//------------------------------// // Chapter XL: Ambush // Story: The Conversion Bureau: Setting Things Right // by kildeez //------------------------------// Dave leaned against a lightpole, watching the impromptu line stream by, thumbing the Preston Express on his hip. He’d been nervous, bringing out a weapon like that given the stipulations of the contract he’d signed with the UNCDI way back when, but at the end of the day he’d figured he could play into the stereotype of the well-armed American if anyone asked. He took a drag off the cigarette between his lips, then offered it up to Lisa at his right. She grunted her thanks, and took a drag herself. Oddly enough, neither she nor the other ambassadors had even asked about it. Maybe the American stereotype was playing to his favor this time around? Maybe. He sort of hoped somebody would ask why it was there though, then he could give a casual little wave and say ‘I’m American.’ Maybe throw in a wink and cocky smile too, would that look cool? Or more douchey? “What’re you thinking?” She finally spoke up, startling him. He sighed. “I’m thinking she’s either pulling the best long-con ever, or...” “...Or this is legit?” He nodded. “And damn if I want to believe it. After all this time, I want to.” “But you don’t want to at the same time, because what if you’re just bein’ naive?” She added, watching him through the haze of secondhand smoke. “What if it’s just the naive part that wants to believe the Newfoals can come back, and we can have a relationship with the ponies that isn’t maintained with peacekeepers and foreign aid?” He blinked after a moment, then took the cigarette back and eyed it. “Don’t worry, yank. Just had way too much time to think back on the boat, is all.” Lisa assured him with a grin. He chuckled and put the cig to his lips, giving it another puff. “I’ll take your word for it, at least until ya drop and start spazzing out while screamin’ about the fish in your head.” She giggled at that. Another group stepped forward. Another set of vacant, multicolored eyes shuffled by. And after a few minutes, another tiny, multicolored shape trotted past with a hoof held in a local’s hand. “Damn,” he muttered. “It really is too good to be true.” Lisa added. Dave was about to turn, to agree, when the hair stood up on the back of his neck. When he turned, he’d noticed something. His head whipped around. For a second there, he would have sworn they were being watched. And not in a good way, but the way a lion eyed up a gazelle in a National Geographic special. But the owner of those eyes had apparently melted back into the crowd. Old instincts roared into overdrive. Without a second thought, he stepped away from the lightpole, wading through the line, eyes scanning wildly: side to side, and up and down. If he was wrong, he could just head back to Lisa with an apology, maybe say he thought he saw Anton waving him over and didn’t want to bother her. But if he was right… He paused. A man shifted in a hoodie ahead of him. He stood alone, blending in with the bulging, flowing river of humanity in the line. To most people, the guy was just another part of the tide. But to David, who saw the look in his eyes and the way the man’s hand had bunched up around something in his pockets… He edged forward, tried to make it a little further ahead, shuffling past tired, old faces that wore hopeful eyes for the first time in years, accompanied by wide, empty eyes that looked at him with absolutely nothing at all. The figure kept shuffling away, deeper into the crowd. “Hey,” Dave shouted, finally maneuvering his way into a relatively clear spot, hand reaching out. “Hey!” The man finally paused, and turned. Dave gazed into that hoodie, into those cold eyes he recognized from multiple POW camps during his tour, and then he looked down, and his stomach twisted. He could finally see what the guy had been fiddling with in his hoodie. It wasn’t a gun. It was a detonator. The man wasn’t as fat as he looked. He had time to whip his hand down to his holster before what felt like the fist of God swatted him off his feet like a fly. And he knew no more. Andre’s head bolted up, his stomach slamming into the pavement. He had just been gazing out over another group filing out of the tent, leaving for a newer, better life with someone they had thought lost, when the explosion rocked the camp’s entrance. He hesitated for a moment only, then the old instincts from the Legion kicked in and his head started looking all around. Francis ducked out of the tent, breathing hard. “What the hell is happening!?” “No idea,” Andre grimaced as a couple of their boys in