Important disclaimer – This chapter contains material some readers may find offensive. The views expressed herein are those of the characters, and in no way represent those of the author. All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this chapter are fictitious, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
Unfortunately, much to my annoyance, we were not able to find Starlight, despite the best efforts of Shining and the Royal Guard. It was like trying to find Afghans in Tora Bora. Every time you got close, the buggers just disappeared back into the woodwork. Irritably, I clenched my fists on the desk. She tasks me. She tasks me and I will have her! I'll chase her round the dreams of the Night Princess, round the Everfree maelstroms, and round Tartarus' flames before I give her up!
Initially, I was extremely concerned; Starlight had taken a time travel spell after all. I’ve seen enough movies and Doctor Who episodes to know it’s a dangerous game. However, my concern was alleviated somewhat when I learned a bit more about the spell that she had taken. Twilight had used it herself once, inadvertently creating a closed time loop. She went back one week and tried to warn herself not to waste time getting worried about the message her future self would tell her. But the spell expired before she could finish, thus setting in motion the chain of events that led her to travel into the past in the first place.
There were two bits of good news. One was the range. Starswirl had never, not even with alicorn magic, been able to extend the range of the spell beyond travelling one week into the past. So that was as far as Starlight could go; she wouldn’t be able to do much. Secondly, you only got about between thirty seconds and a minute before the spell degraded and the caster was sent back to their point of origin. While it was still a concern, I couldn’t see what Starlight could do with the spell, regardless of where she went. She certainly wasn’t going to be able to go back in time and destroy all cutie marks, or prevent the princesses coming to power.
So, the matter returned to the background again. I was still very keen to nab her, and there was still quite a bounty on her head, plus Discord was after her, but there was little I could personally do right now.
The only thing I needed to do was, you guessed it, more paperwork. The nobles were demanding an enquiry into how the break in happened; a lot of those scrolls did belong to various members of the nobility after all. So, I had to form a commission of enquiry, chair the meetings, make a decision, write up a full report and present it to Celestia and the nobles in question at Day Court, all within the week. And that was in addition to my usual workload of everyday petitioners and criminal cases.
As I was steadily working my way through the files and subpoenaing various nobles and Royal Guard officers to testify, there was a knock at my door. I actually was quite glad for the opportunity to talk to somepony, at that point, I wouldn’t have minded if it was Blueblood or that tosser Jet Set.
“Come in.” I called out as I continued to finish up the letter I was writing. The door opened and, much to my surprise, in stepped Shining Armor.
It was a rare thing that the Captain of the Royal Guard paid call on me. Yes, we were friends, more so now that he was regularly joining the princesses and me when we played Mornington Crescent, but it was unusual that he’d come and see me in my office. I set the letter I was writing to one side, leaving the ink to dry.
“Shining,” I greeted, getting up from my seat and walking around my desk. “What brings you down here?”
The white unicorn stallion looked a little apprehensive at my question. I sincerely doubted that he was here in need of legal advice. The stallion is Eliot Ness on four hooves and, unlike some groups on Earth, the Royal Guard is not an organisation that routinely comes under fire for misconduct. In my entire time working here, I’ve only known of two, that one case of two guards fighting in the barracks, and another that turned out to be an exercise in reporting corruption.
“Something the matter, Shining?” I asked when he remained silent. He closed the door behind himself and locked it with his magic, the handle briefly being encased in his pinkish aura.
“Can I talk to you about something?” he asked me. “In confidence and off the record.” I nodded, frowning a little.
“Yeah, of course you can,” I replied. “I’m technically your legal counsel too; everything you say in this office is bound by confidentiality rules.” I gestured for him to take a seat and pulled another chair from the far wall so I could sit alongside him; sitting behind my desk felt a bit too adversarial. “What’s the matter?” Shining scratched the back of his neck for a moment before replying.
“Well…I just talked to Cadence; she sent me a letter through that new snowflake system she’s set up.” Ah, yes, it was a similar enchantment to Spike’s ability. Only instead of burning a letter with dragon fire, it was placed in a large snowflake and sent drifting to the recipient. A clever and quite pretty system if I do say so myself. Anyway, I digress. Shining continued.
