“Of all men else I have avoided thee.
But get thee back. My soul is too much charged
With blood of thine already.”
– Macbeth
For an outside observer, this encounter’s result was already decided the moment the shields went up. Crane thought so too.
A human with a gun that hadn’t seen proper care in weeks, snow infiltrating every moving part, caliber too weak to break through shields – thaumic or kinetic. Two devoted Newfoals and an armored natural-born, all alert and healthy, while he was injured, cold, beaten? Even his crystal PDA was a bit frightened, with the little pony nurse hiding behind one of the warning pop-ups. Whether PHL or HLF, there was little to be done here.
Good thing Crane was neither.
“Flash Sunrise,” he said simply, pulling his neck gaiter down with his free hand, his unkempt beard free to be messed by the wind. “You better not waste that vial on me, Skewer.” He glanced at the earth pony Newfoal.
That had sent the leader’s ears up, face betraying her surprise. Right after, recognition dawned on her. “Ah buck. Flash Sunrise confirmed.” She lowered her crossbow and hooked it to her side. “Only one PER idiot I know who bothers with personal codes…” she mumbled, face souring. “That you, Crane?” she said louder, annoyance creeping into her voice.
“Hey there, Mr. Crane!” the twin Newfoals shouted in unison with syrupy happiness, large smiles quickly overtaking their faces and previous hate instantly forgotten. Much like a switch being flipped, a conductor set in the middle of a current.
He managed to keep his face neutral and professional, his signature not-quite-displeased downturn of mouth now adorned. “Hello, Skewer. Dice.” And then it soured into quite-obviously-displeased. “Stalwart,” he said evenly. “You’re not looking a second older.”
Stalwart approached him with a stony face. “The wonders of equestrian medicine,” she remarked. “And you look like crap. Unsurprisingly.”
“Pretty sure I’m well past that point,” he replied, looking at his torn clothing and bruises.
Stalwart didn’t bat an eye. “I was hoping you caught yourself in a bear trap somewhere far away.” She took a better look at his leg and smirked. “Heh, maybe you did.”
“Welcoming as always.”
“You’re the bucker who left. You don’t get a welcome back,” Stalwart spat back.
He chuckled darkly in response. “Leave the PER? And lose your charming presence?” He waved his hand dismissively. “I know better than most just what happens to the fools who try it.”
“Afraid of being hunted by a fellow Fixer?” She dared say, with a challenging smirk defacing her muzzle. “Or maybe they’d send a Trailblazer. Would be nice seeing another pony putting you in your place.”
Crane breathed in and scowled at her. “I’m as loyal as ever,” he said and then used his boot to lightly push the pegasus at his feet, who was trying to quietly crawl away. “Unlike Skies over here.”
The staunchy mare approached the mess his bullet had made, making sure to carefully navigate the red spots staining the silvery snow. She pulled the pegasus’ head up with her magic, to have a better look. Satisfied at seeing the brown locks of mane and the tan muzzle scrunched in agony, she let it drop rather brusquely.
“The others were... riled up,” she commented, throwing her hoof at his direction. “I’ve seen you go off before, but never this long. Or without warning me...” she looked straight into his eyes. She felt no need to spell it out.
Crane couldn’t fool her, couldn’t bribe her, couldn’t even dare reason with her. Imperials were pretty resistant to those strategies. They always seemed to notice when something was afoot.
What he could do was give her results and shift the focus. The wonders of letting scornful veterans run PER cells for too long: they get predictable and easy to read.
“Don’t beat around the bush, Stalwart. It’s unbecoming.” He cleared his throat, turning those cold hazel eyes to the pegasus at their mercy. “Frown upon my tactics all you want, I’d say it was quite effective.”
Stalwart turned back at the mare in question, strode towards Skies and stopped right in front her. The Newfoals were standing further back with manes and tails flickering about, seemingly unaffected by the harsh wind on their faces.
Crane followed Stalwart’s movements closely, a raised brow at her sudden interest. She lowered her head to be closer to Skies’ ears.
“Should’ve ran faster, traitor,” she sneered as she loomed over her, venom dripping from her words.
“Stally, please! I wasn’t– agh!” her croaky plead was interrupted.
Stalwart’s horn glowed brighter – the spot where the bullet had gone in sparkling with the same dark shade of green – as the blood flowed faster. Contrasting her previous care, Stalwart now stood with her hooves stained in the dirty snow.
“It’s sergeant Stalwart Stasis to you,” she spat back, expression full of hate. “Of all the times you could’ve shown your cowardice, you thought now was the best?”
Crane crossed his arms. “She’s not gonna make it if you keep that up.”
Stalwart continued, disregarding Crane’s existence for the moment. Skies was whimpering, vocal chords exhausted at her pitiful attempt at garnering sympathy while the wound on her shoulder bled away her strength.
“I can’t interrogate dead mares, Stalwart,” Crane stressed and moved closer, hands hovering at his hips and ready to intervene.
Stalwart blinked, expression changing in an instant, and turned back to him. She had thankfully let go of her telekinesis. “I’m guessing she contacted your totem.” she commented without emotion, completely ignorant of the past minute.
Crane only sighed in return, mumbling something about it not being a totem. “Yes, she snitched – thought I had gone rogue and was going to help her escape. Don’t know how she got my PDA’s frequency, though.”
