Fokienia was a medical mare, and she knew how to self-medicate. She was trained for it: in any kind of conflict zone, she would be the foremost pony to call upon for medicinal applications. That was by design. Like a lot of what she’d been educated in, she’d learned to get used to the more ‘advantageous’ qualities that ponies saw, and installed in her. Though, her work with potent chemicals and a hypospray was something she greatly preferred. Plus, how could you extract information from a target if they weren’t conscious, and alive?
Well, there were ways around that. She just preferred not to opt for the gritty solutions, at least until she’d exhausted all her other options. Success was above all, even if it demanded sub-optimal self-sacrifice.
“Shouldn’t we go tell the mare up front about this?”
Cold was stood at the counter. The ‘pharmacist’ was slumped over in a chair next to him, his eyes hazy. Every so often he started to move one of his legs, but Cold gently eased it back down each time.
“No.” She sniffed, then navigated away from the shelves of narcotics and chemicals. She stopped in front of the backroom door. “Because his current state is self-induced.”
“Self-induced?”
She slightly pried open the door, then shut it. Her muzzle scrunched. Was this pony trained at all? “He either made a mistake, or he intended on his current state.” She thought about it… for about a second. “It’s almost certainly the former.”
“So… he did drugs?”
She snorted slightly. “No, he was dealing with the wrong components in the wrong way.” Making her way back over to the shelves, she began pilfering through them at her own pace. “He’s experiencing psychosis. And maybe some delirium, but that’s more difficult to… nail down.”
“I’m not… crazy,” the pharmacist muttered. He raised a quaky foreleg.
Cold pushed it down, and frowned. “He seemed fine, until he started babbling.”
“I suspect that he was working with some degree of stimulants, so it’s likely that it took some time for the effects to work their way into his systems. I can smell some of the residue from that room back there. It’s clearly where they keep their synthesis equipment.” She shook her head, and continued her search for a remedy. “It was extremely dangerous for him to work in that environment without protective gear, especially if any of the components were contained as an aerosol.”
“It sounds like it’s a good thing that you’re here.”
“…Yes, he’s very ‘lucky’.” For now.
Making a mental list of some of the items she’d seen, Fokienia returned to Cold and the pharmacist. She twisted the seal off of the bottle she’d obtained. She popped the cap off of a disposable syringe, and plunged it into the gap. Her augmented hooves didn’t have the best grip for the small, fragile tool—it took her a few tries to get a good hold—but she was still precise with it.
She eyed the pharmacist, then stood, syringe in hoof. “Keep him still. I’m going for a muscle.”
Cold nodded, and held the quiet, dopey-eyed pharmacist with his cloven hooves. “That’s going to help him, right?”
“It’s a neuroleptic. Antipsychotic.”
An invisible weight lifted from Cold’s shoulders; he squared up, and gave Fokienia a clean opportunity.
The injection was swift, and easy.
Tossing the syringe to a trash can close by, she gave the pony a closer look. He was a lanky little thing, and hidden below his plastic coat were a pair of scraggly wings. Fokienia had to give him a great deal of doubt: was he really a licensed medical officer? Still, an ID was hung around his neck by a lanyard, and it held a clean headshot of the pegasus in question. Whether or not he was licensed, he was a medical officer charged with a major role in this facility. The pegasus was still young, nervous, and maybe a bit high on his own supply. For the few moments he’d been standing, he hadn’t appeared as the most untoward sort, just out of place.
She checked his eyes. There was some dilation, but not much. He was definitely out of it. “How do you feel?”
The stallion mumbled nothings, and breathed.
Fokienia straightened out. “No adverse reaction. It’ll be a bit longer.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“That room needs to be purged. I’m going to go do just that.”
Cold blinked. “And what about him?”
“As I said, he’ll… be fine.” She gave the pegasus a look. “Unless he doesn’t start improving, then he’ll need an expert.” Her eyes turned upward. “Who shouldn’t be difficult to locate, seeing as how there are three other ponies on the second floor.” She went back to Cold. “And we’re in a medical facility.”