“She says that she thinks…she might be pregnant.” I’m certain my eyebrows went up at that. Not in surprise; the two have been married for a while now, it just seemed odd that he was telling me. I expected that Twilight would be his first port of call. Still, I followed standard social niceties.
“Oh, wow, congratulations, Shining,” I said, patting him on the back, realising too late that I was doing it as if I were petting a horse. “Sorry, force of habit.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m one of about a dozen stallions in the entire Royal Guard that are married. And, as captain, I can’t really go asking them for advice. So, I was hoping if you could…give me some hints…about becoming a father I mean.” I leaned back in my chair a little.
“Oh, is that all?” I asked smiling a little to myself. Honestly, Shining might as well have asked me what the meaning of life, the universe, and everything was. It certainly warranted some thought. Still, I suppose I could impart a bit of wisdom. But like they say; kids don’t come with instruction manuals. That’s how I started.
“Well, Shining. First things first, I can only give you tips from my experience, and nothing I can tell you is guaranteed to work. It isn’t like becoming a guard. In nine months, you’re going to get this little bundle of joy; you’re not qualified, you’ve got no experience, and there’s no owner’s manual to look at when you’re stumped. A lot of it it’s just going to be playing it by ear; sticking with your gut.
“It’s the hardest job I’ve ever had; long hours, no pay, and at the end they might even turn around and say ‘you screwed me up’. But, it is also the most rewarding; I’m proud of both of my kids. They’re where they are today, in part, because of the way my wife and I raised ‘em. You’re going to be winging it, and you will make mistakes along the way. But I think you and Cadence will manage.” I paused, I realised I was just spouting clichés. I shifted in my seat a little and laid a hand on Shining’s shoulder.
“Shining, trust me; you are great father material. I’ve seen bad dads, and you aren’t one. You have a kind and caring personality, you’re firm but fair in everything you do, you’re intelligent and wise, and you have the level of commitment to keep trying even when they lock themselves in their room and blast rock music for six hours.” That last one made Shining laugh a little. He then went quiet again and asked me another question.
“Roger, what do you think about being a soldier, as well as a father?” he asked.
I don’t know why I said what I said. I guess I just needed to, and felt that it was the right thing to do. I think it certainly helped.
“I would hope,” I replied quietly. “That being one has made me better at the other.” Shining looked at me curiously.
“I thought you were a lawyer before you arrived in Equestria and Celestia made you her advisor,” he said, sounding a little thrown. “You never mentioned being a soldier before.” I sighed to myself.
“It isn’t something I’m particularly proud of, Shining,” I explained, sounding a little weary. “But the lesson I learned from it made me a better father.” Turning slightly, I removed my jacket and rolled up the sleeve of my shirt, exposing the old tattoo.
“See this?” I asked. Shining squinted at it in an effort to make out the faded, and to him foreign, letters.
“Er, yeah. I think it says ‘FGAU’. Right?” I nodded. Somehow it was strange to hear a pony say it, particularly when he tried to pronounce it as a word.
“Shining, what I’m about to tell you, is a secret. In all of Equestria, only one other pony knows about this; my wife doesn’t, nor do my kids, not the princesses, not even Discord. Can I ask you to keep this between us?” Shining frowned for a moment, obviously not approving of my deception. Eventually though, his curiosity won out.
“Alright,” he said. With that, I began.
“Well,” I said. “For starters, Owen isn’t my original family name. I changed it not too long before I met my wife. Until I moved to England, it was Rowain. In case you don’t know, that’s an Irish name. And in my younger days I was indeed a soldier, of sorts. I was arguably though, and according to my own government was, a terrorist and a criminal.” Shining let out a sharp whiney at that. I then went on.
“FGAU is an acronym; For God and Ulster, it’s the motto of the Ulster Volunteer Force; a paramilitary group. We were stuck in a near stalemate with another group, the IRA; ended up in a bloody tit-for-tat guerrilla campaign. I left before I met my wife. But one incident while I was there helped me as a father.”
