//------------------------------// // Drunk on a Train // Story: Not Them // by BleedingRaindrops //------------------------------// Flintlock raised the frothing mug to his lips and dunked it back, gulping the cold liquid slightly faster than it spilled down his neck, and ignoring the holes it had to be burning in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut to shake away the dizziness, and slammed the now empty mug back down on the counter next to five others. Or… where there were five others? Four? It didn’t matter.  A hoof reached out from behind the counter to swipe all of the remaining mugs, just as the train lurched sideways, and Flintlock almost lost his dinner. “Bart… tender!” he called out, slumping forward onto the counter. The wood countertop was surprisingly comfortable. Really smooth, totally clean of drinks. Just flat enough to lay your head on. Yeah, really nice. He smiled and laid his head down over his hooves on the countertop. That made him a bit nauseous—probably the train again—but his head was getting heavy, and the bartender was chatting with his friends anyway. The bartender looked up from their conversation, and made their way over to him, meanwhile, somewhere, the car door opened, and a moment later somepony filled the empty space next to flintlock. “Tall Cider please? Flintlock swung his head around to observe the new pony, and promptly fell off his stool. He laughed. The other pony laughed. A hoof reached down and he let the other pony haul him up. And smoother than the whiskey in his mug, he was back on the stool like it never happened. Which of course left the fact that the pony he was staring at shouldn’t be there. Flintlock rubbed his eyes a few times, even shook his head, after which the other pony put a hand on his shoulder, and tipped his stool so that all four legs were back on the ground. “Wow, good save as always, Pants”  The other pony, a dark grey Earth Pony, clad in polished gold armor bearing the solar crest, and who was too well muscled to be anypony else, chuckled a familiar deep baritone. “Maybe if you wouldn’t drink so much, I wouldn’t need to save you so much.” He pulled Flintlock into a tight hug, then waved to the bartender, who had already refilled Flintlock’s whiskey and gone back to her friends. She rolled her eyes and trotted over again with a smile. “Sorry, Flint, I’m gonna have to cut you off. It’s late and your friend here is the only thing holding you up.” Her voice was like honey on velvet. Wait, that would just make a mess, right? Pants laughed at that. A good deep throated laugh that Flintlock could feel in his chest. Or maybe that was just his own heart beating. “Don’t worry, he’s safe with me. We go way back, Flint and I.”  Flintlock giggled, almost more than was necessary. “Yeah, dude, what’s it been, twenty years since that battle in the… where was it again?” “Uh… you forgot?” “Duh, why do you think I drink so much. To forget…” Flintlock stopped laughing, then slowly looked down. He couldn’t remember what he’d come here to forget, and yet, he didn’t feel happy about it either.  A deep heaviness filled his chest, and when he looked up at Pants, it only grew heavier. “Whyd’d you l-leave?” “Hm?” The larger stallion had hopped off the stool, and was helping Flintlock down off of his own. He tilted his head slightly. “Just hitting the sack, Flint. It’s late, and we gotta be up so we can get off the train in the morning.” “Not… that.” Flint grumbled. He put his hooves on the floor, and found that the train was moving far too much for him to maintain his balance. Pants must have noticed too, since he quickly held out a hoof to steady Flint, who grunted his thanks. Their booth arrived much faster than Flint had expected, but he wasn’t going to complain. He just sat on the bunk and stared across at Pants, who seemed content to sleep on the floor. “Why’dyou leave, Pants?” “Still not sure what you—” “You’nnnow perfec-ly well wadd-I…” Flint started to yell, then trailed off. Snowflakes tickled his snout, drifting on the soft breeze that swept through the mountain pass. Thick Snowdrifts rushed beneath his hooves, muffling his rapid hooffalls as he rushed toward a writhing mass of talons and feathers. ‘Get off him! Get off him, you bastards!’ A shrill cry ripped from his throat that he never heard, something tore at his hide that he never felt. A spear flew that he’d never thrown. Bodies fell that he never saw.  