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Chapter One: Equestrian hospitality.2,652 words
Chapter Two: Ponyville2,529 words
Chapter three: A second wind1,306 words
Chapter four: Canterlot Tower Blues2,826 words
Chapter five: Heartache number one2,201 words
Chapter six: Flutter forth, Fluttershy.3,931 words
Chapter seven: The story ended on that day. The rest is an epilogue.4,078 words
Chapter eight: heartache number two6,398 words
Chapter nine: The man who sold his world5,754 words
Chapter ten: Boots on the ground7,138 words
Chapter Eleven: A new allegiance7,752 words

Chapter seven: The story ended on that day. The rest is an epilogue.

Wednesday afternoon

"Do you have a special somepony, Brian?" asked Fluttershy, prompting Twilight to roll her eyes.

Brian snorted. Even the ponies' terms for a lover were so sickeningly sweet that Brian could almost feel himself slipping into hyperglycemia as the words made their way past his ears.

"A lover?" he asked. "Not anymore."

"What happened?" asked Fluttershy.

"She's gone."

"Where?"

"Nowhere. She's not there anymore. She isn't anywhere, she's just... gone."

Fluttershy gasped. "I'm so sorry, Brian, I- I didn't realize..."

"It's okay," said Brian. "Shit happens."

"What do you mean?" asked Fluttershy.

Brian thought carefully about what he was going to say. "Do you guys believe in destiny?" he asked. "Fate, Providence, and all of that?"

"It'd be hard to find a pony who doesn't believe in fate," said Twilight. "You'll find the absurdist oddballs, like Albert Camargue or Jean-Paul Saddle, but other than that, I think most of us believe in destiny."

"Alright," replied Brian. "Do you believe that you make choices, which will then seal your destiny?"

"In a way," said Fluttershy. "See these marks on our flanks? They're called cutie marks. A pony gets his or her cutie mark when he or she decides what they want to do with their life."

"Then you probably know that life has a way of... punishing you for the mistakes you make." Brian grabbed his tobacco pouch, got a piece of rolling paper, and evenly spread the tobacco over it. He then started rolling.

Neither Fluttershy nor Twilight said anything to say.

"And with what I've done... That punishment won't end until I'm dead. Taking away my loved ones was only the start of it."

Twilight chose her words very carefully. "Let's suppose, ad argumentum, that what you're saying is true. How do you know your punishment's not over?"

"Because I'm still alive."

There was a long pause. After a while, Fluttershy spoke. "Maybe we'd understand what you're saying better if you told us your story."

Nineteen years prior

Brian's story truly started with his first job for British Intelligence, almost two decades ago. He had been in the military for five years, and had ended up passing selection for the Special Air Service. One day, he'd been summoned to the MI6 headquarters and been given the assignment that could make or break his career.

"Havelock," said Jennings, the handler, as Brian entered the office.

"Good evening, sir," retorted Brian.

"Do sit down, Lieutenant," said Jennings, indicating a chair in front of his desk. "Whisky?" he asked, grabbing his Steuben decanter, full of the oak-coloured substance.

"I would quite like that," said Brian. "Dry," he added, seeing the handler reaching for ice.

The spymaster handed Brian his tumbler, and the two sat in silence for a few seconds. Brian examined the spymaster closely. Undercut hair slicked backwards, without a single lock of hair protruding from the oily formation. A double-breasted black suit, with a neatly folded hanky sticking out of the breast pocket. A caterpillar moustache, and a pair of small circular spectacles, which were so perfectly placed on the bridge of his nose that they could probably sit there all day. To complete his look, Jennings had tied his tie in a windsor knot. The formal look of a perfectionist.

"You do realize that if I came here this morning, it wasn't to exchange pleasantries and whisky," said Brian.

To his surprise, the spymaster chuckled. "They told me that you weren't exactly tame," retorted the handler, reaching for a dossier on his desk. "Unsubmissive," he read aloud. "Reckless, malcompliant, the list goes on, Lieutenant. You know what that tells me?"

"That I like to take the piss?"

"That you don't like following orders."

"If you summoned me here to berate me on my past actions, sir, maybe I should leave."

