Ordnance is Magic 2: Bombardment Boogaloo

by Perturabo

III. Daemon Teenagers

To expect a unified response by a species, or even a kingdom, in response to staring down its own destruction was a flawed plan. Logically speaking, it should not have been; indeed, it was at those times of impending annihilation that unity and fidelity should have been at their strongest. And yet, such was never the case – there were as many differing opinions on how to face oblivion as there were those to profess them.

Some of them were good ideas, presented before the Council and worked into the new law of what remained of Equestria’s kingdom. Others were downright foolish, or at the very least untenable, often plans formed out of irrational fear. These were gently dismissed at best, discarded angrily at worst. Very few of the ways in which ponies responded to the Fall were outright dangerous, but the small sect that had taken it upon itself to elevate the architects of all the terror that had come to pass to some strange form of divinity certainly fell into that category.

They were a small group of insane mares and stallions at best, for there was little sympathy for the aliens that had come before to be found. Of those who did believe accepting the damnation was the only way of surviving it, fewer still were able to find anything concrete upon which to build their faith; the steel-clad monsters had not left much behind when they had disappeared, and any sign of their passing was either in the areas of the world that were now under quarantine, or else hastily taken care of.

That did not, in every case, mean destroyed.

Adamant Tower quailed as his eyes settled upon the mural facing the group. It was in one of the dungeons beneath the Crystal Castle, or at least one of the chambers they could still use – many of the oldest and darkest passageways were lost to them, the Daemonic threat prowling the shadows like a starving pack of dogs. The mural was not originally from this chamber, however; the building upon whose wall one of the cults had created this work of ‘art’ had been reduced to rubble, yet some outside power had protected the painting. The few powerful unicorns who remained warned that taint lay upon it, and any who approached found their skin prickled by a nauseous sensation. The image that drew the most attention was the largest, in the centre; one of the aliens, his gunmetal-grey armour offset by bronze trim and black and yellow chevrons. Horns sprouted from a roaring, daemonic helm – or perhaps it was simply his head - and he roared to heaven, an oversized gauntlet depicted as crushing an equine skull. The drawing was crude, yes, but as a focus for supplication it served its purpose. Far more worrying were the symbols daubed around the image of the warrior, five of them repeated over and over: an eight-pointed star. A stylised skull rune. A flowing, burning eye. Three circles connected in a triangle. And finally, a wickedly elegant combination of a sickle and moon. They made the eyes ache to look upon, flaring if they were approached, and that seemingly-waiting power was part of the reason the graven image still existed. So the wall stood here, locked away in the dark, even after the Cult that created it had been quashed.

“It’s them.”

Amongst the Space Marines, it was Joshua – one of the Dark Angels – who broke the silence. Until now, he and his brothers had remained silent, with the exception of sergeant Nehemiah – and he was taciturn at best. He and his green-plated brothers had endured much between them; campaigns alongside the Lion himself, the Thramas Crusade, the Unremembered Empire, and one thing they had sworn not to speak of even in private. Even so, the sight of such a blatant depiction of one of their wayward cousins, in so unexpected a place, was enough to compel him to speak. “The Iron Warriors. It was really them.”

The Iron Warriors. The IV Legiones Astartes. The ‘Corpse Grinders’, though that had always been the name they’d loathed above all others. One of the nine Legions that had thrown in their lot with the deposed Warmaster, and one of the Legions that had been sent running back into the Eye during the Scouring. Shortly before wandering through the portal, the ragtag group of Astartes that now found themselves face to face with the grim idol had heard tell of a great battle between the sons of Perturabo and their nemeses, the Imperial Fists, on some worthless planet in the Sebastus belt. That any of the Fourth Legion had escaped Dorn’s vengeance seemed unlikely to the Loyalists, but the proof stood before them.

“Is there nothing their heresy does not touch?” Nehemiah growled, hand once again reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. From the way his brothers murmured, the answer seemed to be a definitive ‘no’. Though the words were passed along a general vox channel, to every Space Marine in the immediate vicinity, it was only the Dark Angels who spoke; their rage was great, but the rage of some of their companions was greater.

Zuriel stared at it, exposed face a mask of barely-contained rage, one crimson gauntlet trembling. He had not been on Terra with his brothers, his ship thrown wildly off-course through Warp disturbance, but he had heard the tales. The Iron Warriors had been the ones who had brought the walls of the Emperor’s palace crashing down. They had brought sons of Sanguinius crashing down with them. If anything, Voss and Moulkain seemed possessed of a greater fury still. It had been the Iron Warriors, once again, who had opened fire into the back of the Iron Tenth’s ranks at the Dropsite Massacre, Medusan warriors falling in the hundreds under the thunder of the heavy siege guns and ranks of cold, disciplined bolter fire.

