Summer Heat vs. Iron Curtain - Winner: Summer Heat (by Vote)
Summer in Stalliongrad - by Summer Heat's Author
The bartender looks up from his work as a grinding squeak from the front door’s aging hinges alerts him to my presence. The aging grey unicorn’s eyes flick rapidly over my face, my hat, my coat, my face again— before even crossing the few steps between doorway and counter, I am appraised in detail.
“Fine evening to you, comrade,” he says with a frown and a raised eyebrow. "It is rare that we entertain government stallions here. Are you here to drink with us, or to investigate us?"
His words draw alarmed glances from the few ponies seated at the bar. Most, however, are gathered around the lamplit room's mismatched collection of tables and chairs, too occupied by food, drink, and company to notice my entrance.
I quickly remove my ushanka, and am sure to open my coat before reaching into my inner pocket and retrieving a golden coin, which I lay on the counter. "A round of your finest," I say, loudly enough to be heard by the nearest tables.
The bartender snatches the coin with a sweep of his foreleg. He smiles, albeit dryly, then places a hoof to his lips and fires off a piercing whistle.
The sound summons a lime green pegasus mare who reports to the counter with a nasal "Eh?" and a stretch of her wings. The bartender barks orders at her in husky Pegastan pidgin— I hear the words do 'em big and 'round the house, but little else.
"'Kay!" the server says, nodding once. Then she leaps over the bar with a flap of her wings and disappears into a back room, leaving me to survey the room.
At first glance, the pub appears to be like any other; only a cultured eye would detect anything out of the ordinary. The ponies crowded around the tables are Stalliongrad born and bred, but the specialty food of the night seems to be kabocha from Neighpon, the music playing on the room’s lone gramophone is a lilting crystalflute ballad, and the bottles that the server mare is distributing are unmistakably filled with red wine from southern Prance.
"My friends refer to this place as ‘the trade show,’ and only in hushed tones,” I say to the bartender. “Was it you who invented this name?”
He chuckles. “A fitting euphemism, don’t you think? See how proudly our comrades raise mugs of imported spirits, toasting the health of the very leader who would outlaw such disloyalty. They are good and honest ponies, most of them, and they enjoy the thrill of the forbidden as much as they do the taste of imported food.”
The serving mare places a goblet before me and fills it with wine. I nod to her in thanks as I lift the glass, then swirl it. The smell is dry, very dry, with surprisingly complex undertones— the kind of wine usually reserved for connoisseurs and collectors. I take the first sip, and am not disappointed.
The aftertaste unfolds on my tongue as I nod my approval to the bartender. “Fortunate for us, then, that not all foreign pleasures are outlawed just yet.”
A soft laugh, almost a giggle, comes from my left.
“Please. I’m ‘exotic,’ not ‘foreign.’”
I turn, and find myself looking into a pair of smiling eyes, deep blue and reflective like the glass resting against her lips. Her mane is full and wavy, almost black in the uneven lamplight, and her coat is a hot tulip-pink. As she lowers the glass, her mouth curls into a smirk.
“So you’re the big spender, huh? Fancy tastes you’ve got.”
“My tastes are, in your words, exotic,” I reply, rotating to properly face her where she sits with her elbow resting on the counter. “A result of a long career in foreign diplomacy. But such is the reason for coming here tonight, is it not?”
She tilts her head to the side and spreads her hooves for a long, exaggerated shrug. Her words come out in a rolling singsong. “I’m nothin’ but a passer-by who knows a party when she sees one.”
“Ah, but not just any passer-by,” I say, mirroring her smirk. “I recognize well the sound of an Equestrian accent such as yours. You are very far from home indeed.”
She shakes her head, but still holds onto a small smile. “Long as there’s good weather, good drink, and good company, I’m not far from home at all.”
“Respectable words to live by.” I raise my glass.
Our goblets make a delicate ding, like the chime of a bell, as the rims touch. Her eyes close as she takes a long, slow drink.
"Tell me, then,” I say as the sharp taste fades to its finish, “is Stalliongrad a home for you?"
She places a hoof beneath her chin and purses her lips in a pose of mock contemplation. "Well, let’s see. The weather was nicer in the Fillypines, the drink was better in Germaneigh... and it took me until tonight to find any Stalliongrad ponies who can appreciate something exotic." At the end of her statement, her eyes are half-lidded and her smirk has returned. “I think I’m gonna need some convincing.”
An involuntary grin comes to my face. The intent of her words is unmistakable, and I puff out my chest to meet her advances with confidence. “Such admirable honesty!” I say, laughing between words. “I think it must be love for our Motherland that prevents my comrades from speaking their minds about Stalliongrad weather and Stalliongrad vodka. Perhaps Stalliongrad ‘convincing’ will be more enjoyable?”
