Armies of the Night
Equestrian Badlands. Canyon floor beneath crashed Cobra Helicarrier.
Timothy Ahiga had not been having a good day. Actually, it wasn't so much his day that was going badly, so much as his entire damned life. Born into less than privileged surroundings, Timothy had grown up on the Navajo reservation in Arizona. His father had joined the Army to fight in Vietnam, while his mom had disappeared sometime after his fifth birthday, leaving him to his grandfather’s rearing. His condition hadn't improved with the return of his father. Having survived the hell of rice paddy and jungle combat, his father had instead become a casualty to rampant alcohol and drug abuse. With the loss of his grandfather to a heart attack, Timothy had been left to the less than attentive care of his deadbeat dad, forced to virtually raise himself as his father continued to sink deeper into a spiral of depression and self-destruction. At least when his grandfather had been alive, Timothy had had a chance of a decent upbringing under the strict yet fair upbringing of the village elder. His father had returned a broken man, crushed beneath the weight of his experiences in Nam and the poor treatment he was forced to endure upon his return. By the time Timothy had entered his upper teens, his father was spending more time in jail than out, and Timothy had grown into a bitter, angry young man who had grown up listening to so many drunken rants against the government that he had come to accept his father’s inebriated ramblings as fact, a situation that had not been helped by the apparent lack of support in his small town.
Thus when a radical anti-establishment organization called Extensive Enterprises had rolled into town promising steady pay and generous benefits for anyone willing to join their security team, Timothy had been among the first to sign up. Two weeks later, he found himself issued a blue uniform with a black face-mask, an AK-47 with two extra clips of ammo, and ordered to follow the insane one-eyed Australian into a firefight with men in black suits on the front lawn of a large white mansion. Barely escaping the counter-attack led by a demon in black with an Uzi, Timothy, now known officially as Viper-5585, next found himself ‘volunteered’ for a special mission to hijack a military satellite, only to once again barely escape the subsequent missile barrage within a damaged re-entry vehicle. And so it went, for nearly five years. Five years of participating in one harebrained scheme after another at the command of a man with a major snake fetish and delusions of grandeur. Five years’ worth of near-death experiences in some of the worst conditions known to man, almost exclusively at the hands of a small government task force seemingly comprised of some of the most insane soldiers the US Military could find. Ah well, at least the pay was decent. When it came. And now that he was apparently stranded on an uncharted planet in an entirely different universe, the likelihood of receiving that already late paycheck was rapidly becoming less likely. To cap it off, he now found himself picking his way along the floor of an alien canyon scouting for ‘any sign of intelligent life’, in the company of some of the biggest morons and slackers in the entire Cobra Viper brigades.
“Hey Injun.”
Case in point, Viper Squad Lead O’Donnell. Racist bastard.
“Ain’tcha supposed to have, like, freaky tracking skills?”
Timothy paused to wearily smack his helmet a couple of times. Damn thing’s HUD kept shorting out on him.
“No Squad Lead. “
O’Donnell wasn’t willing to let it go however.
“Yer an Injun right? So yer supposed to be able to, like, track anything across any terrain.”
Timothy finally gave up on his malfunctioning helmet, and instead decided to shut off the static filled display entirely.
“Despite what cheap comics and Saturday morning cartoons would have you believe, not all Navajo are able to track an ant across a desert, or some other equally inane cliché. I never spent any of my time hunting, or camping, or any of that other Boy Scout garbage.”
Silence. Another fifty feat of bland canyon.
“Sooo… Yer still an Injun, right?”
Timothy considered for a moment whether he would be able to kill the idiot that was supposed to be leading his squad. Maybe he could say his gun misfired…?
“I am a Navajo.”
Another fifty feet.
“So an Injun?”
Maybe if he ‘fumbled’ a grenade…?
“Yes, Squad Lead. I am a Native American.”
“So an Injun.”
A pause.
