Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 24th, Gregorian Calendar
Mr. Utah sighed, mostly out of exhaustion, as he finally came to rest in his familiar high backed desk chair.
Reaffirming his place in the cabinet had been the easy part. His company was one of the HLF's most important assets. That value had only increased as a result of the Front's staggering losses in military hardware.
The exhausting and trying phase of the session had begun in earnest when it came time to elect Mr. Stalin's replacement. Only two members of the cabinet had failed to prove themselves useful to the cause, so the competition had been thick and furious.
Mr. Utah leaned back, and stared out over his expansive Cherrywood desk. His office was a study in the 'old world.' Not so much because the man had an affinity for history, but because the atmosphere allowed him to enhance his air of authority, affluence, and intimidation.
Everything about the room mirrored the desk; Dark wood tones, brass and granite trim, and low directionless lighting.
Mr. Utah slowly extracted one of his cigarettes, placed the cylindrical object in his mouth, and paused to the savor the moment. From day one, his goal had always been the purest expression of ambition. Wherever he went, he had but one objective. Seek and acquire power.
The previous afternoon had been, perhaps, his greatest victory so far. Mr. Utah permitted himself a rare smile as he thumbed his lighter.
The cabinet had wanted to reassign his codename, but in some peculiar sense Mr. Utah had grown attached to his long-standing moniker. Begrudgingly, Mr. Churchill had allowed him to eschew the recommended 'Mr. Rommel,' in favor of retaining his previously given pseudonym.
Everyone had admitted that, at the very least, it would make things simpler for all.
As he inhaled a waft of nicotine-laced smoke into his lungs, he spun his chair slowly and spent a moment taking in the view from his window.
As the city lights glistened off his pupils, his smile widened ever so slightly.
'Second in command of the Human Liberation Front.'
Mr. Utah decided he liked the title very much indeed.
Fyrenn sighed as the lift doors opened onto an intimately familiar sight. After hours of quiet conversation, silence, and even fitful sleep on the train, it was rejuvenating to arrive somewhere familiar.
The Manhattan Conversion Bureau was already a welcome host to good memories in and of itself, but somehow the specific corridor in question felt like a home away from home.
"That was thoughtful of them. I assumed they would just drop us somewhere random."
Neyla shook her head as she disembarked onto the beige carpet of the hall.
"I have no doubt Hutch, or Aston, had something to do with this."
Fyrenn smiled as he slowly perused the familiar lines of the corridor. He knew the layout so well, he could have almost certainly walked it blindfolded.
The space had originally been used for offices. At the time he had gone in for his Conversion, it had been co-opted for impromptu quarters to host Kephic, Varan, Sildinar, and himself.
While a dedicated wing for Gryphons had been under construction at the time, it had by no means been in any sort of usable state. In spite of the fact that those rooms and hallways were now likely finished, it seemed that someone had preserved the living-space configuration of the old offices.
Fyrenn shook his head, grinning, as he noticed that even the electronic nameplates on the doors still reflected their previous occupants. The space was almost exactly as it had been the day after his Conversion.
The only major difference seemed to be that a previously empty room across from his had been unlocked and prepared for Neyla.
Fyrenn gestured to his door, and spoke, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the sleeping occupants of the other dormitories.
"Well... Goodnight then. I suspect tomorrow will be very very busy indeed."
Neyla nodded, and let herself into her room, not even stopping to put a code on the locking mechanism.
"I will see you at breakfast."
Fyrenn shut his door gently, and paused only to deposit his one small item of luggage on the desk, before collapsing onto the bed.
The room had changed slightly since the last time he had been present. The alterations mainly consisted of the removal of Human furniture. The objects had been replaced with chairs, stools, and a bed shaped carefully to Gryphic specifications.
The latter object was a large, round surface of mattress, covered in loose pillows.
Fyrenn quickly reshaped the plush objects into an impromptu nest, before swiftly drifting away into blissfully comfortable sleep, his silhouette backlit by the haze of New York's myriad lights shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
As his eyes finally closed, the image of the little wooden P-38 on the desk stuck firmly in his mind.
He smiled reflexively.
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
Fourth Month, Twenty Fifth Day, Celestial Calendar
Luna tensed as the doors to her chambers let out a resounding series of urgent thuds.
A combination of overwhelming exhaustion, and instinctual fear, left her unable to discern the source of the noise for several moments.