“Neither do I. Didn’t Bucky say it was ‘unfeasible bordering on impossible’?” She asked while signaling for Skewer and Dice to come closer.
Crane ignored her question and crossed his arms, brows furrowed, chin resting on his relaxed hand. As still and pensive as he could look. “Nevermind that, we’ve got her now. Any idea who else she contacted? Who might’ve run with her?” He looked at Stalwart to gauge her reaction.
There wasn’t one. Stalwart was already levitating the unconscious mare onto Dice’s back, letting the earth pony bear her weight. “Dice caught her trying to sneak away alone, we gave chase. Right now, all I have are suspicions,” she commented with a shrug, “but I’m sure you’ll prod me for them later. Let’s get her back.”
“Fine by me. And I need you to get in touch with Vigil. My PDA is busted.” He lifted his geared arm to emphasize his point.
Busted was a compliment. The crypto-tech mess looked like a forest of copper strands and pointy crystals had glomped Crane’s forearm and refused to let go. Curiously enough, the damage seemed to restrain itself to the metals and wiring while the crystals remained in perfect condition.
The pony nurse on the screen – he should really just give her a name already – did not take his words as a compliment, however, judging by her crossed forelegs and indignant pout. The little rascal even dared stick her tongue out at him.
A nasty frown found itself nestled on Stalwart’s face. “Planning to leave again?” she asked.
“Maybe. Contrary to what I said...” Crane passed her by, a small smile nestled in his face. “You’re not charming at all.”
***
They made quick work of getting Skies properly set up on Skewer’s back, making sure she wouldn’t drop and stopping the flow of blood with a piece of cloth Stalwart provided. She hadn’t bothered using a healing spell on the shivering pegasus, much to Crane’s chagrin.
The weather had worsened on their way towards wherever it was Stalwart had set up the group. Before, nature was content with the occasional sharp lance of cold wind, but now it was throwing the kind of weather that made you question the usefulness of fridges and their place in society.
It was forcing Crane to keep his hand in front of his eyes and made their progress slower than he’d have liked. Last thing he wanted was for someone from Wallace – the little town further north – to stumble upon them. Especially when Stalwart decided to bust out her old Trailblazer armor. Those flowy designs on the enchanted metal would be recognizable to most anyone on the coast.
“Couldn’t help but recognize this beaten path. Why are we going back to the lodge?” he yelled over nature’s attempts to claw his eyes out with sharpened slashes of air.
Stalwart didn’t seem bothered at all, thanks to the shield she conjured in front of her whole face. “Did you hurt your head as well as your leg? That’s where we’re staying at.”
“That’s where we were staying at. Did you seriously not move the group after a possible deserter?” he stressed.
While they talked, Dice slowed down and levitated a new set of goggles from her saddlebags, offering them to Crane. He thanked her quietly.
Her viscid smile only seemed to pull her cheeks further up, almost as if its owner was tripping on the pleasure of being helpful. The goggles were scuffed, but at least there weren’t any cracks for the icy gale to squeeze through.
“We couldn’t move,” Stalwart finally answered.
With the spectacles now firmly adorned, Crane finally let his bandaged hand rest by his side. “Why?” he asked.
It took Stalwart a moment to respond. A moment long enough to bring Crane’s gaze on her.
“... Seeker’s pregnant,” she spoke through her gritted teeth.
Much like a bolder suddenly pressing on his shoulders, a heavy weight stopped any minimal progress Crane might’ve had on the snow clinging to his ankles. Though his face was covered and his eyes protected, they fell nonetheless.
“... Fuck.”
Stalwart looked back, an unreadable expression on her shielded face. “A lot happened while you were away.” Her eyes were looking… not at him, but through him. “We can talk better when we’re not being assaulted by Earth’s bucking weather. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Crane lightly caressed the ring on his right hand. “Bloody pregnant,” he cursed under his breath.
***
The sight of the old lodge was one he wouldn’t forget so soon. He’d struck gold when he found it abandoned. Last thing he had wanted that night, many months ago, was to have to clear out another large building after getting shot in the gut by a Human Liberation Front straggler.
As it stood, the tall wooden structure was definitely owned by some rich family before it was vacated. He remembered the multiple bedrooms spread throughout two floors, a grandiose fireplace that connected to a chimney resided in the open area at the middle that had large glass panels showing the side of the hill they were on, with heavy, long curtains providing some privacy for those inside.
And best of all: it didn’t show on any local maps. A private paradise.
There was snow gathering at the front of the lodge, where the porch extended outside. A griffon – male, gruff, nasty-looking beak, cold gray colors on his fluffed plumage – sat comfortably in a padded wooden chair, a lean metal rifle with a thin plastic stock in his lap. The rifle had some old, almost frozen patches of faded purple where you’d expect the bolt to be pulled.
He had a different, darker shade on the plumage around his eyes. The colors reminded Crane of a racoon. A racoon with wings and razors for claws.
Stalwart wasn’t even fazed by his menacing presence. “Scauper! We got Skies. Anything happen on your end?”
“Sup’, boss.” He nodded towards her, claws rubbing his beak for warmth. “Nah. Felicia and Jo were cookin’ somethin’, Bucky’s in his room with Seeker and Coffee while Bart’s doing whatever.”
