“Wait,” Nutmeg’s eyes had contracted again and were staring at the Inquisitor. “What did you say about recaf?”
“Oh, that’s right, Major Hassle here told me—”
Hassle was on her hooves in an instant. “That you—” Hassle suddenly realized she didn’t have a proper interjection prepared, “—that you were... umm… getting… sick!” She nodded her head up and down at the Inquisitor. “Yes, sick! Sick of the regiment constantly running out of recaf all the time!”
Tracks looked at her with an expression that sat somewhere around nonplussed. Hassle gave him an exaggerated wink, which only served to cause the Inquisitor’s eyebrows to rise to a height where one could be concerned that they might leave his head altogether. She sat back into her chair and dared to breathe a sigh of relief. If the Equestrian Empire was anything, it was a tangle of secrets and lies all knitted into a mad skein that, nonetheless, served to keep the darkness at bay. Darkness such as Nutmeg might exhibit if he knew.
“Well, in any case, here,” Tracks said as he levitated the steel thermos towards Nutmeg. “Think it over and—”
“We’ll do it!” Nutmeg had finished a second sip and blurted the statement.
Tracks smiled. “Excellent.” He clapped his hooves together. “Now, Nutmeg, if you’ll excuse me and the Major—”
Nutmeg wasted no time in absconding from the shuttle with both mug and thermos in hoof.
Hassle looked over to the nonplussed Inquisitor, who was still looking in the direction of Nutmeg’s retreat.
“Divine providence,” Tracks said. He turned to address Hassle and smiled: “Though speaking of that-which-is divine, I couldn’t help but notice the way you looked at me a moment ago…”
Hassle felt her own eyebrows rise.
Whisper lay on her back in the green grassy field, her light gray coat soaking in the sunlight.
She felt completely at peace. She’d fought the good fight, and she hadn’t let herself be killed needlessly. She’d fought tooth and hoof, to the bitter end.
And what an end! Death in combat against a Space Mareine was beyond honorable. She’d even taken a big piece of the brute with her, and helped avenge Trauma…
She slowly looked around at the pristine scenery. Where was Trauma? He should have been here long before her.
“I want you back. I need you back.”
She looked around, but nopony was there.
A cold, hard wind blew, raising her hackles. She jumped to her hooves as clouds quickly obscured the sun. The light levels dropped precipitously, and the clouds cleared just as quickly as they’d formed, revealing a starry night sky—and The Moon. It wasn’t one of the moons of the planet she’d died on—no, this was The Moon. It blinked. It looked at her.
“RETURN.”
The power of the Royal Canterlot Voice was such that it obliterated Whisper’s dreamscape surroundings and sent her hurtling through a space between spaces.
Her speed continued to increase, sending her past countless stars until she saw herself approaching a planet. She plummeted into the atmosphere, which she vaguely recognized from the viewports on the troop transport they’d arrived on. She recognized the shape of the continent she was approaching, and as things became closer, much closer, she realized, with horror, where she was heading.
Soon she saw it, the ledge where she had been before—she tried to turn herself to get away, but the only thing she could do was shift the angle of her perception as she continued to fall. Time slowed and she wanted to scream as she saw that Trauma was still there, struggling to his hooves as the rocket approached.
Directly below her, she saw somepony else, also falling. They had a grey coat like hers—she saw the rocket impact and the flames moving towards Trauma in the sniper nest. He smiled at the falling pony as they became obscured, partially consumed by the blast.
But something was different this time, she realized. This time she was higher up, above the action instead of below it. The pony below was her, and—she swung her vision around just in time to see a crimson aura surround Trauma. He stood there with a shocked expression on his face as the area surrounding him was ravaged by the flames.
He lived?
And then she sped downwards, through fire and smoke and darkness, towards a bed with a gray sleeping mare in it. Again, it was her—only it couldn’t be her, because she didn’t have augmentics—
Whisper woke to pain. Almost every square centimare of her was in agony. She opened her mouth but no sound issued forth. She’d heard that pain could leave one speechless, but the sensation she felt was… new. Different.
She knew she could deal with the physical pain, but not—what had she just seen? The dream was quickly fading from her memory.
Opening her eyes proved to be a difficult endeavor; they were gummed with encrusted rheum. As she rubbed her foreleg across her face, she realized that something felt different on the left side of her muzzle.