Initially, she grins along with me, but her expression falls gradually until her brow is furrowed in an expression of vague concern. Instead of replying, she leans several inches to the left, as if I were blocking her view of some unfolding sequence of events.
It is then that I notice the pony-shaped shadow looming over me, along with the distinctive smell of cheap vodka.
“Enjoying yourself, comrade?” booms an all too familiar voice, inches behind my head.
The confidence that I had been enjoying melts like a snowbank beneath a flamethrower. My heart pounds as I snatch my ushanka from where it sits on the counter, place it on my head, pivot in place, and straighten my neck to stand at attention. With my gaze locked straight ahead in proper posture, I am treated to a good view of my superior’s broad chest and muscular neck.
“Greetings, Comrade Iron Curt--”
“Sorry for interrupt, comrade.” His voice booms from his chest, dangerously calm and decidedly unapologetic. “You had words about Stalliongrad vodka?”
"Yes! Ah, no! This young mare and I were simply discussing--" I turn to gesture toward my companion, but her place at the bar is empty, showing no trace that anypony had ever been there. Even her glass of wine has disappeared.
I turn back around, and see Iron Curtain holding my own glass up to the light, squinting at it with his good eye.
“Legally imported wine, comrade," I say hastily. "I have no reason to suspect this establishment of--”
Iron Curtain ignores me as he lowers the glass to his nose, sniffs loudly, then lets out a harrumph.
"What is this weak, Equestrian drink?"
"If I may correct you, comrade, the wine is from--"
"In Stalliongrad we have real Hooviet drink!” Iron Curtain roars. He raises one hoof, then brings it down on the counter like a sledgehammer, so hard that my drink jumps in place. “Bartender!”
The bartender, who has likely been watching from a distance from the moment Iron Curtain opened the front door, appears all but instantaneously.
“Yes, comrade?”
Iron Curtain flicks his hoof toward my hardly touched glass of wine, as if it were all he could do to keep from hurling it instead. “Remove this watery swill and bring vodka as powerful as Communism!”
The bartender glances at my glass, then frowns. “I will fetch the vodka, but allow our friend to finish his glass, perhaps? I hate to see it go to waste.”
Iron Curtain slowly, slowly turns toward me with a bone-piercing chill in his eyes. When he speaks, he forms each word with deliberate, icy precision.
“My comrade is finished with his wine.”
The bartender shows no reaction save for a terse nod as he takes the more than half-full glass of fine wine and carries it with him into the back room. I watch it go with some regret, only to be shocked out of my wistful mood by another explosive, spittle-flying roar.
“Have you no shame? No pride in our great Motherland? Were you not taught to fight for beloved Stalliongrad? Peace has made us weak and lazy like tiny baby foal!”
My ears are left ringing, and nearly every patron in the bar is watching. Some of them are gathering their things, preparing to flee.
“I lost right eye fighting capitalist pigs, and now with left eye I see comrade who drinks foreign, capitalist poison and lusts after foreign, capitalist zhopa!”
“Oh please. My zhopa speaks a universal language. Sounds like you need a drink or five, comrade.”
Her Equestrian accent momentarily vanishes as the word comrade rolls off her tongue with near-perfect pronunciation. Every eye in the bar falls upon the lone mare leaning against the edge of an unoccupied table, smirking as she tilts back the last of her wine.
Every eye, of course, except for one. Iron Curtain continues to glare at me, letting the mystery Equestrian mare speak to his back. It is an ingenious way to berate me while also replying to her taunts.
“I see no drink here, only thin juice harvested by slaves of exploitative regime and left to rot!”
“Easy fix. You want vodka, right? I’ll get the first round, if you drink with me.” Despite Iron Curtain’s menacing bulk blocking most of my view, I can see her turn toward the bar with a wave and a nod.
“I do not drink with capitalists!”
Again I am uncertain of whom Iron Curtain means to berate more— me, or the mare challenging him.
“Oh c’mon,” she replies, all too sweetly. “How about a game, then? Friendly round of table-jumping?”
The gramophone plays a few more bars of Crystal Waltz, then cuts off with a warbling scratch as somepony pulls the needle from the record. Moments later, the silence is broken by the clomping of Iron Curtain’s hooves as he finally turns his back on me and faces her.
“You dare challenge a Stalliongrad stallion to great Stalliongrad tradition of table-jumping?”
Even from where I stand, the deviousness in the challenger's crooked smile is obvious. She answers the question by trotting a tight circle, stepping onto a chair and then onto the table as easily as if climbing a set of stairs.
“Finally, somepony who knows how to have fun!”
She rears up and shakes out her mane with a long whoop. The audience starts to murmur.
“Typical Equestrian arrogance!” Iron Curtain shouts.
“Just don’t go easy on me!” the mystery mare replies.
“You! By the magnitofon!” Iron Curtain snaps, and the pony nearest to the gramophone stands at attention as if he had been physically yanked into position.