After he was done frictioning his sharpened keratin, he shifted his eyes to Crane. “Seems like you got a pretty human-lookin’ shadow there, boss.” He almost imperceptibly moved his claw closer to the pistol grip of the rifle. “Who’re you, friend?” he drawled out in a welcoming tone.
Crane removed his goggles and pulled down the cloth surrounding his mouth, a smirk waiting to be revealed. “Really, Scaup? It’s only been three months, you featherbrained fuck.”
Scauper’s predatory eyes widened considerably. “Celestia damn it. Crane?” he beamed, somehow managing a facsimile of a smile with that solid mandible. “Well, I’ll be. I mourn your ugly monkey ass just so you can come back from the grave looking even worse?”
“Wasn’t dead,” Crane scoffed, “just in a time-out.”
“Three months is a long fuckin’ time-out, I’ll tell you.”
Stalwart could only shake her head in exhaustion at their back-and-forth. “I’ll let you two do your thing. I’ll get Seeker to patch Skies up. C’mon you both.” She waved her hoof to the Newfoals and they trotted inside, leaving Scauper and Crane to fight the freezing weather with their warm reunion.
“Ah, feathers,” he cursed as he observed Skewer passing them by with an unconscious Skies on her back. “So, young Skies really did try to run...” he breathed out, making a sad little whistling noise through his beak. “I was hopin’… eh, I dunno what I was hopin’. Did you have to ground the girl so bad?”
Crane crossed his arms, his brows touching together. “Can’t take chances with fliers. The moment she gets to a clearing, she’s gone.” He deflated, putting his hands on his hips and accompanying his motions with a sigh. “You know how it is.”
Scauper removed the rifle from his lap, gently leaving it propped up in his chair as he stretched his wings out. He winced as his left wing reached its full span. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Thing’s been pretty bad ever since you left.”
Now that they got his attention, Crane could see his wings looked terrible. Feathers were missing, some primaries were unaligned and he could even see the muscles twitching from overuse.
The price of hours of flight in the gelid airwaves of the north, he guessed.
Crane nodded at the ground. “Stalwart told me about Seeker.”
“Oh, not that. Bucky’s the happiest stallion in the world. Between you‘n me, we can probably scrounge up enough food for everyone.”
His expression suddenly darkened. “It’s Penelope. She… well, she got hit by some PHL operative while we were on assignment.” The old griff shuddered as he remembered. “Bart couldn’t even throw the girl some potion before they split her skull open. We barely got away as is.”
Crane felt a chill run through his spine. He stared daggers at the door that had closed mere minutes ago: Stalwart had conveniently forgotten to mention that. Made him wonder what else she judged not worth sharing just yet.
Poor girl. The list of bright-eyed-volunteers was shrinking as fast as the list of volunteers-shot-by-PHL was growing. Crane knew from experience their operatives were tricky to deal with. Bastards could sniff out a careless infiltrator like a bloodhound.
He tightened his fists, the pain in his bandaged hand going ignored for the time being. “I… the fuck was Stalwart thinking? Sending Penelope to handle PHL operatives? Frighteners have a bad time dealing with them, nevermind fresh recruits!”
Scauper put his claws up to placate him. “In her defense, she did the best with what she had,” he remarked. “Bart, Coffee and I were there. And the Empire was pretty adamant we had to do it.” He poked one claw right on Crane’s chest. “With or without you.”
Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a long-way-coming migraine finally rearing its ugly head. Some pencil-pusher in the Empire probably read that Stalwart’s unit had a Fixer assigned to it and figured that was that. He really needed to talk to Vigil. “And Bart? How did he take it?”
“Pretty bad, o’ course. Seeker suggested he drink the potion, but Stalwart preferred he wait. We are… well, were running low on human agents.” Something seemed to have entered his mind as he spoke, an uncomfortable memory contorting his features. “And, uh… I’d stay clear of him for now, if I were ya. Your name was between all the curses he was throwin’ around. Wasn’t pretty.”
“Man’s a walking cinder block, of course it wasn’t pretty,” Crane sighed, the weight of the past couple of months trying its best to get the better of him. “I’ll handle it.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, it’s good to have you back, bud.” He stretched a strong wing around Crane in a firm hug. “We should go to to Wallace once this is all cleared up. Cornucopia’s still heading the bar there.”
“I’ll hold you to that, you codge.”
The griff chuckled as Crane limped into the lodge, leaving him to continue his turn guarding the entrance in a more positive silence.
***
The inside was mostly unchanged, almost a perfect copy from what he was remembering minutes ago.
That is, only if you ignored the enormous line of multi-colored specks of light hanging in the handrails of the second floor, blinking rapidly and ever so often in synchrony. That was new.
Crane saw it coming, though. He remembered being the party pooper to an excited Joanne with a long line of christmas lights rolled around her waist, begging to let her put them up. He knew for a fact Felicia had been behind it.
Figures they would do it the moment he left. He sometimes wondered which one of the two was supposed to be the teenager. There were times Joanne acted more mature than Felicia – definitely more than he’d expect from a fifteen-year-old – and other times, they’d be just as bad. His left thumb was never quite the same after they figured out how to use a lemon squeezer.