Belfast, Northern Ireland - 1973 – Twelve Months after the Springmartin Gun Battle
I’d been in the Volunteers for a few years by that point. I’d risen up through their ranks and been given command of my own active service unit, essentially a ‘crew’ to use modern criminal vernacular. As much as we all pretended to play soldiers, we spent very little time actually combatting the IRA directly. Most of the time we relied on a campaign of collective punishment against Catholic civilians.
We lacked the resources, manpower, and intelligence to do any real damage to the Provisionals; even the British Army and MI5 took their sweet time infiltrating the dozens of cells, it was the SAS ambushes that really hurt them and ultimately, bled them white.
So, we took what we could. Whenever the IRA acted, be it a bombing, drive by, kidnapping, robbery, or anything else, we would respond. Usually, this involved finding a suitable target; someone we suspected of supporting the republican cause, and doing something nasty to them. This could range from killing one man, to blowing a hole in an electricity substation, both of which I took part in at one time or another.
However, even without provocation from our friends from Dublin, the UVF did all it could to keep Catholics and Protestants divided. It was this that I was about to do.
We were currently driving through the streets of Belfast in what was regarded as a Protestant area. I was in the front passenger seat, and there were three other guys with me, all part of my ASU. We were on our way to an off license, and we weren’t planning on buying ourselves a drink.
The place was owned and operated by a Catholic man, and to the UVF, that meant he supported the IRA. In turn, that meant he had to go. Other groups had approached him in the past, but the guy had apparently been quite insistent that he was staying. As such, we were now moving onto more serious measures. Hence the baseball bats in the back. We’d been told not to kill him, just to rough him up as a final warning to get out while the going was good. However, as I stared out the window, I doubted that that would be the case when we were finished with him.
Today, I don’t have any problems with Catholics. I don’t hate them, I don’t dislike them, and I’m sure that most would be welcome in my home. Back then though, I was angry. In 1967, I’d lost my Dad to Irish nationalism. He wasn’t involved in anything, but the IRA had killed him anyway. They’d grabbed him off the street as he was coming home from work, beat him to death, and dumped his body in a ditch.
That was why I had joined up. By the early 1970’s, there had been something of a regime change in the UVF’s command; Brigade Staff. A lot of volunteers believed we weren’t doing enough. Until then, we only targeted the IRA and its supporters directly, and we weren’t having much of an effect. Since the IRA seemed to have no qualms about blowing up civilians, neither did we. The old guard were replaced by more hawkish officers, with closer connections to the criminal underworld. Targeting shifted to be more open. To paraphrase, the only good Taig was a dead one as far as the new UVF command was concerned. Plus, given that a lot of volunteers were getting locked up, there was a need for an increase in recruiting; in the past you had to be invited to join by Brigade Staff. I joined up in 1968 and took part in my first real operation a year later.
Anyway, we soon reached the off licence in question. It was a large enough place, with a single front entrance and large, covered glass windows on either side. Like most places in Belfast, it looked a little worse for wear. In particular, the soot and scorch marks around the doorframe made it look particularly rough. Presumably, the UDA, another Loyalist group, had also given this guy fair warning to disappear.
Still, the lights were on, the door was open, and the place still seemed to be in business. So, we set to work. In spite of myself, I warned the guys I was with to be careful and not kill the idiot.
We left our van and piled out. Two of us had baseball bats slung over their shoulders. I meanwhile, just in case, had a revolver hidden under my jacket. We each pulled on a ski mask to prevent anyone getting identified. Kicking the door back on its hinges, we made our entrance. The man behind the till, who looked to be in his late fifties, turned white as a sheet.
I gave him the usual spiel. He’d been warned that this would happen, he’d been given his fair share of chances, and that now he’d be made an example of. I suppose it’s a testament to how angry I was back then. I stood by and watched as two of my guys broke not only his jaw and an orbital bone, but also fractured three of his ribs before they finally let up.
That was who I was, and that was how I did business. They’d been wearing gloves, so they dropped one of the now very bloody bats next to him, a calling card if you will. We then smashed up his shop, and stole what we could from the till. Not exactly the behaviour you’d expect from freedom fighters, is it?
We peeled out just as the RUC, the police, were coming around the corner. My guess is someone heard what was going down and called 999. We all ended up piling back into the van and going a bit of a merry chase, with a police Land Rover nipping at our heels. Luckily, the armour plating slowed him down, and we gave him the slip not long after. As brutal and vicious as it was, that was a pretty successful outing to my younger self.
