//------------------------------// // 2. Midnight // Story: Rockets and Friendship // by Spooples //------------------------------// You are Midnight Blossom, Lunar Captain of the 31st Interdiurnal Night Guard Division. That'll be all for introductions. You’re not one to go off on a tangent in your own head. You’re currently camped in the Hollow Shades, roughly 15 klicks north of your current objective. The swirling viscera of the chaotic magic above the Foal Mountains is… concerning. Ominous even, some mares would say. But it serves as nice stimulation to occasionally look at through the canopy of trees, keeping your eyelids from drifting shut. No hostiles to report. Just the odd cricket here or there chirping, and the gentle trickling of the nearby stream. It’s peaceful, you guess. Objectively so. You wouldn’t know, though. The many emotions boiling in your blood can be described by many words. Peaceful not among them. You are going to kill Furtive Wind. It’s not that she almost immediately abandoned her post while the rest of her team was vulnerable. It’s not that she made you pick up the slack and stand watch for four hours in the exhausting afternoon sun. Tartarus, it’s not even that she planted that erotic magazine in your grotto only to immediately steal it back and start those rumors. Which you were not mad about. At all. It’s because she made you feel an emotion you absolutely hate. You tilt your head upwards and gaze into the purple, star-studded sky. An hour more, and it’ll be time to leave. And she still isn’t back. Going off to look for Wind isn’t an option; at least, sending a chunk of your team big enough to make an effective search party isn’t an option. You need every mare you can get for this mission, and with how meticulously you and your team had moved behind the Elements, you can’t risk any setbacks. Just one more flight, and you’d be at the Foal Mountains just before the Elements are scheduled to arrive. You personally aren’t sure why you’re supposed to remain hidden from the Elements. The more numbers they had on their side, the more likely they were to achieve their goal, you figure. Still, like every time before, Princess Luna had been adamant that you support from out of sight. That’s enough for you. Would you have to mount a search party for Wind after the mission? That would be a nightmare. The mares tend to get insubordinate after missions, wanting to go off into the nearest town to blow off some steam. One guess as to what that implies. ”I’M A PRETTY PONY, SHORT AND STOUT!” ”I’m a pretty… pony… short and… stout…” Your ears twitch as a pair of distant voices echo through the forest. A hopeful smile twitches at the corners of your lips, but you stop that dead in its tracks. ”YOU INSULT MY HAT AND YOU’LL HEAR ME SHOUT!” ”You insult… hah… shout…” One of them is definitely Furtive Wind, but who’s the other? ”HERE IS MY MUZZLE, HERE IS MY SNOUT!” ”Muzzle… hah… hah… snout…” …Oh, great. A stallion. ”IF YOU BOOP ME ON THE SNOOT THEN I WILL POUT!” ”…buck me up the ponut with a cactus…” And from the sound of things, he’s a particularly vexing one. Yes, vexing. Whimsical is a word lovestruck schoolfillies and virtue signaling cowards use. You remain silent as the sound of panting, chanting, and foliage parting draw closer. Eventually, two ponies emerge from the green-golden haze of the forest. One of them is the mare of the hour herself, drenched in sweat and plant life unlucky enough to be stuck to her coat. The other, you don’t recognize. As the two draw near enough to see you, you don’t make a move, regarding them with a cold gaze. Furtive Wind locks eyes with you and immediately freezes. You can’t help but smirk. You love it when they know they bucked up. Makes that slow, guilty walk to you all the more— ”waaaahhh-YAAAAAAAGHHHH!” The bastard child of an injured animal’s screech and an orgasmic moan escapes Furtive Wind’s mouth as she leaps forward and grovels at your hooves. ”I’M SO~O~O~ORRYY FOR ABANDONING MY PO~O~O~OST!” she wails between looking up at you and kissing your hooves. “I’LL CLEAN THE TOILETS FOR THE NEXT MONTH! MOON ABOVE, I’LL CLEAN THEM FOR THE NEXT YEAR! JUST PLEASE, NO MORE DISCIPLINARY PHYSICAL