“Yes Squad Lead. I’m an ‘Indian’.”
Finally, some peace and quiet…
“So ya should be able to track, like, instinctively.”
… Sonova…
“No, Squad Leader.”
At this point, the five Viper squad had come to a halt beneath a strip of cave wall that was honeycombed with caverns of various sizes. The remaining three members of the scouting party seemed content to sit on whatever handy slab of rock they could find, while attentively observing the developing drama between their squad mate and commander with barely concealed humor.
“Well, I say that since yer an Injun, yew should be up front so’s yew can pick up any trail.”
“Exactly what trail do you expect me to find!? We’re in a damned canyon.”
“I dunno. Yer the Injun, yew tell me.”
“Being an Indian does not make me an expert tracker!!!”
By now completely engrossed in the quickly escalating spat between their fellow Vipers, none of them noticed as nearly every cave began to display dozens of eyes glowing a sickly green.
“Well, I’m the leader of this here group, and I say yew git yer Injun hide up front so’s yew can scout fer… whatever we’s supposed tew be scoutin’ fer.”
“Oh, of course. Scout for whatever. Care to be a little more specific there, Squad Leader?!”
“Don’t yew shout at me Viper! I’ll report yer brown ass ta Major Bludd, see if I don’t.”
“THAT’S IT!!! I have had it up to my neck with your racial slurs. I’m going to… WHAT THE HELL?!!!”
Unnoticed by the bickering Vipers, the canyon had suddenly become filled by what seemed to be hundreds of insectile forms, crawling along the walls and filling the air with a foreboding buzzing. Sensing that their prey had discovered them, the nightmarish creatures suddenly dove upon the hapless scouting party.
“WEAPONS FREE!”
“WHAT ARE THEY?!”
“KILL IT, KILL IT!!”
“OH GAWD, IT BIT ME!!”
“COMMAND, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!!! COMMAND DO YOU READ… GITTAWAYFROMME!!!”
For the next few seconds, the canyon resounded with the sounds of automatic weapons fire, punctuated by the screams of the Viper squad and occasional grenade detonation. And over it all, the one constant remained the incessant buzz of hundreds of tattered wings. Finally, there was silence.
The Cobra Helicarrier was a truly massive piece of machinery. Designed by Destro’s own M.A.R.S. Industries, it had served Cobra faithfully for many years as both battle platform for the launching of Cobra air legions, and often as a temporary headquarters for Cobra Commander. As such, in addition to massive hanger bays containing squadrons of Cobra Rattlers and Firebats, along with secondary hangers housing a company of HISS tanks and supporting crew and infantry, there was still room made for fairly opulent officer’s quarters, with a significant portion devoted to a fully stocked med-bay. This last had been commandeered by Dr. Mindbender as his personal laboratory, and currently held both the mad scientist as well as his master and two guests. One of whom was most assuredly not pleased with the second.
Destro scowled from across the room at the floating remnants of Nightmare Moon, who was currently floating above an array of sensors as Dr. Mindbender attempted to analyze the eerie phenomenon. “Once again Commander, I feel I must protest against allowing this… Brollachan access to this ship.”
Cobra Commander, now clad in his ceremonial cape and cowl, raised an inquisitive brow at his glowering arms dealer. “Now Destro, there’s no need to insult my esteemed guest in that manner, particularly as she has claimed to be able to assist us in returning to our own world.”
Destro’s frown simply deepened, and he shifted in place in an obvious display of disquiet. This exchange simply seemed to amuse Nightmare Moon, as a nebulous laugh seemed to echo from every corner of the lab, much to the discomfort of both Destro and the Crimson Guardsmen stationed at the door. Finally seeming to control her amusement, The Nightmare turned her hovering reptilian eyes upon the man who seemed to possess a head made of silvery metal. “Why my dear human, do I truly detect an undercurrent of distrust and, dare I say, fear?”
