Flying With Damaged Feathers

by hornethead


Chapter 21: The Old Man And The Ghost

Chapter 21: The Old Man And The Ghost

Tiran groaned as he shifted and tried to find a comfortable position. It was hard to do in his armored flight suit, the thing wasn't made for comfort outside the standard sitting position. It didn't help that the metal benches in the airship were particularly sturdy and unyielding with the constant vibration of the engines in the background making his teeth chatter if he let his jaw relax.
He knew it was going to be a long flight. The two unicorns had told him as much before they had boarded and left, but Tiran didn't think it would be almost two days. Where ever it was they had taken him after the attack, it was a long ways from civilization apparently.
Tiran tried many things to pass the time and take his mind off the trip. Still, the incessant buzzing of the engines would work their way through his concentration and rattle his mind. Currently,he had his helmet on and tightly secured, attempting to drown out the current leg of his trip by blaring music through his internal speakers.
Around the rest of the cabin, a team of stallions of all types loaded up with combat gear and weapons sat, unbelievably at ease, talking, playing games or just getting in a good snooze. Tiran envied them completely.
The only one of them he didn't envy—in fact, one he found himself impressed with—was their pilot. She was a skinny little unicorn named Flyway, constantly manning the stick in the cockpit without a moment of rest. Tiran was surprised to learn they had a female in their team, even more surprised when he learned that almost all of the RSTG's pilots were females, with few exceptions. A select group called the Night Mares.
Tiran had considered going up into the cockpit and offering to take over for a while, but when he took a peek inside, he found the system of pedals, levers and switches the mare used to keep their little ship aloft to be as nearly confusing to him as the instruments and controls in the Cloudburst would probably be to them. He'd decided to let the pro handle it and resumed trying to catch a good wink of sleep.
Trying and still failing to do.
Tiran wasn't even sure he wanted to go to sleep any way. There wasn't a drop of alcohol in sight to help him usher in the dreamless slumber he craved and probably wouldn't be in some time. It wasn't that he wasn't fond of dreams. He'd even enjoyed his own nightmares. It was that ever since the accident, the sight the mangled body of his friend and co-pilot, the men screaming and dying, Gunny's blood fountaining from his neck. None of his dreams had been dreams. Just memories. Horrible memories, over and over again.
The doctors caused it a symptom of post-traumatic stress. Something that was continuously flaunted about during Tiran's court-marshal. The one that eventually saw him dropped from service. Even after they'd spent all that money putting him back together. Talk about misappropriation of funds.
Even so, it wasn't like any of that mattered to Tiran any more. That is, unless he could get back to his own world. Although, after putting some thought to it; getting back, reporting to Cherovic—if he didn't die, reduced to his component atoms by whatever forces were at work within the M-drive—then trying to explain where he'd been . . .
Yeah, not looking good.
Something caught Tiran's attention in the corner of his eye. The threat assessment in his HUD lit up one of the team members, painting the pegasus a calm blue, while outlining the various weapons he carried and their potential to do him harm. It was a feature Tiran had played around with during their transit, a helpful little application that he hadn't had time to explore before.
Tiran thought it would be prudent to update it, seeing as it hadn't any real data stored in it before and it seemed he was going to be in these kinds of situations for the long haul. It was a useful thing, as Tiran turned his head to get a better view, the program showed no less than three bladed weapons on the winged soldier's body, plus a curious little contraption strapped to his right hoof that the threat assessment program told him was some kind of modified firearm.
As the pegasus stallion continued on to the rear of the compartment, Sylver slid into view. The program on Tiran's HUD highlighted him, picking out three anti-personnel explosives, a small accurate sidearm strapped to his chest and one wickedly long rifle cinched down on his back. One look at the display told Tiran that it was a high caliber, heavy barreled weapon with an extremely long range.
Ok, so don't piss that guy off.
"See something you like?" Sylver asked, noticing Tiran's gaze.
The audio cut off Tiran's music, much to his chagrin, so he popped the seals and took his helmet off—not feeling like resetting it—and sat up.