“Play song worthy of glorious Hooviet victory!”
There is an awkward silence as the target of Iron Curtain’s order shuffles through a cabinet set against the back wall. When a song finally starts playing, it is a driving piano march with a brass and accordion accompaniment, the sort that must have accompanied Hooviet propaganda films in the days of Iron Curtain’s youth. Underscoring the music is a faint dry crackle, betraying the age and condition of the vinyl..
Iron Curtain charges down the center of the room at a full gallop, causing ponies to shove and jostle each other to get out of his path. He mounts the farthest table in a single powerful leap, and stares across the battlefield of cleared-out tables.
On one side stands Iron Curtain in coat and ushanka, his brow creased into a steely one-eyed glare forged in hardship, hardened by battle, and refined by age to project a presence like the living avatar of Winter itself.
Across from him stands a nameless young mare from a faraway land, wearing nothing but a smirk. Her stance has a lazy sway to it, neither kowtowing before Iron Curtain nor standing in opposition; it is as if the glint in her eye creates a pocket of warmth immune to his icy fury.
“In Stalliongrad rules, if falling off table or spilling drink, then is losing immediately! There will be no second chances, no helpers, no outside interference--nopony to save capitalist scum from her folly!”
Iron Curtain starts pacing back and forth while shouting with the full force of his basso voice, like a general giving a speech to his troops. As he does, the server trots from table to table, laying out shots of vodka on each one.
“After jumping to new table and drinking, we are stomping with music sixteen counts! In this time, opposing side must make own jump and swallow entire drink! We continue until capitalist scum falls behind, falls from table, or falls victim to own foolish attempt to drink against proud defender of Stalliongrad! Now..." begin!”
Iron Curtain backs up by a half-step, then surges forward and leaps, easily launching himself over the heads of the crowd. The gramophone blares out chords like the battle cry of the Revolution as Iron Curtain's bulk comes down with a crushing wham! such that the heavy wooden table shudders beneath him.
Whooping cheers rise from the audience as everypony in the room starts stomping to the tempo of the music. Without realizing it, I find that my own forehoof has started to tap as well, carried along by the rising thrill of traditional alcoholic warfare.
Iron Curtain bends down, picks up the shot in his teeth, throws the contents to the back of his throat with a jerking motion, then drops the empty glass. He looks expectantly to his adversary with chin raised in challenge as he begins stomping along with the rest of the crowd.
The mare hardly spares Iron Curtain a glance. She sways happily to the music for fully half of her allotted sixteen counts, then crosses the gap to the nearest table with a kind of bounding leap. Unlike Iron Curtain, she snatches the shot with her hoof before rearing up and knocking the contents back.
“Nice jump!” she shouts. “Don’t tire yourself out, comrade!”
The music drives on, and instead of stomping out the sixteen-beat countdown, the unnamed competitor sways and bounces to the music as naturally as if dancing were her normal mode of movement.
Iron Curtain makes his next jump and drink with plenty of time. He strikes his commanding stance once more. “No simpering Equestrian capitalist is a comrade of mine! I am unstoppable, like Stalliongrad winter!"
The pink mare, still paying more attention to the bystanders than her opponent, prances a lap around the rim of her table, winking and blowing kisses. She makes the next hop barely in time to twirl like a dervish and sweep up her shot before being disqualified by the sixteenth beat.
Iron Curtain barely waits for her to swallow before he takes off on his next launch. “I am mighty, like Stalliongrad bear! I am General Winter, and you are lone spring flower before fearsome blizzard!” He jumps, and his hooves dig indents in the next table as he pounds into it.
The ‘flower’ on the table across from Iron Curtain spends precious hoofbeats rearing up and extending her forehooves into the air in a come-get-it stance. She calls out in a pitch-perfect mockery of Iron Curtain's accent:
“General Winter? Ha! I am seeing only 'floppy like Stalliongrad pierogi' and 'depressing like Stalliongrad hangover!'"
An uproar of laughter mixes with a surge of cheering and whistling as Summer takes off at a full gallop, launches herself onto the next table--then bounds off to another table on the next beat. On the third table, she doesn't just run; she plants her forehooves, flips head over heels like a tumbling acrobat, and flies across a gap easily twice the size of any crossed by either her or Iron Curtain thus far. By the time she lands, the cheers have become deafening and the rhythm on the floor has been nearly lost in the excitement.
She nicks the shot from the table between the fourteenth and fifteenth beats, then swallows and drops the glass on the sixteenth.
"Ever met a capitalist who can do that?"
Iron Curtain's nostrils flare and his eye burns in its socket like a lone coal in a snowed-over firepit.
"You think to impress me with such foalish circus feats? You are nothing! All will witness true show of Communist superiority over capitalist swine!"
He rears up, then roars at the top of his lungs as he charges full-force toward the edge of his table.
"For the Motherland! URAAAAAAA!"