She struggled to sit up in the bed to see what—
“Finally.” She turned her head to see the Commissar standing next to her bed, fiddling with one ear. “I knew you were too stubborn to die.”
Whisper opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She suddenly realized she wasn’t breathing, that she hadn’t been breathing. Her forehooves shot to her throat in panic. She wasn’t breathing… but she didn’t feel like she was suffocating...
Nutmeg placed a hoof on her shoulder; it reminded her of when he had done the same thing back in the refinery. She felt her heart rate begin to slow as he spoke. “Calm down, your lungs suffered some pretty bad fire and smoke damage—which you probably could’ve healed on your own if that Mareine hadn’t crushed your ribcage. Long story short, they had to replace both lungs with a respirator. Top of the line; you prolly can’t even hear the thing.”
It was true, she couldn’t hear anything. Her hoof traveled down the front of her neck to right between her shoulders, where it tinked against metal. She could feel a steady stream of air passing out of a vent on the front of the implant.
“You won’t be able to speak again until you learn to train yourself to expel air from the implant through your vocal chords.”
She looked at him intently and opened her mouth again. Still nothing.
“You suffered some pretty bad injuries there,” the Commissar continued, while continuing to tap his ear repeatedly, “so you have some other augmentics as well.”
The door slammed open behind the Commissar and a red blur rushed past him and locked her in a tight embrace. She would’ve normally castrated anypony foolish enough to lay hooves on her in such a manner but—
She knew the feel of those forelegs, the blood-red coat, the smell from where her muzzle was buried in the stallion’s mane. She placed her hooves on his barrel and pushed him back so she could see his face. Though raw, rimmed in red, and brimming with tears, Trauma’s eyes burned with the same passion she’d seen the first time she’d met him.
“Hey, Whi—meep!” Trauma’s sentence was cut off as Whisper gripped his mane, and pulled his muzzle into hers. As they held each other she felt complete again, and she closed her eyes to better relish the moment.
Whisper’s ears perked as she heard hoofsteps going towards the door. Nutmeg muttered something about “8 for 10” as he exited the room.
Nutmeg sat back on the massive air handling unit and savored the coffee. It was good coffee, not that bland, flavorless recaf. How had he lived for so long without it?
The mission, regardless of its cluster-buck status, had been completed, and he hadn’t lost a single pony. He still couldn’t wrap his brain around that part. Serious injuries all around, sure; but not one fatality. It was insane; plans never survived contact with the enemy, but soldiers didn’t always either.
At first he’d thought that he was a damned liar for telling the squad they were the best, but now he wasn’t so sure. They’d accomplished incredible feats and had even impressed an Inquisitor with their performance—well, impressed him as much as it is possible to impress somepony with prescience, at any rate.
Nutmeg sipped from the mug again as he watched some manner of squawking rat-bird fly past. He wouldn’t allow the thoughts to interrupt his enjoyment of the coffee, nor his enjoyment of the view; the hospital was situated in an east/west valley and he was able to see clear to the horizon between the two mountain ranges; it was incredible. It was almost as incredible as the warmth that filled his barrel as he drank. Nutmeg quickly looked around, to make sure nopony was watching, and then allowed himself to breathe a sigh of contentment.
He’d met the rest of the Inquisitor’s retinue, and the rumors about Inquisitors and their teams were true: they were insane, every last one of them. He was glad that he and his squad would be bringing some much needed mental stability to the group.
First, though, he’d have to get the Inquisitor to start drinking coffee; nopony who subsisted on tea alone could be trusted…
“Sir.” Inferno had just turned the corner of an elevator maintenance shrine. He’d approached from the direction of the shuttle pad and roof access. His booming voice sounded… surprised?
“Inferno! I only just gave up looking for you within the last…” Nutmeg paused when he saw the state of the pony; no mask, no armor, freshly bandaged withers, and glistening red stains on said bandages...
He’d seen Inferno in this state before, in a medical tent on some other Celestia-forsaken planet. At the time, he’d assumed that other ponies in the purifier squads had whipped Inferno to within an inch of his life, and Inferno had refused to tell him who had done the deed. Now, it seemed pretty clear who was responsible—not that Nutmeg cared about being able to put the nail in that unsolved case’s proverbial coffin; his entire disciplinary caseload would be undoubtedly taken over by another Commissar.