TRAINI~I~I~ING!” Your attempt to save a small smidge of the mare’s dignity by moving your hooves away from her smooching lips is only met with Furtive collapsing into the fetal position. ”Oh, sayyy can you seeee,” you hear her whisper to herself. “By the dawn’s early light…” You tentatively reach a hoof out to the shaking mare’s head. However, since her mane is drenched with sweat, dirt, and sap, you opt to just paw the air above her mane. “…There there, Private Furtive Wind," you mutter coldly. ”THAT’S your name, Private?!” the stallion commands, earning a flinch and a frantic nod from Furtive. “My God! I thought I just misheard you the first time, and I was too embarrassed to ask for clarification! My apologies, Farting Wind!” Furtive Wind makes a sound that you guess a pony could make… if you really stretched the imagination. ”Alright, back to business!" the stallion exclaims, puffing his chest out and stamping a hoof in the dirt. "ATTENNNNNN-TION!” A few surprised squeaks and some annoyed chittering from behind tells you the rest of your team has just woken up. Furtive Wind, meanwhile, lets out a choked sob before shakily getting up on her hooves and into proper form. …Did Furtive Wind just follow an order? The first time? ”MA’AM," the stallion shoots off without even taking a breath, "PRIVATE FARTING WIND HAS SOMETHING SHE’D LIKE TO DISCLOSE CONCERNING HER DISAPPEARANCE FROM HER POST! ALTHOUGH, BEFORE SHE STARTS, I BELIEVE IT IS WORTH NOTING THAT HER DISCIPLINARY PUSHUPS AND IMMEDIATE SUPERSET WITH A TEN-MILE HIKE, FOR WHICH THE NEED OF REST PUNISHABLE WITH FIFTY BURPEES, HAVE ALREADY BEEN COMPLETED! HER MANE IS LUSTROUS WITH SWEAT AND FRAGANT WITH THE SWEET STENCH OF HARD WORK AND DEDICATION! I ALSO REQUEST THAT SOMEBODY TEACH ME HOW TO DELICATELY AND ADEPTLY BRAID A PRETTY PONY’S MANE WITH HOOVES! MA’AM!” The stallion salutes you, Furtive Wind immediately following suit with a thousand-yard stare that would give most veterans a run for their bits. As Furtive Wind explains herself and the situation, you eye the red stallion beside her. He certainly talks like a soldier. You didn’t know affirmative action held such a grip on the Solar Guard they’d put stallions in field roles. Oh well. Night Guards: 1. Solar Guards: 0. As the minutes tick by and you’re enlightened by Furtive Wind’s exploits, the stallion beside her doesn’t move an inch. You’d be impressed by his dedication if you weren’t too busy being suspicious of everything else. Furtive Wind continues to babble on with, ”And that’s when he told me ‘no man left behind!’ and picked me up, and I thought he’d keep hiking with me on his back, but he instead started doing weighted pushups and—" “Thank you,” you interrupt her, holding the stallion’s neutral gaze. “That’ll be all. You are excused… Farting Wind.” The traumatized mare lets out a high pitched “g’uh!” before scrambling into camp, probably dead set on catching whatever morsel of sleep she can pry before nightfall. ”She’s a good kid!” the stallion chuckles deeply before walking past you into camp. Or, attempting to walk past you into camp. You put a hoof up against his chest and stop his advance, earning a tilted head from the stallion. “Name, rank, and intention?” you say coldly, keeping the stallion at bay. The stallion taps his chin thoughtfully before he suddenly brightens up. Daydwellers really were too expressive for their own good. Well, makes catching them in a lie all the easier. ”Soldier, soldier, and I want to say hi to my roommate!” he shoots off, pointing towards the Foal Mountains. You blink, your hoof retracting from his chest. “What," you say, more like a reflex than a legitimate question. ”Why hell-o, handsome!” a voice coos from behind, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes. ”Handsome?” the stallion ponders, before his eyes widen. “Handsome! PRETTY BOY! SPY! WHERE IS HE?!” The stallion whips his head this way and that before it snaps toward the approaching mare. As sickeningly smooth as a snake, Specialist Quickthistle saunters in from your peripheral. Your fur feels cold as she slides in from beside you. Oh look. She’s already done her makeup. You’d be surprised if she doesn’t sleep in it just for an