Evidently conflicted, the kirin released the staring contest through a sigh. “Just make it quick, please?”
“That’s the plan.”
A quick search of some of the cabinets sourced a few spare rebreathers—which she was glad to use over a makeshift rag-filter—and she fit the respirator over her muzzle easily enough. With a few quick steps, Fokienia stepped into the production chamber behind the pharmacy counter.
The odorless scent present in the room would’ve gone unnoticed by most ponies, but Fokienia had a good chunk of experience in navigating this very hazard. It was faint, but not faint enough to avoid tickling her senses. The boringly average, non-pneumatic metal door that led into the room was lined with baffles that restricted the free-flow of gases. It didn’t mean much, because the room wasn’t a properly sealed chamber, but most advanced synthesis equipment regulated cleaning protocols on their own. Sure enough, several self-contained pieces of production equipment were set up around the miniaturized laboratory. Electrical and mechanical faults weren’t the cause for the current unseen disaster in the room however: an inactive exhaust hood and raised shield sat above a set of distillation equipment. Raising a brow, she strode over to the tool set.
Whatever the pegasus had been developing, it certainly would’ve paid to be more careful.
A flipped switch brought the hood on. Fokienia set about examining and identifying what components were laid out. There was enough there to produce a number of dangerous combinations, but in experimental amounts. Certainly enough to be covered by the now-roaring fume hood. Picking up a few bottles in hoof, she racked her mind for any applicable chemistry. She was surprised to come up empty: despite the portents established by the variety of dangerous chemical mixtures, anything resembling a stimulative substance was missing. There were a few signs of the pharmacist’s rush—some of the components had been scattered and knocked about ever-so slightly—and she tracked the trail back to a disposal unit. Pulling the lever action, the chute opened to reveal a still-idle disposal system; it hadn’t sent its cargo away.
Behind her mask, her lips curled back. In the dark abyss, sloshing, colorless liquids bobbed about. The full tube rack of vials stared at her. The disposal pipes groaned below. Her hoof tapped against the lever, but it did not yield.
Reaching down, she plucked the rack from the bottom of the disposal, and trot on three legs to the work area. The aluminum rack clattered against the metal sheet, and rumbled as her weighty forelegs swept the rest of the chemicals away. She lowered the acrylic shielding for the enclosure, almost closing it. Snaking her hooves under, she unstoppered one of the vials. She rose it up toward the vent, and watched it. In the light, it glittered. But there was no chemical reaction.
Plugging the vial, Fokienia set it back with the rest. She left the fume hood running. Her hooves led her out of the room, and back to the front of the pharmacy. She unstrapped the muzzle from her face—just barely stopping herself from ripping it clean off—and cast it aside haphazardly. The plastic respirator tumbled to a remote space on the floor.
The pegasus, still in the chair, was just beginning to sit up when she spoke, her voice low. “What were you doing?”
“Huh…?” His words were a murky slurry. “You shouldn’t be back… here.”
Her eyes bored a hollow into the disoriented pegasus. “Cold, close the shutters. Switch behind you.”
The kirin spun. He searched with a blind hoof raised, before finally flicking the switch. The shutters to the pharmacy’s shopfront rumbled as they sank down. Cold gave Fokienia a worried brow. She just nodded her thanks.
“Look… I’m just trying… trying to do a job, okay?”
Fokienia trot closer to the pegasus. She towered over the lanky amateur. “What job?”
“Working for… money.”
The servos in her hoof wound as she moved. Suddenly, her hoof was pressing into the exposed breast of the pegasus. He wheezed.
“Hey!” Cold hissed. “What are you doing?”
She ignored him; it was easy to set a limit for herself. “From who?”
“Anypony, buying!” He was starting to wake up a little, but her wandering hoof was eager to redeem more attention. She pressed her metal hoof deeper, and closer to his neck. His eyes widened. “I-I’m not… I’m not hurting anypony!”
