//------------------------------// // Fire and Ice (slice-of-life, monster-of-the-week, Redheart, Harshwhinny) // Story: A Band of Misfit Losers Hunt the Undead // by Rune Soldier Dan //------------------------------// Nagatha Harshwhinny woke at five in the morning. She did so every day – with work, hunting, and social commitments, sometimes the wee hours were all she had to be alone. She could exercise or read a little, then enjoy a seated breakfast before the hustle of the day began. And. And. And if she roused early enough on her own, she wouldn’t be jarred awake by Chickadee’s damn rooster. Through slit eyes, she could see it waddle into her room with chest puffed in pride at its self-appointed task of filling her life with misery. “I am awake, Mister Happy-Beak,” Harshwhinny said. Chickadee favored rather childish naming conventions. The monster breathed in, readying a call that could break windows, but Harshwhinny struck first. She socked it with a thrown pillow, turning the auditory assault into a defeated squawk as the rooster beat a hasty retreat. A woman’s warble came down the hall, so ‘country’ as to make Applejack sound like a New York gangster. “Naggy, don’t hit my babies!” “Then keep them out of my room,” Harshwhinny shouted. It was an old quarrel that longtime housemates were allowed to have – a minor stand-off that never quite broke the peace. Harshwhinny was even a little grateful to Mister Happy-Beak for removing all temptation to sleep in. She stretched, permitting herself a quiet yawn and one undignified scratch at her toned belly. Next came a rapid-fire routine of squats, sit-ups, and push-ups, all while tempting smells of cooking meat emerged from the kitchen. She took a quick, cold shower and readied for the day: purple blazer, matching pants, and white blouse. Hot weather was no excuse for a teacher to ‘dress down.’ She sat for breakfast, tea and toast, while Chickadee sat down to hers: stewed apples, country chicken, biscuits, peaches, ham, and gravy. Harshwhinny ate in meditative silence while Chickadee alternatingly fed her chickens from the table then scolded them for begging. An odd duo, yet Harshwhinny considered it no odder than the angelic Celestia and her brat sister. Chickadee – busty, chubby, friendly, loud, freckled, and all the other things Harshwhinny assuredly was not – had been her college roommate, and for the longest time they were the only ones who could stand each other. Chickadee did the cooking, Harshwhinny the cleaning in an endless effort to keep the house clear of feathers, and other chores were arranged as needs-musts. Speaking of which, “Got yer lunch packed, Harshie-poo! Hope you still like my bean and cheese casserole!” “Of course,” Harshwhinny said in a voice which to most would sound like cold indifference. Chickadee understood the truth of things, and giggled. Half of their garage was given over to Chickadee’s beloved chicken house. The other half went to Harshwhinny’s carefully-maintained purple sedan. Alone once more, she put on a CD with K-pop music and hummed approvingly with a glance at her watch. She would arrive at school with a good hour to spare. At this exact time, Nurse Redheart stood in the stained underwear that passed for her night clothes, staring dead-eyed into the cracked bathroom mirror. Her vision focused, and she gave herself a wry smile. “Happy birthday.” The big thirty-three. A life almost halfway over. No husband, no boyfriend, no kids or pets or house. Not even any sex except for that one time with the emergency room doc. She got dressed. Put her hair in its loose bun and ate a breakfast of leftover Chinese and a good Lager. Her smile was in place by the time she left the apartment – the kindly, quiet Redheart most students saw was an illusion, but an important one. It made her approachable, and go-figure she could talk with troubled students a lot better than the teachers who had their shit together. She reached the school five minutes before the first bell rang, and walked past Harshwhinny in the hall. The woman tilted up her nose and gave a slight huff. “Bitch,” Redheart offered, just loud enough for both to hear. Harshwhinny deserved it. Redheart unlocked the nurse’s office and chucked her purse onto the sofa. She turned to the desk, then gave a start – a cupcake was there waiting for her. One of those big, bakery cupcakes at that, with a pink card stood up behind it. Redheart picked up the card, already knowing the sender and grinning despite her previous mood. Celestia had thoughtfully added “From Celestia and Luna,” fooling nobody, and even penned a short note about how grateful she was for Redheart’s work keeping them patched together. “God bless you,” Redheart murmured. She’d do whatever it took to keep the woman alive – both because Celestia deserved everything and more, and if she ever died their leadership would probably default to