All focus is on the visitor's bag left open on the interrogating table.
Lie detector tests, blood samples, and facial recognition programs showered the poor creature, but no falsity was found.
Weapons were confiscated upon entry into the crossing station, ammunition the border guards must've only been lightly familiar with. The hippogriffs were proud creatures, but under some self-proclaimed "technocratic-revanchist regime," it sought for efficient ways to maim beyond the fracturing of one’s will to live. That "outdated" pistol outclasses its counterparts others see on the belts and buckles of the ponies at the threshold of the Southern Territories, north of which lay civilization, though of the stuffy, criminal Klugetown kind.
It's cramped in the office of the station's commander. Outside, storms flooded the windows with a destructive dance of droplets to the crack of infantile lightning. The boat on which the traveler went to the weather station-border hub has vanished, not that it can move through mountains.
The earth pony commander himself, a burly specimen with a beret, Eye Wall, takes up a computer and plays the records of the visitor’s entrance into the border crossing. He closes the visitor's bag while the footage repeats. "Should've expected someone like you to be more talkative. Tell me, bribing us with this thing? You do know the statement you are making with trying to push this past customs, don’t you?"
"It's not a bribe, but something that needs to be said. It's not a threat to you. I can broadcast the fallout to the world, if you'd like."
Eye Wall sighs as he unzips the bag once more, keeping it hidden from its owner. "It's much to sift through, just to see if they're the real article. The Arisian League and what came after… those sea-birds with a chip on their withers, bombing the yetis 'cause of a king who's been dead for decades… you're too thorough, too bold coming in like this, to be one of their double agents."
The visitor nods, letting the commander scour through the bag's contents in a sober stupor.
The lack of rain deafens Cauliflower against the four confines of her prison cell. She tried beating her clawprint-locked cuffs against the door, but the guards left welling scars on her cheeks, beat her with the butt of their humming guns. It’s the same hum that lines the corners of her walls, of neon tubes that lulled the earth pony to sleep.
Bandits, masked and all they are, though it’s in sleek metal clothes, with face-censoring visors, save for the beaks protruding out of their glass heads. They pinned her to the ground, forced her to eat dirt singed by lasers "to get a taste of the local cooking," shoved her into the back of a warehouse, stripped her clean from all protection and devices, rolled her into her cell.
The lingo flies over her head, whether spoken calmly or through muffled screams, but the terms sound military enough. A retreat, with how desperate they are in asking for back-up. When all is silent, the hum alone shrouds her again. It is at least cold in here, if barren.
Tinny steps grace her ears. Pressurized air hisses out from the room beside her. Scurried steps, probably hoofsteps, preclude the shouts of someone brand new. The door slides open to let a beak enter her vision. Clad in nothing but local Arisian clothes, though they don’t do a good job hiding the square bulges of armor underneath, her griffon savior points a metal tube at her. A duffle bag and a keycard is in the another claw.
"Your name?" he asks.
His face conjures up documents and briefings back home, back with her ragtag team (if it can even be called a team) of researchers and online reporters. The information about him oozes something ruthless. There’ve been others like him in his line of work, but he’s their star, the poster child, the name her contacts despise with good reason.
"You’re… Gerwin, are you?" she asks, her courage all steeled up. "The Redactor?"
"Old nickname, miss, but yes. Come with me." He beckons with his claw which is tight on what is a gun but not one she can put her hoof on mentally. His wings spread out to throw a bag at her. "Your belongings. Your wrist screen's in there; must be hot stuff. The rest of your friends are out in the foyer. Head up north until you reach the Sea of Clouds’ Demilitarized Region. Some border guards are corrupt, but that’s where bribes come in. Come on, miss, don’t look at me like that." He snaps his claws, and she wakes up more in the head. "You want to live or not? I won’t be alone in a minute."
Her hoof' grabbed, she stumbles against her legs over a dozen wires and tiles polished to a fault. More tubes and neon lights daze her, afterimages assaulting her foggy state.
