DISSONANCE
“cog·ni·tive dis·so·nance (/ˌkɒɡ.nə.tɪv ˈdɪs.ən.əns/) noun.
1. the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions.
2. the denial of what’s right in front of you.
3. an unreliable way for cowards to live with their mistakes, past and future.
4. you can’t run forever.”
The evening sun was shining faintly on the scoped lever-action, its glint scarcely noticeable in the white hills near Wallace. It would be reasonable to say only a skilled hunter would distinguish it from the piles of leaves and snow littering the forest floor.
Unfortunately for the limping quadruped in the rifle’s sights, the only hunter for miles around was currently prone, covered by a white blanket and itching to pull the trigger.
His target was already hurt, the limp betraying the internal damage. Frantic movements, eyes and ears desperately scanning its surroundings, heavy breaths, ragged looks. Bleeding just a bit. A clean shot, enough to disable the critter, shouldn’t be too difficult. Might even be merciful.
If he could stop shaking that is.
“Bloody cold,” croaked the man to no one as snow got through the glass cracks on his goggles. It was hard to keep the rifle steady when your hands were trying not to form icicles.
The hooved creature proved aware enough, its ears rigid the moment his complaint was made. Its head was scoping the area, exposing a bit of the neck but not enough for a comfortable shot. He had to bait it a bit more.
Unfortunately, nature was fighting rather formidably to seep into his layers of clothing. The snow infiltrated the blanket and warmed inside his camouflaged vest, making a wet patch that would herald more than a simple running nose. Waiting was not a very good prospect.
“Just a bit more. Come on,” he silently urged. The man moved and was now holding the stock of the rifle with his bandaged hand, hoping the bipod would do its work on the soft soil. It did, somewhat. His crosshair now only swayed as much as a certain drunk Irishman he knew.
‘Collins – no. Not now. Focus.’
The thing was now definitely aware of his presence, looking straight at the pile he chose as his temporary cover. His repositioning had moved a bit of snow – the blanket hiding him now askew – allowing it to spot his hiding place.
And allowing him, in turn, to see its front now fully exposed.
“Beautiful,” and a pull of the trigger was all the creature could faintly hear, before collapsing backwards.
***
It wasn’t uncommon to have hunting cabins strewn about in Nova Scotia’s many low mountain ranges. Hunters that wanted to evade the buck law regulation would pool their resources to construct small outposts where they could rest and pile their prizes without declaring their hunt to the Department of Lands and Forestry – and risk losing their hunting license.
Of course, with a whole new world of sentient animals arriving some years ago at the CERN, in Switzerland, a lot of licenses were called into question anyway.
It was a diplomatic attempt to ease relations with the more conservative side of the Equestrian Animal Rights Coalition - just one of the many new organizations humanity would have to deal with that sprouted from the collision of the two worlds.
Turns out, deer were both sentient, and regarded quite fondly in this alien world.
Frank was doubtful when his tutor suggested they spend their hunting trip on one such cabin. After all – if the purpose of it was to hide illegal doings – one could easily make the connection they would be using it for similar ends. And that was more unnecessary trouble on their backs.
Especially if they offended their deer Father Christmas, or whatever it was.
In contrast, his mentor assured him he was good friends with the equestrian government, and promised they would be fine. Frank countered by asking if he thought the two nobles at the Cavalry Club were enough to count as ‘all of the equestrian government’.
Collins just told him to shut up, as usual.
So far their trips were mostly legal but, if he knew his mentor, that could very well change at any moment. Uselessness in comfort, as the old man would say.
The dead deer was dropped on the snow leading up the entrance to the house, with Frank leaning back on the wooden fence closely surrounding the cleared pathway.
“I know. I’m late. Finally got our dinner,” he said and nodded to the dead animal. “Curious to see what you do with it. I’m starving.” His stomach kindly added a groan of agreement.