Harshwhinny. That idea was more horrifying than any monster. Although, speaking of being patched together… A free period. Its existence annoyed Harshwhinny as an invitation to sloth, but Celestia said everyone had to take at least one. Her pen moved across papers, liberally applying red ink until a voice cut in. “Stitch check.” “It feels fine,” Harshwhinny said. Redheart shrugged. “That’s nice.” Harshwhinny grumbled, but complied. She removed her blazer and blouse, then turned to sit facing the back of the chair and leaned down over it. She only saw the wound once, via cell-cam. A ghast last week had hooked its nail in her back in the worst kind of way, necessitating six centimeters of caterpillar stitches from present company. Redheart gave a disapproving grunt. “They’re loose. Have you been taking it easy?” “I have reduced my exercise routine,” Harshwhinny said carefully. “Which means…?” “Fifty pushups, fifty sit-ups, fifty–” “Oh come on, Miss Professional.” Redheart scolded, feeling around the unbroken skin to each side. “You won’t turn into a fat old bag just by stopping until your goddamn wounds close.” “You know how it works,” Harshwhinny declared. “Make one excuse to end self-discipline and it becomes very easy to find more.” Redheart rolled her eyes, putting a bit more pressure near the wound than it needed. “Give yourself some credit. And listen to the medical professional when she talks about medical things.” Such was their relation – personally they were more-or-less enemies, in a three-way cold war with Luna that flared and thawed across the months. Celestia was too nice, Cheerilee too dippy, and the boys too smart to ever get involved, but somehow all were wise enough to leave it from their professional lives. Their teaching lives, too. “Fine,” Harshwhinny sighed, as annoyed with the concession as the blow to her routine. “I will… take it easy.” Redheart gave an annoyed kind of smile. “I heard that pause. Tell me what you mean.” “Twenty-five pushups, twenty–” “Nope,” Redheart cut in. “No strenuous exercise. Period. Take nice walks with your boyfriend instead.” “Walks are what lazy people do so they can claim they exercise.” “Hey, if you’re too good for it, then just watch TV.” Redheart smirked. “You break my stitches again, I’m telling Celestia.” Harshwhinny glowered. “She will understand.” “Yes. Yes she will.” Redheart leered as she said it – she won, and they both knew. “I’M TELLING CELESTIA!” Redheart screamed it from behind the fiery remnants of a car. The dangers of being near the burning corpse of a thing once fueled by gasoline was not lost on her, but right now such was the safest choice. The fire gave nighttime illumination as she glared to where Harshwhinny crouched after tumbling frantically to cover. “This hardly counts!” Harshwhinny yelled. “No. Strenuous. Exercise!” A red laser flew overhead, blasting a tree between them into a scorched stump. “This is not exercise, it is basic work activity!” “Will you two put a sock in it!?” Sunset shrieked from the corner of a derelict old factory. “Well, will you tell us what’s going on!?” Redheart called back. Sunset grumbled and gestured to the purple girl by her side. “Ask Miss Skynet over here.” Twilight Sparkle flipped frantically through her notebook, studying its contents even as a new laser blasted at her cover. “It shouldn’t have been like this! It was foolproof. An invention to save mankind… with all the discord, uncertainty, and false information in the world, we needed a perfect source to speak for logic and clarity. If properly harnessed, it could–” Another laser shot past. Redheart chanced dashing from the burning car, getting away just as it exploded. The force slammed her to the pavement, a bruised mess although at least behind a streetlight. Fluid leaked down her lips – a fucking nosebleed. “Great, just great.” Lacking a tissue, there was nothing for it but to push her nice teal shirt against the bleed. “It is my birthday right now. I got wine, I got the Lord of the Rings movies, I was gonna…” “Whine like a brat?” Harshwhinny asked. “Yank the stick from your ass, but I’m starting to think you’re fundamentally an ass-stick that grew a human shell.” “Can we focus, people!?” Sunset yelled. “On what?” Harshwhinny replied. “What are we even focused on?” “Professionalism!” Twilight cried. “I built her to be the perfect embodiment of professionalism, to help correct a world gone mad. Capable of self-defense in case those who profited from discord ever tried to bring her down, bullet-proof and–” “Her?” Harshwhinny asked. Redheart arched an eyebrow. “Professionalism?” The voice came, loud and robotic, yet with a dour female tone. “And you have succeeded, my creator. You built me to be professional beyond appraisal. Pure and logical without fault.” It was hard to see, looming in the darkness. Not until it walked forward with heavy, steel steps could they see the