//------------------------------// // Free and Strong // Story: A Playback // by Comma Typer //------------------------------// Gerwin sits, waiting down, arranging a list of numbers and codes. It's all Cauliflower sees through a window, kept dry by the raincoat from the camp to. She rushes in through the whole, amid cracking concrete and the wetness of her covered hooves. "Why now?" asks an annoyed Gerwin, his voice just now echoing through the chamber-like room. She unzips her raincoat, hangs it by the great pyramid of ultra-explosives under the table. "I can’t do this on my own. I was sent here to help coordinate the downfall of the civil war with the CC, and it failed. I don't know if it's just the Authority or if the Convocation's also leaving me dry or if they just can't connect to me… but with you, I can stand a chance at setting a few things right." Gerwin nods, brushing his gun up. "At least you’re not spitting out a spiel on friendship." "Swell!" She beams, caressing him on the neck. "Thanks for reminding me." "I prefer you kill me." "Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!" she says, nuzzling him a second before retreating. It's awkward for the uninitiated, but in Equestria, it's a reassuring display of camaraderie. "It’s… we both want this to end. And sure, I messed up with the Convocation—" "None of that here. You didn’t know better. I'll take the blame, too. I was hoping they'd wear the others out. I jumped the gun. Now, they've become the others." Cauliflower threw her not-so-dry hooves up in the air, splashing Gerwin's face, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Fine, we all messed up, but we can be friends still. There has to be a way out." "There is." Against the background of the rain pouring outside, he flattens a map, beckons her to study it. It only makes the flickering lights above much more noticeable. "I’ve already sent letters to everyone, including the Convocation. A delegation will be sent to a neutral site several klicks up north. It's an old bunker surrounded by forests." He kicks the cache of bombs underneath. She clutches her heart; she is not dead yet. "These'll be planted in the forests. It will make a ring of fire, wall them in. These are different; they're dirty, modified—crystal unicorn slaves, raided and bred, died to make them. The radiation will take decades to clean up. They won’t bring in anti-rad suits; if they did, it still won't be enough to protect everyone." His eyes bore into hers, demanding something out of her. You have a different part to play, little pony, just you wait, is his expression. "A bomb will be hidden in the bunker first, then the meeting begins. Then I cut off the heads of this dragon. Who will Equestria declare war on when it's over? Any of the hippogriffs? Anyone that isn’t pro-Equestria or pro-Convocation is already in exile. We’d be killing off all their belligerents beforeclaw. As for the CC, tell EQNX about what happened once you get a stable connection. If they’re all compromised, take it up to Princess Twilight." He taps on the ring of greenery circling the bunker. "They’ll have scouts. We'll be there ahead of them, but you go ahead of me to plant just the one ultra. I will take care of the forest and the rest of the bombs. Don't be afraid if they show up. Show them the bomb in the bunker. There's a manual; study it for the sales pitch. Try to sell it to them, make it the best thing since sliced bread. If you can't, tell them to wait for me. "You... I will introduce you to everyone. Someone, maybe Miss Aris, will demand that this should be between us, that you shouldn't be here. I will tell you to leave on your own—without me, you wouldn't survive a day. Run, run as fast as you can until you're past the forest. After that, run north, never stop. The armies will be in chaos after the bombs go off. You still have your ID.  Keep your records with you. Here—" he throws a duffel at her, crushing her with all the metal components within "—and use this to bribe anyone or raise an alarm. Threaten them, be willing to set it up if necessary. Show you’re serious and that your word is as good as stone. If the north is blocked, make your way down the river. Refugees sometimes left by boats; a few should be lying around." For the first time, his sneering demeanor is comforting, his movements slower and deliberate. "Just follow the plan, you'll be fine." Cauliflower swallows something blank. The plan is a mouthful, with much to sift through. Great is her escape if she makes it. "But what's your escape plan?" Gerwin leans on the table, and in another place, he may be about to ask the bartender for a drink. "None." She keeps her mouth zipped shut as his cracked beak curves into yet another sneer. His eyes ride a self-destructive crash course, propelled by deathly magics. Gone so soon? So careless? "The plan, Miss Cauliflower Shrew, relies on someone staying behind. I've tried getting them to grind each other out. There's always a village, a town, somegriff caught in the crossfire. Now, the Authority provided me a re-assessment, that all that's left are the fighters, the takers. No one's gullible enough to let me live. Given the stakes, I—" A hug, she leaps into. She can feel his surprise, squeezing him tight, unable to let go. It is nonsense to grieve for one of death's many merchants, but her hot tears protest. There is a creature here—we who are about to die. Everything at her disposal to prevent it flow into nothing, into