Earlier
"How long until we can eat the local wildlife?" Griped Navigator, doing upside down crunches while hanging off the wing of the Scout Ship Nobel Quest to get himself adjusted to living on a planet again, "I can't be the only one who is tired of meat sticks."
"The computer said our bacteria will have adjusted by tomorrow," Trak-Sergeant growled at him in response, stopping his pacing to look him in the eye, or at least as well as he could with Navigator's head bobbing up and down like one of those infernal water contraptions, "Be patient until then, or I will have to discipline you." He held up his left hand and slowly extended his claws. Navigator's ears flattened against his head as he shut up and nodded eagerly, making his body wiggle even more than before. He knew better than needle to Trak when he was in one of his moods.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Trak-Sergeant went back to pacing the perimeter of the ship. His crew, minus Navigator and Ship-Pilot (who never wanted to set foot on a planet again, for some unimaginable reason) was out exploring or gathering data, while he was stuck waiting until they came back. To be precise, they were escorting the researcher and his Jotok slave whom the whole mission were centered around. It isn't every year that a star, even a smaller one like a white dwarf, is found orbiting a planet, and it's even less common for the Patriarch to dispatch a research team to investigate anything, even something as bizarre as this.
The light dimmed suddenly, and Trak turned toward the sun to see it set in a rather dramatic and spectacular fashion as the moon rose in a similar manner. The whole reason they'd made landfall (besides going stir crazy from living in a hunk of metal at maximum capacity for cycles on end) was because Plosk-scientist were unable to figure out what was keeping the sun in orbit. Trak had almost skewered the mewling weakling on the spot, but restrained himself since the short term satisfaction would not be worth the damage to his honor returning empty handed would bring.
In any case, Plosk had wanted to get some readings from closer to the ground, so they'd landed in an isolated area where they could work undisturbed. The orbital cameras had recorded a large portion of the local civilization, including the fact that there were multiple sapient races all living on the same world despite having no industrial base or anything else that would allow for interstellar travel, which would be quite fascinating if Trak actually cared about stuff like that. What he did care about was fighting. However, as much as he might have wanted to tangle with one the bipedal bulls or a bird-Kzin hybrid, the mission came first. It was the Hero's Way.
Trak pulled up the feed from one of the scouting drones they'd deployed while the ship was still confirming whether it was safe for them to step outside, and watched with no small degree of amazement as a group of flying horses pushed a wall of clouds over a small town and made it start to rain. He'd give half his collection of ear trophies to own one of those creatures, be it the flying variety he was currently spying on, the super-strong farmers who appeared to make up the working class, or one of the horned creatures that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Since Engine-Technician had outright stated he wanted a horned one to help him with the more difficult to reach repairs, Trak knew he wasn't alone in this sentiment. Vomit-inducingly cute (they almost looked like cubs, between their size and distorted features) or not, these creatures were ideal slave material, especially since they seemed to be naturally docile, much like their Homeworld counterparts.
They were still trying to come up with a name for the locals, since when Soldier had suggested "Ponies" he'd earned himself a fresh scar across his chest. No self respecting member of the Heroes Race would ever use such a ludicrous term, and it was because of stuff like this that Soldier was still Soldier. Bright Horses was Trak's choice, thanks to the future slaves's garish coat colors, but he hadn't managed to convince the others yet.
In any case, he was already itching to run out into the forest and hunt down the biggest animal he could find, and Navigator's comment was the nudge that knocked him off the cliffside. "Navigator," He said, his nostrils flaring and his ears flattening in anticipation, "I'm going to have a look around. I'll grab a comset before I go so the others can contact me and I won't stray far from the ship, but don't follow me. I need to hunt." Navigator saluted, raking his claws across his face (an odd looking motion when performed upside-down) and Trak-Sergeant stepped into the airlock. He held his breath as it cycled and sprayed disinfectant on him to catch any stray microbes, then entered the ship proper.
The smell of oiled machinery hit his nose as the sound of buzzing electronics filled his ears, and he stomped down the metal walkway towards the armory, ducking under a low hanging support beam as he went. Ship-Pilot was in the room when he entered, polishing his Wtsia, a long knife with a mono-filament edge. His ears twitched as he worked, and kept twitching as he looked up and tossed a salute in the Sergeant's direction. "What brings you back inside?" He asked, his eyes lidding slightly, "Given how you t'kzintars were griping during planetfall, I was not expecting to see anyone for quite some time." Trak just snarled at him. Pilot's use of the Mocking mode had gotten under his skin just like it always did, but Trak tried his best to ignore it. Ship-Pilot was the best flyer in the empire bar none, and the only reason he hadn't earned a full name by now was the delight he took in stepping on his superiors's tails. Of course, that skill also kept the repercussions of most of his actions from ending his life. "I really do not see why you enjoy the surface so much," Pilot continued, "It's hot and humid and full of bugs more often than not. Give me a nice, climate controlled vessel any day."
