//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1: The Encounter 
// Story: Life in the Wasteland 
// by NorsePony 
//------------------------------//

       We were five days outside of Equestria and faint, unfamiliar sounds rose and fell beneath the ever-present wind, putting us all on edge.
       The rustling and scraping noises had accompanied our march for an hour when the creatures burst from the dead gray earth of the Wasteland. Sinkholes collapsed in the blink of an eye, becoming the open mouths of lightless tunnels from which swarmed the things, glossy black and chitinous. Their carapaces were ridged with spikes and black as nightmare. Their eyes were blue, without pupil or white, and they gave off no reflection from the wan sunlight.
       The earth continued to vomit forth the black things, dozens upon dozens rising all around us. Their chitin scraped against itself as they moved, creating the noise we’d been hearing. My stomach lurched as I realized we were at least an hour inside their territory. They encircled us about ten feet away and at least three deep, forming an undisciplined perimeter to box us in. I was shoved roughly, Hook’s normally gentle hoof now stiff with fear. I lost my footing and tumbled to the gray, gravelly earth. My packs cushioned my fall and I rolled and bounded up to find myself surrounded on all sides by a dozen tails. My comrades had surrounded me in a protective ring. Standard doctrine when under attack, but it always made me feel both helpless and useless. But I had no way to fight Wasteland creatures. They weren’t sheep I could herd. So I swallowed my frustration, because being angry at the truth is a losing proposition.
       To my right, Hook’s red tail swished uncertainly, but his head was down and his muscles bunched and ready. “You OK, Shepherd?”
       “I’m fine, just a bit mussed,” I said dryly. Hook flashed a grin before turning his attention back to the creatures. His tail was still and focused. Good. He had to survive to get back to his family, so he needed every bit of focus.

       The rustling of chitin faded to silence, leaving only the wind. Seconds passed. The skin of Bluebelle’s neck twitched as though she were shaking off a fly. She whispered, “Why aren’t they attacking?”
       Sarge’s normal speaking voice was a bellow, so his version of a whisper still made my chest vibrate. “Just be ready.”
       Doc was the only member of the squad who seemed unafraid. She always was too smart to have any sense. But all things considered, that was probably normal for a magical researcher. That whole crowd seemed too smart to have any sense.
       Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doc’s head thrust eagerly forward, her eyes darting from one creature to the next. “They are remarkably equinoid,” she said, and I winced at her conversational volume. “There have been no reports of equinoid Wasteland fauna. Perhaps these are Equestrians who were lucky enough to be adapted to the Wasteland by the storms rather than twisted by them?” She paused, thoughtfully. “Sarge, may I attempt to communicate with them?”
       He paused for a beat, but if he was surprised it didn’t show in his voice. “Go ahead. Don’t see how it could make the situation worse.”
       Doc nodded primly. She raised her head. “We do not wish to harm you.” As she spoke, she swiveled her head, looking for any sign of comprehension. “We only want to pass through your land. May we speak to your leader?”

       The chitinous rustle rose again as the creatures parted to let one through. The new creature was formed of the same segmented black chitin as the others, but it was smoother, lacking most of the spikes and spines of its cohorts. It was also smaller, though its sure steps made it seem no less dangerous. Its eyes were the same unrelieved blue, but the thing’s head swept from side to side, pointing them at each of us in turn. I shivered as it looked at me, scared by the alienness of its gaze. It opened its mouth, revealing upper and lower interlocking fangs each the size of my hoof. It hissed, the sound underlaid with a wet gurgling like a poorly-maintained steam pipe. On its back, two slabs of chitin rattled against each other. The rattling and hissing continued for several seconds, then the creature fell silent, standing in a way that seemed expectant.
       In the silence, I heard Doc murmur, “Wing covers.” A lump of fear grew heavy in my stomach. I looked sharply at the creatures, revising upward my estimate of the danger they posed. Not all of them seemed to have wing covers, so that was something at least. Doc spoke to the smooth creature. “I don’t understand your language. I’m sorry.” She touched a hoof to her chest. “Doc,” she said clearly, then tilted her head, inviting the creature to respond.
       The creature hissed a single syllable. That was proof enough of its intelligence to me. You can’t cuss without a language. I relaxed the tiniest bit. Maybe this really would work out.
       Turns out, just because I can cuss doesn’t mean I’m not an idiot.

