Discord led Ricky across the entire length of the building, passing by many wooden doors and ornate columns. Ricky had just began to admire the work of the chiselers involved, when the two companions reached the throne. Discord led him around it, to the very back of the hall. There was one door. Discord pushed it open.
On the other side was a table, adorned with a single piece of equipment, the likes of which Ricky had never seen before. It was a helmet, with a metal frame made of rods that zigzagged the structure of it. A small round cylinder was welded to the back of it, which seemed to function as a tube with a lid on top. All of the rods met at one location, forming a circle around a giant red button. Next to it were two more appendages: a small speaker and a green light, which was currently unlit. The whole damn thing looked like Doc's mind reading helmet from Back To The Future. But, as Ricky got all nostalgic, Discord simply huffed upon seeing Ricky's vacant irises and clapped twice, right in front of his face.
"Lights on, idiot. Quit zoning on me, I'm trying to teach stuff!" Discord sternly lectured. For once, Ricky didn't have any real comeback, so he simply nodded quietly, giving Discord no small amount of satisfaction. His moment of triumph fleeting, Discord turned back to the helmet, before thinking better of it and turning back to face Ricky.
"Okay, before I explain what this is, let's go over some fundamentals of Tartarus and other related things," he decided aloud.
"Okay, so, first off, when I brought you to Equestria, a number of major things happened. The two biggest events were the fusion of human and Equestrian heaven, as well as hell. Now, in the afterlife, humans and ponies coexist. The second rule is that armymen basically go to hell the second they enter war, since the wars they are a part of ruin lives and lands. Therefore, every army that has ever existed is now here. Now, this device is a way for you to summon these armies outside of Tartarus, in Equestria. It’s pretty simple, actually.”
“So, it’s basically a tool to call up armies to fight for me - er, us?” Ricky surmised.
“Good observation. That’s what it is. But, there are some restrictions and rules to it.”
“As with anything good,” Ricky groaned.
“Okay. First rule is, no armies over 500,000 in strength, so you’d have to break up full armies into smaller parcels. Second rule, this thing uses magic batteries to summon armies. One battery can summon three armies and keep them there indefinitely. Any more, and the armies begin to flicker in and out between realms. To get rid of the armies you have and get new ones, the original army has to die, or you can just eject the battery, which immediately erases all armies that you have summoned.”
“Okay, got it. The helmet can only support three armies indefinitely, and no Operation Barbarossa-size armies.”
“One more thing. You can’t just call up whatever army you want whenever. You have to earn them.”
“Wait, so, it’s like unlocking armies? How the hell do I do that?!” Ricky said, beginning to feel like this was all too hard.
“Easy. You beat the commander at something that they choose, which, unless they’re retarded, will be something that they’re good at.”
“Oh, okay. So, to unlock an army, I’ve gotta beat their commander?” Ricky asked, finally getting the gist of it.
“Precisely, except for one last thing. The smaller the unit or army is, the easier it’ll be to acquire it. The greatest generals in history will be basically impossible for you to beat, at least, not until you have a sufficient following behind you.”
“So, no Caesers or Rommels yet?”
“Sure… I guess,” Discord trailed off, as he didn’t get Ricky’s reference whatsoever.
“Okay! Now, off to get some armies!” Ricky cheered as he began to leave, but not before a “Wait!” from Discord made him turn around, right before walking back through the door.
“You’ll need this,” he tossed a battery, or what Ricky assumed to be a battery, across the room. Ricky caught it in the palm of his hand. It had a small glass piece inserted into the side, with some blue substance, probably magic, showing through the little window. “Thanks,” Ricky murmured, still enthralled with the blue magic liquid inside. He turned around and left, headed for the front door.
As he arrived at the front doors, Ricky thought about what kind of army he should get first. “Well,” he thought aloud, “the ponies, from what I’ve seen, rely heavily on melee weapons to fight. So, the logical course of action is to get men with guns and turn this into a repeat of the Zulu Wars. Ah! I've got it!" Ricky cried, before heading off to find one Douglas MacArthur.
