It’s official. All hell has broken loose, and it’s doing it right in the middle of a kingdom of magical, talking ponies. God can be a funny bastard like that, eh? Then again, I doubt God has very much to do with the shimmering portals spewing forth nightmares and monstrosities all over Canterlot castle, but if he does, he’s got a lot of explaining to do when I inevitably meet him. Though, based on the tentacle-covered monstrosities slithering up the stained glass windows and the winged horrors currently hacking the pegasi corps to bits and the ugly-assed slug things trailing acidic mucous as they schlepp through the streets far below, that might be a whole helluva lot sooner than I thought it would be.
“This way, sir!” The guardspony at my side screeches, their little metal slippers clanking on the tile. “Please try to keep up!”
“You callin’ me fat!?” I howl, still fiddling with the object in my black, chitin-covered hand, the cat-like pupils dominating my eyes pulsing with anger.
“No, I’m just saying you should drop that walking stick already!” The pony barks back, armor clanking as they slide to a stop to whip their head around and face me. “Whatever you’re doing with it, I don’t think it can help us!”
I finish twisting the curved handle off and slide it into a secret hole built into the “walking stick’s” side, working it back and forth once. A loud “cha-chunk” sounds, and I watch one of my shotgun shells slide past the lever and into the chamber with a satisfying, metallic click. A grin crosses my face as a little, green light pops up in my eyes, my fangs sliding into view out of simple satisfaction. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“DUCK!” The guardspony screams, and I look up just in time to watch one of the black tentacles crash through a stained glass window, followed by a loud hiss from whatever it’s attached to. I shiver. I can’t be certain: I mean, I’ve always prided myself on my mental fortitude, but I’m pretty sure that if I saw whatever that tentacle was attached to, it’d drive me nuts.
The weapon in my black, chitin-covered claws clatters as I shake, as if it too is terrified of the apocalypse breaking loose all around us. “Shh, it’s alright, girl,” I hiss, stroking the weapon’s barrel like a frightened cat. “I’m scared too.”
“KILDEEZ!” The guardspony’s screams make me jolt upright. Oh yeah, there’s a tentacle beast trying to kill us all. Almost forgot about that.
The guardspony twists, a spear in their hooves, the sunlight glittering off their golden helmet. The tentacle swats both pony and weapon away like a fly, sending the guard flying against a wall. Oh, now doesn’t that just piss you off? Like, really! How low do you have to be to pick on a pretty little pony!? You know, besides us changelings, of course. “’EY! Nobody messes with da ponies but us changelings!” I yell, my voice booming off the walls. The distraction works, the tentacle immediately turning away from the semi-conscious pony and slithering towards me, some mucous-like crap hissing off its form from between its fluorescent green suckers.
“Black and green. Hmm, must be a popular color scheme,” I mutter as I easily side-step the flailing mass and drop to a knee, allowing it to shoot right by me like a dumbass. I wrap my finger around the trigger and squeeze, and instantly a big chunk of meat goes flying away from the center of the black, writhing mass with a thunderous crack. The creature lets out a shriek like a cross between Justin Bieber taking a sledgehammer to the crotch and a rake being drawn across a chalkboard, confirming my belief that whatever it is probably won’t be on the cover of Victoria’s Secret anytime soon.
The tentacle slithers away, apparently deciding to go after prey that might be easier and less kill-tastic. Smart choice, if you ask me. In the brief respite, I sprint to the fallen guardspony, toss them over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and leg it into the nearest storage closet, kicking the door shut behind us and flicking on the light. I lean the pony against a shelf loaded with a couple hundred boxes of powdered detergent (my God, why would a pony princess need this much detergent!? Just what does she get up to when nopony’s looking!?) and gracelessly seat myself on the floor. The shotgun’s still clenched in my fingers, thank God. I thump my chest a few times to keep my heart beating and tame the effects of the adrenaline pounding through my bloodstream.
“So, you’re the rushing shadow of the Everfree, huh?” A voice next to me asks. Apparently, my guard has decided death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Good for them. “The changelings’ fist? The son of Chrysalis?”
“GENETIC son,” I reply sourly, working an extra shotgun shell out of a hidden pocket in my dress pants. “She wasn’t exactly the type to change diapees and hire a hobo to play Santa Clause on Christmas morning. I was raised on Earth: only found out about my changeling heritage about a year ago.”
The guardspony turns to me, eyebrows raised. “That…must have been quite a shock.”
“Yeah, she probably could’ve done it better than popping in my room one night all like ‘oh, hey son, I’m your real mom, you’re only half human, and magical talking ponies are totally real, except you’re part of a shape-shifting, emotion-feeding species that feeds off them.’ Kind of a bombshell to drop on a guy’s head on his 21st birthday, if you ask me.”
