//------------------------------// // Iron on Iron // Story: My Iron Warriors: Ordinance is Magic // by Perturabo //------------------------------// They were fast. He was faster. Letting the cigar drop from between his clenched teeth, Zuko reached into the bandoliers criss-crossing his chest as the two Iron Warriors blown aside by the booby-trapped Servitors rose back to their feet. His hands clenched round the first weapons he found- a pair of plasma pistols. Pointing his arms out either side, he fired, letting the recoil shake his wrists. The two green bolts of plasma whistled through the air as they sped from the weapons, striking his two standing brothers in the face. They dropped, ceramite helmets and their skulls within burned straight through by the caged fury of the stars. By the time their bodies had slammed into the ground, Zuko was already running, dropping the pistols behind him. A veritable storm of bolter fire rushed towards him, threatening to stagger the vengeful Space Marine. It was a precarious position to be in; his armour was proof against most of the firepower, but the areas compromised by Rorke’s traitorous blow formed an exploitable point of weakness. Of greater concern was the fact that, for the first time in years, Zuko chose to keep his helmet locked firmly onto his belt. The sensation of the wind on his face, his short beard bristling on his chin, of squinting to protect his storm-grey eyes from the dirt kicked up by his brother’s bullets were unusual and almost unwelcome to him. The extra vulnerability engendered by an exposed head only served to further convince him that it had been a terrible idea, and the Iron Warrior counted himself lucky that he had no long mane of hair to blow behind him. Nonetheless, his charge was stooped over and with an arm attempting to shield his face, like some silver bull charging his aggressor’s lines. He reached the first one quickly, the other Space Marine unable to manoeuvre out of his path before Zuko was upon him. The Aspiring Champion’s movement was smooth, reaching down to his side and drawing a serrated combat knife from the array he had strapped across his body. Flicking it round in his hand, he stood from his crouch, using the momentum to drive the blade into his brother’s throat. The Marine dropped the gun, pawing weakly at his punctured windpipe as rich, red blood began to flow from the wound down the front of his armour. Releasing his own grip on the knife, a kick to the midsection was enough to put the stabbed Marine on his back and take him out of the fight. Zuko staggered slightly as a bullet ricocheted from his pauldron; he turned, bracing himself against the rapid fire. More shots slammed into the proffered shoulder, each bullet scarring and denting the Iron Skull symbol further. He couldn’t hide a nervous grimace as he danced onto one foot, narrowly avoiding a spiralling krak missile that shot past him. It sailed away, detonating in the remains of a townhouse and driving it further into rubble. Zuko barely had time to recover before a Lascannon blast from the Obliterator forced him back on the defensive. He pushed off with his right foot, almost sailing into a sidewards roll through the air. He didn’t waste his time off the ground, producing another pair of pistols – bolt, this time – that he had managed to loot from the armoury. He fired as he fell, one after the other. The missile-launcher totting Iron Warrior staggered as the first bullet struck him, then the second. It was the third getting a lucky hit through an eye socket and blowing out his brains that finally caused him to drop, heavy weapon falling to the ground beside him. Zuko rolled awkwardly as he himself landed, the manoeuvre made difficult by the power pack and guns strapped to his back. He collapsed almost in a heap, staring up at the sky with a dazed expression. It meant he didn’t have time to rise before Varvillon reached him. The chainsword fell, revving edge aimed straight from the sergeant’s exposed face. Teeth gritted, Zuko was forced to raise his silver gauntlet to block the blow, the whirring sword carving a great gouge from the ceramite. It fell once, then twice, then three times; each one only just blocked by the downed Space Marine. After the third blow, Varvillon’s balance over-shifted slightly. Zuko capitalised, kicking out with his strong, bionic legs and striking his brother in the gut. Varvillon’s stumble backwards gave him time to get back on his feet. He reached over his back, grasping one of the Astartes shotguns that were slung there like some great wings. As Varvillon renewed his assault, Zuko changed tactics; he used his weapon not as a gun, but a club, bringing it round in a wide arcing sweep. It crashed into the side of Varvillon’s mk7 helmet with astounding force, almost knocking his brother to the ground with the strength of the impact. Sparks flew from the side of the