"Where are we?" she asks, but the warble of a noisy crowd is shot into her ears as she’s shoved into the mass of sweaty and desperate creatures, hooves and claws and coats giving her warmth as the lights blind everything else from view.
They give Gerwin a sharp, eternal shadow. "Down the watchtower you all go! You’re not safe here! Back-up's on the way, and they're not for you! Head up north, get to the border!"
The clank of a lever is pulled, and the weight beneath her vanishes, to the nightmarish pumping of her veins.
The fall was great, though some "levitation field" cushioned the impact, from what the others are saying in the confusion of landing. The swarm of ex-prisoners flee on a sluggish stampede, leaving Cauliflower coughing, breathing dirt and dust, bruised but not battered. Stairs under a spotlight catch her eyes, blotting out the sky. She will not leave her target be, even if the watchtower does indeed rival the Manehattan skyscrapers in height.
Hurled insults and jeers from her escapees, she weathers, barely making out the rest of the staired hallway in a weird stack of cubes and pyramids and beeping static yet not-so-static pages stuck on the walls. Monitors vomit out text and code she doesn't understand, and she smells smoke, fire, electronics burning and malfunctioning, alarm bells ringing without a clear end.
"Hey!"
She skids, tries to stop; she bumps into his beak. The voice is Gerwin's, and his rough demeanor asserts itself when he rubs his cracked beak with one claw, keeps her at gunpoint with the other. Her heart pounds like an erratic drummer. He can shoot her dead now, sure, but that claw—something primal awakens, whispering about prey being backed in a corner against a predator at his peak.
To resist the urge to scream then run then get shot, she widens her vision. A little suitcase lies behind him, already open. Numbers on small monitors flash beside a pair of crystals that are definitely magic; runes and spells are etched into its metal innards.
"What is that?!" Cauliflower yells to buy time.
"Ultra-explosive." The gun stays aimed at her, but he walks backwards to pat the briefcase there. A sense of pride, something she can relate to, hopefully. "Crystals harvested right here. They contain polar opposite magics, triggered by signals like radio. All it takes is those crystals to slam against each other, then you have a violent chain reaction worth a dozen kilotons."
He presses a switch on the gun. It winds up, thrums red-hot; the chamber spins as if about to run her over. "Why are you still here? Do you have friends I should know about?" Gray eyes bore into her, scooping the fear out of her chest.
She digs into her bag, on reflex, to pull out laminated IDs. "Cauliflower Shrew, reporter from EQNX. I'm here to cover the ongoing Arisian Civil War."
"Unprepared," he judges. "Your pistol makes it clear you're from Equestria. They're way behind. I don't care. Griffonstone, the zebras, ponies like you—they all want to jump in and get what we have. Particle beams, super batteries, modular villages, bombs good enough to serve up whole cities. All that, and they send you in with armor any private here can fry?"
But she just stares back at him, wordless, trying to bore into his eyes as revenge. Tough guys belittled her before, not just because she's been short her whole life. Doesn't help that non-Equestrians call her cutesy because of her non-threatening colors.
But the droning crystal bomb stands out to her ears. Such raw power, contained in a single briefcase, and Gerwin's here smiling like a smug jerk, like it's no big deal. "Call me naive," she begins, back-talking tough, "but I’m here to give the Equestrians and the rest of the world the truth."
The gun stays steady on her. "How would you protect yourself?"
"You scavenge guns, why can't I? You can show me a soldier you’ve killed, can’t you?" she bluffs.
"First time hearing that from a pony reporter." He puts one digit of his claw away from the gun. It hasn't budged from its target. "This place was made for hippogriffs, but I'm sure there’s a spare vest for smaller creatures. Any guns they have won't fit you; can't fit a hoof through a trigger guard."
"Give me duct tape and a screwdriver. I'll live," she replies with a huff. "I’ve seen enough fragmented reports from the former Arisian League that pony refugees here have to improvise."
Another digit moves away from the gun, though the trigger travels a crushing centimeter. "Well-versed. Doesn’t mean you’ve practiced."