It takes some time before I am able to nudge and squeeze my way through the still buzzing crowd, but as soon as I am able, I hurry to the disaster zone on the far end of the room. Finding Iron Curtain is easy enough; neither he nor the collateral damage from his spectacular last stand have moved at all.
I kneel down next to him.
“ty poryadke, comrade?”
“Ish sad day for Communisht party,” Iron Curtain slurs. The words are barely audible thanks to how his cheek rests on the floor.
“You fought valiantly, comrade,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. He reaches up and brushes my hoof away.
Somepony trots up behind me. "Friend of yours?"
"Co-worker," I reply, rising to all fours.
"He okay?"
"He has hurt nothing except his pride, I think. Now, as for us--another drink, perhaps?"
She snorts in amusement. "Only if you let me get this one. I wanna see how you do with Equestrian bourbon."
Iron Curtain groans something into the floor as the two of us leave him, but the only intelligible word is "pierogi."
The Ambassador and the Dancer - by Iron Curtain's Author
A hot-pink mare ran through the empty city streets. Her reddish mane, once well-kept, was knotted and clinging to her face. She looked over her shoulder, her cold-blue eyes full of terror as she ran aimlessly. She seemed to be guided by sheer instinct alone.
Behind her was a pack of at least four ponies. They were not normal ponies. They were not even considered ponies anymore. Their eyes were sunken in, decayed lips revealing rotten and jagged teeth with bits of flesh caught between. Saliva ran freely from their mouths as they pursued the mare relentlessly. Unlike their prey, zombies never tired.
The mare ran between long-abandoned carts, trash scattered throughout the streets, and the remains of victims to the undead. Her maneuvers seemed to do little good. The pack of zombies kept charging forward, climbing or breaking through the carts. The trash that scattered the street did not hinder their charge. The remains of past meals held no allure compared to a fresh prize.
The mare saw a small opening nearby that looked like it lead to another street. Looking over her shoulder again at her attackers, the chances of survival seemed the same no matter what. After jumping over a trash can and giving it a hard buck towards her chasers, she took off with all her might, desperate to find a way out of this horrific nightmare.
Luck did not smile upon her. Her escape turned out to be an alleyway, one blocked off by a high fence. Before she could even turn back to the main street, she heard the moans and groans of the undead coming up from behind.
Two of them were already inside the alley with her, the other two coming in close behind. She scanned the buildings around her, but it was no use. The alley was a dead end—a fate she would likely meet now.
Backing up, she watched as the zombies approached. She had hurt one with her trash trick, as its leg was notably broken., Still it moved forward, unable to feel the pain.
There was no escape, and the mare’s luck had finally run out.
She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable.
A stallion's voice broke her from her thoughts. Her eyes shot open. From behind the small group of zombie ponies came a brown stallion. The stallion barreled through and tackled one of the creatures with tremendous force. She watched in shock as the stallion raised his head high into the sky. She noticed he was holding something in his mouth.
Before she could recognize the object, the stallion brought it down upon the zombie, ending the monster’s undead life.
The stallion jumped off the dead beast and faced off against the undead around him. They roared and growled at the newcomer, their terrible teeth gnashing as they charged, hungry for his flesh as well.
The next few moments were a blur. The stallion performed a series of throws, countering the zombified ponies’ weight and disorganizing them. Whenever he had one of them down, he would attempt to take their head as he had with the first.
Slowly, the mysterious stallion overcame the odds, each zombie put back to rest by his blade. As the last zombie fell, the mare could only see the backside of the stallion. He was hunched over, his breathing ragged. He wore a dark-grey trench coat, which was tattered at the end and showed a bit of his red cutie mark. Upon his head sat a strange hat, one the mare had only seen during the winter, which also looked heavily tattered.
Heaving a deep sigh, the stallion sheathed his weapon. “Bit of adventure we had, da?” The stallion laughed, but before he could turn fully around, the mare had already drawn a small knife.
“Who are you?!” the mare demanded, holding the knife firmly in her teeth. She kept low to the ground, ready to pounce on the strange stallion. She had learned long ago that everything came with a price .In her line of work, she knew what stallions wanted, and was not interested in giving it.
The stallion just blinked at her, cocking his head before breaking into a grin. “Da. I understand. We are strangers, and even before this, it is hard to trust.” The stallion laughed as he sat down before her, not seeming the least bit concerned. “I am Iron Curtain. Like you, survivor of this. Former ambassador of Stalliongrad. I like to drink, and do not care for walks on beach by moonlight.” He laughed at his own little joke. “Now, you?”
The mare did not say a word as she glared at Iron Curtain. He was not the first survivor she had came across who still seemed to be friendly in this hostile environment. All of them wanted something from her. “Why should I?”
“Because!” Iron Curtain laughed as he reached inside his coat again, making the mare tense. “Who will drink with me?”