“How did you learn to produce it?”
“Produce what?” he squeaked.
She snorted. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The solution you exposed yourself to.”
His breathing hitched. “Oh, mare… you’re… you’re Concord?”
Her eyes traced along his frozen features. She let her hoof off a little. “Yes… Concord… Special Operations. It’s in your best interests to answer honestly. Cooperate.”
“I-I am, I am. I’m sorry I—”
She shoved her hoof against him. “Talk.”
“Everypony knows about it, but they don’t know it like I do!” He gasped for breath. She let off him, and he instantly rose a hoof to the base of his throat, holding defensively. “Everypony else is just some street peddler. I’m making the good stuff. No addictions, no hurting ponies, I swear!”
“What is it?” Cold broached calmly.
Fokienia opened her mouth to interrupt, only to end up shaking her head. She gestured with a hoof. “Answer him.”
The pegasus made to look over his withers, but couldn’t bring himself away from Fokienia’s glittering yellow-blue eyes. “H-Hyperplasma. It’s a blood additive. Does everything it can to enhance a pony’s blood. A lot of benefits! B-but there’s also a lot of psychoactive ingredients, which you can root out if you optimize the process, which I do!” The tiniest of smiles touched his lips.
“No.” Fokienia stomped, and her steel hooves rattled the room; glass containers and walls shook. “You’re purposefully leaving it in an incomplete form. You know it has other uses.”
His eyes widened. “No, I wouldn’t—!”
“But I know.”
The pony froze up again, but this time, he looked at her not with fear, but something else. His lower lip trembled. “No way. You’re actually…” His face wound up, and he started to right himself. His gaze fell to her hooves. “How are you…?”
Her metal foreleg whizzed, and cracked out against him. His head slid along the blow, and he fell limp.
Cold gasped. He stumbled over to check on the pegasus. “Fokienia! I… did you just…?”
“He’ll be fine,” she muttered. She stepped away, back toward the shelves. “Hurting, but fine.”
Cold’s anxious hooves teetered by the unconscious pegasus, but they eventually followed after her. “That was… awful. Why did you do that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she fired back. “He’s not a source. Just another branch.” She made her way over to the back of the pharmacy’s stocks.
“A branch of what? A drug trade?”
“No, a war trade.” Her hoof rummaged around, and Cold came close to her. “Grab the scanner from my bag and check it.”
“Okay…” She felt the flap open, and the contents shift. A click. “…It’s… there’s one blip. In the center.”
“Ignore it. Monitor for everything else.”
Cold’s hooves shuffled. “…A war trade?”
“Hyperplasma isn’t just an enhancement of a pony’s blood. It’s a direct upgrade. And in the right circumstances and measures, a replacement for natural plasma.”
“The same plasma in a pony’s blood?”
“Yes.” She plucked off some of the stimulants and chemicals from the shelf, and moved to the next. She’d have to deal with the actual resupply once they’d left this place behind.
“But if it’s just plasma, how can it be so dangerous? How could it cause… that pony, to go off?”
“It’s not just plasma, it’s the blood of war. A pony with hyperplasma can operate at extended lengths in spite of severe physical harm. Penetrating trauma, grievous bodily damage, destruction of the nervous system. It’s a result of both its effects on the pony’s natural blood pressure, clotting, and immunity, but also their neural inhibitors and senses. Its effects are both mentally, and physically concentrated. A constant flow of signals guiding the brain to a higher consciousness, while numbing secondary functions. A combat stimulant by design.”
Cold gave the body at the front another check. “But his version clearly didn’t work.”
“It did. He simply turned it against himself. An impure distillation like the one he created carries enough potency to pose a threat as an inhalant, but its mental effects can be mitigated and manipulated. A stimulant in one form, and a mental paralytic the next. In either case, it’s functionally a silent weapon.”
His jaw worked hard for a second. “So, the ponies buying it would be criminals, and not… ponies seeking a high? Ponies looking for a uh, tactical advantage?”
