This War of Ours

by Swan Song

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT

“I am so, so stupid,” she muttered to herself, hiding in the darkness under a desk, as ponies trotted just nearby.

“That little shit’s gotta be around here somewhere,” grunted one of the bandits as he scoured the room next door.

“How much did she run off with?” asked the mare.

“She broke into the medicine cabinet!” growled a stallion back. “And our fridge! Cleaned ‘em both out!”

“How’d she even get into there! It was locked tight!”

“Fuck if I know! Musta used our crowbar or somethin’.”

Scootaloo nervously tightened her grip around the crowbar in her wing.

“Our crowbar? Who in Sam’s Halls left our crowbar in the kitchen?!”

“Probably Sam,” he grunted in reply.

“It’s always fuckin’ Sam.”

“Always.” He spit. “I’ll go search the kitchen. You take the bedroom, love.”

“I’d take you into the bedroom,” she purred in a sultry voice.

“Heh, we’ll see who takes who,” he replied seductively. Scootaloo almost retched, but held her tongue as the mare cantered into the room.

Panic overtook her psyche. The bandit was waving around an assault rifle, glancing here and there as she scoured the room.

“Heeeere, little filly,” she sing-songed. “Come on, I just wanna talk…”

Scootaloo knew better. She was gonna get killed right as the mare found her. Her heart thudded rapidly, beating so hard she could barely hear.

The mare stepped closer with a clop clop clop—her hooves were almost in front of the desk. A bead of sweat trickled down the filly’s neck as she gripped the switchblade in her hoof and raised the crowbar in her wing. The edges of her vision were fading—all she could see was the pale blue hoof of the mare in front of her.

“Grrrrrr… oh, for Sun’s sake, you little shit, give us back our food!”

Now.

Scootaloo leapt out and drove the switchblade deep into the mare’s foreleg.

“AAAAAAGHHHH!!”

BAM-BAM-BAM!

Shots rang out behind Scootaloo’s head, causing her ears to ring, but she didn’t stop to think. She pulled the switchblade out of the mare’s leg, jumped, and whirled around, smashing the flat end into the mare’s face, causing her to topple against the wall. Scootaloo landed and immediately charged at the mare, who threw her hooves up protectively.

“Wait, stop—“

The switchblade dug deep into the mare’s neck.

Scootaloo breathed heavily as the adrenaline rush faded. As the pulsing red faded from her vision, light began seeping back in.

She stared into the sharp pink eyes of the mare before her, widened in terror.

She felt hooves sweep up past her body—the mare began clawing at her neck, making wet gasping noises as she struggled to pull air back into her lungs. She coughed, blood seeping out of her mouth.

The reality of Scootaloo’s actions slammed into her like a tsunami.

“…Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.”

Scootaloo tore the knife out of the mare’s neck, which, to her horror, immediately caused a fountain of blood to stream out of the open wound. In a panic, Scootaloo threw her hooves onto the mare’s neck, applying as much pressure as she could to stem the bleeding.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…!”

CRACK.

Something snapped under Scootaloo’s hooves. She gasped in horror, and slowly her eyes traveled back up to the mare, whose expression had frozen in a statuesque look of pure terror and pain.

Scootaloo stumbled back, and the mare keeled over, falling to the floor, her eyes forever a vacant stare.

“Strike?” came a voice from outside the door to the room. “Hey, Strikey, I heard some gunshots, did ya get her?”

Scootaloo snapped back to reality. She scrambled to her hooves, glancing wildly left—there was a window, the curtains swaying softly in the breeze.

“Strike, where are ya love?”

Frantic, Scootaloo dashed over to the sill, climbing up and leaping out the open window—only to realize too late that the ground below had been two stories down.

"GaaAAH—!"

CRUNCH.

“AGH!” She collapsed to her feet as a bolt of searing pain leapt up her haunches. She tried scrambling to her hooves, but as she put pressure on her rear leg, it responded with another lance of pain as sharp as a whip.

“Hey, Strike, wha— no, NO! STRIKE, WAKE UP!”

“Crap, crap!” Scootaloo ignored the pain and began limping down the alley as fast as she could. Her heart hammered in her head like a jackhammer.

Behind her, she heard a bestial roar.

