If there was one thing Cornerians took seriously, it was cleanliness. The hallways of the Orbital Management Intelligence’s headquarters were nearly immaculate; such was the presence of the Cornerian military. The glossy and mirrored surfaces were rivaled only by that of the hospitals that dotted the earthbound landscape. The walls and floors shimmered with an alien glow. However, this peace was disturbed by several sets of footsteps parading down OMI’s otherwise barren walkways.
The group moved in strict unison, expertly navigating the length of the facility with ease. They simultaneously approached a large automatic door labeled “Communications Room”, and a split second later, the door’s center seal spun in place and released the locking mechanism and the pistons. It slid open, revealing another pristine piece of the station, one which was inhabited by a lone figure who occupied one of the far consoles. He worked feverishly, swearing under his breath and continuously wiping accumulated sweat from his brow.
The team approached Sinclair’s console, however, he paid them no amount of immediate recognition. It wasn’t until the team’s largest member cleared his throat that the coyote finally turned his head.
“You’re the squad, I presume,” said Sinclair.
“Well we sure as hell aren’t your housemaids,” said a female husky. An identical one stood silently next to her.
“I believe introductions are in order,” said a female leopard as she stepped forward. She clutched an interesting looking weapon at her side. A red beret adorned with a golden insignia sat atop her head. “My name is Laura Spots, WGS team leader and officer of the Interplanetary Relations Bureau.”
“WGS?” Sinclair asked skeptically. Of all of the acronyms he had become familiar with, this was not one of them.
“The White Glove Society. We are a team of specialized officers and elite soldiers handpicked to advise and protect General Pepper,” Laura clarified.
“Why have I not heard of this, White Glove Society before?”
“Because officially, we don’t exist. Our very nature is of the highest level of classification, and you have been entrusted by the general to keep this classified. Understood?”
He simply nodded.
Laura turned back to her team. She addressed the group’s largest member, a polar bear that stood several feet above Laura. His bright white coat stood in deep contrast to his black militarized tactical uniform. He scoffed loudly and glared down at Sinclair, causing him to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“Don Hammer,” said Laura as she released the grip on her weapon and pointed to the brute. “He serves as the group’s primary assault man and as an incredible history in the field of explosives and demolition.
Hammer stepped forward, still keeping an iron cast glare down on Sinclair. He finally extended his large claw and broke out into a goofy grin.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Sinclair. May I call you Ivan?” the polar bear beamed. Sinclair took his paw and shook it, although his own brown paw disappeared into the bear’s gloved paw.
“Uh sure?” Sinclair said, slightly confused.
“Hammer, professionalism,” Laura cut him off.
“Ohp,” the bear straightened himself out and released Sinclair’s paw. “Sorry boss.”
Another figure stepped forward, this one, a ferret. He was dressed in a whitish-tan trench coat and a fedora of the same color. A light blue tie with white polka dots extended out of the collar of his coat. On his hands were the trademark set of white gloves that were worn by all members of the elite team.
“Shinji Thinwisker,” it was Sinclair himself that identified him.
“You got me,” he put his hands up in mock defense.
“You were a world famous journalist. You documented the Sargasso massacre two years ago, and the Aparoid invasion almost a year after that. The same invasion you were supposed to have died in.”
“Yeah well, when that many people die in an attack, it isn’t hard to add your name to the list and just disappear.”
“But why would you run away?” Sinclair asked.
“Pepper came a knockin’ and I answered. Do you know what my profession was before I quit?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I was thoracic surgeon, specialized in pulmonary care. In other words, he wanted me for my medical expertise, not my reporting skill. I serve as the team’s chief medical officer.”
“Surgeon to reporter. Seems like a rather large career jump,” Sinclair stated.
“Yeah well, I have my reasons.”
“Alright, Shinji he doesn’t need your life story,” one of the huskies chimed in, the same one who had been the first to speak. The other husky stood quietly behind Hammer. Both of them were dressed in military battle uniforms, along with their clean white gloves. A pair of small, thinly framed rectangular glasses sat upon the bridge of the hiding husky’s nose. In addition, she had beautiful white hair that reached her shoulders and bangs that reached past her glasses. Her talkative counterpart also had white hair, but it had been pulled back in a simple ponytail.
“Name’s Mojave Greycoat, the girl hiding behind Hammer is my sister Maddie.”
“Hello,” Maddie said shyly.
“We’re the best damn sniper team this side of Lylat,” Mojave said affirmatively.
“A spotter-shooter team?” said Sinclair. “I thought with modern technology that sending a two man team was inefficient.”
“Not inefficient, undervalued.” Mojave corrected. “Never underestimate the value of a teammate. I provide vital information while Maddie is busy picking her targets.”
