Dragonfall

by DannyJ

Chapter 17: Sanity Check

>Take Ulysses' place and move the platoon to the Financial District.

"Mark my words, Agony, you blight upon all that is good and true, I will have my vengeance for this!" Ulysses screams in my face. "You may have the Captain in your pocket for now, but I will not rest until justice is done, and your head is on a pike in the town square!"

Ulysses' troops, bearing his extremely unfortunate sigil of a tongue running underneath a disembodied white hoof, grimly march past a line of my own soldiers through the rain, their columns periodically curving to avoid the various craters and ruptured sewage lines along Dragonfall's now infamous Street of Shit. On the rooftops, City Maintenance pegasi in hard hats and reflector jackets snicker and jeer at them. Occasionally, some of the bolder ones throw rocks down at the marching soldiers, then vanish into the thick smog of the Mining District before anypony can give chase.

I sigh, exaggeratedly rolling my eyes for effect. Rain patters off our armour and drips from my foreleg as I reach out to pull Ulysses to my side.

"Hey!"

"Ulysses, shut up," I say, not looking at him as he wriggles and tries to escape. "Just listen to me for a moment. Listen. Now, one day, you and I are going to fuck."

"Wha—?!" he splutters furiously, head snapping around to face me.

I bring up my other forehoof to cover his lips. "Shh, shh, shh. It's alright. You don't have to argue. I'm basically your superior officer, now that Killjoy is in charge, and you are the most diligent little suck-up in the entire company. You and I are going to fuck. What's more, you are going to come on to me, because what better way is there to kiss ass than to... well..."

He sputters in protest against my hoof. "You—! I never—!"

I press down harder on his lips, then drop it away from his mouth. "And when that day comes... and it will come..."

My voice becomes a whisper as I lean into his ear.

"...There are all kinds of ways we can go about it. Some of them will feel good for you. Some of them will feel good for me. Some of them will feel good for both of us. One of them involves a piano leg, which would be good for us both in different ways."

"What does that even mean?" he hisses.

"I haven't the faintest idea. Not yet, anyhow. But I will figure it out by the time you throw yourself at me. And at that point, it's entirely up to you what I do, what goes where, and whether or not the piano leg is properly sanded and varnished. What I can say for certain is that I can potentially make things very pleasant for both of us. But if you insist on annoying me, I promise you, it will be the most unsatisfying fuck of your life. It will be short, and cold, and unfulfilling."

Ulysses stares at me, red in the face, leaning away from me as much as possible while remaining stuck in my grasp.

"This is the weirdest threat you've ever made to me."

I can't tell if he sounds more angry or confused at the moment. Good. Step one of any worthwhile plan is to knock your enemy off-balance and keep them that way.

"This is neither weird, nor a threat. It is a vow, based on a prediction. And it's very sensible, at that." I nod stoically. "Now, do we have an understanding? Are you going to be a problem for me, or are we going to be friends?"

He finally throws off my foreleg and escapes, whirling around to face me head on.

"Go fall in a moat, Agony!" he snarls. "You have no power over me, and I've never understood why half this Celestia-forsaken company are so obsessed with you and your one ball anyway!"

Obviously because of my oral skills and supernatural levels of stamina, but ponies who have not yet slept with me do not understand this.

"Oh dear," I say, meeting his glare with a dispassionate look. "I see somepony's choosing to do things the hard way. Come on, Ulysses. Don't you want your first time to be special?"

"I am not a virgin, and there will be no 'first times' with you!" Ulysses stomps. "Stop trying to get in my head, Agony! It won't work."

I tilt my head, and give him a very slight smile.

The lack of verbal response only seems to fluster him further. He impotently growls and stomps, points threateningly at me for a moment, seems to try and say something, and finally just storms off while ranting under his breath to himself, leaving to join one of his sergeants in the passing column.

All in all, I think that went rather well.

---

The southwest barracks of the Financial District turn out to be in much better repair than our previous quarters. Ulysses apparently made a go of cleaning all the dust and cobwebs out for his own troops. Upon a cursory examination, I also find no murder scenes, and the basement is filled with crates and barrels, not floodwater. Granted, somepony smashed half the crates into splinters with a crowbar before we arrived, and the barrels turn out to be filled with expired milk, but it's still a significant improvement over the northwest barracks.

