Light Despondent Remixed

by Doctor Fluffy

18: Watch The Stars Fall

Light Despondent Remixed

chapter 18: “Watch the Stars Fall.”

“When I took command of this vessel, you were a crew of polite scientists. Now, I look at you, and you are fierce warriors all.”
Captain Gabriel Lorca, Star Trek: Discovery - “Into The Forest I Go.”

---

The bridge of the Columbia was much like any other naval warship (at least, from what Kraber has seen in movies): the large observation window, the rows of complex looking stations, the stern-looking people manning them. Kraber took note that there didn’t seem to be any ponies on the bridge: he wondered if that was deliberate or just a result of the personnel Romero had ended up with.

And there Kraber was, with a massive black shotgun.

It was a pump-action-only Vollmer shotgun with a pistol grip and a folding metal stock. The most striking features were a box magazine attachment that looked like it could accept Saiga mags - and a little loading port above said magazine. A little switch was attached to the magwell, which Kraber guessed could switch between the box and tube mags. There was a foregrip attached to the pump, too, with a little flashlight attached.

There was a sidecar on the left side of the shotgun, just opposite to the ejection port, filled with six shells colored flaregun red, emblazoned with images of dragons. A little “flame warning” sign was helpfully written on the sidecar.

Incendiaries? Huh.

The Vollmer looked like it’d been designed back during the Bad Old Days - either for or by someone who really, really loved pump-action shotguns.

...He knows they’re scared of you, but he also told you to guard them with a shotgun, Kraber thought. He’s right, but this is one hell of a mixed message.

“Report,” Romero said evenly.

“One potioneer zeppelin,” one of his officers said evenly. “Standard assault class model, six cannons, standard shields.” He paused. “Looks like a Harvester, sir, but something’s off. It looks a bit… larger.”

Kraber had heard of Harvesters. Short of something like the Blackdog Raids, these were the closest anyone in North America (or the PHL base over in Bermuda) got to action with the Solar Empire main army itself. It was a catchall term for Potioneer ships that combed the fringes of countries that hadn’t been consumed by the Barrier, ponifying scavengers and retreating behind the Barrier before they could suffer serious damage.

The ones in the Atlantic typically focused on fishing vessels. Not only were they easy targets, but it meant less food in the U.S and Canada, and a weaker, more desperate population. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing them this close to the coastline, though.

“Have they seen us?” Kraber asked. Romero threw him a look. “What?”

“Discipline on the bridge, Kraber,” Romero said testily. He looked to one officer, a stately-looking woman with a walking cane. “Renner. Have they spotted us yet?”

“If they haven’t, sir, they soon will,” Renner replied. She limped over to one of the stations, and Kraber could have sworn he heard the sound of a metal leg clunking. “They’re coming directly at us. Think they’re trying to head for Portland.” She paused, frowning. “They’re escorting another ship. Looks like a cargo-zep. Heavy-duty, too.”

Kraber peered through the window, looking past the speck that was the potioneer to see…

Well. He’d never seen anything quite like that before. It was wider and fatter than any zep he’d ever seen, human or pony, looking more like a flying saucer than a dirigible.

“A supply ship?” Romero wondered aloud. “But supplying… what?”

“Nothin’ good, I bet,” Kraber muttered.

Romero didn’t reply to that, but he didn’t contradict Kraber either. Instead, he walked over to Renner.

“I want battle readiness,” he said. “Evacuate the exterior, seal all outer bulkhead doors and prepare to engage the enemy. Testudo protocol.”

Renner nodded, before limping over to the nearest console and picking up a radio.

“This is the XO,” she said. Kraber blinked in mild surprise: he hadn’t met her in all his time here. “All hands, evac top deck and seal outer doors. Prepare for engagement. I want main cannon and auxiliary batteries armed and ready.”

At once, a hail of reports began streaming in: the deck was evacuated in short order, and Kraber could see the ship’s secondary cannons turning. He could also see the potioneer approaching in the distance.

“You’re going to engage them?” Kraber asked, not bothering to keep the derision out of his voice. “She’s a potioneer.”

“And this is a Thunderchild-class ship, the most top-of-the-line naval vessel ever built,” Romero countered, scowling at him. “She was built to take down a potioneer or ten. The first of her class took on twelve before she went down.”

Kraber grimaced: he knew that the Columbia, for all that she was impressive, did not have everything the Thunderchild had been equipped with. If it hadn’t been clear when Romero told him so, it had certainly become clear afterward.

“We’ve refined her, with testing and hard work,” Romero said, apparently catching on to Kraber’s uncertainty. He grinned. “Trust me, Kraber. If Max could take down a Gen 1 Potioneer with a rocket launcher, a knackered cruise ship and a lot of machine guns, I can take this one with the Columbia.”

“Which reminds me,” Kraber said, “Do you need me to grab a rocket launcher? I know how to use a Panzerfaust 3.”

“Nothing so crude as that,” Romero said. “We’re on a ship full of guns. We’re going to use her.” He turned to Renner. “Class and type of potioneer.”

“Metrics say Gen 4 design, enhanced magical shielding grid, enhanced potion and standard cannons,” Renner replied evenly. “The same type that attacked New York two months ago.”

They didn’t take those down, Kraber thought. The PHL spent two weeks cleaning out Newfoals from every nook and cranny they’d gotten in.

He would’ve said it out loud, but… Something didn’t feel right about it. Not in front of Romero. Not after talking as much as he had.

“Whatever Romero used to shut you up, I want some,” Vinyl says jokingly.

“So do half the UNAC and PHL officers in a hundred mile radius,” Yael replies.

“Speaking of which, what do you use for it?” Spitfire asks.

“You don’t want to know,” Kraber says.

Kraber began planning escape routes. Potioneer. That means I’d have to stay aboard… and hope the fokker doesn’t potion the entire crew.

“Airtight seals locked,” Renner reported. “We are now at complete Testudo protocol.”

“Now, three possibilities,” Romero said evenly. “They’re stupid, and think they can take us because they’re ponies and we’re humans and they have Celestia watching over them. Two, they’re smart, and they figure they’d better not try their luck. Or three: they’re really smart, and they have some plan in mind to take us down.”

Kraber wondered whose benefit he was speaking for.

“We’ll find out in a minute,” Romero said quietly. “Stand by, all hands. Activate shields.”

“Activating,” someone said.

A tense moment passed. The radar pinged. You could have heard a pin drop.

Gimme a gunfight any day, Kraber thought, feeling sweat drip down his brow.

“They’ve increased speed in this direction,” someone reported.

“Alright,” Romero said, clapping his hands. “Estimate barrage length to break their shields.”

Someone inputted commands into their console. “Computer says sustained barrage for one minute should do the trick.”

“Alright,” Romero said. “Give them a two minute sustained barrage. Let’s not try our luck too much.”

“Ten seconds to range,” Renner reported. “Weapons standing by.”

Kraber closed his eyes. Alright, I know it’s a little late to ask God to watch over me, but now would be a great time to give me a little luck.

“They’re in range!” Renner yelled.

“Commence firing,” Romero said evenly.

Kraber opened his eyes, in time to see a hail of particle bolts streaming from various cannons, hitting the Potioneer. The zeppelin was firing back, using what looked like conventional weapons, but they were impacting on the shields.

“Enemy shields weakening, exact reading unclear,” one of the officers said. He frowned. “We have boarders inbound.”

“Newfoal?” Romero asked.

“Guard,” the officer replied. He tapped his console. “They’re small enough to evade our particle fire, and they’re going to pass through the shields.”

“Without the Potioneer to protect them, they’ll be stranded anyway,” Romero said. “Get Lucky Strike and her team on standby. Their shields?”

“Still weakening,” Renner said, “one minute left on barrage protocol.”

Romero folded his arms. “Knew they’d have improved. No one’s stagnant for long.”

“Hostile ship is continuing to fire,” Renner said urgently. “Our own shields are weakening.”

“Backup generator on standby,” someone else said.

Suddenly there was a flash of light from the Potioneer, and the particle shots began impacting on the hull.

“Their shields are gone!” Renner confirmed.

“Main cannon, fire!” Romero yelled.

The main cannon let out a near deafening boom. The bridge shook. A single high-power round slammed into the Potioneer, blasting through her primary hull and splitting her clean in two. There was another boom, and then the Potioneer exploded.

“Target destroyed, Captain,” Renner said evenly.

“Good,” Romero said, nodding. “Well done, all. Well done.”

Kraber blinked in disbelief. “I've… never seen HLF take out a potioneer ship like that.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Renner said scathingly, limping past him. “You were with the wrong HLF.”

“No argument here,” Kraber said, nodding. “But… I’ve never even seen the UNAC do that.”

“They do it more than you’d think,” Renner put in. “Kleiner on the Stampede fleet’s got her Prometheus honed down to a perfect killing machine.”

“Their kill count might be ahead of ours, but that’s a statistic I really enjoy trying to beat,” Romero smiled, clapping his hands together. “Alright. Weapons’ station, target the cargo ship.”

“She’s trying to get clear of our weapon’s range,” Renner reported, looking over the weapons’ officer’s shoulder.

“Then don’t let her, Renner,” Romero said seriously. “Big gun. Fire at will.”

“Targeting solution complete,” another officer said. “Firing.”

There was another loud boom, and this time the distant cargo ship suffered an explosion. Kraber saw smoke begin billowing from the blown out engines, and then the cargo ship began slowly descending.

“Plot her angle of descent,” Romero said calmly. “Get Strike’s team and some of the Marines ready for a landing action.” He looked at Kraber. “You’re on the ground team, too, Kraber.”

“You sure?” Kraber asked, frowning. “You not worried I’ll bolt?”

