Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Ground and Pound

20 June, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Are we sure we have to do this?” The burnt orange pony cracked a half-smile at the black one. “Don’t have any other, more cooperative prisoners down there, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” said his companion with a sigh. It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was all they had at this point. The bunker network had been build with a reasonable number of detention cells, and a few of the larger halls nearby had been designed to be easily convertible, in case they suddenly had to lock down a larger group.

At the moment, though, the cell blocks were almost entirely empty, save for three inmates: one who knew nothing, one who was certifiable, and one who was very, very angry.

“Remind me again why we can’t just get another one?” he asked, glancing through a hastily-assembled dossier. “We’ve shot down enough.”

“They don’t actually take too well to that,” offered the other. “Ground is hard stuff, and pegasi bones are hollow. Not really designed to take an impact.”

“’Course they are. How else do they learn how to fly?”

The black pony rolled his eyes. “Not a high speed impact, and not from altitude. And certainly not when they’re bleeding from shrapnel. Anyway, either they die on impact or one of their buddies drags ‘em off. Leave nopony behind.”

“Yeah, where was that team spirit a year ago?” The orange pony spat. “Left Blackacre behind easy enough.”

They were silent a moment at that. It was just inconceivable as to how Canterlot’s propaganda could possibly be effective on anypony. Canterlot caused the problem in the first place, and they had a solution on the table that would have worked. And what does the Princess do? Blames the dead ambassador, her own dead ambassador, for being a Blackacre sympathizer and sinking the Mane. Simply ridiculous.

“What are we looking for?” he said, eager to get off that particular conversational topic. Not that this one was much better, but they had their marching orders.

“The usual,” offered the other. “Troop dispositions, plans, tactics in general. It’d be nice to have an updated list of who’s running what.”

“Pommel’s in charge, everyone else asks how high.”

“Ha,” he said dryly. “Could have gotten that out of Mr. Know-Nothing in block A twenty-three. Or the nutjob in B twelve.”

“B thirteen now,” commented the orange pony. “He, uh. Did it again.”

The black pony swore under his breath. At least he hadn’t had to clean it this time.

“Look, let’s just do this,” he said, stopping short in front of the interrogation room.

“Don’t have much of a choice.”

“Never do.”

They each inserted a key into the locks on opposite side of the door and turned on a three-count. With a slightly rusty sound, it swung inwards with a groan. The moment it opened, they heard muffled shouts from the inside. Couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but these weren’t shouts of pain — no, this was anger.

The door snapped shut behind them, and the shouting stopped for a moment. With another pair of keys they opened the internal door. A seal popped at them, and a half second later the shouting resumed, much more comprehensible.

“…to me! First you send a dozen griffons to do your dirty work, body check me into a tree, and then you tie me up in this hole and leave me to rot with nothing but griffon stench to keep me company? This is cruel and unusual, and I demand that you release me at once before I round up a whole load of payback and let it loose on your asses!”

The two ponies let the door close behind them, airgap sealing shut. Not that there was much of anypony walking around this section of the tunnels to hear them, but it was about to get a lot louder in here, and there was no sense taking chances. Besides, protocols were pretty clear on the point.

Their captive, bound to a horizontal slab with a generous amount of chain — clearly, those who dragged her down here didn’t take kindly to her tongue — stretched around to try and see them, keeping up a steady stream of commentary. Ignoring her entirely, the black pony went over to the fireplace in one corner of the room, which promptly roared to life with a few logs and a pump or two on the bellows.

For his part, the burnt orange pony stepped up roughly in front of the captive, cranked the table up a few degrees, and waited for her to take a breath so he could get a word in edgewise.

“Are you done?”

The tan pegasus glared at him.

“Yeah, I’ll shut up. The hell do you want?”

“We want you to do this the easy way,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

“Do what?” she asked incisively. “Spill the beans on all the top secret stuff everypony just hands out to wingponies?” She snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

“We’re not asking for Pommel’s notes,” he said cautiously. “We just want to know —”

“Where you can shove it?” she asked brightly. “Because I can tell you that.” She barked a dismissive laugh. “We done here?”

“I suggest you give cooperation a bit more consideration,” he said gently. “Otherwise, this gets worse for me, and a lot worse for you.”

“Oh, bullshit,” she said. “You get your jollies off of this. I don’t know anything, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Do you even know who I am?”

“Pegasus, callsign Gun, Third Air Wing out of Hayseed, relocated to Appleloosa, on long term assignment to Ponyville, deployed on eyes-only mission near Saddle.” He cocked his head. “That sound about right?”

“You missed the part where I got the top secret intelligence,” she said dismissively.

“We’re not asking for anything you don’t have,” he said testily. “We just want to know what you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting anything from me.” She cozied up against her restraints. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with so I can kick your asses and go home.”

The orange pony pursed his lips. At a nod, he and the black pony moved up to either side of the table. Without breaking eye contact, the orange pony reached down, grabbed a rope, and gave it a tug. Under the table a chain rattled through block and tackle; the pegasus’ wings were splayed tight.

“What,” she snorted, “you’re going to pull out my feathers one at a time and throw sparkles at me until I sneeze to death?”

“This is your last chance,” said the orange pony, his voice deadly. “Start cooperating now, or you might not live to regret it.”

The pegasus looked him square in the eye and spat.

“Fuck you.”

For a split second, the only sound in the room was the dull echoing crunch of the cleaver. The wing of a pegasus was thickest at the base, and for that moment the two ponies could see it in cross section, like something out of an anatomy textbook, all the various ligaments and muscles and arterial connections. The pegasus exploded in a primal scream of pure pain just as the blood started to flow.

Without skipping a beat, the black pony set aside the cleaver and withdrew a long loy spade from the fire, pressing its white hot head against the pegasus’ flank with a sizzling.

The room echoed with the pegasus’ bellows as it slowly filled with the smell of charred flesh.

After a few minutes, she had controlled herself to spiteful mutterings under her breath; her teeth were crimson where she had bitten her jaw in her spasms. Off to her right, the wing still twitched on the table slick with blood.

“Have you reconsidered?” asked the orange pony.

When no response was forthcoming, he pressed on. “You can’t regrow that wing, not even with magic. Even if you could, you could never use it. That scar tissue will be with you for the rest of your life, however long you decide you want that to be.”

The pegasus bore her teeth and emitted a low growl. The pony actually glanced at the restraints to make sure the chains were still intact; they were half inch steel, but he wasn’t taking any chances with the manic look in her eyes. He knew that look. She wasn’t gone, not by a long shot; she was still very much present, running on adrenaline and sheer rage.

“Take that brand,” she said through gritted teeth, spittle flecked with red, “and shove it straight up your ass.”

“That was to let you know the stakes here,” he said with a gesture at the wing. On cue, it twitched. “I will break you,” he said flatly. “Every fiber of your being. Every bone in your body, if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“They call you Gun-Shy,” the orange pony mused. “You don’t seem to live up to your name very much.”

“Give me a gun and I’ll show you.”

One of the charred patches on her flank split open; the black pony reapplied the brand, sending up a curl of black smoke. She shuddered but nothing more; there were no more nerves to feel anything now.

“Shy,” he echoed with the thinnest of smiles. “By the time we’re done here, your name will fit you like a glove.”

The black pony picked up a thick paring knife and handed it to the orange one. Testing its balance, he moved to the pegasus’ left wing, chained tight against the table. He ran the knife along the delicate inner tracings of the wing. The skin here was delicate, thin, and very sensitive.

“What’s left of you.”