Iron Curtain pulled out a bottle of clear liquid from his coat and placed it on the ground on its side. Giving it a light kick with his hoof, he rolled the bottle over to her for inspection. “Never opened.”
The bottle rolled ever so slowly over to her.She kept her gaze fixated on him in case he tried to move. As the bottle hit her hoof, she glanced down at it.
Ruskova: True Stalliongrad Vodka
“Why do you want to drink with me?” the mare asked. She set the bottle upright with one hoof, testing the lid to see if it was truly never opened.
“Lonely, mostly,” Iron Curtain said. He took the sheath of his weapon out and tossed it over to her. “Sweeten pot, as they say,” he added when he saw her eyes widen. “Last few days I have seen nopony alive. I see you, about to be eaten, and I saw chance for company. Does one need more reasons to enjoy drink?” Iron Curtain shrugged his broad shoulders, smiling all the same.
The mare looked at the bottle once again, then to the disarmed stallion. It had been a long time since she could let her guard down. If company was all he truly wanted, she had done that many times in the past.
“Summer Heart.” Summer unscrewed the top of the bottle with an audible click of the foil breaking apart. Iron Curtain continued to smile as he watched her lower her knife and take a swig, only to start coughing.
“That is real vodka you drink. Not watered-down version,” he said with a laugh as he approached her. “Not something a mare such as you would be—”
Summer brought the drink back to her lips and took a few large gulps before pulling it away.
“You were saying?” Summer flipped her disheveled mane as she set the bottle down in front of her. Iron Curtain’s mouth just hung open.
Finally, with a shake of his head, he said, “Well… it is good, da?” He moved past the undead bodies and sat up against a wall in the alleyway, resting his head against the building. “Come, sit and drink. Good to refresh oneself.”
Summer looked over to him and then back at the bottle. He was still a stranger to her, but either the fact that he had saved her or the strong vodka running through her veins made her oblige. However, she made sure to sit on his blind side, just in case.
The two sat together against the wall in silence for a few moments, exchanging sips of vodka. “So, what is it you do before this?” Iron Curtain finally asked, breaking the silence as he took another sip. As he did, Summer looked down at the ground before them as she thought about her last day of a normal life, and how it was shattered by a zombie attack.
“Does it matter anymore?” She replied, as she took the bottle from him. “It is all gone now. Why dwell on it?”
“Because,” Iron Curtain said, looking to her as she took her own sip of vodka. “To survive here one must be calm,” he said before cracking his neck slightly. “And sometimes, memories keep us calm,”
“What keeps you calm?” At those words, Summer watched a small grin start to spread upon Iron Curtain’s face. Something about it sent a chill down her spine.
“Me?” Iron Curtain brought the bottle to his lips and took an audible gulp of the strong liquid. Pulling it away, he ran a hoof across his lips and turned to face her fully.
Summer had to hold back a shudder as she looked into Iron Curtain’s face. Just a few moments ago, his demeanor had calmed her. Now, he seemed so cold and dead, like the monsters around them.
“It’s just another layer of Hell!” Iron Curtain shouted before he burst into thunderous laughter.
Summer Heat sat in stunned silence. He laughed as though he was not in the middle of the apocalypse but at a bar surrounded by friends who had just told a funny story. He seemed so out of place with the world around them.
Slowly, Iron Curtain started to calm down. He took a shorter sip of the bottle before setting it down between them again.
“Another… layer of Hell?” Every fiber in Summer Heat's body was telling her to get away from him—that he was not the savior that she had seen. But her body didn’t respond like she was used to.
Back when the world was still sane, when she was a dancer at a club and the dead remained dead, she could have simply gotten up. With a bat of her eyes, she would have left the conversation without the stallion knowing she was disappearing for good. This was not the world as it was a week ago. Somehow, this stallion had her trapped with his words, rather than the other way around.
“Da,” Iron Curtain replied, licking his lips. “ I was once soldier of Red Army for Stalliongrad. I fought in two wars for the motherland, resulting in much death and sacrifice.”
Summer Heat looked up at Iron Curtain, and though she saw his eyepatch, it seemed as though he was staring out into a memory.
“Ask any soldier who saw combat what it is like to fight. They will tell you same thing. At first, they were afraid, terrified of all around. Then, something happens. A sudden change and training takes over. Still afraid they are, but something drives them forward. Muscle reflex, many call, and they do what they have to do.
“Not ‘till after battle does it all hit you again. As you wake up from that almost-sleepwalk state to see what has happened. What comrades did to the enemy.” Summer watched as Iron Curtain looked down at the ground between them again, staring at the bottle of vodka, now half-empty. “To see what you did to enemy.”
For what felt like hours, Summer Heat stared at Iron Curtain as he just looked at the bottle. His good eye was now visible to her, but seemed to be as dull as those of the undead.
“A part of soul feels lost. The part that was innocent at one point.”