“Bolt where, exactly?” Romero asked with a slightly sardonic smirk. “I might be the only senior person in any organisation who doesn’t want you dead right now.” He raised an eyebrow. “Plus, you’re going to be deployed to an island. Where would you go?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kraber said sarcastically. “Really makes me feel welcome here.”

“You have phenomenal trust issues,” Romero said bluntly.

Kraber nodded, then shrugged. “Too many murder attempts in college. It really sticks with a man..”

“Anyway,” Romero added, “trust is earned. I’m sure you’re doing a fine job so far.”

“Be nice to meet someone else who thinks so,” Kraber muttered.

---

Dancing Day

“He wasn’t wrong,” Kraber says. “A lot of people wanted me dead.”

“So you were with the landing party?” Yael asks. “What happened?”

Kraber lets out a sigh. “Well…”

---

Kraber

“She’s heading for Matinicus Island,” Romero said to the landing team as they geared up. “There’s a small town on the island: ideal for conversion if the survivors on that cargo ship want raw material. You should aim to prevent that and protect the civilians at all costs.”

“Any UNAC on the island, sir?” Lucky Strike asked.

“None that I’m aware of, though that means very little,” Romero said heavily. “But you have to presume your team is on its own.”

“Which can be good, or can be bad,” a Marine with an English accent and a bristling moustache said, a red beret perched upon his head.

Romero nodded. He motioned to Kraber. “Ladies, gentlemen, this is Trooper Viktor Kraber. I believe you’re familiar with the reputation.”

There were scattered mutterings.

“Viktor,” Romero continued. He motioned to the troops. “You know Commander Strike. This,” he said, motioning to the Englishman, “is Lieutenant Marcus Schaefer, former paratrooper.”

He said ‘Lieutenant’ in the British style, crisp and sharp.

“Mr Kraber,” Schaefer said, nodding in a passable attempt at amiability. “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

Kraber nodded.

“There’s Kerkonen,” Romero said, pointing to Louis, who gave Kraber a short nod. “And Prisma.”

He pointed to a white unicorn mare with a mane in various shades of light blue and purple.

“Then there’s Troopers Samuels and Kent,” Romero continued, pointing out two more troops, neither of whom were particularly distinctive (apart from a small scar under Kent’s right eye), “and Specialist Payne.”

Payne was a woman with a fauxhawk and a smirk, a Norse symbol on her chestplate. “Ready for action, Little Vicky?”

“Does EVERYBODY have to fokkin’ call me that?!” Kraber yelled. Fokkin’ typical.

“Well, we don’t have to,” Payne said. “We could call you Vik instead-”

“That’s even worse! It makes me sound like Vic Mignogna!” Kraber yelled.

“Vicky it is,” Payne said.

“Go on,” Kraber said. “Tell the remorseless fokkin’ psychopath you should’ve let drown-” he glared at Kent - “Why it’s a good idea to keep doing it. To his face. I dare you. I fokkin’ dare you. I double fokkin’ dare you, k-”

“Because you’re in front of all of us,” Kent said blandly. “Seems a bit redundant to do it when you’re not.”

Kraber’s eyes bulged, but some small part of him couldn’t help but think: huh. That… is not terrible logic.

“And because you need a little humbling,” Lucky Strike put in from behind him. “Or do you think you’re hard done to, Mr Kraber?”

No, Kraber thought. Honestly, this is better than I could’ve reasonably expected.

“Think you’re being unfairly treated?” Lucky Strike continued, angrily. “Maybe that you deserve us all being really nice about you and how you’ve killed so m-”

“Enough of this,” Romero said evenly, cutting them all off. “You’ve all made your points clear. You all know the mission, Strike. It’s yours.” He looked at Strike. “I expect you all to make it back in one piece.” He lowered his head, and his look became a glare. “I hope you take my meaning, Commander.”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Strike said evenly. “We’re professionals.”

Somehow, Lucky Strike’s comment made Kraber angrier. But - in an action he had not performed in so long that he could be considered as needing physical therapy - he choked it down.

“I mean what I say, Commander,” Romero said evenly. He looked Kraber in the eye. “As for you, Viktor. Do your job, don’t backchat, and don’t go off the rails. This is your chance to show everyone what you can do.” He leaned a touch closer to Kraber. “This is where you start trying to prove people wrong about you, Viktor. Don’t disappoint me.”

Kraber nodded slowly. “Yes. Sir.”

“One other thing,” Romero said, now speaking so only Kraber could hear. “Strike already knows this, but be careful of any UNAC you encounter.”

Kraber frowned. “They’re on our side, aren’t they?”

“Nothing’s that black and white,” Romero replied. “They’re on our side as an organisation, but individually? You never know if you’re dealing with one who thinks we’re scum just for being HLF or one who’s fought and bled with us.” He smiles. “Which is why I say be careful.”

With that, Romero left the room, and Lucky Strike moved to the head of the room.

They’re going to let me die, some part of Kraber thought. I just know it.

“Don’t worry, Little Vicky,” Payne put in, as though reading his thoughts. “If the Captain says jump, we jump high as he likes. He wants you to come back, we’ll see it happen. Nothin’ personal, mind you.”

“Personally,” Schaefer put in, “I just want this bloody job done with. I have a game of Skype chess going on with a mare called Chalcedony and this whole thing interrupted it.”

“Well, I’m sorry we’re interrupting Lieutenant,” Strike cut him off. “I guess we can postpone saving those civvies and killing those Imperial cunts for when you’re feeling good and ready.”

Payne and Kent chuckled. Samuels stayed resolutely silent.

“So,” Strike continued. “The mission.” She sighed. “Potioneer went up in smoke so there’s no chance that we can retrieve anything, but the cargo ship might have valuable intel. We are going to go, eliminate survivors, act to protect the civilians from ponification if possible, and terminate the Newfoals if otherwise. Any questions?”

“One,” Kraber said. “Are we it?”

Payne hefted her weapon, an ATC-branded, bulky-looking thing. “This baby is ‘it’.”

“Is that a Type-7?” Kraber asked.

“A modded Type-7,” Payne replied. “We call it the ‘Sam Yarrow Special’. Standard Newfoals don’t have shields that stand up to her, they fry their brains trying. Guards take one shot before their shield goes, and then they’re either picked off by the squad or fried by my second shot.”

“Added to that, I’ll be bringing my favourite MOD-3,” Louis said. “If they have heavy ordnance, they won’t.”

“You’ll be on suppression, Kraber,” Strike said to Kraber. “I’m gonna trust you know how to suppress properly, Kraber?”

She put a lot of emphasis on that word.

“That’ll be… pretty difficult with a shotgun,” Kraber said, looking down at his shotgun.

“Then we’ll get you an M249,” Strike said, rolling her eyes. “We will have time to gear up, Mr Kraber. We’re professionals. How about you?”

Kraber took a deep breath. Prove you’re trying to change, Viktor.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Uh, ma’am.”

“I hope so, Kraber, for your sake,” Strike said, a slight smirk on her face. “‘Cos the Captain’s not as forgiving as I am.”

“Thirty,” Schaefer said quietly.

“What?” Kraber asked.

“Star Wars References,” the man replied blandly. “That’s the thirtieth one that either Payne or Strike have come out with since I’ve served with them. We keep count.”

“We don’t get nearly enough rec room time,” Payne added solemnly.

---

The helicopters sped towards Matinicus Island - a little, scrubby, pine-covered island in the middle of the ocean. Kraber couldn’t quite bring himself to say the assortment of buildings that he saw qualified as a town - they were spaced so far apart, with so many nearby trees, that it looked less like a town and more like buildings that just happened to be nearby.

The potioneer had made an emergency landing on the southern coast of the island, on a gray, sandy beach. Kraber could see confused-looking Solar Empire military, rushing out of the flaming wreck, carrying weapons.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Lucky Strike called over, and both choppers swung to the side, just as a few half-hearted blasts of raw magic lanced past them.

“Don’t you have shields for these or something?!” Kraber yelled.

“It’s still best we don’t get hit!” Strike replied, as they circled towards the harbor - which was currently crowded with people on boats, including one slow, massive sea cow of a ferry. “We might need shields later!”

“They’re evacuating,” Strike said calmly. “Good.”

“That’s not good,” Kraber retorted. “That means there’s something worth evacuating from.”

“Not necessarily,” Schaefer said. “Could just be standard procedure.”

“You’re both right,” Strike said grimly, nodding at Kraber. “Good call, Trooper.”

“Uh, thanks,” Kraber said. “Ma’am.”

Beams and spheres of raw magic roared overhead as the helicopters rushed towards the main harbor.

The closer they got to the harbor, the more it seemed like the Solar Empire troops were only taking potshots at them. A beam of magic from a Sunspear lanced through the air, a full thirty feet from them. Kraber had a sigh of relief, and only then did he realize he’d been holding his breath.

The houses below their helicopter drew closer and closer. Soon, Kraber could distinguish individual shingles on the roofs. On the streets between the houses, Kraber could see a few stragglers rushing for the ferry. A beat-up car that looked fifty years old rumbled towards the ferry, belching smoke from the exhaust. It was just close enough that Kraber almost felt like he could jump on to the roof. As Kraber watched, it rushed by a man in a battered safety vest that looked like it’d been orange once upon a time.

The helicopter drew closer to the ground.

“Move it, people!” Strike called out, as the helicopter’s skids sunk into the grass. The whirling rotors grew quieter by the second. “Without us, this island gets erased!”

She was the first out of the chopper, landing in the grass with both forehooves.

And immediately, all eyes were on her. It wasn’t as if the evacuees hadn’t noticed the helicopter, but a pony stepping out of one? That immediately commanded attention.