Once we got back to report, I let the matter drop. We’d all done what we’d been told to do, had a bit of twisted fun into the bargain, and done our supposed duty. I hardly even really remember it. You see one guy beaten within an inch of his life, you’ve seen them all.
I went home that night in pretty good spirits. Like a lot of the volunteers, I lived around Shankill way. My home was a decent sized terraced affair. I stayed there looking after my mother; someone needed to be with her, just keeping her company since Dad died. The money I made was split between looking after myself, and looking after her. I never told her how I came by my funds; though I think she suspected it, at least toward the end. The various ‘friends’, phone calls late at night, and the fact that I was often looking over my shoulder were probably less than subtle clues. I know she probably disliked what I did, but I was well past talking about it all. The night Dad had been killed, I’d set my heart on joining up and getting revenge. I hope that, wherever she is now, she’s been able to find some way to forgive me.
Like I said, The Troubles were a tit for tat affair. Each side responded to the other, claiming to act purely in defence of their own people. I’d been with the Volunteers for a few years, it wasn’t unexpected that my number came up.
I’d left Mum watching the news and stepped into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. The house was laid out so that the kitchen was at the back of the house, with a couple of walls between it and the street out front.
The first thing I knew about it was the chattering of the automatic rifle, along with the sound of shattering glass. I quickly followed what I’d been taught about this kind of situation, and hit the deck. The firing seemed to last an eternity. When it finally stopped, I heard the sound of screeching tires as a car tore down the street. All told, the whole thing was probably over and done with in less than thirty seconds.
As soon as I was sure that it was safe, and that they hadn’t lobbed any surprise presents in along with the bullets, I made for the living room. The thick walls had kept me mostly safe, though a ricochet had nicked me on the cheek and leg. My Mum however, hadn’t been so lucky. Sitting right in the line of fire, she’d been hit badly. She was covered in blood and the gore made me sick to my stomach. There was nothing I could do for her, apart from call for an ambulance.
That was the second time I lost someone close to me. I vowed that it would be the last.
The RUC bumbled about in their usual way, turning my house upside down. I actually had to scramble to remove a few incriminating articles lest they get uncovered by plod. I wasn’t known to the police at that point; I hadn’t been arrested and I wasn’t suspected of being involved with anything.
Ultimately, the detectives decided that my Mum was the victim of a random drive by. Who says lightning doesn’t strike twice?
As soon as they left me alone in my ruined front room, I got on the blower to my OC, my senior officer. He’d already heard what had happened. The Provisionals had had the balls to announce their little stunt beforehand, just to gloat about it. They’d said that they were going to kill ‘a puppet of British oppression and an obstacle to the freedom of a united Ireland’. Well, guess they didn’t quite manage that.
The next day, I was invited to pay call on The Eagle Fish Bar, a chip shop whose upstairs was the location of Brigade Staff’s headquarters. It was a rare thing for a lowly thug like myself to meet with the top men of the UVF. They expressed their sympathy for my loss and asked me if I would be willing to take part in a counter operation. I readily agreed.
For once, we had actually managed to find a serving IRA member, and an officer to boot. Apparently, the car that shot up my house had run an Army checkpoint a few miles down the road. A squaddie had clocked the number plate and passed it to the RUC. It turn, certain elements in the RUC passed it to us, along with the registered owner’s address. The car wasn’t nicked, and the plates came back to a known IRA suspect named Jack Doyle. Until now they’d never been able to prove anything against him. The authorities were planning on approaching him and attempting to turn him informant. The UVF had other ideas, blowing him away for example.
I would not be in charge of this operation, but I would be the trigger man; the man who actually did the shooting. In the past, I typically had a more senior role, running my own ASU with a degree of operational freedom. This time though, I’d be the second most junior member of a three man team. In addition to myself, there would be a driver, who would provide our means of escape when we were done, and the senior officer who would be give the order and act as a backup shooter if things went wrong.
