Viral

by AnchorsAway

Chapter 3: Whiplash

— New Canterlot, Equestria Republic, April 12-16, 1021 A.V.

Whiplash: Two contacts! Two contacts closing in fast!  

Clipper: Bank right. They’re right on top of us! 

Thundercell: High-band comms are down! Does anypony have Command on their radio?

Feldwing: I've got nothing. Significant interference across all channels. Everything is fried.

Whiplash: Worry about that later. Who just buzzed us? Was it our own?

Feldwing: None of our assets are reported to be in the area.

Thundercell: Whiplash, it’s not one of our—

[Thud]

Clipper: What in Tartarus was that?

Feldwing: Thundercell? Thundercell! Something hit Thundercell. My wingpony is gone!

Whiplash: Come about and assume fire positions! Where is she, Feldwing? Where’s Thundercell? Do you see her?

Feldwing: I–I­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ see her! There.

Whiplash: Keep an eye on her, Thundercell. Don’t let her out of your sights. Where are these things, Clip?

Feldwing: She's spinning. Oh, oh, stars. I think she's unconscious.

Whiplash: Go after her, Feldwing. Now! Push her suit into a glide. We'll engage. Clipper, stagger on my port. Give me bearings to contacts.

Clipper: What hit Thundercell? Did you see it? 

Whiplash: Bearing, Clip! Focus. Give us an intercept course to contacts, just like the drills.

Clipper: R–Right. Two targets on forward radar bearing zero-eight-one degrees, altitude one thousand feet. Come about to course three-five-two for intercept point at a quarter mile range.

Whiplash: Banking left. Did you get a positive ID on those contacts? 

Clipper: Negative from flight computers. No know flightsuit matches —unidentified. 

Whiplash: Roger, arm MAG cannons. Wait for authorization to fire. 

Clipper: I don't think this is anything jet-powered, Whip. It’s quiet; ID systems are having a hard enough time hearing these things. 

Whiplash: Sweet Celestia, these things are fast. Increasing throttle. 

Clipper: Coming up on half a mile to targets. They’re holding close formation bearing zero-three-five relative. Do we have visual? 

[silence]

Whip? Talk to me bud.

Whiplash: That’s no flightsuit. 

Clipper: Repeat your last. Speak up, I can barely hear you. We are almost to the fire point. Do you have visual ID on the targets?

Whiplash: Those things aren’t… pony. Clip, we need that communication line open NOW!

Clipper: What in Tartarus are those — seven hundred feet and closing fast! I need an order, Major! Do I fire? 

[silence]

Major!

Whiplash: Do it. FIRE!

[MAG discharge]

Clipper: Direct hit! One contact neutralized. 

Whiplash: Where is the second contac—

[Bang]

Whiplash: Ahh! Get it off! Get it off! It’s on my suit!

Clipper: Pull up, you’re falling too fast! 

Whiplash: Get it off me, Clipper! It’s got a latch on my suit!

[Hiss, a struggle]

Whiplash: Ah! Wh–where did it go? My engine, it ripped open my engine! Port plant disabled. Losing velocity! 

Clipper: It’s getting away! What do I do? I–I don't know what to do, Major.

Whiplash: Can’t keep her level. I’m going to have to ease her out and try to put my suit down softly. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage solo. Find Feldwing and Thundercell. 

Clipper: But, sir—

Whiplash: Go, you feathered idiot! Find the others!

[long pause]

Canterlot Command, this is Major Whiplash. Do you read, over?

[static]

Command, Command, this is Major Whiplash in the blind. I have engine failure, and I'm losing altitude, over. I am preparing to attempt an eject from my JUMPsuit over Ponyville.

[static]

Ejecting!

[static]

What the – release unit is damaged! I cannot bail out, Command, I cannot eject! Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Major Whiplash of the Wonderbolts Rapid Response Wing in the blind, I have engine failure and cannot eject. I am attempting an emergency landing outside Ponyville. Does anybody read me, over? 

[static]

Clip?

[static]

Shit! I’m going down too fast! Mayday! Mayday! Mayd—

End of recording.

