//------------------------------// // New // Story: Flew The Coop // by Bandy //------------------------------// Four oversized bags of weapons and tracking supplies–all essential, according to Mercy–accompanied them to the train station. When it came time for Mercy to pay for her train ticket to Ponyville, she pretended to get distracted with a piece of dirt stuck in her horseshoe. Artemisia rolled his eyes and dug out his coin purse. “You can go anywhere on the first floor,” he said when they arrived back at his house, “but don’t go upstairs.” Mercy’s eyes narrowed. One of the bags on her back swung around and dinged the doorway. “Why not? What’s upstairs?” “Nothing.” “What are you hiding up there?” “I said nothing.” “Are you in cahoots with Canterlot or something? Got any radios up there?” “It’s a sex thing,” he blurted. “There’s leather belts and other things. I’d really prefer it if you stayed downstairs.” She studied him for a moment, her eyes piercing like radiation. Then she let out a barking laugh. “Hey, I’m not a prude. What you do in your house should be your own business.” She wrestled herself and the bags through the doorway and plopped down on the couch. “In the future, you can leave that kind of info out. This is a strictly professional relationship, and I’m a traditional mare.” Steam rose off Artemisia's burning cheeks. “Good to know,” he hissed. “Don’t mention it.” Her eyes turned to the kitchen. “Got anything to eat? I’m famished. No seed oils though. Or soy. Or anything shrink-wrapped.” She paused, then forced out a very artificial, “Please.” “Maybe after I show you the chicken coop? That’s the whole reason you’re here.” “What’s the rush? It’s not even noon.” “It’s twelve twenty four. And I want to start making improvements on the coop as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the more my chickens will be in danger.” Mercy glanced out the back window. “That’s your coop back there?” “Yeah.” “Just put concrete around it.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, put concrete around it. Werewolves hate concrete. Their teeth can’t go through it.” For a long time, Artemisia said nothing. Then he turned on a dime and stormed off into the kitchen. “Hey, do your chickens lay eggs?” Mercy called after him. “Maybe you could make us omelets!” A single plant-based granola bar flew from the kitchen and smacked Mercy squarely upside the head. Fully unpacked, Mercy’s four oversized bags filled the entire living room with a dazzling array of utterly incomprehensible gadgets and electronics. One of them popped when she flipped it on and showered Artemisia’s floor with sparks. His carpet didn’t make it out unscathed, but Mercy was undeterred. “Perfect time for a monster hunt,” she said. With her instruments secured, there was nothing more for her to do but wait for the sun to go down. Mercy sunned herself in the yard by the chicken coop, absently throwing a utility knife into the dirt blade-first. Artemisia split his time between the backyard and his upstairs room. His transformation was inevitable, but the waning moon brought a temporary reprieve from the worst of the curse’s symptoms. He would still look like a vicious monster. But for a few blessed nights, he’d have almost complete bodily autonomy and barely any hunger. This was an opportune time to dust hard-to-reach spaces and spruce the house up. Maybe he’d do some dishes. Just when he was starting to worry Mercy would fall asleep on the porch and force him to hide in his bedroom all night, she leapt out of her chair with a flourish and grabbed her toolbag. “I hear it!” she cried. “It’s running around in the Everfree!” “Really?” Artemisia asked, forcing down a smirk. “Really really. I’ve trained my ears to hear frequencies most ponies can’t. Just one of my many surprises.” She winked. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be back by morning.” With that, she galloped off into the night. Artemisia immediately felt a weight slide off his shoulders. He went inside and shut the blinds. After a moment of thought, he unplugged all her machines too. Just in case. The transformation was hell, but in a few short minutes it was over, and Artemisia could attend to the pile of dishes in the sink. With his favorite pink apron tied around his waist and a faint song drifting in from the radio in the other room, it almost felt like everything was fine. But the pastorality couldn’t last, because of course it couldn’t. Just as he was nearing completion on the dishes, a throaty, drawn-out sound caught his large canine ears. A scream? No. A howl. The same howl he himself made in his weaker moments. His ears pivoted. His nose twitched. Maybe it was just his imagination. A second howl split the air, even louder than the first. Artemisia hit the floor and crawled on all fours to the north-facing window. His breath fogged up the glass. He moved to the next pane and covered his mouth. Ten minutes of unbearable silence went by. Artemisia glanced at the door. Then back to the dishes in the sink. His paw went to the string on his apron. He squeezed the fabric between his hooves, feeling the threads of cheap microfiber linen. He didn’t have to go out there. He could finish the dishes. Forget he ever heard it. Nothing good ever came from answering these kinds of questions. But deep down he already knew he couldn’t stay here. He undid the apron and flung it off in one decisive, dramatic motion. He was out the door before it touched the ground. At a dead sprint, he made it to the treeline in just under twenty seconds. His eyes, attuned as they were to darkness, couldn’t see more than a few yards into the forest. Animal sounds filtered through the foliage. Moss and loam covered the smell of rot and rebirth. He paused. For a single wild moment, he felt the familiar animal impulse pulling him deeping into the dark, like hunger pulling him towards his chickens. Then he regained his composure. This was stupid. All he was going to find out here was trouble, especially if one of his neighbors saw him. A basal part of his brain cried, don’t turn around, but he compartmentalized the thought and started back towards his house. He should have listened to his instincts. From behind him, the snap of a branch made him stop dead in his tracks. Something leapt from the shadows and hit him between the shoulderblades, driving him face first into the dirt. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He rolled, flailing wildly. One arm caught his attacker in the jaw. The creature staggered backwards. The moon was new, and the skies were cloudy. If he had pony eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see the attacker. But his eyesight was ten times better than a pony’s. He saw the beast that attacked him in perfect clarity. A second werewolf, this one even larger than him. It snarled at him, gnashing a long row of canine teeth. Artemisia saw it was still dazed from the blow, but its sheer size blocked off his only route of escape through the dense foliage. He had to make a move while it was still off-balance. He charged forward, feigning attack. At the last moment, he leapt over the monster. It lunged forwards to meet him, jaws extended, clawed paws reaching for flesh. But it was a hair too slow. The jaws snapped shut a few inches short of his neck. Its paw caught Artemisia on the ribs, but it was a glancing blow. Artemisia hit the ground running and melted into the Everfree forest. There were a few facts Artemisia could infer from his meeting with the monster. It was stronger than him. Smarter than him, at least when it came to stalking. And its senses were just as heightened as his. That’s why, in order to cover his scent trail, he submerged himself in a puddle beneath a fallen tree and covered himself in mud. At dawn, he stole away, taking a circular route back to his house through one of the forest’s less-traveled paths. He returned to find that, mercifully, Mercy was still away on her fruitless hunt. He wondered if she’d seen the beast that attacked him. The thought sent a chill up his spine. A second werewolf. Was it another cursed pony like him? Or was it one of the originals, an eldritch beast with no birthday and no natural mortality who had sniffed him out and deemed him unworthy? He took his time spraying himself down with the garden hose. The contrast of cold water and warm sun shocked him back to life. He remembered the pile of dishes waiting for him in the sink, and he decided another round with the hose was in order. By the time he finally deemed himself clean and made it back into the house, it was almost nine AM. He’d been out all night. Good thing he didn’t need to sleep. Mercy returned half an hour later, her mane plastered against her neck. She took three steps inside, noticed the mud all over her hooves, and let out a tired laugh. “I’ll clean that up. Do you have a hose?” Artemisia nodded outside. “Did you find anything?” “No. Got a lot of great data though.” “Oh?” He turned away so she couldn’t see the nervousness in his eyes. “Incredible finds. Got half a dozen howls, some solid tracks, and this.” She held up a plastic bag with a muddy tuft of fur inside. Artemisia took a closer look and let out a silent sigh of relief. It was dog fur from a neighbor’s collie. “Congrats. Let me know what I owe you, and you can pack up your machines.” “What I–what?” Mercy’s face fell. “Why would I pack up my machines? We know where it lives.” “We know it’s somewhere in a giant impenetrable forest. And if your consultation fee is a hundred and fifty an hour, there’s no way I can afford multiple hunts. So, make a list and let me know what I owe you. I’m guessing you want it in bits.” “Gold is best, actually,” she said, very voice distant. “But wait–we can’t just give up. Not when we’re hot on the trail. This could be the biggest cryptid find of the decade! It’ll be incredible for business.” “Did you hear the part where I can’t afford your business?” Mercy froze, her lips pursed together in a thin pale line. Her eyes shimmered, all fire and frailty. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me use your house as my base of operations until the end of the next full moon. If I bring back its hide, you pay me what you can. If I bring back anything less, don’t pay me anything.” “I’ve already made up my mind.” “You think this monster will stop with your chickens? Once it eats those, it’ll go after pets. It’ll hit Fluttershy’s sanctuary. The Ponyville vet. The dog adoption center. Foals.” Artemisia’s voice rose. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You’d be doing a whole community a big favor if you helped me kill this thing.” Mercy took a step closer. The air between them was ready to combust. “Why don’t you want to help?” That stare again. He swore she could see right through all his careful disguises. That look screamed, I know. She was wrong about so many stupid conspiracies, but as Artemisia returned the stare he reminded himself that her suspicions were not entirely unfounded. Not here, anyway. “Whatever I give you won’t be as much as you want,” he finally said. “I make my money from magazine interviews and podcasts. Whatever you can give is enough.” Artemisia sighed. The fire subsided. The air between them cooled. He had to maintain his cover at all costs. Even if it meant letting Mercy snoop around. Let her. He was good at hiding who he was. He’d been doing it for so long it came naturally. And on the off chance she figured it out and collected her bounty of hide, then he wouldn’t have to worry about paying her. He cleared his throat to speak, but the deep gruffness of his voice shocked him into silence. He nodded, then went back to scrubbing dishes. The apron clung to his wounded side, soaking up blood. Out the corner of his eye, he watched as she unraveled the hose. Her hoof sunk into the damp patch where he’d cleaned himself off not too long ago. She squatted down and touched a clod of black Everfree mud clinging to the grass. Her eyes narrowed.