The driver was actually someone I knew, much to our mutual surprise. It was Sam Farrell. He was the same age as me and had been involved in the cause since his mid-teens, having joined the YCV’s; the UVF’s youth wing, early on. I’d gone to primary school with him and we lived only a few doors down from each other. He was a tall, lanky fellow with a messy mop of dark brown hair.
The OC was a stranger to me, and Sam. He wasn’t UVF, but rather, was a member of the Red Hand Commandos. The Commandos were a smaller, nastier loyalist group. They shared the UVF’s militaristic outlook and had allied themselves with us, ultimately reaching a mutual agreement to share not only operational control and personnel with Brigade Staff, but also weapons and intelligence. His role would be to act as a sort of safety net.
I was being given an old Webley army revolver, six shots at close range would be plenty for the job. I’d have preferred a machine pistol, such as an Uzi, but those were hard to come by without getting picked up. Most of our kit was war surplus or smuggled. Springmartin had actually seen a couple of our snipers using old Lee-Enfield rifles after the bomb went off. The RHC man however, had himself an AK with two magazines. If Doyle tried to make a break for it and ran for his car, he’d find himself staring down its barrel.
This RHC man, who called himself Cullen, briefed us on how things were to go down. We’d pull up to the front of the target’s house. It was a large place with its own parking courtyard. The entrance would be blocked off by the car, with Cullen and his AK ensuring nobody got in or out. Sam would keep the engine running and be ready to make off as soon as the job was done. I meanwhile, would get out as soon as we pulled up and approach the front door.
This was the clever part. Our mutual friends in certain parts of the RUC had lent us a uniform. I’d walk up to the front door disguised as a typical beat bobby. When Doyle opened the door; which he would for an officer of the law, I’d kill him. It would then be a simple case of driving off before the real RUC turned up.
So, that was the plan. It seemed simple enough. And, while I wouldn’t be getting the bastard who shot up my house, I would be hurting the IRA in Belfast pretty badly. But, as I had long ago learned, no battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy. And the scale of which things were about to go sideways…well, it was a doozy.
Due to time constraints, it was decided that the operation take place the on Monday morning. While we were all ready and raring to go, we needed to wait for our RUC contact to smuggle out both a legitimate uniform and a warrant card. So, for the rest of the weekend, Cullen, Sam, and I, practiced and refined our plan. We needed to be in and out in no more than ninety seconds. That meant that in that time, we had to pull up, I needed to go to Doyle’s front door, get him to open up, shoot him half a dozen times, then run back to the car and disappear before anybody had a chance to react.
Two solid days of training, combined with a refresher on unarmed combat, and driving practice for Sam, and we were ready. We got the RUC uniform first thing Monday. We were due at Doyle’s front door at half nine.
We would be using a ‘procured’, read stolen, vehicle, which would be dumped and burned when the job was done. Still, Sam and Cullen both took precautions, wearing gloves, to be safe. Cullen also would be ducking down in the rear footwell of the car for most of the journey. Unlike Sam and me, he was well known and didn’t want to take the risk of being made on the way in. When we got to Doyle’s he’d don the usual ski mask in case he did have to open up.
Once we were all ready, and I was disguised as your not-so-friendly Belfast copper, we got into the car. It was an old Ford. The VIN was filed off, but the plates were valid, so we wouldn’t be picked up by the RUC or Army on the way. We would be passing through at least one checkpoint, since we’d be crossing into a catholic area on the other side of the wall.
The journey took us about twenty minutes. We left Shankill and headed for west Belfast, passing a few murals painted on the sides of houses which depicted various Loyalist groups. The IRA liked to throw literal shit at them from time to time. It wasn’t too long before we came across one of the ironically named ‘Peace Walls’ that divided the city. An RUC officer vouching for them, i.e. me, easily got us through the checkpoint. Personally, I didn’t fancy tangling with the wicked looking Scorpion APC that sat nearby; armoured Land Rovers were bad enough.
We soon reached Doyle’s place. It was certainly a lot nicer than anything I’d ever seen. It had a large courtyard for parking off the road, and the house itself was a very modern and stylish affair. Undoubtedly, Doyle had acquired it through less than legal means. Most of the IRA got its funds the same way we did, by extortion and robbery. But they also got ‘donations’ from sympathetic yanks, and by smuggling.