She blinked rapidly, and rolled from her bed to a standing position on the floor. The shock of the cool marble against her hooves brought her fully into the waking world.
Luna squinted at the tiny crack of light between the nearest set of drapes, and concluded she had been asleep for only a few hours.
Restoring the normal cycle of the sun and moon had been a taxing exercise in her drained state. In spite of the interim time, the Alicorn felt as if she were still tied to lead weights. Most of the hours had been spent sleeping or trying to delegate tasks to free up more time to sleep.
She knew it would likely be months before she was fully recuperated.
As the knocking intensified, Luna shrugged on her regalia as quickly as she could, eschewing the more convenient use of magic, in favor of conserving energy.
Finally, the monarch crossed the intervening space to the door, inhaled deeply, and twisted the latch.
The moment she saw the guard's muzzle, she knew she would be getting no more rest for the duration of the day.
The stallion's mane was a tangled, sweaty mess. Portions of his armor were outright missing, doubtless having been shed in the interest of speed. His breathing was so heavy, Luna feared for his safety.
Nonetheless, he managed to force out four words. His knees buckled as he wheezed, and dipped his head.
"I have grave news."
Earth Calendar: 2117
Equestrian Calendar: 15 AC (After Contact)
March 25th, Gregorian Calendar
Fyrenn shook his head slowly, and exhaled sharply in surprise.
From his perch inside a glass lift, he had an excellent view of the Manhattan Bureau lobby. Much of the multi-story space was filled with lines of people, crowding to reach the front desk in a timely fashion.
The red Gryphon sighed, and continued shaking his head. He found it baffling that so many people lacked the foresight to make their choice well ahead of the Barrier's advent.
As he exited the lift, and set about making his way to the cafeteria without crushing anyone's feet, he privately wondered how Conversion would affect the societal trend of apathy.
In Fyrenn's opinion it was not a characteristic that Humans wore well. He preferred to think that the natural state of the Human spirit was one of supreme adaptability and drive towards self-improvement.
The cafeteria was packed to the brim. Everyone from ConSec troopers in full body armor, to auxiliary Bureau staff, evacuation workers, and even an entire JRSF platoon.
Fyrenn's eyes quickly settled on his companions. Much to his relief, they had managed to secure a set of tables, and had saved him an open spot.
His beak turned up in an enormous grin as he sidled over to the group, the majority of the crowd parting reflexively for his intimidating relative bulk.
"This looks pleasantly familiar."
Neyla nodded, and tapped the tray beside her.
"Stan tells me this sort of group breakfast used to be a regular occurrence."
In the absence of a chair, Fyrenn simply planted himself firmly on his haunches. He smirked at Carradan as he speared his first piece of synth meat.
"What did you have to do to keep his hooves off my tray this long?"
Without looking up from his coffee carafe, Varan replied in a two-word monotone.
"Death threats."
Fyrenn shrugged, and tore off a large chunk of bread.
"Oh. Par for the course then."
As he chewed thoughtfully, he glanced up at Skye, then Kephic, and finally the room at large. He swiveled both ears lazily, first taking in the controlled din, then trying to shut it out.
He sighed, and tried a sip of the coffee. Somehow, the kitchen had managed to take good Equestrian beans, and butcher them into something resembling dust run through a sock with seawater.
"Not quite like I remember it. For one thing it was never this crowded this early... And I do miss Hutch."
Kephic nodded, and held up a claw.
"Speaking of which, we have already been to see him, and he has split us up to act as coordinators on his behalf amongst a variety of... 'Wonderful' tasks. He wants you and Neyla to drop by as soon as you're finished here."
Fyrenn nodded, and polished off his bread in one great gulp, slicing the rest of his meat into smaller strips as he chewed. Once his beak was free, he nodded again.
"Good. He's visited me in the hospital enough times for one life. I suppose the law of averages was going to play out sooner or later."
By some unspoken consent, Fyrenn and Neyla agreed that it was too early in the morning to discuss anything of substance during the flight.
The Gryphons spent the majority of the relatively short trip in silence. Fyrenn allowed his gaze to wander out over the city, reflecting that it almost looked like a strange kind of natural geological wonder when it was so devoid of people.
The day had dawned foggy and bleak, both for Manhattan-proper and over the ocean just beyond the Barrier. The spires of the megaskyscrapers, poking up through fog and clouds evoked the sensation of flying through a dead forest that had been reclaimed by the ocean.