“Take a picture, people, it’ll last longer!” Strike called out, irritated, before motioning for the squad to disembark.

The man in the battered vest rushed up to her. He looked a bit out-of-shape, and in a shoulder holster he wore an ancient-looking revolver.

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “It’s you! We were hoping you’d come, with-”

“Yes, it’s us,” Lucky Strike said. “The-”

“And we’re so lucky to have PHL on-”

“Commander Lucky Strike, HLF ID Nought Nought Six dash Nought One Seven One,” Lucky Strike said blandly, with only the slightest of stresses on HLF. “We’re with Ex Astris Victoria.”

The man in the vest blinked. The emotion on his face was not disappointment, not exactly, but he looked more confused than anything. Kraber imagined his thoughts:

A pegasus? The HLF? This kitted out?

Lucky Strike ignored it all the same, instead motioning to her squad.

“Kent, co-ordinate with the evac - keep these people out from under hoof,” she said.

“Ma’am,” Kent replied with an easy nod.

“Payne, Prisma, Kerkonen, Vicky,” Strike continued, giving Kraber a pointed look that practically screamed do not question me calling you this, asshole, “take point and scout out the enemy position. Kerkonen, you’ve got the explosives, so grab the MOD-3. Anything those assholes try to field, anything that looks like it’ll get them off this island, blow it the fuck up.”

“Ma’am,” Payne said.

“Samuels, Schaefer, you’re with me,” Lucky Strike continued. She turned to the man. “What’s your sitrep?”

“No casualties so far, but that won’t last if they get in range of the ferry. Most everyone lives near the harbor, but we managed to get most everyone out of the way when it was clear they were going to make landfall,” the man said.

“Alright,” Strike nodded. “Schaefer and Samuels, you’re on perimeter, help keep this evacuation going.”

“Yes ma’am,” Schaefer said crisply.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and hope you’re supposed to have UNAC here,” Strike said, turning back to the man with a wry smirk. “Local defence of some kind?”

“There’s only eighty-three people on the island, and the UNAC are over in Portland,” he said.

“Which has just had a shitshow happen,” Kraber muttered.

Somehow, he didn’t think Portland was ever truly going to stop haunting him. The alleged defenders of humanity had blown up a city - caused damage on the same scale of the Solar Empire on a good day.

“The assumption was we’d all try to do it,” the man continued. “But…. us? Against an entire potioneer?”

Lucky’s smile stayed on her face, but it became a mite more fixed and irritated looking. “Well, vishante kaffas. Looks like we just became your new best friends. I’ll try to call in support. For now, though, we are the support.”

Schaefer and Samuels walked over to the man in the vest. Meanwhile, Payne motioned for Kraber, Prisma, and Louis to follow.

“This is gonna fokkin’ suck,” Kraber said grimly.

“It won’t be as bad as some,” Louis said from next to him. “Remind me to tell you about Hadley’s Hope sometime.”

“Was it as bad as Prometheus?” Kraber asked.

“I don’t know,” Prisma said. “I mean, I’ve never heard of a-”

“You know, you really have to stop,” Louis said. “The pop culture references are really getting out of hand.”

“Now there are two of them,” Prisma said flatly. Louis gave her a dirty look. She grinned at him.

“That count as Thirty-One?” Kraber asked.

“Only counts if Lucky or I say it,” Payne answered with a wink. “Now get ready, ladies. This is where the fun begins.”

“That was thirty-one,” Louis said, as they headed for a stand of pine trees. “We’ll have to let Strike know.”

“Now keep quiet,” Payne said, as the four of them stalked through the thick pines. Between them, Kraber could see old houses, seemingly untouched by PHL newtech, looking the same as they must have forty or fifty or eighty years ago.

No wonder there was barely anyone here, Kraber thought. This really is the middle of nowhere.

“Prisma, you see anything?” Payne asked.

The unicorn stared through the trees, her eyes glowing softly.

“It looks like they’re using the ship as a base,” Prisma said. “They’ve wheeled a bunch of equipment out. Definitely enough to steamroll the island, but…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Not what I want to hear,” Payne whispered. “What do we have?”

Prisma didn’t reply. Instead she motioned for them to take cover.

“Crates,” she whispered. “They’re wheeling out big crates. I don’t know what’s in ‘em, but they’re shaking. Whoever is in there, he cannot be good.”

“He?!” Kraber hissed.

“Shit,” Louis said. “You don’t think they were carrying heavies?”

“If they were a consignment meant for Shieldwall’s unit, maybe?” Prisma said. “Bastard always has a few on standby.”

“What do you think they’re planning on, Payne?” Kraber asked.

The fauxhawked woman held her chin, deep in thought. “Hmmm. The nearest Solar Empire outpost would be a couple thousand miles away.”

“And Matinicus isn’t that… survivable,” Kraber interrupted.

Payne glared at him, but she nodded. “Do you mean because of land, or because it’s in spitting distance of the East Coast?”

“Yes,” Kraber said.

“So they know they can’t make a base. My best guess is, they’re going to try to clear off the island first so they can repair the ship or its lifeboats, then make a break for it,” Payne said. “And probably kill off the ferry.”

That would be bad, Kraber thought, and he was surprised at how unfamiliar that thought was.

That… would be bad.

Yeah.

But somehow, this didn’t quite make sense to Kraber. He had no evidence.

I feel like I’m missing something.

“Louis,” Payne said, “remember what Strike said - see anything that looks suspicious, you blow it up.”

“Actually, ma’am,” Louis grinned, “she said ‘blow it the fuck up’.”

“Semantics, Mister Karkonen?” Payne asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling at him. “Really?”

Louis just smiled. “Just making sure we know the degrees of difference, ma’am.”

“What’s our next move?” Kraber asked.

“We need to have a better shot at the Potioneer,” Payne said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a map of the island. “There’s a little hill to the east, overlooking the crash site. We take that hill, get a good look at the island, and neutralize them.”

“Question, though,” Kraber said. “Why aren’t we just calling the Columbia to blow up the wreckage?”

“You’re asking that now?” Louis asked.

“I just went along with it cause I was happy to get off the ship, bust some heads, and get some fresh air,” Kraber said.

“You call this-” Prisma started, “No. God, you need professional help. If you didn’t, you’d clearly be able to see-”

Kraber’s temper flared. Was she fokkin’ mocking him?!

“No, no,” Payne said. “I’d like to see this as a learning experience. See, some of the materials you can get from a Solar Empire ship are worth their weight in gold. To PHL Enchanted gasbag cloth, wood, metal… they use magic for everything.”

“Same goes for Columbia,” Prisma added. “She’s got a lot of stuff that’s meant to have enchanted metal instead of the regular stuff. Hampers her functionality if we don’t have enough.”

“And even if she didn’t,” Payne finished, “we still need that stuff for research, for new tech, new armor. You can make a lot of money out there selling this to us or the PHL-”

Kraber had heard of that, admittedly.

“No, Lovikov never told us that was an option,” he said. “He said he’d rather die than get money from horsefuckers.”

Everyone stared at him.

“That’s like cutting your throat to stop shaving,” Prisma said, so amazed she couldn’t even be disgusted. “I mean, Commander Strike doesn’t like the PHL that much, but even she sells to them.”

There’s definitely a story behind that one, Kraber thought, but he put it out of his mind. She probably wouldn’t tell him, and there were more important things to discuss right now.

“You’ve all praat 'n gat innie kop how that could be the Menschabwehrfraktion motto if you wrote it in Latin,” he sighed.

“We what now?” Prisma asked, confused.

Kraber smirked a little. He liked keeping people off-balance by making them wonder what he was saying, now and then.

“What I’m saying is, you went and convinced me,” he said.

“You’re really telling me you’re that myopic?” Prisma asked.

Kraber ignored the implication as they made their way towards the hill.

“I thought the rumors I was hearing from some of my friends that stayed in touch were bad,” Louis said, breathing a sigh of relief. “No extra cash from salv? That seems like a pretty good way to keep you tied down.”

“I almost wouldn’t have believed it,” Payne said. “I… don’t like to think anyone would be that willing to shoot themselves in the foot in earnest.”

“What if they are though?” Prisma asked.

“Either they’re taking advantage of other people that are, or they’re a flash in the pan,” Payne said. “Not that damaging.”

But Kraber didn’t buy that.

Lovikov wasn’t a flash in the pan. He couldn’t imagine that man not clinging to power with ev-

“Ohhhhh, shit,” Prisma said, staring through a gap in the trees.

“What?” Payne asked.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Prisma said. “It’s… bad.”

---

Now that he had a closer look, Kraber could see that this was clearly not just any potioneer ship. Kraber had seen the photos of Harvesters, of potioneers attacking New York, fought during the Solar Empire’s abortive Blackdog Raids.

It was… bigger. Much, much bigger than any of them. The gasbag was strangely lumpier, and there were additional sections that seemed welded onto it.

And ponies, a few zebras, marching along a defensive perimeter outside didn’t behave like they expected a few fishing boats that might have a rocket launcher or something. They’d set up spears, horn amplifiers, and other weapons every few meters.

The crates Prisma had mentioned sat outside. Milling around in front of them were the most horrendous newfoals Kraber had ever seen. There were megacorns of course - less Unicorns than horse-sized ponies with what might have been oversized Unicorn horns sprouting, not from their foreheads, but from the centre of their spines, the horrific growth tearing the flesh where it met the pony’s coats. Their posture was arched, like a cat, and they seemed to hobble as they walked, yet all the while their faces were smiling. But there were others as well - spitters, recognisable by the ugly, lumpy glands underneath their jaws that looked like a cross between ballsacks and tumours. Then there was a small collection of what might have been regular Newfoals if it weren’t for the lack of eyes in their empty sockets.