As Flintlock reached the carnage, a frozen mountainside faded to reveal the warm interior of a train, lit dimly by a single lantern on the wall. Across from him was a pony who did not exist, Clad in armor that bore every scar its bearer couldn’t. His throat tightened up, and before the floor could catch him he was being squeezed by a mountain of muscle who was only a memory. He could not hear himself cry, he only knew that he did. He could not feel his tears, but knew that they fell. Time did not exist. There was only this moment. This memory. This pain. All that whiskey for nothing. “Y-you’re not real.” “Flint, you’re drunk” “No, I’m not,” Flint snapped, squirming to escape the larger pony’s grip. “You’re not real. You can’t be. You can’t be here!” “And why not?” “Because you died!” The hooves holding Flint vanished, and he collapsed onto the ground. He rolled over and sat up limply. Staring at his hooves. Old bloodstains made their way into his vision on them. “I… I watched....” The armor made some soft grinding sounds as its inhabitant shifted. “Flint. What’s going on?” Flint didn’t answer. He just stared at his hooves, wishing away what was not there, cursing himself for having picked this train. He should have left the day sooner, or later, or not gone at all. Maybe then Pants wouldn’t have… Flint’s eyes narrowed, and he looked up slowly. Sitting across the floor from him was a dark grey stallion wearing golden armor that bore dents and scratches and long gashes in sets of threes, and a single round dent, just broken through the thick metal, where the chestplate connected with the shoulder. The stallion beneath, bearing none of the same scars. And yet, the more Flint looked, the more they seemed to appear. Perhaps he was drunk, but then... “What’sss your name?” he asked the stallion in armor, who rolled his eyes. “Pants, duh. You idiot. You drank so much you forgot your best friend.” “I know that, dumbass. I mmean your real name. The one I nnever call you.” “Uh… what? Dude, how much did you drink?” “Answer the quession, Panzer!” The soft, cheerfully confused expression his companion had been wearing faded, replaced by stern anger, then frustration, then defeat. His head slumped. “I… I don’t—” “Ironside. His name was Ironside. He wassnew to our unit. He was *MY* responsibility!” Flint’s voice broke several times, as new tears he could feel began to fall. “The kid was stronger than a yak, quicker’n a fox. Always putting himsself in the way of danger. The griffons called him Der Panzer, and I called him Pants as a joke! And I let those feathery bastards k—” His words were cut off by another crying fit. Flint collapsed on the floor, sobbing and sputtering into the thin carpet.  Whatever was sitting across from him, it wasn’t Ironside. It wavered, and with a flash of green magic the grey coat was replaced by black chitin. It was only for a moment, then the larger stallion was back, but Flint had seen it. Changeling. Deceptive little devils. Their whole colony had raided Canterlot the year prior. And here he was, alone with one. Fatigue threatened to quench the fire building in his legs, and Flintlock hung his head, staring at the floor between him and the changeling. “Who are you?” It was said without energy. Flint surprised even himself. There was no malice, or pain in the voice. Just sheer exhaustion, at a memory he’d held onto for far too long, and would probably continue to carry for the rest of his life. The changeling didn’t answer at first. It sat mostly still, though tongues of green flame raced over its body in repeating cycles. Flint couldn’t tell if he was getting drunker or more sober. He glanced at the clock. 2am. The bar had closed at midnight. And he was no closer to an answer. Finally, in a voice that sounded far too much like a filly holding back tears, the creature spoke. “I… don’t know.”  Flint’s head snapped up, eyes wide, ears forward. Where before there had been a massive stallion, now there was a mare. Young, but definitely an adult. Her body was jet black, and riddled with the same swiss cheese holes they’d been taught about since that day. On her back were a pair of translucent wings, also riddled with small holes, and on her head was a smooth curved horn. Her mane was the same shade of green as her eyes, which were already overflowing with tears. Could changelings even cry? Obviously they could. And more than that—Flint was pretty sure he was going to need more whiskey after this—the blasted thing had the audacity to look scared. Scared of what? Scared of him?! Flint snorted, maybe it had better be.  “Go,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could. He looked back down at the floor. “I—I’m sorry. I just wanted—” “GO!” He repeated, loudly enough to cause a ringing sound from the windows.  There was a pause, as though the pathetic creature hadn’t heard him. But Flint had no more patience left “GET OUTTA HERE  YOU LITTLE BA—” Flint made to dive on top of the little devil, but was stopped as he tripped over his own hooves. The changeling slipped lithely around him and dove at the window. A soft “I’m sorry” was heard before it smashed through the glass and disappeared into the night. Flint landed face first onto the floor, and laid there crying and screaming into the carpet for the next hour or so, before finally passing out.  Flintlock arrived in Ponyville the next morning, awoken by the conductor, and a splitting headache.He stumbled off the train, receiving a few concerned looks from the conductor, and collapsed against the station wall.  He remembered very little of the previous night’s events, and he had a strong feeling it was better that way. Good old whiskey. Nature’s brain bleach.