occasion such as this. ”Aww, he’s playing the oblivious role!” Quickthistle susurrates as she circles the stallion like the vulture she is. “It looks like Furtive Wind finally contributed something of value to the team. I, for one, would be happy to help this poor stallion. How about you, Midnight Blossom?” You really… really don’t need this right now. “Quickthistle,” you say hard enough to make her stop her gait. She peers at you with those annoying, flirty azure eyes. “Stallion or not, he’s an Unknown. And we have a strict schedule to keep with to stay ahead of the Elements. We can’t waste our time babysitting.” ”But isn’t protecting civilians part of being a Guard?” she asks. You narrow your eyes. If she’s referring to what you think she’s referring to… A hoof on your withers makes your wings give an instinctual flap. ”Quickthistle,” another voice cuts in from behind. “Take the colt into camp. There’s still an hour left until nightfall. We’ll decide what to do with him until then.” ”Oh, but don’t I need my captain’s permission?” Quickthistle sneers, giving you a face that you wouldn’t mind one bit punching the moonlight out of. “Take the damn colt into camp,” you mutter. Quickthistle gives a squee that grates on your ears before escorting the stallion into camp. ”Come with me, handsome. It's okay now. Let this brave group of mares take care of you.” ”Wait,” the stallion suddenly mutters. “Were you referring to me this whole time?” You could practically hear the lecherous smile spreading across Quickthistle’s face-- “I AM NOT HANDSOME!" the stallions roars, making every thestral in the camp jump. "NOR AM I A CIVILIAN! I AM BATTLE-HARDENED! SCARRED! BURLY! RRRREADY AND WILLING TO THROW DOWN! DO YOU TAKE ME FOR SOME PRETTY BOY-FRENCHIE-BASTARD?! DO YOU TAKE ME AS SOME PRISSY, DOMESTICATED LITTLE PONY?! A FOAL THAT COWERS AWAY FROM THE HUNTER?! NO! I STARE THE HUNTER DIRECTLY IN THE EYES AND DARE HIM TO PULL THE TRIGGER! I ENGAGE IN HONORABLE BATTLE WITH MY PREPUBESCENT GIRL OWNER! BY GOD, LADY, IF THE NEXT WORDS THAT COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH ARE ANYTHING BESIDES, ‘MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES, SIR! WOULD YOU ACCEPT A HOOFSHINING AS ADEQUATE COMPENSATION FOR THIS GRAVE, GRAVE GRIEVANCE?’ YOU AND I ARE GOING TO HAVE A HELL OF A PROBLEM!” If anypony else wasn’t awake in the camp, they sure as the Moon above are now. The sight of Quickthistle on her rump, eyes as wide as saucers, definitely woke you up. The stallion gives a gruff huff before marching past the dazed mare, into the camp. ”You know you should’ve immediately let him in," the mare at your side says. You give her a glare. “I repeat,” you enunciate to Silhouette like an older thestral teaching a pup to avoid biting her lips while speaking Ponish. “Unknown. Strict schedule. And how are we even supposed to help him, Sillow? The nearest town is Baltimare, and the influx of Baltimarean refugees back at Canterlot doesn’t scream ‘safe place.’” ”…Well, he’s still a stallion” she concedes. “We should at least try to help him.” A spike of anger stabs at your chest. “Buck off,” you grunt, brushing the mare off as you trot into camp. “You’ll be on watch for the rest of dusk. I’m going to go handle this colt.” ”You can’t get this mad every time!” Sillow calls from behind. You half expect her to finish that sentence with "or you'll never get a stallion," but by the grace of the Moon, she grants you mercy. You ignore Silhouette as you trot into camp. The rest of the mares are now awake, inspecting the newcomer a little too closely and giving you questioning glances. Everypony except Furtive Wind, of course. She’s fast asleep, upside down from her branch of choice. ”Hello, everyone!” the stallion grabs everypony’s attention with a big smile and a wave. “Apparently I’m here to be rescued by you!” “That has yet to be decided,” you warn as you approach the stallion. ”Oh, thank God!” he chuckles. “I’m not very good at playing the rescuee! Hell, I’m not even good at playing the rescuer! I’m usually the one people are getting rescued from!” One by one, each pair of eyes shift from the stallion to you, with various levels of incredulousness. You see