//------------------------------// // Rifle, Caliber 5.56mm, M16 // Story: Adventure // by ISKV //------------------------------// A shirt fell to the floor as a blue haired woman stared down the barrel of an M16A2. HER M16A2, considering that he didn't even pay for it. Mounted under the barrel was a bayonet, although she had installed it for show, it was still very, very real. The man behind the gun wore a matte black uniform, his abdomen protected by the heavy vest he wore. His face was covered with a balaclava with only his eyes showing. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. How does such a beautiful woman become a gunrunner?" She stood in the middle of a room, only wearing skimpy blue underwear with small stars that were only visible if examined close up. The florescent lights illuminated her shapely body that many a model would die for. At first glance, she would've appeared as a normal woman, albeit an extremely attractive one. But with her clothes on the floor, the most notable aspect of her was the blue crescent moon with a magic wand crossed over it tattooed on both cheeks of her rear. *** It was unusual for a stunning woman to appear in the middle of Angola, more unusual was the fact that she came alone. But all of that paled against her real purpose when she offered her services to the leader. No, not those services you dirty perv. She came selling weapons. Her first deal was simple. Get four hundred Kalashnikovs with ammunition and deliver them in two weeks time. Exactly two weeks later she stood outside of his house with a mountain of crates. AKMs from the factory in Ukraine, hundreds of thousands of 7.62x39mm ammunition, and finished with a load of fresh magazines. She was paid on the spot with a handful of rough diamonds. A month later she was in Somalia, selling BTR-60PBs to a local warlord. Impressed, she was paid in full. Joke was on him though, he didn't pay for gas. Mozambique, PK machine guns with new belts. She even sold in the streets of Tokyo. Due to the multitude of gun laws, a single firearm sold for many times its original value. Dictators shook hands with her, various policing agencies followed her. Or at least, tried to. She had this odd ability to simply disappear. Once, Chinese special forces stormed an inconspicuous house near the Gobi desert. She been observed using this house for many months, often entering with crates of guns. They found nothing but a confused old man and his eight year old grandson. SWAT teams fared no better with hideouts on the US-Mexico border, although they did find a half-kilo of cocaine once. Around the world, she was known only as Blue Witch. But to her, she was Trixie. Yes, the very same showmare that wandered into Ponyville was now selling tools of war to various entities. She did get over her distrust of wheels however. The year was 1986, and her pockets were heavy. But her story didn't start in Angola. In fact, her very first sale was a shipment of rifles to the Red Army in August 1918. Indeed, Trixie had created quite a history. But all the time with French resistance fighters after the Nazi occupation, the Jewish fighters during the Israeli War of Independence, to the Mujahideen of Afganistan, there was another who worked with her. And she was always watching. *** Although she couldn't see his face, she knew that he was actively drooling. His eyes traveled all the way from her pretty face to her petite toes. Of course her ample breasts got the majority of his stares. She peeked towards the mirror behind him. The large window was right behind her, but it showed nothing in the darkness. Trixie held up two fingers behind her back. "Now..." he motioned towards her bra, "Remove... Take it off." Rolling her eyes, she slowly reached behind her back and unclasped the fasteners. More and more was revealed, and the man's eyes got wider. But the second his gun drooped, she dove down. A millisecond later, a .30 caliber bullet ripped through his chest, piercing straight through his body armor. A shower of glass fell around the now broken window as the air went quiet once more. Trixie pulled and clipped the bra back on. She went over to the broken window and pulled the drapes closed. The woman picked up the assault rifle. Drop magazine, clear the chamber. It was one of the first lessons she learned from a Texan rancher when he heard that she had never fired a gun before. The drop of the 30 round STANAG magazine was muffled by the expensive thick carpet that was now dyed with blood from the dead man. She caught the flying 5.56 round before it hit the ground, something that she liked to practice and show off in her spare time. As she reloaded the round in the magazine, a black van pulled up in front of the house. Blacked-out windows, black paint, even the license plate had black duct tape on it. After Trixie pulled on her signature blue cape and hat, she snapped the M16 case shut and hung it from her shoulder. Outside, the wind blew a chilly October wind across her face, blowing her clothes like a flag. In the driver's window, a faint glow of a cigarette illuminated the face of her long time friend. "Trixie is pleased to see you again Gil-" "Hey! Whatdd I say bout' my name!?" The woman breathed deeply, the small ember glowing brighter every time she took a breath. "To not to." The seemed to calm her down. "Bingo. Now let's get the fuck outta here. We gotta new order. I think this guy wants to fight a war." Tires not screeching, the pair drove off to the local airport. *** 500 Remmington 870 shotguns, 400,000 shells, 00 buckshot. 