“You… you little SHIT! I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS!”

There was a crash behind her, but Scootaloo didn’t dare look, straining to pick up the pace and nearly stumbling over her own hooves as she fought the pain—it overwhelmed her senses, nearly causing her to black out.

“I SWEAR TO THE STARS I WILL SKEWER YOU DOWN THE THROAT!”

She stumbled into the open street, and made it only a few more meters before faceplanting on the cobblestone road. Lights erupted in her vision, blinding her.

“Aagghhh!” The pain seared through her body.

“I will skin you alive for this!” came a voice behind her. She flipped onto her back, and as her vision cleared, she saw the form of the angry stallion stepping from out of the alley, machete in hand. He advanced, his eyes sparkling with rage. “You… you—!”

CRA-CRA-CRACK!

Several shots rang out in quick succession, and the stallion instantly crumpled to the ground.

Silence settled over the scene. Scootaloo gaped for a few moments, blinking, uncomprehending, before a strange pitter-patter compelled Scootaloo to turn her gaze to her left.

Three strange creatures were advancing on her position… big, hulking, winged—

“N-no… no! Wait!”

She stumbled backwards, the pain in her leg nearly blinding her. The gryphons strode quickly towards her, sharp beaks and angular eyes glaring daggers in her direction.

Gryphons. Predators. Carnivores. They would tear her apart, rip her to shreds, devour her alive.

“Wait, please—“

She held her hooves up as their sharp talons… swept past her.

“…Huh?”

The gryphons knelt down at the body of the slain stallion. One of them grabbed his knife—the other seemed to check his pulse, before turning his body over and rummaging through his clothes.

The one on the left chirped something in a deep, guttural voice. It was met with a nod and a reply from the lead gryphon in a feminine, hawkish voice.

She turned to Scootaloo, who flinched.

“How you? Dead?”

A moment passed.

“Um… huh?” came Scootaloo’s shaky reply. She gave the gryphon a quizzical look, wondering absently why she hadn’t been sliced to ribbons by those talons yet.

The gryphon brought said talon to her temple, scratching it. “Ach… You.” She pointed. “Dead?”

“I… N-no? I don’t think so?”

The gryphon walked over and wrapped a claw around Scootaloo’s forehoof.

“Up.” She pulled her to her hooves.

“Wait, I— gaaah!” Scootaloo stumbled back, falling to the ground as her rear leg seared in pain.

“Ach!” The gryphon pulled back a bit. “Leg bounce. Bad.”

Suddenly, Scootaloo found herself wrapped into a fluffy, feathery wing and lifted off the ground. As the wing closed around her, she was shrouded in darkness.

“Whoa, um, wait a sec—“

“Leg bounce. Fix,” came the broken reply of the gryphon, in a voice that clearly demanded no quarter. “Little pony quiet, dæ?”

“…Okay. P-pony quiet.”

Scootaloo’s mind buzzed with confusion, blankly gazing at the darkness of nothing as she was carried away.

In moments, she found herself unfurled onto a cot, staring up at the canopy of a tent.

The gryphon gave her a cursory inspection before turning to another, much smaller one, whom she began chirping to in what Scootaloo assumed to be Gryphosi. The shorter one saluted, then approached Scootaloo, scrutinizing her closely.

“Umm… hi there— hey, wait!”

The gryphon tugged at the straps on Scootaloo’s armor, and the filly immediately moved her hooves to block the gryphon. In an instant, a talon shot up to the filly’s neck—the razor-sharp exerted a tiny amount of pressure on the bare skin.

“Nackte,” said the gryphon. “Stop. Let me fix you.”

There was a moment, before Scootaloo carefully nodded, careful not to skewer herself on the extended talon. It lifted, and the gryphon resumed unbuckling the straps on Scootaloo’s armor.

“Ach. Little pony has leg… bounce? Spring?” The gryphon paused, puzzling over the word.

“Um… sprain,” Scootaloo corrected cautiously.

“Dæ. Sprang.” The gryphon nodded, clearly self-assured.

“No, sprain,” she insisted. “No ‘guh’ sound.”

“Su… pray-ne?” Her face scrunched in confusion as she enunciated the foreign syllables.

Scootaloo gave a resigned sigh. “Close enough.”