She takes a step closer to master the fear of a gun pointed at her head once more. "I've been in smaller conflicts, though I never got captured myself until now. My pistol's served me well in deterring brigands and terrorists."
"Deterrence is worth nothing here." He flips another switch and the gun hums and spins up another gear, its glow casting blood red across the hall.
She asks her heart to stop beating so violently.
"What’s your plan here? If it weren't for me, you'd rot here or get shot for trespassing. Do you expect to walk into the offices of the Romanticist-Royals to interview their queen so easily?"
"Yes," she replies without hesitation, with all the bravery she infuse into her speech.
He aims the gun over her shoulder for a split-second. "You're honest, at least. The Royals aren't so merciful. You're a reporter; they'll shoot you on sight."
"Not without security, security that you can provide."
"I’d have to account for you. Why would I accept carrying a burden around?"
She unzips her bag, takes out a couple envelopes from belongings, aware of a phantom muzzle planted against her skull eager to burn her brains out. Though Gerwin swipes the documents fast, she keeps the smile on her face, keeps her body composed.
Meetings about the intricacies of authorizations, of keeping her mouth mum over orders from on high, of all this cajoling about “something needing to be done for the sake of them all!”—everything will pay off, for she has leverage over the murderer, finally.
"Gerwin, I’ve come with an offer from both Equestria and the greater Convocation of Creatures for your services."
A fire lights up rocks and slate nestled deep in an open cavern where virgin stone juts out of a grassy cliff. The flames boil a bubbling stew under Gerwin's sharp eyes, darting between dinner and the entrance. A claw has never been far from his weapon.
But it burns in her head, that mushroom of an explosion, the aftermath its own skyscraper of smoke and fire that took ages to extinguish. So far away from that old watchtower, told to look back and to behold from the speeding truck they stole, destruction on a massive scale, far-reaching to punish her with its warmth, to blow upon the trees and make them sway, plucking a choice few to fly and be ecological angels of death to resident critters and not-so-innocent bystanders.
Some angry crystals in a suitcase. These were all it took to send dust into her eyes from miles away. A crater was born from such a simple cradle.
"All gone," he said back then as they sat—or she sat, while he stood up, watching for intruders with eagle eyes, nigh invisible hovertrucks coming out of the bushes to ram them dead. "Or not. They’ll just get it back in a jiffy. It's what the modular stuff is for. Get a cart in, it unpacks in minutes, defense systems online ASAP."
The ting of a ladle, with a hearty sniff of delicious air, wafts her to their meal. With nimble motions, his claws and wings served the both of them bowls of tomato-mushroom-onion stew. Steam lifts itself from their food beside confidential letters signed and stamped by big-cheese authorities with enough pull to rain down entire armies upon the land.
"Smuggling weapons into the Reconstruction Authority when they make landfall, to weaken the rest of the combatants. When the situation can be contained, I’ll help round up the leaders for an arrest or a mass assassination. A committee by the CC takes control from there. That's what it is. I'll be let go, no charges or trials, as long as I never step paw down here ever again. They'll say I escaped."
"Mm-hmm. All with the throne restored, by the way," she adds. "Which is its own problem since Queen Silverstream never had children, but—"
"It’s fast."
She halts mid-sip. "What?"
Making itself known on his beak is a goofy grin. "Fast way to profit. We've got five sides now. The new client has connections to dozens of countries. A nice exit strategy. I can finally move on to private security."
She rolls her eyes. His cocky expression, the shake of his head, how he drank up half the bowl and wiped it with his naked claw—"You’re all the same, don’t you know that?"
"Maybe," he teases. "You're a journalist. Document one of my transactions. I’m sure the ponies over there would like a shock story."
He taps the gun in his holster, and Cauliflower gulps, only for the soup in her throat to get stuck. She coughs in a violent fit, breathing only deathly soup, tries to keep her eye on the fire-lit Gerwin while tiny pain blinds her.
Could've been shot with her eyes closed.
Snug against a dozen trees, Cauliflower swivels her gaze, performing lookout duty with Gerwin dozing off on a makeshift bed.