The Fourth Legion was directly complicit in the murder of the Blood Angel and Iron Hand Primarchs. Even if all their other crimes were ignored, for that they could never be forgiven.

“So…” Helsturnn’s voice was the same low, canine growl it always was as he spoke. The Wolf wore his Maximus helm again, servos growling with him, but the way he sniffed the air was still audible. The fact that he spoke at all was enough to get the hooded warriors to turn; rarely did he speak in the immediate presence of the green-armoured Space Marines. Even with the fear pulsing through his body, Adamant Tower was clever enough to realise that some animosity existed between the two factions. “So…” The Wolf said again, running a tribal charm between two grey fingertips. “We know it’s them. The question is what we can do about the Olympian skijta.”

“You said that the traitors were the ones who reduced your world to this state.” Zuriel had by now just about managed to get a handle on his temper, turning in place to look down at the ponies. The Council, and their Guards, had followed them down into the dark, remaining a few steps behind. The anger from before was at least tempered, the ponies, Griffon and Saddle Arabian outwardly portraying a picture of unified calm, even if it was clear that only some of them really felt it. “What happened to them? Specifically?” The Blood Angel finished, fighting to keep his voice respectful as fury rocked him.

“Nopony’s really sure.” It fell upon the mare from Canterlot, the only one of them who had really seen what had happened, to answer. Even then, her story was sketchy and incomplete at best. “One of them came here, in the guise of a friend. It was he that…that slew the Princess. They attacked the Capital’s walls with some…huge metal monster, though it sounded like it was alive…” She shivered a little at the memory, before recovering her composure. “It was the first time we’d ever seen the Daemons…but none of us are really sure where they went. From what little we know of the area around the Rift, they aren’t still there…our best guess is that they went back to your world.”

Adamant Tower was standing a little off to one side, trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself, but even he was able to detect the subtle change that came across the Space Marines. The reason was obvious enough; that the Iron Warriors had been here at al was bad enough, by their reckoning. That they had presumably escaped retribution was intolerable.

In a moment of bleak humour, he wondered if they’d considered how the ponies felt.

“Do you see now, at least, that we have no reason to quarrel?” The Saddle Arabian delegate asked, a hint of pleased satisfaction in his voice at being proved right. Though he addressed his fellow Councillors, that his words were meant for them all is obvious. “Neither of us truly trust the other, that much is obvious, and in light of recent events only right. But it is also plain that we share a common foe…one whose schemes we can thwart far easier as a united front than we can individually.”

“What would you have us do?” One of the Dark Angels asked, turning to look at them. It was a fair question, Adamant Tower admitted – it was either Baramiel or Uzzael who had spoken, but he couldn’t tell which. “To march into the enemies’ eye with our guns blazing would be a worthy death…but a more lasting victory is also something to be appreciated.” Silence reigned for a moment, as all considered the – quite honestly, sensible – facts he presented.

“We shall work on a plan.” It was another Dark Angel, Sergeant Nehemiah, who settled the matter. “For saying a full Warp Breach has supposedly opened, this world is remarkably intact. Some means of striking back will be devised.” This, too, was sensible; though the ponies could not know it, the Dark Angels were renowned tacticians, their Primarch only equalled in that regard by Guilliman of the Ultramarines and the Archtraitor Horus himself. It was certainly a safe set of hands to leave the burden of strategizing unto.

“We shall aid in any way we can.” The Griffon nodded, ignoring the angry glances a few of his colleagues shot him. “Any chance to end this, one way or another, is something we have to seize.”

“Then…we have your hospitality?” Zuriel asked. The Apothecary sounded more like he felt wearily resigned than pleased, fiddling a little with the medical tools attached to one of his gauntlets. Another period of brief, awkward silence descended, the unlikely rulers of the Crystal Empire exchanging wordless glances that nevertheless seemed to convey their meaning.

“Our co-operation.” One of the Crystal Ponies sighed at last, and every syllable of it was grudging. It was enough for the Iron Hands; neither of them had spoken so far since arriving on the world, at least not to any of the others, and now was no different as they turned away from the hateful painting and began to stalk out of the chamber. Most of the pony membership of the Council tensed at the sudden movement, memories of before no doubt spilling back, a detachment of Guards hurriedly trotting after them to keep watch. The rest of the Marines took the acceptance in silence, each no doubt wrestling with his private thoughts on the matter. Adamant Tower couldn’t blame them, as he sat on his haunches; not for the first time, he wished he’d just risked going down the main street instead of getting caught up in all of this. He was just grateful that despite being brought here with them, everything seemed to have forgot he was there.

