Interlude: No Good Choices
“There’s your outpost.”
Gearsmith blinked, ducking and clenching his eyes against the sudden light as the hood was ripped violently from his head. Something rattled, and he felt the shackles fall off his hooves. Instinctively, he reached up and covered his eyes from the bright light; he’d had the hood on for what felt like days now. He'd had it on ever since his capture, in fact.
When his sight had cleared enough to see, he glanced at his captor. She was surprisingly young; probably younger than his daughter. His daughter. The thought sent a molten lance of pain and fury through his chest.
The mare was saying something, but he didn’t hear her. His ears were buzzing. Between the burning light and the fury bubbling inside, he was disoriented, confused, and overwhelmed.
“What did you say?” he muttered, rubbing his hooves as he looked her up and down. She carried a rifle, and wore the black uniform he’d come to associate with the heretics. His eyes kept darting to the horn on her head. It seemed more menacing than the rifle she had trained on him.
“Your outpost.” She pointed with the muzzle of her rifle, and Gearsmith couldn’t help but look. They were on a hill, and down below he could just barely see the tents that made up Outpost 192. “You’re free to go.” She motioned to his free hooves, and the loose shackles that sat on the ground in front of him. “If you want to.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t have to go back. Everypony gets a choice.”
“You’re not making any sense. Why aren’t you shooting me?” Gearsmith wouldn’t mind if she did.
Oh, my sweet baby girl. It’s all my fault, I dragged you into this. Your mother will hate me forever.
“I’m not shooting you because everypony gets a choice,” the heretic repeated. “You can walk away free, head down to the outpost and back to your people. Or, if you’d prefer, my people will resettle you somewhere far away from here. Probably on the Zebrican continent.”
“Why would I even consider that?” he snarled.
She shrugged. “You’re smart enough to know what happens to ponies that get captured. You think you just go back to being a soldier after this?” She laughed bitterly. “You spent several days with us, mister. The second you go back, you’re disappearing into another black bag and then it’s off to a Mystic blacksite. They’ll be convinced we turned you and you’re some sort of double agent.”
“So, become a heretic or disappear into a Mystic prison somewhere. Some choice,” he snarled. She shrugged.
“Pick fast. I don’t wanna stand around here forever, I’ve got a marefriend and two kids waiting for me.”
Gearsmith turned away. He didn’t want to hear this.
“You bastards killed my daughter,” he whispered. She snorted.
“Yeah, sure. It’s war. Ponies die. If you idiots had turned around when we’d said, nopony would have died.” There was a bitter sort of snarl in her voice. She’d lost somepony too, he guessed. He didn’t want to hear about it.
“Why now?”
“Your ponies are pulling out. They gave up. Probably about a week too late, but it’s something.” The mare sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to seem like a bitch. I wish we weren’t enemies. You seem like an okay stallion, but you’re wrong, and your ponies are wrong. I’m sorry you lost somepony.”
“Shut up,” he snarled, rounding on her so quickly she lifted her rifle. “Shut your Saints-damned heretic mouth! You don’t know anything about loss!” His throat was raw, and his hooves shook. He wanted her to shoot.
“I don’t?” she snapped back. “Your cute little Radiant impaled my best friend through the chest, you bastard. Don’t you bucking dare tell me about loss. So your daughter’s dead? I’m sorry. I really am. But she chose to be here. So did you. So did I.”
Gearsmith glared at her, wishing he had a knife, a rifle, anything. She stared back, looking tired.
“Just pull the trigger, would you?” he whispered, as tears leaked down his muzzle. “I don’t know why you even left me alive to begin with.”
“It’s because we’re better than you lot,” she huffed. “You want proof? Take the offer. We’ll place you somewhere you can start over. Do something else with your life. Take up a hobby. Or drink yourself into oblivion. But if you go back? Torture and an unmarked grave. You’re smart enough to know I’m right.”
“Shut up,” he repeated, turning from her to glance at the Outpost. He ached. She was right, and he hated her for it.
“Yeah, whatever,” she shrugged, unconcerned. “So what’s your choice?”
Gearsmith glanced between her and the far-off Outpost. There were no good choices. He clenched his eyes shut, and opened his mouth to speak.