       The creature… shimmered is the only way I could think of it. A wave of energy started at its head and flashed down to its hoof-parts, and in its wake, the creature was changed. I heard gasps around me as the squad saw it. The thing had become an exact double of Doc, even down to the corner of her mouth that was always turned up.
       The fake Doc narrowed its brown eyes at us and said, “You understand now. You surrender.”
       I stifled a curse, hardly hearing my squadmates’ surprise. The thing could talk, alright. Seventy-some years of Wasteland exploration, and nobody had ever encountered a creature that could speak. At least, they hadn’t made it back with the story.
       Doc didn’t seem surprised. She just looked offended, though I wasn’t sure if that was because of its demand or because it was using her voice to speak so poorly. She narrowed her brown eyes right back at the creature. “We wish to pass in peace. There is no need for us to fight.”
       Fake Doc’s voice was mocking. “‘We not wish to harm you.’ We wish feed on you. More useful than dead. Surrender.”
       Doc sighed and shook her head sadly. “Such a wasted opportunity.”
       The fake Doc opened its mouth and shrieked a hiss. Some of the other creatures flared their wings in response, startlingly blue against their blackness and pockmarked as though by disease. The creatures tensed, ready to pounce. The familiar tingle started in my spine as the unicorns surrounding me tapped their magic, preparing for combat.
       “Hook,” Sarge said, his voice calm and steady, “push.”


* * *


       Two hundred years ago, the End destroyed the world. Ten miles of Equestria had survived, protected by our princesses and the Shield their combined power made possible. Thousands of soldiers, researchers, civilians, and prisoners of war were inside the Shield when it went up. When it came down a hundred years later, the survivors and their children learned that the rest of the world had been transformed into the Wasteland. The slowly-starving Equestrian population was trapped by the dead, unfarmable terrain and the predatory creatures which roamed it.
       The best scientific minds in Equestria had survived inside the Shield, but they needed a decade to make the discoveries and develop the theories which described the packages of concentrated magic that became known as Seeds. Afterward, it took the Princesses only days to create the first Seed and fly with it into the Wasteland. And the Wasteland began receding, slowly, grudgingly. It fell back, inch by inch, giving Equestria land to restore into soil and plant with food.
       The Princesses carried the Seeds for fifty years, until the distances were too great for them to return safely in a day, for the Wasteland at night was a terror and they knew Equestria could not afford to lose them. That was when the Princesses created the first squad, thirteen brave souls who ventured out to carry on the fight.
       There are eight squads now. Someday, there will be more. And we are the ones who fight the Wasteland.


* * *


       The unicorn called Hook was big and yellow, and so was the magic that had earned him his nickname. He grunted with effort as he released it. There must have been a hundred of the creatures surrounding the squad, and the air filled with meaty clattering as they were shoved away from us, slamming into each other and raising gray dust clouds as they slid tumbling across the dirt.
       “Squad,” Sarge bellowed, “attack!”
       Griz and Teacup flared their wings and leapt into the air. The unicorns closed ranks around me and opened fire. Each unicorn has a specialty, some kind of magic they have a natural talent for. Many of those specialties can be used to devastating effect in combat, as Equestria’s enemies had learned all too well in the war. I could pick out the feel of each of my comrades’ magics as they engaged the enemy.
       Directly in front of me, Anvil and Glacier worked together with the easy coordination of long familiarity. My magic sense sweltered under long bursts of Anvil's blast-furnace fire magic, punctuated by soothing pops of Glacier's intense cold that felt like an ice cube down my spine. I was short for a stallion while Glacier was tall and Anvil was broad, so I couldn’t see past their combined bulk to observe how the combination was affecting the creatures. But I had no worries about its effectiveness—it had shattered creatures bigger than them in the past.
       Feeling Doc’s magic always made me itch somewhere down deep in my brain. She wasn’t particularly powerful, but her control was exquisite. I felt most magic with my whole body, but Doc’s was so tightly focused that it was like a scalpel in my magic sense. Metaphorically, I mean. The literal magic scalpels were exclusively for enemies. She lunged forward like a fencer and I got a glimpse of three of the creatures which had regained their feet and begun to charge us. A sun-bright dot danced over them too quickly for my eye to follow, leaving afterimages on my retina. I blinked and the creatures disassembled, falling apart at the seams, their momentum scattering limbs and ichor in a streak on the ground.
       They died silently. I realized that the battle was unfolding in silence apart from chitinous movement and the sounds of magic and effort from the unicorns around me. So many of the creatures and not a single noise of pain or rage. Only the one who had transformed had consciously made noise. Maybe the others couldn’t? I filed that thought away for my debriefing.