Fokienia nodded. “Anypony with the knowledge of the solution’s formulae possesses classified information. From what I have learned of Concord thus far, they appear to be a kind of peacekeeping force. The simplest assumption is that it is as illicit as it is classified. It would be in the vein of their critical interests to suppress the spread of it. And it is to my interests as well.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s unnatural, and dangerous. In the wrong pony, it could devastate their natural processes. It’s too chaotic for a harmonic world.” She suppressed the wince that rode along the backs of her words. “I would still like to pay for these supplies, if possible.
“Okay, I guess I could… wait, where are you going?”
She looked back at Cold. “Purging his solutions, and creating my own.”
“I’d imagine that hurt, didn’t it?”
The pegasus didn’t reply. It was hard to when you were trapped in a dreamless world.
Cold cast his gaze toward the back room of the pharmacy. Fokienia had just disappeared into it again, and he wasn’t sure just how long it would take. In the mean time, he idled in a corner of the pharmacy, eyes constantly switching between the still pegasus, and the door leading back into the hallway. The counter shutters were still folded shut. He wondered what the staff of the clinic would think about the quiet takeover happening in the back of their facility. He was surprised nopony had come to check yet.
He checked the ‘scanner’ Fokienia had ordered him to monitor. The lone blip in the center had moved a short way, but turning his hooves on the spot pointed it in the direction of Fokienia. The device was certainly attuned to her, but with every moment the blip stood alone, his anxiety grew: where were her pursuers? She’d also said there were… three ponies? It was possible the clinic staff were in the middle of calling for Concord, or contacting the pursuers themselves. Cold shuffled again; he needed to break away from all of this. He left the scanner on the nearby counter. Stepping over to the pegasus, he sat down, and pulled his PDA from his jacket with a slow draw of his magic.
Sliding a hoof across the screen, Cold manually tapped away his commands. A thrumming, vibrant beat replaced the buzz in his ear. The serenade of a symphonic choir, and a rumbling guitar. The brush of each recorded hooves against bass strings, and the shaking of close cymbals and drums. His own free foreleg tapped against the floor, and he smiled. Closing his eyes, he pocketed the PDA again, and let his magic twinkle out. The tune started to drive him away from the pharmacy. He went with it; his voice reached out.
“I believe the morning sun… always gonna shine again. And…”
He fell back into humming, his head joining his hoof in bobbing to the beat.
In his mind, he conjured a scene. Despite the darkness surrounding the edges of the sparsely lit space, it was enough to display the fixings of a homely room: faux-wooden accents, and soft polymer furniture. Nothing was real, but it was real enough for the souls in the room. Sat at the room’s dining table for two, Cold focused on the pegasus across from him. She was gorgeous; her mane was done up in another new style, and a dim blush splashed across her cheeks, the result of a prior compliment spit from betwixt Cold’s lips. A laugh reached up out of his gut, and he set his hoof on the table against her own. The bottle of cognac was forgotten; the touch filled the gap between them. Her icy, sapphire-blue eyes glowed brilliantly. A giggle touched the air. She bat at his hoof, and leaned away.
Cold wanted to press more than a hoof against her, but Holly was always just too far. Smiling, he simply tapped the table. “I believe in skies forever blue…”
Behind her, a shadow crept.
Cold reeled back, and tried to stand, but he couldn’t. Frozen, the only reaction that escaped him was a worried croak. Holly turned, and met the bright yellow gaze of the shadow. Holly squeaked, and—
She laughed.
A hefty breath left him as the black jumpsuit of Fokienia left the shadows. She stood to the side of Holly, her stoic stare cracking into an energetic beam. Cold fell limp: his withers slumped into the sides of his chair.
“Why shouldn’t I believe the same in you?”