“Crap,” Payne whispered. “Are those Shriekers?”

“Shriekers?” Kraber repeated.

“First appeared at Fairport,” Payne explained. “They’re… I don’t know what you’d call it, but they can see even without eyes, and they’re ridiculously fast. Plus, y’know, shrieking.”

“Yeah, figured that part from the name,” Kraber muttered.

“What the hell are they even here for?!” Prisma hissed.

“We’d know if it was an invasion,” Payne said. “This…”

“They might have been a replacement for Cairn’s group?” Louis put in. Payne and Prisma looked at him askance. “What? I read the briefings.”

“Cairn’s group was a platoon of Guard to back up a largely PER and Newfoal group,” Payne snorted. “This… this is more force than fucking Instrument lost at Fairport, and that was a whole damn battalion. It’s…”

“Like they’re planning something big,” Kraber cut in. “My guess is, there’s some base they wanted to transfer them to.”

“Shieldwall, I bet,” Prisma hissed. “Bastard seems to be behind everyone’s troubles these days.”

“Call it in,” Louis suggested.

Payne nodded, before tapping her headset. “Columbia Two to Columbia One, come in, over.”

There was nothing but static.

“Say again, this is Columbia Two for Columbia One, over,” Payne said, looking over at Louis.

Still nothing.

“They must be jamming us!” Payne hissed, lowering her hand. “Bastards!”

“How? They can’t know we’re here,” Kraber said.

“It’s standard procedure,” Prisma said quietly. “Shit, I thought we’d adapted our frequencies to overcome it.”

“Apparently they fixed that up around the same time they bulked out their shields,” Payne said. “Now what the fuck do we do?”

Louis looked at her, then the Imperial column. “Alright, Payne. Get back to the port. We’ll hold them off.”

Payne blinked. “No, I’m not leaving you all -”

“You need to warn Lucky Strike that there’s the best part of a whole Division on this island!” Prisma hissed. “This is bigger than one team can deal with.”

Payne hesitated for a moment, before nodding.

“Good luck,” she said, before turning and jogging off.

Once she was a good distance away, Louis turned to Kraber.

“If you’ve any advice about how to go about blowing this shit up,” he said, “I’d very much like to hear it, Mr Kraber.”

“You’re asking him?” Prisma said almost reflexively, but she shook her head and waved one hoof absently as soon as she said it. “Never mind. It’s Viktor Kraber, of course you’re asking him.”

“I’m more an expert on riddling things with bullets than blowing them up,” Kraber replies evenly, trying not to feel slighted by either her indignation at Louis asking for his advice or her immediate assumption that he knew the most about killing of any of them. Especially since the last part was, unfortunately, true. “But that being the case, I’d recommend blowing up the Newcalf as a priority. I don’t know about ‘Shriekers’, but Spitters and Megacorns die to bullets a lot easier than a Newcalf does.”

“Shriekers are faster than any other variant we’ve seen,” Prisma replied, “but you’re right, they’re brittle as shit if you actually hit them.” She looked at Louis. “You heard our expert, Louis.”

Louis nodded. “Right then. Boom time.”

Kraber watched Louis aiming the MOD-3. The thing was, simply put, enormous, to the point Kraber wondered how the manufacturer expected anyone to carry it.

Was it built for minotaurs or something?

Louis fired.

The first shot roared through the air, trailing fuel. It rammed into a megacorn, which simply evaporated into pinkish and purple mist.

It went wrong almost immediately.

Kraber heard shouts of alarm from the Solar Empire forces arrayed below, watching them frantically rush from place to place, swiveling the sunspears and ballistas wildly in any direction. Beams of sunlight, of raw magic, all lanced out into the sparse forest and fields of the island.

“-apes-”

“-found us-”

Kraber sighted in his M249. It was much lighter than what he was used to, and much more controllable.

The two follow-up shots slowed down, suddenly, unexpectedly, before coming to a complete stop a meter above the ground. Behind Louis’ transparent faceplate, Kraber could see his mouth forming a little ‘o,’ as in:

“OH, SHIT!” Louis yelled.

The two rockets tumbled in midair, and roared back towards their position, roughly.

Nobody gave the order. All Kraber knew was that one second, the three of them were standing there, the next they were pelting north back towards the little half-town at the port, flames licking at the back of his armor.

A sunspear stretched out overhead, grasping a pine tree in fire. It spontaneously bloomed and burst into flame, multicolored flowers exploding out from the bark and branches even as the tree burst into flame.

They didn’t know where they were going. All Kraber knew was that he wanted to be anywhere that the Solar Empire forces weren’t. Kraber let loose a few halfhearted bursts from his M249, knowing full well they wouldn’t hit anything.

Kraber stole a glance over his shoulder. The Solar Empire forces were galloping along behind them. He could see one stallion limping (had he hit a leg?) but that was the extent of the damage he’d done. If they got him, he wouldn’t just be dead. He would be worse than dead.

Kraber heard something bellow behind him. Felt the hoof-falls of something fokkin’ enormous stampeding towards them with all the kinetic energy and subtlety of a chainsaw or an avalanche.

Louis looked over his shoulder. Swung the MOD-3, the heavy weapon shaking.

“I can still make th-”

“FOKKING RUN!” Kraber yelled, his throat raw.

Louis didn’t listen, turning around to fire again. He looked over his shoulder, grasping the carry handle in his left hand, the pistol grip in his lef-

And then Louis took a crossbow bolt to the shoulder. He stumbled back. Kraber took a deep breath, ready to yell, to shoot him in the face to stop the potion from spreading, anything.

No no no no-

Kraber turned around,

Louis stood back up, his grip on the MOD-3 steadying. The body armor had held. Louis picked himself up, aiming the MOD-3 for the next newfoal.

Kraber sighed in relief, his M249 rattling as he sprayed lead downrange. They could do this. They could win.

Just then, Louis took another crossbow bolt, this one hitting a softer, lighter-armored part of his hardsuit. He let loose another volley, but the MOD-3 in his hands sagged a little.

“I’m fine!” Louis yelled. “I’m-”

Obviously, he wasn’t fine.

He began to shake. Kraber couldn’t see what was happening inside Louis’s suit, but he knew.

“LOUIS!” Kraber yelled. “LOUIS, NO!”

“They… fff….. F… bucking… got... m…” Louis wheezed, cracks spiderwebbing across his helmet’s faceplate.

Kraber knew from experience what was happening. Under the suit, Louis’ body would’ve been shaking, and running and dripping like a lit candle. He would’ve been in intense pain. From everything Kraber knew, the process of ponifying was absolute agony.

For a moment, it felt like Kraber was watching Emil there again. Kraber had never heard Emil’s last words. Not as Emil.

But he would hear the last words of one Louis Kerkonen:

“DO IT!” Louis screamed, as a shell from one of the potioneer ship’s salvaged cannons impacted the ground, sending grass flying and leaving a crater. The barrels of the MOD-3 swung towards Kraber. “THEY… WANT…”

So Kraber unholstered the pistol Romero gave him, letting the M249 hang at his side. He slowly walked up to the Ex Astris Victoria member, placing it to Louis’ throa, angling it upwards ever so slightlyt. He vaguely remembered from Lovikov’s lessons that the neck was always the lightest-armored part on people with really good armor.

He fired. The pistol had been set to incendiary, and burned through Louis’ skull.

Louis didn’t make a sound. His body fell to the ground, his helmet rolling off the charred stump of what used to be his lower jaw.

I should really be feeling something right now, Kraber thought, his knees buckling.

But Kraber didn’t look at it. Nothing crossed his mind.

And he grabbed the MOD-3. Aimed one of the rockets Prisma had enchanted for the shambling Newcalf as it struggled towards them. He fired.

There was a moment of almost-silence before the explosion. Gobbets of stuff, red and nasty, landed all around them.

Damn, Kraber thought.

The rest of the Imperials took cover, and at that moment, Kraber made an executive decision.

“We need to leave,” he said to a stunned Prisma. “Now.”

Before she could reply, he had shouldered his weapon and picked her up bodily. She was a lot heavier than he’d imagined, but adrenaline and desperation fuelled him.

Prisma wasn’t limp in his arms. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably as Kraber sprinted across the island.

He stumbled a little. His legs scrabbled against the ground, he pitched forwards…

But he

“GON FIND, APE!” something bellowed from behind him. Kraber assumed it was one of the grotesque mutant newfoals. It sounded like something had taught a bellows to talk, and it came out impossibly deep and twisted, pulling syllables to their breaking points. “DIE, NOW, YOU!”

Kraber stole a quick glance down at Prisma.

And they should be cute, he thought. Who… what fokkin’ varknaaier thought…

“YOU TOO, MONKEYBUCKER!” someone else yelled.

I can’t fight an entire army, Kraber thought. Gonna… need… support….

---

They hadn’t gotten far enough but it was all Kraber could do to find a hollow to hide them in. There was a tree that’d grown over a boulder, and the root system was just tall enough to hide them both.

Kraber had collapsed against the rock. The little town wasn’t too far, but….

My everything hurts… Kraber thought, panting like a dog.

He looked down to Prisma. The alabaster unicorn was only just stirring, but she was shaking, staring at him in rage.

“You… you killed him,” Prisma whispered. “YOU KILLED HIM, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“He was being ponified,” Kraber hissed. “Now shut up or we’re fokkin’ dead!”