A moment passed.

“Name?” she asked as she began examining the leg.

“…Scootaloo.”

“Skou-tae-lou.” She tongued the foreign name with her beak. “Pony has weird name.”

“Gee, thanks,” grumbled Scootaloo.

The gryphon gave her a strange, hawkish chuckle. It was fierce, but… also somehow warm.

For several minutes, Scootaloo sat in silence, blinking at the gryphon's deft claws as she splinted the leg. Why was she not dead yet? Why wasn’t she being roasted alive?

“…Why are you helping me?”

The gryphon paused. She blinked at Scootaloo, then pointed a talon—they seemed to like pointing a lot.

“You. Pony. Dæ?”

Scootaloo nodded slowly.

“Me.” She pointed to herself. “Pony.”

“…Huh?” Scootaloo gave the gryphon a blank stare.

“Ach.” She clicked a beak, which Scootaloo realized was a sign of confusion. “Me. Big hawk. You, little hawk.”

“…Hawk?”

“Dæ. Pony is pony. Hawk is hawk. But pony… also hawk. Yes?”

“I… think so? Pony is hawk. Hawk is pony.”

“Dæ. Same.”

“…Same.”

The gryphon nodded in satisfaction before returning to work. “Little pony smart.”

Scootaloo said nothing, staring at the gryphon and marveling at what she had just learned.

“Little pony like little chick,” the gryphon said suddenly.

“…Huh?” Scootaloo worked that statement over in her mind. “…Oh! You have a kid?”

“Dæ. Smart. Like you.”

“That’s… cool.” Scootaloo pondered that for a moment, imagining a small gryphon, about her age. She had no idea what one looked like… and for some reason, she hadn’t even considered the possibility that any such thing existed. “I’d like to meet her someday.”

The gryphon was quiet for a little bit as she tightened the rope around the sling on Scootaloo’s leg. “Someday. Hope.”

Hope.

Such a strange word.

“Say, what’s your—“

Several shots rang out outside the tent, and a flurry of panicked hawkish voices. “Questræn! Questræn!” one shouted.

Scootaloo paled.

“Ach!” The gryphon stood up suddenly. “Little pony stay.” Without another word, she snatched up a rifle leaning on the bed and darted out of the tent as gunfire began to pepper the air.

“…Crap.” Scootaloo looked left and right, then her eyes caught the body armor. She quickly leapt off the cot, testing her leg on the splint—there was a tiny ache as she put pressure on it, but it wasn’t enough to distract her—before quickly slapping the oversized armor back on, lifting the rucksack that had her looted supplies, and holstering her weapons once again.

As she made for the opening to the tent, she noticed a pistol lying on the side. It was strange and angular—one of the gryphons’ more advanced firearms.

Without a second thought, Scootaloo snatched it up and made her way out.

It was chaos. Bullets soared overhead, and several voices rang into the night. Turning to her left, she saw a group of gryphons taking cover behind a reinforced sandbag wall, currently being peppered with gunfire from further down the street.

On the floor behind the bags sat the gryphon who had dragged her off the street earlier. She clutched at a wound over her abdomen, which the gryphon from the tent was quickly trying to bandage. The gryphon on the floor spotted Scootaloo, who rushed forward.

“Are you okay?!”

“Fine! Fine!” she waved a dismissive claw at the filly. “Go! Pony go!” She pointed a claw to the side towards an alleyway that exited the camp through the buildings on the side.

Scootaloo stared around at the encampment as it was besieged by bullets. She watched the gryphons, many of who seemed utterly terrified, but were returning fire as best they could.

“Pony is hawk," she whispered under her breath. "Hawk is pony.”

She turned to the medic, who stared back at her.

“Hope. Dae?”

The gryphon’s eyes widened, but then she slowly nodded.

“…Dæ, little pony. Hope.”

The one on the floor glanced back and forth between the two, with a look of total incomprehension.

Scootaloo turned to her, then bowed her head slowly. “Thank you.”

The gryphon nodded in return, then pushed Scootaloo away with an open claw. “Pony go. Now.”

Without another word, Scootaloo stood up and made for the alley, limping in as fast as she could.

She did not look back.