Crane heard rapid footsteps behind him. Faster than he could turn, he was grabbed from behind. The air left his lungs on impact. The attacker had crossed their arms over his neck, a heavy weight pulling his spine backwards. He almost lost his balance to this unknown attacker, but a quick step in their direction ensured his stability. His feet were positioned in a way to turn his body into a human piston with the turn of a shoulder and a twist of the torso.
His heartbeat accelerated. He reached for his rifle with his left hand. Fingers brushed the wooden stock with the promise of harm. He could launch the assailant forward and demand a surrender. If they resisted, then the trigger would be one pull away from...
A shrill voice in his ear froze him in the middle of the reaction.
“Frank! You’re back!”
A bucket of cold water wouldn’t have been as effective. His stance changed so fast he almost lost balance, heart floundering at the sudden waste of perfectly good adrenaline. He would recognize that strident little squeak with the palpable french accent anywhere.
His fingers strayed away from the rifle as he carefully put his hands on the skinny arms around his neck. He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Jo! You cheeky little bugger. I could’ve launched you into the ground!”
Her answer was mostly masked by giggling. “You wish, old man. I’m too strong for that.” She flexed her crossed arms around his neck to demonstrate her point.
“More like too arrogant.” He straightened back, waiting for her to release him.
She didn’t.
“You’re not letting me go, are you?” he asked, exasperated.
He could see the edge of a pointy light-brown nose and a single strand of her curly black hair intrude on his peripheral vision. “Do you have the feathers I asked?” she inquired.
Joanne had gotten into her head that if someone tied bird feathers to a potion bottle, they’d make the conversion churn out pegasi. Again, he blamed Felicia, but… as far as he could see, it was a harmless little hobby that kept her from having to think too much about the other unwanted aspects of the PER life. He prohibited her from handling the potion bottles, though.
Didn’t help that every time he used her ‘special vials’, they actually did turn out as pegasi. Crane didn’t even bother questioning it anymore. Everyone eventually agreed that ‘statistically impossible’ should always precede ‘as far as we know’ these days.
As it happened, his mind had been too busy during his expedition to even remember what kind of feathers she wanted this time. Maybe he could nip some from Scauper?
Oh, wait. He already tried that once. Joanne had noticed it right away.
“Ah... not really.” he admitted to his slight.
Joanne squeezed his neck harder. “Tough luck then, rosbif,” she teased him. “I’m not letting you leave again, then.”
“I see you two are getting along just fine,” said an energetic, self-satisfied voice.
That was Felicia, the bane of his calm existence, standing in the open door to the kitchen, a wonderful aroma heralding promises of good food coming from inside.
She was a tall woman – almost as tall as he was – with pale skin and short, unkempt hair littered with pink frosted tips at the front. She had a burn mark on her left cheek crawling all the way to her neck and leaving its roots on her skin, marring an otherwise beautiful face with whatever history was behind the injury. She was wearing an apron over her heavy jacket, with the words ‘Smile!’ sewn all over it.
“Actually, non.” Joanne interjected quickly and jumped down from his back. “Frank doesn’t have the feathers I asked. I hate him with a passion now,” she quickly declared.
Now that she wasn’t strangling him from the back, Crane noticed the slight differences in Joanne’s appearance since last he saw her. The neat collar she had fashioned for herself was missing. Her once long and curly hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, with one long strand daring to go against the fold and falling in front of her eyes to be a constant reminder of its presence.
Her attitude didn’t change one bit, though. Crane was on the cusp of shifting the blame for it again but… he knew that was partly his fault as well. As good of a scapegoat that Felicia was, he knew very well his place on creating the french monster and setting it loose to wreak havoc.
Crane shook his head and flicked Joanne’s ear for her little jest. “Wait for your turn, pest. Stalwart’s got dibs on the hate wagon.”
Joanne just threw her hand dismissively and scoffed. “Walmart doesn’t hate–”
Crane shushed her quickly, holding her shoulders and looking left and right. “How about we don’t give her any more reasons, eh?” he quickly whispered, holding back a smirk at their nefarious nickname for the mare.
Felicia had approached them with her arms wide open to add drama to her speech, ever-present grin adorned. “Quite the unexpected return of the prodigal son. Didn’t miss you as much as little Jo here” – she rubbed Joanne’s neat hairdo into a mess – “but as Pinkie Pie would say: ‘In the name of the Queenie, you must party to all, even the meanies.’”
“Meanie? Eh, I’ll take it. Tolerable to see you too, Felicia.” Crane stressed the word back at Felicia, not buying the whole spectacle she liked putting on.
There was a light behind her eyes, a giddiness Crane knew well enough. She scurried uncomfortably closer to him, hands clasped and mouth moving faster than he cared to process. “So, are you up for a conversion party yet? Bart thought about it, maybe we can convince him and Stalwart to organize–”
He pressed her backwards, out of his personal space. “Don't push it. You already got your bloody lights up.” He snapped his thumb back at the blinking glow above them.
She shrugged, that boisterous smirk pushing her right cheek into a dimple. “Good old Cranky-Crane. Three months out and you’re still as static as ever.” She shrugged at him, smirk still strong. “You’ll come around eventually. Everyone does.”
Crane’s rebuttal was interrupted as the PDA in his left wrist whirred dangerously. The little mare inside it was running around with a fire extinguisher, trying to put out the virtual fires spread around the screen. Her little nurse cap was missing, lost somewhere between all the messy icons and pop-ups.