The older man sitting on the porch closed his book, carefully setting it on his lap, and took a quick look at the animal. “The deal is you get both of us good game and I handle the cooking.” He looked a bit more closely at the carcass, eyes mechanically checking for all the signs a skilled butcher should be aware of.
Satisfied, he nodded, as if already expecting the obvious outcome. “That,” he pointed at the sorry thing with his bony finger, “is not good game, and it sure as shite won’t feed both of us long enough.”
Frank’s brows snapped together and the corners of his mouth soured down. “What are you on about?” he dared ask. “It’s big enough, I shot it clean, no antlers.” – he listed off with his fingers – “Not a bad catch at all.”
The old man lightly shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes peacefully. “We’re in spring, Frank. It’s big because it hasn’t burned the fat from winter.”
Frank raised a single eyebrow, a glint reaching in his eyes. “So, not going to contest my shooting?” he allowed a smirk to deform his face, theatrically raising both arms. “Has the infamous Thomas Collins forgotten how to be an absolute ass?”
Thomas just opened one eye slightly, his face infuriatingly neutral. “No objections if something’s done well enough.”
Him pivoting from their usual banter stopped Frank in his tracks. “Wha-? I… no, there’s always something.” He looked incredulous, eyes searching for answers. “What is it? Should’ve gone for the head? Used a better caliber?”
“No,” was the quiet and definitive answer. “You did fine.”
Frank eyed the geezer up and down for a while, defiance of the words spoken etched into his face. Thomas just stood as he was, resting, decidedly not looking at him.
“…I don’t know what you’re playing at, you crotchety wanker, but – for the record – I’ll take what I can get.”
That got him a more familiar and not-so-spontaneous reaction. “Maybe you can get yerself a decent feckin’ rifle! What kind o’ gob puts a bipod on a feckin’ brush gun?” Thomas bellowed out, arm cocked back and book in hand, ready to launch. Good old blistering Irish rage.
With the deer hurriedly slung back over his shoulder and working as cover from the threat of a leather-bound, two-hundred-and-three pages worth of damage, Frank walked quickly past the seated man and towards the old oak door.
“There he is. Tommy, me lad, you’re lettin’ the ol’ accent slip through!” he said, in a mock replica of his friend.
“Crotchety my arse, you crusty –” he threw his arm “– cunt!” and the book hit the deer harmlessly.
His poor launch was only met with Frank’s receding laughter.
***
The forest was hushed after being defiled by the man made weapon. Crane had his wet vest now slung over his shoulder, with the white blanket used to hide his position now discarded. He hoped that leaving the still warm barrel of the gun on top of the vest would help dry the wet spot.
After a quick inspection of his belongings, he glanced over at the spot the creature had dropped. With a fully exposed front, penetrating one of the shoulders was easy. The joint would be nothing but scrap and sinew. Not enough to kill, as evidenced by the wheezing sounds still coming from it, but he wouldn’t need to rush to secure the target.
He removed his cracked goggles and inspected them, clearing the snow that had gotten through. There was a bit of dried, flaking liquid in some of the interior, and a small hole breached the side of the reflective glass, right where his right brow would be. As a snow visor, it wouldn’t be doing its job very well anymore.
The shot was effective, but the tactic had been haphazard, out of his norm. It wouldn’t die immediately, sentenced to a long and agonizing recovery - if it even had the chance. More so, relying on the target to expose itself was bad practice, and exposing himself for a better angle was plain stupid.
He gently shook his head, hoping his thoughts would just dissipate in the snow.
‘It’s just the cold. Deal with it.’
Putting the tight-fitted spectacles back on his forehead, he collected the white mantle, stuffed it on his backpack and started making his way over to the downed animal.
***
Whoever had built the cabin wanted it to last several winters. Starting from a simple polished stone base on the foot of the low mountain, the logs that made up the walls were all coated in an oil finish made to last the harsh winters. The fireplace took up most of the living room, with fresh wood waiting to be turned into cinders resting inside. Two rooms and a door to the outside lay on the back of the structure, and a simple kitchen complemented the otherwise barren residence. With no more clutter than was necessary, only the most useful equipment was kept inside. A survivalist dream.