Destro simply stared back at her, arms folded across his chest. “I dinnae fear anything that I can understand. It’s when I don’t understand that I grow wary. And Ye, ye formless spiorad, there is too much about you that smacks of darkness and deceit for my comfort.”
Cobra Commander leaned back in his seat with a dark chuckle. “In that case, Her Majesty should fit in well amongst our merry band, eh Destro?”
The Scottish Laird had obviously decided that The Commander’s comment was undeserving of any answer, as he turned on his heel and stormed through the lab doors. Meanwhile, oblivious to the drama being enacted around him, Dr. Mindbender finished calibrating his equipment, and directly addressed Nightmare Moon for the first time since Cobra Commander had brought her to his domain. “Your Majesty, Commander, I am ready to begin my analysis.”
Cobra Commander waved a languid hand. “Proceed Doctor; that is, if it is acceptable to you my dear Queen Moon?”
Once more an eerie chuckle seemed to echo. “Ready as I ever will be I suppose my lord. Although, once we are done here, might I make a small request?”
Cobra Commander nodded once. “Speak.”
The floating mass seemed to quiver slightly, before the Nightmare’s eyes seemed to narrow slightly. “As I am sure you may guess, my fall at the hands of those… traitors left me somewhat diminished. I simply require the use of one of your fine soldiers, preferably a female if at all possible.”
At this, Cobra Commander leaned forward in his chair, once again quirking a questioning eyebrow at the bizarre request. “And what, pray-tell, to you require one of my Vipers for? I doubt you need assistance to apply makeup in your current, shall we say, condition?”
Nightmare Moon once again laughed. “Oh no my dear Commander, nothing so trivial as that.” Then the Mare of Darkness’ eyes once again narrowed. “No my lord, I simply require something that I can… oh how do I put this without sounding crude? I require one of your soldiers, that I might possess their body for my own.”
When all communication with Viper scout team nine had been lost (amidst a flurry of indistinct screams and a strange background buzz) Zartan had decided that it would be beneficial to his health to get out of the helicarrier and out from under the oppressive gaze of Storm Shadow for a while. Having unloaded his personal motorcycle and called his personal crew to attend him, he was soon roaring across the barren landscape that lead to the canyon edge, intending to investigate the situation personally. He was currently wondering whether he would have been better off to remain at the helicarrier, taking his chances with a ninja who may or may not be under the Commander’s complete control.
“Oi Zartan, why’d ya have ta bring us all along witcha?”
Now instead of the possibility of bodily harm, he now had to contend with the certainty of IQ loss.
“I was just about ta pop me a fresh can of grape soda.”
“Indeed, and I was just about to partake of a particularly fresh chocolate donut.”
“Partake nuthin ya limey weasel, ya were try’n ta hog the whole box fer yerself.”
“Steady on with the name calling there Ripper, you sorry excuse for a Colonial.”
“Ah, blow it out yer exhaust pipe, Buzzer.”
“Make me you Tasmanian twit.”
Zartan had finally had enough. Bringing his custom chopper to a sudden halt, he waited for the rest of his misbegotten band to realize he had stopped and circle their bikes around to where he sat.
Zartan sat impassively and mentally called roll. Buzzer, the Cambridge professor turned chainsaw wielding thug. Torch, former Merchant Marine with an unhealthy fascination with flamethrowers and blowtorches. Ripper, a human Tasmanian devil who hated everything except motorcycles. Monkeywrench, a psychopath with an affinity for high-explosive. Gnawgahyde, poacher and sniper extraordinaire. Together, they formed the infamous band of biker mercenaries known as The Dreadnoks, their criminal histories trailing them across the globe from the Australian Outback to the Florida Everglades. Totally unscrupulous and lacking all morality or common decency. And the biggest bunch of idiots to ever trip over an exhaust manifold.
Buzzer was the first to break the silence that fell once the roar of motorcycle engines had faded. “I say Zartan old bean, what’s the reasoning behind dragging us all out of our air-conditioned bunks? It’s not half hot out here you know.”