damaged armour, one of the red eyes dimmed and without its glow. For all his eloquence, his intelligence, Varvillon made an elementary error; snarling as he sought to restore his vision, he turned away for the briefest moment and ripped off the damaged helmet. It was enough time for Zuko to flip the shotgun round, barrel aimed squarely at Varvillon’s face. His brother’s jaw may have been bionic, but the top of his head was still organic. The bone and brain simply dissolved as Zuko fired at point-blank range, Varvillon’s corpse slumping down at his feet with what was left of the brain pan tumbling out. He was saved by luck. Zuko took a wheezing cough, the punctured section of his chest threatening to tear open and bleed. It was the slight stumble that saved him, his brother’s chainsword sliding down his pauldron rather than splitting his bare head clean in two. Grunting at the sudden shock, the Sergeant pivoted, discharging his shotgun into his brother’s chest plate with a cry. It had scant effect, doing little more than buying Zuko a moment of time as the struck Marine was pushed back. Any further plan was swiftly disrupted by the whine that filled the air – the noise of the Obliterator’s assault cannon cycling round and ready for fire. Thinking quickly, Zuko once again went on the attack, stowing the shotgun and grasping his brother’s forearms with a heave. The grapple was intense, both parties evenly matched in terms of strength – neither willing to shift. Finally something gave; with a herculean effort, Zuko lifted, pulling the other Astartes off the ground slightly and turning. The other Marine struggled, red eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and confusion as Zuko carried him. The expression soon stuck as the Obliterator opened fire, unable to control himself. The high-velocity shells slammed into his back – Zuko’s makeshift human shield had done its work, even the ceramite of the other Iron Warrior no match for the rending power. His own face cut and scratched by the shrapnel, Zuko slowly edged his way over to the left, carrying his bleeding-out brother as he went. The Obliterator kept up his fire, screaming and howling in psychotic rage as it tried to murder the Champion. Finally discarding the corpse, Zuko spun as he crouched, the shells just whistling overhead. For all its Daemonic-given strength, as he rose to one knee and aimed the reclaimed Missile Launcher square at it, the Obliterator seemed to experience a flicker of fear. It tried to waddle away, ammunition spent for the moment, but the ponderous frame rewarded to it by its Gods had disadvantages. It didn’t even have time to howl as the krak missile struck it, exploding into a rain of torn armour and mutated flesh. Zuko stood to admire his handiwork momentarily, missile launcher held at ease, gargoyle-mouthed barrel still smoking. It took a moment for him to run the numbers. Casting a look to the right, the Space Marine fell utterly still as the last remaining Iron Warrior aimed his Boltgun. A small stretch of land separated them, but even so the chance of his missing was slim. Click Zuko couldn’t stop himself raising an eyebrow at the cliché as the ammunition feed on his brother’s Boltgun clicked empty. The Iron Warrior looked down at the empty gun, frantically searching in his belt for another clip. For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile – a small, repressed smirk of a thing – crossed Zuko’s face. He ambled forward almost leisurely, discarding the heavy weapon and drawing another plasma pistol from his belt, before firing. The shot struck his brother in the hand, gun flying away from the ruined limb. Fighting through the pain with a growl, the Iron Warrior sought for another weapon. Zuko was on him before he could produce one, hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him from the ground. The other Iron Warrior’s legs kicked at the empty air beneath; the dark expanse of the well’s pit falling below him. “You’re…dead…” The trapped Marine grunted, struggling at his bonds. Zuko shrugged, keeping his grip intact. “I got better.” He remarked, sarcasm evident. “Rorke never would have made Apothecary; we have two hearts, remember? A couple of hours nap in the Sus-As membrane coma was enough to get me back on my feet.” He stepped closer, bringing his face almost to his brother’s. “That…and I’m really pissed off.” He let go. The Iron Warrior clawed at the lip of the well with his remaining hand, but a stamp from Zuko prized him free. With a great clatter, he fell down into the dark. He watched his brother fall, and from where she lay – too paralysed with fear to move – Pinkie watched him. After a moment, Zuko grunted, stumbling forward and steadying himself on the well. He coughed, placing a hand on the sash round his chest. She couldn’t see very well, but when he removed it, Pinkie could have sworn she spotted blood staining his