“Maddie is the shooter?” Sinclair asked, slightly drawn back.
“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Mojave said suspiciously.
“Nope, not at all.”
The final member made no real effort to make himself known. He stood quietly, and his identity and appearance were concealed behind his black tactical outfit and ballistic vest. His face was hidden behind a black gas mask with red reflective lenses that shielded his eyes. A black metal soldier’s helmet also adorned his head. The aggressive amount of black made his white gloves seem out of place.
“This is Boxcars,” Laura began. “He is the team’s special operations soldier. He’s quick, quiet, and deadly. He is a brilliant tactician, and if he comes off as cold and calculating, that’s because he is. His priority is the mission, something I’ve come to admire and something Pepper has recognized.”
“Boxcars? Is that a codename?” the corporal asked.
Boxcars remained silent.
“It’s the only name we know him by, and it’s all we need to know. He hasn’t told us, and we haven’t bothered to asked, simple as that,” Laura answered.
“I see,” Sinclair nodded. “But there’s one thing that escapes me.”
“Which is?” Laura prodded.
“I’m a surveillance agent. Why did Pepper send a ground team to assist me? I have all of the equipment I need here.”
“Really? Because it appears your communications system is failing.” Mojave said coyly.
“It’s not my equipment,” he retorted. “McCloud’s ship is suffering from a catastrophic failure in systems. I think his vessel might have crashed. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
The team remained silent. Eventually, Hammer’s booming voice invaded the room. “We’ve actually been assigned to remove you from this station. We were told that your technical expertise could come in handy.”
“Handy for what?”
“For following McCloud into the Meeza System. We’re going to tail McCloud as backup.”
“Oh no no no no no,” Sinclair retorted, waving his arms back and forth. “I’m a surveillance officer for OMI, nothing more. I would be next to useless in–”
“We know about your record Ivan.” Laura stated firmly. Sinclair winced. No one had used his first name in that tone in quite some time.
“This is a hell of an opportunity we’re offering you, Boy Scout,” said Shinji. “Take it or leave it but we’re asking you to join a prestigious group to do prestigious things. You might have to get your feet wet but that’s the name of the game. If you’re right about McCloud’s ship going down then he need us now more than ever. So, what’s it gonna be?”
Sinclair sat in silence for a moment. Shinji was right. An induction into the White Glove Society was looking more and more like a once in a lifetime opportunity. He wasn’t even aware of their existence before today, but then again, he didn’t keep tabs on Pepper’s personal life either. Before he could come to a mental decision, he felt a swift pair of limbs pull his arms behind his back and shove him forward. He caught a brief glimpse of Boxcars’ mask as he was continuously shoved forward.
“Hey, hey! What is this?!” Sinclair yelled.
“I think that’s his way of saying ‘you’re taking too long,’” Mojave smiled.
Boxcars shrugged.
Twilight could feel the heat of the buildup of magic next to her. Her coat of hair blew back, as the form of a large pony took the place of the heated ball of magic. Celestia’s regal appearance was usually meet with howls and hoots of praise and joy, but this time, she only stood next to her faithful student and a small dragon in silence. In the far distance, Ponyville could be heard in an uproar and a panic.
“Princess,” Twilight bowed. “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure what to do. I’ve never seen anything like this…”
Celestia stood in silent awe. Despite being one of the single oldest creatures on Equestria, never once had she come across such a being. Made of neither flesh nor stone, it sat undisturbed since its abrupt landing. The dusty air had finally settled and rocks and earth that had been kicked up had finally come to a halt.
“And you say this fell out of the sky?” Celestia asked, not taking her eyes off of it.
“Yes princess, a couple of minutes before your arrival,” Twilight responded. “I assumed it was a shooting star at first, but now,” she ran a hoof through her hair, “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
The look on Celestia’s face intensified. Twilight rarely saw her mentor this serious. She was concerned, but ultimately knew that if anyone had an answer for this, it would be Celestia.
“Twilight, I want you to gather your friends and return here. I will call upon the Royal Guard to keep others at bay. No one else from Ponyville must approach this–this,” she paused, looking for the right word, “Thing, without my consent.”
“Of course,” Twilight started to walk away but soon found herself turning back to the princess. “Princess, d–do you think it’s here to harm us?”
Celestia said nothing at first. She stood tall in the shadow of the behemoth in front of them. Then, turning to look at her faithful student, she answered: “I can’t be sure my little pony, but I promise you that whatever happens, we will be ready for it.”
