• Published 4th Mar 2012
  • 14,641 Views, 959 Comments

Of Steam Gears and Wings - RavensDagger



The CMC go against the Empire that is ruling over Equestria. A la Dieselpunk.

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Politics and Show Offs

The Battle of Ponyville had been horrible. The booming of cannons and the death screams of ponies over the comms had marked Sweetie Belle in a way that, perhaps, had yet to unveil itself.

What had happened below them, however, was far, far worse.

She had watched as Apple Bloom made her way down, scouted and returned, coat paler than ever before.

Those weren’t soldiers. They had no part in the war. The ponies of Canterlot were just that: ponies. Now, Sweetie Belle reasoned, they’re all sick. Somepony or someponies poisoned them. And I think I know who.

She trotted down the Furtif’s corridors, brow low and concentrated as she marched on. The swishing of her new officer’s garb carried on before her, announcing her presence to the new crew members onboard. Eyes widened and snouts met the floor in formal bows as she stepped by, hardly acknowledging them.

What can I do? she wondered. I’ve got the Thunderbolt and a few fighter planes, but those are useless against a plague.... Why did it have to be a disease?! She stomped forwards, encouraging those dilly-dallying behind her to hurry up.

What’s Luna going to do? Try to save these ponies and weaken her Republic, or ignore them and let them die?

Sweetie Belle sighed, a long, slow breath that seemed to add ten years to her youthful face. She didn’t like this. Not one bit. She wasn’t a fighter, either. She was not meant to kill or rally troops or stand behind the lines and give incredible orders. She was just a filly in the body of a mare, waiting for mommy to hug her better and for big sis to pick up the slack for her.

“No!” she exclaimed, freezing mid-step. I don’t need her anymore. I’m a grown mare and I can take care of myself. Luck and some skill brought me to this place, and maybe they can help me out of here. And maybe I can save some, and my friends. Yes, that’s what I need to do. And I’ll tell the princess as much, too.

The Furtif’s gray corridors gave way to a darker shade as she rounded a corner and walked along a catwalk. It moved between the walls of the ship, which themselves sloped downwards to hide among crowds of brass struts and thin aluminum supports.

The dull clanging of her hooves on steel lasted only a few moments before she had crossed the vessel and reached the room beyond; the sound behind her echoed on, diminishing with every repetition like the heartbeat of the metropolis below.

With barely a flicker of thought, her magic deployed and wrapped around the door’s handle, twisting it and gently pushing the entrance open. There, amid a faint blue glow radiating across the wood-panelled room, was Princess Luna.

Sweetie Belle took a quick step into the room, slid the door shut, and bowed. “Princess,” she said.

“Rise, young Miss Belle; We were waiting for you,” the monarch said in a deep, passionate voice. “All are gathered, and so We shall begin.”

Below the azure alicorn was a ticking device. It appeared to be a round, flat machine. Its top seemed to be a bowl of light, where the barest hints of mirrors and tiny robotic instruments moved about. Along its edge was a simple lens, connected by a panoply of wires to the main base. Sweetie Belle knew what it was, despite having seen so few. A holoprojector. With a two-way interface so that she can see us.... Her brow creased. How did Arnaquer get his hooves on this?

The pony in question was sitting across from her, the machine displaying the slowly turning princess between the two. He flashed a confident smile to her, one of his clean hooves stroking his moustache carefully.

Beside him stood two stallions. The first she recognized as Darius, the captain to whom she owed more than she wished to think about. He nodded to her, graying mane shifting about his head and alighting on his uniform—still that of the Imperial Navy.

The other was the captain of their other escorting vessel, a thin, old stallion who carried the weight of his duty with bent shoulders and deep sighs.

“We wish to know how things are going. You should have reached Canterlot by this time,” the princess said, not a trace of a question in her voice.

Oui, we have arrived upon Canterlot. At this moment, we are many kilometers above the surface of the city,” Arnaquer said, his smile growing as the alicorn’s brow twitched.

“Have you found secrecy there? A method to hide within the confines of the Imperial capital?”

“Non, there are simply no Imperials here. On est tout seul.”

Luna stomped her hoof onto the ground a split second before her image fractured and warped. “W—en— ... where are they?” spat the speakers mounted onto the device.

This time, Darius answered, having arrived at the site only days before. “Your Highness, the Imperial garrisons are empty. No ships remain, although we have found traces of where they have gone and when. The capital is free.... Mostly.”