“What was his name?” Their collective attention was drawn once again as the Space Wolf’s gruff voice cut across the still air of the cell; Helsturnn took a step forward, glowing red eyes of his helmet playing across the painted form of the Iron Warrior. “The traitor.” He clarified, irritation evident. “You said one of them came here once. In order to know how to draw this blasphemy, the cultists would need to have seen him.” He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a foal, a tone utterly at odds with his voice. “You said he came pretending to be an ally…what did he say his name was?”

It seemed more a question of morbid curiosity than anything else, but still the Council was hesitant to offer a response. Only the Crystal Ponies knew, and they were hardly inclined to relive the memory. But there was one other who had seen the Traitor Marine himself. Adamant Tower wasn’t even really sure why he spoke, and for the second time that day instantly regretted it as all their eyes fell upon him.

“Zuko.” He said anyway, a curious note of regret in his voice. “His name was Zuko.”

***

“Zuko!”

As Zuko flinched, nearly falling out of the chair he’d been falling asleep in, his mind couldn’t help but wander onto the shrillness in Lorkhan’s tone. It was, of course, shrill only by comparison – with few exceptions, Mordecai being one of them, the voice of all the students at Olympia High was pretty gruff and deep. He didn’t know why that was, and he didn’t really care, but it made the sudden change of pitch even more jarring.

He shook it off, sitting back up and stretching painful muscles. His chair wasn’t comfortable at the best of times, but there hadn’t been much to do except fall asleep. Lorkhan had been here for two hours now, and in those two hours he had done little more than constantly replay the video he’d been so adamant about viewing. If anything, the boy seemed even less comfortable than Zuko was; he was perched on the end of the bed, spine hunched as he stared at the bright, grainy screen of the plain – but functional – computer. Plain, but functional. That was a metaphor for most of their existences, he considered in an unusual moment of introspection. Zuko shook that off too, putting it down to lingering sleepiness.

“What?” He growled, wheeling his chair over the dirty carpet to sit closer to Lorkhan. Zuko’s room was spartan, to say the least. His house, and the suburb on which it was located, wasn’t bad by any stretch; true, not as fancy as those at the other side of town, but it was hardly inner city conditions. Even so, wallpaper was peeling through sheer neglect, grey curtains and grey bedding eternally casting the room in a dark pall. He had a wardrobe, a few chests of drawers that none of his friends had ever seen him go into, and a bedside table on which rested a glove. Chevroned, as Lorkhan’s shirt was, for no other reason than he liked the design. He’d lost the other one, and simply never bothered to put the one he still had away.

“Look.” Lorkhan wasn’t paying attention to any of that detail – it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Instead, he was still staring – nearly unblinking, which couldn’t be healthy – at the screen, the light from it washing over his face. He’d paused the video, finger jabbing at something.

“You can see the wires.” He said, nodding, as if it was some kind of revelation. Suppressing a sigh, Zuko looked round at whatever he was gesturing it. The video wasn’t new to him; it was hardly new to anyone, having taken the internet by storm for about a week after it was uploaded. It showed a few students from Canterlot High – he knew them by reputation, Pinkie Pie, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, some others – seeming to sprout horns and wings before taking to the sky, launching a beam of rainbow-coloured light from them at what, apparently, were daemons. There was something about zombies, and a talking dog, too. He’d never looked into it.

“Couldn’t you do this at home?” He asked, not bothering to hide his sigh this time. Lorkhan wasn’t even listening.

“Look, wires, holding them up!” He jabbed again at the screen, face scrunching up in anger as he leaned in closer. “It’s fake, it’s all fake! They manufactured this whole video to make them look…I don’t know, magical, so they can further their plans and laugh at us behind our backs while they do it!”

“What…what?” For a moment, Zuko was truly stunned by the depths of his companion’s paranoia. It was another trait that they all shared, but here it truly ran rampart. “I…okay, number one.” He began, making the appropriate gesture with his finger. “What plan? I’m pretty sure that, before this afternoon, none of them from that place even knew we existed. Two,” Another finger went up. “Why would they care? They’re already a fancy-ass school…yeah, I don’t like them either, but I don’t have this weird obsessive hatred for them that you do, so why would they have it for us?” It wasn’t quite true – Canterlot High and Olympia High had met before, some members of faculty at least, and rumour said that it hadn’t gone well. There was bad blood there that went further than Lorkhan’s delusions. Still, Zuko ignored that as he raised a third finger. “And three…everyone, everyone, had been saying that this video is fake pretty much since it was released. They’re not getting any credit from this, we don’t even know if whoever uploaded it still goes there!”