Fyrenn's ears twitched, and his realized that part of the eerie atmosphere came from the absence of overwhelming noise. Usually a city of such scale was so alive that one could feel a thrum in their bones.
But New York had been more than half-emptied, it was early in the morning, and the weather meant that many people had likely stayed home.
Even the central Hospital building seemed to have fallen prey to a strange kind of desolation. Barely a tenth of its lights were turned on, and most of its rescue VTOLs were silently tied down to their pads.
The vast majority of the patient population had been moved to a safer distance.
The two Gryphons didn't even bother with the structure's main entrance, instead alighting silently on the external balcony nearest to their destination.
Hutch's room was only three doors down. The Gryphons' arrival barely seemed to raise any eyebrows amongst the staff.
Fyrenn wondered if that was an indication that people in general were becoming acclimated to such sights, or if it simply meant the same personnel had been present when the other members of the group visited.
Neyla rapped gingerly on the door three times with a fisted talon. After a short pause, Hutch's voice issued from within.
"Come."
Fyrenn held the door open for Neyla to pass, then softly made his way in after her. Between them, the two consumed nearly half the empty space in the room.
Fyrenn winced as Hutch came into view. The General looked as if he had improved slightly since their video call, but that was only a relative change. Overall, he still looked pasty, drained, and physically broken.
The majority of his casts and skin patches were still in place, and his arm was still inundated with intravenous drips.
The only consolation came in the form of the man's eyes. Fyrenn saw, in his friend's gaze, the same fiery will and determination that had doubtless been seething there from the moment he was born.
Hutch spoke first, chuckling slightly. Fyrenn took it as a good sign that the man didn't immediately descend into a coughing fit.
"I told the others I wouldn't believe it until I saw it... You know you two always did make a fine pair."
Fyrenn sighed, and shook his head slowly, closing his eyes momentarily in frustration.
"I'll give you one free pass because you outrank me, and one because you look like something dragged in after a hunt... But after that you'll get no more special consideration than Stan does."
Neyla ignored the red Gryphon's mild tirade, and offered Hutch a slight hint of a smile.
"It is wonderful to be on better terms with him again. And I'm very glad to see you're mending."
Hutch snorted, and began the agonizingly slow and painful process of shifting into a semi-recumbent posture.
"I think it would go faster if they weren't pumping me with all this crap. They said they'll start nano-treatments tomorrow though, so with any luck I'll actually be walking out of this hell hole on my own two feet inside three days."
Fyrenn grinned and rolled his eyes.
"Pass along my deepest sympathies to the nursing staff. I'm sure they have no idea what they put themselves in for."
Hutch waved absently with one hand, allowing his head to fall back and rest against the mound of pillows at the head of the biobed.
"You, them, me... We're all gettin' off easy. I wouldn't want to be anywhere within a thousand yards of military command right now."
Neyla nodded, her expression sobering and her ears drooping slightly.
"The scale of infiltration you're dealing with is... Staggering."
Fyrenn shifted his gaze to the room's window, absently probing the middle distance.
"There's going to be a shakeup. Maybe the biggest in recent history."
Hutch shrugged slightly, and sighed.
"It's the price we pay for the system we chose. Besides; It worked out well enough in the end. Thanks in part to both of you."
Fyrenn shook his head slowly, "In very small part. If any one person deserves the majority of the thanks, it's Celestia."
The General coughed, nodding as he reached for a glass of water perched at the edge of the bedside table.
There was a short pause as he pulled down nearly half the container's contents, before speaking again.
"She's on her way home from what I've heard, but I don't doubt she'll be back as soon as she can afford to make the trip. I hate to sound like a suit here, but that's the kind of PR you just can't pass up."
Hutch inhaled deeply, and swallowed, doing his best to soothe a series of insistent internal aches.
"Enough of all that. My throat is real angry with me, and I need to get you two squared away before I completely lose it."
The General turned to Neyla as he continued.
"I put everyone else where I thought their skills might do the most good, but I've still got huge gaps in the security forces on-site at the Bureau. It's one hell of a tempting target now that it's been turned into regional command, and I need someone to be in charge of locking it down tighter than a drum. That's you."
Neyla raised an eyebrow, "There will be no external objections to this appointment?"
