//------------------------------//
// Who Touched My Gun!? 
// Story: Wargames 
// by Speven Dillberg 
//------------------------------//

	“So, what is big red pony’s name?”
“Big Macintosh.”
The Russian and the farmer had retreated to the confines of the resupply. There, Heavy was attempting to engage the farmer in conversation. Progress had not been great.
He was not usually one to initiate conversation himself. But, in his new role as instructor he had no choice. It helped that the pony, Big Macintosh, was red. Heavy felt more comfortable around the colour red. 
Big Macintosh was nervous, but he didn’t show it. He was used to being the biggest pony around. Technically, that hadn’t actually changed. But the fact that he was absolutely dwarfed by this human... it scared him a little. True, he seemed gentle enough, but there was a vibe, a feeling that this was far from the truth. Feeling a need to fill the void, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “You sound like one of them folks from up near Stalliongrad.”
Heavy blinked. “Stalliongrad?” he asked, sound dumbfounded by this.
“Yeah,” the farmer replied slowly, not knowing what to make of his reaction. “It’s a city up north, lots of industry.”
There was a brief silence before Heavy practically erupted into laughter. “OH HOHOHOHO OH HO!” He doubled over, startling Big Macintosh. “Oh, that slaps me on the knee! There is really place called Stalliongrad?” he asked, still smiling wildly.
“Uh, yeah?” Big Macintosh replied carefully, wondering what had caused him to burst into laughter. “Why is that so funny?”
“Is not important,” the Russian replied, still laughing. He took a breath to calm himself. “So, Big Red,” Heavy said, his voice rumbling like a rockslide, “do you know what I do?”
“Well,” the farmpony said carefully, not exactly fond of his new nickname, “I guess that you kill people for a living.”
“That is pretty much all there is, true,” Heavy Weapons Guy said with a nod. “After all, I do have my gun, Sasha.”
“Sasha?” Big Macintosh asked, worried that the gun had a name.
“Da,” the mountain of a man said as he turned to the resupply closet. “This is Sasha,” he said as he faced the pony, now cradling the incredibly large weapon in his arms like a baby. “She weighs one hundred fifty kilograms and fires two hundred dollar, custom-tooled cartridges at ten thousand rounds per minute.”
Big Macintosh took a few steps back, mainly out of shock at seeing him carry a weapon almost as big as him, and the fact that said weapon seemed to materialize from nowhere.
Heavy carefully put Sasha onto the ground and leaned closer. “It costs four hundred thousand dollars to fire this weapon... for twelve seconds,” he finished dramatically.
Big Macintosh raised an eyebrow. “That ain’t right.”
“Oh?” Heavy asked, leaning back, eyebrows raised.
“If what you said about how much each bullet costs is right, and the rate of fire is accurate, then it’d only cost $24,000. However much that is,” the stallion added with a shrug, unknowledgeable of the economics of Reliable Excavation & Demolition.
“Very good,” Heavy said, nodding his head slowly. “You are smart pony. Only other to see that was wrong is Engineer.”
“I take care of the finances back home all the time. My sister ain’t got the patience, and it don’t feel right getting Granny Smith doing it,” he replied with a shrug. “I like crunching numbers almost as much as I do farming. Can’t see how I got dragged into this,” he finished glumly.
“I was same way,” Heavy said gently. “In motherland, we all had to join military. I did not want that. I wanted to study literature.” He let out a weary sigh. “It was many years until I got my wish. You are lucky, Big Red.”
There was a rather awkward silence. 
“I know you do not wish to be here. But you are, and I cannot see way for you to leave. All that can be done is to do as told. Was same for me in motherland,” Heavy said solemnly. 
Big Macintosh looked at Heavy and saw, in the mountain of muscle and violence, a kind gentle figure who was simply doing this because he had little choice. A lot like him. He turned to the gigantic weapon. “Now how the hay am I meant to use that?” he asked.
Heavy brought a hand to his chin. “Engineer will have idea.”