After getting directions from no less than three troopers, Ricky finally arrived in an area that was thick with Americans, wearing their distinctive tin hats, as the men themselves called them. He arrived at a small tent, the one that all of his directions had led to. He took a deep breath, before he headed inside.
MacArthur was sitting there, dressed in his green military uniform, smoking his corn-cob pipe, his feet kicked up against the oak desk, on which were a collection of items. By far the biggest and most prominent item was a giant leatherbound book. Ricky walked up to the desk, just as MacArthur became aware of his presence. He took his feet off the desk, before quickly replacing them with his hands, putting them palms-down on the table. “What is it, kid? If you can’t see, I’m doing some very important work. It’s called relaxing, and I don’t want it to be interrupted.”
Ricky repressed a grin at the old man’s humor. “I have a need for your division. Either we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
“I’m not doing jack shit until you at least explain your plan,” MacArthur stated, waiting for the explanation that was bound to come. Ricky sighed. “Fine.”
“My friends and I are planning to break out of this hellhole, and take over this land, called Equestria. The, um, inhabitants are pitifully armed and trained. I need your guns for this conquest, though.”
“Well I, for one, like it here. It’s like a beach vacation with no damn malaria, like I got the last time I was south. Plus, the only way you can make me go along with your little breakout attempt is to take control of my division." MacArthur sneered.
"And that's just what I'm here to do." Ricky shot back. He was ready for this. Now, it was down to MacArthur.
He laughed, a short burst of laughter. "I like you, kid. Tell you what. I'll wager my division that you can't beat me in my best sport."
"And that is?"
"Baseball." He only chuckled more at Ricky's dumbfounded expression. "Surprised? They called me "Dugout Doug" when I played at West Point, and it's the most damn American sport of them all. Come on, I had some of my boys make a field so that we could hold events." MacArthur stood from his seat, walking slowly to the flap of the tent, before quickly snatching one last thing from his desk. As Ricky looked, he finally saw just what it was: a baseball, the edges slightly curled and frayed from age. As MacArthur left, Ricky also stepped back out into the unforgiving and unrelenting heat. He grunted in recognition of the higher temperature, making a mental note to get a hat from somewhere, before trudging on behind the old American.
They finally arrived at the coveted American baseball field. It was a patch of dirt that had been leveled and furnished with the standard white lines and the five bases.
Needless to say, Ricky was not that impressed.
"Okay. I never pitched well, so here's the deal. If you can strike me out at bat, I'll give you control of my doughboys and their machine guns, and their artillery, and all the supplies we have for those. If you lose, you can't ever bother me ever again, lest I or my guards shoot you on sight. Deal?"
"Deal," the Scot said as he shook MacArthur's hand, before turning his back on him to walk to the pile of dirt that denoted the pitcher's mound. A small glove was sitting right next to the narrow plate, and Ricky picked it up, experimentally sliding it onto his hand. 'A perfect fit,' he thought amusedly.
"I'll swing at whatever's reasonable, so that we don't need a ump," MacArthur said, raising his voice so that Ricky could hear him perfectly fine, even though they weren't next to each other.
MacArthur, now wielding a wooden bat of antiquity, was squatted over the plate, in a ready position. His eyes narrowed slightly, face scrunched up in concentration. Ricky took a deep breath, staring at the worn baseball in the pocket of his glove. Tensing and coiling his muscles, he got into the position he had seen a million times while watching the MLB. For a beautiful second, everything around him seemed to just stop, waiting. Then, suddenly, everything was in motion.
His hand flew out of the pocket of his glove, fingers clutching the baseball. Just as his hand reached the the top of its short arc, and was a millisecond into its journey down, he let go of the ball, letting it fly. As it reached the batter’s box, MacArthur similarly launched into motion, his arm muscles pumping to get the bat out there as quickly as possible. It finally got there, only to be greeted by air.
Ricky’s pitch was simply too fast for MacArthur.