850 AK-74s, 800,000 rounds, 7000 magazines. Mix of hollow point and armor piercing. 100 M2HB heavy machine guns, 500,000 rounds, armor piercing incendiary, anti-aircraft mounts. 15 RPG-7s, 500 HEAT rockets. Make sure that they aren't any crap Chinese guns inside. Deliver to Airfield 7221, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt. N30°48'18" E33°54'39" D - L. O. C. PS: No radio. Land at will. We'll keep traffic clear. In the skies above the eastern Mediterranean, a white-haired woman checked the navigation maps once more to ensure that they were on the right course. She had a very prominent purple eye shadow around her gold eyes. The same tint of purple also tipped her spiky hair that stuck out in front. Her battered leather jacket also held a holster for her favorite M1911 on the inside. To her left was an original M1903 Springfield rifle that she had taken a liking to. It was the very same gun that shot the man who was stupid enough to think that Trixie was helpless. The plane shook as it flew through another cloud causing the rifle to topple and hit her head with an empty konk. After a particularly hard landing in Syria, Gilda started calling the custom-made transport plane "Suchka." It was hard on the controls, engine two always found some creative way to conk out at the worst moment, and it guzzled fuel like a pregnant mother on cravings. But luckily for them, it got the job done. Suchka was the result of taking stolen Pratt & Whitney PW2000 engines from an US Air Force base and joining them with a C-5 Galaxy airframe salvaged from a boneyard. Spare parts from a number of planes, both military and civilian completed the Frankenstein creation. After a few years of fine-tuning the engines for every ounce of thrust and troubleshooting countless problems with a two hundred man team, the plane was finished. Paperwork had been forged, call signs created, and the plane made its maiden voyage. And oh holy god she could haul. They once had to deliver two armored personnel carriers by parachute, both stocked with weapons and full of gas. If they wanted to, they probably could carry a light tank or two, but they usually left vehicles to ships and trains. Surrounded by the delivery of guns, Trixie attempted to sleep in the small bunk in the back, but was kept awake by Gilda who sat in the pilot's seat blasting an upbeat rock song. To add insult to injury, she was singing along with her rough voice. "It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no..." "It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no..." "It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no..." "It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no..." Due to her life on both sides of the Iron Curtain, the griffon-turned-human had developed the most unique taste in music. From the west came ZZ Top and Creedence Clearwater Revival. From the east came the Red Army Choir. It had taken Trixie months before she finally got used to hearing guitar riffs one moment, then turning a complete 180 degrees to the booming and powerful bass voices of Russian men. It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no no no... Trixie sighed as the song finally faded away to nothing. She closed her eyes and started to drift off, but was interrupted by a faint drumming. A few voices added to the melody. Then out of nowhere, the entire choir joined in, leading to a catchy yet powerful beat that inspired the spirits of the people. "Trixie... needs... HER SLEEP!" she screamed over the voices and drums. Gilda didn't reply, and the woman sleeping under the blue cape could clearly hear the pilot humming along with the melody. She groaned. This was her daily life aboard Suchka, one that she should've gotten used to a while ago, but didn't. Out of the corner of her eye, Trixie spotted the assault rifle that hadn't been sold. She picked it up, almost dropping it when a particularly loud trumpet blast sounded as another Soviet war song came on. The M16A2 was as basic as it could get. No fancy sights, rails, or other accessories and the stock wasn't adjustable or folding. Trixie shouldered the weapon. The light polymers might've been ridiculed on the field, but to the medium-small woman, it felt perfect. Sure she had