—File sealed by order of Director Hemthorn, Equestrian Defence Coalition

The emergency lights blinked on, the royal bunker pulling power from the arcana reactor buried deep within the mountain.
“Your Highnesses, we've lost contact with Major Whiplash and the rest of his team. Externals are offline." Brass wiped the sweat from his brow. The ventilation had shut down with the power surge, and it was quickly getting hot, sweat beading on his coat. “We’ve got teams investigating the surge, but it looks like it's coming from up top. Airwaves are scrambled with interference. Were reduced to physical messages until then.”
Luna put on a brave face, trying to retain her calm demeanor. Her sister only held her head in her hooves, her eyes boring into the concrete floor. Luna wasn’t sure how much more Celestia could take.
Luna massaged her temples and adjusted herself. She had to stay vigilant, focused. As it always was, lives were on the line. Lives that were now in their hooves.
“Keep trying, Brass. Send a messenger to Wonderbolt hanger and get the first wing airborne.” She looked to her sister, studying her. “You doth seen that thing, too, before the video cut out? What was that?"
“I’m not sure what I saw,” Celestia answered, her eyes closing tightly, her voice hardly a whisper.
“And if this be a preemptive strike by an enemy?”
“Then we have some of our best Wonderbolts investigating; Wonderbolts that are well versed in what constitutes retaliation.”
“And if they be already dead?” The reality was bleak, but the fact that she would possibly have to face.
“Then there will be memorials and wreaths,” Celestia sighed. “As there always is.”

“Mechanical Arcana Generator integrity at forty-five percent. External damage to containment vessel confirmed.”

Whiplash’s eyes cracked open, the pegasus pulled from the bottomless depths of unconsciousness. The voice was tinny, buzzing in his ear like a metal insect. He gasped, his lungs coughing and sputtering on the dust caught in his throat. A deep groan escaped his lips, slipping between his cracked lips. His head felt like it had split open, his vision a blanket of bright white light that throbbed in tune with his pounding head. His ears, though they were ringing badly, could hear the voice again, cold and robotic.

“MAG cannon integrity at thirty-five percent.”

His vision was clearing, objects slowly coming into focus, as did the pain. Spikes of hot stitches crept up his left foreleg. He cried out, the scream echoing and muffled by his battered flight helmet. It was cramped, the helmet slowly suffocating him with his hot breath. He had to get out his sloshed brain screamed at him.
He ripped the helmet off with his uninjured foreleg, huffing and blinking against the dust circling him. The rich smell of hydraulic fluid and jet fuel muddled with smoke filled his nostrils. The fumes burned and stung his eyes and sinuses further.
He could hear somewhat now, everything: the sirens, ponies crying, those trapped under the collapsed buildings calling out to those desperately trying to dig them out.
Something was falling from the sky, slowly floating down like soft, grey snowflakes. Whiplash reached out, the particles settling softly on his fur. It was ash.

“MAG cannon integrity at twenty-five percent. Arcana energy leak detected.”

It was his flight computer; or what was left of it, the Major finally gathering his bearings.
He had landed smack dab in the center of Ponyville, right in the heart of the chaos. But how he had arrived was still fuzzy, his brain still spinning in his skull.
He had touched down — crashed — in a vacant lot, a deep rut strewn with avionics and debris cutting through a path of singed grass. His flightsuit’s port wing must have caught first, the wing ripped from his aircraft, leaving only a jagged hole in its place. Whiplash could see the sharp wing embedded in the ground at the other end of the lot, leaning against a welcome sign for a motel.
He had been lucky, or as fortunate as he could have been in his situation. A few more feet to the left, and he would have impacted asphalt. A few more to the right, they would have been pulling him out the crumbling walls of the cheap motel. The overgrown and abandoned lot had cushioned his fall and saved his life. Not that he could remember the crash, only desperately trying to keep his JUMPsuit in a stable glide.
And something hitting him? Another pegasus? Or something else with wings? The more he tried to clear his head, the dizzier he became.
Jet Utilized Main Propulsion suit, he scoffed to himself. More like, Just Use More Pegasi. The solution seemed better at the moment than encasing oneself in a quarter ton of avionics with high octane fuel. He was going to be sick.