“I saw the birds scattering twice,” Thomas called out from the hearty stove, embers catching on quickly from the burning logs.
“Well,” Frank began, adjusting the animal on his back, “I… might’ve missed the first shot”
Thomas turned towards his friend and crossed his arms, the stove now warm and ready behind him. “And you still hit the deer that clean?”
“Lever action, remember?” Frank kept moving his shoulder, careful not to lose his balance or drop the deer. “I could probably get rid of two casings while you’re still pulling the bolt on the first one.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows, mouth drawing a thin, curved line. “Nevermind the time the birds would need to settle and scatter again, I bet you can’t shoot twice while prone using that bipod o’ yours.”
Frank groaned shifted his ankles away from his friend. “If you’re gonna be pissy about the bipod every day, fine. I’ll take it off.” He looked downwards. “It was cheap anyway…”
Collins stared at Frank’s downturned face concealing his eyes with his unkempt hair. Frank kept looking at various points of the stony masonry, admiring a craftsmanship he didn't have enough knowledge to appreciate. With each passing second, Thomas’ eyebrows got lower and lower until a frown creased his somewhat wrinkled face.
“Francis Crane…” Thomas muttered and shook his head, letting the frown go. “We ought to work on your fibbing.”
“Look, I’m sorry. Can we quit yapping and skin this –“ Frank nodded his head at the carcass on his shoulder “– thing? I’m not worried about a stray bullet in the middle of fuck all. Don’t see why you’re getting your knickers in a twist, either.”
“… Fine,” he breathed out, moving towards the door to the outside. “I’ll get the hooks. I’m content you didn’t pock it full o’ holes, at least.”
The skinning of the deer was a tedious ordeal; mechanical and familiar. The disgust went away after a couple dozen times seeing an animal’s insides, and the novelty not long after. Turns out, Collins was right: there was quite a bit of fat in his catch.
Not that it bothered Frank too much. He learned to deal with the crankiness and high standards long ago.
Collins grunted and threw his carving knife on the table. “You finish this up and hang it. I’m too old to be holding carcasses up.”
Frank quickly picked up the knife and continued skinning. “What do you want done with the skin?” he asked while concentrating on a difficult tendon to cut.
“Don’t care. Make a hat with it to hide your ugly mug. I’ll get started on the curry.”
Ah, the legendary Collins recipe. When modified for vegetarians, it was a complete hit in the Club back in Birmingham. The locals thought it was decent, but the visiting ponies absolutely adored it. Every time he served them, he’d tell the same story about how the original recipe was developed while infiltrated in enemy territory, using nothing more than a couple of condiments he’d scavenged from a blown up store. Just some good old human bullshit that the Club loved to bite into.
If he had to summarize old Thomas in one word…
It would be ’bastard’. But if he bothered using two, it would be ‘glorious bastard’.
The simmering pot full of the precious liquid was quickly put in the kitchen counter, where Frank watched with anticipation as the wafts of smoke followed the curry’s every move with a promise of perfect taste bud stimulation.
“Watch it. It’s still hot,” warned Thomas, his bowl still simmering on the table where he plopped down.
“Like that’s gonna stop me.” He gulped down a big spoon of the deliciously hot liquid, pridefully trying to ignore the flaming sensation. The regret was instantaneous. “Ugh,” Frank mumbled through his burnt tongue. He tried collecting the bits of snow that had gathered in his clothing and quickly stuffed his mouth with it.
The burning lesson didn’t last long enough, considering the spoonful that followed right after. “Hmm, you gotta teach me how to cook like this.”
Thomas quietly smiled at Frank’s arrogance biting his ass. “So you can show off to the ponies at the Club instead of me?” He turned an accusatory spoon at Frank. “Wasn’t the shootin’ enough, now you wanna steal my cookin’?”
Frank took on a challenging smirk. “Afraid I’ll be better at it too?” he asked, challenging his old mentor.