The room filled with silence. “Mostly? Hmm, perhaps Imperial spies remain. Perhaps it’s a large trap with a shining jewel at its centre. Our senses tell us that something very wrong is happening there. Something sick.”

Blood rushed to Sweetie Belle's face. It wasn’t caused by fear or embarrassment, but by shame. The thought hadn't occurred to her that she would be in the room that would announce the dreary news to the princess. That she would be one of the unfortunate to stand there as the shock played on the princess’s features. It was shame.

“Ils sont... they are sick. The ponies of Canterlot are all very sick. We do not yet know what it is, but we do know that it was spread through the water and that Empathy in moderate or large doses can cure it.”

“Did this start before or after the Empire left?” Luna asked. To their great surprise, her voice was not tainted by anger, but by the low, whispering charm of sadness.

“Yes, only a day after,” Arnaquer said, that foolish grin still on his features. “I suspect that they are to blame. It’s what we wanted, only soiled.”

“We see.... Little choice is left to us. We must move upon Canterlot with all haste and aid these poor ponies; it’s what Our sister would have wanted,” Luna said as she sank into a seated position. “And you, your entire fleet, We wish for you to follow the Imperial threat. Find where it is they have hidden, like the cowards that they are.”

One of Arnaquer’s eyebrows rose up and one of the captains coughed to cover his surprise. “You wish for us to abandon Canterlot? With all of our vessels?”

“Indeed. The full force of our fleet is only days away. We bring with us medical supplies and enough force to take Canterlot once and for all.” She smiled, teeth glinting behind supple lips, like a rabid dog reminding its future meal that nothing could be done. “Swift judgement will be brought to our enemies who remain, and Equestria’s forces will marshal to our sides!”

“Je voix,” Arnaquer said. “We shall maneuver after the Imperial forces that have gone, if such is what you wish.”

“It is.”

“—And we shall find these Imperials, and if their forces are light enough or even if they outnumber us by the thousands, we shall poke and prod into their defenses!”

Luna raised a hoof, keeping it poised at chest, signaling for silence. Arnaquer obliged. “No, We wish only for you to follow the Imperial threat and find their place of rest. Attacking them like a conniving thief would be wrong. We wish to meet them in a full battle, our ships drawn in neat lines as we fight like true, honorable ponies. They have lost their dignity, but we have not lost our own.”

Her eyes shifted around and seemed to land upon Sweetie Belle. The young mare knew that the Princess did not really see her, instead seeing through the swiveling ‘eye’ of the machine. Nonetheless, a cold shiver ran down her spine.

“Young Miss Belle, We want you to keep us informed of any situations. We trust your judgment and the reputation of your family.”

The incandescent blue form of the princess snapped out of existence with the tiniest of zaps, making the manes of those remaining stand on end. The captains shifted about, waiting in the thick, humid air of the suffocating room. Without the eerie blue glow of the holographic display, all that lit the environs was a low-wattage bulb firmly fixed above the doorway, hardly enough for them to cast full shadows across the ground.

“We will disobey,” Arnaquer said, brushing it off like it was a simple comment on the weather or the passage of time.

Three pairs of eyes stared at him, widening then shrinking back down in disbelief. Darius was the first to snap out of the stunned silence. “Pardon me, sir? You wish to counter a superior's orders... just like that? Are you not afraid of reprimand, or punishment?”

Non. Her so-called ‘Republic’ is too weak to do anything of what you might call ‘insubordination.’ We are too far and too precious right now,” Arnaquer explained, not belittling or humbling himself, but talking as equals as his firm gaze captured all of them. “Luna is wise. She is powerful, too, but her eyes do not see all; her mind is not omnipresent.” Slowly, he shook his head. “She clings to matters and methods of actions that do not belong to this century or this millennia.”

“And what? You can act better than she?” he asked, deep jagged lines appearing along his brow.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I do know how to fight in a rebellion, a war of attrition and guerilla warfare. Her course is one of honour. Le mien, is one of victory.” He smiled once more, a twinkle in his eye. “I intend to win, at all costs.” Shouldering on between the two captains, Arnaquer moved towards the singular exit, followed by the glares of the stallions behind.

He stopped at Sweetie Belle’s side. “Little filly, do you wish to win? Or obey? Much could depend on you. And it will never be easy,” he cautioned, cajoling, but more than firm.

Sweetie Belle was at a crossroads between two vastly different futures and the indifferent past. What do I want? For me, and for my friends, and for my... family?