Those eyebrows rise until they disappear beneath the guardspony’s helmet. “She dropped all this on you during your birthday!?”
“Yeah, I know. You’d think she’d have let me sober up first.”
The pony stares blankly at me, then sighs, staring dejectedly at the opposite wall, probably accepting that if I’m their best hope for getting out of this in one piece, they’re probably gonna die. Horribly.
Welp, acceptance is the final step in coming to terms with something. Again, good for them.
“Ehh, y’know what? This shit just figures.” I grumble, working the lever-action to chamber a fresh round in my weapon.
“What’s that?” The guardspony asks.
“This was supposed to be the one job that couldn’t go wrong,” I sigh. Hey, we’re probably gonna die in a storage closet surrounded by a disproportionate amount of detergent. Might as well lay all my cards on the table while we’re here. “The one thing my ma gave me to do that couldn’t possibly end with me having to face down an army Lovecraftian horrors, or a bunch of pissed off mercs, or a rogue hive filled with deranged serial killers, or whatever-the-fuck. Just a simple diplomatic mission. Get in, chat with a pony princess over wine, secure a channel for future relations between the species, and head home in time to waste a few hours scaring the piss out of myself with a Creepypasta narration or two. The biggest danger I was supposed to face here should’ve been finding out that all those ‘Molestia’ rumors were true and subsequently waking up cuffed to a bed with a six-foot purple dildo in my ass.”
The guard stares at me for a little while, and then cracks a grin. “All things considered, this is probably a bit better than that, eh?”
I return the grin. My madness must be contagious. “Yep. But seriously, I am not dressed for this. I mean, look at this!” I shout, raising my feet to show off my black leather dress shoes. Yes, the kind you can polish until you see a little, upside-down version of yourself in them, do you even have to ask?
“Do these look like my kick-ass shoes? No, these are my ‘dressed for success’ shoes. These are my ‘it’s time to handle business-shit’ shoes. These are most decidedly NOT my ‘handle an invasion from a universe full of Eldritch horrors’ shoes!”
“Yes, the destruction of my nation must be so hard on you,” the guard says flatly.
“Thank you for your concern!” I say, tousling the pony’s mane. “Finally, someone gets it!”
The guard just shakes their head. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I was hoping you’d know, because honestly, I’m running low on ideas over here,” I grumble, fingering the weapon in my grasp. “Shelly here’s got one helluva bite, but that only works if I’ve got ammo. Thing is, I’ve got maybe a dozen shells on me right now, and I don’t have the time to make more, which leaves us stuck in a closet and waiting to make our final stand.”
“Shelly?” The guard asks with a weird, sideways glance.
“Shelly the shotgun.”
“Of course,” the guardspony sighs, casting a forlorn glance at the door. Right now, nothing’s trying to claw at it or anything, but if and when those things outside figure out something’s breathing in here, they’ll tear through it like so much crepe paper. “So, last words?”
“I was thinking something along the lines of ‘Vidi, vici, veni’.”
"What?”
“It’s a twist on a saying from the great Roman general-emperor, Julius Caesar,” I reply, a lecherous smile crossing my face and splitting my goatee. “I was hoping to do it while balls-deep in someone, of course. It means ‘I saw, I conquered, I ca-‘”
Before I can finish what must be my fifth dirty joke in as many minutes, a low hum begins to build in the air. I cut myself off and bolt to my feet, smoothly transitioning from sitting on my rear to crouching on one knee in front of the pony, the shotgun raised. I hold a finger up for them to remain quiet, hoping they’ll get the picture and not try something stupid. All joking aside, I was well-versed in actual combat, having acquired skills after months of missions direct from my ‘mother.’ As well-trained as the Canterlot guards might be, they were still pretty outclassed by anything we might be facing here. I was probably the only one in the entire city with actual experience (And no, I don’t count the five minutes these guys spent stuck in changeling goop during the Canterlot wedding as experience). Besides, if I’m going out, it might as well be doing something remotely badass, right? You don’t get much more badass than using yourself as a living shield for an innocent. Unless you’re on fire while you’re doing it. Oh piss, y’know what? I wonder if all that powdered detergent is flammable at all…
Before I can turn myself into a walking Molotov cocktail for funnies, a trace of golden powder materialize in the air in front of my face. As I watch, weapon still raised, the powder turns into a little sparkling ball, which promptly traces out a rectangle in front of my face. The air inside the rectangle starts to go translucent with indistinct shapes and rushing colors, slowly forming into a rainbow-colored mane, complete with golden regalia, vermillion eyes, and a smile I find sexy KIND AND KNOWING! I AM NOT A CLOPPER!
“Princess!” My pony escort gasps and kneels. I smile easily and lower my shotgun to give a little bow: just a small bend at the waist, nothing much. She may not be my princess, but she was still a being deserving of my utmost respect.