"Oh, but no!" said the handler. "These were just preludes to what follows." He read Brian's medals and decorations from the dossier. "The one that piqued my interest the most was the story of your Victoria Cross. A US Army Ranger sniper-spotter team gets captured by the enemy. Instead of at least waiting for directives, you disobey a direct order from your superior, grab a motorcycle, and track the assailants down. By yourself. You. Against a platoon of Iraqis. That takes some guts. And, if I'm reading this properly, you also got awarded the Army Distinguished Service Cross by the US."

"Well, the Yankees' DSC isn't exactly the MOH, but I can settle with that," smirked Brian.

"Yes, they also told me you were arrogant, Lieutenant. But the facts are there: two men get captured by the enemy, so you track them down and rescue the two operatives? You didn't have to, but you did it anyway. When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that."

Brian hadn't told anyone about this, but he'd only decided to rescue the two operators because he'd learnt of the spotter's name: Doug Sheffield. By sheer coincidence, Brian had stumbled upon his father's military record a few months prior. Whilst in the Rhodesian SAS, his father had served alongside one Douglas S. Sheffield. An American expatriate who had joined the Rhodesian Security Forces. One of the Crippled Eagles.

"I did what anyone else would have done," lied Brian.

"What anyone else would have done is get killed. You, on the other hand, proved yourself capable of self-sacrifice and irreproachable courage. They planned to court martial you, you know."

"I know," said Brian. "And I assume you..."

"Yes," said Jennings. "How's the whisky?" he asked.

"Cheap," responded Brian, flatly. "Bottom shelf Bourbon?"

"Rebel Yell." The spymaster sniggered. "The name reminded me of you."

"Very funny," said Brian. "I'm offended that I'm not worth your best drinks, sir."

The two finished their drinks, and Brian asked, "But let's get down to business. What do you want me to do?"

Jennings reached into his desk, extracted another dossier, and placed it in front of Brian.

"These are your targets," explained Jennings. There were two pictures attached to the file with paper clips. "José Bachmeyer, and his son, Salvador Bachmeyer. José is the kingpin of an international drug cartel. He's been keeping a big part of Latin America knee-deep in coke since Escobar died, and recently he's been giving the Mexico-US border some funny looks. No need to tell you why that's a problem."

"But why is the UK getting involved?" asked Brian.

"Just the other day, a ship sank off the coast of Bermuda. It was transporting said coke under the cover of canned fish. Its next supposed stop, just after Bermuda, was Liverpool."

"That explains it," said Brian. "How am I getting him?"

"We've teamed up with the DEA for this op. Unfortunately, though, the US and basically all of Latin America aren't in a talking mood right now. That and the fact that Bachmeyer essentially owns the local government means that we won't have any support on this one. You and your transatlantic friend will meet up on the northern side of the border. You will drive into the area of operations and continue on foot if needed. The rest is on your dossier. Any questions?"

"Why are we taking out his son too?" asked Brian."

"With José gone, Salvador will most certainly take over his father's trade. The cartel itself has a pretty flat hierarchy, so with the two heads gone, the cartel itself will most certainly succumb to infighting and probably dissolve after two or three months. If you have any qualms about terminating the boy, bear in mind that Salvador has been profiled by the Americans as a complete loon. Well, it's more complicated than that, but I'm sure that someone who still practices decimatio¹ with his troops isn't exactly sane. But just because he's mad, doesn't mean he's stupid. He's cunning, well-educated, and has a head for business. If he's allowed to take over, it'll be worse. Trust me, it's better with him gone. Any further questions?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Your codename for this operation will be 'Foxhound'. When in the field, you will be referred to and possibly addressed as such. But remember, Havelock... succeed, and you might just have a chance to shine. Fail, and I'll have you behind a desk, pushing pencils for the rest of your career. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," said Brian.

"Good. Dismissed."

Harare, Zimbabwe

Wrapped in his overcoat that shielded him from the bitter Southern-African winter, one gloved hand holding his fiancée's, the other tightly holding a small urn, Brian walked along the gravelly path that separated a never-ending field of identical white headstones from another never-ending field of white headstones.

Eventually, after endless minutes of walking, Brian found what he was looking for: a simple headstone that resembled all of the others. On it, the name of his father was carved:

'432 Major
Oliver Havelock BCR GSM
Rhodesian SAS
7th December,1978
"Loyal to the end."
'

Brian's fiancée stayed back, while Brian grabbed the urn with two hands, and placed it next to the grave.