Darius sighed, air rushing out of him as he bent down and sat. Sharp eyes looked at her, and she knew he would follow. She didn’t know why, but she knew. So would Scootaloo, she reasoned. She really hates the Empire. And Apple Bloom? She’s not a fighter, but after what she saw down there.... Pipsqueak will follow her, regardless.

“I’ll come, Mister Arnaquer.” Words escaped her lips. And she would not regret them.


There was nothing quite like a long, warm shower to relax one's muscles and spirit.

The tiniest of cold breezes crossed the cavernous bedchamber and the lone stallion sighed, enjoying the play of wind across his still damp coat. He relaxed his rigid posture, tiring of the long session of stretching and pulling his muscles taut then sitting and breathing.

Nothing like a long, hot bath. One delivered by a harem of pretty, young mares that giggled jovially and smiled seductively.

The sun finally built up enough courage to slip by the threshold of the cityscape’s edge, firing a massive beam of yellow light into his room and banishing the cold. He began to sigh once more, then it turned into a deep, throaty laugh.

Nothing like being the Emperor.

Bunnyhelm Chronos, second to ascend to the Imperial Throne, Lord of Equestria, vanguard of the three races, defender of righteousness, ender of the alicorn’s tyranny, was in a very good mood.

With a tiny grunt of effort, the tall, imposing stallion slid onto his hooves and began to cross the room, light hooffalls muffled to silence by the thick, luscious carpet. Taking his time—and knowing that he had all the time he could want—he crossed the room and navigated around chairs and couches worth more than the lives of many-a-pony.

A pneumatic hiss interrupted his silence as the double doors leading to the balcony coasted aside. The sweltering noise of bustling crowds, planes zipping by at speeds well above the speed limit, and the wind howling around the tall, grey steeple he was in filled his ears, attesting to the life of the city.

He advanced at a crawl, slowly taking in the skyline of the city, the thousands of rising spires that made up New Appleloosa. His New Appleloosa. Bunnyhelm stopped at the guardrail’s edge, knowing that somewhere a winged shadow was tensed, ready to take flight if the Emperor so much as slipped forward. Instead, he placed an unshod hoof on the railing and held it, allowing the cold to absorb his heat while the wind played with his mane.

He grinned.

A fleet was gliding into the city. The noses of the many airships tore through the clouds and smog to reveal their great and powerful grey sides. On them was the familiar emblem of the Empire, resplendent in the midday sun. Ah, so the Eastern forces have arrived, he mused, half a day late, but here nonetheless. Perhaps some stress as a punishment?

His grin widened and he called over his shoulder, to no pony in particular. “Have the captain of the approaching fleet meet me in the hangar by the time I get there.”

A skittering of movement was made behind him and he knew that a dozen were racing to fulfill his commands. Ah, but I set a challenge, and that means that I, too, have to act.... what a fun little game I play!

Thoughts buzzing contentedly, Bunnyhelm skipped across the balcony, abandoning the pollution-filled streets and rows of factories in favour of the sparkling-clean interior of his tower. He knew that soon—very soon—his moments of quiet contentment would be gone, and that he would return to being something else. Not an Emperor, but a tactician. He still had some enemies to toy with.

The cooler bedchamber snapped him completely awake as he beelined for the room’s end. There, through a pair of double-doors opened by guards of almost unnaturally large stature, he found a long corridor with walls of crimson gilded in silver and gold. A waste, in his opinion, but one that was already paid for.

“I need to wear something,” he told the corridor. Instantly, side-doors opened and mares with wild manes and dizzyingly-coloured outfits poured out, ready to dress him in any number of ways. They stared, brimming with curiosity. Is it for me? Do they want to know if I’m different than Blueblood, who beat them on a whim and made some disappear, or are they really just here to work? “Something simple, if you would please. I have an outing with an aircraft and robes of state tend to disagree with grease and moving parts.”

Some laughed while others jumped to the task with fury and passion, something that he noted duly.

Boots were placed in front of him and a tight aviator’s jacket—with gilded edges and the royal house’s emblem prominently featured on the breast—was deposited onto his back. He took his time slipping in, then pulled the coat around his form before smiling at the fashionistas and walking on, boots thunking on the marble floor.

Guards flanked him as he marched down the now-familiar corridor that ended in a tight corner. From around that bend came the sound of an argument, one between a pair of deep, dangerous voices and another, high-pitched and shrill. “I’m telling you,” said the squeaky voice, “I’m his personal assistant, I have every right to go in there!”

“Uh-huh, that doesn't sound likely. Sounds like something an assassin might say, eh? You a killer? Come to off the new Boss-stallion?”