“My dearest subject,” the Princess smiles as the pony crawls around me, still trying to remain in a kneeling position. It’s kind of funny, in a pathetic sort of way, I guess. I mean, the way these guys act, you’d think they all expected to be banished to the moon any moment. She did that, like, once! A thousand years ago! To save the world from eternal night! Dudes, sensitive much? “I’m so happy to see you are alright.”
“The changeling-man saved me,” the pony replies, pointing a hoof at me. “One of those tentacle things was going to kill me, but he fought it off with his stick.”
“Did he now?” Celestia regards me, an eyebrow arched coldly. “With just a regular, old, walking stick?”
“Well,” I shrug and smile sheepishly. “Perhaps I made a few modifications to it that I forgot to mention.”
“Hmm,” suddenly, a warm smile breaks out on her face. “Very creative. I knew I was right to place my trust in you, Kildeez of the changelings. You have proven to be quite the champion.”
“Aww, jeez,” I mutter, shrugging and avoiding eye contact. Cripes, I might as well throw in an ‘aww shucks’ while I’m at it, maybe rub my hand against the back of my head with a little blush added for good measure. I don’t take praise all that well. Or insults, for that matter. Really, any sort of interpersonal interaction beyond caveman-like grunts kinda tosses me for a loop. And yet I can make a shotgun that looks like a walking cane out of some wood and scavenged parts. Go figure.
“So, what’s our next move?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “And I hope it ain’t ‘fight until everything’s dead’. Usually, I’d be right there with ya, but I know enough about Japanese culture to know fighting something with tentacles that big is just gonna fuck us up in the end. Literally.”
“I’ve already sent a distress signal,” Celestia replies, her tone and expression switching to business-mode in the same amount of time most ponies would take to blink an eye. “Help will be on its way soon. In the meantime, I plan on teleporting you out of the city.”
"Wait, what!?” I yell, waving the shotgun around for emphasis. “Do y’think this is just for decoration!? I’m sorry, Princess, but I’m not going to let a country I’m supposed to be making my ally burn while I hightail it out of town! That’s just not my thing!”
“As I’m well aware,” she replies, closing her eyes patiently. “Your job will be to escort help when it arrives back to the city, providing any aid you can in navigating the demonic hordes. In the meantime, I will shield the castle and protect any inhabitants I can. We should be able to hold out until you arrive.”
“Hmm,” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Alright, definitely the best plan we’ve got so far. Then again, the only plan me and Guardy here…”
“My name is Morning Dew,” the pony grumbles.
“…me and Morning Dew here could come up with was dying in a blaze of glory, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid style. So yeah, we’ll go with your idea.”
“Excellent,” Celestia beams with the intensity of her day, a dainty little smile I find quite attractive (for a pony, of course, FOR A PONY) warming her face.
“So, what kinda help are we talking about here? A battalion of tanks? A horde of griffons? A platoon of Spehss Mahreens?”
Her smile flickers for an instant as she shakes her head, that one visible eye regarding me with an indescribable intellect. “A man known as Sifty.”
Morning Dew gasps, eyes widening. “The Champion…” the pony whispers under its breath, as if saying the name any more loudly might make this ‘Sifty’ character appear out of thin air to roundhouse kick us all into oblivion. Morning takes a few steps back before bowing their head in reverence.
Arching an eyebrow at the odd display of respect, I turn back to the Princess. “Okay, and what’s this Sifty guy bringing with him? Like, does he lead some band of mercenaries somewhere? Does he have laser eyes? Maybe a hotline to God for bringing down some good ol’ fashioned Old-Testament-flavored pain?”
“As far as I know, all Sifty has ever needed is his skills, his courage, and his blades.”
I nod. “Right, right, annnndddd…his private army of AK-wielding ostrich-riders?”
“No. His courage and his blades. That is all.”
I smile and nod at the princess’s little joke, knowing that sooner or later, she’s going to crack a smile and tell me that this was all her attempt at humor, and that Sifty is really a top-secret Equestrian anti-Nightmare cannon, or some shit. Because surely, someone with a few thousand years’ worth of wisdom couldn’t expect me to believe that she is about to pin the well-being of the entire planet on one man. Surely she couldn’t possibly…
“It is no joke,” she assures me, stating it as a simple fact. “Sifty is all we should require.”
I keep up my smile for a few extra moments, fully expecting her to break down into an adorable little giggling fit at some point. Yep. Any moment now.
Any moment.
She keeps those light, intelligent eyes on me. My smile fades.
“ARE YOU INSANE!?” I shriek, nearly knocking over one of the couple hundred boxes of detergent on the shelf behind me with an exaggerated gesture. “Princess, with all due respect, are you feeling alright!? Because I fail to see how one dude with a knife is supposed to fix the clusterfuck out there!”
