//------------------------------// // Chapter 4 // Story: Red Wings // by PropMaster //------------------------------// - Chapter 4 -         I snapped out of my daydream with a start, wincing and rubbing my temples with my hooves. My head ached, as though somepony had just hit me in the back of the skull with a frying pan. I sighed, slightly irritated by my lack of focus. My machine sat on the workbench, as it had for the last month, taunting me.                  The initial tests of the device had failed. Something had gone wrong with the spell that I had created to focus the device’s magic, and it had left me back at square one. Director Razorwing had seen the potential for my project, luckily, and had given me more time to work out what had gone wrong. I opened my notebook, and used my telekinesis to float several tomes of arcana and spellcrafting down from a stack of similar books I had recently requisitioned from the Canterlot Archives.         My eyes darted from the books to my notes as I poured over pages and pages of treatises on spell creation, hoping that they could illuminate my error.  I levitated my quill over and turned my notebook to fresh pages. Scribbling down anything that seemed like it might be useful, I went through the first volume in short order. Frowning at its overall uselessness, I set it aside and retrieved another book from the pile, levitating it up to eye level and flipping through to the index at the back of the book. A slip of paper fell out of the inside cover of the tome, drawing my eye with its swirling descent to the floor, and I extended a tendril of magic, catching it before it landed on the stone.         I unfolded the paper and smiled as I recognised the precise lettering. Big Brother, I happened to be studying in the Canterlot Archive when your order came in, and I can tell you’re working on some very advanced spellcrafting! I’ve been studying spellcrafting in school recently, so I threw in this book. I’m not sure what you’re working on, but maybe this will help? I included some notes, too! Don’t worry about writing in it, this book belongs to me. Good luck! Love you! - Little Sister Chuckling to myself, I set the note carefully on my desk and turned to the table of contents at the front of the book. Sure enough, there were several sections that had been annotated. I flipped to the first section and smiled at the tiny, neat notes written in the margins of the page, pointing to several sections of text. I perused the book, carefully studying both the content and my sister’s own annotation. I halted at a specific paragraph, pouring over it again and again. Glancing between my sister’s annotation and my notes for reference, I laughed. “You adorable genius! You always were the smart one.”         I set aside all the books and levitated the machine off the workbench, carrying it with me out of my lab and into the hallway. I trotted past several guards, nodding to them as they saluted me, and arrived once more outside Director Razorwing’s office, knocking on the door to announce my arrival. I heard Razorwing’s gruff voice mutter something from within, and then the door opened and I was greeted by the bleary stare of a blond pegasus. “This had better be good, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea what time it is?”                  I ignored the gruff welcome and smiled at him. “Sir, I think I’ve got the problem solved. The reason my device wasn’t working properly was because the samples I received were all most likely collected from different individuals! I need the four samples to be from a single individual test subject for the focus spell to work properly.”         Director Razorwing scowled, sitting back on his haunches and rubbing at his eyes, his voice slurring slightly. “You mean to tell me that, this whole friggin’ time, the problem was the samples?”         I nodded. “Absolutely, sir. I was so convinced that the error was in my own spellcrafting, that I never stopped to consider the possibility that something else was the issue.”         Razorwing sighed, standing up on all fours again and trotting into his office, glancing over his shoulder at me and muttering sleepily, “Give me a second.” The director shuffled through some papers, before finding what he was looking for, pulling a form from a pile of other forms and quickly filling it out with a pencil. As he wrote, he mumbled around the writing implement in his mouth. “M’kay, thif ‘ouda do ich—ptooey!” The director spat out the pencil on his desk. “This form will let ya retrieve the samples yourself. Take one of the guards with you when you do, Lieutenant. We wouldn’t want any problems, would we?”         I nodded, levitating the form off of the Director’s desk, “Yes sir! I’ll let you know when I’m ready to run another test, sir!”         Director Razorwing smirked, sitting back heavily on an overstuffed pillow. “Good luck stormin’ the dungeon.”         I chuckled and left his office, closing the door behind me, and made a beeline down the hallway. I stopped at my lab to drop off the machine and retrieve a saddlebag of supplies, and then continued my enthusiastic rush down a flight of stairs, my hoofsteps echoing off the stone walls of the building. I passed through a magical field at the entrance to the main laboratory, frowning at the slight stinging sensation that ran through my body as the force field determined my identity and let me through. I passed several other researchers and guards before arriving at the holding cells.         The dungeon-like holding area shimmered with the aura of a dozen types of magical shields, and several guards clad in steel armor and carrying spears flanked the entrance into the holding area. From within, hisses and shrill cries echoed oddly through the force fields, sending a slight chill up my spine. I held up the form to one of the guards before he could challenge me. “Sergeant Storm Bolt, I’m here to get collect some samples. I’ll need one of your ponies to assist me.”         The veteran unicorn guard nodded, his voice carrying a hard, confident edge that matched his expression. “Allow me to assist you, Lieutenant.”         I smiled at the older unicorn. “Thanks, Sergeant.”         Together, we moved through through the magic shields surrounding the entrance to the holding cells. The cells were small; large enough to fit a single pony and not much else. Of course, there were no ponies in the cells, but creatures far more sinister. I walked carefully along the center of the hall, keeping the cells on either side of me as far away as possible. Even though these were all powerfully shielded and warded, I didn’t want to take any chances. Storm Bolt trotted casually along to a cell in the middle of the block and tapped his horn against a crystal embedded in the wall next to the steel bars. The field containing the creature within shimmered, then fell. Storm Bolt raised his spear and opened the door with a murmured spell. I stood alongside him, already casting out lines of magical energy into the chamber.  