“MAG cannon integrity at fifteen percent. Containment failing. Proceed to safe distance.”

The remaining wing of his suit was glowing hot, the metal radiating orange and smoldering from the foot-long gash in the thin fuselage. Straining his neck, Whiplash could see the arcana energy cannon, damaged inside. It didn’t take long to realize the arcana generator’s coolant system was punctured, the vessel slowly leaking the crucial vapor that kept the volatile magical energy in its stable state. And at this rate, it was going to blow.
The thought of being reduced to nothing but a crater quickly galvanized a reaction, Whiplash struggled against his wretched suit, fruitlessly trying to heave what remained of the aircraft upright.
“Come on,” he grunted, fighting through the pain shooting up his foreleg to no prevail. But it was no use; everything was all dead weight, a sarcophagus bolted around him.
Whiplash clawed at his chest plate, blindly groping for the panel he was searching for.
“Where is it, where is it!” he hissed, teeth clenched tight.

“MAG cannon integrity at ten percent. Arcana leak detected.

Whiplash could spot the mesmeric purple energy fizzling in the air out the corner of his eye. With ten times the energy potential of a unicorn's spell, arcana was a reactive as dynamite in a furnace. It only made him struggle harder.
Suddenly his hoof found purchase, grasping the port stenciled ‘MANUAL RELEASE’ in black, blocky letters. His hoof wrapped around it tightly, gripping the stubby red toggle lever. He squeezed his eyes tight and with a small gasp, he wrenched down on it hard.
Nothing. It didn’t budge.
He was sweating profusely, bullets of perspiration dripping down his face. The heat was quickly spreading from his damaged MAG, cooking him from the inside.
“Release, you stupid hunk of junk,” he seethed through gritted teeth, molars about to explode from the pressure.

“MAG cannon integrity at five percent. Warning! Arcana containment breach!”