The campfire crackles as the night grows old. Faint flickering orange casts itself upon tables and boxes of arranged weapons and equipment. She asked questions, but a wagging claw and a shh! answered her: their newness, their exotic ammunition that aren't bullets but miniaturized batteries or glowing crystals or plain old missiles can equip a small army that can still get the whole world hunting you down to start a world war.
The leaves ruffle.
She shoots up from resting; her adrenaline races. "Who’s there?" Her hyper-aware eye catches no one.
"Lone wolf, huh?"
She whips herself around. Any balaclava-wearing creature who can just sneak by is no slouch, no safe haven.
"Wrong, ma'am," replies Cauliflower, feeling for her gun. "I’m… well-guarded."
"Don’t know what you’re packing. From where I'm standing," continues the intruder—with her squad stepping out of the woodwork, crunching leaves and twigs, hooves wrapped around their rifles—"it's not enough. Heard of a griffon called Gerwin?"
None of the muzzles are aimed at her. Not yet. She pretends to dismiss the danger with a wave. Get tough. "Oh, Gerwin? He's my bodyguard, actually."
"Really?" The lead mare walks close, the business end of her wood-metal rifle coming near. "I’d like to meet him, show him a piece of—"
A click from behind.
Cauli's head smashes onto the dirt, soil and rock crush her, cold steel digs through her mane and into her skin, she can only catch her breath, keep her breathing steady. No sudden movements.
"Heh, good one, Termie!" shouts the ringleader. Her blackened fabric face drops to Cauliflower's level, sideways, her eyes a brilliant white against her disguise. "Now, ma'am, thanks for telling me you're a VIP! 'Bodyguard'! Pah! If you can shoot, you don't need a bodyguard… you can shoot, can’t you, ma'am?"
Mom, Dad—school near Rainbow Falls, but home is so far away. Cauliflower quakes, quivers, praying and putting her hooves together to blind herself. Prayers devolve into silent mumbles, pleading to the gods, to her captors, for mercy. If there's no mercy, she wishes for a fast end with no pain and suffering.
"Get off her."
Gerwin's voice of gravel lights a fire, yanks the cold steel from her head. The click of guns aiming, not firing, rouse her, pinning a groggy Gerwin who yawns against certain doom.
"Ladies," he continues in a smoother tone, "you're new clients, I presume?"
The squad's head spits on the ground. "You're kidding me. You're foalsitting this no-life?"
"So you're new clients."
"New to these parts, not new to this career." She doesn't take her mask off. It's something Cauliflower inspects with trembling when the rifle-wielding honcho faces her down. "You didn't say anything about your mare, though."
"My assistant's a greenhorn. Give her the same mercy I'm giving you." That bright and dangerous hum hits her ears again. "As if I’m going to sell a gun to someone who’s afraid of me and is willing to kill an innocent mare with no remorse. Behave yourselves. Come with me. Get her up."
The rest of the black-clad group obey him, heaving her back to standing and almost to falling again. After regaining balance, Cauliflower follows Gerwin first, trotting by his side. Every other second, he keeps an eye on these roving clients who scan the bushes and trees, likely for traps and camouflaged gunners.
Gerwin changes up his tune to that of a salescreature once they arrive at his table of goods. He swoops in close to examine the squad's inventory. "Bolt-action, the Grand N-A. Griffonstone-made. This still won't do. What exactly do you need?"
The leader—whose Cauliflower learned over the squad’s talking was just Slab—narrows her irritated eyes. "Better weapons?"
Gerwin recoils. "Define ‘better weapons.' Big shiny lasers and explosives are big tourist tickets, but lots of buyers can't explain why they want them. Just bigger and better… it makes them psychotic." He widens the divide between potential customers on by the campfire and finished goods in his crates and bags. "Why can’t your rifles do the job? Rest of the world's about your level. Worst-case scenario, you can always buy legit surplus from Equestria. They’ll still do the job.”