I focused on the monster inside the small room, and my eyes were met by pupil-less green orbs of sinister intent. Its black carapace rattled as the thing shifted and turned to face us, and Storm growled, “Stay where you are, or I’ll have to electrocute you.” The insectoid creature hissed, bearing sharp fangs toward the two of us, but then my spell caught it, lifting it up into the air and holding it immobile. It squirmed against the spell, snarling, and then finally went limp when it discovered that it could not break my magic’s hold. I cautiously entered the cell, pushing the monster against the back wall of the tiny space. I called back into the hall to Storm, “Would you mind helping me? I need to collect samples.” Storm Bolt nodded and closed his eyes briefly, focusing his own magic as his horn shimmered with a electric blue energy. His spell took over for my own as I released the monster from my hold. Storm frowned, his eyes opening. “Got it, Lieutenant.” I used my telekinesis and opened my saddlebag, retrieving several glass containers, a scalpel, and a thick needle. The black-carapaced being watched me and began to squirm once more, prompting a burst of magical power from Storm Bolt as he focused more energy into holding it immobile. I set the glass containers on the floor and levitated the scalpel up carefully. I sent a tendril of energy worming under the monster’s carapace, prompting it to spread its wings open, and then held the thin, insect-like wing in place. My scalpel extended, and as carefully and quickly as possible I shaved a thin filament off the thing’s wing. It hissed and screeched at me, writhing. I frowned as I tucked the first tissue sample into a container. “Calm down. If you squirm, you might hurt yourself.” The thing hissed at me again and grew still. I smiled, murmuring gently, “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I leaned closer and bent down a bit to get a better look at the thing’s rear legs. The bizarre carapace was oddly shaped with holes running through the exoskeleton. I used the scalpel again and cut as carefully as possible into the carapace, running the ultra-sharp blade into the skin of the beast and cutting away a thin flake of the exoskeleton. I stood upright and realized that I had shifted a bit too close to the creature, as my muzzle now was only a mere inch away from the thing’s mouth. Before I could move my head back, its tongue flicked out, brushing against my nose, tasting me in the manner of a serpent or reptile. I recoiled, disgusted. “Dang. Storm, that thing got a taste of me.” Storm scowled. “I’ve got my eye on it, sir. Don’t you worry, I’ve been around long enough to be wise to these things’ tricks.”  I nodded, feeling slightly more at ease, and proceeded, now more determined than ever to retrieve the samples quickly. This creature was processing my psychic spoor, learning about me, digesting whatever my surface thoughts had been at the time of tasting. It was getting to know me, and that was disconcerting, to say the least. I raised the scalpel again, moving around to the side of the creature where a sheen of green skin formed a softer underbelly. I scowled, pressing the scalpel to the creature’s ‘ribs’, and cut in. Green liquid oozed from the shallow cut, and I carefully worked at cutting away a small tissue sample. Red suddenly mingled with the green, and I jerked my head back as fur sprouted across the being’s body. I averted my eyes as a sickly green glow encapsulated the creature briefly in a bright flash of magical power. When the magical haze cleared, I was caught off-balance by the form the creature had taken. Lavender fur contrasted with a darker purple mane and tail. A purple and pink highlight streaked framed a delicate, spiraling horn. Tear-filled, deep purple eyes met my blue ones, and a soft voice whimpered. “S-shiny? Why are you doing this to me?” Storm Bolt’s voice called out from behind me, “Lieutenant, stand back!” “T...Twilight?” I shook my head, trying to focus, but my sister’s eyes pleaded with me, tears running down her sweet, gentle face. “Sir, stand back!” “Shiny, p-please! Make it stop!” Storm Bolt’s voice rang out, reminiscent of every drill sergeant I’d ever encountered in my career in the military, “Lieutenant Armor, I am ordering you to stand back!” Training kicked in, and I did as I was ordered, taking an obedient step backwards. A sudden surge of electricity fired over my shoulder, causing me to flinch. Twilight screamed, pain making her voice raw as she called out to me. “Shiiiinyyaaaugggh—!” Her form shivered and then hung limply as the electric current overwhelmed her motor function. Her body suddenly blackened, purple fur disappearing in a spreading green swath of energy that spilled from the tip of her horn, down her body, running almost like blood, revealing the creature beneath. It wasn’t until Storm Bolt’s hoof gently touched my shoulder that I realized I was holding my breath. I gasped, inhaling sharply and panting, nerves overwhelmed. “I-I never... I didn’t r-realize...” Storm Bolt snarled behind me, voice carrying a sharp edge of distaste, “I hate changelings.” Red groaned, stirring on the deck and rolling onto his side. He reached back, gingerly touching the backside of his skull and felt a small damp spot. Wincing, Red tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and left him lying on the deck, panting. He lay prone for several minutes, allowing his head time to recover, and then sat up slowly. The bridge spun about him briefly before settling down, and Red fought a wave of nausea. He exhaled slowly and leaned back against the base of the pilot’s seat. That hallucination had been rough, far worse than any he’d ever experienced. Though he knew that part of his nausea was from the blow to the back of the head and the slight loss of blood, deep down he was aware that part of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had carried over from the... vision. Red tried to think objectively as he leaned forward, scooping up his satchel and a few of the items that had been spilled on the deck in his mad scramble for the syringe of lunar dust solution. He’d experienced these massive headaches before, certainly. Ever since the damnable unicorn horn had been shoved in his brain, he’d had to inject himself with lunar dust at least once every other stormfront to quell the slow buildup of magical energy that caused his migraines. He’d been injecting himself for years now, and though he’d still occasionally get small headaches or pains, nothing had ever taken him completely out of commission—until now, that is. Something had changed. Perhaps the horn was picking up stronger leylines of magic, or the concentration of lunar dust needed to be increased. Regardless, even though he’d experienced headaches, visions or hallucinations had never accompanied these episodes. And there was more to these than simple auditory and visual components. Red had now been affected emotionally, not once, but twice. These moments had felt very real, almost as though he was living in them, not simply a bystander but an active participant in the life of this pony. He’d awoken just as sick as the pony had been, as he had been, watching “his sister” be electrocuted. Not that the creature had ever been his sister. Not that Red had ever had a sister. Red growled, shaking his head and mumbling to