“I heard you the first time!” Whiplash screamed at the computer, ripping down on the handle.
Bang!
The explosive bolts holding the sections of the JUMPsuit together shot into the sky like rockets. Whiplash shed the ruined suit in an instant. He was free, but far from safe.
Whiplash ran, ran as hard as he could. Behind him, he could hear his suit’s MAG cannon buzzing and popping, molten metal dripping from the wing. The agony in his broken foreleg was unbearable, hot tears squeezing from his bloodshot eyes, their thin capillaries bursting like balloons. He knew he only had another second before he was toast. He saw his one option and lept for it.
Whiplash dove for the roadside ditch, the critically damaged weapon erupting in a rolling flash of brilliant iridescent colors. Shockwaves of magical energy lifted the pegasus, hurling him into the muddy ditchwater. The pressure wave collapsed in an instant, the air sucked from his lungs as he covered himself from the debris that shot overhead in the backblast. Suit and smoke were blown in all directions, a piece of metal bounding off the blacktop inches above his head.
For several tense moments, he did not move, the Wonderbolt indistinguishable from the rubbish cast into the foul ditch. The rolling thunder of the explosion slowly subsided, replaced again with the emergency sirens and the calls for help among the wreckage of Ponyville.
Like a monster rising from a bog, Whiplash lifted himself from the mud. It dripped off his body in thick globs, slithering back down into the muck sucking at his hooves.
He held his broken leg against his chest, his left wing bent backward against his lacerated back. Whiplash couldn’t feel the pain, not yet. Adrenaline was still pumping through him like an overflowing river. He could only surmount he had hurt it in the crash and was only now fully realizing it. The pain to remind him would come soon enough.
What would have been a small hop out of foul ditch festered before him into several agonizing minutes. The Wonderbolt slowly pulled his way out of the trench hoof by hoof, collapsing onto the littered pavement with a wet slap.
He gasped for breath, hauling himself onto three very shaky hooves. Swiping at his face, he wiped away the unholy amalgamation of mud and algae covering his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t good.
Everything around him for blocks was blasted. Buildings leaned on broken foundations, waiting to give way at any moment. Fires raged across the township as Whiplash stumbled through the smoke that wafted over the deserted road. Glass, thousands of tiny diamonds, tinkled under his hooves; not a single window for miles around had been spared.
Dust filled the air, mingling with the smoke to blot out the sun. It hung above him, a pale, white orb struggling to pierce the dirty blanket covering Ponyville. Whatever dark portal his comrades had encountered in the sky was gone, and Whiplash wondered if it had all been real. The sight of the unearthly lighting and the black, bubbling barrier had seemed so real. And then there had been the contacts.
Something had knocked the veteran flyer out the sky. Whiplash had flashes, perhaps a short glimpse of… something. His head was still reeling as he staggered down the ruined streets of Ponyville, images not of a flightsuit with burning engines, but something else. The strange recollections danced across his sluggish synapses. Something with a coat like black glass. And the two eyes, twin bright orbs glowing a sickly cerulean blue. Something hostile, tearing through his engine like paper mache.
Whiplash shivered involuntarily, his skin crawling at the intense, if muddied, memory. If that thing was still out there, were these ponies in danger, he asked himself. And what of the rest of his team, Clipper, Feldwing? Thundercell, did she make it?
Whiplash faltered, nearly falling to the pavement. His strength was almost gone, and he wavered aimlessly past the motel. His flightsuit’s wing still leaned against the dilapidated welcome sign despite his aircraft’s fiery finish.
A few ponies galloped past him, unaware of his disheveled presence as if he weren’t even there. Some ponies were crying. Others were pulling the injured from the devastation. But most just ambling mindlessly, as he did.
He knew he had to help, to do something. But there was so much chaos. So many were injured, strewn along the sidewalk like leaves in fall, some never to get up. Whiplash had no idea where to start.
The Wonderbolt jumped and stumbled, falling on his broken foreleg with a cry as one of the walls of the motel collapsed behind him, a low thumpof falling brick and mortar and a wash of plaster dust. And a shrill scream, that of a little filly, reached his ringing ears through the commotion. Scratch that, he knew exactly where to start.
As Whiplash limped to the motel, he got a real sense of just how bad of a state the structure was in. It probably hadn’t been in the best of care before, but now it was breaking into pieces. It’s weathered brick walls were cracked, long fractures snaking from the lopsided foundation to the second floor. Multiple portions of the second level had broken and had fallen into the parking lot. Whiplash could see the ashen sky through many of the busted second story windows, the ceilings crumbling into the individual rooms. But what about the kid? He was sure he had heard her.
His answer came again, and he pinpointed it, the little cry. It was coming from the second story.
A quick survey revealed most of the stairwells had fallen, the railings and steps disintegrating into piles of rust. Those that were still intact were severely weak, and Whiplash knew he was in no shape to fly up there, not with a broken wing.
His saw his only other option was one the fallen walkways creating a sharp-sloped ramp to the upper level. It was the only way up.
Step by step Whiplash tested its weight, limping his way up the rough concrete. It seemed stable enough, but he knew how damaged the rest of the structure was. It could fall without warning, as could the rest of the motel.