"Hello, dad," said Brian. "It's been a while. I brought mum. I thought you'd like to be together. I'm in the SAS, now. Used to be marines. I hope you're proud, dad. 'Cause I know that mum isn't. But hey, let's be honest, when was mum ever proud of anything? So, I would promise you that I'll come back, but, you know... Old Blighty's a long way away. Besides, I don't know if I'll be alive in a week's time, much less a year... or ten... or twenty, but you get the point, I'm sure. Well... goodbye, dad. Bye, mum." And without further ado, Brian went back to his girl.

"Are you okay, fluff?" she asked, putting her hands in Brian's, and pulling them towards her chest.

"It's okay, Grace. It's okay." Brian put his hands on Grace's belly, which had been growing for the past month or so. "Promise me one thing, though." He put his hand under Grace's blond hair, and stroked her freckly cheek, looking into her blue eyes.

"Anything," said Grace, smiling.

"If ever I die," said Brian. "I want you to find someone else. Don't let the kid be fatherless. Not... not like..."

"Shh." Grace wrapped her arms around Brian, and they embraced. Brian hugged Grace's modest body, which to him, was more attractive than any bikini model you could ever find anywhere in the world.

Two lovers, in the middle of a graveyard, where names were written, but rarely remembered. At that moment, the graves were all looking at them, in silent admiration. They had a true warrior in front of them. One who puts his life at risk, not because he hates the ones in front of him, but because he loves what lies behind.

Latin America, a few days later

Brian exited the airport, and found himself in the middle of the crowded street. Cargo shorts, walking shoes, Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and an olive drab boonie hat perched atop his mullet, Brian looked like any other run-of-the mill tourist. Save for the leather briefcase that he carried in his right hand. His duffel bag, which was as cliché tourist attire as it gets, was slung over his shoulder, full of his field clothes and calorie mates. He looked for his contact. Soon enough, he saw a man, wearing almost exactly the same clothes as Brian, save for the hat, reading a book and leaning his back on a tourist-ish jeep. That was who he was looking for.

"Pegasus," said Brian, approaching the man.

"Unicorn," answered the other.

"Bri."

"Doug."

The two men exchanged a short hug, and got into the car. They both exchanged a bit of banter, before driving out of the town.

"So how have you been?" asked Brian. "Still with the Rangers?"

"Nope," answered Doug. "I'm Delta, now."

"So you've finally joined the big boys?" joked Brian.

"I don't think you give us enough credit," retorted Doug. "Who are your rangers?"

"Basically the British Army," said Brian.

"Har, har."

Doug drove on for quite a while. Doug smoked about three of cigarettes along the way, each time offering one to Brian, who refused.

On the fourth one, Brian gave in. "Alright, but just one."

"Are you trying to quit or something?" asked Doug.

"Yup," responded Brian. "I've gotta stop before the baby gets here."

"Oh," said Doug. "Erm... Congratulations?"

"I've still got half a year to go, so it's not urgent. But I'd rather it be sooner rather than later."

"Quitting smoking or the baby?" asked Doug, confused.

"The smoke."

"Oh, yeah, that makes more sense..."

Both laughed. The sun was almost down by then, and Brian could already feel the mosquito bites on his bare legs before they were even there.

"How are we getting over the border?" asked Brian, as he saw a sign that roughly translated to 'Border- one kilometer'.

"Don't worry about that," answered Doug. "I went on a stakeout the other day. Their security's full of holes."

"Good."

Once they'd arrived at the end of the road, Douglas parked the car in a nondescript space between some strategically-placed branches, and they both got out of the car.

"I thought you limey spooks get handed Walthers," said Doug, noticing Brian's M1911.

"I prefer the old 1911," Brian explained. "Sturdy, reliable. It's been produced for eighty years, give or take, so it not having completely disappeared means it's got something to it that other pistols don't have.

"How'd you get that piece into the country?" asked Doug.

"Diplomatic bag, my boy," said Brian, indicating the leather briefcase. He put his black turtleneck on, followed by his tiger-stripe fatigues, and his boots. He tied a belt around his waist, and slipped his pistol in its holster.

"Ready to roll?" asked Doug.

"Ready."

The rain was pouring down on the two ghillie-suited operatives, who were laying stock still, invisible like snakes in the grass. A large spider was descending from one of the high branches thanks to its web, like a Navy SEAL fast-roping down from the helicopter. It landed on the spotter's hand, who swatted it instantly.