gauntlet. He straightened with another mumble, before turning back to look at the scene of devastation behind him. Leaning his head down, Zuko began to speak into the collar of his armour. “Attention, all members of the Fourth Legiones Astartes, Iron Warriors. On my authority as Breacher Sergeant of the Thirteenth Grand Battalion, you are hereby under arrest on multiple counts of genocide, daemon trafficking…and attempted murder.” His eyes narrowed. “Not cool, brothers.” Ever since Lorkhan had nearly taken her life, Pinkie hadn’t spoken a single word to any of the Iron Warriors. Even moments ago, as Varvillon bore down on her, she had kept her silence. Perhaps it was to prove a point, or perhaps it was just to make her feel better, but whatever the case she had broken her promise to try and be friendly to all living things and treated them with nothing but cool, mute civility – a decision that almost seemed precognisant, given the situation around her. Shock and confusion, however, were powerful enough motivators it seemed to get her to break her vow of silence. “Did…did you just place every Iron Warrior in Equestria under arrest?” She asked, in an unusually quiet and scared voice. Zuko looked at her, as if only just realising she was present. For a moment she thought he intended to finish her off, but eventually he merely shook his head. “No.” He said. “I just placed ever Iron Warrior in the universe under arrest.” He coughed again, before setting off at a slow pace. He paused by every corpse he had made, scrounging whatever ammunition he could. After recovering any weapons he could easily carry, he stayed with them a moment longer, resting a hand on their helmets where he could, or their chests where he could not. As Pinkie slowly got back to her hooves, it looked almost…tender. “Urm…t-thank you for saving me…I-I guess…” His head turned to glare at her, and Pinkie paused – her breath catching with a squeaky gasp. “I didn’t save you.” He clarified. “That wasn’t the objective. Your survival, however temporary, is just a bonus, and aren’t you lucky.” He stood, reaching into a pouch by his side and popping another cigar into his mouth. The lighter he had to use wasn’t quite marine-sized, but he’d become practiced at its operation. “Then…then why?” She asked, bemused. “Why kill your friends like that? Is…did you mean it when you said they tried to kill you?” “I did.” He nodded. “Though ‘tried’ might be an understatement.” Pinkie’s brow furrowed, unsure as to his meaning. She followed his eyes up, into the chaotic and swirling shapes of the red sky above them. Its meaning was lost to her. “But also because…damn it, I was right.” He sighed. “I never wanted this. This shouldn’t have had to happen, none of this. But look at us.” He made a sweeping gesture to the ruination around them. “This is what my Legion is reduced to? Targeting those who don’t have even a chance to fight back? Fighting stupid, worthless wars for no other reason than we can? No. I can’t – I won’t – let that be what becomes of the Iron Warriors. Not whilst there is breath in my body.” She trotted back slightly, quailing a little under this newfound intensity. “So…w-what are you gonna do?” He didn’t reply immediately, face grim and stony. It was the first time she’d ever seen his face, Pinkie realised. “I will cleanse this Company of its sins, expel the rot that festers in our ranks.” His words were quiet, but filled with determination. “I will get off this planet. I will go to Medrengard, call the lords of iron to account, bind them to me either with allegiance or death.” He nodded. “I will go back to fighting this war, the real war. I will take my men and my brothers back out into the stars and remind the enemy why we are feared. I will strike at targets, not because they are easy or vulnerable, but because they will help us to win – because they will hurt the Imperium. Because they will help us to kill the False Emperor. I will take this Legion from what it is, what it has become, and rebuild it as what it should be.” “But first,” he added, eyes narrowing. “I will find Rorke. And then, I will murder him.” The earnesty of the words sent an involuntary shiver through Pinkie. She trotted from one hoof to the other nervously, and again the normally unstoppable party pony found herself at a loss for words. Zuko’s expression darkened as a noise filled the air; the sound of scraping on stone. Pinkie heard it too, ears pricking up and eyes widening. The helmet-less Space Marine turned from his acquiring of weapons, walking towards the well and peering down into it. Body acting of its own accord, she followed, big blue eyes casting a fearful glance over the lip. The two red pinpricks stared back up at her, rooting the pony to the spot and catching her breath in her throat. Slowly, the Iron Warrior climbed his way up the tight confine – even in his bulky armour, he was able to use his feet