– — T H I S W A R O F O U R S — –

As Scootaloo limped through the streets towards the Library clearing, she heard several shots ring out in the distance.

“Oh crap.”

She put on an extra burst of speed and leapt into the clearing. Several ponies were lying behind pieces of cover, firing potshots at the tree. Scootaloo spotted the tip of Apple Bloom’s Stetson sticking over the upstairs window's barricade.

Scootaloo ducked into nearby cover. She pulled out the weapon that she had stolen from the Gryphosi camp—it looked mostly like a pony weapon, with a typical trigger.

Drawing the switchblade in her other hoof, she slowly snuck out into the clearing towards the ponies that were firing at the tree.

“Gah. It’s just one filly!” one growled. “How can we not hit her!”

“Tiny little thing,” grumbled the other looter. “Hard to hit.”

“Yeah, well we’ll nail her eventually. She’s just got one dinky little revolv—”

SQUELCH.

The first pony fell to the ground, and Scootaloo quickly brought the Gryphosi pistol up to bear against the second one, who quickly snapped to her with wide eyes and—

BRRRAAATATATATATAT.

The pistol spat six rounds into the pony’s head almost immediately—“Holy crap!”—shredding it into a shower of guts. Scootaloo nearly lost her grip on the weapon, but managed to steady it.

The other pony dealt with, Scootaloo turned to the tree.

“Apple Bloom! It’s me! You okay?!”

“Scootaloo?! Wait, be careful, there’s—”

“I got ‘em, I got ‘em!”

“Huh? Seriously?“

“Yeah! Don’t shoot, I’m coming out!” She brought the pistol to bear and stepped out of cover, galloping quickly to the door, hoping the cover of night would be enough to shroud her from any snipers.

It was. The door opened up, and Scootaloo quickly leapt through, skidding to a stop on the floor.

“Phew! That was a close one.” Scootaloo panted, out of breath and setting the rucksack down. “Hey gals, check it out, I got a ton of stuff. There’s plenty of food, and meds for Sweetie, and—“

“Scootaloo…”

“Hmm?”

“Yer… yer covered in blood.”

Scootaloo froze. She slowly turned to Apple Bloom, who stood, frozen, staring in disbelief.

“…Did you kill ponies?” she asked hesitantly.

There was a moment of silence.

“The ponies outside,” she continued. “They were shootin’ at us. You said ya killed ‘em. Did… did ya really?”

“…Yeah, I did,” Scootaloo replied. “They were shooting at you. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Ya… ya killed ponies.” Apple Bloom sat down, staring at the floor. “Yer a killer.”

“…Seriously, Apple Bloom?” came a voice to their right, and they turned to Sweetie Belle, sitting up in on the mattress and staring. “They were shooting at you. If Scootaloo had to… kill ponies to protect herself and us, then… then it’s okay.”

A moment of silence fell upon the group.

“Yer right,” Apple Bloom said with a sigh. “I get it. Ya had to. They’d have gotten us otherwise… right?”

“…Yeah,” Scootaloo said finally. “Yeah. They’d have killed us. I did it to protect us.”

“Right…” Apple Bloom took a deep breath, then stood up again. “Right. Okay. Long as it was to defend us.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sweetie Belle with a confident nod. “Scootaloo’s a good pony. She wouldn’t do it unless she had no other choice.” She slowly turned to Scootaloo with a smile. “Right?”

Scootaloo stared at her friend. A mare’s face flashed in her mind. Foaming at the mouth. Eyes wide in terror, filled with tears. Agonizing gurgles as she struggled to breathe through the dagger in her throat.

“…Right,” Scootaloo finally replied, unconsciously lifting a hoof to her own neck. “No other choice.”

Comments

[Zaid ValRoa]

Four weeks in.
Scootaloo's First Blood.

---

You got me hooked long enough that I didn't wonder how ponies can operate guns with hooves until I was done reading the chapter, so well done.

[Lord Ivel]

Hawk is pony, pony is hawk, Ivel not hawk, Ivel fall down cliff and break nose. Now Ivel is reading this instead of working, I think I'm quite happy with how that worked out.

[Csquared08]

A friendly griffon? How curious.

[Hap]

peoples is peoples

[tgb089]

A friendly griffon?
We are all hawks.