       In the sullen red sky above us, our pegasus and griffon, Teacup and Griz battled with the flying contingent of the creatures. The creatures’ blue wings beat so fast they were just a blur, and they jinked through the air like dragonflies. Their maneuverability was astounding, but Teacup’s foal-like mass gave her the advantage. She darted and weaved, harrying the creatures into a loose pack as Griz coasted lazily above the dogfight. With the creatures gathered, Teacup got down to business. Her wings buzzed violently and she became a tiny purple streak, whirring around the creatures faster and faster until a midget tornado formed with the black things trapped inside. The winds spun them end-over-end and battered them against one another. Griz grinned and tucked into a dive, stooping toward the tornado with sharpened talons poised. She hit the storm at an angle, punching through the wall of wind near its top and emerging near the bottom an instant later, clutching a pair of bleeding enemies in her enviable grip. She released them, letting them fall limply to crunch against the hard dirt, and used her speed to pull up into a half-loop. She re-entered the tornado, her powerful wings letting her cut straight across its center this time, and again appeared holding two dead creatures. She shrieked in triumph, green ichor steaming on her talons.

       The staccato pulsing of Sarge’s magic pulled my attention back to the ground battle. Our leader’s style wasn’t flashy or even particularly graceful. He used a simple attack spell, one that nearly any unicorn could cast without trouble. What made it his specialty was his speed. My magic sense ratcheted, like someone was flicking a hoof across a washboard in my spine, and I squinted against the brightness as at least a dozen arrow-like beams of light shot forth from Sarge’s horn to turn a couple of the creatures into Swiss cheese.
       I glanced over my shoulder, checking on Hook. I couldn’t see past him, but the feel of his magic and the sight of one of the creatures tossed through the air like a rag doll assured me that he was doing fine.

       “Down!” Reflexes drilled into my muscle memory threw me to the ground before I consciously recognized Griz’ voice. One of the creatures passed just over my back, its wings vibrating the air with a sound like a bumblebee the size of a wagon. I cautiously raised my head, wrinkling my nose at the acrid stench the creature had left behind. The rest of the squad had hit the dirt just as quickly as me, and over them I glimpsed one of the creatures trying to lose Griz. She lazed along fifty feet above it, letting her altitude advantage do the work for her. The griffon smirked down at her prey, obviously enjoying its increasingly desperate attempts to shake her off. I often thought she was more cat than bird, but Princesses know I wouldn’t let her hear me say that. The creature began climbing, trying to close the gap, and in a blink Griz was stooping toward it. Twenty sharpened talons and claws slammed into its hard black shell. She bore the thing down into the ground and the cracking of the creature’s anatomy was audible all the way over to me. Griz launched out of the cloud of dust back into the air.

       The miniature tornado above us had disrupted the flow of the constant wind, so our own dust was dispersing slowly and was still drifting around the squad as we climbed back to our hooves. Losing track of the enemy can be deadly, so I spun in place looking for the creatures, trying to help by at least lending my eyes to the others. So it was that I happened to be looking at Boxer as the black shape lunged out of a thick clot of dust and carried the red stallion to the ground.
       “Boxer!” I screamed. Thankfully, I felt his magic flare and heard the invisible blows landing on chitin, each as powerful as a two-hoofed buck but delivered faster than any pony could kick. Before anyone had time to react, Boxer was standing again, his attacker lying broken and still in the swirling dust.
       Sarge watched him rise. “Sound off, soldier. You still in one piece?”
       Boxer gave Sarge a firm nod before turning back to the battle and magically clobbering one of the creatures into the dirt.
       Sarge nodded back, relief in his expression. “Good.”

