Here's something you might not have gotten from my last couple entries: I am an angry person. What can I say? Everybody has their flaws, and I'm man enough to admit mine, and I can tell you that I have a temper. Take right now, for instance. Right now, Sifty is fighting off some big bastard, trying like hell to keep us both alive, and all I can think about is how he would look if I stuck my shotgun up his ass and just kept working the trigger until it clicked dry.
Yeah, I know, I don't even have shells to try, tell that to a man who's just been clocked in the jaw by a guy he was supposed to be fighting alongside. Later, I'll probably be a bit more clearheaded to see things from his perspective. I'll probably realize how justified he is in his suspicions, and how right he is to be so damned suspicious of everybody and everything, with our line of work being what it is. In fact, he'd be foolish not to have developed such paranoia about his surroundings, and I might even applaud him for detecting my little slip-up.
But none of that has anything to do with right now. Right now, between my aching jaw and the adrenaline still pumping through my body, a part of me is tempted to clock him in the back of the head just to see the look of surprise on his face in the split second before the big bastard in front of us vaporizes our asses.
Speaking of, what the shit is that thing!? Doesn't look like any Nightmare I've seen: sure, the big, misshapen, muscular body bulging like a diseased hot dog from the bottom of some street vendor's cart and the ungodly shrieking it keeps letting loose all fit, but what's with the circuitry running just beneath the vein-covered, pulsing skin? And it's arm! One of its arms looks it was pulled off a robot and given some sorta futuristic laser weapon, complete with bigass, skin-shredding claws.
Despite the thing's appearance, Sifty charges it, his voice booming something incoherent with the power of the Dragonborn behind it. The very ground rumbles with the sheer force of his shout. I would be impressed, if I wasn't so hung up on the idea of changing my arms into scythes and hooking a serrated blade into the side of his neck, twisting only slightly so I can watch his blood dribble from around my blade, his eyes locked on me as they slowly glaze over as I've seen them do a thousand times, each time with the gratitude and release of...
"No," I gasp quietly. "No, that's not me. That's not me. That's not me..."
I mumble it over and over again, eventually regaining just a modicum of control, at least until the "intrusive" thoughts quiet down, as they usually do. I repeat the phrase over and over again, just like my therapist told me, bless her little heart. She might have just saved both our lives here.
Just as I'm feeling like myself again, my own backpack smashes into my face. I look up to see Sifty standing over me, glaring hatefully. "I'll tear answers out of you later," he grumbles. "We've spent enough time playing with our milk-sticks. We've got Darkspawn to catch up to. I believe we owe them a kick in the daddy bags."
As fun as that sounds, I make sure to continue repeating my therapist's phrase to myself over and over again, because there's no denying that dark twinge in my heart upon seeing the look in his eyes. Teach him, that twinge says. Educate him. Show him why you are the changelings' fist, educate all of them and MAKE them see...
"Not me. Not who I am. Not me," I keep reminding myself as I join Sifty out the door. He doesn't ask what I'm mumbling. Which is good. I'm not sure what would have happened if he had.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We walk in silence, which is for the best really. If I'd opened my mouth, Sift would have eventually asked that question again, and when I refused to answer, things might have gotten a little heated. And when two men with tempers go at it, there's no telling where things could end up. A hospital if nobody upstairs is paying attention. A morgue if they are and decide they're finally sick of our bullshit.
A few hours of listening to birdsong pass uneventfully, the relaxing and charming qualities of the great forest around us ruined by the possibility that we are being followed, and that whoever is on our tail is also just chomping at the bit for a chance to hit us again. Of course, we're not total pessimists. Maybe we did totally wipe out the local Nightmare population in the last battle, and maybe any survivors are terrified at us for shortening the length of their Christmas card lists. Maybe. Always better to err on the side of caution though, right? Still, a few hours of brooding silence can weigh on you. Doesn't matter how serene the forest may appear, or how much the crunch of fallen leaves under your boots reminds you of home, sooner or later the boredom and frustration just gets to you.