and elbows as an effective levering system. She trembled as she watched him approach. Zuko just stared. “My my.” He said at last, sounding almost impressed. “You can say what you like about us, but we’re stubborn old bastards.” She was so focused on the approaching threat that Pinkie didn’t even hear him pull the strange metal object from his bandolier and drop it into her hooves. “Hold this.” He said, exhaustion plain in both his tone and grey eyes. She complied without thinking, before confusion hit her. Any attempt by Pinkie to ask what he was doing was forestalled as Zuko brought a hand to her tail and pulled up, pitching Element of Laughter over and down into the depths of the well. By the time the melta-bomb exploded, the plume of thermic fire erupting like a volcano from the well shaft consuming both pony and Chaos Space Marine, Zuko was already walking away. “What the bloody hell is he on about?” Mordecai took his time in answering, replaying the words over and over again. Zuko’s voice crackling across the general vox had been a most unwelcome surprise, and one that had almost – almost – threatened to unman the Sorcerer for a moment. To his credit, he had managed to maintain his composure, though that was as much to do with his helmet-obscured face and Lorkhan’s distracted state than anything else. After the initial shock, the major emotion was disappointment. It appeared that if one wanted something doing right, one couldn’t trust an…an oaf such as Rorke. It was unfortunate, but then again, that appeared to be the theme for this entire jamboree. “Did he just…did he just arrest us?” Lorkhan asked, incredulously. “As in, legitimately attempt to bring the crushing weight of the Law down on us?” Lorkhan’s head tilted. “I don’t even think he’s allowed to do that.” “Perhaps…such an occurrence is not entirely unexpected, my lord.” Mordecai eventually decided on, as ever plumping for the diplomatic option. “Our brother has been at this game a rather long time, and if you’ll recall, he seems to have suffered the most physical maladies during our stay here in regards to his arms and legs.” He elected to leave out the most deliberating wound he was supposed to suffer. “Mayhap it is all…catching up with him, so to speak.” The Growler hit another bump, engines snarling angrily as it bounced back down. The earth-shattering tread of Lupus Nox seemed to echo all around them; they followed in the Warhound’s wake, keeping a cautious distance back from its taloned feet. The possessed behemoth had made its way to Canterlot in relatively short time, the Warsmith and Mordecai never far behind. For a moment, the warlock thought that he may have gotten away with his lie. The hope was quashed as Lorkhan shook his head. “No,” he said, thoughtfully. “Zuko might be a pain at times, but he isn’t stupid. He’s the only one here that hates all this as much as I am. A couple of injuries wouldn’t set him off, not –“ He paused, even the Mechatendrils freezing. Mordecai rolled his eyes within the confines of his armour, suppressing a sigh as the Warsmith turned to look at him. The glare was almost predatory. “What…did…you…do?” he hissed. The implicit threat was enough to give even the Psyker pause, Mordecai backing off in his seat slightly as Lorkhan leaned in. “Now now, my lord.” He chided, doing his best to remain composed. “Let us not be hasty. It would be incorrect to assign blame based on such circumstantial evidence-“ “I wasn’t born yesterday, you mutant freak.” Was Lorkhan’s growled response. Slowly, one of the tendrils attached to his armour reached up, snaking its way round Mordecai’s neck. It would have been a simple task to send it back, a mere flex of psychic muscle – yet he knew he was already on a precarious standing. Slowly, the mechandrite began to constrict. “I swear to your bastarding Gods, Mordecai –“ He was cut off as the Rhino’s vox crackled to life. “So sorry to interrupt this lover’s tiff,” Their driver said, his voice flat. “But I believe our bestial companion is about to speak.” His words were punctuated by a new sensation – silence. The ominous, ever present rumble of the Titan’s steps had stopped. They were not far from Canterlot now. The great white city hung from the mountainside above them, the slowly-descending tiers culminating in a huge gate that stood across from the Titan. Battlements, some old, some more hastily-erected, ringed the walls, whilst the only way across a deep chasm to the gate was a marble bridge. A familiar sight encased the pristine city – a shimmering ball of purple light, the energy shield so far maintaining its form with little effort. The Titan was still. Lorkhan and Mordecai were still too, locked in the midst of their disagreement s they both stared out the viewing screen within their transport. With painstaking slowness, the canine head of the Lupus Nox slowly ground its way upwards, gears whining as it stared