Hutch snorted once more, "Maybe... But at this point I don't really give a flyin' flip. Martial law is in effect, the JRSF is in charge of site security, I am in charge of regional JRSF, therefore when I say you are in charge of site security, my word is law. You're free to enforce that law, and handle any 'external objections' with whatever methods suit your personal sense of efficiency."
The Gryphoness nodded curtly, "As long as there will be no negative repercussions for you."
The General chuckled, and gestured to his chest with one bandaged hand.
"Look at me. You think any negative repercussions could possibly be worse than this? For once in my life, I am taking a page from the 'Lieutenant Isaac Wrenn field manual of no-rules ass whoopin'.' I'm not gonna end up flat on my back in a morgue in two weeks just because protocol said so."
Fyrenn let out something midway between a barking snort, and a chuckle.
"Who are you? And what did you do with the man who wouldn't even let me peek inside a crate, that I almost died protecting, because of protocol?"
Hutch glowered good-naturedly.
"Can you blame me for that? I let you peek, and here we are three years later and you've demolished more with your bare claws and beak in that time than I've managed in my entire career, you red terror."
The General paused, smiling, then gestured to the door, his gaze falling slightly.
"Uhm... There's really no nice way to say this, but I need a moment alone with the Lieutenant Commander."
It took Neyla a long moment to realize that Hutch was referring to Fyrenn by his Earthgov military rank. It took her another protracted span to fully process the odd nature of the request.
Hutch held up a conciliatory hand before she could speak.
"If it were up to me, I would bring you in on this too. If this were just a simple matter of breaking protocol, I'd do it. But this is about a personal promise I made. I'm already breaking it by having this conversation with Fyrenn, and I can't make it that much worse by doubling that sin. All that aside, the more people I tell, the more I put innocent lives at risk. I'm asking you to trust me, trust him, and you'll understand soon enough."
Wordlessly, Neyla nodded. Fyrenn could see by her expression that she was none too pleased with being kept in the dark. Nonetheless, her sentiment seemed to take the form of concern and frustration, more than any sort of resentment.
She offered Hutch a final smile, turning her head as she stepped through the door.
"Be well General. And please be merciful to the staff."
Once the door had closed, and a long moment of silence had passed, Hutch began to speak once more. Fyrenn took up a seated position on his haunches, ears perked, eyes attentively fixed on the General.
"It's pretty obvious to anyone that I only survived the attack by the skin of my teeth. And anyone with even one working eye could tell you that we came very, very close to loosing the Fort entirely."
The General shifted into an almost-sitting position, and fixed Fyrenn with a deathly serious gaze. His words were slow, deliberate, and icy.
"What no one knows... Is that we had nothing to do with pushing back the HLF. No one knows but me. And now, you."
Fyrenn titled his head, and narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean 'we' had nothing to do with---"
Hutch interjected sharply, "I mean every Earthgov soldier inside that structure was either dead, or dying. The one guy who had any faculties left was the one who saved my skin, and he spent most of his time fending off the traitor who made the whole thing possible. We were *sunk.* It was *over* before it even started."
The General sat back, and coughed several times. Fyrenn passed him the glass of water, and Hutch emptied it with gusto.
When he had regained the power of speech, the man continued.
"The truth is... Someone else was involved. Non-standard personnel."
Fyrenn's eyes widened, and his voice dropped to an almost conspiratorially low volume.
"You saw this personally?"
Hutch nodded, continuing in a similarly low tone.
"No uniforms. They weren't old enough for uniforms. I only saw two, but judging by the aftermath, there were more. The older one could have been close to her young teens. The other was probably just about to hit double digits."
The corners of Fyrenn's beak twisted, his ears flattened, and his eyes narrowed in an expression of reflexive horror. Hutch continued undeterred.
"They had... Some kind of implants. On their heads. In their spines. One of them just reached out, and imploded a guy's head from across the room. It was like nothing I've ever seen, 'cept maybe Unicorn magic."
Hutch leaned over, bringing his head closer to Fyrenn's.
"They stood over me... The older one wanted to kill me too, because I had seen them. The younger one convinced her not to. Only just. I had to promise them I'd never breathe a word to another living soul... But Fyrenn... These were *children.* Children who had military-grade cybernetics technology ten years ahead of anything the HLF could dream about."
The red Gryphon tilted his head again, ruffling his wings reflexively, "Why tell me, specifically?"
Hutch leaned back and rested his head on the pillows once more, breathing heavily from the exertion of so much movement.