blue ran past, M4-2’s out and in their arms. “Weren’t...Lisa and David up there?” At that, a gunshot rang out, followed by a burst of them, the sound of automatic fire unmistakable to their ears. “Oh...shit...” Francis muttered. “Guns...” Andre gasped, mind already going back to the pistol on David’s hip. “We need guns. Now.” An elegant, white head poked out of the tent flap. “What was that?” Celestia asked in surprise. She was flanked by Akshat, echoing her concern. Behind them, Chen peered out with a blank, shocked look on his face. “Stay in there.” Andre hissed back as he took off with Francis, shouting over his shoulder: “And keep your heads down!” “We’ll be right back!” Francis insisted, waving the humans back. After a moment, Akshat ducked back into the tent, ushering the princess in with him. That done, the pair ran off, at least somewhat assured that the group they were leaving behind would be safe. David sat up, his head spinning, ears ringing. He blinked. His head turned slightly to the left, only for a ratchet of pain to shoot up his neck and into his skull. He winced, reached up a hand to touch it, and came back with blood. Panic started to rise in his chest, even amidst the ringing still circling around in his head, but he fought it back down. Head wounds bled a lot, he knew this. Didn’t mean it was serious. Of course, didn’t mean he was safe either. Just meant he had to not panic, get help. He slowly pressed himself up, carefully maneuvering to his hands and knees and slowly rising to his feet. His head reeled, and he stumbled with a muttered “Shit.” It finally occurred to him that someone was probably trying to kill him and he should probably arm himself. Again, his hand made it to the pistol’s holster when a loud click sounded behind him. He knew that click far too well, had heard it more times than any human should hear it: the action on an assault rifle. He turned, hand still resting on his grip, to the grungy-looking teenager with the rifle leveled on his skull. Suddenly, the ringing in his ears vanished, his body sliding immediately into survival mode. His hand left the pistol and rose with its twin. Holding the rifle by its grip, just inches from the bottom of David’s chin, the teen reached across into his holster, then backed away, tossing the Preston Express to the side. He still couldn’t hear it clatter to the cement, but Dave worried absurdly about what the concrete would do to the custom paint job. He swallowed. Somewhere in the smoke, Lisa stumbled towards them, limping on one badly-torn leg. She paused. The rifleman stepped back from David, whipped the gun around on her, then quickly switched back to him, keeping them both at bay. “Fuckin’ stooges,” the teen scoffed, in English of all things, glaring down his sights. “H-hey...” Dave kept his hands up, trying to look non-threatening. “Listen, shit doesn’t hafta go down like this.” By talking, the teen kept his eyes on him. By talking, Lisa had a chance to run. Slowly, the rifle’s sights started waving towards him more than they did Lisa. Swallowing, Dave let out a breath. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job here, I don’t...” “Shut the fuck up.” The kid hissed, eyes focused on him now. That was good. Lisa could get away. Get help. “You fuckin’ smurfs are all the same. Ready to bend over and take it from the white whore all over again.” Dave kept his mouth shut. Nothing he could say or do at this point was going to keep this kid from squeezing his trigger. He breathed in, and he breathed out, gazed into those bloodshot, manic eyes, saw the kid just psyching himself up. In the end, he closed his eyes. Looking down that barrel and knowing what was about to come out of it was just too much. The loud crack of a gunshot rang out. Dave wobbled on his feet. He opened his eyes as the shot echoed off. The teen laid on the ground, wide eyes now sitting on either side of a gaping bullethole in the middle of his forehead. His body gave a final spasm, twitched. The rifle had fallen to the side. Lisa stood over him, smoke drifting off the end of a Glock compact, her eyes a cold steel. A soldier’s eyes. “Wha?” He managed as she quickly circled around, looking for his gun. “No time for questions, Yank,” she said, scooping up the Preston Express from the pavement. “You confident with this thing?” He let out a breath, and the Marine took over. His eyes returned that steely glare. “Yeah,” he said, plucking the 1911 out of her hand. “Thank God.” She turned, motioning along the bodies covering the street. Somewhere in the dust and smoke, rapid-fire gunshots echoed back to them. Screams. The wail of