//------------------------------// // Chapter 1: Weirdest. Job. Ever. // Story: Hired Gun // by Gyvon //------------------------------// Fucking Houston traffic. They say that you don't need to worry about being pulled over for speeding, because any cop that does so will only get hit by a speeding driver. I don't know if that's true, as I never asked any of my friends in HPD, but everyone seems to drive as if it were. It doesn't help that my vehicle is a twenty year old clunker. Oh sure, I could've taken my Corvette, but I absolutely loved my white, beat up, '91 Chevy S-10. It's my first car, after all. Plus, it got pretty good gas mileage. That almost made up for the lack of air conditioning. Almost. At least it was chilly this Halloween. Most years, its still warm up until Thanksgiving week, sometimes even Christmas. Hell, I'm not complaining, it made my costume a bit more comfortable to wear. Seriously, riot gear can be quite stifling. Why am I wearing riot gear as my costume? Well, have you ever played Fallout: New Vegas? I'm going to the costume party wearing a replica of NCR Ranger Combat Armor. It's not completely authentic, but it's close enough. Hell, I went the extra step and used real riot gear I got from a buddy in HPD that owed me a favor. I'd just exited I-10 and was about to turn onto HWY146 when my phone rang. The caller I.D. told me it was my office. "Fuuuuuuuck!" I yelled as I u-turned. The only reason I'd get a call from work was because they had a job for me, and when they had a job, they expected me to drop everything and come straight to the office. I flipped open my phone, told them that I'd be there in twenty minutes, then closed it hard. God, I wish I could slam a cell phone. I actually made good time back to the office and pulled into the parking garage with five minutes to spare. Three minutes after that, and I was in the building and riding the elevator up to the twelfth floor, home of the Houston branch of Lucius' Security Consultation. We're a Private Military Corporation, or "mercenaries" to the uninformed. I hate that term, though. People hear the word "mercenary" and immediately imagine a hired thug humping it through the jungle of some third-world cesspool. Oh sure, some PMCs are like that, but Lucius' bread and butter is actual consultation. We do work in the field occasionally, but even then we're basically glorified security guards. Hell, European cops are usually better armed than us when we do actual work. As the elevator doors slid open, I was surprised to see my boss, "Big" John Henry, waiting for me. Before you ask, yes, he is a dead-ringer of the legendary railroad worker. I swear, you could cut diamonds on the man's pecs. "Good to see ya, Jimbo. Nice costume," he said. "Sorry I had to drag you back here, but this client is a little... strange. Also, she asked for you by name." "Repeat customer?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. "Nope, first timer." That got my attention. Company policy was to keep the names of our employees confidential. Any client that pays for our service has to sign a non-disclosure agreement before we send an operative out. It keeps us safe, as a few terrorist organizations have made threats on our lives before. "Should I be worried?" "No, that's my job," said Big John. "As for the client, I don't think she's a threat. She's waiting for you in your office. Lock up on your way out." With that, the boss man headed for the stairs, even though we were talking right next to the elevator. He's crazy like that. Despite Big John's attempt to reassure me, I found my hand had moved on its own accord to my chest, hovering over where I keep my holdout weapon. It's a small .22 pistol, but I carry it with me everywhere. The pop-gun has gotten me out of a few scrapes. Still, something was bothering me. It wasn't any sort of sixth sense nonsense, but a niggling feeling that I'd need more protection. As spooked as I was, I decided to head to the locker room first. When I was first assigned to this office, I had no idea why we had a locker room. We have no on-site gym, and we don't wear uniforms unless out on a job, and even then only. In reality, it's a remnant from the previous lease holder of our offices, and it's damn handy to have around. Most of the boys just keep an extra set of clothing for emergencies, while I keep a "bug-out bag". It's nothing more than a backpack packed with two changes of clothing, toiletries, and my passport. It really comes in handy when I need to get on a plane to Bumfuck, Egypt on short notice. Along with the bag, I keep Black Betty in my locker. That's what I call my favorite gun. Yes, naming a gun is incredibly tacky, but it's easier than calling it a "custom built, six-shot revolver with a matte black finish and chambered in .500 S&W". That, my friends, is a big, big gun. I've never fired her in anger, but her presence on my hip has impressed at least two Saudi oil magnates. Thinking to