Quickthistle in the crowd… barely. She’s currently hiding behind Serendipity. Speaking of Serendipity: ”…A-are we going to be… escorting this stallion, Captain?” she squeaks, and you grimace at the hopeful tone of her voice. “Aren’t we supposed to get to the Foal Mountains before midnight?” Serendipity glances back towards the mountains in the distance, looming over the camp like a silent predator. You narrow your eyes as you think. Now’s the time to come to a decision, Midnigh— ”Ohhhh, THOSE are the Foal Mountains!” the stallion exclaims. “I was headed there anyways to pay my good ol’ roommate a visit!” “Your… roommate?” you ask machanically. ”Yep! Ol’ Merasmus! He’s an evil wizard whose diabolical machinations threaten all who he deems worthy of the eternal embrace of death! Isn’t that neat?” You narrow your eyes. That same, stupid grin on the stallion’s face is looking more and more punchable by the second. "You have a vivid imagination, I'll give you that," you murmur. “Imagination?" the stallion asks innocently. "I assure you my roommate is as real as those pointy fangs sticking out of your mouth, Captain Mid-height Bosom!" This earns a few giggles from your team. You quickly silence that with a glare. “Midnight…” you enunciate, leaning so close your muzzles are almost touching. “…Blossom. And you?” ”I already told you!” he exclaims. “Soldier!” This is bucking infuriating. You don’t have time for this. Everypony here might go out of their way to make time for a stallion like this, but not you. “Okay, Soldier,” you spit. “…What’s your rank?” ”Also Soldier!” is his chipper response, and you have to physically restrain yourself from rearing back and punching this colt right on his Luna-damn, colt cheek. The rising laughter from your team certainly isn’t helping. ”You see, after I applied at the recruiting station, they told me I was MENTALLY UNFIT TO HOLD A RIFLE! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?! They didn’t even run any tests! Said they didn’t need to; their brief ‘encounter’ with me was enough to decide on the spot! Well, how the Hell was I supposed to know that maggot behind the counter with a German accent wasn’t a Nazi scumbag?! And what the Hell’s an inter-national diplomat, for that matter?! Anywho, you know what I did? I bought a plane ticket to Germany with all of my life savings, and a life threat to the conductor, and starting killing those sons-a-bitches on my own time! I DID IT SO WELL AND FOR SO LONG, I WAS STILL KILLING GERMANS FIVE YEARS AFTER THE WAR! I DON’T SPEAK GERMAN SO I NEVER GOT THE MEMO! And by God, if that doesn’t earn me the rank of Soldier, I don’t know what does! Gee, miss Bosom, you’re really red in the face! Are you alright?” Your team – your team of traitors -- are a mess of laughing, whooping thestrals. “…Calm down, Midnight,” you breathe out, closing your eyes. “We are on a mission... We are going to beat the Elements of Harmony to the Foal Mountains… before they arrive and the conflict starts—" “CONFLICT?!" the stallion shrieks like a stallion because he's an annoying bucking stallion. "There’s CONFLICT going on here?! And you’re headed straight for it?! WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?! THAT SOLVES BOTH OF OUR PROBLEMS! I’ll just accompany you mares while we make the hike to the Foal Mountains, and I can help out with Merasmus!” “NO. IT WON’T BE A HIKE. WE WILL FLY. AND YOU WOULD SLOW US DOWN.” ”Aw, come on! You frilly mares could USE somebody with some war-time experience!” Time slows. You start seeing red. Your eye starts twitching. Disrespecting the Night Guard. Not disclosing his identity. Making light of a magical disaster that has left thousands homeless. Stolen Valor. And every Luna-damn mare in your team is laughing. They’re laughing. He’s disrespecting everything you’ve worked for and they’re laughing. Everypony’s laughing… but you. This is all too familiar. You slam your hoof into the ground, showering the stallion’s chest with dirt. You bare your fangs and spread your wings, your hackles raised and eyes slitted. “Nnuelg’un’,” you declare. The transformation from jovial laughter to silence takes a few seconds longer than would be considered