himself, “You are a diamond dog. Your name is Red, you are a good mechanic and a poor excuse for a pilot. Your mother died in a stormfront and your father and brother died in the Feast of Gaia. The last pony tried to kill you, and you’re going to return the favor.” A resounding silence met Red’s assertion of reality. Red sighed. “Gaia below, I need a drink.” Red ambled into the M.O.D.D., wincing into the hazy light. The other patrons paid him no mind. He’d proven that he was not ‘fresh meat’, and his brief moment of celebrity had passed, sending him back into obscurity—just the way he liked it. He was another thirsty pilot, like everyone else. Red sat down at the bar and waved Pitt over. Pitt grinned at him. “I thought you’d gone to get some shuteye, pup. What’s the matter, my berth not to your liking? The room service not satisfactory?” Red smirked at the snarky simian. “I’ll take the strongest drink you have.” Pitt poured Red a drink without further comment, and Red gratefully lifted the earthenware mug to his lips, taking a cautious sip of the strong beverage. The flavor wasn’t terrible, but Red wasn’t there for flavor. He was there to calm his nerves, ease the sick pit that still lingered in his stomach. He could hear the lavender pony screaming, the heart-wrenching sound still echoing in his head and making it hard to focus, much less sleep. Red downed the drink and exhaled appreciatively as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He waved Pitt over for a refill and downed this second drink as rapidly as the first. Pitt raised an eyebrow and, without being asked, filled Red’s mug for a third time. Red nodded to Pitt and dropped some silver strips onto the bar. “That cover me?” Pitt gave Red a nod, scooping the strips into his pocket. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” Red stood up, taking the mug with him, and left the bar. Pitt called after him as the door to the bar closed. “Hey, I didn’t say you could have the mug!” Pitt shook his head, grumbling to himself, and turned to serve another patron. Outside, Red returned to The Crimson Score and laid down on a bunk in the crew cabin, stretching out onto the thin mattress with a sigh and sipping at the mug of potent alcohol. His head swam pleasantly as the drink did its work, easing his frazzled nerves and quieting his mind. He thought less about the screams of the pony; less about the gut-wrenching sobs and tear-filled, violet eyes. He’d seen creatures hurt before; accidents happened in the mines, as well as in the scouting parties that the militia sent out. Death was a part of life, after all, and that had never been more apparent to the world than after the Feast of Gaia. The creature hadn’t even really been his sister, and on top of that the creature had merely been knocked unconscious, not even killed. So why had that moment resonated with him? Why had he awoken feeling sick at heart after watching a creature—and a pony no less—be hurt? Pain was never pleasant, certainly, but the plaintive cry had torn at him like nothing had in many years, not since his mother had died. Red sighed, rolling into a better position on his side and setting the mug on the deck of the ship. He groped for the satchel that lay at the foot of the bed and retrieved his notebook and graphite, and flipped open to a new page. Pausing as a memory nudged at his hazy consciousness, he turned back a page to find a sketch of an odd machine. He frowned at it, recognizing it now. It was the same machine from his dream, the one that he—that the pony—had been working on. He stared at the machine, voice slurring drunkenly, “What’re you for, machine? A... a dumb pony machine!” Red snickered. “A machine for... making rrrrainbows! And butterflies. Because that’s what ponies do. They like pretty thingsss. They build things all for themselves and never for anyone else. And then they blow up the world with their dumb magic. Magic that’s just as dumb as this machine!” Red barked a laugh, flipping to a fresh page of the notebook, and began to write. I’ve had visions. Wird Odd dreams of a pony. A unicorn from before the Feast. He’s building a machine—the same machine that I’ve drawn on the page before this note. I don’t know why I’m seeing things, but the horn in my brain is to blame. I’ll need to try increesing incrazing making bigger the dose of lunar dust I use. Maybe. The dreams are interesting. They have an effect on me. I wake up and feel things, emotional things. I remember the dreams vidly vivily vividly. I might learn useful things, but I’m also afraid. The dreams are too real. I feel like I am the pony. It is almost confusing at times. Who is dreaming about who?  Red sighed and dropped the notebook and graphite on the deck next to the bunk and rolled over again, falling into a fitful, alcohol-assisted slumber.           Red awoke with a start, his eye slamming shut just as quickly as the pounding headache of his hangover hit him. He sat up and immediately regretted doing so as his stomach gave a slight lurch. He concentrated on breathing evenly and not vomiting, and finally stood up. He picked up the mostly empty mug of alcohol and dumped it out into a basin. Sighing, he moved from the crew compartment into the storage room and rummaged through a few crates of food until he’d assembled a meal of dried mushrooms and soft jerky. He filled the mug with some water from a canteen, and moved downstairs and out the hangar doors to the open air of the deck. He sat down in the center of the strip, chewing thoughtfully on his meal and swallowing with a grimace as the food hit his upset stomach. Red maintained his composure—it wouldn’t do to waste food—and managed to finish his meal. He stayed seated for a few extra moments, allowing the cold mountain air to clear his head, before returning to the pilot seat of The Crimson Score. With a sputtering roar, the engines of The Crimson Score revved back up to full flight capacity, breaking their hours-long hover, and Red disengaged the docking clamps. One of Pitt’s “brothers” spotted Red preparing to take off and moved over to the ship, disengaging the power cable that had been hooked into the Score’s engines. Red waited patiently for the simian to remove the cable from his ship, and then accelerated into the sky. He flew into the hazy air, getting some distance between the M.O.D.D. and himself before easing back on the throttle and simply hovering. Red needed to do something to focus himself, get his thoughts off the visions and alien emotions that were confusing him. He’d been focused on his mission, his objective, and every day he’d woken up with his mind full of plans—formulating contingencies, improvements he could make to The Crimson Score, and strategies—all towards his ultimate goal of encountering and killing the last pony. Today had been different, though. Today had been the first day he’d awoken without a fresh idea, as his mind had been clouded with the painful haze of an imaginary sister’s screams. Red felt a shiver run down his spine as the thought entered his head, unbidden, and he immediately gripped the controls of his ship, flying southwest, out of the mountains. He’d passed over a odd pony village that was a few