I pace through the corridors as I watch everybody settle in. Most have already claimed their bunks in the main barracks areas, and Sergeant Yellowbelly has the key positions covered with guards. I decided to have his squad on guard duty instead of Coldsteel's this time, since our last headquarters was utterly destroyed on Coldsteel's watch. Admittedly, I know that it wasn't his fault, since the Smooze would have blind-sided pretty much anybody, but if I don't assign blame, then that would make it my responsibility by default. And I don't like taking responsibility for things I do wrong.

Here and there, I also see Googlymoo's bandits wandering about, watching everything and everypony around them with a vague sense of confusion and unease. A lot of them clearly have some adapting to do. One bandit in particular, a diamond dog, I even catch staring at the armoury door, and I can instantly tell by the look in his eyes that he's contemplating how to break in and steal from it. He slinks away in embarrassment when I sternly remind him that he'll be issued his weapons and armour tomorrow anyway.

I really need to consider what to do about Googlymoo's people. They could be an unnecessary source of conflict in the platoon, and most of them seem unsure about this whole mercenary lifestyle anyway. I could endeavour to convince them, but with most of my casualties from the Smooze incident now undone, I'm not sure that I need to anymore. On the one hoof, Dragonfall's rate of attrition being what it is, it may be better to have the spares bodies to fill the ranks when my troops inevitably die en masse. On the other, it would be just my luck for none of them to die from here on out, leaving me stuck with too many mouths to feed three months from now when the city is starving and rioting, and while none of us are getting paid.

I've been in the middle of mutinies before. Getting out of them alive is never a sure thing.

As I contemplate my options, Breakspear and Coldsteel walk up behind me. With mutiny still on my mind, I turn to my sergeants with a wary look, remembering the time when Coldsteel himself was on the verge of killing me in one.

Both stop and salute me, remaining respectfully silent as I take their measure.

"At ease, sergeants," I say. "What is this about?"

Breakspear looks to Coldsteel, who steps forward to speak for them.

"Sir. May we speak in private?"

I nod. "Of course."

The three of us make our way through the large, open mess hall, very similar in layout to one in the northwest barracks. Several soldiers sit at the tables here, engaged in murmured conversation as they sullenly pick at their rations. A few glare at us as we pass, heading through the door into the kitchen at the back.

Maybe I'm not the only one thinking of mutiny at the moment.

The kitchen is fortunately a lot less dusty and grimy than our old one, as I discovered earlier while inspecting it for rats. There's even evidence that Ulysses was attempting to clean it and actually use it as a kitchen instead of as storage like we did. It was in vain, as none of the appliances in here work, but at least it's not totally unsalvageable. Nothing a quick trip to the local general store won't fix. And the local electrician. And the local garbage dump.

Having said that, the fact that every single wall in here is covered in endlessly repeating graffiti of golden apples and the words "HE IS THE NEVER-WAS AND SHOULDN'T-BE" is still somewhat unnerving.

I close the door behind us and turn to face my sergeants, who again stand side by side. "So, what was it you wanted to say?"

Coldsteel takes a deep breath and gathers himself before speaking again.

"Sir. While I think I speak for all of us when I say we're thankful to be away from the northwest barracks..."

"Damn right," Breakspear adds.

"...There still remains the situation of the platoon's command structure to address, in light of... recent events."

"Ah." I nod, understanding. "The bandits. You're concerned about how we integrate them."

"That too," says Breakspear, nearly leaning on an old stove, before noticing the black gunk it's caked in, and stepping away from it. "But this isn't the only concern. Though we've recouped all of our losses from the... Smooze attack thanks to the cultists' ritual, not all of us are in a fit state to fight anymore... or to lead, for that matter."

Coldsteel clears his throat.

"I count myself among the resurrected, sir, and I believe that under the circumstances I have weathered the situation fairly well. Yellowbelly, also, does not seem any more notably useless now than he usually is. But Sergeant Rictus is..."

"Off his damn head," Breakspear says bluntly, frowning at me. "He has done nothing but lay on his bed while gibbering about 'the things in the dark' for four hours now."