With his golden eye still fixated on the bottle, Summer Heat could only sit there and absorb what he had just said. In a way, she could relate to Iron Curtain about losing a part of one’s soul to tragedy. She had seen much of it in her own life. The images of her hometown being destroyed by the earth itself, ponies being crushed by the places they had called homes, and those left to mourn the dead still haunted her thoughts. It was why she could never stay in a single place for long. She never wanted to relive that.
It might have been part of the reason why she became a dancer in clubs—to never have to show her true self, to let it all be an act. That way, she could keep from making attachments as she separated the world into customers and co-workers. It would keep her from having to forge relationships. Keeping her heart safe from further pain.
Still, she could not understand how this kept Iron Curtain calm. How did memories of war, death, and tragedy keep him from going insane during these times? Without realizing it, Summer Heat’s mouth began to move.
“How does that keep you calm?”
Iron Curtain looked up at her as she realized what she asked. At once, she began to curse herself for the question; she didn’t know if she wanted to know what helped this strange pony to stay calm.
“It’s like I said. I was soldier. Even though I was made ambassador, never did I let training go. Nyet. Training I continued, just in case.” She watched as a grin broke out across his face once again. He waved his hoof at the deserted buildings around them. “Good thing, for we are now at war. A war for survival.”
Iron Curtain got to his hooves and smiled as he looked around. “Matter not if we live or die. Nyet! For this is what keeps me calm. War! Job behind desk, filing papers, looking over trades, discussing peace, much I hated!”
Iron Curtain stomped his hoof on the stone road, the sound echoing off the buildings and down the deserted streets. Summer Heat got to her hooves as well—not from being startled at Iron Curtain’s stomp, but at what could follow after it.
“You see now? What keeps me calm, is the war.” Iron Curtain laughed as he looked at Summer Heat. She just looked back at the larger stallion, looking to see if anything had heard his stomping around, but the only undead that remained had already been dealt with.
He seemed to have everything in order, that he was going to survive this ordeal no matter how high the odds were stacked against him. That seemed to be the way he wanted it to be. Iron Curtain could be her best chance of making it out of this alive and able to see another sunrise.
“You know, we could always work together,” Summer Heat batted her eyes at him, playing upon the tricks she had learned from her years as a dancer. “You could supply the means to survive and I…” She pushed her mane behind her ear and smiled. “Could always provide a bit of entertain—”
“Nyet!” Iron Curtain shouted, stomping his hoof. “It is time for war. Must keep head clear. No mare troubles!” He glared at her. “If you want to join, you may. Cause trouble, it will be your own doing.” Iron Curtain spat, then turned towards the entrance to the alley. “Now, it is time to move on. War is upon us!”
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Iron Curtain's author
Summer Heat's author
I'd been looking forward to this one.
Summer Heat's story plays Iron Curtain as the clown that he was in his first couple stories. The fact that Iron Curtain is actually a serious character in his own author's story is kind of out of left field. There's also the fact that it's more exposition whereas the first story is action.
Both fics made okay use of the character sheets but in radically different ways. I prefer the one that played it straight and made it work over the one that used a post apocalyptic AU as a way to do something new.
Two solid entries. Now time for me to go read the rest in order.
Summer Heat's Author
Made me smile quite a bit. Only issue is this unnamed observer. I'd prefer it was kept between the two.
Iron Curtain's Author
Iron Curtain's Author
Mostly because they made Summer Heat feel less Mary Sue-esque while still keeping true to her character. Otherwise, both stories were about equal across all other criteria.
Also, both made a glaring mistake each:
Summer Heat's story
This is the only time where Summer's name is dropped, but never once did she give it herself, so it's erroneous that the narrator would know it.
Iron Curtain's story
How does one mispronounce their own name?
Iron Curtain's author.
Both good entries, but Iron Curtain's just felt more IC for both of them, IMO.
Summer Heat's Author
edit: HAHAHA DISREGARD THAT I SUCK COCKS
I messed up the first time I voted. Didn't read thoroughly and made some errors. 2 tired 4 me.
On second read Summer Heat still gets my vote. It's still a great snapshot of Iron Curtain that we are provided with, and I think it does the job better than Iron Curtain's piece. It was still a good employment of my senses, even if it did involve the random third character. Still provides good insight into the characters.
Still the same shortfalls for Iron Curtain - heavy setting, a little too much of the whole zombie violence thing at the start there wasting precious words. The dialogue and charaterisation was really powerful, which made it close.
Summer Heat's Author
Both were excellent stories, but Summer Heat's Author writing was so much more sensual and visceral. It truly made the characters come alive for me.
Iron Curtain's Author
All in all it was a more memorable and funny story to me.
Iron Curtain's Author
Summer Heat's Author Vote
I can't picture Iron Curtain as anything but boisterous and over the top. I agree with Tactical Rainboom, it seemed a bit odd that his own author played him as more grounded in reality this time around.