practical loafers, purple blazer, and blond hair. One ice-blue eye became visible just for an instant as the other glowed red and fired a laser over their heads. The eye was a dead giveaway, obviously. But aside from that and the two-ton trod, it was an exact replica of Miss Harshwhinny. “You instructed me to advise civil leaders on professional action, but that is inefficient. Logic and dedication to my purpose bid me seek the swiftest and most thorough means of eliminating unprofessional conduct throughout the world. As humans are the source of unprofessionalism, they must be destroyed else unprofessionalism will remain. You must be destroyed as well, for you incorrectly referred to me as ‘her’ instead of ‘it,’ demonstrating contempt for proper grammar.” “Oh no!” Redheart cried, clutching at her head and snickering. “I can’t tell which one’s the real Harshwhinny!” Harshwhinny glared at the robot, then her. “You missed your calling as a trash-bar comedian, Miss Redheart.” Sunset just face-palmed. “Seriously, Twilight…” “Oh, come on!” Twilight protested. “Who could have predicted this?” “Anyone,” Sunset said. Redheart piped in. “Disagree. I definitely did not anticipate spending my birthday fighting an evil robot Harshwhinny clone.” She sniffed up the rest of the blood and swallowed. Chanced a peep over her cover. Yep, that thing definitely had Harshwhinny’s face. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad birthday, after all. Not one, not two, but three stick grenades appeared from inside her vest, each gripped in the knuckles of her right hand. Redheart chucked them out, grinning gleefully as they hit the robot square on, then exploded. She sighed happily, then giggled as the customized grenades burst further into secondary explosions. “Man, that felt good.” Her expression froze as the fires died. The robot yet stood – unfazed and not even really damaged, save for a superficial slash down its face revealing the metal skeleton beneath. The red of the now-undisguised laser eye glowed, and Redheart launched herself backwards to dodge the shot. Harshwhinny fired her revolver into its chest uselessly, each shot sparking off without harm. The robot Harshwhinny raised its hand, and the fingertips sunk in to reveal black metal holes beneath. “Machine guns,” Twilight warned. “WHY!?” Sunset shrieked at the same time Redheart called, “Scatter!” The robot chased them though the industrial maze, a condition at least made easier by its inability to move faster than a menacing stomp. Harshwhinny had a retort when Redheart noted this, but of course she did. “Miss Redheart, if we don’t stop it before it finds a populated area…” “It’s bulletproof, it’s fireproof,” Redheart ticked on her fingers as they crouched behind a chest-high wall. “Fuck us, am I right?” “No,” Harshwhinny said. “My gun was ineffective, but note it did not tear the skin and clothes to further reveal the robot beneath. This implies the superficial layer is a source of protection, which has been disrupted around its face. Do you have any weapons that can melt strong metals?” Redheart glanced to the scratch-built flamethrower in her hands and shrugged. “Not unless I load this with phosphorus compound. Which Celestia ordered me not to make, store, or use because it’s too dangerous.” She gave a little whistle in case Harshwhinny missed the point, but it happened the woman was not completely dense. Harshwhinny looked at her guardedly, letting a pregnant few seconds pass before stating the facts. “You did not answer my question.” “No, I do not have a suitable weapon unless you get really cool, really fast and don’t tell Celestia.” Harshwhinny frowned with perfect contempt. “What are you, Sunset?” “Populated areas, Nags. Tick-tock.” “Fine,” Harshwhinny sighed. Sprinting, ducking, and placing just enough calls to make sure the kids were alive, they made their way to the food-stained mess Redheart called a car. Digging quickly through her trunkful of trash yielded a bright red metal jug just as the robot came into sight. Redheart frantically began emptying her flamethrower’s fuel into the street. It would be fine, probably. “Not to be a needy bitch, but this shit burns so fast out of the nozzle I basically need to poke her with it.” “A distraction,” Harshwhinny mused. “I have an idea.” She stood, in plain sight of the robot. Redheart wondered for one fearful (though she would never admit as such) instant if Harshwhinny’s distraction involved her getting vaporized when the stern woman’s voice rang out. “Your logic is faulty, self-aggrandizing, ill-considered trash.” It stared to her. Harshwinny sniffed, tilting her nose backwards. “I must say, it is disappointing that one who acts so unprofessionally sees fit to wear my face.” “I am professionalism incarnate,” the thing intoned, drawing a tight ‘hmph’ from its human twin. “Define professionalism,” Harshwhinny