That shut her up. She blinked, before letting out a deep, raggedy breath that might have been a sob. Kraber watched her, suddenly aware of how awkward this was. He had been with men and women who had a moment of just breaking - how could he not have? There was barely anyone in the ‘Fraktion who counted as a ‘professional’. Yet for some reason, this pony…

This pony, he realised. He pursed his lips, feeling a sudden wave of… what was it, exactly? Shame? Guilt? How many of her kind have I butchered while they cried? How many of her friends?

But right now, he couldn’t fix that. All he could do - all he could do - was be here for her now. To his surprise, he found himself reaching out and patting her on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He was… he was a good guy. He deserved better.”

“It… it doesn’t get easier,” Prisma whispered, her eyes squeezed closed. “He wasn’t the first friend I’ve seen go that way.”

“Me neither,” Kraber said, nodding. He thought back - Emil was the most recent example of a friend dying, but hardly the only one. How many friends had died as… as something else?

“Fuckdammit,” Prisma whispered. “Why does this have to happen? What the fuck happened to us?! Why the fuck are we even here?!”

It would become clear that she wasn’t talking about the two of them, under this tree. After some thought, Kraber would realize that she was talking about being on Earth,

“All very good questions for when we’re not in a fokkin’ warzone,” Kraber said quietly. Prisma scowled at him, and he held both hands up. “Look, I get that I’m not exactly brilliant at being reassuring, but if we don’t move, try to connect back up with Strike, we will die here. And you do not get to do that, y’hear me?”

“Why the fuck not?” Prisma hissed. “I’m a bucking ‘gluestick’ to you, aren’t I?”

Kraber paused, swallowing back whatever angry retorts he might have had. It felt remarkably easy.

“No,” he said after a moment. “You’re Prisma. You’re my teammate. And I’m getting you home, if it fokkin’ kills me.”

Prisma paused at that.

“Why?” she asked. “What… after everyone else you’ve killed, what makes me so special?”

“Well-”

Kraber stopped. It’d all sounded so logical at first. But, in all honesty…

“I don’t know,” Kraber said. “I know how that sounds. But… I’ve always gotten the shit end of the stick-”

“Don’t you mean short end?” Prisma interrupted.

“No,” Kraber said. “But when it comes to trust, I’ve never been lucky. People have tried to hurt me ever since I could piss standing up. And the last four years, that’s been… well-earned. I’ve been a kontgesig. There’s no way around that. But…”

“But what?” Prisma asked.

“But in the last month or so, some funny things happened,” Kraber said. “I couldn’t let a pony die. And it was like… everything fell apart, then. Lovikov humiliated me in front of most of the camp. And then I had to desert during the attack on the Sorghum, and when I was at the hospital…”

The words flowed out like a dam had burst.

“...when I was at the hospital, there was this pony who put complete trust in me. Her name was Nebula,” Kraber said. “And you know what she got? She lost a wing. Because she trusted me. I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

He looked down towards Prisma.

“You’re not just another pony,” Kraber said. “You’re my chance to do something right, for once in the last few years.”

Prisma looked at him, eyes wide.

“Oh,” she said. “I-”

And then the world became heat and pain.

---

Kraber was sitting around a campfire. Around this fire, there sat others - a pair of men in black trench coats and gas-masks, another Kraber who looked almost exactly like Kraber, and a figure in massive, bulky armour that looked straight out of Warhammer.

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” one of the ones in gas masks said.

“Meeting like what?” Kraber asked.

“Like this,” the other him said tiredly. “Starting to become a fokkin’ bad habit.”

“But hey,” the other gas-mask wearing Kraber said. “At least you’re alive, right? Better than us two.” He motioned to himself and the first gas-mask wearing Kraber. “We’ve been dead for years.”

“‘Technically’ dead,” the first amended, at Kraber’s look of surprise. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Better than he’s going to be,” the second motioned to the other Kraber.

Kraber frowned, feeling altogether confused. The other him sighed.

“It’s a long story, chommie,” he said tiredly. “And I’m too fokkin’ old and miserable to tell it. At least you got to spend some time with HLF who aren’t all fokkin’ natural disaster villains.”

“Aren’t what?”

“Also a long story.”

Kraber wet his lips. “So… is it good? Me being with Romero and the Columbia?”

“Fokked if I know, Viktor,” the other-him said. “I lived in a world where the HLF were all scum, the PHL did what the fok they wanted without consequence, and everything ended really, really fokkin’ horribly.” He smirked.

“Really? The PHL doing whatever they wanted without consequence? Like they don’t already?” Kraber asked, rolling his eyes.

“This,” the other-him said, “I’d take this in a heartbeat over what I had. In your world… do the PHL run everything?”

Kraber paused to think about that. “Well…”

“Are they at every level of government?” the other-him asked. “Do they make the laws?”

Kraber shook his head. “Don’t think so. UNAC are, but they technically are the government so…”

“At least where you are, the HLF are more good than bad, the PHL - or is it UNAC where you are?” the other-him asked.

“Technically both.”

“Both then - they get held to account when someone in their ranks is a fokkin’ kontgesig, and there’s a chance in hell that it won’t end all moer for you all.”

“… I don’t want to know, do I?” Kraber asked.

“When did wanting to know or not know matter?” the other Kraber asked. “We still got stuck with this kont anyway.”

He jabbed a finger at the armoured figure, who had stayed resolutely silent.

“Speaking of, kontgesig,” the first gas mask wearing Kraber said, “why the fok are you being so quiet? Normally when you’re here it’s all ‘rarr, my Master will shit in your cornflakes, your toast has been burned, and no amount of scraping will remove the black parts’.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” the figure replied, his helmet distorting his words. “Your doom is already decided, and by Others than me. Your time of reckoning is at hand.”

“Oh, stop being fokkin’ portentous,” Kraber said. “I get that I’m hallucinating or dreaming or whatever, but can I at least have something that has hot women, hotter men, decent beer or all three?”

There was a chorus of laughter at that.

“No such luck, chommie,” the other him said. “But hey, look on the bright side. You’ve got an advantage we don’t.”

“Which is what?” Kraber asked.

“The watchmare,” the armoured figure said.

“The who?” Kraber asked. But before he could get an answer -

---

When he came to, Kraber almost shot up, feeling a sudden wave of terror. Had they captured him? Was he -?

“Sssh!” a voice hissed from near his head.

A tall grey mare in a battered brown cloak was hiding next to him, crouched among the trees. She had one hoof gently laid on Prisma, whose breathing was shallow, and she was looking over the injured mare with a gentle expression. The fur was scorched off of her.

Kraber couldn’t tell what kind of pony the newcomer was. She was tall, for sure, but there were tall ponies of every race. Then a horn poked out from under her tatty hood, and he realised he was with a Unicorn.

Fok, he thought.

“Who are -” he began.

“Ssh,” the mare hissed again, holding a hoof to her mouth. “You will bring them down on our heads, and while you may have a death wish, I most certainly do not.”

Her accent was unfamiliar - vaguely Gaelic, if you could say that about a pony’s natural accent.

Kraber pauses. “Actually, why do so many ponies sound American?”

“That is a linguist’s nightmare,” Heliotrope says sagely. “Best to avoid it.”

“The better question is why Equestrian Standard sounds so much l-” Kraber starts.

“No no no,” Aegis says. “We do not talk about that.”

The unknown mare looked around, before returning her attention to Prisma. The unicorn’s eyes were widening.

“T… they…” she was trying to speak, her breathing increasingly laboured. “W… we have… we have to…”

“Gently, little pony,” the other mare said quietly. “You’ve fought bravely. Rest now. I will see that your task is done.”

Prisma’s eyes widened fractionally, and then with a final, gurgling rattle, she slumped.

“She’s…” Kraber said, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“She’s gone, yes,” the mare said quietly. She looked up. “And we may join her if we are not quiet and careful.”

“Well we can’t just sit here,” Kraber hissed back. “We have to do something about that Imperial division. They’ll overwhelm the dock!”

“Thank you, human, I am aware of the situation,” the mare said, risking a peek through the trees. “Hm. A single Newcalf remains, but no spitters, and only three Megacorns. They must have been travelling lightly. Or you managed to do more damage than you anticipated.”

“We killed a lot of their heavier gear,” Kraber said.

“Indeed?” the mare asked, looking back at him. “Then you are to be congratulated on your success, despite your losses. You have made both our tasks somewhat easier.”

Kraber frowned at her. “You a PHL operative or some kak like that?”

Now that would be just typical.

A PHL Operative, or God help him, an Agent, meant bad news. Not just for him, but for everyone else, too. Kraber had heard plenty of rumours about Operatives and Agents. Individual Operatives tended to have a lot of leeway - taking on their own missions, often having very little, if any, contact with PHL command. Agents were even higher on the chain, with the kind of pull that a less charitable person might compare to a classic Men In Black kind of vibe. It was the kind of leeway - and utter lack of scrutiny - the Spader HLF wished it had, and the kind that would in all likelihood shatter the Carter HLF in less than a year.

If one was here? That meant trouble.

“Their goals and mine align, but no,” the mare replied, shattering that thought process like cheap glass. “Mine interests are more long-term than theirs, most of the time.”

Kraber didn’t even really register the archaic turn of phrase, so caught up he was in what she had said.

“‘Long term’?” he repeated. “More long term than winning the war? How’s that possible?”

“Irrelevant,” the mare said. She turned to look at him for a moment, before sighing. “There are several ways we can go about this, but few of them maintain mine secrecy.”

“Is that important?” Kraber asked.

“Well, I happen to think so,” the mare replied, frowning. “And while I agree that such things can seem somewhat subjective depending on your point of view… well, let me just say, it is not just ego that calls mine work important.”

Kraber rolled his eyes. She’s definitely some sort of PHL. That’s the ego for it.