It takes me a while, but I eventually concede defeat to my own lousy attention span (thank you, years of web-surfing) and pull a small bass guitar out of my pack. I strum a few notes, getting myself warmed up. I picked up playing during my first few days with the changelings. Grabbed this little plywood beauty during one of my excursions into Equestria, hiding out as a pegasus mare named Starsong (yes, I said mare, don't judge me) in a little, middle-of-nowhere village. Well, okay, it was less an excursion and more a mission to hunt down a local beastie with a taste for chitin and the blood of a half-dozen ponies and infiltrators on its talons, but you catch my drift.
After a while, I start to feel the familiar hum of inspiration passing through my mind. You writers out there know what I'm talking about. You artists too, probably. That strange wave of pure bliss and relaxation that hits you when you're in the zone, and your own mind and sense of self disappears, leaving only you and your art to create something beautiful. Or beautiful to you, at the very least, and usually that's enough.
With that beautiful hum still buzzing through my head, my fingers start working the strings. An epic song of my people enters my thoughts, begging me to breathe into it life. I obey, helpless against the whisper of inspiration, finally granting existence to words and chords that have stood since time immemorial, standing as tall as the ancient epics of Homer or the teachings of Sun Tzu.
"She was a fast machine,
She kept the motor clean,
She was the best damn woman that I'd...ever seen!"
"AC/DC, half-breed?" Sift asks, breaking me out of my trance.
I pause, falling silent for just a moment. Those were the first words he's spoken to me in hours. Plus, they were tinged with an insult, but the light tone in his voice suggests that I'm getting through to him, so I keep right on playing.
"Thank God you recognized them," I say, actually relieved. "Most younger people these days couldn't tell Mick Jagger from Paul Simon."
"Really?" He says, his tone lightening considerably. "Jeez, the Stones were only the first rock group ever."
My playing halts again. Did I hear that right? Did he just express knowledge as to who Mick Jagger was? With a quivering voice, hardly daring to hope we might also go this far, I ask: "Wha-wha-what about the Beatles?"
"Eh, they did a lot for rock, sure, but they didn't have that edge yet. Naw, the Stones were the ones who made that last crossing to pure rock."
If he had been a woman, I would have dropped to one knee and proposed on the spot. Then again, if I ever did meet a woman like Sifty, I'd have to hook the two of them up just to see what kind of baby would pop out. Knowing Sift, that kid would probably spinning kick the doctor right in the face as it popped out of its mother's womb, then it would slice through its own umbilical cord with the knife it had clenched in its gums and head out to cleanse the universe of evil, one bullet at a time.
Motherfucker, I definitely should've been a writer. That's a goddamned summer blockbuster right there! I'm about to ask Sift what he thinks about his theoretical God-child when he stops. His hand rises and clenches. I fall silent in a heartbeat, dropping to a knee. Slowly sliding the guitar back in its place on my back, I bring my shotgun up to bear again.
Sift pulls his blades out and I motion to him, looking around with an eyebrow arched. Where?
He points to a stand of trees, then moves his arm forward. Through there.
I splay my hands out at him. What're we dealing with?
He shrugs. I don't need to translate that for you, now, do I?
Sighing, I raise my shotgun, letting him know I've got him covered. He nods, then disappears into the cluster. I hear a little bit of rustling, and then he’s gone, even the bushes he's disturbed quickly bobbing to a halt. It's freakin' amazing, honestly. How does a guy stay so quiet that even the birds aren’t disturbed?
After a few minutes, the rustling returns. I raise the shotgun and stare down the gunsights, but I keep my finger off the trigger. Sifty emerges, staring down the barrel passively, the blades still clenched in his hand. I lower my weapon.
"What're we lookin' at?" I whisper.
"Another village," he replies. "Looks quiet."
"So did the last one."
"Yep."
After that, no words are needed. We disappear together into the stand of trees, me remaining just a few steps behind him. I'm not as quiet as he is, but I do my best and nothing horrible pops out to rip our faces off, so that must mean something. We emerge on a hillside overlooking another village, this one bigger than the last. It has a town hall and a schoolhouse! Lawdy lawdy, all this newfangled city stuff is almost overwhelmin’ for simple country folk like us!