“Hello!” he yelled over the din of the city in torment. “Is anypony up here?” No response, just more sirens in the distant.
He reached the top, pressing his flank against the wall of the hotel, away from the rusted, crumbling railing.
“Hello!” he called again to no answer. Room by room he searched, knocking open several of the paint-stripped doors with his good shoulder. They gave way like cardboard, the wood having rotted until it was more termites than lumber. Each room he checked was empty, the occupants having fled, leaving behind suitcases and saddlebags, clothes and toiletries. Whiplash knew he had heard somepony, a filly. But where was she?
Crack!
Another door caved in, dusting Whiplash with the bits of crumbling particle board. He blinked, clearing his eyes to find the small tea-colored filly; an earth pony with a copper mane, hardly old enough to have her cutie mark, was trapped beneath wooden beams on the room’s single bed.
“Sweet Celestia,” Whiplash muttered. This was not good.
The ceiling had crumbled directly over the bed, but the little filly had somehow been spared the crushing concrete. He could see her eyes were red from crying and the mortar dust, and she shook horribly.
How long had she been like this, he asked himself. An hour? How long had he been out after the crash?.
Whiplash was immediately by her side, though she didn’t speak, didn’t cry or beg. She just shivered.
“Hold on,” he assured the filly. “I’m going to get you out.”
She whimpered softly and nodded, having run out of tears to cry.
A quick inspection revealed several wooden beams fallen across the bed, compressing the springs of the ruined mattress. The bed would have absorbed some of the force, hopefully sparing the filly from serious injury, but he would have to get her out to confirm.
However, he quickly discovered one of the beams was still upright, running up to the hole in the roof. It was directly over two of the fallen beams, jamming them and pressing them down. Whiplash pushed and pulled as much as his battered body would allow, trying to dislodge the big timber pinning the debris on top of the filly.
“No, no,” he nearly cried.
He spun around in a flash, delivering a sharp buck to the timber. The only result was a pair of bruised hooves.
“Just stay calm, kid,” the Wonderbolt tried to reassure her, biting through the pain. “Let me try to find some help.”
Whiplash stuck his body out the door jamb of the musty, dark motel room.
“Help!” he called over the leaning balcony. “Somepony give me a hoof here. There’s a filly trapped.”
But nopony would answer, his pleas drowned out by the wails and howls of countless others buried and injured. He was on his own.
"Where're your parents?" he turned to ask the girl, her wide eyes, staring at him pitifully. “Do you know where your mom or dad is? Did they go for help?”
She didn’t answer him, didn’t stop trembling, but she did try to turn her neck. She craned her head, wanting to look over her shoulder to the other side of the bed. Something on the other side?
Whiplash leaned over her, sifting through the rubble and bent rebar. He wished he hadn’t.
The mare was buried, crushed face down under the debris on the bed next to the filly. Her auburn mane spilled over her back, coated with plaster dust. She was the reason the kid was still alive. The mare’s body had taken most of the weight, sheltering the little one probably sleeping right beside her when it happened. Her mother?
Suddenly, the floor of the motel rumbled, the filly letting out another scream while Whiplash instinctively covered her from the small bits of concrete that rained down from the ruined ceiling. The floor shifted beneath him, the entire room dipping slightly toward the lot outside.
He had to get the filly out fast. The building was coming down on top of them. He just needed something with more kick to knock the beam pinning the girl lose.
Something was coming together — a plan if he could even call it that. It was risky, but he was on borrowed time. He had to get the filly out before they were both buried.
“Listen.” He knelt beside her, trying to calm her. “I have to go get something. I will be right back. I’m not going to leave you, but you can’t move,” he explained. “Understand?”
She nodded, heaving, and whiffling as she held back the fresh flood of tears.
“Good girl,” affirmed the pegasus, sliding gently out the room and back down onto the pavement.
Whiplash hobbled around the corner of the motel, narrowly dodging an ambulance screaming by. It was a close call, the vehicle barely brushing him. But he didn’t stop. If he did, the filly might as well be lost.
At the motel entrance, he pushed the surviving wing of his JUMPsuit over, the airfoil sliding off the sun-damaged welcome sign. “Free Continental Breakfast”it advertised in bleached letters. He was straddling the wing before it even hit the ground, yanking an access panel off and casting it aside.
“Thank the Princesses,” he panted, catching another lucky break. He hoped those kept coming.
Inside the panel, the second MAG remained untouched and undamaged in the crash. The cannon was a jumble of wires and connections tirled around the arcane containment. He quickly got to work.
“Disconnect the power coupler,” he muttered to himself in deep concentration, ripping out the wire leads and twisting the ends together. “Reroute the arcanic field distributor and…”
The device gave a faint beep and was gently humming. So far, so good.
Whiplash wrapped a flight cord around the burdensome aircraft cannon in a makeshift sling and hauling it out of the wing. It was heavy and dangerous, but it just might do the trick he reasoned, steadying the short barrel protruding from the arcana containment vessel.
Back in the motel room, the filly had not moved, though she was relieved to see him limp back through the door.
Whiplash unslung the heavy MAG, pressing its wide, stubby barrel against the jammed timber. The whole floor gave another jarring lurch as he did, a deep crack splitting the floor down the middle of the room. They were out of time: there was no other option.