“You are still armed,” the mare said after a moment. “I will attempt to draw them off and engage the worst of their forces. You can make it back to the rest of your group by then.”

“Oh, will you really?” Kraber asked, rolling his eyes. “All one of you?”

“Yes,” she replied evenly.

“What, just like that? No prob, Bob?” Kraber said, feeling a wave of incredulousness threaten to break even his extraordinary levels of bullshit tolerance.

“Mine name is not ‘Bob’,” she said shortly.

Kraber snorted. “Oh, sorry. Are there some who call you ‘Tim’?”

“Mine name is not ‘Tim’ either,” the mare said, smiling, “though if you really want to call me that, I would not object.” She paused, and then added wistfully. “I have never had a nickname before.”

Kraber wet his lips. “Phil. I’m going to call you Phil.”

“... why?” the mare asked.

“Because I’ve lost control of my life,” Kraber said, eyes wide and voice unnaturally light.

The mare - ‘Phil’ - simply shrugged. “That, human, implies you ever had it to begin with.” Her expression hardened. “And in mine travels, I’ve learned that nopony - no being - has the control in their life that they think they do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kraber asked.

The mare smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile at best. “I have seen the worst excesses of this Empire. The burning of Adlaborn, the fall of the Tower of Stars… and, of course, what is happening right now across your world. If I had control of mine life, human, none of this would have come to pass.”

“That… doesn’t make sense,” Kraber said. “What does it have to do with you?”

“Everything, and nothing,” the mare said. She shook her head. “Do not concern yourself. I have said far more than was necessary. A bad habit, I suspect - when one has nopony - no being - to speak to, one finds that one has no filter.”

Kraber shrugged. “I mean, I don’t have one anyway half the time.”

I really don’t have control of my own life, he thought.

But the mare just smiled. “Perhaps, then, it is past time we both learned better.”

And then she was gone in a flash of light, and Kraber was alone.

He paused, taking a deep breath, before going over to Prisma.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Really, I am.”

He was actually surprised that he meant it. Only a few short weeks ago, the death of a pony like this would have made him feel a sick sense of… vindication? Even vengeful joy? Now, though, he saw her not as a pony, but as a comrade. A friend - one he’d let down, let die.

Fok, he thought. And suddenly he remembered Nebula. What even happened to her?

We fought together, and… she lost a wing. She probably died hitting the building like that. For me.

Why the fok is it never me? Why do I keep coming out alive while they don’t?

---

“Of course, Nebula actually survived,” Heliotrope says. “She had to go through months of intense physical therapy to get back to using her new wing.”

“That’s good,” Kraber says quietly.

“You know,” Heliotrope adds after a moment, “that bit about PHL agents being… y’know, allowed to do everything? It’s not quite like that.”

“How do you know?” Heather asks.

“Um, well” Heliotrope says sheepishly. “I actually qualify as an Operative-”

“...How?” Heather says, eyebrows rising.

“Easily,” Heliotrope said. “Not everyone’s some kind of super soldier with no oversight. Some of them are just enforcers, and… since Montreal, UNAC’s been much bigger on keeping an eye on all of us, the PHL and our Agents and Operatives especially.”

“So then why did Kraber think that?”

“For one thing, I was surrounded by fokkin’ trottels who thought the government started pandemics for laughs or some kak, I don’t fokkin’ know,” Kraber said. “Plus, it was before Defiance, and before I actually worked with PHL.” He snorts. “You have any idea how demystifying working for an organisation is? Now I know how much paperwork goes into being an Operative, I’d literally rather suck Lovikov’s dick than be one.”

“Please,” Aegis says. “You’d bite it off if you got close enough.”

“One time! It was just one fokkin’ time!” Kraber sighs.

“Wait,” Heather said, her eyes widening, “you actually-“

“Don’t ask,” Yael says tiredly.

“Alright… so how does something like this stereotype of omnipresent super-soldiers become the public’s impression if it’s not true?” Heather asks, perhaps wisely choosing to ignoring the mental image/mental images. That, as everyone knows, is a survival skill around Kraber.

“Because it’s not entirely a lie, either,” Yael says quietly. “Much as some people might wish it was.”

“Like I said - ‘not everyone is some kind of super soldier’,” Heliotrope points out. “Meaning that the PHL did and does occasionally – well, more than occasionally, I guess – have people and ponies who qualify for being ‘super soldiers with no oversight’, and then some.”

“Like Cobalt Steel?” someone asks.

“Exactly,” Heliotrope nods. “Except some of those guys haven’t always been as… wholesome.”

“You always hear stories of Operatives or Agents who put their troops at risk, or blew up civilian habitats just to get one PER spy,” Yael explains. “The good thing about the Agent and Operative model is that it allows troops to get things done without waiting for backup or confirmation. In an age where PER incursions can spread quickly, that’s a blessing.” She winces. “The bad thing is that it stops there from being sufficient oversight when those troops get it done the wrong way.”

Something about the way she says that indicates that she’s seen ‘the wrong way’ before.

“Lyra was good at picking the right people,” Heliotrope adds quietly. “But obviously her touch isn’t there anymore.”

“I like to think we’re doing okay,” Aegis says.

“Really,” says one man, who’s leaning sitting next to a nearby bookshelf.

“Well… now,” Aegis admits. “Better than we were.”

“We had some bad times,” Spitfire says, nodding.

“Cobalt Steel’s fine, though,” Yael points out. “I don’t think he ever abused his freedoms or position.”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Heliotrope laughs. “Hey, wasn’t he at -”

“Yup,” Kraber says, cutting her off, “but can we focus on the story at the moment? I simultaneously hate and love non-chronological storytelling, but it gives me a headache when I’m trying to actually tell a story.”

“So what happened next?” Heather asks.

Kraber takes a breath. “Well -”

---

“Kraber!” Strike yelled as he approached a few minutes later. “What the fuck is happening out there?”

“What do you…?” Kraber asked, looking to Payne. She, along with Kent, Samuels and Schaefer, had apparently finished rounding up the civilians, and were now setting up a defensive position on the dock, ready to protect the ferry.

“I warned her about the Division,” Payne reassured him, nodding. “But then there were a few explosions, and -”

“Where’s Louis and Prisma?” Strike asked.

“They didn’t make it,” Kraber said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Payne averted her eyes. Kent and Samuels had their helmets on, their expressions unreadable, while Schaefer simply closed his eyes.

“You and Lovikov,” Lucky Strike said, “seem to have a gift for being the sole survivor.”

Kraber scowled. “Fok you. I watched two good people die in front of me today.”

Strike shook her head. “Alright, then - explain.”

“We sent Payne back to warn you about the division,” Kraber said, motioning to Payne, who nodded. “Then we tried to hold them off, but…” He shook his head. “Louis… he took a hit from a potion-infused crossbow.”

“Fuck,” Payne swore. “That’s a bad way to go.”

“I… I dealt with it,” Kraber said. “Then me and Prisma tried to retreat, but…”

“You got hit with something,” Schaefer said. “There’s scorch damage on your armour.”

Kraber nodded. “And on me. Prisma… wasn’t so lucky.”

“Well, shit,” Strike swore under her breath. She met Kraber’s eyes. “Any word on the enemy’s strength?”

“As of right now, not sure,” Kraber replied, shaking his head. “Supposedly, only one Newcalf, no spitters, three Megacorns.”

“What about the Shriekers?” Payne asked.

“No word on them, either,” Kraber said quietly. “And what the fok is a Shrieker, anyway?”

“You don’t want to know,” Strike replied, shaking her head. “We were at Fairport, and we wish we didn’t know.”

“If there’s only one Newcalf, that should be fine for the MOD-3 to take out, assuming it’s still in working condition,” Schaefer put in.

Kraber glanced over the weapon. “Looks like it, Lieutenant.”

“That’s something then,” Strike said. She sighed. “Alright, get into positions. I have no idea how the fuck we’re going to hold off what’s left of a division, but it’s not exactly going to be fun.”

This was an understatement of such incredible proportions that Kraber couldn’t help but laugh at it.

“Fun,” Kraber said. “Sure.”

“First platoon, shieldwall!” the lead Guardspony called. A wall of faint opaque light flashed into existence, and Kraber saw the division of Solar Empire forces marching forward in formation. “We have to hold this island!”

Kraber stole a glance over his shoulder. The ferry was far away now, but….

There were boats in the harbor. As far as he knew, there weren’t any weapons on the ferry, and it’d be a slaughter if the guardsponies got to it.

Lucky Strike was the first to react.

“Everyone, start setting up traps, claymores, anything to slow them down till our reinforcements get here,” she said. “Take positions, and hold the line.”

“But what i-” Kraber started.

“Hold. The. Line,” Lucky Strike said. “Kraber, aim for where their hooves are going to be. Buy us some time.”

The Solar Empire forces drew closer. Kraber watched this army of ponies and monstrously altered half-formed things that had once been humans slowly advancing. A Newcalf strode forward, something curiously human in its broad, overstretched face as the crew of earth ponies riding on its back fired off a ballista, in tandem with the sunspear unicorn that manned the main weapon.

For a moment, Kraber saw the lens of the sunspear. Every sunspear platform came with a scope attached, meant to focus a unicorn’s aim like a periscope.

And he knew: They’re aiming right at me!

Kraber lowered the MOD-3 and dashed for a boulder. A beam of light shot out from the sunspear atop the newcalf and lanced through the grass behind him. A pencil-thin line of fire cut through the grass.

His legs pounded against the soil of Matinicus Island. Everything hurt. Everything was-

BURNING!

Kraber looked in horror as he saw the sunspear’s beam cutting into his armor, just above his left shoulder.