A few Nightmares trundle through the streets. One of them, a lumbering mass of muscle waddling along on two stubby legs and keeping itself upright on its knuckles like a big, meaty gorilla, casts its attention in our general direction. My breath catches in my throat on impulse, but then the thing gazes back down at the road with its rows of bloodshot eyes, its massive, pinkish feet thudding along as it passes by.
“Piss yourself, half-breed?” Sifty asks smartly.
I just grin as I reply, “You wish, Warden. Honestly, I was concerned for you. Need a change of underroos after de big, scawy Nightmare gave us a passing glance?”
He doesn’t reply. I look over at him, and instantly recognize the dark glare entering his eyes. He’s already piecing together a plan of assault, something that will take the village with minimal risk and maximum casualties. I keep my lips shut. I know better than to interrupt him when he’s in this state.
“That street,” he says, gesturing towards a small alley just on the edge of town. “One way in, maybe two or three yards wide, give or take?”
“Sounds about right.”
“It’s perfect for defense. That big bastard right there,” he says, pointing to our old pal, big, meaty, and gorilla-like (but without the good looks and charm). “He couldn’t even stand up straight in there. It’s about the width of his shoulders, so rearing back for a good attack and dodging go right out the window. And with him down, the others are just so much cannon fodder.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Warden,” I say, shaking my head. “Watching you plan out a battle is like watchin’ Da Vinci paint, or Michelangelo sculpt.”
“Dinner and a movie first, half-breed. I don’t just hop into bed with anybody.”
I almost pause. Did Sifty just make a light-hearted, homoerotic crack? Dear God. I must be contagious. I grin in reply. “So, we’ve got a killzone just waiting for them, how do we lure the big fucker into it?”
“Bait,” he replies simply, and this time, the tiny smile just barely tugging at the corners of his lips takes on a devious quality as he turns it on me.
“Of course,” I sigh, cracking my neck and popping a few joints in my knuckles back into place. “Of course.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here’s something you probably HAVE gathered from my previous log entries: I’m not the most well-balanced critter you’ll meet in the land of talking ponies. Yep, I can be pretty crazy, and not just in a “dang, check out that guy on the dance floor, he’s CRAZY!” way. No, when I say crazy, I mean it in more of a “somebody call a fucking SWAT team on this nutbar before he kills himself and everyone around him!” way.
That might be why the moment Sift assigned me to create a distraction in this little town, my thoughts immediately rushed to only one possible way of doing this.
I approach the town, shotgun holstered. I’m just walking right down the middle of Main Street, my ragged tennis shoes clopping on the cobblestones, my middle fingers raised in the air as high as they can go. A couple zomponies stop and just gape at me. Or, I think they’re gaping at me. It could just be that the muscles they use to hold their jaws shut have rotted away. It’s honestly hard to tell with them.
A Hive Guardian approaches as I near the middle of town, its scythe-like appendages raised. I direct both my middle fingers towards it, earning a few growls from somewhere back in its throat. Still, it allows me to approach, standing at bay until a few dozen more of its buddies can come near. That’s done it. I’ve managed to attract the attention of at least most of the fucked-up, monstrous population of this town. Now, I need to make sure I can hold it.
So with a flicker of transformation magic, I disappear and a long-tailed, orange, black-striped creature takes my place. I place a fuzzy hand on my chest, clear my throat, then belt out another epic of my people:
”OOOHHHHHHHH…
A wonderful thing is a Tigger;
A Tigger's a wonderful thing!
Their tops are made out of rubber…
Their bottoms are made out of spring!”
One of the Nightmares finally regains its senses enough to take a stab at me. I dodge easily, springing into the air and landing ass-first on the back of its head, driving its face into the concrete.
”They're bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy,
fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!
The most wonderful thing about Tiggers is:
I'm the only one!
Oh, IIII’MMMMM…the only one!”
As if the song had been holding them all in a trance, the remaining Nightmares spring into action once I stop singing, rushing me with fangs, teeth, and claws bared.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo-hooooo!”
I sprint for the alleyway Sift pointed out, a straight-up army of Nightmares nipping at my heels. My legs pump with every scrap of might I can pour into them, and I’m suddenly thanking Christ for every minute I’ve ever spent on the treadmill. Looks like I’m putting them to use now, as my orange, stripey ass does its best not to get torn to shreds.
