The Prisoner of Zebra

by Tumbleweed

Flash Sentry and the Flash of Steel

“Princess Ianthe is a lady of the utmost refinement and taste.” Fleur de Lys said in her soft, gently lilting tone. I couldn't place her accent, but it was certainly an enticing one-- to match a rather enticing woman. “And she will expect you to be just as proper as she is. If not moreso.”

Under normal circumstances, I would've been thrilled to sit down at a dinner table across from a unicorn like Fleur. But, given the circumstances, I was a little justifiably distracted. Plus, even the most delicious of dinners and the most beautiful of dining partners become tiresome after the sixth hour or so. Had this been a proper evening out (with a properly improper mare, I might add), we'd be finishing up our late night cocktails and/or making good use of the nearest hotel room, depending on how enthusiastic we were. Instead, the lesson in regal manners just stretched on and on and on.

“Right. Proper.” I looked down at an array of silverware extensive enough to give a lycanthrope a heart attack. “Honestly, it's not like I've never been to a formal dinner before. All you've got to do is start at the edges and work your way in. So long as I don't start wiping my mouth on the tablecloth, it should be fine, no?”

“No.” Fleur narrowed her eyes at me. “The slightest breach of etiquette could set off a chain of events that you could never imagine. If you use the wrong fork at the wrong time, you'd insult the chef-- or even the national dish of Zebrica. The sort of diplomatic wrangling it would take to address such a matter would be … considerable.”

“What is the national dish of Zebrica, anyway? Nothing barbaric, I hope." A terrible thought dawned on me. "Good gracious, you don't think they eat ... meat, do you?" I shuddered, suddenly nauseous.

“And that is why we're having these lessons. Even so much as implying that Zebras are carnivorous is a grave insult, built on years upon years of blood libel.” Fleur's elegant brow scrunched into a furrow. “And for the record, Zebrica's national dish is a corn-and-rice pastry known as masa. It's quite tasty, actually, if you can find someone who can prepare it right. Which is quite rare outside of Zebrica, I can tell you.”

“Wait.” I studied Fleur de Lys for a moment. “You've been to Zebrica?”

“I've been to a lot of places. Comes in this line of work.” She said, offhandedly.

“I don't suppose you painted stripes all over yourself in order to blend in?”

“No.” Fleur said, flatly. “And there's another subject you'd better not bring up in Princess Ianthe's company.*”

*Fleur is, of course, making reference to the fad of 'Zebra Plays' a century or so prior, in which ponies would paint themselves with varying (if almost always inaccurate) striped patterns in order to play Zebrican characters. Incidentally, the rhyming dialogue of these plays proved somewhat accurate to the speech patterns of Zebrican Shamans, if entirely by accident.

“Fine, fine. Honestly, at this rate, I won't be able to talk to the Princess about anything at all.”

“If only it were so easy.” Fleur said.

“Are you done yet?” Golden Harvest trotted in from the direction of the kitchen. “I'm tired of playing waitress.”

“Maybe some costuming would help?” I flirted by reflex. “You know, one of those lacy aprons and the silly little hat? It'd be quite a fetching look on you, I imagine.”

The ol' Flashy charm hit her with all the effectiveness of a snowball on plate armor: it didn't do anything but make her colder. Between Golden and Fleur, the villa had a damnable shortage of available ladies. Entirely too many racy spy novels had led me to believe that most espionage was little more than complimenting femme fatales on their cocktail dresses, and then helping them out of said dresses a little while later. One can imagine my disappointment at the sort of training I received.

“Perhaps you're right, Goldie.” Fleur mused. “We should probably take a break from etiquette. Maybe focus on the more … surface aspects of Flash's disguise.”

Golden Harvest blinked, and then turned her lips up in the sort of devious smile that made my knees weak (and not in a good way). “Got it. This way, Flash. Or should I say … your highness.” She trotted over and fairly well dumped me out of my chair, before none-too-gently pushing me out of the dining room, and into the villa's central courtyard. Fleur followed with measured, elegant steps, neatly snagging a photograph of Prince Percheron from an endtable along the way.

“You might not act like a prince,” Golden Harvest said, “but we can at least make you look like one. Sit.” She shoved me down onto a bench, and then looked over at Fleur. “How long will it take you to work your magic?”

“Not very.” Fleur said.

“Good. I'll go get my kit.” Golden Harvest trotted back into the house.

“Oh, I get it now!” I said, relaxing a little now that the irate earth pony had slipped off. “This is a makeover, isn't it? Ladies love makeovers. Never really had much need for it myself, since I'm this handsome naturally. Lucky me, eh? Though really, Miss de Lys, you've got quite a radiant look about you yourself-- er, wait, why is your horn glow--”

I stopped talking when Fleur blasted me in the face.