"Fucking hell, Bri," he said in his Midwestern drawl. "Shithole's full of insects and snakes. Fuckin' Kuwait was better than this."

"At least we're the ones shooting, this time." Brian wiped something off his nose, readjusted his bandanna, and brought his elbow back to its muddy anchor point.

"True." The Midwesterner looked through his spotting scope for the billionth time, and announced the distance between them and the target's supposed location. Which hadn't changed, but as he said, "Better safe than sorry."

"I'd kill for a fuckin' smoke, right now," said Brian. As per the rules of engagement, the two operatives had to maintain complete deniability. No leaving waste behind, even bodily fluids, which would travel back home with them. So, obviously, to remain unseen, no smoking. And to remain efficient, no drinking either. So it was just Brian, Doug the spotter, and their bags, which were bulging with calorie mates and cans of spam.

The team of two had been lying in the same spot for days on end, waiting for their target, José Bachmeyer, who was known as Bronco, one of the most powerful narcotics bosses in the world. A snitch had informed the DEA on his location. With extradition requests from sixty different countries, a red notice from INTERPOL, and roughly fifty million dollars worth of bounties on his head from rival drug cartels, Bronco's power had also made him one of the most wanted heads on Earth, let alone Latin America. And also his son, Salvador Bachmeyer, who was just as dangerous as his father, if not more.

Bachmeyer and son were considered by everyone, including their men, to be savages. The father was always high on some powder, and often tortured people to death for his own entertainment. Salvador was of a similar taste in entertainment, but the major difference was that Salvador tortured his enemies to near death, and then cut his victims loose so they could spread the word of his atrocities. And that was when his paramilitaries, the 'Commando Sombra' weren't doing it for him. That was how many bounty hunters, federal agents, and enemy gangsters had been admitted into mental institutions.

"Look alive, Brian," said Doug, following a Jeep with his scope. "Our fox is returning to his den."

Brian looked through the scope of his rifle and found Bronco's car. The kingpin's ride was going up a dirt road to a wooden house. As the car turned around to park in reverse, Brian caught a glimpse of the man driving the car. Doug compared the moustached fat head in the photograph to the one behind the wheel.

"That's him alright," he said.

In the front passenger seat, was the teenage boy from the other photograph

"Arrogant, as always," remarked Brian, noticing the complete absence of bodyguards around the flowery-shirted kingpin and his son. "This is gonna be easy." He pulled the bolt on his AWP rifle.

Brian waited for the car to come to a complete halt. Once it had, he brought the fat head into his crosshairs, held his breath, and wrapped his finger around the trigger. But as he was about to squeeze it, he heard the car's horn honk twice. A woman and a little girl had appeared at the door of the chalet.

Any other upstart bounty-hunter spotter would have at least tried to pressure Brian into shooting the boss and his son there and at that moment. But Doug and Brian were both thinking the same thing. If they were going to kill that man, at least they wouldn't do it in front of relatively innocent wife and daughter.

"Fuck!" whispered Doug. "Brian, we need to wait for-"

"I know," retorted Brian, calmly. The family entered the car, and Brian found himself in a dilemma. He could shoot now, and he'd most certainly be MI-6's new golden boy, or he could spare the family the sight of their cherished Pater familias dying, and simultaneously lose all chances of ever working for British Intelligence.

But as it turned out, he didn't even have to make the choice. The daughter had apparently forgotten something, because she and her mother left the car in a hurry, and rushed into the house.

"This is it," Brian thought. He fired a single shot into the kingpin. The windscreen broke, and only blood could be seen through the cracks. During training, Brian had been taught that there was an inverted "T" that went through the target's eyes, and up their skull. Shoot anywhere along that line, the target would die instantly.

The skinny boy instantly left the car and tried running to the house, unholstering a pistol and shooting in the team's general direction. But Brian, in one expert move, pulled the bolt, and shot the boy in his gun shoulder.

"They dead?" asked Doug.

"Probably," said Brian. "But we should check anyway."

Better safe than sorry after all.

Brian picked up the casings from the two shots, and shoved them into one of his pockets. Then, both he and Doug ran down the hill, and went to examine the father's body. They took up positions on the left-hand side of the car, clenching their sidearms, and Brian wrenched the door open.

The operative stepped aside as the body fell out of the seat and onto the ground. The bullet had gone into Bronco's head, between his eyes. He was dead.