And so, it was little over half an hour later that Big Macintosh emerged into the courtyard of RED Base, Heavy not far behind. The pegasus guards on patrol glanced at each other, not sure what to make of the strange contraption strapped to the big red stallion. 
“So, how do I use this thing?” the farmpony asked.
“Engineer made is so it will shoot direction you are facing, so...” Heavy pointed at one of the walls. “Face wall and pull on trigger,” he instructed.
Big Macintosh did as he was told, taking the ‘reins’ in his mouth and biting down. He had expected a degree of kickback from the weapon. He had not expected it to be so much that it threatened to push him onto his rump. Nor had he expected the absolutely deafening roar that came from both sides of his head.
The twin miniguns of the Battle Saddle were only alive for a second, but that was more than enough to leave his ears ringing. To either side of the pony were a small pile of empty bullet casings, and the wall in front of him was peppered with holes. 
One of the guards on duty nudged his buddy and they shared a whisper, their expressions somewhere between shock and awe. If that was the kind of weaponry they were planning to use on the griffons, they couldn’t help but feel sorry for the feathery preadators.
“Why did Big Red stop?” Heavy asked. Big Macintosh didn’t answer, instead just staring blankly at the wall, his legs shaking from the strain of making sure he didn’t fall over. “Big Red?” he asked worriedly, approaching the pony.
The reason Big Macintosh hadn’t answered was the ringing in his ears. If he knew more about basic anatomy, he would have guessed that the eardrums had nearly ruptured, and that his hearing was now permanently damaged. Being a farmer with an uncanny knack for mathematics, he was blissfully unaware of just what damage his body had suffered.
A poke to the side of his flank shook him out of his daze. He turned to see Heavy talking to him, but he couldn’t hear a single word. The mouth was moving, but all that could be heard was that infernal ringing. He gestured to his ears and tried to say what was wrong with him. He could feel his mouth form the words, he could feel the pressure in his throat as he made the sounds, but he couldn’t hear any of them.
Heavy disappeared up the stairs to the resupply room, returning with what seemed to be a bottle of pills. He gave them to the pony, where they vanished in an instant, restoring his hearing. “Is that better?” the Russian asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” Big Macintosh replied, shaking his head to clear his head. “I didn’t think it’d be so loud.”
“Was my fault. I normally carry Sasha much closer to ground. Your weapon, it fires right next to your head. Should have remembered that.” He smiled apologetically. “After while, you get used to how loud weapon is, and you forget that others are not used to it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this if it leaves me unable to hear every time I use it,” the farmpony muttered. 
“Maybe Medic can help later,” Heavy suggested with a shrug.
“Well I can see how effective this thing is,” Big Macintosh said, gesturing to his battle saddle. “If it can do that to a wall - ”
“If you talk about gun, be respectful,” Heavy said moodily. “On battlefield, weapon will keep you alive, let you do job. In battle, you are weapon. To disrespect weapon is to disrespect self.”
“I thought you said that you didn’t want to fight,” Big Macintosh said with a frown.
“No, I said I wanted to study Russian Literature. After I got PhD, I was unable to make enough money for family. RED needed mercenaries, I needed the money...” Heavy shrugged. “After while, I began to enjoy fighting. Besides, Team needs me.”
“They do?” the farmer asked. “They seem plenty dangerous on their own.”
“They are,” Heavy said, nodding. “But I have biggest gun, and sometimes rocket and knife is not enough. They need boolits. Many boolits.” He sighed. “Also, I am giant man. That makes me easier target.”
There was a brief silence. “Isn’t that a bad thing?” the red stallion asked, worried about what that statement implied about his future.
“If taking boolit that would have killed Medic is bad, then yes. If providing heavy fire so that teammates can push and capture point is bad, then yes. If doing everything in your power to help team is bad, then yes.” Heavy glared at the pony. “What I do is painful, true. But I would rather take a thousand boolits for those who cannot. That way, they can fight, even when you can’t.” Heavy smiled, seeming to calm down. “Besides, Medic is able to heal me, even make me boolitproof. Then I have nothing to fear.”
Big Macintosh gaped at him. “How... how can you take so much?” he asked quietly.
“Someone has to, may as well be me,” Heavy shrugged. “Team is like family to me. I do not want to see them hurt.” Heavy eyed the pony carefully. “You have family?”
“Eeyup. Two sisters and my granny.”
“What happened to mother and father?” Heavy asked, noting that he hadn’t mentioned either.
“Just after Applebloom was born, one of the barns collapsed on Pa,” the farmer said sadly. “Ma would have been fine, but the doctors said that Applebloom’s birth left her weak. We had to bury Redstreak and Ambrosia Apple in the same month.” Throughout the whole explanation, his voice had remained steady, though it was clear that the subject was not one he enjoyed talking about.
“I am sorry,” Heavy said quietly. “I should have known better than to ask.”
“No, no, you... you didn’t know,” Big Macintosh said calmly. “I’m gonna be here for a while, you’d have probably found out anyway.”
“It takes brave man to live with such pain,” Heavy mused. “You are credit to your family.”
“Thanks,” the pony said with a small smile.
“Anyway, there was reason I asked about family. You care for them?”
“Of course I do!” the farmer replied, a little loudly, as though thinking that Heavy was implying that he didn’t.
“You would do anything for them?” the Russian asked.
“Well... nearly anything,” Big Macintosh said, the volume of his voice decreasing to something approaching normal.
“On battlefield, Team is family. On battlefield, one must be prepared to fight, to kill, to die for them.”
“Die?” the farmpony asked, gulping audibly.
“Engineer has machine that lets us return if we die,” Heavy said with a shrug. “What matters is that you are able to do what you must.” He gazed into the stallion’s eyes. “Can I trust that you will do that?”
Big Macintosh was silent for a moment. Eventually, he nodded. “Eeyup,” he said firmly.





Name: Big Macintosh

Class: Heavy
Weapon loadout
Primary: Minigun
Secondary: Shotgun
Melee: Hooves
Job: Mow Down





And the ending flourish, because it seems necessary.




Author’s Notes:
Oh wow I am so sorry! I just got very stuck with characterisation. 
Redstreak apples are commonly used in making cider, while the Ambrosia is a sweet, eating apple. Yes, I am implying that Big Mac’s, AJ’s and AB’s father had a cutie mark for making booze. That must have been one heck of a story.
And yes, I will be using the dropped weapons. Or ponified equivalents, where necessary. The Fists of Steel will become 20-pound pig-iron horseshoes, for example. Imagine THOSE flying at your face with enough force to knock down a tree!
I am well aware that the maths is off in many ways. Ignore it. It was a joke that didn't go as planned. Too many damn mathematicians...