“I should get Bucky to fix this sooner rather than later,” he muttered.
“Nobody dared touch that mess you call a room, so everything should be there. Pretty sure Bucky lost his tools, the clumsy dork, so talk to him about that.” Felicia pointed to his wrist.
“Will you be joining us for dinner, Frank?” Joanne asked with her hands behind her back. “We have some good vegetables left... and you never finished that story with Scauper’s beak getting stuck,” she spoke excitedly as she remembered the funny anecdote.
Crane missed this. The warm atmosphere, the happy smiles and their happy owners, the friendly banter with old friends, the safety of trusting everyone around him. It was getting ever more difficult to find moments where he could unwind and let his guard down a bit. And with the Barrier getting closer to the coast, they’d be getting rarer and rarer...
He almost blurted out a yes, but the mention of Scauper reminded him of his previous warning. It was rare enough Stalwart’s group had good food at hand, might as well not ruin the atmosphere with whatever Bart’s deal was. “Maybe later, kid. Think I’ll just retire for the day. Hope you don’t mind?”
“Hmm… That’ll cost you an extra story by the fireplace. On top of finishing the old one!”
“You drive a hard bargain, madame.” Crane chuckled. “Very well. It’s a deal.”
***
Crane’s room had a bathroom with a strong shower in it, so it took him little time to put his repeater on the little gun rack by the wall, throw all his clothes in the basket and settle himself under the hot torrent.
All the grime and blood stuck to his skin melted away, swerving down his body and into the drain. The rough stitches in his leg he had made with fishing wire threatened to come loose, but ultimately failed to do good on their threat. All his pain was just throbbing in the background now. The cozy embrace of the steamy water was all that mattered.
His bandaged hand got soaked and the faulty PDA sometimes sparked back on, but thankfully all the energy used to operate the thing was magical and not electrical. It’d be very difficult to take showers with it otherwise. It’s not like he could remove what was surgically implanted with his simple desire to not be filthy.
Once done and out of the shower, he cleared the droplets that were sticking in the mirror and took a good look at the man in the reflection. A scratched face looked back at him, little healed scars strewn about – metal fragments, grazing magical burns, human nails – all converging towards those brown, baggy eyes with soft wrinkles adorning their frame. The man’s hair was unkempt, and the beard was long enough to actually be called a beard and not just a feature.
That wouldn’t do.
The razor made short work of the hair squatting illegally on his face. It was unwelcome and spoke of lack of discipline. He shaved it to look just as it was meant to be: a shadow that spoke of awareness of one's looks, but lack of time for proper grooming. Once he was done, he styled his hair with a practical slick backwards, the graying sides looking ever more white. Too white for a man his age.
He added a band-aid to a particularly nasty cut on his right brow – where the shards from the goggles cut him – and reapplied some gauze to his hand and leg. Looking up at the mirror, he could finally see his face. His face, as he chose it to be, not how nature demanded it look. His lips had even regained their color, now that the temperature was agreeable.
Through the door and into the spartan bedroom, he could see his old clothes arranged on the bed as if they had never moved, waiting for their owner to come back. A couple of dusty spoons and dull razor blades were set aside on his desk and bed stand, right next to a P365 pistol and some half-empty magazines sitting by a notebook with the text ‘find more bullets’ scribbled on it.
Felicia did say no one had meddled in his room. That included the chaos he left it in when he decided to go away.
The clothes by themselves were nothing of notice. The gray jacket was civilian in nature, some reinforcements and extra layers for padded protection against impact were added thanks to Felicia’s skills in sewing.
The only notable characteristic of the black undershirt was that it was water resistant; a must-have when dealing with potion. His graphite pants were a bit out of place, with the pockets adorning it, but in today’s conflicted, warring world, nobody would give it a second look. It was a bit too long, but usually he just tucked the legs into his heavy boots.
What really stood out was his urban Osprey body armour, with extra knee pads lying by the end of the bed. That was something conspicuous enough that he’d reserve to use only if he knew he’d be getting shot at, which was unfortunately almost always. It protected all his torso and had some pads for his shoulders as well.
It even had a hazard-proof hood that he could use with his S10 respirator that was hooked on the bedpost.
It had seen better days. Some rips in the cloth were obvious, while some had been patched up. Stains and discolorations were all over: some from dried blood, some were just sweat and most were splatterings of potion.
The little patch he’d added on the left shoulder was a bit faded, but the PER letters were still readable. Even the plaque in the breast with his surname stood proud. Obviously, he didn’t wear those when out and about, but he did keep them in case he needed recognition.
Or fear. Crane had seen some of the toughest bastards shiver at the sight of a man with a purple bottle by his hip, proudly displaying on his shoulder who he was with and what he was willing to do. That, or they flew into a rage. Both worked wonders to make the adversary sloppy.
He had argued a lot with every PER leader in his past. Some didn’t want him to keep the armour because it was too ‘human looking’, that it made the Newfoals a bit nervous. He stood by the fact that the more people dismissed him as a friendly, the better he could do his job.
It also helped that the insulated plates were a good way to not get splashed whenever those same leaders felt like showering his position with potion. He’d bet good money he had gotten splashed ‘on accident’ more times than most of the PHL. As much as he butted heads with Stalwart, she was probably one of the most level-headed when it came to friendly fire.