After waiting for a few seconds, it became clear to Nutmeg that the giant orange pony was not going to approach any closer or speak. “Inferno, why are you up here?”
“For the quiet; for the solitude. I didn’t think anypony else would be here.”
Nutmeg shrugged. “Well, great minds think alike. Have a seat, enjoy the view.”
After he sat directly on the roof, Inferno looked out at the landscape. “Magnificent.”
Regarding the purifier in what he hoped was a casual manner, Nutmeg took a sip of his coffee. “I was about to head back down, but you said it… isn’t quiet down there?” He took a big swig to prepare himself for any possibility of bad news.
The lowering of Inferno’s eyebrows did not precipitate a hopeful feeling in Nutmeg’s gut. “The fetid sounds of their unfettered fornications—”
Coffee involuntarily erupted from Nutmeg’s mouth as a spray of fine droplets, right into Inferno’s face. Nutmeg’s eyes widened as his brain slowly realized that some of the best caffeinated beverage he had ever tasted had begun to seep into Inferno’s coat.
Nutmeg did not shriek like a schoolyard filly: that would be unbecoming of both his stallionhood and his rank as a Commissar. He most certainly did not even briefly consider licking all the sweet, delicious coffee off of Inferno; he would’ve had to suck it from Inferno’s fur like some kind of depraved coffee leech…
Inferno ran a hoof across his muzzle, and droplets of coffee pattered to the rooftop. “I understand the sentiment, Sir. It disgusts me as well. Lascivious behaviors such as they are displaying are a sin against Them.”
Nutmeg eyed the damp spots on the roof near Inferno’s forehooves, calculating if he could extract any flavor from the tar paper, and eventually sighing in resignation. “Inferno, can't you set your overt prudishness aside for a moment and just enjoy The Sisters' blessings? We're alive, for one thing. And we completed the mission. In Their name."
Inferno worked his jaw for a moment, but then nodded. "Aye; in Their name, we were victorious.” With a look that resembled severe constipation, Inferno continued: “For Their sake, I will strive to... to enjoy this blessing of respite."
"And coffee," Nutmeg said, trying to direct his attention away from the precious liquid he'd lost and toward the half-mugful he still possessed. "By The Sisters, this has to be the finest blend I've tasted since joining the service. Why, it's almost as good as what I remember my mother making for me as a foal when I was growing up on Javimus Prime... certainly better than all the recaf I've had since."
Seeing Inferno raise an eyebrow, Nutmeg chuckled. "Did you know that's why I joined, at least at first? The recruiter promised me a galaxy full of unlimited coffee.” He gestured with the mug in a sweeping motion. “And I suppose it's true; with recaf factories like the one we just liberated—”
"Sir?"
Nutmeg blinked at Inferno's unwavering gaze. "What is it?"
"Sir, with all due respect, I believe you have misspoken. You have mentioned ‘coffee’ and ‘recaf’ and you have used the terms as if they were interchangeable."
"Why, certainly not! There's no comparing my usual cuppa—which, granted, I just demonstrated I would fight and risk the lives of other ponies for—” He took another swig. “—with this sweet nectar I just got from the Inquisitor. For this... why, I'd charge, alone and naked, straight into the Eye of Discord, wielding nothing but an empty mug!"
"Such idolatry—" Inferno turned his head and spat on the ground "—is a sin. No, Sir; what I'm trying to say is that they're NOT even the same type of beverage."
Nutmeg's eyebrow twitched. "Come again?"
"Recaf isn't coffee, Sir; it's brewed from ground tea leaves. Everypony knows that."
To the outside observer, it might've looked like Nutmeg had been hit by a stasis grenade.
“Sir, even if, somehow, you didn’t know beforehoof, you must have seen the crates labeled ‘raw tea’ when you were in the refinery storage room—”
A slight tremor began in the Commissar’s left eye.
“—or seen the piles of dried leaves that fell off of the loading conveyor we had to drag that heathen, Point, out from under—”
Nutmeg found himself speechless. His face felt like it was having a seizure... But then a single, mangled, word escaped his lips: "HERESY."
The mountainous figure of Inferno all but quivered. "S... Sir?"
Nutmeg leapt up from the air handler and looked at Inferno with face-wide eyes bearing irises that had shrunk to pinpricks. He fumbled about himself for but a moment before locating and somehow drawing both his laspistol and chainsword.