Then the two operatives went around the car, and found Salvador, curled up on the ground, clutching his left arm and silently crying. As the two operators approached him, the boy saw them, and tried reaching for the gun that was lying discarded, a few feet away.

"Oh, no, you don't," said Doug, stomping onto Salvador's hand, making him yell in pain. When Brian had picked up the pistol, ejected the magazine and pulled the slide backwards, Doug removed his foot, making space for Brian to carry out the execution.

Brian grabbed his sidearm, and pointed it squarely at the kid's face, aiming for the bridge of his nose. Doug, meanwhile, was slowly stepping away from the scene, as if he wanted to dissociate himself from the events unfolding in front of his very eyes. The American turned around, and squatted down, using 'I'll guard the perimeter' as an excuse not to look at the scene.

The kid had decided to sit rather than lie down, and he was looking straight into Brian's eyes with his brown teary ones.

Brian took a last look at the kid, closed his eyes tight, and pulled the trigger.

A gunshot.

A body falls to the ground.

Only echo. And then, nothing.

"Outstanding," said Jennings. "Both of them, confirmed dead. Simply outstanding, Captain. That's right, I'm having you promoted."

"What can I say?" said Brian. "Just did my job."

"Of course you did, of course. Now, you're worth my best liquor." Jennings reached for his decanter, which was full of presumably better whisky than last time.

"So, what's next for me?" asked Brian.

"You've got a bright future ahead of you, Captain," said Jennings. "But for now, I think you should leave. I believe that you have a wedding to attend."

As he left the spymaster's office, Brian saw the scene play out in his head. He remembered the teary eyes. The noise. The echo. It all seemed so surreal. The whisky still burning his trachea, Brian decided to move on from the memory. At that time of his life, thinking nothing of consequences and moving on was so easy. Self-righteous and arrogant, the Captain forgave himself, and left the building with a broad grin on his face. A grin that seemed to say "I took down a drug kingpin. I'm great."

"And that was the beginning of the end, for me," said Brian.

"So, you... you killed them?" asked Twilight, aghast.

"I only doomed myself on that day," retorted Brian, as if that response was something he'd always wanted to say but never actually said it. Even now that he'd said it, he still didn't feel different.

"But you didn't try to... reason with them?" asked Twilight. "Tell them that what they did was wrong, or-"

"How do I put this?" said Brian, sardonically. "You see, when someone routinely kills people, sells product to make people nasty, and uses it himself, inhibiting all reason, a bullet to the brain is the best solution."

"So you describe this as 'putting someone out of their misery'?" asked Twilight, visibly offended.

"I tell myself that it's more like ending other people's misery," retorted Brian. "I tell myself a lot of things. All of it bullshit."

Twilight pursed her lips, but didn't speak. She couldn't find a comeback to that.

"You know," said Fluttershy, "well, erm, as surprising as it may sound, I can understand your thinking."

"You can?" asked Brian, mildly surprised. Twilight didn't say anything, but she seemed to think the same as Brian.

"Well, erm," said Fluttershy, shying up now that she was in the spotlight, "it's something I've seen in animals before. Sometimes, I have critters come to me, without saying a word, but I can see by their scars and the expressions on their faces, telling me that they've had to fight. Maybe kill. Sometimes, a whole pack comes to me, but only one of them bears the scars. That's when I see that they've defended their pack. It's a bit like... like what you told us. Except that you weren't defending one single pack, and you were following the orders of an alpha male, and, well, erm, er..."

"Maybe you're right," said Brian, agreeably. His eyes and spirit weren't following the words that had left his mouth. At what the little pegasus had just said, he looked at it intently. He was having an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. The 'person who loves animals who is also adorable and shy' shtick seemed oddly familiar.

"So what happened next?" asked the Princess.

"My mistakes caught up with me, is what happened," answered Brian.

"Care to elaborate?" asked Twilight.

"No," answered Brian.

"Are you sure?" asked Twilight Sparkle. She really wanted to hear more.

"All you need to know is that Grace is gone. That's it. And her leaving my life was the last chapter of my life. The rest is an epilogue."

Author's Note:

¹: Decimatio was a group punishment for insubordinaton or cowardice in ancient Rome, where the malcompliant cohort was divided into groups of ten, and every tenth soldier was beaten to death by his nine mates.

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