"Because you're the best man for this job. You're a Gryphon. You're a match for dozens or hundreds of the best in Human soldiering. But you've also got something native Gryphons don't. The insider perspective on the Human species. You have experience cutting through the fog of lies politics cloaks itself with. You instinctively know how a Human thinks and behaves."
The General smiled slightly, "And, everything else aside, you are the most ruthless hunter I've ever seen. When you're looking for the truth behind the masks, you're downright scary. And you can do that alone. Why tell you? Because someone has to find out who's responsible for this. And I trust you."
Fyrenn nodded slowly, speaking with an eerily reserved calm indicative of how disturbed he was internally.
"At the very least, we're looking at a new player in this mess... And at worst, we're dealing with someone who experiments on children for the sake of creating soldiers."
Hutch closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his chest.
"For obvious reasons, this conversation should stay between us until we both agree it's time for wider scale measures. And the rest, I'm sure you know; Don't co-opt traceable resources for this, don't let the others figure out what you're doing, and don't... For the love of God... Get yourself killed."
Fyrenn chuckled, and rolled his eyes, "You know me better than that..." His expression hardened once more.
"...Any idea where I should begin?"
Hutch pointed towards the floor, "Down. Way down. These kids, poor buggers, looked like they hadn't had a decent meal in months, or a new change of clothes in years. Go where the homeless are, and you're probably in the right neighborhood if nothing else."
The red Gryphon smirked slightly, "You do realize you're talking about one loner searcher finding two needles in the largest haystack in *either* world?"
The General waved a hand dismissively, "You're overestimating the difficulty. These children have gone unnoticed up till now because no one wants to see the basic problem, let alone this special case. You know exactly what to look for, and I'd wager the power to crush skulls telekinetically raises eyebrows."
Fyrenn rose, and made his way quietly to the door.
"Like Neyla said, get well soon. And don't torture the nurses."
Hutch waved, eyes still closed.
"I'd say 'be careful,' 'stay safe,' or 'good luck,' but I know you don't believe in any of those things."
The Gryphon smirked again, firing off one last retort as he pulled the door closed.
"I don't need luck. I have large talons."
Fyrenn quickly decided he had set himself up for a ridiculous task.
He knew parts of Manhattan's lower structure were hundreds of years old. Others were more recent additions which had nonetheless been abandoned and completely forgotten over recent decades.
Compounding that, thousands of miles of modern service and transit tunnels wove through the entire hyperstructure. At least twenty percent were susceptible to surveillance blind-spots.
For almost two hours Fyrenn circled high above the island, trying to find a compelling reason to select a starting point for his monumental effort.
At last, as the clock struck noon, he decided on a spot in the lower east side, for no other reason beyond the proximity to a food cart selling synth-meat.
The stand's owner seemed surprised at Fyrenn's arrival, and even more surprised that his bank number and PIN connected to a valid account.
As the Red Gryphon ambled away, idly chewing on a particularly tough strip of the food, he wondered how long the man would risk operating his business before opting in to an evacuation queue. Or a Conversion program.
Fyrenn decided, as he completed his impromptu meal, that he would be better off on paw and claw.
Though his vision provided the range and resolution to see anything of consequence from high above, most of the undercity was quite simply physically obscured.
The impossible tangle of alleyways, tunnels, compartments, vents, tubes, and pipes was worse than any bramble thicket imaginable. In Fyrenn's estimation, it might as well have been a cave system, and he decided to treat it as such.
As he walked, keeping up the fastest comfortable pace short of a loping run, he began to notice an eerie trend.
Normally the less civilized portions of the city were full of life. The homeless, low level street gang members, and even a fair number of Diamond Dog packs. But instead, a preternatural calm had descended.
The homeless population seemed to be virtually non-existent. Fyrenn wondered if the majority had chosen Conversion, or had simply struck out into the wilds on foot, hoping to make it to the next nearest city before their food supply dwindled.
Most of the upper-crust gangs had long since vacated the city, following the majority of the wealthier populace. Even the Diamond Dog packs seemed to have begun to realize that the very ground beneath their paws was condemned.
The few living souls Fyrenn did notice seemed to almost universally belong to either a lower level gang, or a less-than-reputable Diamond Dog clan.
The former shied away from him almost reflexively.
They were mostly rebellious young men and women; Poorly dressed, poorly educated, and generally underprivileged. Ground down by the system with practiced intentionality. The organizations they belonged to were, like them, the dregs of the dregs, used as punching bags and patsies by other more well connected crime syndicates.