Picking the kevlar up, he fondly caressed the patch. His fingers felt the rough texture of its years of existence, the little bumps on the hard cloth from whatever impacts had occurred, the three-dimensional symbol coming out of the canvas as if yelling to the world: ‘Yeah, this is me. I’m with them.’.
Crane was finally back. Back to the bed he made for himself, all those years ago. The bed he’d have to lie in for however long this war would go for. The bed he’d probably die in.
He locked his door, threw himself on the mattress, closed his eyes and swimmed to oblivion.
***
Danger.
They are in danger. Do something!
Drive the car through the window. Brace for impact. Leave the car.
Duck, check surroundings, stand up, point, squeeze twice, dead, move up. Repeat.
Count the bodies. Only seven impacts. One is missing. Check the back... it’s clear. Get out.
Dodge wounded man waiting behind door, snap arm back, crack it, hook unstable leg, push spine, hit temple. He’s useless.
Where are they? Dead? Truck marks on the dirt, going west. More UNAC– no, PHL... both.
Interrogate the downed man. Won’t talk. Dip knife in potion, put the sharp tip on his fingernail. Ask it again. They’re alive. Only five more now.
Stab his hand. Four left now. Tell the convie to find Scauper. Go bring them back.
It’s not far. One is outside. Aim for the neck. Three now.
Two.
...
Collins… I can’t...
***
Crane woke up with a quiet intake of breath, hand grasping the razor on his desk defensively as he carefully studied his surroundings without any brisk movements.
Nothing. Just his empty room with the light shining on some dust particles through the barred window.
Massaging his forehead, he sat up and hunched over. Deep breaths. Checking his PDA instinctively, a distorted screen faded in and out.
Right, that was broken.
Slowly and unsuccessfully easing himself out of auto-pilot, Crane really took his room in. He had passed out without changing into his clothes, with the towel still tied around his waist. He was so used to the cold outside that the simple hearth of the lodge was enough to lull him to sleep. Or maybe he was so tired his body didn’t care if he shivered throughout the night.
Getting up and stretching his arms and legs, he put on the clothes he had thrown around in his sleep. There was enough light coming from his window, so he assumed it was time to get the day started.
His leg felt a bit wet and his eyes were crunchy. Some of his joints were sore, but he pushed on regardless. Coming into the foyer, he was punished for severely misjudging the power of the sun. The shining rays reflecting off the white snow pierced his eyes through the clear glass.
“Morning, sunshine.” An infuriatingly cheery voice intruded on his misery. It was Felicia. “They’re having breakfast on the kitchen, if you want some.”
She was sitting on the couch in the middle of the room, loading up some paintball guns. Well, more like she threw herself on the couch and whatever position she ended up was serviceable enough.
Coffee Bean was there as well, sitting in front of her like a dog and passing the gelatin capsules filled with potion. Coffee – or as Crane liked to call him, Stalwart’s little toy – was an Earth pony Newfoal the color of dirt, with an even darker mane. He had some very prominent muscles bulging from his brown coat, product of his combat-oriented conversion.
Longer horns, leaner wings, stronger legs: all hallmarks of the evolution of the war. With the added bonus of looking more… appealing to the equestrian troops.
Crane knew Coffee had been a willing convert, but he sometimes wondered if he would’ve gone through with it if he knew that the wonderful Stalwart Stasis would be there, waiting for him. Every. Damn. Night. And right above his room, too.
But those were unnecessary thoughts about necessary sacrifices.
“Hrmph,” Crane groaned back at Felicia, dragging his feet to the kitchen.
The door was the last obstacle between him and the promise of grinding pure coffee beans with his teeth and then pouring hot water in his mouth. Cups were a useless annoyance this early in the morning, anyway.
He opened the door while clearing his eyes, bumping into someone in the process. Someone big.
“Apologies.” His hand lowered, he stared at the face of… Bart. The furious face of Bart – with that shaved head, the uneven stubble spread on his face, the poorly done tattoo on his neck, the chubby nose on his large face, arms built like tree trunks.
And the furious fist coming straight towards his face.
He could’ve dodged it. It was such a wild strike, full of emotion, that just turning his head a little would’ve made it graze his cheekbone and slip by harmlessly. But he didn’t. He didn’t even try.
Pain exploded in the bridge of his nose. A knuckle hit him square on. Not enough to knock him out, but enough that he was going to feel that for the rest of the day. He stumbled a bit back, hand reaching up to nurse the injury.
“Mr. Vega!” Crane faintly heard exclaimed from the back of the room. Seems like Bucky was here too.
Bart ignored the shout, thunderous steps bridging the distance his punch forced between them. “Where the FUCK were you? Huh?” He pushed Crane into the wooden door. “Out fucking with someone else’s life, I’d bet!” He reared his fist up for another hit.
Alright, one was enough. Two was pushing it. And from Bart’s face, he wasn’t going to stop at two.
As he followed through with his second punch, Crane sprung back with gritted teeth. The feral attack was stopped by his forearm, which he pivoted to grab Bart’s triceps and twist the arm, locking the limb in his own armpit. The sudden surge of adrenaline caught Bart off-guard and allowed Crane to overpower him.
With his own muscles burning to keep Bart’s arm locked, he would’ve followed up with a quick headbutt but thought better of it. This was getting way out of hand and returning the favor would just make things worse.