Bunnyhelm, ignoring the feeble cautions of his retinue, trotted ahead and looked around the corner to find a rather interesting sight.

Two ponies were on the ground: a blue stallion and a massive white guard. The guard’s armoured hooves were milimetres from the blue stallion’s throat, threatening to attack the squirming creature at any time.

Three pairs of eyes snapped up to Bunnyhelm, but only one of them smiled. “Lord Bunnyhelm! These two wouldn’t let me pass,” Inky Scribeswell said, voice squeezing out from beneath the oppressive weight of the guard.

The guards released the secretary with a nod from the emperor’s part. “Yes, Inky, and I would venture to say that they did a fine job, too.”

Uncertainty crossed Scribeswell’s features as he glanced warily at the half-dozen behind Bunnyhelm. “Bu—” he began, but the new Emperor cut him off.

“I must say, you men are doing excellent work! There’s no way anypony could possibly harm me here, is there?” he asked one of the guards, turning his tone into a sweet, honest one.

The guard flustered, turning red beneath his armour. “Of-of course not, sire! We would defend you with our lives,” he finally managed, sinking into a bow as the last words escaped him.

Ah, a little reward at no cost, some adoration and idolization for later. Perfect. Sharp eyes turned to Scribeswell. “For the record, he is my advisor and can freely come and go. I trust him as well.”

Bunnyhelm continued his trot, vaguely aware that the group had reformed behind him and would be ready at a moment’s notice. Scribeswell was at his side, levitating out a clipboard and quill before taking dutiful notes. Bunnyhelm waited, knowing that soon the secretary would divulge the information he sought.

“The rebels have reached Canterlot, but only a small scouting party; sooner than we had made allowance for. It might be that they’ll begin treating the sickness now.”

Bunnyhelm shrugged. “A non-issue. The more they need to cure, the more their resources will be taxed. We might send some aid of our own.”

Scribeswell blinked back in surprise, but Bunnyhelm had read him already. “A show of goodwill, that we’re not the cause of that dastardly sickness and that we’re still worrying about our dear citizens. It’ll create some conflicting emotions and at a low price.”

The secretary nodded and took a few more notes. “A minor outbreak was found in New Appleloosa but it was quickly stemmed. I took the liberty to demand more care during the processing of incoming vessels. There are some rumours that the rebellion is led by Luna: a truth. I began to spread a counter, the the leader is simply a look-alike to the former princess, little more than a taller than average pegasus with a horn attached to her. Also, there’s some rather major disquiet amongst the lower class of this city. Ponies are angry at the raised taxes and military control. Enrollment went down, sharply.”

The charismatic leader hummed. “Do try to lower the taxes a little, just enough so that they notice. We can increase it gradually afterwards. Still, I don’t believe the lower-class will be an issue, not with the amount of loyal forces gathering here.... Anything else?”

Slowly, Scribeswell shook his head and leafed through the papers. “Nothing noteworthy. There’s some fleet movement; a group of Rebel scouts followed our trail.... ah, Canterlot’s energy readings are fluctuating wildly. Becoming stronger, actually.”

Bunnyhelm sighed as they both entered an elevator, the valet instantly tensing upon their arrival in his moving cage. Two of the guards accompanied them. “To the hangar, please,” Bunnyhelm told the old control-stallion before turning his attention back to Scribeswell. “Ah, I so wish I could have kept that wonderful machine of Blueblood’s. Everything about it was perfect. But the loss of the Sol Factory is nothing compared to the gains.”

The elevator jerked to a halt and the valet blushed, nervously unhooking the door and pushing it open. The troupe moved out, the guards joined by new members that formed a shield around Bunnyhelm. The group trotted down the utilitarian corridor, around a tight bend, and into the hangar.

The gigantic room could have been the normal affair: a place filled with the stench of grease and oils, the haunt of mechanics and working ponies where a variety of ships and aircrafts would station themselves. But Bunnyhelm had had other plans.

Ships and crafts in pristine condition were lined up along the walls, waiting to be used as the artificial light sparkled on their waxed hulls. Mechanics waited in neat rows, sweating in their clean jumpsuits while they eyed the Emperor.

The clacking of their boots on the steel-grated floor echoed through the room, and Bunnyhelm noted a squadron’s worth of pilots trotting out of a side area and rushing to their Vanquishers. Ah, an escort already? Somepony read my mind, Bunnyhelm thought, and he could not stop himself from flashing Scribeswell a tiny, private smile. The stallion was flustered.