Sam wished me good luck and I got out of the car, putting on RUC cap and doing my best to look professional. I briskly walked up to the front door and rang the bell, as well as knocking on the door.
I’d seen pictures of Doyle, so I quickly recognised him when he came to the door. He was a late middle aged man, with silver hair, and a nasty scar running down the one side of his jaw; a consequence of a rather nasty encounter with a YCV’s blade. I quickly made with the usual spiel, flashed my warrant card and asked if I could come in. Doyle obliged; the paddy even offered me a cup of tea.
My plan was to follow him into his front room, put two in his chest, then one in his head to finish the job. But as I said before about battle plans; they never survive first contact. No matter what, you can’t plan for everything.
I followed Doyle and prepared to draw on him. But as I entered, I saw something that stopped me dead.
A kid.
He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. He was sitting on the sofa, minding his own business. Doyle even introduced me; this was his son, Billy.
That was when it hit me, why I was here. This whole war was about revenge. We weren’t looking to end anything, just keep the cycle going. They killed one of ours, so we killed one of theirs, over and over. I was here, about to kill a father in front of his son, because my mother had been killed in front of me, because I’d roughed up a shopkeeper, because they’d set fire to a pub last week. There was no sodding rhyme or reason any more, no politics, no religion; it was just revenge. And what would happen to me in the end? I’d almost found myself bumped off, and the next time could very well be the real deal. What had I done with my life? Nothing, that’s what.
In that moment, my own desire for vengeance dissipated somewhat. All I needed to do was break the cycle. Maybe inspire someone on their side to do the same. Somebody needed to simply say ‘enough’. I was supposedly a senior officer, and officers were supposed to lead by example, to teach those below you to do your job someday. That was exactly what I would do.
I was thinking of what I could do now. I couldn’t tell Doyle why I was here, and I couldn’t simply walk out without killing him. If I tried to bungle the job, there was still a good chance I’d get killed. In the end, fate stepped in.
The three of us in the house were startled by the sound of screeching tires and sirens. I heard a series of shots go off outside. Sticking with my RUC disguise, I told Doyle that I’d go out to investigate. It definitely stopped me having to shoot him in front of his kid.
Heading outside, I found myself staring down quite a few SLRs, British Army issue. The car that had been blocking Doyle’s driveway entrance had been smashed to one side by an armoured Land Rover with some bull bars, painted army green. Cullen lay dead on the ground, the rifle still in his hands. Sam meanwhile, was standing with the squaddies. A sergeant called me by name and ordered me to throw out the weapon I was carrying. You didn’t need a master’s degree to read the situation.
Sam, a guy I’d been friends with since childhood, was a bloody supergrass! He was an informant. As soon as he’d heard that we were planning this number, he’d blown the whistle. With no other option, I surrendered myself to the small army before me.
I was quickly arrested on conspiracy and locked up. Sam had apparently been rumbled by Special Branch about six months ago. In exchange for a full pardon, he turned informant. I’ve…never forgiven him for that. It meant I had to stand up and face the music, on everything. Not only was I charged with conspiring to murder Doyle, but I was also done for everything I’d done in the last year or so. In the end, the charges were, being a member of a prescribed organisation, possessing firearms without a licence, concealment of firearms, impersonating a police officer, assault, intimidation, racketeering, GBH, conspiracy, and possession of bomb making materials.
The only upside was that they’d managed to book Doyle at the same time. It later came to light that, at that moment, he was acting OC for a large chunk of West Belfast. The Dáil were supposed to be mad as hell for losing someone so experienced and high up in the IRA.
Anyway, unlike Sam, I had the sense to keep my mouth shut. The judge sent me down for fifteen years in Long Kesh.
I won’t talk about my time in the infamous H-Block. Suffice it to say, life as a POW wasn’t pleasant. On the other hand though, it did hammer home my earlier disillusionment with the Loyalist cause; the UVF and UDA were killing more of each other in feuds than they were the enemy. The whole cause seemed to be shifting to the right too, taking in crazy neo-nazi skinheads and other levels of scumbag, a far cry from Gusty Spence’s original idea for a armed citizen defence group. The Troubles descended from a stalemate to complete and utter pointlessness.