Stalwart seemed to agree with his thoughts. “Celestia damn it, stop!” They were both forced apart by a green hue, each thrown back against the cupboards and forced to the floor.
“Bucking human males, I swear!” Stalwart had gotten in the middle of them, hooves spread in a heavy stance. Her telekinesis was strong enough to hold them both to the ground, but Crane could see the strain in her face and body.
Bart was struggling in his magical bonds, clearly not content with being pinned. “That fucker got Penny killed!”
“I wasn’t even here,” Crane croaked at him.
“And for that I should fucking break you!”
“ENOUGH!” Stalwart’s horn crackled dangerously, some of the sparks flying off of it leaving burn marks on the ground. “Both of you, shut it!”
Bart was still fuming, but the smell of ozone coupled with Skewer and Dice standing at attention and Stalwart’s deadly stare boring into him seemed to do the trick. He looked like a pacified lion that knew the chain around his neck was keeping him from tearing his prey into pieces.
She cautiously released them and stood in the middle, switching her gaze between both men as if daring each to move again. Her tail was flicking like mad and her ears were attentive. “Good, now… Bart. Shut the buck up and go help Bean with the guns.” A sharp twist of her neck had her staring into Crane. “And you keep your flank down.”
For a moment, Crane thought Bart was going to defy her orders. He had gotten up and balled his fists, breathing heavily through his nose. But it just made his deflation all the more pleasing as he stomped his way to the door. Some heavy curses flew unheard under his breath.
Not wanting to aggravate Stalwart any further and finding the floor an acceptable seat for the moment, Crane shook his head and stretched his neck. A double-check of his nose revealed it might be broken, but it hurt too much to tell right away.
With all that excitement dying down, he realized everybody was looking at him. Stalwart had her usual pissy face on. Scauper was shaking his beak dripping with milk from his place near the sink. Skewer and Dice were standing at the back looking at the disheveled Stalwart, concern in their faces.
And then there was Bucky – good old Bucky – looking as worried as a soon-to-be father. Not worried about Crane, mind you. Worried about his PDA.
“Oh heavens! Mr. Crane, what did you do to your personal device?”
It sparked dangerously in response. Crane looked at it in exhaustion. “It broke,” he exhaled out.
Crane had lived in London for a while so he was used to people having the most annoyingly posh accents on this beautiful planet. Even his had been pretty bad before. But Bucky put them all to shame; that unicorn screamed ‘fancy’ everywhere he went. Styled purple mane with a white streak, brushed baby-blue coat, perfume… the only thing distinguishing him from a noble was the brown, buttoned vest with rolled white sleeves he insisted on wearing all the time. He looked like he took too much inspiration from the professors in Oxford.
“Broke? Can’t you see it’s unsalvageable?” Bucky quickly approached him, levitating his arm for a closer look and thrusting his muzzle between Crane and the PDA.
“Doc, all I know is how much it hurt attaching that thing to me.” Crane tried to sneak a look around Bucky’s head while his arm was locked in place. “Is it that bad?”
“Well… no,” he admitted, letting the arm go. “But we should fix it as soon as possible. I’ve got my tools stashed in… uh...” He tapped his chin with his hoof, scrunching his face trying to remember. “Somewhere. I’m sure. Let’s fix this right quick so I can take Seeker’s breakfast to her.”
Only now did Crane notice the tray Bucky was levitating behind him. There were varied types fruits coloring the plate, with a couple of bread slices and even some warm tea. A modest, if varied, breakfast.
Crane thought there’d be more, if he was honest. He expected Seeker would need all the calories she could get, especially in this cold climate. Then again, he didn’t know how far along she was exactly - or how long equestrian pregnancies took.
All he knew is that they were shorter than one would expect. Something to do with Imperial medical care and synthetic treatments being offered to all their citizens.
Crane had seen some fifty-year-old stallions looking as fit as their most athletic young colts.
Stalwart shook her head, her brushed mane swaying over her eyes. “Go to your wife, Bucky. I still need to talk to Crane. Jo should be there with some extra pillows for her.”
With a grateful smile, Bucky nodded and turned to the door to go to his wife and soon-to-be child. That reminded him...
“Oh, almost forgot. Congratulations, Bucky,” Crane said.
Bucky turned his neck, head tilted. “Uh... congratulations to you too?” He looked left and right before centering again on Crane. “What are we congratulating exactly?”
“The baby? You know… your baby?”
“Oh?… Oh! No, no. We usually don’t congratulate the stallion on these things. You should congratulate Seeker for it.”
Crane raised an eyebrow at him. This was weirdly specific enough to warrant his curiosity. “Why not both?” he asked.
“Erm… it’s in case of herds.” He fidgeted on the spot, twirling his hoof in the air as he searched for the right words. “We don’t– It’s… ah hay, forget it. Seeker gets grouchy without her food, so I should take my leave.”
He ushered himself out of the room, almost knocking the bowl of cereal Scauper had out of his claws, much to the later’s grumbling self.
The griffon spat some weird curse under his breath that Crane could only hope to understand. “Thank fuck we griffons don’t mess with that shit.” Scauper put his bowl in the sink and went for the door. “Worse than politics, I tell ya. Oh, and Crane?”
Crane looked at his friend, expecting some words of encouragement or maybe sympathy for having his nose almost caved in by a speeding truck.