They stayed behind when others left because to them, the decreased law enforcement in the lower city was an opportunity for advancement.
They stayed away from Fyrenn, because Gryphons had a reputation for merciless ruthlessness.
Whether they quietly averted their gaze, or began glaring and whispering to each other about how they could take him if they really wanted to, Fyrenn noticed that one and all, their eyes were filled with fear.
No matter how much Humans tried to ignore the stories surrounding the more aggressive Equestrian species, the majority of them knew on an instinctual level that by comparison they were little more than a prey animal of the lowest order, facing a predator of the highest order.
Soldiers knew how to turn that side of the Human survival instinct off, more or less. It was part of the training. Others, with more pride than sense, could subvert the instinct out of pure arrogance. But for the rest, it was a strange and disturbing sensation.
Fyrenn firmly believed that in some cases it contributed to the general tide of xenophobia and anti-Conversion sentiment amongst certain demographics.
Some things were universal, agnostic of species and origin. Resentment was certainly one of them. Along with the arrogance, or fear, that it festered from.
Fyrenn paused and tensed as he noticed two pairs of yellow eyes fixed intently on him. The two Trolls were gazing out from the relative safety of a disused sewer outlet, growling and muttering quietly to each other with high frequency nigh-undetectable vocalizations.
The red Gryphon eschewed eye contact, instead pulling out his sidearm, and making a show of checking the laser pistol's capacitor banks.
The two Diamond Dogs withdrew swiftly into the depths of their hideaway, their claws making a disturbing scrabbling noise against the corrugated metal of the pipe. The advanced nature of Fyrenn's weapon identified him as more than just a wandering Gryphon.
The roving packs would tangle with individuals of opportunity, but they knew better than to attack anyone with a connection to Earthgov.
As he turned down an unusually dark alleyway, Fyrenn said silent words of thanks that he had been off-world when the Diamond Dog Conversion program went live.
The idea of taking one species, and turning it into another, had always been fraught with risks.
Forced Equine converts caught in Potion attacks had sometimes described severe forms of depression and melancholia; A psychological backlash to the juxtaposition of trauma, and the usual Pony spirit of optimism. A form of 'emotional redlining.'
Some recovered. Others never quite did.
Earthgov had swiftly learned that a mis-fired Draconification was a disaster on the scale of a super-hurricane. The body would always survive... Not so the mind and soul.
That left behind hundreds of tons of armor plated magic-breathing rage, driven entirely by predatory instincts.
As a result, the government-imposed psychological testing for Draconic Conversion was nearly as stringent as the tests Gryphons imposed on their own program.
Fyrenn had spent many quiet moments in his first years as a Gryphon wondering what would happen if someone unsuitable for the program ever got ahold of the Gryphon Potion. At one point, the HLF had apparently tried, with severely mixed results.
The files were classified above his paygrade, but the rumors implied that either a person adapted to their new fixed morality, and reconciled it with their identity, or the Potion triggered an instant non-bypassable terminal 'failsafe.'
The ill-advised project had reduced several HLF cells to smoking craters full of corpses at the claws of those who survived, and put a sudden stop to any and all attempts to steal Gryphonization Potion for later re-distribution.
Fyrenn had no desire to know precisely what 'failsafe' meant or how it worked. But the rumors of half-converted people bursting into flames and atomizing into piles of carbon ash had silenced the majority of the remaining opposition to the program's entry requirements.
As with any powerful technology, Conversion had a terrifying dark side. In Fyrenn's opinion, the darkest of its dangers came in the form of the Diamond Dog serum.
The Diamond Dog pack instinct could rival the Changeling Hive mind in terms of the power it could exert on a person, particularly due to its disarming subtleties.
At first, all Diamond Dog Conversions were carefully engineered to account for the pack mentality. Entrants had to be educated carefully, then sponsored by a reputable, honorable pack of their choice, into which they would willingly and knowingly enter with full preparation.
Then the serum had hit the street.
Illicit Ponification chemicals had been a problem since the advent of the PER. But the worst results had been the occasional casualties from un-treated potion allergies.
When gang-brewed Diamond Dog serum had appeared on the black market, the outcome had been disastrous in a uniquely horrifying way that shocked the world.