dozen hours of flying away, if he took a direct course there. He’d need to return to the M.O.D.D. after the coming stormfront, in order to meet with Ace and Quint, but until then he had time to kill; time better spent scavenging and gaining knowledge about ponies rather than sitting and worrying about bizarre dreams. A pony village seemed like the best place to start. Red adjusted his heading and set out for his new destination, his focus on piloting his vessel leaving little room for stray thoughts or worries. The village was nestled in the lowlands of the surrounding mountain range, buildings standing as a silent testament to a bygone era. Its stone construction was relatively untouched, the location and the terrain having shielded it from the worst of the Feast of Gaia’s fires. Earthquakes and tremors had shattered a few buildings, but the village had been built to last, the foundations of the imposing and tightly packed buildings dug deep into the earth. The streets were empty, devoid of the usual debris that plagued most abandoned cities, and the only noise was the throaty howl of the wind that flowed down from the mountain peaks. This pristine quiet was broken as The Crimson Score flew overhead, making a low pass over the village, circling the vicinity. Finally, Red brought his craft in to land at the outskirts of the town. Red emerged from the hangar doors, secured them behind him and reached back, pulling his rifle off his back. He stood on the edge of the deck, lifting the scope to his eye and peering into the tight alleyways and roads between the buildings. Red waited, giving anything stupid enough to venture into his established field of fire time enough to peek out. He was not disappointed. A leathery, snarling troll stumbled from between two buildings, pausing briefly to peer up at the large airship parked suddenly in its backyard. Red smirked as he adjusted his aim, peering into the scope to align the crosshairs with the troll’s lumpy forehead, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired with a loud crack, and the troll was knocked back on its heels and fell in a soundless slump into the ash that covered the ground. Red slid back the action on the rifle, ejecting a shell casing and reloading a fresh round into the chamber, and waited. Within moments, two more trolls emerged from the ruins, converging on their fallen comrade. They squabbled with each other, and Red was disgusted as the two suddenly begin to tear into the fallen troll’s corpse, devouring their former companion with abandon, their bloodlust making them blind to the airship outside the village. Red scowled and took careful aim, practicing the movement from one target to the next several times, and then took the shot. The first troll took the powerful rifle round in the chest, a little above its heart, and collapsed with a gurgle. The other troll turned, taking note of The Crimson Score, and charged towards it as Red worked the action on the rifle. He took aim and shot again, this time wide of his rapidly moving target. As the troll closed the distance, Red calmly set aside the rifle and drew his steam pistol from the holster on his hip. He sighted down the barrel and patiently waited for the troll to close the distance between them, and then fired. The recently restored steam pistol fired with a hissing noise, and the steam bolt took the troll square in the gut, halting its run as it staggered from the shot. Red fired again, the next bolt going high into the monster’s sternum and dropping it face-first into the ground. Red nodded to himself, pausing to reload both weapons fully before climbing down the ladder, his paws finally touching down on the unfamiliar ash of this part of the Wastelands. Red checked to make sure the rifle was secure on his back as he moved towards the nearest set of buildings. He kept his steam pistol in hand, the weapon raised as he turned into the first corner, his eye tracking across the shadowed streets for movement. Red couldn’t hear anything moving inside the city, but he knew that meant nothing. Peering into shattered windows, Red saw nothing but decaying rooms filled with broken furniture. There were scraps of things, obviously manufactured pre-Feast by the ponies, littering the floors inside the buildings. Dusty pictures and paintings hung on tattered walls, their colors as faded as the rest of the wasteland’s hues. Red carefully pushed through a splintered door and into an abandoned house. Treading lightly across the ash-strewn floor, he began searching the room, checking into corners and lifting up fallen shelves and other broken furnishings. He moved from building to building, searching through each one. He wasn’t really certain what he was looking for, but something about the potential for discovery was thrilling. Red approached a central grouping of buildings, keen to examine what lay at the center of the town. A battered clock face lay shattered on the ground, surrounded by stone rubble, and he peered up at the closest building, eye following a tall tower that ended belatedly in a scorched ruin. Red knelt down, turning over the broken clock and discovering a complex mechanism of broken gears and weights, a true mechanical clock. Grinning with delight, Red began to take apart the pieces, tucking the metal gears and other parts into his satchel. He could use these parts and learn how the gear mechanism worked, and then rebuild it, far smaller, and create a clock that he could set and adjust to measure stormfronts far more precisely. Red felt excitement building as he considered more possible uses for the salvaged parts. Red stood up, done collecting clock parts, and moved into the building that stood adjacent to the old clock tower. It appeared to be a well fortified structure, less of a town hall and more reminiscent of a fort. The front door was an imposing piece of wrought iron, which was shut and locked, and Red was unable to break through the lock or access the hinges. Temporarily stymied, Red searched for a way in, walking around the building. The windows were set higher in the wall than normal, and appeared to be covered with rusted bars, preventing entry. Red moved around the back, beginning to think that this building would be forever closed to him, and stopped, smiling. The back door of the structure appeared to have been made of wood, and though it may have been solid, something had broken it asunder long ago. Red cautiously entered the doorway and immediately halted, staring into the interior of the building with some awe. The building was entirely composed of a single, large room. The edges of the room were covered with shelves upon shelves of scrolls and books. The center held many tables and benches, loaded with shattered glass articles and rusted metal instruments. Despite the age, Red knew a workshop when he saw one. This, however, was more alien than any mechanical shop he’d seen before. Pony bodies littered the floor, perhaps a dozen of them, mostly skeletal remains. Approaching the center of the room, Red stood before a raised stone stage around which the tables and benches were arrayed. A few skeletons lay on this dais, felled by the Feast of Gaia that had destroyed them so