intimidate whoever asked for me by name, I strapped the gun belt on under the tattered duster I was wearing, and slid Betty into her holster. I also grabbed two small boxes of ammo and placed them in their pouches on the belt. No, I didn't expect to need to reload, I just grabbed 'em out of habit. Deciding that the new client can wait another minute, I headed to the bathroom. If she didn't like it, tough. She shouldn't have dragged me away from my Halloween party (I can be a vindictive bastard when I want). The bathroom was pretty much what you'd find in any public place in America. Two stalls, one urinal, and two sinks. After taking care of business (I am not going into details here), I went to wash my hands. Having left the gas mask and helmet of my costume in the truck, I got a good look at my face in the mirror. I hate that. It makes me feel... old. I don't know why, I mean, I'm not even thirty years old. It's probably the scars, of which I've got more than my fair share. The three on my face really stick out. One across the bridge of my nose that I got in Iraq, during the surge. I was in the Marines at the time, working counter-intelligence, when I was captured by an insurrectionist cell. The interrogator torturer was just starting to work his knife on my face when he suffered a 7.62mm brain haemorrhage courtesy of a British sniper. I still owe that limey bastard a beer. Another scar I got in Bangkok on my first job with Lucius'. I was protecting some fat-cat CEO when a crazy guy decides to try and knife him. Bastard cut me right across my right cheek before I could subdue him. Lastly, my biggest scar goes over my left eye. I got that one in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and I'm not proud of it. Long story short, tequila was involved. Sighing to myself, I decided that I've wasted enough of the client's time. "Good to finally meet you, Mr. Clark," she said without even turning around. I don't spend much time in my office, and as a result it is quite bare. No pictures, no decorations, just plain walls and floor. The desk is a cheap POS from Ikea, but it serves its purpose of keeping my paperwork secure. The only interesting feature of my office is the floor-to-ceiling window that takes up the entirety of the back wall, which the client was currently looking through. She was a tall redhead, dressed in a black robe. My mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was a "cultist". We get a few dozen every year, so it's a safe bet. "And you have me at a disadvantage, miss..." "Meta will suffice," she replied, turning to face me. What really caught my attention now was her eyes. They were a bright, emerald green color that seemed to glow with an inner fire. Her skin was pale, almost lacking pigment entirely. "Very well, ma'am. Now, what seems to be the problem?" I was tempted to ask how she knew that I worked for Lucius, but decided against it. Big John'll have my back if anything goes pear-shaped. "Straight to the point then," she said, smiling delightfully. "I am the leader of a small desert nation, I doubt you've ever heard of it, though. For security reasons, I'd like to withhold that information for now." Africa. That's where my mind first went. There are so many small tribes claiming sovereignty on that continent that it isn't funny. All of them are within the borders of internationally recognized nations, but for some reason or another do not recognize the government's authority. "I'll let you know right now that Lucius' Security Consultation is not in the business of warfighting. If you need soldiers, you've come to the wrong place." "That is not what I want, Mr. Clark. I am currently in the process of making peace with another, larger nation," she said. "Negotiations on neutral grounds have gone well, and now we are planning for my envoy to meet face to face with the other nation's leader. What I need is an escort." I mulled that over for a moment. She was basically asking for a bodyguard, but something wasn't adding up. Nations, even unrecognized ones, usually had their own security force to handle diplomatic protection. "Why me?" "Because I can't trust my own guards," replied Meta. "I have only come to power recently. The nation we are in negotiations with was once invaded by mine, under the leadership of my sister. She managed to take the capital city, but was driven out before the day was over. She returned home and was soon stripped of her power, and I took over. Despite her disgrace, my sister still has plenty of supporters, and she does not want this peace treaty to come to fruition." Ah, this old song and dance. All governments, from the most liberal democracy, to the most brutal dictatorship, has their share of hawks and doves. It was a relief to be speaking with a dove for once. It's usually the warmongers that seek out PMCs, But still... "I get the feeling you're not telling me everything." "There's a lot I'm not telling you." Her smile was