“I don’t think Eastern Admiral Yama Moto has arrived yet, Sire,” Scribeswell said. “Perhaps we should wait a little longer?”

At that precise moment, the low, humming drone of a gunship filled the cavernous room. Ears perked and attention was drawn to the far end, where the room ended and open sky began.

An old ship flew in, spewing a dark, belching smoke that infested the room in a matter of seconds while its props began to counter-rotate. The steady thumping of the vessel’s Sparkle Generator echoed in their ears and mind, making more than one pony cringe back as the vehicle came in for a smooth landing.

Bunnyhelm shook his head and was vaguely aware that somepony had been a little too nauseous. “Scribeswell, I’ve decided that I will not meet with the Admiral. I’d rather inspect the fleet on my own than get on board that... thing.”

The Scribe nodded vigorously. “Yes, Sire. Which vessel shall you use?”

Bunnyhelm surveyed the long rows of crafts, realising that he could take possession of any one of them without any qualms. Fighters, some shuttles, a few bombers and support ships. All the very best the Empire could afford; all in mint condition. “It’s odd, isn’t it? When you have so many options, it’s difficult to.... All I wish is for a quick fly-by, in relative comfort and with a craft that has good stature and visibility....”

Bunnyhelm began trotting forwards, looking from one vessel to another before, finally, he stopped at one, a slow smile crossing his lips and sending shivers up the spines of those accompanying him.

Conqueror, read the flowing script on the long, narrow vessel’s side. A vehicle entirely plated in chromed armour from the tip of its blade-like nose to the twin engines sweeping out behind. It looked like a sword, Bunnyhelm noted, a massive claymore with stubby wings and tiny hoof-thick holes along the wings that hid magic-seeking missiles.

A dozen hooves clanged up the ramp and into the tight, yet perfectly decorated interior of the Conqueror. The emperor took a deep breath, filling his senses with the fresh aroma of newness that permeated the vessel. Along one side was a row of padded seats built for a mixture of comfort and efficiency, so that one could take their cocktail in mid-flight with little trouble; the other side was a long, thin office, filled with radio equipment, sensors and communication devices that would require a few trained professionals to operate. Bunnyhelm ignored the latter.

He rushed through the passage with a foalish sort of glee, his laughter loud and sonorous in the airtight cabin as he trotted into the control room and plopped himself into the co-pilot’s seat. Royal hooves hovered centimetres above the wild display of controls, levers and buttons that made the ship tick, yet he failed to touch any.

“Are you sure?” Scribeswell asked as he watched over Bunnyhelm’s shoulder. “We have many pilots, Sire, all of whom are exceptionally good at their trade.”

“Yes, yes, and I’m sure whichever you find will be perfect. I am but the co-pilot, as you’ll notice. The view is better from up here, and I’ll have you know that I was quite the flyer in my youth.”

The secretary nodded and retreated, his face void of any emotion. “I’m sure you know best, Sire,” he said before pulling back and finding a seat with the small army of guards that had piled in.

A young stallion arrived moments later, the light thumping of his hooves and the crackle of his leather jacket drowned out by the clicking of belt buckles. He stopped beside Bunnyhelm’s seat, blinked at him uncertainly, then returned his gaze to the control panel, finding comfort in the myriad of complex mechanisms.

“Hello, sir,” he said, his officer’s uniform brushing against the two seats as he maneuvered into the command chair. “Nice to meet you; I’m Sure Winged.” He extended a hoof to bump. “I’ll be our pilot today. Am I safe in presuming that you’ll be my co?”

Happily, Bunnyhelm obliged the young buck. “Indeed, although you’ll find my skills to be old and rusty.”

Sure Winged shrugged and nestled himself into the seat, giving the various levers some quick preliminary checks. “No worries, I’m sure the Emperor wouldn’t have allowed you on here were you not qualified. Between you and I, he doesn’t seem like the type to take risks.”

Bunnyhelm allowed a small, knowing smile to cross his lips. “No, he’s not the sort. Still, he might make exceptions if he sees little danger. Life is a game of balance, after all.”

“Maybe so, sir. Maybe so,” Sure Winged said, the muscles in his forehead knotting. His hoof reached out and clicked away at a series of buttons.

With an electric buzz followed by a vicious hum, the twin engines of the Conqueror roared to life. Two arcs of blue fuel jetted out behind the craft.