Ripper was next to speak out. “Yeah, an’ me grape soda is probably flat by now.”
Torch snorted. “Fergit about yer stinkin’ pop Ripper, I wus in the middle of tryin’ ta get that wanker Buzzer to gimme my share of the donuts. Now I’m starvin’ ta death out ‘ere.”
Zartan decide that he had heard enough, and spoke up before an argument could devolve into a brawl. As usual. “Can one of you idiots tell me where we are, currently?”
A long, silent moment. The biker gang looked back and forth from their enigmatic leader to their fellow Dreadnoks. Finally, Monkeywrench took it upon himself to answer. “Er, the desert?”
Zartan shot the dimwitted explosives expert a mirthless smile. “Very good Monkeywrench. I see the rot that resides between your ears hasn’t extended to your eyes just yet. Anyone else want to take guess at where this desert is located? Hmmm? Perhaps the answer could be found in the briefing I gave you morons this morning?”
Buzzer suddenly perked up. “Oi, I know this one. We’re on an alien planet of some sort, ain’t we Zartan?”
Zartan’s smile seemed to grow almost predatory at this point. “Well done Buzzer. Now, would any of you mental midgets like to take a guess at what we could find on an uncharted, alien planet?”
Another long pause. Then a comical look of horror passed over each of the bikers ugly faces.
“Oh blimey, ALIENS!”
“Bloody ‘ell, I’ve seen enough films to know what ‘appens next!”
“Oh mudder save me, I don’t wanna have me brains eaten by some space monster!”
Zartan managed to restore order through the strategic application of the back of his hand. “Yes, we are on an alien planet. Yes, there are aliens on this planet. No, they won’t eat you. You lot are so stupid that any poor creature that tried to eat what you cretins call brains would starve. Now that I have your attention, I will repeat myself once more. One of our Viper squads has gone silent, and we are going to find out why.”
Torch stopped rubbing his sore cranium long enough to voice his concerns. “But, Zartan. ‘ow do we known that bunch a’ Vipers didn’t get eaten? We could be next!”
Zartan grabbed a double handful of Torch’s shirtfront. Dragging him closer, Zartan glared down into his quivering subordinate’s eyes. “You need to ask yourself something Torch. What do you fear more? The possibility of aliens? Or me?”
Torch’s throat bobbed convulsively, and he attempted what he fondly hoped was an ingratiating grin. “T-take it easy Zartan. Yore the chief, Chief.”
The rest of the Dreadnoks were quick to agree.
“We’re with ya all the way Zartan.”
“Never doubted yew fer a second Boss.”
“Too right. Lead on, o illustrious leader.”
Releasing a gasping Torch, Zartan nodded firmly at his gang. “Well? Enough malingering out of you morons. Mount up!”
With a roar of exhaust, the Dreadnoks continued on their way to the chasms floor. Barely ten minutes of hard riding later, the bikers found themselves drawing near to the point that contact with the scouting party had been lost. Turning the final bend of the canyon wall, Zartan signaled for his followers to park their bikes. Arming themselves with an astonishing array of assorted weaponry, ranging from assault rifles to chainsaws, the Dreadnoks quietly crept the last few yards to their destination. Spreading out, the bikers slowly examined the area, making particular note of the many caves that pierced the walls above them.
Ripper shuddered. “Cor, I don’t like the look of those ‘oles. I keep thinkin’ sumpthin is watching me, y’know?”
Torch nodded nervously. “Too right mate. And anudder thing, can ya hear anything? It’s too bloody quiet for my likin’.”
Zartan hissed at them to be quiet, before turning to his tracker. “Well Gnawgahyde? What can you tell me?”
The Dreadnok in question was squatting over a patch of sand, examining the canyon floor with suspicious eyes. “Well, I’ll tell ya Boss. I don’t like the looks of this ground. It’s too, y’know, clean.”