"And what of the urge to hunt?" Trak shot back, getting pulled in despite himself. He walked over to one of the weapon racks and grabbed a kreera, a serrated short sword, which he strapped to his belt opposite his Wtsai, then picked a helmet off the wall and strapped it on. It clicked neatly with the rest of his suit, protecting his neck and shoulders from attack.
"A minor inconvenience," Pilot answered, "Besides, it allows me to spend my pay on females instead."
Trak decided not to point out that Pilot should have his own harem by now and turned to leave. "I'm heading out, but not far. You're not in charge until I get back. Understood?" He left before Pilot could respond, making his way back outside with a bit more haste than could be considered normal. The entire crew, himself included, did their best to avoid Pilot (an impossible task on a longer voyage like this one), since the last thing anyone wanted was to have the only Kzin who could dock or land the ship with any degree of skill dead. Trak took a deep breath to take in the smells of the forest and clear the stink of metal, oil, and plastic from his nostrils, then dropped to all fours and stalked out into the forest. He hoped he would run into something large and angry. He seriously needed to vent after so long without a fight.
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Thread Life rode into consciousness on the back of a massive headache. Eyes still closed, he considered the chance that he'd passed out drunk, but dismissed it since his research team didn't keep any cider at the outpost. Also, if that was what had happened he'd be waking up on something softer than a hunk of steel. Warmer, too.
He cracked his eyes open and took in his surroundings. He noticed he was in a metal box, roughly ovaliod in shape, about 10 tails long, 15 wide, and 6 high. The walls were slightly dusty, but otherwise scrubbed clean, and lined with bulges of cables coated in some bright substance. The ceiling was bare save for a rectangular box emitting a harsh blueish light, which cast a large number of shadows under the metal struts that ran from floor to ceiling along the wall he was leaning against, while the wall across from him had a door set in it, solid metal like the rest of his surroundings and rounded at the corners. It looked a bit like a bank vault door, only even more sturdy. A small device hung just above the door sported a shiny piece of glass that was pointed at him, glinting evilly in the light. Thread almost would have thought it was a camera except he had never seen one that small before. A quick look around confirmed that other than supposed camera, himself, and an overturned bowl, the room was empty.
Thread groaned as he held a hoof to his head and tried to remember how he'd ended up here. Judging by his headache and the experience he'd gathered from his misspent youth, somepony or something had knocked him unconscious, and he'd get his memories back soon enough. Oh, yeah, the Manticore, Princess Celestia, and-
A wide, gaping mouth filled with serrated teeth digging into the shoulder of Gentle Breeze, her face frozen in shock. Her wide, unmoving eyes staring directly into his own-
He barely managed to spin the bowl upright with his magic before he emptied the contents of his stomach. Gone. His entire team, his friends, gone. Just like that. And not just gone, but killed. Murdered, by those-
A keening scream, flashing eyes, claws and a sword moving in for the kill-
"Monsters," He whispered, then vomited again. If he were still a young stallion, he probably would have cried after that, but he'd encountered loss before, if not on such a scale. He'd cried as he held the hoof of his wife while she cradled their son for the first and last time, then sobbed on the shoulder of his daughter-in-law as his son was lowered into the ground to the salute of a hundred royal guards. Finally, when his parents passed in their sleep, old and content, he sniffled, but nothing more.
After he recovered as much as he could, he'd buried himself in his work, determined to drive out the pain with exhaustion. For a time, it had worked. He'd even made friends with his colleagues, out there in the middle of the wilderness. And now this. His research was ruined, his friends were dead, and he was...
His train of thought derailed itself as he wiped the bile from his mouth. Why wasn't he dead as well? The monsters had no reason to leave him alive, so why hadn't he been on their table too? And where was he? He struggled to his hooves, almost collapsing halfway due to the effort it took. He felt heavy, like his body weighed more than it should. His eyes narrowing, he lifted the bowl in his telekinetic grip. After making sure he wasn't about to lose his lunch again, he lifted it to the top of his chamber, and dropped it. The speed at which it fell, the lack of splatter from the stomach acid inside, and the clang it made upon landing confirmed his suspicions even as the sharp sound forced his ears against his skull.