Thomas scoffed, “Watch it. Age might make me a bit slippery on the trigger, but it doesn’t affect my curry.”
Frank simply raised his bowl with one arm in toast. “Amen to that.” Then he pointed at Thomas. “And I didn’t steal anything. You taught me willingly.”
Thomas just grunted back.
Collins sat comfortably in his padded chair while Frank ate happily on the counter, satisfied in the simple act. It was always a calm time, when they got to eat together. Frank thought they should’ve had more moments like these, to balance the harsh exercises.
Except Collins wasn’t a very… approachable person. Friendly insults aside, he was a drill sergeant through and through. And god knew how hard it was just to get that stubborn old fool to accustom himself with the banter.
Once they were done, Frank collected their bowls and went to the sink. Turns out his deer, although fat, was quite the delicacy. His clean shot made sure it wouldn’t taste like powder. Which reminded him…
“So… what was that back then?” he said while scrubbing the bowl.
“What was what?”
Frank turned slightly to look at Thomas at the quiet response. He had his back to him, already reading another book. Where does he keep so many– no. Focus. “Don’t fuck around now. You never compliment my shooting.”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “Your shooting was fine today.”
Frank gave him one quick laugh, short and dry. It rasped his throat. “Yeah, right. It’s never fine.”
“Not this time.” He refused to turn still. All Frank could see were his straight laced shoulders. Tensioned, even.
“Alright, the fuck is up with you?” Frank exclaimed and threw the bowl in the sink, splashing water on his clothes.
That had finally earned Thomas’ attention. He breathed out as he finally turned to Frank. “Look,” he began slowly, pronouncing his words with more care, “Ponies are all about being better, yeah? Well, I'm taking a page from their book. Being better.”
Frank didn’t believe his ears. This… this was the man who made him crawl through shit and mud in the training courses of the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh, with his old buddies in Ireland. The man who made him drink chicken blood to survive in the savannas of South Africa. The man who made him dive for his own parachute above Omsk, who made his life into a drill course, into a constant nightmare...
But also the man who saved him from the streets. Who fed and warmed a would-be thief when he had no obligation to. The man who taught him how to defend himself. The man who gave him at least some purpose, jaded as it might be. The man who made him who he is.
For a hefty price.
‘Fair enough, Collins. I guess Dewdrop and her friends managed to scrape a heart out of you after all.’
***
Collins stood outside, appreciating the beauty of the red pine trees and white branches. He was thankful Beatrice had let them stay at her cabin. A lot of good memories were tied to this place; to her. Of their time together as boisterous teens. Before she was truly ingrained in the royal family tradition of looking like a disappointed pebble.
One of these days, he should introduce her to Frank. That’d be a sight. A Middlesbrough brat meeting a royal. He would probably fumble the proper greetings and just go with ‘Yeah, no. I’m not one for the fancy twaterings’. No amount of training could teach that boy manners. But he tried.
Frank’s accent seemed to have toned down over the years, even.
“Well, I’m full and bored. What time is it?”
Speaking of the devil. “Not late enough to be bored already,” Tom scolded him.
Frank stretched his arms and sat on the steps right next to Thomas. “Well, I blame you for the lack of entertainment,” he accused, balling up some snow into his fist. “Fucking Canada? I know you wanted to show me how to hunt in the snow, but why Canada?” - he tossed the snowball away - “This is hardly ‘untouched nature’, quiet and boring as it may be.”
It didn’t take long for Collins to come up with a reason that didn’t require they go excavating his past dealings with the Royals. The world was providing plenty of excuses nowadays. “Because Russia was too much trouble. Especially now with those fanatic clashes in the bureaus,” he remarked, looking distant. “Even Britain is down in the shitter with people for and against conversion bashing each other like fuckin’ dogs.”
“Huh.” Frank got up and leaned into the porch. “Heard some radicals wanted to bomb the bureaus in London to kingdom come.”
That had set off some alarm bells. “And where the feck,” he said, looking straight at Frank, “did ya hear that?”