"Classic Rictus," I grumble, moving closer to them. "When did he get back anyway? I thought he and his troops were all dying horribly from some vaguely described mine situation when the wall came down?"

"He was," says Coldsteel. "And he did. Die horribly, that is. But then the Smooze spat him out while we were waiting for you to get back, so I guess whatever the hell was going on in the mines was Smooze-related."

"Huh." I pause, looking to the floor as I consider that. "So the Smooze was both under our barracks and in the mines at the same time? But they were miles apart. That creature must've spread itself under the entire district."

Coldsteel nods. "Seems likely, sir, yes."

"Perhaps something to ask 'Lieutenant Dynamite' about, sir?" Breakspear drawls.

I can hear the air-quotes in his voice.

"Perhaps..." I rub my chin. "Hmmm... I wonder if this has anything to do with whatever's been killing Bonepick's boys? I never thought to ask anybody about what exactly 'sewer patrol' entails, but at the last meeting he made it sound like they're encountering heavy resistance down there."

"No, actually," says Coldsteel, drawing mine and Breakspear's attention. "I thought the same thing, but I had the chance to ask one of Bonepick's sergeants about it, and he claims that they're fighting some manner of cannibalistic subterranean mutants."

"Sounds like Bonepick's kind of crowd," I say. "I'm surprised he's actually fighting them instead of recruiting them."

Breakspear raises an eyebrow. "Do we really have room to talk in that regard, sir?"

I shrug my wings. "Perhaps not."

"To be fair, this may just be sewer patrol propaganda," says Coldsteel. "Make the enemy out to be more monstrous so Bonepick's people look benign and necessary in comparison? I mean, consider the source."

"Who was the source?" asks Breakspear. "I'm not familiar with Bonepick's sergeants."

Coldsteel's snout wrinkles slightly.

"Sergeant Loathsome," he answers reluctantly.

"...Isn't he the pony who—?"

"Who literally eats shit, yes." Coldsteel can barely keep the disdain from his voice. "I hear he really found his calling here in Dragonfall."

Breakspear pauses.

"...I was going to say the one who sticks all those severed body parts to his armour and LARPs as a chimera."

Coldsteel sighs. "Yes, he does that too."

"Huh." I pause. "I thought Sergeant Loathsome was the guy who casts those really messed up curses? You know, that one who defiles the dead after every battle for absolutely no reason? Including our dead?"

Coldsteel gives me a hard look.

"Yes. That's also him."

"...Oh."

A silence settles over the room, as the three of us contemplate the calibre of people we work alongside, and the life choices we made that led us all here.

"He's a rapist too, by the way," Coldsteel adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about the raping." I nod, thoughtfully. "Okay, well, all that aside, you raise a good point about Sergeant Rictus. Something will need to be done. Give me until the morning, and I'll work something out. Okay?"

Breakspear shrugs. "Can't ask for more than that, I guess."

"Very well. Then if that will be all, you're free to go."

He turns and leaves without another word, the kitchen door swinging behind him as he exits. I stare longingly after him, wondering what I did so wrong to create this distance between us since our time in the woods. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted.

Coldsteel remains beside me. As I turn to face him, he lifts a hoof to show me what looks like a business card.

"By the way, sir, I'm aware you're between therapists since coming to Dragonfall, and... well, given the situation, I understand that you may not have been at your best lately. So I took the liberty of looking up some local doctors who may be suited to your needs."

I glare at him.

"I am absolutely fine, sergeant, and even if I wasn't, it is none of your damn business."

He points his outstretched hoof at me.

"See? That right there? That's what you're like when you haven't been to therapy in too long. I'm not asking this as a concerned friend, sir. You and I both know we are not friends. I'm telling you as your sergeant, sort your shit out, because you're intolerable when you get like this, and you make bad decisions. And we all know what happens when you make too many bad decisions."

There's a threatening look in his eyes. I want to punch him in the face, but that will just create more problems than it solves. Besides, he's right, as much as it galls me to admit it. The mutiny might not even come from him. The rank and file have been looking just as murderous lately.