(This thing must be shielded!)

Kraber dove into cover behind the boulder, slamming awkwardly into a tree root with his chestplate, bouncing slightly. Ow ow ow FOKKING OW-

His pained ribcage saved him as the boulder exploded above him.

Huh.

Kraber slowly picked himself up. Looked over the shredded, half-melted lump of granite that had saved him.

The unicorn on the Newcalf had turned away from him, swiveling the sunspear towards a nearby house. Presumably, he didn’t think Kraber could’ve survived that much dust.

They’d raised the shields, too.

Don’t think I’ll be able to get a clear shot at the newcalf, Kraber thought.

And with that, the members of Ex Astris Victoria began firing.

Sure would be nice if I had those fokdamned disruptor grenades, Kraber thought, letting loose a short burst from the MOD-3.

The three rockets impacted just a few centimeters short of the shields. The ground shook around them. One newfoal stumbled, another was blown back a foot.

And all of a sudden, there was a gap in their advance. Lucky Strike didn’t have to make the order, everyone simply knew. Every soldier’s fire concentrated in the gap Kraber had created, ripping through the advancing columns of newfoals.

This lasted all of a second.

Kraber fired again. A unicorn collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain, staring at their cracked hooves.

Kraber didn’t waste the opportunity. Within a fraction of a second of impact, he’d let loose another burst of rockets.

Two made their way through the gap. One of them impacted almost harmlessly

Then the MOD-3 ran dry.

Ohhh, fok.

Kraber hadn’t picked up any reserve ammo for the massive weapon. Mentally, he kicked himself.

Then again, we were running away and I would’ve practically had to undress him to get more…

He’d seen enough grotesqueries to know that wasn’t something he wanted to see in his life again. He knew he would - it was an inevitability at this point - but he didn’t want to.

“I’m out!” he called back to Strike.

He heard Strike curse, before she moved up to his position.

“Payne, lay down some suppressing fire!” she called.

Payne brought up her own weapon, the ‘Sam Yarrow Special’, and fired. A blue-purple-pink beam lanced out from the short, heavy weapon, making a curiously high-pitched noise as it ionized the air around it.

It hit the unicorn shieldwall like a drumstick against a cymbal, the shields curiously vibrating, waves of color rushing over them.

Kraber could see uncertainty written on the faces of the ponies advancing - some of them, anyway. The others, the newfoals, wore identical looks of hatred.

“FORWARD!” someone called. “It’s just one monkey with a big gun!”

Kraber watched the unicorns gritting their teeth, staring in shock at the effect of the energy weapon on their shield. But nonetheless, they advanced.

Payne fired again and again. That beam hammered across their shields, making a low thrumming noise each time.

And then-

THOOM

The shields exploded, crackling a car windshield. Kraber switched to his M249, squeezing the trigger like the brake on a runaway bike.

The natural-borns were the first to run as the 5.56 rounds ripped through their number. For a fraction of a second, the newfoals were paralyzed with indecision. Some of them were even rushing towards their own ponies, looks of hatred in their eyes.

Were they going to attack their own?!

AND THEN-

“Break formation!” one of the Empire’s officers called, audible even over the sound of Kraber’s LMG and Kent and Samuels’ rifles firing. Payne fired again, and one of the Imperial ponies simply disintegrated, a charred skeleton clattering to the floor.

“Here,” Strike said, bringing out a bulky magazine for the MOD-3 - it looked like a giant magazine for an AR. “I have two of these. Figured Louis might go overboard, need more.”

“Thanks,” Kraber said, loading the weapon quickly.

He glanced from behind cover at the advancing Empire forces. Between Payne’s Type 7 and the fire from the others, the Empire’s forces had hunkered down. One of the Megacorns, however, was moving up, under cover from a handful of Newfoal militia shieldsponies.

“Surprised they haven’t sent Pegasi in,” Kraber commented.

“Me too,” Strike said quietly. “Maybe they got distracted - there could be something else on the island. Like some militia or something.”

The Megacorns had reached whatever position it had been heading for. The horn on its back was crackling with power.

“Take that out,” Strike muttered to Kraber. “On my signal.”

“Gotcha,” Kraber said, aiming.

“Payne! Shields!” Strike called.

Payne gestured in acknowledgment, and then fired, taking down two of the shielding Newfoals in quick succession. Strike smacked Kraber’s shoulder, and he grinned.

“Boom boom, motherfokkers!” he yelled, and then he fired.

Three rockets shot out, almost in slow motion, shooting towards the Megacorn. The first impacted on the last Newfoal, splattering the poor thing into mush, the second exploded between the Megacorn’s feet, sending it slightly into the air with a screech of what might have been agony. But the third…

… the third shot impacted right on the Megacorn’s horn.

There was a flare of reddish light and Kraber ducked behind cover again as the light lashed against trees, ponies and anything else, breaking rock and tearing up ground. There was a moment of calm, and then Kraber glanced to Strike. She grinned.

“Keep firing!” she called.

“Shooting!” Schaefer called. He popped his head up, firing his rifle in quick, efficient bursts.

Kraber risked a glance. One of the other Megacorns had been obliterated by his one-in-a-half-million shot. The explosion had also put the remaining advancing Imperials into even more disarray than they already were.

“The last one!” Strike yelled. “Payne!”

Payne popped her head up and fired again, the Type 7 first incinerating the flesh of one of the Megacorn’s escorts, before impacting the thing’s skull. There was a flash of light, and the thing staggered, a smoking skull where its obscenely grinning face used to be. It staggered again, actually taking one more step forward, before collapsing to its knees in what Kraber thought of as an almost comical rendition of the falling ATAT from Empire Strikes Back.

“Thirty-two, Payne!” It may not count, but fuck it, Kraber thought.

“I’ll take it!” Payne called back, laughing as she fired again.

“Megacorn’s down!” one of the Imperials called.

“Charge the ‘calf!” another bellowed. “Suppressing barrage!”

A hail of spells shot out from the bunkered-down Imperial soldiers, and more than a few shields popped up, particularly brave Unicorns interlocking shield-spells to advance, small groups of Earth Ponies and Pegasi behind them.

And then, just as the Newcalf started charging, a spell shot out from the trees. The first spell impacted in front of the Imperial column, exploding in a flash of light. Several of the Guardsponies were just gone, empty armour clattering to the ground. More were blasted clear, charred or battered by debris. A second spell shot out, this one impacting the Newcalf itself, and the giant lumbering thing simply disappeared into a puff of ugly smoke.

“WHAT?!” Payne yelled.

The Imperial division was now in complete disarray, and, seizing the chance, Kraber brought the MOD-3 up, firing with even more reckless abandon than he normally did. Rockets ripped through the air, exploding into the grass, shattering trees. One landed directly beneath a particularly large earth pony’s barrel and exploded, vaporizing him.

Strike joined him, the SMGs in her assault you firing wildly. With no formation left, the division of Imperial troops couldn’t bring a cohesive shield up in time, and most of them were shot apart.

A few spells shot in their direction, but they were halfhearted. Wild. One missed Kraber by almost two meters.

He didn’t even flinch.

“We’ve got this!” Kent yelled. “Just keep fi-”

And all of a sudden, Kent screamed. A needle-thin purple beam of magic punched into his arm, and he fell to the earth.

He let loose an ear-piercing scream so loud that Kraber’s eyes teared up slightly from the sheer volume of it. His right hand clasped his left arm, and he lay on the ground, still screaming.

“What the fok did they-” Kraber started.

“It doesn’t matter, keep firing!” Strike called. “We’ve got this!”

They did not have this. There were still enough Unicorns firing spells and advancing Pegasi and Earth Pony soldiers to overwhelm them. Schaefer and Samuels were pinned.

Then a hail of machine gun bullets lashed out from somewhere, followed in quick succession by shots from what could only have been a rotary particle-cannon. And a rotary particle-cannon meant only one thing.

UNAC, Kraber thought.

He turned, eyes widening as he saw a pair of gunships floating in the air behind them, the sound of their rotors only now becoming audible over the din of battle. They both flew with a black and white colour scheme, one with a symbol not unlike a cartoon ghost (complete with what might have been a speech-bubble saying ‘BOO!’), the other with an exaggerated shark face. Behind them flew a troop-transport ‘copter, with similar colours and - for some odd reason - a little Union Jack painted on the side.

“REINFORCEMENTS!” a pony in an officer’s hat yelled. “They’re-”

Kraber switched to the M249 and drilled a short, controlled burst through their head.

The Imperials fell back under the barrage; with their heavy ordinance gone, they had no way of countering the firepower of the gunships. Soon, any that weren’t reduced to splatters of red on the ground were retreating, heading back for the trees, for anything that wasn’t here. Kraber could have sworn a few more were hit by the same sort of spells that had obliterated the Newcalf.

A blissful, ringing silence held over the battlefield, and Kraber let out a deep sigh. It was over. They’d survived.

Holy fok did it feel good.

The transport helicopter landed and disgorged a half-dozen soldiers - pony and human alike - in white-tinged Hardball armour.

Damn, I need me a set of that, Kraber thought absently. The art potential alone on such gear was endless.

One of the soldiers removed his helmet after a moment, looking around with a smile on his face. He had dark hair, cropped short, along with a strong chin and dark eyes.

“Alright, move it out!” he said to his squad. “Hoof, Grit, get your arses in gear and secure the dock. Little Bird’s sending help soon, but you know how these Delta boys get.”

“Sir,” a scarred green Unicorn said with a salute.

“And who’s this?” another soldier asked.