       Between the shifting bodies of my squadmates, I glimpsed the creature that had taken Doc’s form. It still looked like her, and its white coat stood out sharply amid the gray dirt and the black forms of its cohorts. It wasn’t fighting, but was hanging a healthy distance back and seemed to be observing, its alien gaze watching each of our fighters in turn. I didn’t like it one bit. The thing seemed to become aware that I was looking at it. It met my eyes and smiled, Doc’s lips parting to reveal a mouthful of fangs. I liked that even less.
       “Sarge, that one’s watching us. Could be carrying intel back to whatever sort of ruler these things have.”
       Sarge glanced over and frowned at the Doc-creature. He looked up, considering. “Boxer, Hook, you two keep the rest of the flying ones off of our backs.” His voice became a shout. “Teacup! Griz! Get that one!”
       They followed his hoof and abandoned their current opponents, zooming toward their new target. I had the satisfaction of seeing the creature’s face fall, but it didn’t hesitate. It opened its mouth and hissed loud and sharp, then dove into the ground so easily it could have been water.. Teacup and Griz poured on speed, but it was hopeless. The dirt where it disappeared roiled and shifted for a moment, then went still.
       The remaining creatures’ heads went up sharply at the hiss, then they retreated in a rush to the gaping mouths of the sinkholes they had emerged from, swarming back down into the darkness of the tunnels. The squad killed a few as they fled, but most made it to safety. The sinkholes filled in as quickly as they’d opened, and after a few seconds of shifting dirt, there was no sign that they’d existed. All that was left on the battlefield was dozens of chitinous corpses and thirteen stunned Equestrians.
       Boxer let out a gurgling sigh and fell down hard.

       Doc was at Boxer’s side in the space of three heartbeats, but even as fast as she moved, she had to shove Bluebelle off of Boxer’s still form. “Boxer!” Doc said urgently. “Can you hear me?” She bent close without waiting for a reply, listening for breath. Whatever she heard—or didn’t hear—made her frown. She gathered magic and trickled it out, gently turning Boxer over while holding his head steady.
       Her grip was only on his head and neck, so he rolled in an undignified, limb-splaying heap.
Bluebelle stifled a sob. Despite growing up in the same shantytown, she and Boxer hadn’t known each other until they enlisted. Their common history had made them thick as thieves. Whether it had blossomed into love, I didn’t know.
       I searched her face, and had to look away. Now I knew.
       Looking down at Boxer, Doc shook her head with an even darker frown. I peered over her shoulder and cringed. Boxer’s throat was torn in a ragged gash that ran from chin to collarbone. The ground where he had fallen was a puddle of bloody mud. His red coat had hidden the blood after being attacked, and his pride must have made him keep fighting even as he choked and bled out. Doc peeled back his lip, checking his gums. They were white as bone. She slumped back onto her haunches.
       Bluebelle stared at her, her eyes wide and terrified. A distant part of my brain observed that I’d never seen her visibly afraid before. “What are you doing? Save him!”
       Doc looked at her levelly, sympathetically. “It’s too late. I might not have been able to save him even immediately after the injury. He just lost blood too fast. It’s amazing that he’s still conscious.” She looked away. “If you have anything you want to say to him, now is your last chance.” She hauled herself up, looking decades older, and addressed the rest of us. “Give her privacy.”
       Sarge nodded. “Form a perimeter. Those things might come back.” He turned toward Boxer, his face and posture both rigidly controlled, and snapped his hoof to his heart in a precise salute. The rest of us, all except Bluebelle, joined him.
       Boxer’s eyes were already growing dull, but he smiled faintly and his hoof twitched toward his heart.
       Sarge spun on his heels and marched stiffly away out of earshot. As the rest of us spread out, I saw him wiping his eyes. Maybe I only imagined it.