“Some website on the net,” he said dismissively.
Thomas only frowned at him. He knew exactly what kind of website that was. The ones Google didn’t index for your viewing pleasure. That the European Union didn’t want indexed.
“I was curious alright?” he said, throwing his hands in a placating gesture.
Thomas eased his frown, but kept a stern face. “You’re not going radical on the ponies, are ya?” He rested his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I took you to Birmingham for a reason. Seen that kind of crap too much as a kid.”
Frank looked up, mildly surprised. “You mean the Troubles?” he asked, flexing his knuckles to ease their tension. “You don’t talk much about your kid days.”
Thomas looked out into the forest, eyes drifting through what looked like even more unwanted remembrances. “It’s… not a very fond memory.”
Frank nodded. “Must've been a shitty childhood.”
Thomas quietly shrugged. “Shitty time all-around, Franky,” he admitted, “I’m not one to hog all the sewage.”
“Drop the Franky, ‘Tommy’,” hissed his charge.
“Drop the Tommy then, you cunt.” Collins slapped him upside the head.
Truth was, Thomas was also worried about the news of London he got a month ago. The newfoals, the potion. Seemed like the perfect world some ponies claimed to have wasn’t clashing well with Earth. His friends in the SAS had kept him up to par: some radicals from the Ponies for Humanity’s Health had offended some, admittedly, unsavory individuals in the middle of the city. Then of course, an idiot brings a bottle of purple liquid, another pulls out a knife and everything goes downhill.
And the last thing he wanted was to have Frank get involved in either side. He knew very well how… easily immersed he could be. Especially if these radicals were offering camaraderie, danger and unplanned undertakings. Really, anything that clashed with his training regimes.
Naturally – after a minute of silence – Frank couldn't resist opening his beak some more. “They might have a point, though,” he said, drawing Thomas out of his thoughts. “I read that those Newfoals aren’t right.”
“Fuck me, I knew it. You ARE reading that extremist shit.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Frank. “You wanna be a rebel. Have I taught you nothin’? Where’s your bloody discipline?”
“Hear me out, will you?” Frank appealed. “This doc, Erika Kraber, released her findings a couple months ago. Scientific findings she made together with a pony.”
Tom huffed and readjusted his watch. “Great. And look where that got everybody.”
“My point is,” Frank insisted, “this is legit. They are verified and not sponsored.”
Thomas was absolutely livid. This shit again. He had been contacted by Algernon Spader over the phone a day or so ago, something about meeting up and establishing a PMC of sorts, the bastard. He didn’t get many details on account of hanging up right then.
He was doing that on a lot of old contacts that decided to bother him on this hunting trip. This was a time for him to try and… do something about Frank, not be bothered every fucking day for almost a month now with urgent calls from people he wished he’d never hear from again.
If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Britain was going to war, or something just as asinine.
What a bastard. Spader was a control-freak; first chance he got, he would take the reins and install some complicated system that Thomas could never understand. It’s what happened last time – during Nimrod – and it would happen again.
But… he owed it to Frank to at least hear him out. His own words from mere minutes ago stood against him. He had promised Dewdrop.
With a sigh, Thomas conceded. “Alright, let me see it.”
Frank looked surprised, but quickly pulled out his phone and started flashing through the many charts he had. “I’ve got it saved here. Look: 89.4% of the Newfoals interviewed had some form of radical personality change after…”
***
*Beep* went the crystal.
It was a curious fact, how human technology could be replaced so well with alien minerals. Crane sometimes thought back on how the famous techno-magical devices were first introduced to humankind, not unlike an Apple presentation from the ponies. Everyone had clapped. Everyone. Those were memories of better times, and promises of a bright future.
‘And now we have to act as if it never happened.’
He checked the sparking crystal PDA mounted on his left wrist, some wires hanging loose. He could feel it pulsing, unknown energies flowing through the contraption to make it work. In this particular screen, a miniature pony with a nurse cap was waving incessantly with a concerned face, followed by a display showing various red points in his body.