sirens. All too familiar. Nodding, the pair set off, weaving between chunks of concrete and shattered bodies. Familiar instincts were taking over. A pop sounded, something cracked against the building to his left. He barely even looked, just turned and squeezed the trigger a couple times. Someone in a t-shirt with another AR fell with two holes in his chest. A few of his buddies came rushing out of an alleyway. Without another word, he and Lisa darted back into an alleyway of their own. Feet pounding through a puddle. Breathing evening out. The Marine was just about back. Ducking down, rounding a corner, a volley of shots behind them. Head on a swivel, keep looking, keep moving. The pistol rose at a shape in a window. Finger paused. Old lady poking her head out. Jesus Christ, Grandma, you hear gunshots and that’s your first instinct!? Keep moving. Lisa panting beside him. Had to keep moving in the direction of the camp, meet with the others. Lisa dove to a wall next to a dumpster, pistol raised over its lid. David rocketed in beside her, covering the far entrance of the alley. Both panted, breaths heaving in and out, their aims wavering just so slightly as the adrenaline finally wore off. Footsteps ran past the mouth of the alley. Dave’s breath hitched. He squeezed the grip of the pistol. Behind him, he heard Lisa shift, pressing herself down to stay out of the way of any stray shots while keeping the other end of the alley cleared. Three men ran past, all wielding AR’s, none even sparing them a glance. A few moments passed, and David exhaled. He slumped to the pavement, still keeping an eye on the alley. Water filthy with oil slick seeped into his dress pants, sending a shiver up his spine as it chilled his legs. Still, his head swam. What had...what was that? Lisa wasn’t supposed to do that! She was the grounded town girl from London who sang bad karaoke at the pub every other Friday once she got enough gin and tonic in her, not the cold killer he’d just watched! How did...what did he even say here? What did he even do? “...you see that old lady back there?” She guffawed after a moment. He forced back a sigh of relief as he quietly thanked whoever was listening. “Yeah...fuckin’ civvies, man.” “Like, Christ! You’d think she’d have a few more brain cells after survivin’ this dump so long!” She guffawed. “Damn, if I heard gunshots and that was my reaction, my gramma woulda slapped me up the back of my head!” “You’d bloody-well deserve it!” They cackled a bit, easing off the adrenaline, and then, the switch was thrown again. Her gaze lowered upon him. “Ready?” He clenched the pistol that much tighter and nodded. They stood again, Dave ignoring the moistness that made the back of his pants cling to his thighs as they crept along the alleyway. Lisa raised a hand to stop him, and he perked an ear. The telltale shuffle of someone moving along the street. He grimaced, raised the pistol and glanced at her. She nodded, raised her own weapon, and swept around the corner in a heartbeat. She stopped. Her eyes widened for a second, then her pistol dropped to her side. “For fuck’s sake...” she growled. “Is everyone a secret badass here!?” David rounded the corner, the pistol lowering to his side. His eyes widened at the sight waiting for him in the street: Andre and Francis, wielding AR’s, likely scooped up from the street. For a second, he thought they might have just picked them up to protect themselves, but then he saw the way they were held: the surety of the grips they held on the weapons, the way their fingers were positioned just outside the trigger guards in such a way to avoid accidental discharge, but allow them to immediately slide back in as needed. And then there were the eyes. Did he even need to go into the eyes? The cold calculation of veterans they held? That immediate flat stoicism in the face of fire only training could give? Unlike Lisa’s outrage, he could only stare at them with bulging eyes and suck in a breath. “Buh?” He managed. Before he could expand on that nugget of wisdom, a burst of automatic fire sounded in the distance. The pistol rose in David’s grip almost by itself. “C’mon!” Lisa shouted, her confused outrage apparently forgotten as she dashed down the street, the three men following close behind. David’s head still whirled, but he forced those feelings down in favor of keeping his eyes locked straight ahead. The gunfire continued, telling him an all-out battle had broken out somewhere down the road. And as they passed along a street still covered in smoldering rubble, all other thoughts vanished from David’s mind to be replaced by a need to get out alive.