respectful. Definitely longer than the last time you challenged somepony to a duel. You aren’t surprised. Thestrals are so… gentrified nowadays. Maybe these mares were so gentrified they didn’t even know their mother tongue. Maybe they didn’t even recognize the significance of the Nnuelg’un’. Doesn’t matter. This is between you and him. “Ite ngung Nnuelg’un’,” you finish the formal challenge. Your jaw muscles catch a momentary break from the constant shifting and angling to avoid stabbing your mouth with your fangs. You’ve always preferred Thestralian to Ponish because of this, and you would gladly speak your mother tongue for the rest of your life if you could. But now it’s time to switch back so this cretin can understand. ”I challenge you to Nnuelg’un’,” you announce, raising your voice so everypony understands you, crystal. Clear. “An amagical duel, until one of us is rendered unfit or unwilling to continue.” ”Captain, you lecherous mare!” Quickthistle cheers from somewhere out of your focus. “I always knew you were the type to wrestle a stallion to the ground!” Ah, there it is. It took them a while to bring it up. It all comes back to bucking stallions. Stallions. Whom your life was supposed to revolve around. Your only aspiration as a mare, you’ve been told since birth. Never told directly, of course. Ponies are too cowardly for that. They prefer to say it indirectly: “Wow, you’re really strong, Midnight! But stallions don’t like bulky mares, you know.” “Why’re you aiming so high in the ranks, Blossom? You make enough already to support a stallion!” “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral, Blossom. His family needed comforting. I mean, could you imagine losing a son?” “Hey, it’s alright, Blossom. We all feel down sometimes. But don’t let any of those stallions at the academy see you crying!” You hated it. By Luna, you hated it. You want nothing to do with stallions anymore. One had been enough. You don’t have to justify anything. You’re going to knock this Daydweller, sun-bucking redback’s teeth out of his skull. “If I win,” you continue lowly, drinking in the stallion’s suddenly wide-eyed reaction. He talks big game, but he’s probably never even chipped a hoof. You wouldn’t be surprised if that scar on his cheek were cosmetic. “You turn tail and find your way to the nearest town on your own.--” You give the few mares who voice their objections a glare, shutting them up, before continuing. Yeah, he talks big game, but you figure all it'd take for him to crumble is to witness real soldiers working. “—If you win, you can accompany us on our mission. Do you—” ”YES!” …What? ”YES! YES! A MILLION TIMES, YES!” the stallion screeches and bounces up and down like he’d just been proposed to. “I’VE BEEN ITCHING FOR A GOOD FIGHT! This new body is DISGUSTING! Not a battle scar in SIGHT!” The stallion catches a glimpse of himself through the stream, and zips over the surface of the water, glaring down at his reflection. “Spotless! Well-kept! Absolutely disgraceful-- Hey, look! A scar!” The stallion… is laughing. Manically so. He turns back to you—no, wait, somepony behind you. ”THANKS FOR THE SCAR ON MY CHEEK, PRIVATE FARTING WIND!” he yells. If Furtive Wind could see the many death glares being sent her way right now, she’d probably melt into the floor. Luckily for her, she’s out like a light, snoring raucously and giggling in her sleep. You turn back to the stallion, who— Oooooooh, you don’t like the way he’s looking at you. “…T-tradition states that the challengee is the one who picks the time and place,” you say, cursing yourself for the stutter. “I’d prefer to get this over with as soon as—” ”RIGHT HERE IN THREE SECONDS THREE-TWO-ONE GO!” He’s on top of you. He’s not rearing back to charge, he’s not galloping towards you, he’s just… immediately on top of your barrel, your back is pressed against the dirt, and you feel woefully dizzy. …and now he looks unsure of what to do. ”HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GRAB YOU WITH THESE DAMN, COMMIE HOOOOOOOOOVES?!” he screams at the sky. You quickly recover from the stallion’s speed and use your gaskin to knee the colt’s backside. He loses his balance and topples over you, shooting