her skill with the trigger or the telling lack of it. For life to be snuffed out so easily, so willingly—a way out— There is patting on her withers. His claw strokes gently her mane. A beak brushes her withers, in one nuzzle. "Appreciate this, but why?" A litany of underdone eulogies chimes in on her. She can only choke out, "I'd… like to make your last moments worth it. With a friend…" Out from the rubble, despite all the shelling, their dented truck zooms forth. Over the next few days, they tour through the border zones. Nothing is fired except in Gerwin's impromptu training grounds. Many merry bands flock to his mini-storehouses of laser weapons in a clearance sale, scooping up roving bands of militias from rest of the world up north, smaller independent "companies" willing to cash out big time for top Arisian action. Coins, slaves, land rights, nobility titles exchange appendages in a show that induces Cauliflower to vomit. There's much blackmail, so many scoops that the world must be force-fed. If only she can stick needles around her viewers' eyes to let them observe the lack of equinity in these buyers haggling like they're discussing potatoes and tomatoes at the market. Yet, in the middle, she remains by his side, no longer sleeping on opposite ends of the camp but by him, beside him. Nothing's romantic about it, but she clings onto him when she can, when appropriate, when it makes him snap at her a little less, when his comments decrease into a zero and the silence—she hopes—asks him to ruminate, to introspect. Or at least to consider her as another soul. We're in this together, cheesy as it is to say it out loud. After the last transaction, the engine purrs wild to scare off chirping birds, becoming the monotonous background music to her final ride. The magic in her hooves lets her feel the roots there, though the truck doesn't really touch the ground—still flourishing, abundant with their fruit and flowers, while the thrum of the hover truck drones on as some life's heartbeat against an explosive premeditated massacre. "Take 'em out." So she does once they're out of the truck and at the edge of the clearing, pulling out tons of duffle bags and putting it in a cart. From her position, she sees a tiny concrete trapezoid, like a bad geometry lesson stranded in the grass. A duffle is thrown her way, which she catches, expecting it. "Plant this inside. You have your pistol ready. Need a laser? Bullets don't have a stun mode." With a great nod, she heads out, journeying to the bunker, ignoring his offer for a better gun. Inside, she closes the vault door on her. Whoever furnished the interior had no great mind for the arts. The musty scents of concrete and steel makes her sneeze. Several generators hum, of the cold fusion design. Shelves of canned food lie behind tiny rooms, and a table. Its bloodstains tell of its recent history being an outpost, a hiding spot for infantry in a pinch. Crates underneath it burst with batteries, laser ammunition, a bounty not for her "ancient" pistol. She unslings the bag, opens a pocket for the manual, then unlatches the rest of the briefcase.$ Leaves sway when Gerwin unzips his case across the other side of the clearing. Inside, the crystals themselves are put in transparent glass boxes, enchanted to not break unless given the signal to do so, just like with the newer models, but the mess of wires, the manual indicators and numbers replacing streamlined screens, indicates its age. The only modern thing about it is a screen smack dab in the center, crudely showing no countdown yet. He lets go of the cart behind him, carrying the rest of the bombs. The gun in his holster is never a few inches away from his claw. A snap echoes. His gun's held high, scanning everywhere, charged up and humming to scare any and all away. Over the growing rumble of fast rotating crystals, he watches his six. The trappings of arcane and complicated instructions are just obstacles to be overcome. Multiple keys are held, wires with tweezers are disentangled, buttons are pressed in strange and roundabout orders. She bites the manual to turn page after page. A frequency is maintained in a little radio to broadcast a code, luckily something her wrist screen can be attached to. All it needs is a signal to send, and it will keep counting down while the crystals spin to destabilize the magics within. Muffled echoes ring outside. It strikes her, freezes her. Every nerve screams at her to take flight. A creak turns from the entrance. A blade of sunlight grows on the wall. A quarter of the batch is done. The cart gets lighter with each set-up ultra. Everything memorized by reading and practice, he watches the crystals, sets the frequencies, shuts the case tight when the timer starts. A few hours, though of course, it's irrelevant when his signal will override his own preparations. More snaps; the leaves blow in. He licks a claw and puts it up against the air: a windy day. It doesn't stop picking up.  Light flashes near a road, too distant to make out in the corner of his eyes. Into the trees' shadows he crouches, poring over the abnormal activity.  