kept an old StG-44 handy, but the M16 was the gun she had been looking for. Gilda on the other hand, preferred larger weapons. She refused to use any weapon that was weaker than a .44 magnum, but had given into carrying a simple M1911 when an exchange went bad. Contrary to what people might think, she was actually a slow-and-steady type, a trait that was reflected by her choice in the bolt-action Springfield. Somebody said it's wrong but I know it's all right, "Somebody said it's wrong but I know it's all right," then it really hits you like a shot in the-. "then it really hits you like a shot in the ni- What the...?" The music suddenly cut off as a burst of radio chatter sounded from the radio. Trixie raced to the front and sat down in the co-pilot's chair. "What is it?" she asked. "Ssh." Gilda listened closely. The voices kept getting interrupted by static, but if her experience said anything correct, there were Israelis on the other end. "Yeah. That's definitely Hebrew." "What are they saying?" There was no answer as the pilot listened intensely. Hebrew was not one of her best languages, but she knew enough words to limp through a conversation. Through panicked yelling, Gilda tried to figure out what was going on. Something about... airspace... intruder... MiG-21? "They're talkin' about some airspace breach or somethin'. Don't worry bout' it," Gilda leaned back, "it aint' us." More chatter came through. "Actually... Crap. Whatever it is, it's headin' our way!" Various beeps sounded as a screen blinked to life. "Missile lock! Comin' in from the east!" *** Trixie leaned back in defeat. While the original flare and chaff dispensers were still in place, they had never been replaced or loaded for years. Trying to maneuver such a large and unwieldy aircraft would've been useless, the parachutes were somewhere behind a large crate full of 5.45mm ammunition, and to make matters even worse, the Israelis had not responded. A small tink could be heard as a single .357 round was loaded into a revolver. Gilda closed her eyes. Nodding to her partner, she got up and walked to the back. She pulled back the hammer and put the gun to her head. Trixie jumped at the sound of a gun going off. Tears dropped from her eyes as she realized that she was now completely alone. *** The missile flew closer and closer, while the Israelis had labeled the intruder as a technical glitch, as no other radar had detected it. Regardless, a pair of F-4 Phantom IIs were scrambled just in case. *** Trixie's head shot up as Gilda stomped back into the cockpit. Her eyes followed the woman as she sat back down in her chair. "...What are you doing here?" She mentally facepalmed at the phrase said without a thought. Gilda turned her head, the scowl and her annoyed attitude clearly seen. "I missed." A second later, the Soviet-made missile hit the transport plane. The pilot of the MiG-21 lit a cigar. Pink smoke filled his plane as the smell of chocolate wafted from the rolled leaves and paper. He growled. "Tia owes me big time, sending me on her errands..." The pilot glanced towards the picture. His face softened as he gazed towards his alicorn fiancé. They had promised to marry after the war, and he was not one for breaking promises. *** Gunfire. She had heard the sound of automatic weapons go off enough times that she could name the weapon being used. The heavy but muffled hammering was definitely the M2s. She sighed. If heaven was filled with guns, she was happy. "Trixie...?" Trixie was not happy anymore. She saw her M16 laying unloaded on the table next to the bed. When she reached for it, she pulled it next to her and cuddled it as if it was a lover. "Trixie! Please wake up!" Twilight begged. Behind her was the rainbow pegasus, attitude unchanged. "Why do we need her again? She's just going to-" "Rainbow. She an' the griffin' saved our hides' with those weapons. The spears are nice, but what they brought could turn this war right side' up." Oh yes, the apple farmer. Trixie's mouth started watering at the thought of her apples. The apples that grow on her trees, to be clear. "Tch. Gilda's probably-" "Whatever you think she's gonna' do, Ah'll bet it's because you started it." "Hey!" "Girls!" Twilight yelled. She turned towards the showmare-turned-gunrunner. "Trixie, you aren't asleep. Disc-" She was interrupted by a griffin that flew in with an assault rifle slung from his shoulder. "Colonel! We got Airships comin' in from the west! Illusion-Class!" Twilight nodded, "Get the fast flyers to intercept, test out the new RPGs. Make sure that they don't come within two miles of this camp!" "Yes sir!" Col. Sparkle turned to Trixie, who's eyes were wide and was now tightly hugging her M16 for comfort. "Anyways, Discord was the one who ordered the guns and brought you and Gilda to our world. We can't thank you enough and we'll pay you whatever you ask after the war ends." Wait... "What war?"