It took me a moment to realize that I hadn't been vaporized, or immolated, or even transmogrified into some lesser form. The sizzling smell of powerful magic still hung in the air, tickling the inside of my nostrils. An undignified, sneezing fit struck me for a few terrible moments, until I finally got myself under control.

“Excuse me.” I said, and wiped my nose with a hoof-- only to find an unfamiliar bristliness beneath my nose. “Excuse me?” I said again, and poked at the voluminous mass.

“Mustache spell.” Fleur explained, and held the framed portrait of Prince Percheron at just the right angle so I could see myself reflected in the glass, almost an overlay of the prince's photograph. "Surprisingly useful."

“Ah.” I stroked at the vaguely tusk-like facial hair. “This … may take some getting used to. But better than spirit gum, at least?”

“The best disguise is an authentic one.” Fleur said, prim as ever.

“Very authentic.” Golden Harvest trotted back into the courtyard, balancing an enormous oaken chest on her shoulders without the slightest show of effort. She shrugged one shoulder, and the bit of iron-bound luggage hit the ground hard enough to send tremors up through my hooves.

The earth pony kicked the chest with one back leg, and it sprung open. Polished steel glimmered from within, showing off enough razor-edged cutlery to outfit every kitchen in Canterlot, and then some.

“You've got to be the best equipped hairdresser I've ever seen.” I said, hopefully.

“Not quite. I'm actually going to take care of another important detail.” Golden Harvest pulled a frankly ridiculous looking mask out of the chest, and tossed it to me. “Put this on.”

“What is it?” I looked down at the thing-- a pair of steel-edged goggles set on either side of a metal noseplate, with burlap straps to hold it in place.

“Perchetanian dueling mask.” Golden Harvest spoke slowly, reassuringly, as if she were speaking to a particularly dense child.

“A Perchetanian what?” I backed up a step, only to bump into Fleur de Lys.

“Dueling mask.” Golden Harvest reached into the chest again, and her hoof came out with a monstrosity of blades and buckles wrapped around it.

“And what is that?” My heart started beating faster and faster, building momentum. I glanced upward-- just a few flaps of my wings could carry me away from this madness. Perhaps sensing my thoughts (one never can be too sure about unicorn magic sometimes), Fleur put a gentle hoof between my shoulders, and that merest touch was enough to hold me in place. I had a reputation to live up to, after all.

“Perchetanian dueling blade.” Golden Harvest made a few practice swipes with the weapon, whooshing it through the air with blood-curdling expertise. She took another one out of the chest, and then trotted over to buckle the abominable thing around my forehoof. I could only stand in stunned silence as she strapped the ridiculous metal mask over my face, next. The mask was old and smelly, and the goggles blocked off my peripheral vision like a set of blinders.

“I'm sorry!” I blurted. “I didn't mean the thing about the lacy apron! Unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing but apparently you're not which is just fine but it's not anything that's duel-worthy, wouldn't you say?”

Golden Harvest rolled her eyes. “Prince Percheron has dueling scars. You don't. We're going to fix that.”

Obligingly, Fleur floated Prince Percheron's portrait over. The scar along his hairline stood out like a neon sign. Not a classy sign, either. More like the sign to the sort of disreputable hotel that rents rooms by the hour. Not that I would know anything about such establishments, but I digress.

Equally glaring was the gleam of sunlight on the steel around Golden Harvest's hoof.

“Perchetanian Duelling is one of their somewhat … odder traditions.” The earth pony idly looked over her weapon, like she was examining a hooficure. “One doesn't win a Perchetanian duel, per-se. Rather, the whole point is to just stand there and trade blows with your opponent until one or the other comes out with an impressive looking scar. The goggles and nosepiece are there to make sure those scars aren't too terribly disfiguring. They say Perchetanian ladies find the scars attractive, but I don't see the appeal.”

“So you're saying these maniacs go about maiming each other on purpose? That's insane! That's barbaric! Thats--”

“That's Perchertania for you.” Golden Harvest said with a little shrug. “Now, rear up on your back hooves, and we'll get this over with.” She nodded to Fleur, who gave me a little push forward.

“So you're just going to cut me with that thing?” I stammered, eyes locking on Golden Harvest's terrible weapon.

“Just a little.”

“You can't!” My voice came out an octave and a half higher than I would've liked. I cleared my throat, and looked around to make sure nobody else besides the two mares had heard my squeak. “I mean. Er. You don't even have a mask on. It'd be unsafe!”

Golden Harvest just smiled that terrible smile of hers. “Don't worry about me. I've trained in just about every martial art you could name, plus a few you couldn't. You won't touch me.”