at the shield. The noise was joined by a second clanking moments later – the sound of the colossal Plasma Blastgun being brought level with the target. At such a range, and with such a sizable target, missing was never a possibility. Even within the confines of their vehicle, both Sorcerer and Warsmith could feel the second skin of their armour prickle as the weapon began to charge. It had taken a while for the daemon to come to full wakefulness, but now blue coils of white-hot energy thrummed and crackled down the length of the gun. Dispassionately, Mordecai realised he was holding his breath. It fired once. Just once. The shield…disappeared. It did not shatter, nothing so crude; it merely ceased to be. A second sun was born for a moment above the capital of Equestria as the plasma burned through the magical protection like it simply did not exist. The noise of the discharge shook the world, almost as much as the triumphant braying and blaring of the Titan’s warhorn moments later. Even with the shield taking the full force of the hit, the city was not spared. Flaming contrails of plasma fell like tiny stars from the sky, smashing through the roofs of houses and setting the streets ablaze. Smoke could be seen rising, soon joined by licks of flame climbing for the heavens. It did not take long for the screaming to start. Many of the elegant, high towers simply collapsed, stones blown apart by the sheer force of the blast that had hit it. It was the imperious castle, lauding over all, that took the worst however. Even from a distance it was clear many of the windows had been smashed to tiny shards of glass, or simply burned to sand, whilst the roof was nearly torn off. More flames raged, orange tips peeking out into the already burning sky. Miraculously, either through magic or simple quirk of fate, the gate more-or-less held. Turning back from where he had shielded his eyes, and fighting through his wonder at the Warhound’s unleashed wrath, Mordecai clicked his tongue thoughtfully. He had no doubt that there was elements of sorcerous protection applied to the gates, and trying to open them with his telekinetic powers would most likely leave him drained for the final confrontation with the Princesses; it was not a scenario he favoured. Trying to get both the Titan and Rhino through at the same time again seemed like a recipe for disaster, and if they waited much longer the shock and awe of their attack would lose its clout. To his credit, however, it seemed the Warsmith had already planned for that. “This isn’t over.” He promised, voice low and dangerous as he grudgingly released Mordecai. “Now help me with these.” He moved to the back of the tank, starting to haul the explosives he had packed earlier to the front. Mordecai complied, though the strategy at play was still lost on him. The driver knew his orders well enough. Gunning the engines, the Growler’s tracks tore at the ground for a moment before the tank shot back to life with a throaty rumble. Hurtling towards Canterlot, Lorkhan and Mordecai went to meet their destiny. He found his brother much as he had expected to; in a state of filth. The red-timber schoolhouse that had sat at the outskirts of Ponyville was already smouldering by the time Zuko arrived, bullet holes punched clean through the wooden walls. The ground outside was little better, a veritable carpet of pony bodies and the remains of their primitive tanks. Zuko felt his frown deepen at the sight of it, but he fought through the revulsion welling in his gut, stopping around twenty metres from the crouching form of his brother. Rorke’s back was to him, the other Champion hunched over as if in some form of vile prayer. “I knew we were scum, brother.” Zuko began, voice clear and calm as he called out. Even so, he found his hand straying to one of the many pistols holstered at his side. Rorke’s bare, shaven head rose a fraction, though he didn’t turn. “But eating the dead?” Zuko’s nose wrinkled. “That’s just charming, even for you.” Finally, Rorke did turn in a slow, convulsing motion, though he didn’t stand. Zuko’s statement was true enough; streams of blood, mixed with the occasional chunk of raw meat torn from the carcasses, dribbled down his chin. The blood covered his whole armoured, hiding the silver colour of his ceramite under a dribbling curtain of crimson; in truth, he looked more like a World Eater than an Iron Warrior. Small, dark eyes watched Zuko. Perhaps it was just the feral hunch, but Rorke gave off the image more of a rabid predator than a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes. There was silence for a while, as the pair stared emotionlessly at one another. When Rorke broke it, his voice was growling and scratchy, broken up by his heavy panting. “You’re…de-“ “I’ve already made that joke.” Zuko butt in, raising a placating hand. For a moment, his eyes flicked down to the body Rorke had been