The steady thumping of a Sparkle Generator whispered through the hull, prompting Bunnyhelm to touch the side wall and revel in the tiny—almost soothing—sensation. A dampener? On such a small vessel? Interesting, he thought as the Conqueror lifted out of its hangar slot and coasted ahead, its landing gear skimming not a metre above the tarmac.

“Beautiful flying,” Bunnyhelm said off-hoof as Sure Winged edged the Conqueror around the admiral's ship.

“Thank you, sir. Three years in the academy and some decent time practicing. Anypony could do it.” Sure Winged pushed down on the throttle and blasted out of the hangar, the echoing roar following them out in a concussive blast that dissipated as they hit the open air.

Behind them, six Vanquishers zipped out of the staggeringly tall building and immediately formed up alongside the Conqueror. As one, the formation navigated through the concrete jungle of New Appleloosa, taking wide turns around the massive towers and slipping in and out of the congested arial traffic.

Bunnyhelm leaned forward and looked above the ship, eyes glinting as he caught the reflection of the rising sun off of the buildings. There, in the uppermost parts of the city, one could almost imagine it to be Canterlot, or another of the truly major hubs with the towers and huge apartments topped with penthouses.

Then, they flew out of the city.

The gleaming towers became stubby smokestacks and pipes that belched out acrid fumes. The sea of moving planes and rapid ponies became haulers whose drivers wore thick masks against their cargo. With an indifferent sigh, Bunnyhelm fell back into his seat and turned his focus up, and couldn’t help but grin.

The sky was a deep, azure blue, one marred by thousands of grey forms but not a single cloud. Countless airships filled the skies, all of them dancing an intricate ballet to avoid touching one another or mingling too much. He easily spotted the Eastern ships in their particular shade of grey and extra ground-facing cannons.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Sure Winged said, more than a little awe tinging his voice. “Biggest fleet ever gathered. Every Imperial airship that could be spared brought to one place. That’s more than twice the entire ships present at the Battle or Ponyville.... I was there; that was chaos.”

“But orchestrated.”

“Maybe. Do you happen to know where the Emperor wishes to go?” he asked, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder.

He really doesn’t know... heh. “I want to go there,” Bunnyhelm said, pointing at some location far above.

“Um, yes, sir,” Sure Winged said, a nervous sort of comprehension dawning on him.

“Oh, please, call me Bunnyhelm.”

Hooves gripped the yoke with renewed vigor, becoming as white as the young stallion’s face. “I’m sorry, Sire, I didn’t realise...” he whispered, as if his hushed words could belittle the situation.

“No, no. You did nothing wrong. And call me Bunnyhelm, I insist. Now, hurry up, I want to see the full extent of the fleet myself. Its full might, beauty and power,” Bunnyhelm said before letting out a cackling giggle.

“Yes, um, Bunnyhelm, Sire,” Sure Winged said. His dextrous hooves pulled and tugged with the controls and the flying-yacht of a transport angled up a few degrees, slowly climbing up and around in a gigantic spiral.

One of the guards expertly climbed through the ship, a platter with a glass of wine in its centre floating alongside him. “Wine, Your Highness?”

“Hmm? Yes, thank you. Some brandy for my friend here, if there is some,” he said, picking up the glass and swirling its contents around. Sure Winged blushed and swallowed hard, then narrowed his eyes to the task at hoof.

The drink arrived with a clinking of ice just as the pilot pony expertly navigated through the sea of massive ships. There, on the upper levels, the air was thick with the concentrated smells and fumes of the factories below mingled with those that puffed out of the Imperial airships. Bunnyhelm didn’t mind the aroma, or even pretend to notice.

His attention was on the ships. Battleships lumbered through the skies like whales, surrounded by Interdiction-class vessels made to look like fish in a symbiotic relationship. Independent ships were jostled around as they tried to form up with the larger groups, yet remain courteous to the other ships.

He giggled in glee as full squadrons practiced above them, forming up and breaking apart on second-long queues. They left behind trails that absorbed the sun’s light until they dissipated into nothingness.

Within the ships blurring by, Bunnyhelm could make out the forms of ponies in uniform, many of whom twisted around to look at the silvery Conqueror and its escort of aces.

His countenance changed, unnoticed by any in the vessel, not even by himself. Gone was the flattering smile and the kind tongue, the soft eyes and trustworthy set of the jaw. Now, all that marked his features was a lust and greed so grand it could make the blood of any go cold.

Nothing like being the Emperor... but somepony was still standing in his way.


The Misfits edited. Mostly.
\]]

don't look at the grammar in this one. For once, I really don't care about my standards.

Write write right.