Gravity had somehow gotten stronger by as much as a full 50%. But why? He knew a few gravity enhancing spells existed, but there was no reason to cast it, not a such a low level. He was already trapped, and the pull wasn't strong enough to keep him from moving. It was pointless, and yet another question on top of his rapidly growing pile. And by Celestia was it cold in there.
He was rudely jolted out of his thoughts by the door to his... cell, (probably) as it hissed, clicked, and opened. In stepped a... what was that thing? It wasn't one of the monsters, that alone was certain. To start with, it didn't look like a cat, or frankly anything else Thread was familiar with either. It walked on five arms with four joints each (not including fingers and knuckles) that were spaced evenly around it's done-shaped torso. Each limb was tipped with a large, five fingered hand, and it seemed to use them for equal parts movement and environment manipulation. It had three eyes that he could see, one centered above each limb, and he guessed that it had two on the other side above the other two limbs. It was brown, spotted with patches of green and yellow, and scuttled easily toward him despite the high gravity, stopping just in front of his face. Two small holes opened on the two limbs closest to him, and the bizarre creature gestured towards the open door.
"Mearoweet'aatrurree-uzug shrri'," it said, it's voice high and clear.
"Skripe, hivin!" chirped a second voice, lower and rougher than the first, and with a start, Thread realized it came from the second mouth. How many voices did this thing have, anyway? Five probably.
When he didn't move, the creature seemed to twitch, and it gestured again, more forcefully this time, tugging on his fetlock as it did so. "Irgeeth-daf muyf!" it shouted. Thread decided he didn't want to be carried to where ever this thing wanted him go, and since he didn't really have any others options, stood and made his way to the door, careful to not lose his balance. A fall in this gravity would hurt a lot more than one under normal conditions, after all. When the creature saw he was moving, it said, "Hwerg," and climbed out into the space beyond, leaving the door open behind it.
As he stepped through the hatch, being careful to not bang his cannons against the high threshhold, his gaze flew around the spacious room outside, a rec/common/living room, he guessed, before it settled on the cluster of chairs around a small table directly in front of him. He froze, and had to use all his remaining willpower to not bolt back into his cell and barricade the door. The monsters were waiting for him. Sitting on chairs. In a semicircle. Not moving.
Thread slowly reigned in his fear, careful not to take his eyes off of the Tigertaurs (Now that he got a clear view, he thought that was what they looked like). The thing that had let him out scuttled over to the smallest of the group, a black and white striped male with no scars at all, and said something to him. The Tigertaur merely nodded in response, and the Pentapod(?) scampered over to a ladder set in the middle of the room and dropped down it to parts unknown.
Thread Life counted six Tigertaurs in all spread out in front of him. The largest of the bunch was the one Princess Celestia had fought earlier, his black and yellow fur now interrupted by a series of claw marks across his face and a fresh bandage of some shiny material over his chest. Given his position in the center of the group he seemed to be the one in charge. To his immediate right was a solid orange one, somewhat shorter than him but just as broad across, whose arms were covered in burn marks, while his left was covered by a snow white brute almost as large his leader who was heavily scarred, somewhat dirty, and holding a massive sword in one four-fingered paw.
The far right from Thread's perspective was held by a creature that really drove home the mental label of "tiger," as he was covered in black, white, and orange stripes except for his right arm, which was made of pink scar tissue that faded out at his shoulder instead of fur. The far left, by contrast, held a tall but scrawny (by comparison) tigertaur who had splotches of color all over his body in yellow, orange, white, and black. His left leg was covered in some kind of armor, and it clicked faintly as he shifted his weight. The black and white striped one the pentapod had spoken to was standing instead of sitting, and spaced a good bit farther away than the others were. It was almost like he wasn't a part of the group at all, in fact.
While Thread was busy trying not to wet himself in terror, the largest tigertaur stood and calmly walked towards him. Thread didn't take it well, skittering back against the door while his ears flattened against his head. The creature's ears twitched at his response, and he stopped about two tails in front of Thread, his massive bulk blocking out the ceiling lights. He said, "Let'kkuratch," and Thread realized they had no way to communicate. At all. He was going to have to learn their language the hard way.
"I'm sorry," Thread said, flashing the cat a nervous smile, "I'm afraid I don't-" Apparantely smiling was the wrong thing to do, since the monster bared one of his own, showing off a mouth with too many fangs in it, leaned down and roared in Thread's face. Thread's brain shut down at that, and he bolted back into the cell and shut the door behind him, then ran around in circles screaming until he passed out from exhaustion.
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"Nice going, Sergeant," Ship-Pilot drawled, brushing a stray bit of fur behind his ear, "Now he'll be totally useless. That's a great start."