feasting upon. He could not see the face, and doubted there would have been much of it left intact anyway, but the colouring gave it away even if the three smiling flowers on the flank had not. He grimaced again, shaking his head slightly as he looked back to his brother. “Seriously…this? This is what the Fourth legion does now?” Rorke didn’t respond, continuing to watch warily. Zuko took his own time before speaking, trying to claw for any appropriate words. “You do realise I have to kill you now, right?” Rorke twitched slightly, limbs tensing as he licked blood-flecked teeth. Zuko placed his left leg forward, hand tightening around the grip of a bolt pistol. “After all this time…all these years of needling each other, of mutual loathing…” He sounded more regretful than anything else. “And…I don’t know what to say to you, brother.” He was still for a moment. Slowly, in a move that seemed to surprise even him, Zuko extended his left hand towards Rorke. “You won’t listen, because you’re a violent, insane bastard who doesn’t respect me or anything this Legion stands for…but you are my brother.” His head tilted slightly. “Please…Castlemayn…” Rorke flinched at the use of his first, barely spoken name, but gave no more reaction than that. “Come back from the edge.” For the briefest moment, a flicker of sanity seemed to light in Rorke’s eyes, and Zuko dared to hope that he’d gotten through. Then the red mist seemed to descend again, and he knew his brother was lost forever. Rorke howled as he charged, bounding forwards towards Zuko like a slavering beast. Zuko acted quickly, shifting his stance and drawing his bolt pistol. This time, the weapon he produced in that swift motion was shot towards an Iron Warrior, the bullet streaming through the air towards Rorke’s bare head. Time seemed to slow, focusing around that single point – the ripple in the air as the munition passed. It missed. For all Zuko’s accuracy, Rorke’s momentum was astounding. The angle was misjudged, the bolt merely pinging off the manic Space Marine’s armour. It wasn’t enough to stop his charge, or even throw him off balance, as he leapt forward with arms outstretched. They tightened round Zuko’s as the pair went down hard, rolling around in the dirt like a pair of squabbling infants. Zuko grunted and gagged as the armoured, blood-soaked fingers pushed into his windpipe, vision swimming before him. Rorke’s eyes were pits, the depths of madness boiling there having completely smothered any lasting trace of the man the Aspiring Champion had once been. Eventually, just as he was about to black out completely, Zuko’s struggling bore fruit. Their weight shifted slightly, and the endangered Iron Warrior managed to bunch his knees to his chest. With a cry he kicked out, using the bionic strength in his legs to provide power his mortal frame could not. It was an effort, but Rorke was dislodged. The other Astartes rolled back as he fell, landing in a bestial crouch. Somehow – even he wasn’t sure – Zuko had managed to retrieve the power sword from Rorke’s side as he was beaten back. The maniac hadn’t even thought to use it. There was barely time to turn it on before Rorke hurled himself forth once more, screaming obscene war cries to his God. He still managed to duck the first blow, moving like lightning as he tried to rip at any part of Zuko’s armour that offered purchase. Zuko swung the blade in wide, sweeping arcs, but he had never been the swordsman – a downward, diagonal strike gave Rorke the chance to reach up and grab his brother by the wrists. They tussled again, Rorke’s greater strength matched by Zuko’s control. Their eyes met, tunnel vision almost overtaking Zuko as they stared at one another. His own face was set and determined, all thoughts of fraternal camaraderie expunged as he struggled for control of the weapon. Rorke’s features were twisted and convulsing in agony, his own body shaking more violently than ever before, though it did not affect his hold on the grapple. Blood fell from more than just his forehead now; it poured down from the nose, the ears, the corners of his mouth, even some from the eyes. Eventually, co-ordination struck a blow to blind fury. Shifting his footing at the last moment Zuko feinted, before delivering a downward strike with the IV’s trademark methodical precision. Rorke roared as his left forearm dropped to the ground, but the wound did not seem to slow the battering assault on Zuko even for a moment. Blood poured from the stump as well now, ichor dripping from him like a waterfall. A right hook smashed into Zuko’s face, knocking one or two teeth loose. He just about managed to duck beneath the follow-up blow, slashing the tip of the blade across his brother’s sternum. Another gouge opened up on Rorke’s armour. The drop in his guard was momentary, but all Zuko needed. He brought the blade round in another downward chop, energised edge slamming into