long ago. He knelt down in the ash and brushed a paw along the top of the stage, surprised to feel metal beneath his fingers. He pushed away the layer of ash, revealing inscribed metal beneath the layer of ancient char. Red did not recognize the inscription, not at first. He grew inexplicably excited, suddenly, and began to clear the dais of ash and the mortal remains of the ancient equines, using his paws to brush away the debris and slowly revealing the top of the dais. The purpose of this room and the workbenches became immediately clear. The dais held a massive metal plate, inscribed with a pattern of concentric circles and lines, around which were written archaic runes that Red could not decipher but evoked a dull feeling of recognition. He stared at the metal tablet, fingers brushing along the lines and circles, and one of his paws suddenly sunk into a buried indentation in the center of the plate, something sharp within pricking the pad of his paw. He jerked his hand back with a surprised hiss, glancing briefly at the pinprick of blood welling from the tiny wound, and then more cautiously examined the center of the dais. Bending down low, Red blew air into the depression in the center of the dias, sending a small cloud of dust into the air and uncovering the middle of the tablet. There was a hole in the depression, and a pointed gemstone stuck out of the top of this hole. Red frowned, reaching out and touching the gem, attempting to pull it out of the depression. He accidentally applied some pressure to the gem, and it sank suddenly into the hole. Red fell back with a yelp as the dais suddenly lit up with a white glow, each carved rune and line radiating light out from the crystal. Red rolled off the dais and landed in the ash with a grunt, getting to his feet and staring at the dias, torn between running away and staying to watch. A hysterical group of voices issued from the dias, emanating from the central depression. “Oh Celestia! He left us! He left us!” “Calm down, I’m here! I’m not going to leave you!” “How could he do that? We need to maintain the shield, buy as much time as possible!” “He left us!” “Starshine, focus on the shield! Keep it up!” “Oh Celestia, what was that!? What was that flash?” “The leylines are all wrong! I can’t—” “Everyone, quiet!” A sharp voice issued forth, and silence dominated the room, excepting a quiet, muffled sobbing. Red stared around at the room, comprehension slowly dawning in his eye. These were ghosts speaking to him, the last moments of the ponies in this room transmitted through the device on the dais. The calmer voice spoke again. “My name is Candle Flame, and I am a unicorn from Sacramareto, teaching as part of the arcane school here in town. I am the most veteran mage of the school. If anypony is hearing this, then... then the worst has happened, and we are all gone.” Red stepped forward onto the dais once more, standing on the glowing metal plate and staring down at the crystal in the center of the room, which was projecting the sound. “I’m afraid time is short. In the eventuality of the collapse of the world, of... of Equestria, then it is our final duty to preserve our knowledge for those that remain, for anypony that survives. As long as there are unicorns, there will be a need to learn how to control arcane power and magic.” There was a rumble, slightly muffled, and a roar of sudden force, and Candle Flame’s voice began to tremble. “Therefore, it is imperative that anypony hearing this message know that we have preserved several tomes explaining the nuances of basic magic, as well as our understanding of unicorn psysiology, and several more advanced books of spells. This... this small collection should be enough to allow anypony to learn how to harness magic and teach them the importance of caution and control. I—” One of the voices in the background wailed. “The shield is failing! The shield is—” There was another roar, far louder, and then the very shaken voice of Candle Flame, his breaths coming in quiet, panting gasps. “I... I’ve managed to erect a shield around myself, but it... it’s failing. Agh... Goddesses preserve me, I’m the last one... nggh... the others are... they’re gone.” Red winced, kneeling down to stare into the stone, listening intently. Candle Flame’s voice spoke, quickly now. “Tomes are... are beneath the arcane plate on this platform. Nngh... the platform will react to a unicorn horn that is connected to... to the leylines.” There was a sudden gasp of desperation, and Candle Flame’s voice grew louder, as if he’d drawn closer to the magical stone recording his final moments. “My family is in Sacramareto, by the sea! Ahgh, Goddesses, please, I... I don’t want to die!  Please, please—” Candle Flame’s voice was suddenly gone, and Red sat back on his heels, feeling briefly shaken. Pony or not, despite what they had done to upset the balance of Gaia and cause the Feast, he still keenly felt those last terrified moments. Red grimaced, standing up. “They brought it on themselves. Their magic caused their end.” Red looked around the room, seeing how the bodies were arrayed, facing outward. They had been maintaining a ‘shield’, buying Candle Flame time to speak. He suddenly felt disgust, as the words of the pony echoed in his mind. This place was an ‘arcane school’, where the unicorns practiced the magic that had ended the world. These same souls may have been directly responsible for every single death of the Feast of Gaia—even their own. Red stared into the empty sockets of a unicorn skull and said, quietly, “You ponies were so preoccupied with whether or not you could do something, you never stopped to think if you should.” As he stood up and prepared to leave, the inscribed plate on the dais shifted. Red leapt off the raised platform and into the ash near the base and rolled onto his back with a small grunt. The metal plate began to shift, the circles-within-circles sinking and disappearing into the dais. Red stood up and watched with interest as the metal shifted aside, seeming to fold in on itself and revealed a small collection of books. The metal finally stopped moving, and the glow dissipated without a sound, leaving the room dim once more. Red stared at the books, debating quietly whether or not to even bother with the tomes of magic, when something that had been said in the recording came to mind. Red moved on top of the dais once more and crouched down, reaching into the hidden compartment and pulling the stack of tomes out of their reliquary. He examined each book’s cover, frowning with consideration at each title before selecting three out of the group: ‘A Foal’s Guide To Magic’, ‘A Treatise on Unicorn Physiology’, and ‘Leylines Across Equestria’. He set the other books aside. As he stood up, the metal plate shifted beneath him. Red reacted purely on instinct, leaping once more off the dais and landing on his tail on the stone floor of the room. He watched the metal reform and groaned quietly as he stood up, his tailbone sore. “I really need to stop doing that.” Red tucked the three books into his now-overstuffed satchel, grimacing at the weight around his shoulder. Luckily, his ship was only a brief hike away, and Red moved to the