out his front hooves for support. Your own front hooves immediately snake around his right elbow and you jerk it to the ground. These mares around you have spent their entire lives idolizing stallions. He grunts as you wrap your back hooves around his back, rocking to the side to topple him into an immediate submission. They’ve spent most of their years learning how to woo stallions, how to care for stallions, how to defend stallions’ honor. The stallion is steadfast however, and he gives out a war cry as he, using nothing but his lower body strength, picks up you and slams you into the dirt. You lose your grip on his arm. Quickthistle was probably the worst of them. She wore her unbearable, flirtatious ways on her sleeve like a Luna-damn medal. The stallion beats his chest like an ape before tackling you in a mass of uncoordinated hooves and fur. His mass and power is enough to get you back on the ground, but you use his momentum against him, rolling with it until you lay on top of him. But not you. You’re sick of it. You’ve been sick of it for a long time. You immediately get to work, pushing the side of your head into his own as you lay punch after punch into his gut. He tries to throw a jab to your face, but the awkward angle has left him sans momentum. You’ve been sick of it ever since you were left alone in that Luna-damn grotto, freshly bereaved. While everypony else was out comforting the stallion’s family, you were left to fester in your own bitterness and grief. A powerful knee to your side knocks the wind out of you before the stallion grabs you by the mane and throws you over his head. You crash into the dirt before immediately crouching back up in a combat stance. You put everything on the line to protect him, but in the end it didn’t matter. You failed to protect your stallion. Your herd had failed. You were no longer an alpha. The stallion once again barrels into you, but he’s become predictable. You dodge out of the way, using the tooth of your wing to snag him by the ear. But instead of immediately relenting, the stallion instead pulls through, your tooth tearing through his ear like a knife through butter. You were no longer a mare. He doesn’t even let out a grunt of pain as he whips around, staring you down. Crimson liquid oozes from his destroyed ear, leaving a few rivers of blood to trail down the side of his face. You merely regard this with a begrudging respect to his pain tolerance. In all your years, Luna had been the only mare to show an ounce of compassion for your situation. Having felt your pain through dreams, and having lived through the Olde Times as well, when stallions were as plentiful and hardy as mares. She understood. The stallion charges. You were going to beat this stallion. You were going to whip these pathetic mares into shape. You were going to work your way up the lunar ladder, and you were going to reward Luna for her compassion with the best personal guard she’s ever worked with! You charge as well. You lost. It’s hard to think of anything else. You lost, and now you’ve got some stallion you don’t even know the name of following you into a potentially life-threatening situation, involving the six most important ponies in Equestria, surrounded by thirsty bat mares. …Well, he wasn’t helpless, you’ll admit. Stallion can fight. Or, rather, can run in screaming and flailing his limbs, occasionally getting the odd, powerful punch in. He’s unpredictable that way. So, he… can’t fight, and that’s how he… can fight. It’s confusing when you put it that way. You don’t know if you even want to try to rationalize how you lost. Would it be more embarrassing that you lost to a stallion who couldn’t fight, or that a stallion could fight better than you at all? …Look at you, going off on a tangent in your own head. You let out a snort, sending a cloud of warm vapor into the crisp night air. The sounds of the rest of your team shuffling into their armor, the natural symphony of nightlife, and a pair of hoofsteps approaching you from behind are the only sounds— Buck. ”That was a wonderful fight, young lady!" a masculine, gravely voice rumbles. "Why, I haven’t had a challenge like that since I was a scrawny little kid, beating up on the neighborhood raccoon alphas! I refuse to elaborate. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any hedge clippers around here, would you? I’m putting the finishing touches on Furtive Wind’s mane! And don’t you worry, the other girls helped me out as well, and I've been told by them it’s a cultural haircut! She’s gonna be so excited when she wakes up!” You resist the urge to gag, and turn away sullenly. Why, out of all your team, did it have to be this. Bucking. Stallion. Oh great, you’re already thinking of him as a member of the team. …He can’t even fly. You’re all probably going to be late to the rendezvous. What the buck were you thinking? ”…My old man always said you never truly know someone until you fight them!” the stallion says. “Oh, really?” you feign interest. “Then who am I, oh Socially Fluent One?” ”Thank you! That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that!” ‘Soldier’ laughs. …Yeah, no. You’re not calling him Soldier. That’s not his name. ”…Well, you’re a mare with something to prove!” the stallion finishes. You scoff. “Pretty pathetic, huh? Trying to prove myself by beating a colt.” Silence pervades the conversation, THANK LUNA, and you go back to what you were doing. Staring into the dark forest, festering in your own dark thoughts. “I know—” the stallion beside you starts, but suddenly grows silent. “…knew a kid who fought just like you. He was a little guy, but he didn’t let that stop him from making a difference on the battlefield. It’s a quaint fighting style. Respectable. Like one of those main characters from those Japanese cartoons! Agh, what did Scout call it… Anime..? No, wrong one. Hontai? Hentoi?” “Can you just do me a bucking solid and tell me your Luna-damned name, AT LEAST?” you snap, whipping your head to stare at the stallion at your side. The stallion’s eyes are… calmer than you’ve ever seen them. ”Sorry, ma’am,” he says with a reservedness you’d never expect from him. “I’ve been called ‘Soldier’ for so long I can’t even remember my real name! Tell ya what. If calling me by an occupation isn’t your style, you can just call me Jane Doe!” Jane Doe… You back off from the stallion, scanning his face for any signs of dishonesty. Daydwellers are always easy to read. …No nervously looking away. No uneasy smile. No sudden sweat. Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s secretly part-thestral. Goddess, thestrals were good at lying. Too good. You sigh, shaking your head. This mission is going to be a disaster, you just know it. You’re going to be late, dragging this colt through the forest. Tartarus, if you’re really unlucky the Elements will catch your team watching... …That’s going to happen, isn’t it? Regardless, this is your new set of circumstances, Midnight Blossom. You don’t trust this Jane Doe. Not one bit. But… he doesn’t seem like a bad stallion. A reckless, socially retarded, and vexing stallion, but not a bad stallion. "…Doesn't that hurt?" you find yourself asking absentmindedly, gesturing to the lack of a top half of Jane’s right ear. Jane, to your horror and bemusement, doesn't even hesitate before saying, "Son, after enduring all kinds of horrible fates including but not limited to: burning to death, being decapitated, falling into an endless abyss, getting stabbed in the back, et cetera, you develop one Hell of a pain resistance!" … You’ll ask him about that later. “…Well then,” you sigh, gazing towards the Foal Mountains. “Welcome to the team, Janefilly Doe.” ”HEY!" Jane snaps, "Mispronouncing people’s names is very rude!” You can’t help but look at this stallion, who you once despised with every bone in your body, and feel – maybe for the first time in a long time – genuine amusement. Not the bitter, snide amusement you’re so used to. But something kinder. It’s not enough for a wholehearted laugh, of course. You’re still a Lunar Captain, and you still have to maintain your dignity. But… a little snicker won’t hurt. You turn back to the forest, mentally preparing for the trek ahead with renewed determination. It won’t be easy, but you’re sure-- ”WHO THE BUCK SEWED A PINEAPPLE IN MY MANE?! eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”