He shoves the card against my breastplate, and I reach up to take it. "Go. To. Therapy. Do that, then we'll bang again. Okay?"

I grumble sullenly. "Fiiiiiiiiine..."

He nods curtly, and then swiftly makes his exit as well.

Now alone in the kitchen, I pull the business card away and hold it up to read. A photo in a circular frame on the left side of the card depicts a smiling red stallion with a receding black mane and an oddly unnatural smile, like a much older and creepier Breakspear. A fancy, cursive script fills the right side of the card:

DR. CANNIBAL LECTURE M.D.*

PSYCHOTHERAPY AND GOURMET CATERING SERVICES

AVAILABLE FOR BIRTHDAYS, WEDDINGS, AND CUTE-CEAÑERAS.

298 HARCOAL STREET
DRAGONFALL
DF12 3XA

*NOT A CANNIBAL.

I stare at the card for a moment.

"...Neat."

WHAT NEXT?:
1. Promote a trustworthy subordinate from within the platoon to replace Rictus, and focus on appeasing the Sunhearts.
2. Instate Googlymoo as a sergeant to replace Rictus, and attempt to fully integrate the bandits.
3. Keep Rictus as sergeant, with some minor precautions. Breakspear and Coldsteel can go fuck themselves.

Author's Note:

Posh reluctantly carried out the task of editing this, and somehow survived, which I suppose is noteworthy.

You are now technically reading an Elden Ring crossover. And it's in continuity with my Dark Souls crossover. I apologise for nothing.

Since it takes me literal fucking years between updates nowadays, I suppose there's no harm in extending the voting period to a month. Voting for this chapter ends on August 1st. New readers, now's your time!

Also, for those who missed my blog or aren't in the Borderworld group, I made an official map of Dragonfall. Go check it out, or I'll cry.

Comments

[Posh]

1. Promote a trustworthy subordinate from within the platoon to replace Rictus, and focus on appeasing the Sunhearts.

This makes the most sense, so I fully expect it to pan out poorly.

[FanOfMostEverything]

I suppose the question is not if but when Bloodborne gets involved in this mess. Assuming it hasn’t already.

In any case, I’m going for Option 1. Seems like the best option for maintaining something resembling cohesion and morale. I look forward to seeing how it goes wrong… though the move to the financial district seems to have gone well. Thus far.

[The Sleepless Beholder]

I'll also choose option 1 just to see who in this fucked up army would be considered a "trustworthy subordinate", and watch his/her/they inevitable betrayal.

Also, please never stop updating this thing, even if it takes you more time than my mortal life, I'll raise from the dead just to read it.

[DannyJ]

11287759

I suppose the question is not if but when Bloodborne gets involved in this mess. Assuming it hasn’t already.

Fool! You assume incorrectly! For you see, Van Helsing is a Bloodborne crossover which is also in continuity with this! And a JoJo crossover, and a Hellsing crossover, and eventually a crossover with basically everything ever written that even tangentially involves vampires. But it's mostly just been Bloodborne and JoJo so far.

11287998

Worry not. I can personally guarantee that Dragonfall is on schedule to be updated again by 2095 at the absolute latest.

[Jaro45]

Option one ( 1 ). I wanna see who gets the " honor " of being promoted.

[azrael2001]

1. Promote a trustworthy subordinate from within the platoon to replace Rictus, and focus on appeasing the Sunhearts.

[derpyvio]

Looks like most are going with option 1 which seems like the sensible option, while 2 and 3 would be hilarious and chaotic, I get the feeling this sensible option will turn out to be the option that will backfire the most. Agony will continue to live up to his name, so therefore I am also going with option 1 just to see what kind of absolute pain Dragonfall will throw at Agony.

[Gyro]

2. Instate Googlymoo as a sergeant to replace Rictus, and attempt to fully integrate the bandits.

[Fylifa]

3. Keep Rictus as sergeant, with some minor precautions. Breakspear and Coldsteel can go fuck themselves.

"Make sense? Oh, what fun is there in making sense?"

Also, because I want to see if the 'go fuck themselves' is literal.

[DannyJ]

Fuck. Forgot to announce the winner again.

Yeah, option one wins, obviously.