MacArthur let out an annoyed huff of air, before turning back to Ricky. “Where in blue blazes did you learn to throw like that, kid?” Ricky grinned. “I never had an affinity for English sports, so I played as pitcher for my small high school baseball team. Not to mention I get quite an arm workout from lifting bucks all day.” MacArthur smiled sheepishly. “Maybe I should’ve figured out a bit more about you before we did this,”
“Hindsight’s a beautiful thing, ain’t it? Come on, let’s do this,” Ricky taunted slightly, but it served its purpose. MacArthur grinned, an evil look spreading across his features. “Oh, it’s on!”
Ricky wound up again, and MacArthur set himself back into the ready position, waiting for the pitch. Ricky’s hand shot forth once more, releasing the ball again. This time, it was just slightly lower than last time. He saw a flash of red, and he immediately knew what pitch it was: a curveball. MacArthur tensed, and swung. The ball, however, did not pass the plate until MacArthur’s bat was in the upward motion. MacArthur blinked in confusion.
Ricky had tricked him once again. “And that isn’t even my star pitch,” Ricky taunted once again, as if he read MacArthur’s mind and finished his though for him. MacArthur gritted his teeth. ‘I got this,’ he thought.
The next pitch was imminent. Both players tensed again. Ricky’s hand shot forth again, and as soon as he released it, MacArthur knew what it was again: a sinker. He thanked his baseball knowledge and experience for this moment, before winding and then swinging, bringing the edge of the bat down more to compensate for the ball sinking.
There was the sound of contact. Leather and cork against wood. The ball moved… backwards. MacArthur was dumbfounded, until he realized what happened. Ricky had put a forward spin on it, just in case he hit it. And it had worked like a charm, since the bat only grazed the bottom of the ball.
“The wrist is a beautiful thing, cause it just saved me,” Ricky quipped. On the inside, though, he was heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Damn, that was too close,’ he thought.
The next pitch was a second away, as both players settled in again. They both knew that this was it; MacArthur wouldn’t fall for some cheap spin trick again. Ricky took in his options. Both he and MacArthur were right-handed, so a screwball was out of the question. It would be an easy hit if he decided to throw straight, ‘cause MacArthur had already seen all of the tricks he could do with a old, worn baseball. He had one last pitch in his repertoire that he could use with any degree of success.
‘Showtime for the Scot,’ he thought amusedly. He wound up again, seeing MacArthur already in his position, bat raised and ready to crack one all the way back to Earth. He took a deep breath, and before the gravity of his situation could reach him, his muscles sprung, packing behind them the force and determination of a man who knew that everything was on the line.
The pitch came, straight into the middle of the strike zone, before it suddenly spiraled down and away. MacArthur smiled, knowing a slider when he saw one. He swung, the bat carving through the warm air, destined to smash the baseball opposing it.
Except it didn’t.
MacArthur stared in awe as the ball zipped past his bat just as the bat was about to get to its target destination. Then, as the ball flew off into the distance to land on the baked earth with a dull thud, it finally clicked. He had lost. He turned back around to see a grinning Ricky, standing next to him. MacArthur sighed.
“Okay kid, you win. The 42nd Rainbow Division is under your direct command.”
“No, it’s not,” Ricky said, choosing to ignore MacArthur’s dumbfounded look, “I want you to command it still. It’s just that you’ll take orders from me.”
“Whatever you say, kid,” MacArthur chuckled as Ricky pulled out the magic battery, looking it over, when he noticed something he hadn’t seen before. A small green button on the side opposite the glass. Deciding to take a chance, Ricky pressed the button. Suddenly, the Rainbow Division patch on MacArthur’s shoulder began to glow a bright blue. The blue magic in the liquid began to glow brighter than it was before, escalating to an almost blinding light. And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone. Both the patch and the blue liquid stopped glowing, but Ricky knew that his mission was complete.
“One down,” he thought aloud. But he knew, no matter how big this triumph was.
He knew that this was just the beginning.