"Not really," Tiran said. "Just noticed that big, fuck-off rifle is all. We planning on exploding something from a mile away?"
"Oh, this?" Sylver reached back and unhooked the rifle, holding it up for Tiran to see. "Not really, this is just in case we get some unwanted visitors. She's a beaut, though, huh?" he added with a loving smile.
"You think we might have some party crashers?" Tiran asked, trying to hide his anxiety at the thought of another shoot-out. His side still itched from where they'd dug out the bullet and patched him up. They'd even fused his shattered ribs back together. Magic. It could be a wonderful thing.
"Hope not," Sylver replied over the drone of the engine. "But we'll be ready if it comes to that."
"Yeah. I hope so." Tiran muttered as his thoughts drifted towards his own armaments.
He had his gauss pistol clipped to his thigh, plus the small submachine gun that had been confiscated from him on a clip in the small of his back. They'd let him have it back, given the situation. The only thing he was missing was the old pistol, the one he'd taken from his storage shed.
According to Commander Sparks, it had been lost in the attack. Tiran hoped that wasn't the case. He really, really wanted it back. If not for sentimentality, then for the fact that it was an extremely well put together piece of ordinance. With any luck, after they met this 'Old Man' they could continue on to retake the RSTG's little hidden base and he could recover it with the Cloudburst.
"Listen up!" Sparks barked from the front of the compartment. The team of operatives came to attention to listen to what their leader had to say, Tiran just turned his head. "We're dropping into what is believed to be a cold zone. That doesn't mean that trouble can't come find us. I want everypony on their A-game here. Set the perimeter and keep on comms. If one of you sees something, report it to everypony else. Sylver, you're on overwatch, Nightlash's your spotter. Tiran, you're with me, drop in five."
The group responded with a chorus of 'yes sirs', Tiran just sighed and began double checking that he had everything. he didn't want to lose any equipment on this next part. Sparks had told him they'd be fast roping in, something Tiran was wholly unfamiliar with. He hoped he didn't fall and land on his ass.
Tiran double checked, then triple checked his equipment, satisfied that everything was in place. Then he pushed himself off the bench and ambled over to his mark by an access hatch in the bottom of the deck. The rest of the team lined up against the bulkhead by the side door, checking each other while Sparks and Sylver supervised.
Finally, the airship swung into position. One of the team members threw the side door open and the operatives began leaping out onto the lines and sliding down towards the earth. The access hatch at Tiran's feet slid to the rear, revealing a brown patch of dirt waiting more than thirty feet below. Tiran pushed the rope out the hole and wrapped his right leg around it.
He took a few deep breaths, gripped the rope tight and dropped into the hatch.
The line of woven rope zipped and whined through his hands and feet as Tiran quickly fell the thirty feet to the hard, unforgiving land. Just before he hit bottom, Tiran jammed his right foot on the top of his left, creating a vice that stopped the rope between it and slowing his decent.
Tiran dropped the last half foot, landing with a jarring thud, and stepped away to make room for Sparks, Sylver and Nightlash. As he tried to untangle himself from the rope, he tripped and fell face down, scrabbling to get back up. All around him the rest of the group was fanning out in quick fashion, disappearing into the surrounding woods and searching the area. Tiran pulled out his pistol and made sure it the charge was still good for the hundredth time.
Behind him, Sylver and Nightlash dropped to the ground, quickly followed by Sparks. "You alright there, fly boy?" the unicorn said with a smirk. "Try not to get a concussion."
Tiran shot him a sarcastic smile then turned away, shaking his head.
Sylver pointed to a small rise on which a great boulder rested and together galloped off. Sparks began checking in on his fireteams, coordinating each one until he was satisfied with their placement.
As all this happened, Tiran took in his new surroundings.
It was a quiet slice of land, covered with large shady oak trees and dotted with small bushes and scrub brush. All around and between the trees the ground was blanketed with lush and soft grass as green as a field of emeralds. Not too far off from the landing zone, a small homestead stood.