“And how is that a problem?”
“Think about it Boss. If there were some kinda scuffle, you’d think there would be some sign, y’know? Blood spatter, shell casings, the like. But this canyon looks like me mums kitchen floor afore company. If’n I was to guess, I’d say that whoever or whatever attacked our boyo’s made pains to clean up after themselves. And if that were true...”
At that moment, the poacher’s keen eye picked up a shadowy form creeping from the mouth of one of the caves. He had barely enough time to yell a warning, before the Dreadnoks found themselves fighting for their lives as the air became filled by hissing, winged creatures. Unlike the hapless Viper squad, however, the Dreadnoks had the advantage of forewarning, and were able to assume a defensive formation. The alien creatures quickly found that they could not get close to the biker gang without suffering horrendous losses. Soon the creatures had backed off, hissing maliciously at the group before them.
Needless to say, the Dreadnoks were not in the calmest frame of mind in the face of their worst fears come true. With the exception of Zartan, every one of the bikers were gripping their weapons in shaking hands, desperately trying to remain still beneath the scrutiny of the monsters that had attacked them. Finally, Buzzer’s latent academic curiosity got the better of his fear, at least enough to allow him to observe the winged creatures surrounding them. “They look like, little ‘orses. Little, bug ‘orses.”
Zartan continued to cover the surrounding horde with his rifle. “I can see that Buzzer. No antennae that I can see though. Do you think that that horn takes their place?”
Buzzer squinted through his shades at the feature in question. “Possible, Zartan me ol’ mate, possible. ‘ere now, what do you suppose that one is about?” The creature in question had walked a short distance towards the cowering Dreadnoks, and begun observing Ripper closely. Ripper shifted nervously. “I tell ya mates, I don’t like this one bit. Lookit that’n, what do you wanna bet ‘e’s measuring me fer the pot right now, eh? Why I’ll bet a year’s pay that… BLOODY ‘ELL!!!” The creature, supposedly satisfied with its examination, had burst into a column of bright, emerald green flame. Once the flames had dispersed, where had once stood some weird cross between a pony and an insect, now stood a perfect copy of Ripper, sans weapon. Suddenly, as though this were a signal, every single one of the creatures surrounding the Dreadnoks seemed to spontaneously combust, only to reappear as a near perfect copy of one of the bikers. At this point, the Dreadnoks were barely able to keep from throwing their weapons down and running. Ripper seemed especially affected by the spectacle, whimpering pitifully.
“Bloody ‘ell mates, I told youse I had seen this one. Those liddle buggers are gonna suck out me brains and replace me. We’re dead mates, I’m tellin’ ya, we’re dead...” Zartan swung around and lashed out across Rippers face with a vicious backhand. “Shut your slobbering mouth numbskull, do you want to incite them to attack again? All you lot, cover me.” Buzzer looked at him incredulously. “Cover you? Wot, you going to attack them things on yore lonesome?!” Zartan smirked cruelly, never taking his eyes off the grinning doppelgangers surrounding them. “Not quite. Just thinking I’d have a word with them, one shape-shifter to another.”
Dropping his rifle, Zartan took a few slow, careful paces out of the protective ring of weaponry. Moving forward until he was just out of touching distance to the first Ripper impersonator, he stood still for a moment, sneering into the questioning gaze of the copy before him. Then, his skin suddenly began to ripple and flash various colors, as the nano-machines that ran through his body began the process of changing his shape. All at once, his bipedal form seemed to melt together, and then, right before the shocked gazes of Dreadnok and alien alike, coalesced into a familiar form; one with four legs, tattered dragonfly wings, and a long, crooked horn sprouting from the center of his forehead. There was dead silence for a beat, and then a rippling wave of sibilant hisses spread like a pond ripple through the horde of alien shape-shifters. Once again transforming into their original bug-pony shapes, the crowd suddenly parted down the middle, allowing one of the creatures, taller again by half than any of its compatriots, to advance towards the transformed Zartan. Stopping scant feet from him, the tall creature looked Zartan up and down with clearly conflicted emotions flitting across its angular, fanged features. Apparently finished with its examination, the creature suddenly spoke in a vibrating, sibilant tone as though there were many voices lingering just behind its own.