Fyrenn shivered, and ruffled his wings. Even contemplating the idea chilled his blood. He paused to examine his surroundings. Before him lay an enormous steam vent, long since deactivated. To his left was a maintenance hatch, and to his right another alleyway.
Arbitrarily, he chose the hatch on the left. As he forced the rusted iron dome into an open position, and squeezed into the decaying concrete tunnel, his eyes lit upon a chalk marking scrawled into the drab gray surface of the tube wall.
JRSF monthly briefing packets included a wealth of information on current threats and trends. Fyrenn recognized the tag as a territory and directional symbol, advertising illicit Diamond Dog potion for sale.
He carefully examined the insignia, looking for the tell-tale hidden stroke that indicated the direction to travel.
He followed the tunnel as silently as he could. The structure quickly expanded into a large, vaulted intersection. Fyrenn leapt noiselessly onto an upper catwalk, and moved cautiously out into the larger space.
Beneath him, the floor of the chamber was littered with old ill-maintained trolleys and tool carts.
Towards the far end of the vaulted room, a rag-tag stand of sorts had been assembled. There was a booth, manned by a grinning young man who was absently toying with a handgun far too large for his malnourished grip.
Behind the booth a series of carts had been emptied of their previous cargo, and filled with dusty glass containers of mismatched shapes and sizes. The flasks, cylinders, cups, and tanks were filled with a blue-ish gray viscous chemical that sparkled and glowed softly in the eye-catching way that only Potion could.
To the side sat a ratty reclining chair, beside which stood a scrawny Diamond Dog Vulpine, his streaked gray and orange fur matted with detritus, food scraps, and old blood.
Several more Human enforcers lounged about on various pieces of debris and furniture. The only figure who seemed slightly out of place was the young man standing on the other side of the booth.
He was the only one in the room who looked to have eaten a full meal within the last twenty four hours. His clothing was intentionally bedraggled, but Fyrenn recognized several small signs of latent wealth; The state of his shoes, the brand of his chronometer, the pallor of his skin.
He rotated his ears slightly, and focused on the conversation.
"This is not something I *choose* man! I'm Human just like you!"
The young man's voice betrayed a sense of desperation.
The slightly older man behind the booth twirled his gun dangerously around two fingers, and shrugged.
"I dunno breh... You don't look like you really understand what you are..." The man leaned forward, and tapped his chest with the butt of his gun, "In *here.*"
The younger man threw up both hands, and leaned over the booth, raising his voice with each word.
"We all gotta do what we gotta do to *survive,* but how are people like you and me supposed to live with the lies the Bureaus sell! They want me to either give up the fight we all got inside of us, or they want me to pass a bunch of tests and commit to a bunch of shit like mating for life, and living by some fuckin' bird 'morality code.' "
The gang leader sighed and rolled his eyes, "Too true my friend, too true... But you really think you're one of us? You look more like a space-cadet to me. Or hey; Maybe you can wait for the bull-people to start up with their hand outs---"
The young man slammed both hands down on the booth, and practically screamed in response.
"I ain't doin time as a POPSICLE on those deathtrap space-ships. And I sure as hell ain't waiting for the Minotaurs to pull their horns out of their asses and get their program started! I got a *life* to live man!"
The gang leader grinned widely. Fyrenn scowled. He knew the tactic well, it was simplistic psychology as old as Humankind itself. First convince someone their situation was not by choice. Next, convince them they needed to side with your point of view to be happy. Set the hook by resisting and waving them off, allowing them to convince themselves and do all the work for you.
Finally, acquiesce 'reluctantly.'
The gang leader rose, and gestured to the chair.
"Proceed my brother man. I think we can set you up..."
Fyrenn watched as the group sprang into action, preparing a syringe as they ushered their latest victim to the chair. All the while, the Vulpine watched silently, smiling disconcertingly.
For a long moment the Gryphon debated simply leaving the young man to his fate. Fyrenn was lightly armed, unarmored, and he knew the boy wouldn't be grateful to him if he did intervene.
Swiftly, however, Fyrenn decided he didn't have any options, from the moral standpoint. At the very least he could get some illicit Potion out of circulation. That alone would make the effort worthwhile.
He tip-clawed his way around the catwalk in absolute silence, waiting for his opportunity.
The Vulpine was the single true threat in the room. However he looked too young, malnourished, and inexperienced to provide real resistance. It helped that the smell of solvent, sewage, and Human sweat was so overwhelming, that he had missed Fyrenn's approach.