the other Iron Warrior’s shoulder. Rorke’s assault finally halted. The other Marine’s face froze, a look of dumb incomprehension passing over it. Depthless anger still blazed in his eyes, but it seems that Rorke’s injuries finally caught up to him as he sank down to one knee. It had been no more than half a day since they were last in this situation – though circumstances there had been very different. Zuko took a slow, shuddering breath, almost stumbling as his one functioning heart tried desperately to keep up with his physiology. The Iron Warrior gave an uncharacteristic wince, bending over slightly as he clutched at the cape bandaging his chest. He took the hand away, looking down at it – he didn’t know whether the gore on it belonged to him, or one of his brothers. The array of weapons still strapped to him made moving difficult to an extent, but not enough to stop him now. He straightened, casting a pitying look at Rorke as he brought the crackling blade to his brother’s neck. The downed Iron Warrior just panted like a dog, fury spent for a temporary moment. “It…I…” Zuko was at a loss for words. Even despite the fratricide he had already committed, the new mission he had decided upon, this…execution made him feel sick to his good. It was sentiment unworthy of an Iron Warrior, perhaps, but what was one more transgression? Steeling himself, he drew the blade back, angling it for the decapitating strike. Rorke just continued to glare venomously at him. The bolt of energy to his back was enough to knock Zuko from his feet, the sergeant sprawling and rolling in the dirt. He got some distance before finally stopping, reduced to lying flat on his front with a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and painfully picking himself up, Zuko growled wordlessly, shaking the last wisps of smoke and flame from off his armour as he looked towards the source of the shot. She levitated a few inches above the ground, the leaves and grass below buffeted by ethereal wind. Twilight’s eyes were blank pits of white light, the glow almost seeming to spill out of her as the blood had from Rorke. The glow suffused her horn, as well as the crackling bolts of lightning that seemed to dance across her purple fur. It didn’t seem to bother her, though the fact that she levitated bipedally as opposed to all fours would have set alarm bells ringing in Zuko’s head anyway. In one hoof, held diagonally, was a long, green staff. It had plainly been carved from something else, the end closest to the ground worked into the shape of a fish-like eye. Internally, the Marine groaned; anyone who had a passing knowledge of the forces of Chaos would recognise that eye. His expression grew almost sympathetic; from the little association he’d had with her, it was clear that Twilight would do anything to protect her friends. It seemed she didn’t realise just what a catastrophically bad idea that was. From the corner of his eye, movement. Rorke’s convulsion began again, seemingly confined to his upper body for now. The bleeding from his arm should have stopped by now, yet it kept coming. Zuko reckoned there was probably more at work than simple injury. The blood-drenched Space Marine stood on trembling legs, furious eyes locked on Twilight. She didn’t focus on either of them, seemingly locked in a state of pure, logical calm. Zuko scrambled to his own feet as quickly as he could, drawing a knife from his belt. The sword lay on the ground between the two brothers. Zuko must have dropped it as he landed. They both looked down at it, then up to one another. The hate…the hate remained, the burning and shared dislike that had spurred them on for ten thousand years. But despite Zuko’s newfound resolve, and Rorke’s mindless anger, there was something else there. It was painfully close to closure. Zuko nodded shallowly. Rorke just snarled. Zuko turned as the injured Marine leapt for the sword. Another blast of purple energy snapped at his heels, burning away at the ground, but despite the hammering in his chest he managed to outpace it. Almost distantly, he heard Rorke’s scream from behind as he charged into the fight. There was no point continuing their fight now; they had both battered one another into submission, their cold enmity given space to vent. Besides, Rorke had been nothing but a butcher for a long time now. Zuko didn’t want the strongman. He wanted the criminally polite ringmaster. He skidded to a halt as the ground rumbled again. Even from this distance his ears still rang slightly from the last time the Nox had fired, and from the way the towering construct took another step towards Canterlot, it seemed to be gearing up for another shot. As he watched, inspiration hit the Iron Warrior. Something dangerously close to a smile crossed Zuko’s face as he leant forward, forcing his abused body into another run. He knew exactly how he was going to get that Ringmaster, too.