back door of the ruined school and squinted into the streets. While he had been inside, the temperature had dropped significantly, and a dense fog had rolled into the town, reducing his visibility to a dozen feet in front of him. Red frowned, tightened his grip on his steam pistol, and walked slowly down the street, keeping his back against the stone wall of the building. He moved down an alleyway and towards where he remembered the central square of the town had been. As he approached the exit to the alley, his nose was suddenly assaulted by a ghastly smell. Red froze in his tracks, flattening himself against the wall and slowly crouching down. He knew that smell. It was a mixture of feces, blood, and the charred smell of burnt feathers—almost toxic in its foulness. There was only one creature in the Wastelands that smelled so awful. Harpies. Red moved quietly, fighting down the sudden sense of panic, and made for the opposite end of the alley. He halted at the mouth of the alleyway, peering around the corner, and caught the briefest glimpse of a winged something touching down on the street before he tucked back into the dark alley, closing his eye hopelessly. He fought down a whimper and waited, his nose assaulted by the pungent scent of harpy. He could see more shapes, dark, flying through the mist overhead. Red swallowed hard. He remembered the harpies’ physical forms, a mixture of a saggy, pink-skinned, hairy torso, a gryphon’s wings and talons, and the wicked, hooked beak of a vulture. These didn’t matter as much as the smell, though. He’d always remember that smell. He’d been topside on the landing strip, assisting a group of goblins with loading trade goods from the hangar when a massive swarm of harpies, a raiding party, dropped from the sky, screeching in their unintelligible tongue. Red had been lucky, narrowly escaping into the tunnels, but he’d seen the harpies work. They moved like birds, their skin-covered heads bobbing slightly as they walked on razor-sharp talons, landing in front of their prey and distracting them, and then without warning—whoosh!—two harpies would come, from either side, tearing into their prey with talons and carrying them into the sky, screaming. Red had watched those wicked talons work, had seen them cut viciously but oh-so-carefully, tearing into flesh but avoiding vital areas. He knew that the victims that were carried off could only pray to bleed out on the flight back to the harpy nests, because otherwise they’d be alive when the harpy chicks started to eat them. Red crouched at the mouth of the alleyway, listening to the near-silent wings of a flock of harpies as they settled into the ruined streets of the town, scavenging or hunting. Hearing a guttural screeching, he peered around the corner, only to duck back as two harpies suddenly bowled past the entrance to the alleyway, scrabbling and screaming at each other in a ball of striking talons and feathers. Red took this opportunity and scampered around the corner, around the side of the building and into the nearest doorway, pushing it open and sliding into the ruined house. He ducked immediately down into the darkness and underneath a large windowsill. Red paused, breathing heavily, but clapped his free paw over his mouth, muffling the sound of his breathing as something heavy suddenly landed on the windowsill above him, crunching the glass. He nearly gagged as the toxic scent wafted into the room, and watched with horror as hooked talons gripped on the edge of the sill. A harpy perched directly above his head, close enough that he could reach up and touch one of its talons. Red raised the steam pistol slowly upward, bracing to fire it from his awkward position, though he knew that if he shot, he was as good as dead. His only chance lay in stealth. He’d go down fighting if discovered, certainly, but he wanted to avoid that for as long as possible. Red watched the talons above him shift and turn around as the harpy adjusted its position to look into the street, a necklace of teeth and bones rattling on its neck as it moved. Red could hear the squabbling outside intensify, and knew that the monstrous bird was distracted. He slunk through the ash, making as little noise as possible, until his foot crunched down on the remnants of the glass window. Red did not hesitate; he rolled to the side and came to a halt beneath a sagging wooden desk that was pushed up against the wall. He lay on his back, staring into the room, willing his breathing to quiet. There was a shifting near the windowsill, and then the harpy lept into the center of the room, obviously searching for the cause of the sudden noise. The monstrous creature was finally in full view, and Red got his first good look at a harpy. The creature was ugly, it’s lower body similar to the front legs of a griffon, complete with rending talons. It’s feathers were a muddy-looking brown, and appeared almost greasy. Its torso was featherless, the visible skin a sickly tan, and was spotted with curly hairs. The harpy wore a belt that was covered with random knick-knacks and shiny bits of metal, along with a few crude looking grenades. It had no real upper limbs, instead sporting a pair of massive feathered wings.  Red held his breath, staring at the back of the feathered monstrosity and praying to Gaia that it would not see him. The creature turned, peering into the black room, and cawed to itself, ruffling the mane of feathers that ringed its naked, vulture-like neck. Red stared at the harpy as it approached the far wall, its talons clacking against the stone floor. Red silently reached into his satchel, extracting a single metal clock gear from his pack, and threw it hard, through an open doorway that led into what appeared to be a hall of some kind. The metal gear clattered onto the floor at the far end of the hall, and the harpy’s head snapped upright in the direction of the noise, its goggle-covered eyes glinting, and its head cocked to the side in an almost inquisitive manner. It stalked into the hallway. Red rolled onto his stomach and got to his feet swiftly, standing up and looking out the broken window to the street. There was a group of harpies, but they had gathered around the still-ongoing brawl, their cackling cries seeming to cheer on the combatants. Red vaulted out the window and landed on silent paw pads, moving down the ash-strewn street, not daring to look back. He paused at an alleyway and holstered his steam pistol—something he should have done several minutes ago had he not panicked. He couldn’t afford to accidentally unleash a round as his nervous paws twitched. He ducked into the alleyway and spotted his salvation; a pile of refuse. These were rotten wooden panels, like a stack of crates that had simply collapsed or had been broken down. Red crouched down and began to stack the wood panels aside, making a small space within the rotten boards, and then crouched into this void. He leaned back against the wall and sat down, beginning to re-stack the boards around his trembling form. He covered himself completely, and then for good measure began to smear his already-dusty coat with ash and soot, trying his best to camouflage his scent as well as his appearance. Red