"We’re planning to hire ourselves out here," Slab replies. Cauliflower sees her underlings congratulating each other for having made it this far. "Contract by contract. But that requires your expertise. You know the lay of the land. Maybe a dash of your… explosive deals?"
He sighs, semi-circling his crackling campfire. "You're coin-diggers. Fine. You wanna see the whole shtick? Come, come…"
Balaclava'd faces have their eyes glimmer like little moons in the flame-dispersed darkness, served on the side by the metal shimmer of guns on display, like herding ghosts in the flesh towards unheard-of would-be tales of destruction.
"I need you to be serious about this," Gerwin continues, sounding final in his terms. "Soldiers of fortune aren’t what you see in Applewood. I won't have you gunning around nilly-willy. I'd like to have my customers not die before their second transaction. If we can have a good relationship, I get my money, you get your guns, as long as you live. But you don't seem strapped for cash; you can't buy everything you want. I’d rather customize my offers to suit your needs. Your long-term plans, too." He takes a matte briefcase out on the table, snaps the latches free but doesn't open it. "What's your reason here? Raid and pillage?"
"Yeah," Slab says, nodding with vigor.
Cauliflower's throat stops to retch. Not too far from Klugetown, the mafia still holds strong. She barely made it out of a botched sting operation, but the interviews afterwards, of smuggled creatures treated like chattel, bring chills still.
"Listen, cupcake," Gerwin says, "most of the villages are rushed out of the country. Your loot's with the armies now. Go to the border zones. All four sides get harassed by them. There’s tax collection, armed and dangerous, enough to make your money’s worth there. Just don't get on a griff's bad side; they'll glass you dirty."
He bangs the briefcase open, slapping Slab with the wind of his wing, showing her up close a disassembled tube-like thing that resembles a rifle. "You won't survive without me. You’ll need an extended tutorial."
So Cauliflower listens to his series of practiced lectures, watching him explain each of the guns in detail and the concept of lasers and phasers—powerful misnomers, since they rely on crystal arrays amplifying light, but these harmless mini-flashlights given enchantments… Gerwin soon gives them a demonstration. A dozen dummy targets burn alive with a single tap of a pistol—standard issue, no added magic. It can be set to stun or kill, and the ammo batteries' many "flavors" widen the eyes of their beholders—to spread fires, to blind permanently, to slice limbs, to send poison spells like a super-competent unicorn.
But light and crystals have their limits. Stashed away are ordnance and cannons folded into easily stackable cubes. Unassuming storage crates roll out into portable rail-mortars large enough to house modern-day artillery shells, powered by magically boosted magnets. The destructive power to level a small village from miles away, and with such ease—
Cauliflower’s head spins. The thwang of a laser hits its target, setting a mannequin aflame. The crunchy crackle of the wisps and licks do not soothe her as Gerwin exposits on every bit, twirling gun parts around in his claw, listing numbers and calibers and spells. Her voice recorder is on, yet Slab and her team write down notes, hungrier for the dirty details than Cauliflower herself.
"A platter of small arms, then?" Gerwin finally says. The deal is then closed, cash and collateral given to him in fat, bulging sacks. The tinkle of coins echoes as she lies in a cot long after Slab's crew left with rejoicing.
Coins and guns rolled inside their stolen pick-up over historical cobblestone roads. Their destination: The Forgotten Hills, the seat of power of the Romanticist-Royal Front, the furthest north of the four fighting factions.
"Why’d you still wanna interview that pretender queen?" he said before the trip started. They had been packing up food and drink from an abandoned village. The bedsheets were still unkempt; no time had been made to warn the residents.
"They need to have their voices heard," she replied, half of it a trained answer extracted from an equinitarian textbook based on Princess Twilight’s Friendship Journal. A box of frozen vegetables gets shoved into the truck's back. "It's easy to dismiss them as madmares, but they had to start somewhere. There had to be some twisted logic to the whole thing. I could've gone down the same road, calling out for bloody revenge on a national level, enslaving others if I just put my mind into it."