I was eventually released a decade later on good behaviour. I resigned my commission in disgust and decided to get out while I could. The laughable ‘peace’ of the 1990’s was still a good decade away, and CLMC had little interest in negotiating with the enemy, or with the British Government.
So I left. There was nothing left for me in Northern Ireland anyway. I changed my name to Owen and tried to start with a clean slate.
I took a breath as I finished my story. Then, I got up and walked around my desk. In addition to keeping important files in the locked bottom drawer on the right, I also kept a bit of booze, just in case. Grabbing a glass as well, I poured myself a finger or two.
“When I got out, I was still pretty broken. Okay, I’d turned a corner, but there didn’t seem to be much round it. I didn’t have much to my name; knowing how to shoot and make homemade PE4 devices aren’t really marketable skills either. So I ended up working as a driver for a local shop; doing deliveries and such, and living in the flat above the store. A little while later, I met Margaret, and we fell in love. Seeing as how a driver’s salary wouldn’t get us far, I went back to school. I got my law degree and started working for a firm, I went straight. Eventually, me and few other friends were able to go into business ourselves.
“Not long after we started the business up in 1995, Margaret told me she was pregnant. I’d mellowed out since I’d met her, but I was still the same man; in fact, at that point I felt pretty depressed. It wasn’t until I met my son for the first time that I realised it.” I took a quick swig of whatever it was that had been sitting in my desk drawer. I looked the unicorn in the eye.
“Shining, the moment the midwife hands you your baby, you’ll go through a range of emotions, everything from joy to despair. I’ve seen grown men cry from it. Me, I suddenly found myself with a new priority in life. From that moment on, all that mattered in my life was my child. Not God, not country, not politics, and not my own demons. All that mattered was protecting that tiny life.
“Until then, I’d thought my time in the volunteers had been a waste. I’d spent over ten years as nothing but a politically sanctioned thug. I robbed people, smuggled and used guns on a regular basis, I even got so good at making letter bombs the rozzers still have my designs on file. For a long time, I thought that was all I was good for. But when my son was born, I found a way to put it to use.
“A father’s job, amongst other things, is to raise his children right. Teach them right from wrong. He does that by example. Just like a soldier, you lead by example. You raise a kid, teaching them to hate, and that’s how they’ll turn out. But, if you raise them well, you’ll have done your job. I mean, who knows, maybe me staying my hand convinced Billy not to follow in his father’s footsteps. Or, look and Bones and Lizzie; both great ponies who work hard and live right, and who knows, maybe they’ll do just the same with their own kids someday.
“So yes, Shining. You can be a soldier and a father. And you’ll be a good one both.”
The two of us sat there a little while longer, Shining presumably still processing my story, and me still nursing a stiff drink. Eventually though, the young captain spoke up.
“I really appreciate you telling me all,” he said. “It…it helps.”
“Good,” I replied calmly. “So what are you going to do now then?” Shining perked up a little at that.
“Cadence and I were going to head down to Ponyville in a day or so to tell Twilight and have a little party. You’re welcome to join in if you like.” I smiled but shook my head.
“Not my place, Shining. Besides, I’d never be able to keep quiet about it if I was with Twilight all day.”
“Fair enough,” he replied, getting to his hooves. Before Shining left though, he hesitated a little.
“Roger…if you…if you ever want to talk about that stuff…come find me. Okay?” I nodded.
“Sure.”
With that Shining left, leaving me to myself for a little while. I’d told Riverbill that I’d run with the Volunteers, but I hadn’t told him that story. I hadn’t told anypony. It felt both good and bad all at once. One the one hand good, because it finally let me close that chapter of my life, but bad for the same reason.
In any case, either the booze or the sudden emotion disagreed with the other, and I quickly found myself in one of the toilets puking my guts out. After that though, I sort of settled down. I had a little cry and just sat there thinking for a good long time. Still, I think it helped Shining in the long run. Every now and then he still comes to see me, looking for a bit of help. It wouldn’t surprise me if Cadence was doing the same.
It was almost time to pack up and head home when I pulled myself together. Leaning back in my chair, I tried to clear my head.