       Bluebelle sat close by Boxer, holding his hoof in both of hers. Whatever words were said between them, I didn’t hear. I could only hope that those few moments were enough for them. Knowing that they weren’t. My mind was curiously blank as I stood waiting for Boxer to die. Our vigil passed in silence, the only sound the wind scratching against the dirt. Three short minutes later, Bluebelle’s keening drifted across the wind. My shoulders slumped. It was over. It was only then that I cried.
       “Doc?” Bluebelle’s voice was thick with grief, but steady. Doc left the perimeter and went to her, bending down to exchange inaudible words. I wiped my eyes clear and watched. They conferred for a moment, then Doc recoiled, shaking her head. Bluebelle gestured firmly and pointed at Boxer’s body. Doc looked at her, doubt in every line of her posture. Bluebelle nodded once. Slowly, Doc nodded back. Her horn glowed for just the blink of an eye.
       Doc turned, seeming dazed. “Anvil,” she called. “We need your help.” Behind her, Bluebelle gathered something up, wrapping it in bandages and stowing it in one of her packs.
       As though Doc’s call had been a signal, the rest of us slowly returned to the body. Boxer’s eyes were closed. His face was peaceful. Maybe it’s naive of me, but it looked like he died happy. However, something seemed off about him, though I couldn’t put my hoof on it.
       The other unicorns arrived after I did, and each of them recoiled immediately, just as Doc had. I blinked in puzzlement, and as though that had cleared my vision, I saw it: Boxer’s horn was gone, amputated neatly at its base. My earth pony eyes hadn’t immediately noticed the lack. I looked at Bluebelle, and she met my gaze defiantly with eyes still wet with tears. Around me, the other unicorns shifted awkwardly. I was missing something, that was clear.
       Whatever was going on, Anvil decided to ignore it. “What do you need, Doc?”
       “Burn Boxer’s body.”
       Anvil balked. “What?” I was just as surprised. Standard doctrine was to bury soldiers who fell in the Wasteland, or build a cairn if the ground was too hard for burial. Equestrians always returned to the earth. That was simply a given.
       “We can’t leave him here for those things. They are obviously intelligent. We can’t afford to let them learn anything from his body.”
       Hook shouldered in. “We can carry him, take him someplace else, bury him there.”
       Sarge cut Doc’s reply off with a gesture. “We all heard those things before we saw ‘em. You know as well as I do that we’re an hour inside their territory and we’ve got Princesses know how much further to go before we’re clear. You saw how fast they appeared. This time they wanted to capture us. If they change their mind next time, whoever’s carrying Boxer might be too slow. One casualty is plenty.” He paused. Hook nodded, plainly not pleased but bowing to the cold logic of what Sarge was saying. He knew as well as any of us that we couldn’t return to Equestria until the mission was complete. There were only eight Wasteland squads, and the missions had to be accomplished. If we went home, we’d just have to come back to try again later, and by then, these creatures could be prepared for us. Sarge looked around, searching for other objections. There were none, though no one would meet his eyes. “Anvil. Do it.”
       We stepped back as Anvil concentrated, preparing his flames. To my magic sense, it was like the sun was beating down on my skin from the inside. When he released the built-up power and the fire leapt forth like an eager beast, the merely physical heat was a relief. When a unicorn cast a spell, they first gathered raw magic in their body, then channeled it through their horn, which allowed them to shape the raw magic into the specific effect they wanted. My extra sense could only feel the raw magic, not fully-shaped spells. But that ability was a big part of why a helpless earth pony like me was in the squad in the first place.

        I worried that I would be able to smell Boxer burning. I wasn’t sure if I could handle that. But Anvil’s fire burned white-hot and blinding, eradicating even the particles that would have carried scent. Anvil maintained the flames for a full minute before cutting them off, stumbling slightly as he did so. “It’s done,” he panted. Glacier hurried to his side and he leaned on her with a grateful look.
       I steeled myself to look at Boxer, but I needn’t have worried. He was gone. Only a charred piece of ground and a thin pile of gray ash remained of our comrade, and the endless wind was already beginning to carry him away.
       Sarge nodded, his chin jerking up and down like a puppet. “Let’s get out of here. Double time, march!” He set off, moving fast in the direction we’d been traveling before the attack.

       Within a mile, the underground rustling and scraping joined our march. I tensed up hard, as though there were already fangs closing on my throat. Glancing at the formation ahead and behind, it didn’t look like I was alone in that reaction. We marched in silence, our usual trail banter as dead as the Wasteland’s soil.