Honestly, he probably would’ve found a way to get rid of the pony avatar if it wasn’t so useful. That, and it was pretty adorable.
Not that he would admit it.
Resting his earmuffs on his neck, he looked closer at the wounded creature - a pegasus. A hole bled on her right shoulder and a bigger hole had sprung from a couple centimeters down her back. The bullet hadn’t hit the lungs at all. The shot was clean.
Francis could now hear a commotion further down the hill they were in. He casually looked up, towards the source of the noise. Frantic stomping on snow, three pairs total, spaced out in two quick hits each beat. One heavier, decisive.
‘Standard equestrian chasing squad, no humans. Probably converging on the sound of the shot.’
He looked down again. The snow was stained red from the pegasus’ wound, her pristine tan coat tarnished with her own blood while her long, brown mane spread itself on the snow. That right hoof was unusable, the only organic connection left were some bits of muscle and splintered bone.
It was quite easy to tell when you hit an equestrian. Usually there isn’t much clothing to conceal the wound, and their colored coats clashed horrifically with the blood that squirted out. A tiny, vibrant piece of candy sullied by lead, oozing its ichor.
With adrenaline pumping and face marred with pain, she tried to crawl with her good hoof away, but a heavy weight put a stop to that.
It took a moment for the black boot to register in her mind, but once it did, she lethargically looked up.
His was a visage heralding death. His pants were stained with red, cloth shredded all around the apparent wound with dried blood as a companion. The pearly white-and-gray jacket with a pattern that disfigured his silhouette was askew, a white vest hanging on his shoulder. Reflective, cracked goggles stood unused on his forehead, a neck gaiter keeping his warm breaths mostly in, a cheap-looking beanie and a piece of white cloth sticking out of a backpack that didn’t close all the way completed the ensemble of misery.
Despite his lower face being covered with the dark-gray cloth, she stared at it. His gun was now unholstered, squinted hazel eyes forced on his face by the sharp cold winds.
Her eyes were narrowed and a bit blurry with tears, but as soon as she recognized that steely gaze, they shot open. “C–Crane? Oh, you b–bucking…” she stuttered, teeth clacking from the cold and shock.
She tried desperately pulling her hoof away with whatever strength was left in her shoulder, but he only applied more pressure. Pegasi bones were a lot sturdier than most would give them credit for. Unfortunately, they also hurt a lot more when broken; if you want a pegasus dazed, hold their spine stationary, pull off some primary feathers and pressure their joints.
Turning their other shoulder to mist also works, but that’s neither here nor there.
He could definitely hear the two lighter pairs of stomps right at the edge of his little crime scene now. The chasing squad had converged on his position effectively.
“Hey, Ape! Get those filthy–”
“–hands away from her!”
For what he could discern between the strikingly similar female voices, they had completed each other’s sentences.
He turned his head and saw two Newfoals arranging themselves around him, their bare flanks accusing their nature. A unicorn and an earth pony, one with a steel-blue coat and mauve mane, the other the inverse, scowls dotting their faces.
In their eyes was hatred. Hatred for what he was. Or better, what he wasn’t. And some perverse desire as to what he could be.
Honestly, it was a nice change of pace from the usual euphoric look they carried all the– no. Don’t go there.
An armored unicorn arrived a bit late and put herself in the middle, impassively, with her horn lit up. Her coverings had scraps of royal guard armor stitched together, most probably enchanted. From the gaps, he could see her artichoke fur and moss-colored mane.
No more than a look and she had assessed the situation, crossbow cocked and ready.
“Dice, give us shields!” the leader barked off, “Skewer, prep some potion!”
Crane stepped off the mare and turned to the arrivals, but kept his lever action aimed at the downed pegasus. His breath slithered through his covered mouth, vapor clouding his vision slightly.
A purple vial was in the jaws of the earth pony Newfoal as the lead unicorn - the only one covered in a blue sheen - stomped the snow and snorted.
“Now, step away from her, human.”