The large earth pony sat at one side of the table, close to Holly’s side, but she didn’t interfere with Cold’s vision of her. He would have found it awkward, were it not for how out of the way she made herself appear. As he dove back into sharing his time with Holly, he invited Fokienia to speak up. With permission granted, the mare jumped in every now and then, eager to add to all parts of their conversations. There was no violence, or abrupt, disrupting outbursts. It was an entirely natural flow: Fokienia was along the same current as them, even though she was still the shadow of life she’d entered the room as.
“I believe in second chances, and that’s why I believe in you.”
He wasn’t a Ponyanna, but he could always do better.
Cold sat up, and before opening them completely, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his fetlock. Grumbling, he clicked his earpiece off—maybe music wasn’t what he needed right now—and checked around him.
The pegasus was still there, and still out. Quietly, Cold prayed that Fokienia hadn’t hit him that hard. Cold tugged out his PDA with a good old grip of telekinesis, and trot over to the counter. There was bound to be a payment processor somewhere around here, and he could use the work to distract him…
With a chair pulled up to the shuttered counter, Cold settled into the monotony of his work. He gave sparing glances to the paperback dockets piled neatly in a stack nearby. From there, working out the clinic’s info and the way they authorized payment was an easy, if boring affair. The process was a little backwards, but it wasn’t all too different from subverting somepony’s salvage rights—something that he’d dealt with all too often. It came with the territory of operating with sleazy shipbreakers, ponies who’d squeeze you bit-by-bit. Cold was certainly no stranger to paperwork, even though he usually stayed digital.
Tapping across the screen of his PDA with his tactile magic, the rush of air and clink of glass in the room behind him fell away. Soon enough, the scene of the pharmacy, too, dissipated, but no illusion replaced it. There was no power-nap waiting for him on the other side of the device in his grasp, just a pile of traces to lead to his financial records, at the clinic’s behest of course… and station authorities, if the proper leverage was applied. It didn’t bother Cold too much. He could rack up fines all day; even the worst crimes in space could be paid for. It was just the way the pony jurisdiction operated: you could evade the law easily in space, but everypony had to return to port at some point. It all came down to whether or not you wanted to get reduced to shredded hay when you came back.
In reality, ponies saved the real punishments for those who couldn’t afford to be in space. Independent spacers like Cold were few and far between, and the Crown—and by extension, Concord—preferred to let bygones-be-bygones, so long as it meant you got back to work. The bottom line? If the law was after you… you were the bottom line.
And right now, Cold was treading that line like fiberglass.
Sighing, he shook the thought of the Waste Peddler from his head. He’d already checked it twice while working out the invoice for the clinic’s pharmacy. An investigation had already been launched, but there was no fine with his name on it. On any other day, that would’ve been a good sign. But on any other day, he would’ve been in-transit, not on-station—station law overrode quadrant accords. Still, as it stood, he was in the clear. The only thing that bothered him was the fact that nopony had made any attempts to notify him of the situation: an automated station alert didn’t bring peace of mind, only a taste of the coming storm.
“Spirits, help me,” he groaned. He tucked the PDA back away in his jacket and leaned into the counter. He needed to stop… thinking. “On-station liberty is supposed to be relaxing…”
Metal screeched as a door was kicked in.
“Cold, scanner. NOW.”
He didn’t look back. He fumbled for the device on the counter, before getting the better mind to drape it in his magic. Flicking it back on—
Fokienia’s hooves finally reached him, and she wrenched it out of his magic with her hoof. Cradled in her foreleg, they both had a clear view. On screen, two white blips blinked, one was at the center, and the other…
“Smart.” She shoved the device into his breast. “But stupid. That’s what gave them away in the first place.”
Awkwardly clutching the implant scanner, Cold got up. “What are you talking about?”
“They increased their unit size. They’re not switching strategies, they’re doubling down...” She picked up the rebreather she’d thrown away earlier, and inspected it. “Come here.” Before he’d even made it halfway across the room, Fokienia had saddled up to Cold, and stowed the scanner back in her bag. She held the orange rebreather out to him. “Put this on.”