It was a humble place. Just a modest two story house with a large porch and an old post fence circling it with enough room for a decent sized yard. within the yard was a quaint little garden where rows of vegetables and berries grew unabashed among the scattering of exquisitely cared for daffodils and chrysanthemums. Near the garden, a latticework of creeping jasmine sheltered a small patio resplendent with leisurely chairs and a table. Amongst all these features, there were little tracks in the grass and dirt, like a small wheeled chariot.
To Tiran, it looked well maintained, but empty and foreboding in the wan morning light. As if they would find naught but ghosts within the walls of the otherwise charming and well appointed abode.
"Where are we?" Tiran quietly asked as Sparks finished with the round of reports.
"A little patch of land by a small town called Hollow Shades."
"And this is where the 'Old Man' lives?"
"Yes," Sparks replied with a buzz of annoyance to his voice. With a casual trot, he started for the entrance to the home. "Stay close to me and don't speak unless he specifically asks you something, understand?"
"Yeah yeah, I got it," Tiran said, following him.
"Good. Now put that damn weapon away, he doesn't take kindly to ponies showing up with guns at the ready. In fact, he doesn't take kindly to almost anypony coming to his home, except for a select few."
Tiran did as he was told and clipped the pistol back into place on his thigh, "Like who—you?"
"Fortunately, yes. But the rest of these guys running around on his land with rifles might piss him off pretty good, so watch what you do or else you might get shot."
Tiran paused mid step, "Wait, what?"
Sparks didn't answer and just kept walking. He was halfway up the ramp to the porch when Tiran shook his head and quickened his pace to catch up, though with a bit more hesitation in his gait.
They stopped at a the dull wooden door adorning the front of the house. Tiran halted a few steps away, but Sparks continued on and knocked politely three times with his hoof. They waited there for a time, Sparks standing calmly at the door, tiran shuffling his feet uncomfortably and glancing about.
When no one came to answer the door, Sparks knocked again, this time with more urgency. Sparks began to tap a hoof impatiently against the hard wood deck while Tiran began to wonder if they were even at the right place. Finally, curiosity overtook Tiran and he moved towards one of the windows, edging towards the frame and cautiously peeking into the home.
It was dark inside, nary a shadow or silhouette could be discerned. All Tiran could make out were a few pieces of furniture closer to the window and not much past that. It gave him the creeps.
Becoming impatient, Sparks pounded more forcefully on the door. Tiran stepped back, away from the window, growing nervous. His thoughts went to the strange and deadly group of mercenaries that had attacked them just days ago. What if they knew about this place too? What if they were waiting for them?
Sparks must have had the same thoughts because he drew his sidearm and whispered something into his microphone. A dip of his head and a short nod later, his horn began to grow brighter, the aura engulfing the knob of the door. There was a sharp snap, like something breaking, and he quietly pushed it open.
The door swung inward on squeaking hinges, sending a tingle up Tiran's spine. Sparks shot a sharp glance back at him and nodded towards the interior of the house. Tiran drew his own sidearm and followed the unicorn as he slunk into the door's gaping maw.
The house seemed to swallow him. It was still dark inside, but faint light from the windows provided enough illumination to see. They stepped into a sort of living room, the air was warm and the walls seemed to stifle any sounds. A floor board creaked as Tiran stepped down, causing him to pause.
"Jackson, you here?" Sparks called out with indisposition.
They were met with silence at first. Then came a light knock from a room further back, causing them both to snap towards the sound. If Tiran listened hard enough, he thought he could hear harried whispering.
Sparks gave Tiran a needled glance, "Stay here. Keep your back to a corner. Don't move unless I tell you."
Tiran nodded, forcing an anxious gulp down his throat, and slowly backed towards a comfortable looking couch with a small table sat next to it. Satisfied with Tiran's position, Sparks mumbled something into his radio and continued on, sidearm held ready in his arcane grip.
As the stallion glided away, Tiran marveled a bit at how he could move so quietly and fluidly on hard wood with hooves. He was wrenched from the thought by a loud squeak from an adjoining room. He snapped his pistol up, but lowered it a moment later after deciding it was nothing.
Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, as if time were traveling through a thick stream of syrup. Tiran began to tick them off in the back of his mind as it created ghosts and phantoms for him to flinch at with every out of place sound in the foreboding home. Sometimes, he though he would catch something at the edge of his vision—just a flicker—but when he looked, the sights of his pistol lining up, there was nothing.
Finally, it happened. Three muffled shots rang out from somewhere in the house, in the direction Sparks had gone. Tiran ducked, then brought his pistol to bear, frantically searching for a target. When none presented themselves, he shakily stood and took a step forward.
"Jackson, that you?" Tiran heard Sparks call out from some hidden place deeper in the house.
A rough, but youthful male voice answered, and Tiran was surprised when he thought he detected a Brooklyn accent, "Sparky? Are you in my fuckin' house!?"
"You almost shot me!"
"Well next time, fuckin' announce yourself before you get lit up!"
"Tiran!" Sparks called, "It's safe, but stay there!"
"Who the fuck is Tiran?" the other voice shouted.
"Long story."
"Then get down here and tell it!" the voice demanded. "Then you can help me up the damn stairs!"
"Dammit. Tiran, this might take a minute!"
Hooves clunked on wood and receded to a space below the floor. Tiran thought that there must be a basement down there. He let out a breath, allowing the tension that had built up inside him to drain away. at least this time, it seemed he wouldn't be getting shot at. From below came the sound of quiet arguing and the rattle of some kind of equipment. They seemed to be taking their time, so Tiran took the opportunity to look around.
Like most places he'd been in so far, the house seemed sparsely furnished besides the comfortable looking pieces in the room he currently occupied. Through one door, he thought he could see a kitchen with counters set conspicuously low.Towards the other side of the house was a set of shallow stairs with ruts carved into their steps, making some sort of hybrid ramp. On either side of the steps were a series of hand holds, creating the look of some odd ladder.
He walked around while listening to the two people below struggle with something, trying to gather as much information as possible. As Tiran looked about, something caught his eye. It was just a small colorful flash in his peripheral, a wink of light. He followed it to the small end table by the couch.
On the table was a small wooden frame, black velvet set the background. The flash appeared again, from a small colorful stone with strange writing carved into its face. To Tiran it looked like some kind of Arabic text. He suddenly felt a strange compulsion in the back of his mind to touch it, examine it. He reached for the frame, then paused to take off his gloves.
Turning back towards the frame, Tiran reached for the edge, but misjudged the distance and accidentally knocked it over. He cursed as the stone fell out and clattered loudly against the surface of the end table and then the floor where it fell. Tiran glanced over his shoulder, but no one came up to investigate it.
Tiran returned his attention to the stone and gingerly picked it up with his right hand, carefully turning it over and inspecting its surface for scuffs or scratches. he suddenly felt a jolt go through his skin and up his bones, nearly causing him to drop it again.
"Nice little thing, isn't it?"
Tiran whipped around and scrabbled for the frame at hearing the words. He tried to jam the stone back into its spot, but the thing didn't seem to want to fit.
"Whoa, calm down now, you don't wanna break it."
"S-sorry," Tiran managed, embarrassment flushing his face. "I was just . . ."
Tiran froze as he looked up. there was a man standing in the room now, not ten feet away, arms crossed against his chest. He was of middling height, coming in at just under six feet. He was muscled, but lean. A few curious scars were carved into his face which held two piercing blue eyes with a small star burst of yellow around the irises and was topped with short cropped sandy hair.
"Go ahead," the man said, gesturing towards Tiran. "Finish your sentence."
"I was just...putting this back." Tiran awkwardly tried to shove the stone back in its place and place the frame back.
The man held up a hand, "Oh, no no, keep it," he said. "If you ask me, it's been sitting there far too long."
"Oh," Tiran said, cupping the stone in his hand. "You sure?"
"Yeah, go ahead! Just make sure not to break it, that's a pretty important object, if you believe me."
"O...k..." Tiran felt uneasy, but followed the man's direction and deposited the stone in a small compartment on his waist. He took a few steps toward the man, "Um... do you live here?"
The man chuckled and took a few steps around the room, away from Tiran. His footfalls were silent, as if he weighed no less than the air surrounding them. "If you can call it living..." he deadpanned.