almost predatory, and her eyes seemed to shine a few lux brighter. "I can not tell you where the job is located, nor can I tell you how much the job will pay." I could practically hear alarm bells going off. Very rarely would the company even consider doing a job without any guaranteed payment. Usually it'd be a missionary group headed to an unstable region that needed some extra muscle. Lucius' accountants found some way to get a tax break off these "charity jobs", as I call them. The problem? Charity jobs have a knack for blowing up on me, like that nightmare down in Colombia. I still took them, mainly because, well... "Why should I even consider taking this job, then?" "Because, if my sister has her way, we'd go to war again, and thousands of innocent lives would be lost." There it is. Whether she knew it or not, she hit me in my one weak spot. I always had to be the white knight. Even back in school, I'd get myself in trouble standing up for anyone that got in trouble with bullies or gangs. Hell, I nearly lost my leg in Fallujah when I pushed a kid away from an IED right before it detonated. My CO gave me shit for it but I didn't care. That little boy's life was worth it. "How do you know so much about me?" I asked. "You asked for me by name, even though you shouldn't know that I work here in the first place. Everyone I've done a job for has signed a strict NDA, so they couldn't have told you without facing heavy legal fees." "I have my sources," she simply replied. The smirk never left her face. "I looked at hundreds of different mercenaries, excuse me, private military contractors. Every single one of them lacked what you have." "And that would be?" "A kind, gentle soul," she replied, her eyes softening just a tad. "I know what happened in Colombia, how those monsters from the Cartel slaughtered the tribe those missionaries wanted to aid, all because they wouldn't work in their drug labs. How they dogged your every step as you escorted the missionaries to safety. The Cartel offered you safe passage and a large sum of money, and all you had to do was leave the missionaries behind to be butchered, and yet you didn't. Because it wouldn't be right." Her predatory smile was gone now, replaced by a caring, almost motherly one. "That wasn't the first, nor the last time you passed up an easy out, just because it wasn't the right thing to do, and that's exactly what I need." I was completely stunned. Nobody, not even my Lucius, knew the full story. I'd met the leader of that band of murderous savages in complete secret, away from the Missionaries. I turned his offer down, and promptly put two bullets in his head. Did one of the other Cartel members talk? Doubtful, but possible. Something was still bothering me. The voice in my head was telling me that I was getting in over my head. But... if I could help stop a war, and therefore save thousands of lives, maybe it'll be worth it. Against my better judgement... "I'll take the job." Meta smiled even wider and clapped her hands together. "Oh, thank you Mr. Clark!" she exclaimed, extending a hand for me to shake. "I can promise you an unforgettable experience." I took her hand and shook it. The predatory smirk returned to her face once more and, as she pulled away, green witchfire burst into existence on my hand. "What the fuck!" I shook my hand wildly in the air, trying to put the flames out. In my panic, I didn't register that the flames did not actually burn. The flames slowly spread, and soon engulfed my entire arm. "I am truly sorry about this," said Meta. In a flash of green flame, the robed woman disappeared, and was replaced by something out of a bad horror film. Standing at roughly five and a half feet high, Its body was equine in shape, but it was definitely not a horse. Black chitin covered its body, save for a patch of green on its midsection that wrapped all the way around. A pair of diaphanous wings fluttered from its back, while a long, luxurious, fire-red mane seemed to waft on an unfelt breeze, and a twisted, jagged horn protruded from its forehead. Strangest of all, however, were the holes in its hooves. It looked like someone took a drill and just went to town. As the fire continued to spread along my body, I drew Black Betty from her holster, and aimed at the abomination standing before me. However, before I could pull the trigger, I blacked out. Waking up, the first thing I noticed was the heat. It wasn't the oppressive, muggy heat I was used to growing up in Houston. Rather, it was the intense, dry heat of a summer day in Arizona. Those of you going "at least it's a dry heat" are morons. Heat is heat, it doesn't matter how wet it is. As a puppet once said, "a bonfire's a dry heat, but you don't see me sticking my ass in it." The next thing I notice is that I'm still wearing my costume. Let me tell you now, body armor isn't that comfortable to wear even in ideal conditions. Hundred plus degree weather is not ideal conditions by a long shot. It was even worse than the gear I wore in Iraq. That, at least, was water-cooled. I groaned as I sat up. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was in the middle of some desert. The terrain reminded me of Arizona, but I had absolutely no idea how I got there. The last thing I remember is passing out in my office in front of... whatever that monster was. I'll solve that mystery later. Now, I had to check whatever gear I had on me. Opening my duster, I saw that my holdout weapon was in it's place, along with two magazines. Usually I keep it in a shoulder holster, but that would be unwieldy with body armor. Instead, I modified my duster with a special pocket that holds the small weapon at an angle that allows me to reach in and draw that pea-shooter smoothly. Strangely, Black Betty is still in her holster, even though I distinctly remember drawing her to shoot that thing in my office. Attached to the belt are the two boxes of ammo I grabbed earlier, each filled with six hand-loaded .500 S&W rounds. Only two reloads plus the six rounds I had currently loaded meant I had conserve ammo. I had another seventeen shots with my holdout, but its effective range was only long enough that a knife would be an equally effective option for hunting. Speaking of, I kinda wish I had a knife right about now. At my feet was the one item I was not expecting to see, my bug-out bag. It was a simple, durable, black backpack that had survived countless trips through the airport without going missing once. I consider the thing a good luck charm of sorts. A note was pinned to it, written on parchment. Reaching over, I grabbed the bag and pulled it close. I ripped the note off and began to read. Mr. Clark I deeply apologize for deceiving you so, but I need your help. I was not lying when I said that thousands of lives were at stake, nor was I lying when I said you were the best man for the job. In your pack, I have left you two items. The first is a bag filled with the local currency. The second is an potion that will help you deal with the heat. To the east, a little over a mile away, is the town of Land's End. There, at the "End of the World Tavern" you will meet with both the Equestrian envoy and mine. You are to escort them to Canterlot, the capitol of Equestria. Once again, I apologize for dragging you into this mess. Signed: Queen Metamorphosis. Ok, what the hell? Equestria? Canterlot? This has got to be someone's idea of a bad joke. Sighing to myself, I opened my backpack. The first thing I see is a small burlap bag, tied with a hemp cord. Pulling it out, I am surprised at how heavy the thing is. I was even more surprised when I opened it. The damn thing was full of gold coins. If this is a joke, it's a damn expensive one. Judging by the weight, that much gold must've been worth thousands of dollars. Drawing one coin out, I could tell that it was not any coin I am familiar with. On one side was a stylized sun, while the other had a crescent moon. Shrugging, I dropped the coin in the bag and tied the cord. Strange coin or not, gold's gold. Setting the bag aside, I look in my pack again for the other item that was left for me. I immediately saw a small, glass bottle, filled with a strange blue liquid, topped with a screw cap. It felt ice cold to the touch, and there was a label on it that read "Ice-Vein Potion: Blueberry Flavored." At this point, I just want to laugh my ass off, thinking that this is the most elaborate joke in history Still, something told me that this was not just a joke. Somewhere between "bug-horse" and "sack o' gold", my disbelief has been thoroughly suspended. Shrugging, I unscrew the cap, but not before noticing a warning written on it, telling me to only drink a mouth full. Not one to argue, I took a swig, and was assaulted with a numbing chill, and the flavor of fresh blueberries. Swallowing the strange brew, I instantly felt like I had stepped into an air-conditioned building. It was the most surreal experience so far, even more so than the green fire and bug-horse. It was now that I realized that I just did something incredibly stupid! I didn't know what was in that vial. For all I knew, it could've been flesh-melting acid, and I drank it anyways. I wanted to berate myself, but was feeling too chill to care. Chuckling to myself, I zipped my backpack up, stood up, and slung the pack over my shoulder. To the east, I could just make out a town. With nowhere else to go, I set off in that direction, unsure of jsut what I had gotten myself into. I was not expecting this. The town looked like it had been extracted whole-cloth from an old Western film. I half expected John Wayne to come strolling down the main drag. The only reason I didn't fully expect it was the locals. Ponies. Plentiful pastel ponies, and they came in more colors than a box of crayons. What's more, along with the regular-ponies, I also saw a few unicorns and pegasi. "Alright, where the fuck am I?"