Summer Heat's Author
The story starts out somewhat slowly, and at first, I thought the narrator was Iron Curtain which was very strange since the narrative voice did not match what I would have expected for Iron Curtain. However, once Iron Curtain shows up, thing become clearer and the story picks up. I love the world building with the details of the bar and the table-jumping competition. Clarifying the identity of the narrator earlier and perhaps adding a bit more distinctiveness to the narrative voice (I feel as if the story had a noir feel, but without the hard-boiled narrator), would improve the story. Still, it was a very entertaining and well written tale.
Summer Heat's Author
Literally my first thought on this chapter: "Oh, first-person present-tense. I would call it ballsy, but after Rachis's poem I don't think I can call anything that anymore." And then zombies. Lol. Funny how that works out, isn't it?
Anyway, Summer Heat's author won my approval when it was revealed that the POV character wasn't actually Iron Curtain. That was smart. I can't think of a better way to bring Iron Curtain's character out from his stereotype than showing how he's different than the other Hooviets. My only objection to the first entry in this pairing is that the characters were taken a little close to extremes. Summer Heat was more OP than she probably deserves, especially. I liked the Russian bits here even better than I liked Heather Rose's German bits. That was well done.
The writing was nice and pretty, the world-building added nice spice to the piece, and the pacing was spot-on. the only thing I know I would've changed is bringing our attention back to the narrator in the middle of the action. That was distracting.
I'll give props for the zombies in Iron Curtain's entry. I'm a sucker for out-of-the box executions in this contest, but this time it wasn't quite enough to overcome the weakness of the characterizations. Summer didn't feel distinctive and Iron Curtain might have just been nice because he's a protagonist OC. I did like his little speech about war and what keeps him calm, but Summer's thoughts about the earthquake were a bit too unclear to keep up with that. It was told in a way that relied on the reader being familiar with the character bio, which I don't think is a good thing for this contest.
Summer Heat's Author
What I like least about this pair of stories is that, no matter which I'd voted for, I'd be pushing forward an author who wrote their own OC in a way that irritated me. Summer's author's Summer was too suave, too suffused with random experience and talent, too self-absorbed—she read like a pony version of Black Widow from the Avengers movies, or something comparably grating to me. Iron's author's Iron was too edgy, too badass-but-actually-friendly, too maudlin. Neither of these characters felt particularly real to me, but neither did I personally find them entertaining.
Summer's author's Iron Curtain, at least, was somewhat entertaining to me. The twist of having the perspective character not be Iron did catch me wonderfully off guard—I'd been ready to say Iron felt like he was being somewhat mischaracterized—though once I was past it, the thought did strike me: Why do it that way at all? Just to show how Summer acts when she's with someone more malleable? In doing so, the story (with No Name standing in for Iron Curtain) was leaving me very bothered, and that bothering didn't just retroactively disappear when Iron showed up. It still happened, and for that stretch, the story had still been that much more odd to read.
I liked the energy of it all when Iron showed up, even if the much of the sequence was a little strange to me. I enjoyed the writing in general, and found the entry to have been edited fairly well.
Iron Curtain's author's entry read a bit oddly, in places. Particularly in reference to the things it treats as established. There was that point in Iron's introduction, for instance, where the narration makes vague reference to the object with which he's killing zombies, and then the narration starts willy-nilly calling it a blade like it hadn't just been vague about it—I'd pictured a big, blunt pipe or board or something, and had to stop and reread to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Really killed the already struggling tension of the scene for me. Then later, there's a part where it says Summer makes sure to sit on Iron's blind side, despite not having established that he's wearing an eyepatch.
In terms of its plot, I found this to be a more successful AU than Rachis Barbule's author's attempt, at least in the context of this competition—it was used to decent effect to bring the characters together and get them interacting, and even though they're changed people in this AU, we're given an idea of what they'd been like before as compared to now. In spite of this, the AU still seemed somewhat superfluous to me. It took up focus that would have been better put to use in service of the characterization, which itself felt somewhat blunt (particularly when it came to the revelations of the characters' backstories).
Really weirdly common issues with the punctuation/spacing at the end/start of sentences. To the point that part of me says it might not have been proofread, it's so obvious. And obligatory chuckle at "Summer Heart".
So yeah. There's a lot I personally didn't like about both stories, and some of that is stuff that I wouldn't exactly expect others to share my opinion of. Summer Heat's author's entry felt to me to be the somewhat more skillfully executed piece out of the two, so that's what I've got to go with.
Summer, I've never been a fan of the personality of, so I guess the most I can say is keep it up on the writing side. Iron, if he makes it through, would probably be better back in a more comedic story.