He didn’t dare to question her. While fitting it with his magic, Fokienia went down on her haunches near the synthesis room’s door. He dimly noted the hole where the handle should’ve been, and the pulverized metal bits across the floor. When he stood again, Fokienia was back, with another respirator strapped to her own muzzle. He blinked. “What now?”
Her reply was just as muffled as his. “Take the disablers out.”
Both of the remaining the disablers floated out of her bag, and she grabbed the grip of one with her hoof. While Cold levitated the remaining one, she settled it into a loop on the front of her jumpsuit. It wasn’t exactly a perfect fit, but Cold had a feeling it wouldn’t be staying there for long.
He kept the disabler pointed up at the ceiling. “Did you finish what you were doing?”
“Yes. And now, we need to go.” Her eyes went upward. “Come on, don’t blow through the roof…” She paused. And then… she laughed. “I knew it, same old tricks.”
Before he could form some hacked-together answer, he followed her gaze. It turned out, he didn’t need to look through walls like she did. From a ceiling vent, a cloudy mist of white began dribbling its way into the room. It was perfectly silent.
“Hm. And they’re sticking to a non-lethal response.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Fokienia tilted her head at him. Her ears fell back. “Cold, I’m sorry about all of this.”
Cold interrupted her with a raised hoof. “Fokienia.” Behind the full muzzle covering, his lips twitched into a grin. “We’ll talk soon, okay? You’re going to get me through this. You’ll get us through this. Don’t let me get in the way of your work.”
Even behind her mask, he could see the grateful smile in response. “You can help me. So, listen very carefully…”
“Well?”
An electronic hum.
“She’s not moving.”
Scratches. Heavy hoofsteps.
“Nopony brought the new scanner?”
“Eggheads wouldn’t let it up.”
“Comms.”
Hydraulic fluid dripping from an upper frame. Hissing pipes. A click.
“Making entry.”
A settling, opaque mist. A hammering thud. Then, silence. Several sets of heavy hoofsteps.
“TOC, we’ve got a civilian. Forced compliance confirmed.”
“Roger. Keep us updated.”
“Affirm. Clearing.”
Hoofsteps. Rubber shifting.
“Stupid…”
Two pats, and a grunt.
“What’s your issue?”
“Mask is slipping. It’s… not fitting.”
“Maybe you ‘oughta lose the weight, big guy.”
Low chuckles.
“Comms!”
Silence. Staggered steps.
“It’s just the agent, boss. Why the anxiety?”
“Shut it, guys. Remember the briefing.”
“Last I heard bat, you all got your rumps served straight to ya.”
“For once, CCI’s right—can it, tribalist.”
Telescoped metal.
“Last time I’m saying it. Comms. I will shove this where the sun don’t shine.”
“Entry team, what’s your status?”
Hoofsteps. A sigh, and click.
“TOC, entrance clear. Open hall. Proceeding.”
In the mist, a waving hoof. Slow steps. A cough.
“C1, are you compromised, or not?”
“I’m fine, it’s just this stupid… shoddy…”
“Sweet Celestia… just return to rearguard.”
A pause. A metal pin. Air. Three bounces. A constant hiss.
“Status on the target?”
“End of the hall. One o’clock.”
Hoofsteps. A sudden halt.
“Specialist. Put a charge on that door.”
“You sure? She’d be right on the other side.”
“You don’t get paid to question orders, do you? She’s a tough filly. Full-payload, now.”
Shifting weight. Light hoofsteps. Grunting. Metal clicking. An electronic conversation. A red light. Hooves shuffling, backwards.
“Go.”
Click. Silence.
“It’s a dud, specialist.”
“What?” Tapping. “Charge is responding, and it’s not the clacker…”
“Go re-arm it, then.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Now.”
A moment of silence. Then, hurried hoofsteps.
“…Wait, I hear magic—”
Metal shutters. Blue light. A meaty thwump.
“CONTACT!”