I pass small candy stores, drugstores, and kitschy tourist traps with the Nightmare army right behind me, the whole lot of us shooting along the mossy, cobblestone streets like the worst, most violent parade in history. After breaking a mile-run record or three, I spy the alleyway up ahead and duck inside.
Sifty is nowhere to be seen.
“And again: Fuck. My. Life.” I grumble. I don’t ask for much. A warm bed, a little time to write or strum a few notes on my guitar, the safety and security needed to guarantee that when I close my eyes next, it won’t be for the last time. Shit, that last one’s the really important one. So why is it usually the hardest to find in my line of work?
You know, besides the fact that my line of work involves facing down the worst society and nature itself has to offer, usually all by my lonesome.
I whirl around to face my attackers, my own claws extending, the shotgun practically flying into my hands. That knocks the horde off-balance: I’m no longer the fuzzy wuzzy comedy relief I was a few minutes ago. Now I actually pose a potential threat. For a few milliseconds, the Nightmares heading up their little mob trip over their own feet, skidding for just a moment on the cobblestone. To them, I may not look like the most intimidating bastard they’ve seen all day, but I’ve gone from weird, cuddly-looking orange thing to armed and dangerous in a span of time most people take to blink, and that throws them, makes them hesitate, which is just what I need.
I drop two of the monsters with well-placed headshots, their eyes still wide in shock at my sudden transformation. The blasts are enough to wake up the rest of the horde, and they all descend upon me. It doesn’t take more than an instant for me to work the math out in my head: seven shells left in my weapon, times one or two Nightmares I might be able to drop with each, plus the four or five I could take on unarmed at a time, all subtracted from the fifty or so ugly-ass mutants descending upon me equals…
“I’m pretty fucked,” I grumble, blasting away with the shotgun. Fun fact, by the way: in real life, the hero DOES run out of ammo. Movies lie to you all the time. It doesn’t take long for that to happen to me, and now the shotgun is basically a baseball bat in my hands. A rather effective baseball bat, it’s easy to note from the way I splatter some zompony’s gray matter all over the brickwork, but still not as nice as a shotgun.
My adrenaline has just started pumping when a roar forces me to twist in place. Raising my shotgun threateningly, my gaze wonders upwards…and upwards…and upwards…finally meeting the cold, yellow eyes of that gorilla-ish bastard me and Sift spotted earlier. My jaw drops. He’s even bigger up close, his fangs dribbling with saliva that splashes on the ground by my feet. I raise my shotgun threateningly, glowering as I grip the barrel. The monster roars, fists the size of Mini Coopers raised over its head, more slobber dribbling from the baggy jowls on its dog-like face. I hold my breath, preparing to transform into something that could at least survive an assault from this thing, but just then the beast pauses.
My teeth transform into a few dozen razor-sharp fangs, which I bare at the monster. It just looks down at me, its fists lowering as its head lolls stupidly to one side, the hate-filled gaze it once held now melting away to something blank and stupid. I roar with vocal cords transformed into a cross between a lion and a wild grizzly, my voice booming off the walls.
“Calm your shit, half-breed, you’re roaring at a corpse,” the monster says, a couple rivers of blood spontaneously dribbling down the sides of its neck.
“Bwuh?” I ask, so stunned that it’s all I can think of. Some of my eloquence fades when I’m surprised, I’ve noticed.
At that, the monster hits the cobblestone with a deep thud that rumbles through the ground, its face forming a crater just a few inches from my feet. I back up in surprise, looking up at Sifty perched on the thing’s back, wrenching his sword out of its neck with a sickening squelch.
I sigh in relief, not sure if I should be thanking the guy for saving my ass, or pounding him in the face for taking his dear, sweet time about it. I settle for keeping my voice at a somewhat-quieter roar and whispering: “Where the hell were you!? Powdering your nose!?”
“Just seeing how you reacted when your back was against the wall,” he replies, wiping some of the Nightmare’s blood off on his shirt. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, half-breed.”