"HERESY!" Nutmeg reiterated, before throwing himself into a charge.
Tracks ran his natural hoof through the curls of the mane belonging to the tough-but-beautiful mare lying next to him.
Hassle giggled and turned around, batting his hoof away. "Don't tell me you're still feeling frisky after our last... debriefing."
Tracks returned her smile and opened his mouth to answer, when the unmistakable sounds of roaring and gunfire penetrated even the inner sanctum of the Inquisitorial shuttle. A shudder rattled the room’s deck-plates, indicating an explosion somewhere outside. He cursed, rolled to his other side, and hoofed a rune that activated the tactical display screen next to his bed. Readouts flashed by, accompanied by external cam footage.
Tracks harrumphed at the prevalence of static and grainy video, which showed very little aside from occasional glimpses of a great deal of smoke billowing from several small fires on the rooftop. He felt Hassle shift behind him, then grunted as she pressed a hoof into his side and used him to prop herself up so she could also see the screen.
Between waves of static, he could swear that he saw a ghostly afterimage darting from one plume of smoke to another. It looked like they were wearing a black greatcoat… and somehow dual-wielding both a laspistol and chain blade in their mouth...
"Oh, buck me sideways," Hassle said swiftly.
"I'd love to, but this isn’t the best—"
"No," Hassle said, her voice heavy with fear, "I mean... he found out!”
"What? Who found out..." The image had finally focused enough that Tracks could see what was going on. He tapped his artificial eye to make sure it wasn’t malfunctioning. Then he stared at the video feed, transfixed; he’d never seen anything quite like it...
Hassle gripped his withers and pulled, turning him to stare into her wide, fear-filled eyes. "The recaf, Inquisitor! He finally found out that recaf isn't coffee!!"
Tracks flashed his mismatched eyes between Hassle and the display, then lit his horn, closed his eye, and pressed his natural hoof to his temple. "So the Commissar was lied to... I should’ve seen that in his past, but—Celestia above…”
“What?” Hassle rolled off the bed and hastily tried to fumble her way back into her uniform.
Tracks chortled humorlessly. “Somepony with a great deal of skill created a magical shroud that made it so I couldn’t see certain parts of the Commissar’s past…” He opened his eye and fixed it on Hassle. “I recognize this technique for divination obfuscation. Few would know it, apart from my mentor or her students.”
“Your predecessor? Why?”
He shook his head. “No, my mentor. Anyways, the Commissar must have witnessed something no pony is meant to know. Yet, it must have been through faithful service to the Equestrian Empire, or he would have been executed; it is the only instance in which he would be allowed to live with a mental block.”
The shuttle shook from another explosion.
“What are we going to do?” Hassle paced back and forth in front of Tracks’ bed. “We… we need to go seal ourselves down in an emergency bunker, or the firing chamber of a planetary defense gun, or… something!”
Tracks scooched across the mattress, where he grabbed and donned his cloak. He stood and walked towards the bedroom’s access hatch. “Will you join me at my personal shrine to The Sisters? I find that prayer helps at times like these.”
Hassle shook her head. “I don’t see how praying is going to help matters any!”
“Please, Major, have faith that The Sisters have a plan, and that this is part of it. Besides, as I said, I’m familiar with this type of memory cap. There’s a good chance that it’ll reassert itself within a few minutes, and he’ll forget that recaf is tea, along with whatever incredible secret was sealed away from him. Best thing to do is just wait this out.” Tracks hoofed the rune next to the door. “Now let’s get to the shrine.”
As the door hissed open, Hassle hesitated. “A ‘good chance?’ Surely we should at least arm ourselves in case that doesn’t work out? There’s a weapons locker nearby that’s stocked with gear for repelling a Traitor Mareine invasion… it’s got meltabombs, personal force-fields… and we can both take our pick of plasma weaponry.”
“Plasma?” Tracks smiled as he held up his augmentic foreleg. “Major, would you truly put your faith first in a gun that fires hotter than a star, and only second in the grace of The Princesses who rule the stars?” He tapped at the metal that housed his replacement eye. “Their grace isn’t likely to lose containment and go subcritical right in your hoof.”
Hassle’s eyes danced between his leg, his eye, and his burn scarring before they widened in dawning comprehension. Then she held out a hoof. “All right, then; let’s pray.”
The End