Tiran was a little confused by the man's remark, "But... you do live here, right? This is your house?"
The man looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I am here. Or maybe not." He chuckled again, "Who knows?"
"Right..."
"So..."
"Oh, right," Tiran said, flustered. "Sorry. We came looking for somebody, Jackson, I think. But... I thought there was only one human here," Tiran said, taking a step closer. The man took another step back. "Are you his friend, or something? what are you doing here?"
The man smirked, "Yeah, you could say I'm his friend. And you could say there is only one human here, if you wanna get technical. The real question is..." the man's eyes narrowed and grew intense, "What are you doing here?"
"Tiran!" Tiran looked over at the call of his name and saw Sparks standing at the door to the kitchen with a man in a wheelchair, who's eyes widened with a glimmer of recognition for a split second at the sight of Tiran, but then returned to a sour expression just as quickly. "Who the hay are you talking to?"
Tiran pointed towards the strange man, "I was talking too..." but when he looked back, the man was gone.
Sparks raised an eyebrow in skepticism.
"I swear, he was right there!"
"Sure," Sparks said, clearly not convinced. "Did you hit your head harder than I thought back there?"
"No," Tiran protested, "I didn't, he was—!"
Sparks cut him off, "Cut it. I want you to get checked out by Nightlash later, make sure you didn't scramble something in that egg shell of yours."
"But—"
"Shut up and listen to the guy!" The man in the wheelchair barked. "I ain't got all day with this shit."
Tiran had expected some one much older given the sound of the voice and the time frame he'd been told, but the man wheeling into the room seemed to be only in his late twenties. He had dark skin and was bald as a bowling ball with eyes like dark coffee. The muscles that rippled under his shirt told of the many years that he'd spent in his handicapped state.
"So this is what you invaded my home and dragged me out of the basement for," he said, looking Tiran up and down, "Fuckin' Robocop?"
Sparks sighed, "No Jackson, he isn't Robo...whatever. This is Tiran. He's a human, like you, that recently arrived. Tiran, this is Jackson."
As Jackson wheeled closer, Tiran noticed the large revolver sticking conspicuously from a holster mounted on the wheelchair's side. "Yeah?" Jackson said. "What's with the fancy get-up?" he asked, expression flinty, directing the question at Tiran.
Tiran struggled for an answer, "It's a...my, um..."
Jackson waved a hand dismissively and spun back towards the kitchen, "Don't worry about it, I don't really care. Come on."
Tiran tentatively followed for a moment, drawing level with Sparks who stood there with a tired, but nostalgic, expression on his face. "Don't worry," he said. "He'll warm up. He's just getting cranky in his old age."
"Old age?" Tiran found the comment disconcerting, "He looks like he can't be much older than me."
"Well, if memory serves me right, you humans only live for about seventy, eighty years. He was about twenty-seven when he came here almost thirty years ago. Must be pushing sixty now. It's weird, but I think you guys start to age almost as slowly as we do when you stay here long enough."
"Really?" Tiran asked. "How old are you then?"
Sparks frowned slightly and was about to answer when Jackson interrupted from the kitchen, "You two fruits gonna come and have a beer or what?"
Tiran perked and Sparks grinned a little, "Told you he'd warm up," he said, starting towards the portal to the kitchen.
Tiran still wanted answers from Sparks, but the promise of a free beer was more alluring. Other things still swam at the back of his mind, though. Thoughts that he still wanted to bring to the surface. Most of all was the strange man he'd seen, but apparently no one else had.
He shuddered to think that maybe, just as he though at the beginning of this mad cap journey, he was actually starting to lose his mind. Or, at least, he really had hit his head harder than he thought.
His mind slipped towards the strange stone currently secured on his waist. Tiran wondered if he should put it back. But then, what if the man had been real and the stone was important? Why had he told him to keep it?
"Yo, Robocop, get in here!" Jackson called from the kitchen.
Tiran shrugged and followed in Sparks' steps. There would be another time to ruminate on the swirling questions in his mind. For now, he would just listen to the odd human in the kitchen and enjoy a beer.