"You’re not getting any additional pay from this, I reckon," Gerwin talked past her as he closed the back and headed for the steering wheel. "EQNX won’t do you any favors if you’re burping out the same drivel other networks got."
"EQNX is indie. We're not like Baltimare or Canterlot. It's just me, Date Line, and a few runners who can hit up the Equestrian government and the Convocation. We don’t rake lots of bits, but bits are not the point."
"Only three notepads and the truth," he replied. "What about the creatures watching the news about lasers falling from the sky? They’ll emote all they want. You give viewers too much credit. Unless this is a front and you’re an intel mare for the CC."
She repeats the conversation internally when towers catch her sight, sporting massive turrets, anti-air or anti-tank, that can pockmark the sky. Utilitarian straight lines clash with the treasure they guard, a trimmed and proper manor surrounded by hedges and pruned shrubbery, where visor-blinded guards stare Gerwin's vehicle down from every balcony and parapet. Medieval banners strain themselves in the wind, where a triangle of crowns embrace a hippogriff-seapony couple. They are caught in static, madly in love with each other.
They chaperon her through winding metal corridors, emptying her pockets to find nothing incriminatin. She’s hoved past marble Arisian statues of the old royal lineage—Novo and Skystar Silverstream, long dead in quick succession. Servants in silver robes polish these statues mid-flight, then ask their visitor a tornado of questions, if Cauliflower is indeed comfortable here and if she's interested in a stew of alcohol and crumpets.
With Gerwin staying behind to sell directly to the tower patrol, Cauliflower is escorted into the throne room. Stained-glass windows reign beside air-conditioning units and modern ventilation, yet two more servants fan the self-proclaimed heir to a plastic chair-shaped excuse of a throne. An enlarged golden ring is her lowly crown.
Queen Horizon feeds on grapes and wine; with a stack of paperwork just done, she washes her claws in a bowl of soap mixed with more wine. "Your mercenary friend told me about an interview. Let's not waste time."
Several metal halls and guards pushing Cauliflower around later, the two are locked in an ornate study. Bookshelves block any audio from leaking out. Two overhead cameras render them moot.
"Humility," Queen Horizon Sun says against Cauliflower’s fast written scribbles, the interview well underway. "It's a characteristic of a good monarch. Why else would I sit in a plastic chair?"
"Uh, yes, sure," mumbles Cauliflower. Cups of coffee, served by retainers, wobble with each wild gesticulation from Horizon, her claw cutting through the air like a sword. "What’d you say was—?"
"It’s obvious, isn’t it? What the trouble is? The rabble think they want everything, but no, they don't! We were fine with Silverstream, Skystar, Novo, and everyone else! They had to ruin everything with all their nonsense of yetis and species… I shouldn’t be here with all of this mumbo-jumbo gizmo-techmo!"
Cauliflower gulps. She grips the pen in her hoof, voice recorder still on. The raging queen can be contained yet. "Surely, they're your people no matter who they are. You may say that many of them were misled by ideas of anti-yeti vengeance—’
"My people?!" She pounded her chest, her crown falling askew. "They stabbed my aunt, left Silverstream out to bleed just so they can go in and get the yetis out! The gall to coup us all! It’s an excuse, an incompetent excuse! They will pay, I guarantee it!"
"What do you propose to stop this?" Cauliflower asks right away, not giving Horizon time to think. "Other than securing peace, of course, and the basic gist of you being on the throne."
"I’m afraid you’re being rather daft, Miss Newsmare!" She opens her claws to grasp the skies, if she can. Subduing her fervor and passion, her clamed voice resumes itself: "I will grant Aris the reforms they truly need, after this whole reconstruction business, initially through heavily armed guards and curfews. Those who resisted our rule need to be taught a lesson about rabble-rousing, of course."
"Hmm. How do you source the weaponry for this undertaking?"
"Source? Why, we make it ourselves! Reverse-engineering is a wonderful thing, my dear. Those Alliance cowards like to shoot from afar, but the moment we get to their nests, we'll tear them down, study everything, cut their masters down. See, am I a relic, as they say?"