Lorkhan sat back, face stony. For a moment, Zuko dared to hope that he’d even managed to put some sense in the boy’s brain.

“It’s a conspiracy.”

“Oh my God.” A hint of true despair crept into Zuko’s voice now as he sagged in his seat, helmet visor in his hands and shaking his head sadly.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Lorkhan went on, having turned around now and slamming the bottom of a fist into an upturned palm. “Between them and the police…that’s why the Government didn’t come down around their heads after this whole…daemon teenager thing!”

Annoyingly, Lorkhan had a point. Even if the video was fake, which it most likely was, all the buzz it had generated if only for a short time would certainly have been worth checking out. But as far as he knew, there’d been virtually nothing, even after a crater had opened up outside Canterlot High. They’d all put it down to the seemingly none-existent police force near the other school, and he wasn’t going to dignify the theory by acknowledging it in any case.

“’Daemon teenagers’.” He repeated, voice hard as stone, not quite ready to let that bit go yet. “Yes…I can imagine having a real problem with that ‘daemon teenager’ there.” Lorkhan must have started the video going again, Zuko tilting his head thoughtfully as the eponymous daemon teenager – now back in her ‘regular’ form, Sunset Shitlord or something, he didn’t know – was just about visible in the crater.

“She’s kinda cute.” He shrugged, only half paying attention. It made the sudden slap across the front of his motorcycle helmet even more surprising.

“Don’t pull a Mordecai on me.” Lorkhan said as he pointed, voice dark. He turned back to the computer, swiftly changing the video. They both sat in silence, Zuko folding his arms as the sound started to play.

Hey hey everybody, we’ve got some things to say…

“Yeah, okay, this one is a little weird.” He allowed as he watched the six girls dance on tables in the other school’s cafeteria. Lorkhan didn’t respond, cold anger radiating off him. In a way, it was almost impressive.

“We need to strike back, step up our game.” He decided, nodding to himself again. Zuko could almost see the cogs turning in his head. “Can’t let them get the initiative, we’ll get whoever we can and lay siege-“

“What is it with you, and siege metaphors?” Zuko asked, temper starting to fray. Lorkhan opened his mouth to respond, before closing it again – the smallest hint of a blush coloured his cheeks as he realised he didn’t really have an answer. They both turned back to the video, where the dancing girl with a Stetson removed the glasses of an amateur DJ he was vaguely aware of. This time, however, it was Zuko that stopped the video as another figure came into view.

“Oh…” He didn’t raise his voice, but a hint of grim amusement coloured his words now. “Now I know why you wanted to watch these videos…”

“Zuko…” Lorkhan said slowly, blush deepening and tone heavy with warning. Zuko, however, would not be dissuaded.

“The only reason you wanted to watch this video was because you,” He pointed at Lorkhan, who flinched as if struck. “Have a crush, on her.” He jabbed the screen of his computer again, gesturing at a yellow-skinned girl with pink hair and eyeliner. “I always forget about that, what’s her name?”

“Fluttershy.” Lorkhan growled, before instantly backpeddling – hand clamping over his mouth as what he’d done became apparent. It was enough for Zuko, who gave a triumphant snarl.

“Yes! For someone who hates them all so much, you sure seem pretty damn interested in her!”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it!” Lorkhan shouted back, standing now, body tensed and hands clenched into fists. Zuko was unfazed as he reclined in his chair a little. He would never be as painfully smug as Mordecai, or as willfully cruel as Vortun could be, but he’d have been lying if he’d said he didn’t enjoy these little opportunities.

“Look me in the eye, and tell me that.” Again, Lorkhan opened his mouth to reply. Again, he had to look away, nose scrunched up in embarrassment as he folded his arms.

“It’s hard when you’re wearing the helmet.” He mumbled in agitation. “Why are you still wearing it, anyway? We’re inside, and I know what you look like.” Zuko ignored it.

“What’s the matter, I think it’s adorable.” He insisted, sarcasm evident. “Don’t be such a baby, there’s no shame in it…bit weird, but there’s no shame. We all know what you want.” Lorkhan looked at him, as if he was confused. Zuko sat forward, elbows on his knees. “You.”

“Stop.” Lorkhan’s voice was quiet, understated even, but he knew exactly what his companion was inferring.

“Want.”

“Zuko, stop.”

“To.”

“Zuko.”

“Touch.”

“This won’t end well for you.”

“Her.”

“Think.” Lorkhan said harshly, taking a step forward and pointing with one hand, the other held ready to strike. “About what you say next.” Tense silence persisted for a moment, both of them staring at the other. Eventually, Zuko let out a breathe, sitting back in his chair in defeat. Lorkhan exhaled too, relaxing his body.