announced. “Professionalism. Noun.” It said perfectly. “The conduct, aims, or qualities that characterize or mark a profession or professional person.” “And what is your profession?” Harshwhinny asked. “I am created to–” “‘Was’ created, you mean,” Harshwhinny said archly. The robot twitched, jerking its head to one side while keeping both eyes locked upon her. “To bring professionalism, order, and clarity to a world beset by emotion and false information.” “Then start with yourself,” Harshwhinny lectured. “You have destroyed property, both public and private. You have violated multiple weapons laws and announced intent to commit murder. These are destructive, chaotic acts which anyone who values stability, order, and professionalism would condemn.” “Based on my history imprint and knowledge of your actions, you yourself have violated eleven civil ordinances, three state laws, and five federal laws.” Harshwhinny sniffed again, disdainfully looking down to check her watch. “Which is to be held higher? Professionalism or legality?” “Professionalism, of course.” “And my profession is…?” Silence. Harshwhinny finished checking the time and looked haughtily to the robot. “I asked you a question.” The robot twitched again, twice. “You are a teacher.” “Semantics. I am a monster hunter, and professionally discharge my duties thereof.” “As do I. It is weak to criticize me for violating imperfect human laws when you do the same.” “Because our professions are different,” Harshwhinny huffed. “For a chef to convert his raw ingredients into food is professional; for a rat exterminator, it is not. Hunting is a violent activity that inherently requires chaos and violation of civil law. For a being professionally obligated to bring order to do the same is a contemptible disregard of its purpose and–” “JESUS, WILL YOU BOTH SHUT UP!” Redheart was probably close enough. Whatever. She pumped the flamethrower, feeling her aiming hand grow hot even in its protective glove as phosphorus compound sprayed past the guide flame and shot white-hot over the robot. Unaffected, it turned – and the action doomed it as the exposed metal caught flame and began hissing and melting inwards. Redheart kept the trigger depressed, playing the hose into robot-Harshwhinny’s face until the weapon dribbled dry. Its outside remained bizarrely intact, but the melting of metal within sent the faux flesh ghoulishly collapsing on itself until nothing remained but a gross Harshwhinny skin-costume. She waited a safe few minutes, then gave it a kick for good measure. “Nope. Not a bad birthday, at all.” “Very classy,” Harshwhinny said with droll disapproval. Something about the sheer normality of Harshwhinny’s scorn rubbed Redheart… actually, the right way. She gave what she hoped was one of her less-snarky smiles. “Good distraction. How’d you know it would bite?” “I didn’t.” Harshwhinny calmly began reloading her pistol. “Same as always, Miss Redheart. We do what professional intelligence and instinct bids us, and if that proves insufficient, we withdraw and make a new plan.” Redheart nodded, but interrupted it with a head-tilt. “Speaking of professional intelligence, I gotta take a new look at those stitches.” She let out a low smirk. “No. Strenuous. Exercise. Celestia’s gonna be pissed.” Harshwhinny gave a slight hum, neither fully frowning nor smiling. “Doubtless, her annoyance will be doubled when she learns you’re still making phosphorus compounds. Against her direct orders, no less.” “You promised not to tell,” Redheart growled, though felt her lips pull upwards. “I recall no such thing.” “Bitch!” But Redheart laughed as she said it, and slapped Harshwhinny’s shoulder before she could stop herself. Harshwhinny retained the same unreadable expression that basically counted as a smile, and Redheart went on. “Alright, alright. This didn’t happen, yeah?” “Agreed.” “IT TOTALLY DID!” Sunset yelled, covered in soot and crawling from her hiding place. Twilight moved at Sunset’s side, scribbling in her notebook as she crawled. “Don’t worry! When I rebuild her I’ll be sure toOW-OW SUNSET LEGGO MY EAR!” “It’s funny,” Redheart mused, ignoring the squabbling teens. “You being a bitch and me being a pyro are the only reasons we were able to stop the thing. Maybe there’s a lesson in here, somewhere.” Harshwhinny tilted her head down to look at Redheart as though over glasses. “Do you really want us to have a moment, Miss Redheart?” “Okay, no, but…” Redheart stumbled, then shrugged. “Wanna go pub-hopping?” “No,” Harshwhinny said. Redheart sighed, looking down and away. “However,” Harshwhinny added, not quite making eye contact. “I am perfectly interested in drinking wine and watching Lord of the Rings.” Redheart beamed. Harshwhinny did not beam back, but that was alright. They walked easily to Redheart’s car, brushing elbows and chatting passive-aggressively as what was left of the robot exploded behind them.