“Dodge next time, will ya?”
He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.
Crane grumbled a response, standing himself up at last. The morning was shaping up to be… well, honestly, probably better than most. A broken nose and some misunderstandings weren’t desirable, but far from the worse he’s had.
Stalwart decided she had enough of standing up and found a seat at the table, looking expectantly at him. She had locked the door after Scauper went through and a green hue surrounded it. He recognized the silence ward.
With only the twin Newfoals to keep them company, it was left implicit whatever she wanted to say was not to leave the room.
“Alright, what do you want to talk about?” Crane asked.
“Skies is stable, but we had to sedate her,” Stalwart explained. “No interrogations yet. Seeker demanded she recover more and I don’t want a hormonal doctor on my flank so I conceded. We’ll have to content ourselves with staying in the dark for now.”
“That’s fair.” Crane admitted as he opened the fridge and shifted an empty milk carton to see the back. Scauper probably drank the whole thing. “I was planning on something else, anyway.”
“You’re also not going to receive any missions this week.”
The sudden tone of her voice and unexpected demand made Crane hit his head on the top of the fridge. “What? Any good reason why?”
She massaged her temple with a hoof, clearly too stressed to deal with this. “Nevermind the fact you’re looking for food while bleeding” – she pointed at his leg – “and clearly not apt for ground ops yet?”
He had forgotten about his leg in his sleep, and his morning stretching had made some of the stitches come loose. “Eh, you can let me worry about that.”
“And you can let me worry you’ll die and your corpse will start a Celestia damned witch hunt for the PER!” she spat back at him as she exploded upwards, the chair screeching back from her sudden movement.
Of course. Nova Scotia had been pretty calm for being in the coast and in Canada. Calm enough that Stalwart’s cell had been able to act relatively free of consequence. But as the Barrier got closer, the eyes of the world were turning to the seas and UNAC was sending more and more personnel to coastal towns. Add to that a PHL operative killing a PER member in a quiet, rural area, and you’ve got yourself a concerning pattern.
Crane calmly settled his hands on top of the table, looking straight at her. “Scauper told me about Penelope. What else happened?” he said with an edge to his voice.
Stalwart floated the chair back and collapsed into it, shoulders drooping. The twin Newfoals had gathered closer to her, with Dice carefully stroking her back.
“There’s a new group – or gang, or militia, or whatever the buck – near Wallace, with this crazy woman as their leader. They showed up right after we... lost Penelope.” She winced but pushed on regardless of the unpleasant thoughts. “Military surplus, armored vehicles, the works. I know they’ve set themselves somewhere northwest of us, but I don’t know where exactly.”
That was right in the way of their only road to Wallace. All it would take was one of these guys spotting their truck leaving the woods and they’d have a lead. No wonder she was stressed out: with Skies down, Scauper was the only one who could make a worthwhile fly for supplies now.
“So you want us going out as little as possible,” Crane concluded, clicking his tongue. He should’ve known things were looking too good. “Think UNAC’s backing them up?”
“Them, or some of the more meticulous HLF. Only explanation for that kind of gear. Either way, you’re not going out for at least a week. I already talked with Vigil and told him you’re back, but out of commission.” She let her worries escape her with a long breath, ears no longer hiding in her mane. “He was worried about you.”
Crane looked down at his cold hands, flexing them to get the blood flowing again. He dealt with one stone in his path, and a dozen more showed up with sharpened sticks. “I’ll talk to him once Bucky fixes me up. We rationing?”
Food would be a problem. No matter how much of a faithful disciple Felicia claimed she was, she couldn’t create dishes out of snow and happy thoughts just because ‘Pinkie Pie did it once!’. With Seeker expecting, Skies recovering and Crane now on the table… they’d eat a lot more than they could bring in.
“Yes. Three meals a day only. I’m not a fan of starving a pregnant mare, but… everyone opted in and Seeker insisted she’d be fine.”
Taking a moment to think and then nodding, Crane picked up the condiments he’d brought out and put them back in the fridge, electing to satiate himself with his trusty raw bagel and hard coffee. The annoyance of waking up substituted with this new worry, he took his cup filled with the warm bitter liquid and walked towards the door.
“Crane...” Stalwart said with an edge to her voice, as if preparing to scold a child for even thinking of doing something wrong.
He turned his neck, body still aimed at the goal of just leaving the kitchen already.
“Do not go hunting these guys. I already took a big risk chasing Skies, we’re not taking another so soon,” she warned him.
Crane frowned, the thought of just letting this be leaving a bitter taste on his mouth. “We’ll have to deal with them eventually.”
“There’s no reason to deal with them now,” Stalwart tapped her hoof on the table. "We can just about survive with our supplies and rationing. Don’t put us in the sights of whoever they are. That’s an order, if it has to be.”
He didn’t like having a bunch of unknowns roaming the forests, but he knew he was in no shape to take them on just yet. But once he was healed… he’d find them. Hiding and hoping they’d get tired of searching while living on the brink of going hungry was not what he wanted for the group.
He might even ‘stumble’ upon one of them whenever Stalwart decides to put him on patrol.
Resigned to his fate, Crane gently shook his head and opened the door. There was a lot to do, a world to catch up to, adversities to deal with, a war to win... he had been a fool to think there’d ever be a calm day in his life.