Summer Heat's Author
While the entry from Iron Curtain's author looked like it handled the characterization a tad bit better, it just felt sloppy to read. How much of a time crunch do you have to be in to hit the spacebar before the period and then not fix it before moving on? Also, while Iron Curtain seemed a little standoffish for a zombie apocalypse, it did kinda make sense for his character, I guess. Lastly, how can you go through so much effort to get Summer Heat out of her shell and not reward her for it?! That's just cruel!
All in all, I found Summer's author's entry far more engaging and satisfying.
Iron curtains author
Summer Heat's Author
Summer Heat's author
Okay, I liked that it was in first person. Good choice. I liked the pegasus pidgin; that was a nice little bit of worldbuilding. And I liked how you put them in a contest together--pretty much forced the doing rather than telling.
At the same time, that's my biggest fault with the story. The bar setting is . . . well, sometimes I DM, and the tavern is so cliche. Is there seriously nowhere else that two ponies might meet up? EDIT: Mind you, it didn't feel forced--it didn't feel like you'd chosen a bar setting because you couldn't think of anything better--but I will be so upset if every round of this contest features one 'bar story.'
Iron Curtain's Author
Starts with action, which is a big plus. Gets the reader invested in the story right away. I went through this wanting to know more . . . but then got let down in the end, since there was no answer to my biggest question: why zombies? This is a great hook into a bigger story, but it didn't work for me as a one-shot.
I also had a little bit of trouble with the vernacular. It honestly didn't feel quite right to me.
Overall, this one was another tough call.
Summer Heat's Author
Zombies, Iron Curtain. For real? Zombies? Like, zombies?
I love the ambition. I actually smiled when I saw that someone had stepped so far outside the box. I'd love to have given you my vote just for that, but Summer's story ultimately gets my vote for a more solid story.
Iron Curtain's Author
This was the hardest vote for me so far. Both author's took risks, and both had their strong suits and weak points. Ultimately though, Iron Curtain's story just felt more true to the characters than Summer Heat's. I preferred the more nuanced take on their characters—it felt real, especially compared to the extreme versions of both characters present in Summer's story. Both are great stories, but only one can advance.
Summer Heat's Author
I loved all the characterizations in Heat's, although the POV got a bit confusing at the start. I give credit to Curtain for the out-of-the-box take on the characters, but unfortunately the story was just a bit too rushed to really get anything out of me.
All right, it's about the midpoint of the voting phase and the commentsplosion is winding down, so I think I can start talking here without being too intrusive. Hope I don't accidentally affect the votes.
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One of the first things I did while writing this was embrace the fact that I was writing Iron Curtain as a clown. Actually it never really occurred to me to use him any other way. Similarly, Summer Heat doesn't exactly require a light or nuanced touch.
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The POV is meant to create a contrast between Iron Curtain and the observer character, yes. It's also supposed to set up the joke of the reveal when Iron Curtain walks in.
Summer Heat
Would say more. Stuck in a truck and I hate writing on my phone.
Summer Heat's Author
Much as I like Iron Curtain more as a character, there's not even a contest here. Both characters in the first story were just spot-on, and the writing was great, to boot.
Summer Heat's Author
After reading story after story of business negotiation and random heart-to-heart conversations out of nowhere, it's really nice to see two authors try something a little different. I felt that the first story focused better on the OCs and the interactions, while the second story falls into the same problem that Rachis Barbule's Author had, namely that when you greatly change the setting, the nature of the AU tends to overshadow the OCs.
IRON CURTAIN’S AUTHOR
I sense another close one. I'm very excited about this bracket.
Summer in Stalliongrad
Liked: “Floppy like Stalliongrad pierogi.” XD
Disliked: I thought the narrator was Iron Curtain for a long while.
The Ambassador and the Dancer
Liked: That you took something ridiculous and ran with it. Made it emotional, even!
Disliked: “It is all gone now.” A little stilted.
Summer Heat's Author
I just can not ever imagine the character Iron Curtain being taken seriously. You may well have made him, but he is a joke character, through and through. Beyond that, Summer Heat's author is a much better written story (though I cringed at that narrator bit at first, but you pulled it off in the long run), though Iron Curtain's is not bad. Even the characterization in it isn't bad. It's just not quite as skillfully done as the first. Plus, Summer vs. Winter? That was genius right there.
Abstain
Been poring over these two for a while now, and I still can't decide. Either the summer heat is frying my brain, or an iron curtain has descended over my thoughts. Either way, I'm getting nowhere in my analysis. I can see plenty of faults with each, and some virtues with both. It's a flippin' ouroboros of critique.
vote: Summer Heat's author
Summer Heat's Author
Honestly, this group of stories was more about what I hated less than what I liked more. I hated how Summer's story characterized Iron Curtain (it seemed far more one-dimensional than how his sheet portrays him), but I also hated how Iron's story shoved Summer to the side to focus more on Iron Curtain than both of the characters.
In the end, I'm going with Summer Heat because I got more characterization out of that story than IC's story.