The pony at my side suddenly turns to me, their eyes blazing with rage. The little thing growls – straight-up growls! – at me. “Sifty is not just ‘some dude’, and you should speak of him with the respect he…”
“Calm yourself, Morning,” the Princess assures. Like an obedient guard dog, Morning sits their little flank on the floor, glaring at me from under the helmet that found its way back on their head while I wasn’t looking. Celestia returns her attention to me. “Morning is right in one respect, Kildeez: Sifty is not just ‘some dude.’ He is a legendary warrior who has defended Equestria a thousand times before, battling the same creatures now besieging the city in dozens of encounters. Each time, he has emerged the victor utilizing only his blades, his skills, and his wits. If any man can turn the tide of this war, it is him.”
I sigh, realizing she is absolutely not going to give on this. “Okay, fine, whatever. I’ll find your mythical warrior and do my best to get him here in one piece,” I snarl. “But if I can’t find him or if he doesn’t measure up, I’m running to Acapulcolt for a few last hurrahs before the Nightmares kill us all, y’hear!?”
“But of course,” Celestia smiles knowingly. “But you should know that Acapulcolt has almost certainly been cut-off and overrun by now.”
“PISS!” I scream. There goes Plan B: dying surrounded by babes and booze. Pony babes, yes, but I’ll take what I can get. “Okay, whatever, let’s get this over with.”
“A few things,” she holds up her hooves. “For one, you might want to appear human before you meet him, and not just in body structure. It would be best if he couldn’t confuse you for the very things you’re fighting, though I’m sure he’ll accept your heritage if it comes up.”
“So no fangs, plain ol’ hair, normal eyes,” I reply, my old, human skin reappearing over my chitin and my fangs vanishing behind my gumline. My sight flickers in and out as my pupils return to a pair of simple, rounded holes, but I flash a thumbs-up to let everypony know I’m okay. “Gotcha. Anything else?”
“Yes, it would be best if he didn’t know you’re under my orders to escort him here. He’s fiercely independent, and might not take too kindly to having a ‘babysitter’, as I’m sure he’d call you.”
"Cool. So to recap: if it ain’t white, it ain’t right, and this conversation didn’t happen. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Morning Dew this time. The pony trots up to me and looks in my eyes, tail swishing in the air behind them. Morning removes the helmet and reveals a pair of deep, gorgeous blue eyes. Her extended eyelashes blink saucily as she bites her lip, and for the first time, I can see the mare hiding beneath all that golden armor. “Be careful, Kildeez, for me?”
Suddenly, she lunges up and plants a kiss on my lips. I resist at first, but fall into the kiss, my arms wrapping around her midsection in an embrace, the warmth of our bodies pressing together. I stare back at her, shocked. “Um…”
“Well, I certainly hope you can get it up with a pony someday,” she coos, cuddling into my chest.
“I…uh…” I stammer. Should I…should I be enjoying this!? Should I be pushing her away, or inviting Celestia to join in, or what? What is protocol here!?
“Seriously though, you need to get up.”
“Um, I dunno…we just met…”
“You need to get up. Get up,” she repeats, the saucy smile fading under robotic repetition. “Get up. Get up. Get up…”
--------------------------------------------
“Get up. Hey, K, get your ass up!”
"Gwwwaaaahhhh, I'm not a clopper! It was just a kiss! She snuck up on me! It meant nothing!"
Sifty frowns at me, his eyebrows hunching. “What?”
I stare blankly back up at him. “What?”
“I…nevermind. Look, it’s sunrise.”
I sit up from my sleeping bag, noting the sun starting to peek out over the treetops. “Ah, so it is,” I say, standing up to brush some of the dirt off my jeans and pull my weapon out of the makeshift holster we’d stitched together for it. Nothing fancy, just a flap made out of tanned deerskin. I thank God that Celestia thought to teleport me in my regular, non-business clothes and sneakers. They may not be my ass-kicking shoes, but they’re a whole lot better than those leather things I was wearing before she ‘ported me out of Canterlot.
Sifty nods stoically, then turns his attention downhill to the forest around us. "If we keep moving the rest of the day, we should be back at my place in Ponyville sometime in the evening."
I nod, cracking my neck and straightening up, I stretch a few muscles and work a last few yawns out of my system. Finally, I shoulder the shotgun and expend a tiny amount of changeling magic to turn my right hand into a gnarled, clawed thing straight out of a horror movie. Sifty nods to me as he draws his blade. I nod back, then a goofy grin spreads across my face.
“Ladies first,” I offer, motioning towards the town like a true English gentleman.
He delivers a roundhouse boot to my hip that sends me rolling downhill. I grin like a maniac the entire way.