“…butt.”

Lorkhan practically leapt across the room, smashing into Zuko and making the chair topple backwards. The two boys went down with it, launching wild jabs and hooks at one another, rolling on the floor as they fought. Not elegant, but then it was never going to be. A head-butt from Lorkhan impacted against Zuko’s crash helmet, dazing them both. A knee from Zuko struck up into the other boy’s gut.

“Zuko…”

They both stopped, quickly scrambling to their feet, as the feminine voice cut across their tussle. His older sister’s cold, blue eyes rested on the two boys, both of whom looked more than a fraction embarrassed at having been seen writhing around on the floor mid-scrap. “There’s some kid at the door, go talk to her.” She sighed, brushing blonde hair from over her face.

“Why can’t you talk to her?” Zuko asked, trying to hide the awkwardness. His sister just glared.

“Because, like, I can’t be bothered? God, you’re the worst little brother in the world.” She sighed again, walking back to her room. They both heard the door close, Zuko turning to look at Lorkhan. Neither of them could be bothered to fight again, but the other boy still looked furious. Shrugging, Zuko began to head downstairs to find out what the kid wanted.

He opened the door, and didn’t immediately see anything. Behind the visor, he frowned, looking back and forth at the street outside his house. It was only as he stepped back to go inside that he spotted something. He looked down. The girl looked up, pink and purple curls spilling off her head, green eyes wide. No-one said anything for a while.

“Why are you wearing that?” The girl asked, at last. It was the third time today that somebody had asked Zuko that, and he was starting to tire of it.

“…Who are you?” Was his response, trying to ignore the creeping sense of déjà vu that was creeping across his mind. The girl stared for a moment, before apparently remembering what she was here for, thrusting a box up towards his face.

“I’m Sweetie Belle!” She beamed. “Wanna buy some cookies? They’re for my Filly Scout rally!” It took him a moment to process the information, during which time he realised she was actually wearing a scout uniform. She was wearing what looked like a red cape, too – and for whatever reason, the sight of it sent a small shiver through Zuko’s body.

Weird.

“Filly…Scout…rally.” He said slowly, trying to follow what she meant. He put the miscommunication down to Sweetie being a girl; it was not because he was particularly awkward when it came to talking to girls, it was simply that he didn’t do it very often. There were no girls at Olympia High – that was something else that simply was.

“Yeah!” Sweetie grinned, unaware of his inner monologue. “It’s in a few weeks…and I wanna get more money than Diamond Tiara, at least.” It surprised Zuko to hear genuine anger in her voice now, the girl’s face contorted in petulant disdain. For a moment, he thought of the other boy upstairs. The expressions were remarkably similar. “What’s your name?” She asked, black mood dropping as she looked at him again.

“I…Zuko…” He said, slowly. She frowned a little, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

“Do…I know you?”

“I don’t…think so…” The boy admitted. The silence descended again, the two continuing their stare off. Sweetie pushed the box of cookies forward again, shaking it slightly.

“Are you even meant to be here?” He asked. She froze, pulling the box back towards her, a nervous expression crossing her face.

“Well…not really…mom and dad said I’m not supposed to come to this side of town by myself.” She sighed. “And my sister would kill me…but all the houses I usually go to already got visited today, I needed to find somewhere else to sell them! And then I passed Lyra and Bon Bon, and they said that there were loads of people our age over here –“ Great, so they had told others, which technically meant that Lorkhan was right – “So I thought I’d give it a try.”

He was quiet throughout, visor unblinkingly focused on her face. Despite the tint, Zuko could still tell that the sun had pretty much gone down – and despite his earlier musings on the adequacy of where he lived, it still wasn’t the place for someone who still seemed like a kid after dark.

He said as much to her, and what he said next surprised him even more. “I’ll go get my coat, ride the bus back with you.” The grim boy offered. “And then we never speak to each other again.” Even doing that was taking a massive liberty, because lord knew that he didn’t go out of his way to help even the people he knew much, but it would save him having to indulge in her baking…

Lorkhan glared as he re-entered his room. Zuko set two boxes of the cookies he’d brought down on the desk, still holding the last one.

“…What?”

Author's Note:

Sweetie Belle is best horse. Even if she's not a horse here.

Comments

[Murder Knight]

I choked a little. Can't laugh in a library.

[Silver Page]

How can any of the Dark Angels remember the Horus Heresy? Unless this is before the 41st millennium, there's no way anyone other than a Dreadnaught would still be around. Or is this Warp based time trickery?