Incoming lights against a dark canopy. They turn off. His feathers and fur blend with dirt and trunks. Not that the approaching convoy is close enough to see the griffon if he were standing in broad daylight, asking them to give up their cargo with nothing but his bare claws. She quivers between all table legs, her heart hammering against her ribs trapped to the floor. Uninhabited dust breaks into her nose as the sun's rays and the air outside are let in, the intruders' shadows looming large. Her nose goes funny, itching. She inhales her would-be sneeze. The barrel of a gun makes an appearance, then a lone scout trots in. She wears no recognizable uniform: all black in balaclava, bulking with squarish power armor underneath, its outer edges protruding out of the legholes. "Boyos, look at this baby!" shouts a now-familiar Slab. More hooves find purchase inside, Slab's crew but blessed with the latest in lasers and phasers, singing a tune with their artificial hums. One can't help but unload and reload his magazine on repeat, loving the sound of its strange mechanisms. "It’s beautiful," she says, beholding the ultra-explosive still open and left unattended. "Yeah, no sell from the old griff, right?" says Termie, or so Cauliflower thinks it's him. "Not by a long shot. Hm. Manual's here on the floor. No patrol?" "Might've missed snipers." "Should've shot us by now. You, Tack, everyone else, guard the outside and report. Termie, stay with me. We'll see what else's here." Other hooves grab most things. Canned food and boxes go down, Tack's name being called to pull them in a cart. Termie lights things up: crates being moved, and garbage bins and the cold fusion reactor being inspected, the light filtering into the table growing. Hooves approach the table, opening the caches over exclamations of being loaded for life. She holds onto her pistol, ready to aim. The metal of it hurts. Aiming, practicing what to do, pulling the trigger—there's no secret vents, no secret hole to hide under. Imprisoned by a table, there is aflame the hope that they will just pass her over. "So, I was wondering if that Aris girl is gonna be here anytime—" His face pushes the last crate away. The end of a laser gun raised straight at her face. Her heart snaps, curls into the precious redeeming steel of the trigger. "Hello, Cauliflower?" He taps on his wrist screen. No transmission is received. The rumbling of the truck he strains for, the first scouts coming. Red text pops up. NO CONTACT ACCESSED. He flies, dodges trees, glides in favorable winds to only clamber to the clearing then the bunker whose door is ajar with a cart Cauliflower never brought. He scan for watchers, intruders. None outside, hiding in the bushes or elsewhere around the clearing. Gerwin hunkers down behind the door. Only quiet reports to his ears. Grasping the door's edge, he peeks inside, gun ahead of his beak. Half a dozen hippogriffs all splayed out. Not dead; their bloodshot eyes condemn him. He clacks his beak to catch their attention; they reply with mumbling, unable to move around fallen canned goods. It's the signs of being stunned. At the back, holes riddle the ultra-explosive. Broken are the glass boxes, and the crystal shards have been poured out, their glow done away with, rendering their dirty enchantments inert. By fallen boxes and crates, hushed breaths run ragged. He flies gingerly over pony bodies. Underneath the table, blood runs by someone's tongue. Open eyes plead at him for safety. They plead for his salvation. First aid info rushes up his head. He holds the mare up. "How are you feeling? I have—" "I don’t know…" Claws shake her limping body. "What do you mean you don’t know?!" That smile of hers does haunt. "I… I was a good distraction, wasn’t I?" The bullets shot through; no surprise explosion in the bunker today. By her side, both her old pistol and one of his laser guns for sale. Termie's holster is empty. "What about the deal?" Her body is heavy, now draped across his back. He takes her bag, checks what's inside. "I’m taking you home." "But I didn’t get to do anything!" He stomps to the vault's opening, then winds it shut. "All records are in the bag, correct?" He keeps the codes close, the nuclear bags still somewhere around the ring. Still, one more duffel is by him. He lets the weight of both bags drop on him, gaining speed. A laser flies by. Shouts sound out his location. The rumble of convoys twisting their turrets at him, troops falling out of the back—he lets fly half a dozen lasers, explosion- and fire-enchanted. Trees fall, flames spreads like from a flamethrower, and he flees, ducks low, looks back. She hasn't fallen off Floating bikes go by him, sporting monograms of the vengeful Miss Aris and her Alliance. Shots later, one last grenade, a countermeasure goes under him to mess with their missiles, a squadron disappears behind the river. Heat catches him, budges him off course—a hoof slips, and turning around on himself, he puts Cauliflower back on his back. He slides in the air, veering for control. Her body slips once more; a wing keeps her steady when a fatal orange tint sneaks into his sights. Out of the woods, stressed wings drag him down a river to follow. Downhill, ever falling as another explosion rocks the forest, bathing in nuclear warmth. It is after half an hour of flying that he can tumble down. Fresh water tickles his ears, and he drinks mightily from the stream. He goads her to drink, but not take in too much, too fast. Her wrist screen glows, its audiovisual snowy noise clearing up. "Hello? H—lo, C—ower! This is Da—ine! We're getting w—d from the CC that—what… what's h—ing over there?! We—n try— to get a word in, but conn—tion's—" NO CONTACT ACCESSED Everything sputters. Her eyes flutter. She coughs. Her groans hush themselves. He lets her drink from the river without end.