My fangs grit together. That "half-breed" shit is really starting to grit on my nerves. But before I can say anything, a massive squeal fills the air. We both twist, facing the alleyway, weapons raised. With a thought, my arms become the massive, muscle-bound claws of a horrid beast. I bare my fangs into the street while Sift assumes his combat stance; his eyes narrowed threateningly, his shield raised.
Then the squeals become a song. I realize what we’re listening to almost immediately: it’s a speaker system! Setup somewhere near the heart of town, by the sounds of it. What’s more, I even recognize the tune that’s playing.
I met a devil woman
She took my heart away
She said, I've had it comin' to me
But I wanted it that way…
“BTO,” I mutter.
“What the hell…” Sift adds.
“Oh, BTO is the band. They were really big way-back-when for this and…”
“I fucking know, half-breed, I mean why the hell’s THAT song playing in this town?”
I want to feel insulted for his use of that term again, but dammit, he’s got a good point there. Why is a seventies super-band playing in the middle of a Nightmare-infested town here in the land of magical, talking ponies? I hate to say this, but I know there’s only one way to find out.
“Ladies first, Warden,” I say, motioning for him to lead on.
“Good point,” he replies, then knees me in the crotch and tosses me out onto the street.
Okay, I will admit: as badly as that last one hurt and as pissed off as I am now, that was funny as hell right there.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We approach a squat storefront with equal parts caution and growing apprehension. Everything about this screams “death trap.” Quiet store front, completely normal-looking toys and whatnot in the front window, a sign dangling from a chain saying “Sorry, We’re Closed.” It’s all way too normal. I could imagine an older stallion coming up front to switch the sign for another day of business, probably waving at us as he pops the door open to let in a fresh morning breeze.
Me and Sift eye each other, eyebrows cocked. We’re both thinking the same thing: booby trap. Some funny little surprise left by whatever the hell’s been stalking us on this journey. At the same time, we know we can’t just walk away. Something this obvious has to lead to some important clues for what we’re up against. Besides, I get the feeling that if this thing just wanted us dead, it would’ve made a move already, one way more devastating than the basic Nightmare rushes we’ve been experiencing. There’s no question in our minds. We have to go in.
Sift nods to me as I lean my shotgun up against a fence, positioning a barrel in front of it. There’s simply no time to make new shells, my claws and regular changeling abilities will just have to do. We both brace ourselves just off the front porch, our legs tensing as we hover a few steps away from the rotting, splintered wood. Sift keeps a blade levelled on the doorway while I keep my claws raised. I can feel the tension rising in his emotions, his muscles turning into coiled springs, ready to propel him over the porch and into the face of whatever’s on the other side of that door.
Then the song gets caught in a loop:
You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…
Buh-buh-buh-baby you just ain’t seen nuh-nuh-nothin’ yet!
…you ain’t seen nothin’ yet…
Buh-buh-buh-baby you just ain’t seen nuh-nuh-nothin’ yet!
We eye each other. What are the odds that the song just happened to get caught in a loop right at those words? Not good, if you ask me, and Sifty’s thinking the same.
He nods once, and then springs at the door, vaulting the porch with one leap and plowing through the wood with a single, powerful kick. I’m right behind him, claws raised, sweeping every corner, every possible avenue of attack. None comes. There’s just the front counter, and aisle upon aisle of groceries lit only by the morning sun, the magical candles that would normally keep this place lit having long burnt out…
Hold on.
Burnt-out candles...oh, that crafty sonofabitch…
I motion to Sift and point at one of the candles. He takes one look and immediately sees what I’m seeing, letting out a tiny grunt of displeasure. A sneer fills his face. It’s just like in the last village, every candle burnt low. I bet we’ll find shit like this all over if we look hard enough: little “jokes” placed by whatever’s stalking us. Extra place settings at dinner tables, pictures moved to where they wouldn’t naturally be, maybe some funny little words carved into wood here and there.