grew still as something clattered in the alleyway. He leaned back, pressing himself into the stone wall, willing himself to fade into the background. The stacked boards allowed only a limited visibility, but his strong nose could still smell the harpies that were undoubtedly nearby. Red’s eye widened with fright as a harpy strode into view. Its head was facing the pile of refuse that he had hid inside, its goggle-covered eyes betraying nothing. Red resisted the urge to wet himself, knowing the smell would give him away. The harpy leapt up onto the wood pile, its talons gripping onto the rotten boards. Red closed his eye, unwilling to face his impending demise. The harpy above him made a noise, a quiet trill, almost in consideration. Red bit his tongue to keep from screaming, feeling coppery blood flow into his mouth. He cracked open his eye and found himself snout-to-beak with the harpy as it poked its long-necked head in between a few boards to get a better look at way lay within. Red spoke, his voice a bare whisper, “Clever bird.” As its beak opened, no doubt to cry out, Red’s claws leapt upwards, delivering a savage blow to the creature’s exposed throat. The harpy attempted to pull its head back, its beak opening in a silent cry as Red’s claws gripped the harpy’s throat, now using both paws to choke the bird, crushing its windpipe and larynx with a strength born of fear and desperation. He dug his claws into the beast’s throat as its talons scrabbled and stomped on the boards, but the rotten wood blocked the savage blows. Its wings flapped suddenly, and Red was wrenched from the wood as the harpy lifted into the air. Red rose eight feet into the mists, the harpy’s talons desperately lashing out, grabbing at him spasmodically. Red grunted with pain as a talon clutched onto his chest and dug into the leather, feeling the sharp claws pierce into his chest through the leather vest in a few places. Red maintained his grip on the harpy’s vulture-like neck as they rose level with the rooftops of the buildings that made up the alleyway, and the bird suddenly spasmed, its wings whipping out stiffly and carrying the two of them onto the nearest roof. The rotten shingles gave beneath the weight of Red and the harpy, and they fell through the roof into some sort of attic. Red landed hard on his back, grunting as the harpy landed atop him. He tightened his grip, wringing the monster’s neck and feeling—rather than hearing—the crackle of cartilage as he crushed its windpipe. Red kept his paws around the harpy’s neck until it ceased moving completely, before collapsing back with a gasp of exhaustion. He tried to shove the carcass off him, but found he lacked the strength. He lay back, exhausted and hurt, the dead harpy draped across him like a sack of meat. Reaching up to his chest, he tugged the sharp talons out of his leather vest, gritting his teeth as he felt blood ooze from the puncture wounds the tips of the harpy’s claws had inflicted on him. The sky grew darker above him as black clouds rolled overhead, blocking out any dim ambient light and plunging the town into a thick darkness. Red managed to lever the dead harpy off of him, scooting away from the body and into a corner, and sat there, staying quiet. He could see decently in the dark, as most members of his species could, and he hoped that the harpies would abandon their scavenging and leave. With a wince, Red opened his leather vest, checking out the wounds on his chest. The bleeding holes were small, and appeared to be minor, though they burned fiercely. Red knew he’d need to clean them out as soon as he could. Who knew what kind of infection a cut from a harpy talon could bring? After several minutes, Red slowly moved over to the body of the harpy to search it. The harpy wore a crude bandolier, stuffed with scraps of metal, a few silver strips, and what appeared to be a collection of small bones. Red also found what appeared to be a grenade. He moved to tuck this grenade into his satchel, and realized with frustration that one of the books he’d stored within had gotten lost, more likely falling out of his satchel at some point along his brief aerial battle with the harpy. Briefly checking over the contents of his satchel, Red discovered a few clock gears and some bolts for his steam pistol had also fallen out at some point. Red was less concerned about the bolts and gears and more concerned about the book. He needed that book. It might be able to help him understand what the horn that had been jammed in his eye was doing to him. Red froze as he heard a screeching cry from outside, and looked up towards the hole in the roof. The harpy call was joined by several others, and soon black shapes flew up into the darkness, leaving the streets behind in favor of the air. Red stayed still, watching as the swarm of harpies flocked together into the sky. They seemed to be leaving. Red exhaled slowly, feeling the tension he’d been carrying dissipate, leaving him feeling drained. Searching around in the darkness, Red was unwilling to light a lantern or torch for fear of attracting any attention to himself, and he nearly before fell down a rickety set of stairs. Running a paw along the wall, Red walked cautiously down the steps into the lower rooms and moved to the nearest window, peering out into the black of the streets. He could see nothing, and knew that he had almost no chance of finding the book he’d lost if it had fallen out of his satchel elsewhere. Red crept out into the street, staying close to the building wall, and retraced his steps, finding the alleyway he’d hid in earlier. He sifted through the rotten wood and rubble, and resisted the urge to cheer when he rediscovered the now slightly-battered tome. Grabbing the book, he once more secured it within his satchel. Turning away, Red slowly began tracing his steps back towards The Crimson Score. Though he assumed the harpies were gone, he took no chances, keeping low and sneaking from house to house, staying in cover as much as he could. After a tense hour of cautious traversing, Red finally arrived at the edge of the village, realizing he couldn’t see his ship with the dense cloud cover and the thick fog obscuring his vision. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain this was the same location he’d entered the village from. Red tried to visualize the area where he’d set down The Crimson Score and remembered, belatedly, that he had shot a few trolls nearest where he had landed. Red began to circle along the edge of the town, staying within the ruined buildings as best he could until finally he came across the crumpled form of a dead troll, now partly buried by ash. Red stood within a doorway with his weapon ready, checking to be certain it was fully loaded, and then exhaled slowly. The Score was only a hundred yards or so in front of him by his best estimate, which was a long way to run without cover. He didn’t trust that the harpies had left completely—one of their number was missing, after all—and though he hadn’t seen evidence that any remained behind, something was making his hackles rise, keeping him on edge. Red stared into the dark, willing his eyes to penetrate the dense fog that obscured his vision, but he saw nothing except the occasional flake of snow or swirl of ash. Steeling his nerves, Red sprinted into the open, straining to cross the distance between the building and his ship as swiftly as possible. Much sooner than he would have hoped, his nostrils filled with the pungent scent of harpy, and he muttered a curse under his breath. His ears caught the sound of wings, and Red fell prone into the ash, narrowly dodging the talons that raked right overhead. Rolling onto his back, Red and raised his steam pistol and waited for the next harpy to come at him. As expected, a harpy came screeching out of the fog, talons stretching forward, and Red fired once, twice, three times; two of the steam bolts burying themselves in the chest of the onrushing beast. The harpy’s scream became a gurgle and its wings faltered, crashing into the ground at Red’s feet. More shapes emerged out of the fog, flying above him and circling menacingly as he scrambled to reload the three empty chambers of the steam pistol, opening the cylinder and sliding three fresh steam bolts home. He snapped the cylinder closed and raised the steam pistol, pausing only long enough to pull the rifle off his back and clutch it in his free paw. Two harpies came down at him from the flock that had been circling overhead, and Red opened fire, emptying the steam pistol into the two monsters with a growl. A third harpy came out of the fog and Red barely had enough time to drop the empty steam pistol and raise the rifle before it was on him, claws raking for his face as its ugly beak opened in a hungry scream. Red thrust the barrel of the rifle forward into the harpy’s chest and fired point-blank, the rifle’s loud shot slightly muffled as it blew a hole in the harpy’s torso. The harpy dropped to the ground, and Red worked the action on the rifle, moving into a crouch and snarling as more harpies dropped towards him out of the fog. A half-dozen of the monsters came spiraling in on top of him, tightening the noose. Red fired into the flock, trying to make each shot count, until he pulled back the bolt action and the breach yawned open, empty. Red felt a spike of fear run down his spine. The harpies cawed, their unintelligible vocalizations mocking him, promising death. Red spun the rifle around, clutching the forestock like a club, swinging the butt of the weapon into the beak of the first harpy that got close enough. Red snarled at the harpies as they swarmed him. “I’m not dying here, you filthy buzzards! Not today!” Red grunted as he was brought down by a harpy slamming into his back. He dropped to his knees, whirling and smashing the butt of the rifle into the harpy’s wing. Talons raked across his shoulder and Red let out a yell of pain. He dove sideways, out of reach of the grasping claws of the harpies that were crowding him, and he threw the rifle into one as it came at him. Red got to his feet, yelling defiance into the swarm of harpies, baring his teeth and preparing to make a final rush into the mass of feathers and beaks and talons approaching him. Light suddenly exploded across the landscape, piercing the fog and illuminating the area. Red gasped, squinting into the sudden bright lights as the harpies scattered into the air and whirled around to face the source of the light. Above the melee, a metal airship hovered on VTOL engines, focusing its twin spotlights on the group of harpies. A harsh voice broadcast over an unseen loudspeaker. “Hey, mutt, that your ship?” Red spun around, spotting the looming silhouette of The Crimson Score a dozen yards away. He turned again, facing the ship, and raised his paws above his head and flashed what he hoped was a recognizable thumbs-up and nodded his head wildly. The voice chuckled, “If you’re lying, you’re next.” Above, as the harpies began to regroup, some sort of weapon system belched out a staccato noise, and electricity exploded into the atmosphere, crackling into the close-packed flock of harpies. The monsters screamed and burned, scattering as a quarter of their number fell in smoking puffs of feathers. The intense energy caused several of the harpies’ grenades to explode, causing even more damage to the flock as they retreated into the clouds. Red stared up at the ship, briefly dumbstruck at the display of power, before coming to his senses and retrieving his spent pistol and rifle from the ash and sprinting for The Crimson Score. He quickly clambered up the ladder and scrambled to unlock the hangar doors, before rushing inside and up to the bridge of the Score, activating the engines and powering on the exterior lights, further illuminating the dense fog. Red poured power into the engines and The Crimson Score lifted off into the fog. His saviour’s aircraft followed him, the powerful spotlights shifting to focus on the Score. Together, the two ships broke through the cloud cover and into the open air above the black thunderhead. Red shifted his engines into a hover and pulled the microphone up to his mouth, broadcasting to the other ship. “This is Red, pilot of The Crimson Score. I owe you my life.” The other ship replied after a moment. “Well, gratitude in the Wastelands does exist! The name’s Kevin, Red. Your ship can hover like mine, yes? How about we chat face-to-face?” Red hesitated on his response, but reconsidered. If this “Kevin” wanted to rob him, he could have just killed Red as easily as he had the harpies. Red replied after a moment. “That sounds doable. Bring your ship around to my bow and we can talk on the deck there.” Making certain that his ship would stay stationary, and after taking a moment to reload his steam pistol and holster it once more, he walked downstairs. As he passed through the crew compartment, he grabbed a roll of bandages and began wrapping up his shoulder. He’d forgotten the injury while his adrenaline had been pumping, but the gash was starting to sting and burn painfully. Red clenched his teeth as he ambled down to the forward deck of The Crimson Score, tightening down the bandage to stop the bleeding. The other ship pulled into his view and settled into a hover above the forward deck. A rope ladder dropped down onto his deck from an open hatch, and a female goblin scrambled down it, landing on the deck agilely. A moment later, out of the same hatch, a feathered creature winged down onto the foredeck. Red’s paw dropped to his steam pistol and he nearly drew the weapon before his brain recognized the creature as a buzzard, and not a harpy. Red glanced between the goblin and the buzzard, and they stared at him awkwardly for a moment before Red slowly moved his paw away from the holstered pistol. Red spoke quickly, “Sorry, I’m a bit jumpy at the moment.” The buzzard chuckled. “No crap, mutt. I don’t blame ya, though, it’s not every day that you gotta fight for your life.” The goblin woman snorted and spoke up, “Nah, that’s just every other day.” The buzzard winked at Red. “Excuse my jaded cohort. I’m Kevin, and I pilot the Carcass. This is Wendy, my mechanic.” Red extended a paw forward, towards them both. “I’m Red. It’s... good to meet you. Really, really good.” - End of Chapter 4 - Special Thanks To: WardenPony, RazgrizS57, TheBrianJ, shortskirtsandexplosions