Fox slowly brought the cylindrical syringe down onto Slippy’s arm and pressed down until he heard a small hiss. On the monitor, a confirmation that nanomachines had been injected into his body appeared. Fox had given him Type A or temporary nanomachines. These nanomachines would enter his bloodstream and accelerate the healing processes in his body, forming clots and repairing tissues much faster than normal. When they had served their purpose, the nanomachines would deactivate and they would be passed out of the body through sweat, waste elimination, and breathing. There was another strand of nanomachines known as Type B or permanent nanomachines. Unlike Type As which were typically used for medicinal purposes, Type Bs augmented the body entirely, increasing muscle growth, providing real time accelerated healing, and increasing cognitive function. Type Bs were notorious for being unstable, however, and its effectiveness would vary depend on who was receiving them. Some experienced all of the benefits and no ill effects; others were killed moments after their injections. Fox kept several samples of Type B nanomachines on board for study, but they were not to be used by the crew members.
The monitor displayed the gradual progression of the nanomachines in Slippy’s body. They had reached his lungs and began collecting clotting factors in the bloodstream. It would still be a while before Slippy was back to full health; Type As didn’t provide healing at the rate that Type Bs did, but they did heal at a much safer level. It was impressive to see this technology at work, and how far Cornerians had come from their early days.
While observing the monitor, Fox heard a set of footsteps behind him. When he swiveled his head to check, he saw Krystal standing in the doorway. Her blue ears were low to her head and her normally joyful smile was replaced with an expression of worry. She approached her captain and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Fox, ROB has detected a large presence not far from our position. We believe it to be the primary life form on this planet; equine by the looks of it,” she said.
Fox stared at his friend’s inert body, but nodded in understanding. “Alright, I’m going to arm myself and try to scout out the area. If this planet’s composition is identical to that of Corneria, then we shouldn’t need any breathing apparatuses,” Fox concluded.
“Therein lies the second issue. The armory door was sealed shut during the crash, there doesn’t appear to be anyway to open it from the outside, not without special tools at least.”
Fox turned to Krystal and sighed. “Alright, we’ll make do with what we have until we can get into the armory. Head back up to the bridge and keep an eye on the equines. We’re in possibly hostile territory, and if we don’t move quickly, they’ll box us in before we can do anything.”
Krystal said nothing. Instead she looked down at Slippy. Without his hyperactive attitude roaming throughout the ship, everything seemed much more desolate. She put her free hand on Slippy’s arm and smiled.
“He looks up to you, you know,” she said.
“Yeah. Maybe he shouldn’t though. I made a stupid decision, jumping that close. I could have cost this crew their lives.”
“Hey,” Krystal cut him off, “The important thing is that we’re all here. We have a new task in front of us and we can’t get caught up in ifs and buts. This team respects you and we’ve been through enough trouble to know that things are not always going to go as planned. Keep your head up, you’re not going to find the light at the end of the tunnel if you’re too busy staring at the floor.” With these last words, the blue vixen turned and departed from the clinic.
Fox stood quietly, contemplating both Krystal’s words and the situation at hand. She was right, what was done was done and if his team was to make it home again, he would need to keep his wits about him. He made his way out of the clinic and marched down the hallways of the Great Fox. Some of the panels of the walls and ceiling had been knocked loose in the collision, but it was still navigable. He arrived at the door to his own personal quarters, which automatically slid open to let him inside.
The room was dark but it was easy to see that the walls were heavily decorated with rewards and antiques that belonged to both him and his late father, James. Plaques of recognition were lined next to trophies and other assorted nick-knacks and certificates. One particular item of his father’s that was mounted on the wall caught Fox’s attention. It was an outdated semi-automatic rifle, one that utilized ballistics technology rather than the plasma arsenal that had become more or less standard issue. Next to it on the shelf rested a box of ammunition for the weapon, .233 rounds. The rifle itself had a grey coat and a wide set rear end that provided stability and support when firing as well as a place to slide one’s thumb through a grove in the stock and comfortably grip the gun. The scope was optimized for several hundred yards, and the frame of the weapon was sleek and durable. Fox’s father was a fan of this much older technology. He always said it forced an individual to take into account so much more than simply pulling the trigger. With plasma, it was a nearly silent, fast firing shot. The shockwave of recoil that was experienced with each shot from a ballistic weapon made every pull of the trigger a wake up call on the battlefield.
Fox reached up and took the rifle down off the wall. It had been ages since his father had shown him how this type of tech worked, but with a moment of tinkering, he was able to free the empty magazine. He loaded it with ten rounds and then reinserted it back into the weapon. He slowly pulled back the slide until he heard a low “click”. Satisfied, he stuffed the remainder of the rounds into one of his satchels. He swung the rifle’s black strap over his shoulder and pulled it tightly.
“It’ll have to do.”