“I am Chrysalis, Queen of the Changeling Hordes. Speak creature, and explain how you come to possess the ability of changing your shape, as though you were yourself a changeling.”
Still smirking, the transformed Zartan closed the remaining distance separating himself from the slightly taller shape-shifter before him. Looking her up and down insolently, Zartan suddenly shifted back into his original form, bringing him eye to eye with the self-proclaimed queen. “Well now, Queen Chrysalis, how I came about my little talent for mimicry is no one’s business but my own. I figured that little party trick might bring the head bug out to parley, and would you look at you? The Queen bee of this little hive herself.”
Chrysalis bared her fangs at a seemingly unfazed Zartan. “Watch your tone creature. If I so chose, my children could overwhelm you and your pitiful little band.”
Zartan seemed unaffected by this threat. “And yet, you haven’t yet. That tells me that you know just how many of you we could take down with us. And considering that I could simply take on, oh let’s just say,” here suddenly shifted once again into changeling form, this time forming a perfect copy of Chrysalis, voice and all “this form, I at least could escape and bring down my wrath upon you at my leisure.”
If being suddenly confronted by an apparently mirror image version of herself caused Chrysalis any discomfort, she was able to hide it masterfully. “True, creature. And yet, I have legions at my command. I sincerely doubt any retaliation you could command would succeed in defeating me, here within my own kingdom.”
Zartan nodded with a grim smile, once again shifting into his human form. “Touché Queen Chrysalis. My compatriots however, have something you do not.”
Now it was Chrysalis’ turn to smirk. “Oh? Pray tell, just what overwhelming advantage could you possible bring to bear against me?”
Zartan took a step back. “Two things, oh Queen. First, allies with superior weapons. Second, the element of surprise.” From the canyon walls above them, the sounds of rounds being chambered into high-powered rifles filtered down. Looking up, Chrysalis snarled as she realized that she and her guards were now surrounded by more of those tall bipeds with the sticks that spat fire and death. Returning her furious gaze to the creature that had somehow managed to outmaneuver her, she was enraged to discover that he was openly grinning at her. “That, my dear Queen, would be check and mate.”
Before Chrysalis could decide whether to retreat into her caves, or leap forward and tear the smirking biped’s face off, another of the two legged creatures strode into view from around the bend in the canyon wall. This one was dressed in what was obviously some sort of military uniform, with a silver face mask concealing its features. “Well done Zartan. You have managed to discover what took my Viper squad. How very intriguing.”
Despite her earlier posturing, Chrysalis found herself struggling to keep from trembling. As a creature that survived by consuming the energy of emotion, she had by necessity become a master at reading creatures based on their emotions alone. While the previous creature had radiated arrogance spiced with a small measure of fear, this creature seemed to radiate malevolence. Hate, greed, rage, and a host of other negative emotions exuded from this creature in cold, roiling waves. Chrysalis was in no doubt; this was a creature that would happily see the universe itself burn so long as it was given what it wanted. Striding up until he was face to face with the barely trembling changeling queen, Cobra Commander chuckled darkly.
“Well now, what shall we do with you?”
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Cobra's really makin' their mark on Equestria. Nice o' you to include Queen Chrysalis in this chapter.
King sombra next please!
4038850 I do have a plot point involving Sombra, but he likely will play a fairly small roll in the overall story. At least, most of him.
Noooo! Not Timothy
4082289 Alas, Viper-5585, he shall be remembered as that expendable Cobra trooper you always see at the back of any gathering.
Darn. Ihad hoped somebody else would've thought to bring the third of the memorable G-1 tirple crown. Oh well.