We both pick an aisle and stalk to the back room, where the music is still pumping out into the village. I can see the doorknob vibrate with the beat, even from the other side of the store. Still, we’re patient, making our way slowly past piles of diapers, boxes of cereal, and tubes of…horn polish? Really? That’s a thing? Okay, anyway, the only sound here is the occasional creak of wood beneath our shoes. I have to struggle and focus on my breathing to keep it regular, trying to keep from hyperventilating. With another flicker of changeling magic my arms slowly tense out, flames dancing occasionally over them as they expand. By the time we reach the rickety, old door leading to the back room, my arms are long, thick meat whips terminating in razor-sharp claws. A bit freaky, but not bad weapons if I do say so myself.
We’re at the door. This is it. Whatever this fucker has waiting for us is just on the other side of this wood. Sift reaches out and turns the knob. There’s a couple small clicks, and instantly the music stops. Our eyes widen. Sifty rears back and hammers his boot against the wood in a powerful donkey kick that turns the door into splinters. I take point this time, busting through into the back stockroom.
It only takes us a couple minutes to scan the entire room: just a broom closet, except where there should be cleaning supplies and extra stock for the shelves up front, there’s yards of cabling and a sound system to make a Best Buy “Geek Squad” member cream his tasteful, business-casual khakis. Along the back wall is a computer monitor with the phrase “SCANNING FOR SHITHEADS…SHITHEADS FOUND” blinking over and over again.
Me and Sift eye each other, and he sits down in front of the computer monitor as I start following the wires around. “Eh, shit,” I mutter as I look over the proximity sensors wired to the doorframe and the simple contact lever-switch rigged to the knob. All components I recognize from my old job back home, which I doubt is a coincidence. Whoever this is, they are good. They are really, really good. Not just with wiring, but at knowing how to fuck with our heads.
“K, get over here,” Sift says. “Something’s happenin’.”
I peer over Sift’s shoulder as a video feed takes up the main screen. It’s fuzzy and out of focus, like an old analog TV tuned to a channel that isn’t quite there, but I can make out a dark man-like shape amidst the static. The sound is a bit garbled too, but it’s more than clear enough for us to make out.
“Your orders, sir? The targets are right there.” One garbled, but obviously mechanical (an automaton?) voice says. Based on the movements of the figure on the screen, I guess this is its voice.
“Hold back until the signal is given,” another voice says, this one softer and obviously natural, but still deep and threatening. This figure is still off-camera, perhaps even the cameraman, though it’s obvious who it’s talking about.
“Aye, and what are we to do with ‘em once we got ‘em?” The screen pans to another figure, this one bulkier than the first, nearly dominating the entire monitor.
The tiny computer speakers emanate a soft chuckle, one absolutely devoid of any mirth or compassion. A chill runs up my spine. It might just be the worst sound I’ve ever heard. Well, almost, not quite as bad as the time I disguised myself as private security to knee Justin Bieber in the groin. NOT as fun as it sounds, especially when he screams.
“Bind them, then do what you will,” the voice says, the chuckle still playing along its edges. “Rape, torture, vasectomy without anesthetic, I don’t care, just make sure they can see each other while you’re doing it.”
The figure chuckles, which is still a pretty dark chuckle, but a shower of rainbows in…well…in the motherfucking land of magical talking ponies…compared to the cameraman’s laugh. “Alright, we’re gonna have some fun!”
At that, the screen blacks out, the video stream replaced with a single dialog box: “HAD ENOUGH YET? Y/N,” followed by a blinking cursor for user input.
I’m about to comment when we hear a poof, and the tell-tale fizzle of rocket fire. We both practically stumble over each other scrambling out the doorway, sprinting back through the store, me not even bothering with the door and just crashing through the front plate-glass window.
Sift doesn’t even bother to ask why I didn’t just wait an extra second for the damn door and instead exploded out here in a shower of broken glass. God knows he doesn’t have to, and besides, we’re both preoccupied with the fizzling sounds coming from above our heads. We crane our necks, spying the telltale contrails of signal flares launching into the skies from points all over the city, at least a dozen in all, adding an eerie red glow to the early morning light.
A thousand battle cries sound from the woods surrounding the village. I grimace and raise my tendrils. Sift nods to me and readies his blades. Whatever this thing stalking us has planned, we’ve just stumbled right into the next part of it. I can only pray we’ll survive to see what else is waiting for us out there.