“Then why'd you give me this … thing in the first place?” I shook the heavy thing on my hoof, and did my best not to dismember myself.

“Seemed sporting. Now, en garde!”

Golden Harvest bore down on me with a flurry of blows-- I reacted on instinct, and whipped my own hoofblade up to fend her off. Steel rang on steel as the maniacal earth pony hit hard enough to send sparks flying in all directions. I fell back a step, and Golden Harvest mirrored the gesture.

“Good.” She said, still smiling. “You're getting the hang of it. Nice thing about Perchetanian dueling blades, they're very … instinctive to use. Kind of like a sharpened horseshoe.”

“How … clever.” I said.

“And now that you've got the hang of it, we can really begin.” With that, Golden Harvest lunged at me again. I reared up on my back legs, swinging my own blade at hers to counter. I thought it was a savvy move, until Golden Harvest did something faster than I could see, and a searing pain tore through my scalp.

“Augh!” I cried, and fell to my back. I at least had the sense to cradle my head with my unarmored hoof-- otherwise I might've done Golden Harvest's job for her. Still, the sight of blood (mine, specifically) on my hoof was enough to make my eyes water and my stomach churn. “You've murdered me!”

Golden Harvest glared down at me, disgusted. “I can't believe Fancy Pants pulled me out of Ponyville for this.”

Fleur de Lys just shrugged.

“Sweetie Drops isn't the only one who's gotten used to civilian life, you know.” Golden Harvest grumbled, and then prodded me in the side with her unarmed, slightly-less-lethal hoof. “Get up.”

“Why, so you can carve me up again?” I may have whined. Just a little. But you would too if you had an earth pony with a carnivore's bloodlust after you.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Golden Harvest said. “We're not done. Prince Percheron's got another scar along his jawline. It'll be easier to give it to you if you're standing.”

“That's hardly an incentive.”

“I said easier. Not impossible. Doesn't make any difference to me.” Golden Harvest rolled her neck with a faint crackling noise. “Honestly, I thought you'd be made of sterner stuff, from what I heard about you.”

Damnation. That did it. I tried (however badly) to put on a brave face, and pushed myself up to my hooves again. I tried to ignore the feel of blood (my blood!) pouring down the side of my face. “Right then, let's get this over--”

Golden Harvest's bladed hoof whizzed past my face, drawing a shallow cut along my jaw. At least I didn't break down bawling, that time. Instead, the speed of it, the pain of it, just shocked me.

“There.” Golden Harvest flicked droplets of blood (sweet Celestia, so much blood) off of her Perchetanian dueling blade, and then set about undoing its straps with her teeth. The barbarian.

The telltale glow of Fleur's magic neatly unbuckled my mask and fighting gauntlet, and then pressed little bits of gauze to my grievous facial wounds. Fleur's lovely face filled my field of vision, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of compassion in her eyes. She put a hoof to my chin, tilting it up, gently-- the soothing touch was almost enough to make me ignore the throbbing pain of my mauled face. Almost. There was blood in my mustache, which combined two strange and decidedly unexpected sensations.

“Good job, Goldie.” Fleur said, and then held up the picture of Prince Percheron once more. “Once these scar over, Flash will be identical to the real Prince Percheron.”

“Until he opens his mouth.” Golden Harvest started tossing her weaponry back into her chest of horrors.

“We've still got time to work on that part.” Fleur took her hoof from my chin, and used it to push a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let's head to the study, Flash. You could stand to brush up on your Zebrican history.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me.

“After all that, you expect me to get back to studying like nothing's happened?” I dabbed a bit of gauze along my cheek and tried to ignore the vivid, nausea-inducing red staining it.

“I expect some light reading would seem more pleasant in comparison.” Fleur said.

I stared at her, and not in a pleasantly lovestruck way, either. “You're insane.”

“We're spies. It's part of the job, Flash. Or should I say … your highness?”

Comments

[Dusk Star Shine]

So far so good, but now that Flash has gotten those Scar's now why doesn't he just up and leave and shave off the mustache too, then he just sends in his papers to be discharged or just inform the Princess what Fancy Pants is up too and that he wants nothing to do with it.

[Alexey]

Woman? What's that?

Also, * for footnotes doesn't work that well, especially in the longer chapters like the first one. See https://www.fimfiction.net/group/204517/footnotes-of-awesome/thread/124465/how-do-you-place-footnotes for some other suggestions.

[krakentoa]

A moustache can be magicked. Scars apparently not :/
Immersion broken.

[Seraphem]

This is why you ask to read the full fine print before signing up for a job like this. And why the ones offering said job don't give you that option.

Look on the brit side Flash, you can come up with all kinds of stories to impress mates with about how you got those scars.