“Close your eyes,” he told the filly, his words firm. “And this may be loud. Hang tight.”
He propped up the cannon with a hind leg, dialing in the power best he could with the jury-rig, fumbling with the mess of tangled wires and hoof-twisted connections. He was a flyer, not an engineer, and this wasn’t as simple as a MAG rifle. Too much power and he risked taking the rest of the motel out on top of them both. Too little and the shot wouldn’t cut the timber, risking enveloping them in the backfire of hot arcanic plasma.
“Please, let this work,” he pleaded, wishing for one last lucky break.
KA–BOOM!
Arcana material exploded from the barrel of the MAG, severing the timber in a white-hot flash of splinters. The rest of the heavy wooden beam crashed to the floor, nearly missing the pegasus. Whiplash barely had time to dodge, still blinking away the afterimage of the shot burned into his retinas from the flash. The timber fell hard, widening the crack in the floor even more until it was a foot-wide gap. But the filly was freed.
Whiplash quickly pulled her from the bed, throwing her over his mud-streaked back.
“Hold on tight,” he instructed, sidestepping over the widening crack splitting the room. “I’ll get us out. Just hold onto me.” Everything was still holding for now, but the floor was ready to give at any second. The pain quivering across his battered body was a distant thought now. The filly was his only concern.
They turned for the door, toward safety, only to be blocked by a dark shadowy figure. Two glowing cerulean eyes were locked on them, eyes that were hungry.
“You—”
The figure skulked into the room, responding with a low hiss, several guttural clicks rolling out of its mouth, a mouth of nightmares, brimming with teeth. This was no good Equestrian coming to help; this was a monster and a familiar one. Whiplash stopped dead, the fog of his memory burning away.
Whiplash retreated, backing against the far wall, his hooves recoiling from the intruder as if by their own will. His flank bumped against a chipped dresser, a foal’s saddlebag embossed with figures of masked ponies in heroic poses sliding to the floor with a thump.
He remembered now. It had only been a second, but he had caught a single glimpse of a flash of black, the image staining his mind. He remembered grasping hooves wrapping around his suit, teeth sharper than a manticore's tearing into the fuselage of his flightsuit's engine.
“You,” he gasped, rage bubbling to the surface inside him. “It was you. You tried to kill Thundercell and me."
The creature answered with an ear-splitting screech, bristling as it slowly circled toward them. It ran a forked tongue over a set of four prominent fangs protruding far past the rest. They dripped with thick globules of saliva.
“What–what are you?”
The creature’s skin was hairless, black with a dull shine like the shell of a beetle. A mane, if Whiplash could call it that, was little more than patches of hair, most having fallen out. A horn, sharp as a spear, protruded from its skull, shorter and sharper than any unicorn’s. It curved to a wicked point.
Wings, leathery and thin, almost transparent, buzzed like an angry buzzsaw. This was no pony. Some sickness worse than horror flowed forth like a bursting dam. Whiplash felt what was about to happen before he saw it. This thing was about to try to kill him. For it had already tried.
Without warning, the creature lunged at him, jumping with the explosive force of a cannonball. There was no time to react; it was too fast. The attacker smashed into Whiplash, sending both him and the filly flying across the room. He reached as he went airborne, but it was no use. The filly flew from his grasp with a cry.
Whiplash landed in a shower of broken mirror, sliding into the soapscum-stained bathroom sink. His head swam with a kaleidoscope of colored light, and he fought to stay awake.
The filly. Where is the kid? Whiplash lifted his head, a thin stream of blood flowing from his lacerated temple. It took no time to see she had landed below him, rolling to a stop against the faded and stain-ridden cabinet. She was pressed into a tight ball, pushing herself into the corner.
Across the room, Whiplash watched as the creature stalked them, slinking back and forth as it bid its time in the dark of the motel, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It prowled toward them, glowing blue eyes falling upon the dazed filly. It let out several throaty clicks, hissing menacingly. Its forked tongue flicked excitedly. Whiplash had only seen such a look on a manticore at a zoo. It was, hungry!
Whiplash unfurled himself from the sink, dropping down onto the floor, shielding the shivering foal.
"Get back," he ordered, fighting nausea rising up his throat. “Get away from her. I mean it.”
The creature gave an angry squeal, taking a step back and pulling up its lips to present rows of sharp incisors. It was not going to back down.
Whiplash eyed his MAG leaning where it had come to rest against the bathroom door. He carefully slid his hoof towards the makeshift weapon, not daring to pull his gaze from the creature.
But the little movement didn't escape it. The creature clicked fiercely, the noise from its throat feral and animal, its back pulled into a fiendish arch. Whiplash knew he would only get one shot. He couldn’t miss.
Whiplash was in tune with his surrounding. He could see the faint particles of dust hovering in the air, hear the drum of his rapid heartbeat fluttering in his bruised chest, feel the hot, scared breath of the filly cringing behind him. He sensed the creature readying to pounce again before he saw it. He could almost feel the muscles of the beast tensing like a field of static electricity tingling up his spine. He had to move now.
All at once, Whiplash flung himself toward the cannon madly, the demon already hurtling toward them. He fumbled, finally scooping up the weapon, twisting onto his side.
He fired before he could even see it, and he would never forget the sight of staring down the creature’s open mouth. He would always remember the teeth.