The red Gryphon poised on the edge of the balcony, waiting patiently until the needle was poised, and the Vulpine was fully distracted.
His descent was so swift, and so silent, that there was a full two seconds of shocked pause following the ear-splitting crack as his sword buried itself up to the hilt in the Vulpine's skull.
Fyrenn calmly sent the loaded syringe spinning with a well placed strike from his right wing, disarming the next closest Human with a similar blow from his left wing.
By the time the first gang member managed to put his hand on his weapon, Fyrenn had already drawn his pistol. It only took another second and a half for bright red, searingly hot bolts of light to issue forth in a dervish-like pattern, felling each opponent in turn, leaving them with a perfectly circular cauterized hole between their eyes.
In total, the confrontation lasted a grand sum total of three and a half seconds.
Fyrenn calmly extracted his sword from his opponent with a swift jerk, and set about wiping it clean on the arm of the chair. The young man flinched at the proximity of the glittering razor edges.
"Wha... What... What the *hell* man?!"
Fyrenn silently sheathed his blade, and stepped over to the racks of potion. He glanced down at his pistol, and noted that he had more than enough charge to complete his task. An inner sense of mounting satisfaction told him he had made the right choice.
The gangs selling Diamond Dog potion failed to disclose the catch. Converts paid for their 'free ride' with forced induction into the pack who had sponsored the creation, and sale of the Potion.
It had soon become apparent that every low-rung Equestrian Troll pack, and a few Vulpines and mixed packs, were using the situation to increase their standing, at the expense of people's freedom.
The young man rose, and held up both hands.
"No man! Don't!"
Fyrenn rotated his head abruptly to fix the boy with a bone-melting glare.
"Do you understand what you were about to do? Do you *know* what they do with people like you?!"
Fyrenn turned and crossed the space, grabbing the young man with his free claw, and squeezing until the talons drew blood from his shoulder.
"These are Bind-Bloods. The people they are offering 'freedom' to? Idiots like you? The lucky ones are put to work here as little more than attack dogs. *Pets* of the alpha, to be used at his or her pleasure. In every single sense. The rest get packed into cargo containers, like sacks of dry goods, and shipped across the barrier to be slaves in the *mines.* And frankly I couldn't tell you which might be worse if you asked me. Either way, you can't even try to go against it. You chose to bind your blood, and so your blood is bound forever to the pack."
Fyrenn released the young man, and stepped back to the rag-tag collection of glass containers, muttering darkly as he worked.
"The lucky ones are found by ConSec and die in detention from the psychological strain of being unable to satisfy and obey the pack. The pack they chose to bind themselves to for eternity. The rest end up spending the rest of their lives treated as slave animals. Possessions. Chattel."
The young man shook his head, wincing and nursing his gashed shoulder.
"Man what other way do I *have*?! I can't be like you, I just ain't built like that..."
Fyrenn snorted as he removed the safety once more from his weapon.
"Let me share something I've learned with you. Freedom, and most of the things we associate with it, are not basic fundamental rights which we get to cash in like poker chips for our individual wants. They are terrible and great privileges. We have to keep them alive by choosing to become something better than that which our lesser nature would compel us to be."
The red Gryphon raised his weapon, and began calmly blasting the potion containers into oblivion.
"Maybe it's trite kid, but life really is just a series of choices. Every single thing we do, or don't do, is a choice. Everything we are, and are not, is a decision we make, every second of every day. And we're responsible for all of them. Every last one."
There was a protracted moment of silence as the last container shattered. Fyrenn holstered his pistol, and dropped to all fours, moving quietly to stand over the sobbing young man.
His voice softened slightly as he reached down, and helped the boy to his feet.
"You know, I had a friend like you once. He believed that he had a fundamental right to his self-interest, his pride, and any other behaviors created by the drives of his basic nature. I never had this conversation with him, and as a result I ended up putting a bullet in his brain when he crossed a line I couldn't follow him over. And that was my foolish choice, based on my foolish basic nature."
The young man finally met Fyrenn's eyes. The Gryphon did his best to use the molten emotions behind his gold orbs to force his point home.
"You don't have to be that..." Fyrenn jerked a thumb talon at the Vulpine's corpse.
"You can, but you don't have to be. You don't have to be like me either. You don't really *have* to be anything..."
Fyrenn turned, and made his way to the next tunnel entryway. He turned his head, and shrugged both wings, "Unless you really want to be free."