From the mist, beams of blue light roared by. More soared back. A stray blast resulted in a grunt, and a stumbling fall.
“TOC, Gold-Four is down, Gold-Two hit.”
“Moon’s sake! How does she have that angle?”
“Ain’t her! Target is unmoved!”
“C1, on me.” A radio was wrenched from a vest. “Red lead, we need a flank on the lower stairwell ASAP.”
“Copy. Hang tight.”
“Who’s shooting? Civi?”
“It’s gotta be that kirin captain!”
“Kirin? No way, kirins don’t fight!”
“This one does. Only kind of pony crazy enough to work with her, too. TOC, suspect-k is confirmed for affiliation.”
C1 reclaimed his radio, and fell back. “Step aside, bat.” He held his breath. Amid the blinding lights and screaming triggers, his noise spoke above the rest. He exhaled: a blue beam roared from his long-arm. It met the other side of the mist with a mighty crack. The only bolts that soared now were that of the ponies beside him. “Target’s… down,” he coughed.
“Nice shot, C1. Alright, fall in.”
“We’re not gonna wait for red team?”
“Scanner?”
“Target’s still in place, boss.”
“We’re going. Stack up.”
C1 lagged at the rear, sucking in a breath through his filter. He let his long-arm fall with its sling against his side, opting to use his wing to push at his ill-fitted gas mask.
“Somepony pull Gold-Four back. And grab the clacker. TOC, we’re gonna need EMT.”
“You’re still gonna blow it?!”
“You… fine, I’ll do it myself!” He roughly holstered his levitated disabler pistol, and stomped ahead. “You useless, blabber-mouthed—”
A vicious bang sucked the oxygen from the corridor, leaving a maleficent vortex of orange and red swirling in the midst of the hall. C1 shielded his gaze from the fiery crescendo, barely managing to stay standing… until the bat pony in front of him stumbled and fell against him. He heard air rush in, and he gasped involuntarily. He sidestepped, letting the unconscious bat fall limp to the ground. He held the wing tighter to his mask. His breathing quickened, fogging up the green lenses.
“Oh… oh sweet Celestia! TOC, squad lead is out. I repeat, SL is—”
The pleading cry of his comrade disappeared into the mist with one fell shot of blue.
C1 dropped the mask completely. He couldn’t see, and he was already compromised. “F-FOKIENIA!” he gagged out. He leaned against the wall with a hoof and stood, raising his long-arm back up with a wing. “SHOW YOURSELF!”
He saw a shadow in the mist, and he fired. Twice, thrice. With his teary eyes, he couldn’t tell what was a hit. He fired. And fired. Gasping, he finally gave way, and slumped over, his disabler clattering harshly against the wall. Blinking hard, he managed to squint through the tears. A black form stepped over the bodies of his squad. A pony his size. Above an orange muzzle, two yellow eyes pierced him.
“Y-you… why?”
The orange muzzle tilted. “I wanted to be free.”
His augmented lungs fought hard to process the air. Everypony else had gone to a clean sleep within moments of their mask breaching. Stubbornly, he fought to breath, hoping his scrubbers would somehow clear the mist away from him. Long enough to… to…
Fokienia held her hoof down on his. But… gently.
“Did we get them all?” came the nervous question of a stallion behind Fokienia.
“You almost got them all.”
“Almost?”
C1 met the eyes of the strange blue stallion as he rounded around Fokienia. He had a red horn, but no unicorn horn. His horn was… curled. Misshapen. Biologically engineered in a way like no other horn he’d ever seen. In his magic, he levitated a disabler pistol. Slowly, it came to rest in a loop on the front of Fokienia’s jumpsuit.
The strange stallion looked at him, and… winced. His voice was muffled, but his emotions bled through. “I’m sorry… Sequoia.”
Sequoia’s lung scrubbers gave way, and he closed his eyes. He took one full breath, easy, and unchoked. The mist crept in: odorless, and commanding. He let it fill him.
And he slept.