“Come on, come on, where are you, Thundercell?”
Feldwing frantically scanned what was left of Ponyville from high above the dust and smoke. She couldn’t have traveled far. Even with the operator unconscious, the JUMPsuits were built to glide naturally, he recalled. But to survive such a landing—Feldwing quickly push the thought from his rattled mind. The flight suits were still very heavy, not to mention the gallons of volatile fuel and dangerous munitions carried aboard.
“Talk to me Thundercell, I know you're out there.”
He should have seen her transponder beacon by now. He had to find his wingpony.
Feldwing was lining up for his third pass when he heard her, the wash of his engines nearly masking the mare’s weak rattle over the radio.
“f–f–Feld–win–g–g,” she whispered in his earpiece, hurt, but alive. It was faint, barely audible over the muffled thunder of the pegasus’s twin jet engines outside his helmet.
Feldwing lost several feet of altitude at hearing the strained mare, increasing throttle and diving down further into the chaos. The sensors on his heads-up display flashed erratically. He was pushing the suit hard, the engines’ cowlings scalding hot.
“I hear you Thundercell, I hear you,” he cried out, trying to comfort her over his radio. “Can you get your transponder activated? Tell me where you are, Thundercell. What do you see around you?”
“n–No.” He could hear Thundercell gasping in deep pain.
“Come on, Thundercell, stay with me. What do you see around you? I can’t find you.” He was frantic now, searching for any little sign of the crashed mare among the throngs of ponies panicking in the streets.
“No!” Thundercell shrieked in pain, choking for breath. “Sweet stars,” she cursed. “It bit me, bit right on the neck.” The sound of her breath in his earpiece was ragged. “I can hear it, Feldwing, hear it in my head. Can you hear it?”
“What bit you? Stay with me, Thundercell.”
“That thing,” she gulped. “Why can’t you hear it, Feldwing? Don’t you hear that? It'sin my head. She’sin my head!” she sobbed, crying in utter torment. “Get her out of my head! Get her out! Get her out! Get her out!”
She screamed in agony.
Feldwing screamed in reply, the sound of her name echoing through the broken streets. He shot back up into the sky, his eyes desperately scanning for a trail of fresh smoke, her fuselage, a fleeting glimpse of white mane. Each time his heart soared, only to be plunged farther down. His pleading turned to begging, a collection of unintelligible words strung together by the fear of losing something dear. Words drowned out by the river of crying pain emanating from his earpiece.
He screamed with her, two voices joined in a cacophony of loss and terror. A discordant melody that only they could hear, two songs in a crescendo of anguish.
And then, caesura, the sudden stop. The grand pause.
The abrupt end to one of the songs, silencing the other, the weight of realization drowning away the sound for a brief interlude.
Then the finale, fine, a single note: a cry of raw pain. A broken stallion left defeated and weary from the performance. A cry so loud as to be heard below him over the roar of the afterburners.
She was nearly gone by the time he landed next to her, soot and dust from the burning town billowing away in his exhaust. Alive, but gone. Whatever was before him was not Thundercell, not any longer. And with the last piece of her, she begged him, her wingpony, for one simple request.
“Shoot me.”