Cauliflower blinks blankly. "No, but Your Highness—"
"It’s Your Majesty—"
"—Your Majesty, why continue this course of action? The way you encourage your citizens—"
"They divide the hippogriffs and seaponies, get them to fight amongst themselves!" The queen leans back in her leather chair, crossing her forelegs. She takes her dropped crown back, angling it just right to dazzle Cauliflower in the eyes, and the smirk on her face says she knows it. "You let these others stay around, they’ll get legitimacy... to shoot themselves in the hoof before they shoot everyone else! Hippogriffs fighting hippogriffs… I'm here to wrest peace into their hearts. They've suffered long enough, and dare I say…!"
The rant continues for the next half-hour. Cauliflower goes home with a bunch of notes, a hollow heart, and a hoof on her old gun. The taste of crumpets rests sour, tinged with Horizon's rambling diatribe.
"You're gonna be fine, Cauli," the voice on the other end of the screen says—a stallion with the blues of denim pants, denim uniform, and electronic chips in his ears. Nondescript is his cubic workplace of desk, computer, and refreshments, though the finer details are scratched and corrupted by a weak connection that has to traverse an entire continent.
"Debatable, Date Line," Cauliflower speaks to her wrist screen, resting by the campfire again, all out in the middle of the woods a second time. "I’ve got Gerwin by me."
"Tell him I said hi," and Gerwin pops up by her side.
"Woah, woah!" And Date Line half-falls out of his chair, having a cup fall on his face. After picking himself back up, "Come on! Don’t scare me like that."
"Rumors around me spread far?" Gerwin comments between low chuckles.
His forehooves fidget against each other, dancing on the desk. It's an adorable sight, made more so by the fuzziness of her screen. Cauliflower resists blushing.
"I believe her," Date Line begins, "when she says you’re not holding her hostage. You're strapped, and you haven't killed her yet, so I trust you, too. A little. I just hope you have her best interests, that’s all."
Gerwin stretches his pinions out. "Our interests overlap."
"So be it." To Cauliflower, his visage blurring and cutting out, "Just be careful, okay? Keep your data safe. Remember to not transmit—"
"—any data because there might be tappers, I know." A list of instructions and warnings were hammered in her brain over and over. Field journalism has been a dying breed, she understands, but route recitation has remained a chore from grade school to the farthest depths of the world.
When the call ends, gruesome tubes stuck or welded together are dropped onto the grass before her. Probably scrapped together, it’s like a school project with Hearth's Warming lights tacked onto it.
"You’re in a warzone," Gerwin says. His figure towers over her lying body. He is no slouch. "Big guns are required."
"Thanks for your generosity, mister—" she flicks the gun away, having it roll over "—but I can do just fine with my piece." But Slab's swaggering rifle-toters can mince her into chopped meat. She suppresses the very idea of it.
"May I take a look at your pistol, then?"
That forces her to sit up straight, wide alert, trying to trap him with just her eyesight as she hoofed her weapon over. From the heights of north-eastern Equestria and across the world, it’s never left her side. "No shooting me."
"If I wanted to shoot you, I'd have done so already."
With her gun under his control, claws scramble themselves in organized fashion over the entire piece, erratically tapping over every part. He unloads the magazine, opens the chamber, peaks inside. A comment is made about it being dirty, but it's otherwise in order. Not much wear and tear, he claims.
"You’re gonna have to shoot this, too, sister. Deterrence won't be enough. I told you that already." And he wiggles his claw over the trigger.
Scenarios run in her head about bullets scraping by, letting out blood. She had self-defense lessons, learned how to shoot, but she was never given a rifle or anything more than basic body armor. She wasn’t a soldier: she’s here to tell the news and tell it straight.
"Gerwin, I just can’t handle it… psychologically. I can’t participate in this. I can give you aid, but—"
"Pah! You can. You can pull the trigger. It's just a matter of when," he ends with a snarl, which he placates with a walk towards the campfire. Only now does the smell of his cooking come clear to her; her barrel growls. "Can't stay the night on an empty stomach. Eat up."