He looked to be one of a two-pony P220 team. Kraber didn’t know much about the PHL’s growing collection of pony-compatible firearms, but he had heard enough about the P2 series to know he didn’t want to hear more. The other pony, an Earth Pony stallion with a nasty scar on his throat, moved ahead, setting up to cover the dock.

“Well, looks like the cavalry’s here,” Strike said tiredly.

The dark haired man noticed them as she said it, and walked over to them. Kraber glanced at Strike, but she seemed completely at ease.

“Good to see you,” the dark-haired man said once he reached them, saluting Strike. He had a British accent, but beyond that Kraber couldn’t place it. “Sorry we’re late - we were in the area on, uh, ‘other business’, so to speak.”

“Right,” Strike said, nodding slowly. “There’s not much left for cleanup here.”

“Always more cleanup than you’d expect in situations like this, ma’am,” the man replied, shrugging. “Anyway, like I said, we were in the area. Better safe than sorry.” He motioned to his team. “I’ve been told to pass on my CO’s compliments to your CO, Commander Strike.”

“I’ll let the Captain know, Sergeant,” Strike replied tiredly. “Right now, I just want my team off this fucking island.”

“I hear that,” the Sergeant said, chuckling. He looked up at Kraber. There might have been a flicker of recognition, if only for a moment, but then he just smiled. “Nicely done, here, trooper.”

Kraber was about to agree. About to say how good it felt to drive them away, and save this island. But…

Louis was dead. Prisma was dead. And who knew what’d happened to Kent’s arm?

Kraber suddenly felt very off-balance.

“Thanks,” Kraber said hollowly. “Doesn’t fokkin’ feel it.”

Elliot nodded. “Never does, does it?” He extended a hand. “Sergeant David Elliot, First Encounter Assault Recon, under the auspices of PHL R&D.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kraber said, taking his hand. “I’m, uh…”

He blinked.

“Have we met?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Elliot said. “Your voice sounds familiar, but… can you take off your helmet?”

“I’d… prefer not to,” Kraber said.

“Ah, I get it,” Elliot said. “The new First Lieutenant we got has a man like that. Still, you do seem… weirdly familiar.”

Wait a minute.

“Dave!” another man - another Brit, judging by the accent, this one a tad shorter than Elliot - said, waving a hand. “We need you. Some prick’s throwing a shitfit.”

“My sympathies on it,” Kraber said. “I’ve had shit officers too, y’know.”

“Are the rumors about EAV really that bad?” someone asked.

“Oh,” Kraber said, throwing up his hands. “Oh, no no no no. Not…” he sighed. “Not like that. I’m new here. I just mean that I had a nightmare of a Captain before I joined.”

“Only question is,” one of the PHL said, “who gets the salvage?”

It was the shorter Brit. He’d taken his helmet off and was looking around ruefully.

“You’re still under Munro, right?” Lucky Strike asked.

Elliot nodded, a grimace on his face. “For as long as he’s successful in keeping Gardner out from under his feet, anyway.”

“I hear that,” Strike smirked. “But I seem to remember he has something of an arrangement with us. Just tell him we were here.”

Elliot nodded again. “Above my pay grade, gotcha.” He laughed. “Funny - so much shit above my pay grade and I’m still here.”

“Aren’t we all,” Kraber muttered. “Plus side, you don’t have to deal with Gardner.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “You raise a good point. The joys of that psychological tire fire being above my pay grade, I guess.”

“He’s that much of a terror?” Schaefer asked. “Even to his own men?”

“You have to ask the question?” Elliot replied. He had a pensive look on his face. Almost wistful. “You know... after a few weeks, it might look like the gruff, uptight facade is just that, a facade, and behind it all lies a heart genuinely passionate about America, protecting the innocent, and saving humanity.”

He paused.

“Really,” Lucky Strike started. “Because-”

Elliot held up a finger. “A few weeks after that, you’ll probably realise that no, actually, he really is just kind of… no, not kind of. He’s an absolute wanker under the surface. Simple as. I’ve literally met him once, and let me tell you -”

“Never again,” the entire squad around him chorused. This was clearly not the first time he’d said it. Might not even have been the first time he’d done the speech.

“You were leading up to that punchline, weren’t you,” Kraber said.

Elliot nodded.

“Now we just have an island to double check for spitters,” the green Unicorn stallion said glibly.

Elliot rolled his eyes. “Duty calls, I guess.” He met Kraber’s eyes. “Best of luck out there, mate.”

“You too,” Kraber nodded.

With a final wave at Strike, Elliot put his helmet back on and jogged off, heading to meet with his squad.

“Wish they’d been here sooner,” Strike muttered. “Could have used the help.”

She let loose a burst of indecipherable grumbling. Kraber caught the words “Johnny-come-latelies,” “All the credit.” Yet none of it sounded too angry - and she had talked like she knew these men. Kraber found himself idly wondering when Strike had met them, but he shrugged it off.

Ones who’ve bled alongside us, he thought absently.

“Hey Kraber,” Strike said after a moment. “Question.”

“Yeah?” Kraber asked, looking down at her.

“The spells that disrupted their final advance.” Strike said. “You didn’t look as surprised as I’d expect.”

“Uh…” Kraber said, blinking. “I mean… I was surprised. But… I think I’ve got a pretty solid idea of how it happened.”

“Oh yeah?” Strike said. “So do you wanna tell me who the hell did that?!”

Kraber ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wide. There was only one explanation.

“Phil,” he finally said.

“Phil?!” Strike repeated, nonplussed. “Who... the fuck… is ‘Phil’?!”

“It’s… a long story,” Kraber said. “I’ll explain… fok, we have to write reports, don’t we?”

“Yup,” Schaefer said evenly.

“Then I’ll explain in my report,” Kraber said quietly. “Because fok it, it’s not gonna make sense either way, so I might as well have the chance to formulate my words before I completely fok it up.”

Strike shook her head. “Right, sure, whatever.” She sighed. “Fucking Luna’s wingboners, but I have lost fucking control of my life right now.”

Kraber laughed hollowly. “That, I totally get.”

---

Aboard Columbia the next day, Romero looked at the report on his tablet with a raised eyebrow, occasionally looking back up at Kraber. He and Lucky Strike had just finished giving a verbal report to back up the written one. She was standing next to Kraber, stiffly at attention.

“An unknown Unicorn - a mare - who didn’t give her name, and who was powerful enough to disrupt the enemy’s advance?” he summarised.

“Uh, yes sir,” Kraber said, frowning. “Is… is her being a mare significant?”

“Only in what it rules out,” Romero replied. “I’ve heard rumours of Unicorns that act against the Empire both here and on their soil, but the one I’ve heard the most about is supposedly a stallion. The only other mares I’ve heard about with that kind of stopping power have been dead for years.”

“Could it be resistance, sir?” Lucky Strike asked.

“The ER are good, but somehow this doesn’t feel like them. Besides, why here? They barely have any presence on Earth,” Romero said quietly. “That’s a question for later, however.”

“If you say so, sir,” Strike said.

“We’ll have to make a note of Kerkonen’s last words,” Romero continued. “‘They want…’, indeed. Cryptic, but we’ve heard similar final pronouncements.”

“Right up there with ‘more about that place, about her’?” Kraber asked.

There was a pause, and Romero met Kraber’s eyes, his own suddenly blazing with fury.

Ohhhh, fok. Me and my big mou-

Finally, the Captain took a deep breath.

“That’s correct,” he said evenly, as though he didn’t know exactly what Kraber was referencing. “Newfoals have a habit of saying strange things - especially when they’re anomalous. Those close to the Newfoal state also have that habit. It’s good to have an eye on it… or an ear on it, in this case.”

Kraber wet his lips. “What do you think it is?”

Romero shrugged. “Evil.” He sighed. “Other than that… you did a good job. We lost two good people, and Kent’s going to lose that arm.”

“Damn Guard zappers,” Strike muttered.

“But we successfully held the island,” Romero finished. “And denied the enemy important assets.” He smiled thinly. “Good work, people.”

“Sir,” Strike said, straightening a little, a small smile on her lips at the praise.

“Sir,” Kraber said, nodding.

“Alright,” Romero said, waving a hand, “you’re both dismissed. Strike, please tell Renner to come speak to me at her earliest convenience.”

“Sir,” Strike said, and she and Kraber both left the office.

As the door shut behind them, Kraber risked a glance at Strike, who hadn't spoken to him directly since the island.

She glanced up at him. Her expression was impassive.

“Good work,” she finally said, nodding once. “Well done.”

A slip of paper floated out of a pocket in her uniform, despite the fact that there was no wind. Frowning, Kraber bent over to pick it up. In scraggly, uneven writing, he read the words Hoppy’s Pub - Section F.

“Consider that some thanks,” Strike said.

And with that she trotted off, leaving Kraber on his own. He half-shrugged to himself.

It’s a start, he thought.

---

They gave Kraber some leave the next day. Which meant that he had as much time as he wanted, for one day, just to relax.

The night before had been more bad dreams. So he’d decided to lie in his bed for about an hour. He’d spent the rest of the day in the rec room, playing videogames. That’d gone well enough.

And then, late at night, he thought back to the mysterious ‘Hoppy’s Pub’ that Lucky Strike had mentioned. And:

Well, why not?

So he’d headed down into Section F. This part of the Thunderchild-class ship looked almost abandoned - there was exposed wiring everywhere, and spare parts and machinery were scattered everywhere. It looked like this part of the ship was mostly used for storage.

He passed through a room with an assortment of planters under various lights.

They grow stuff here? Kraber thought, turning a corner.

He saw it almost immediately: A dull green door, sitting under a sign reading “Hoppy’s Secret Pub.”

Clearly not that secret, Kraber thought, raising an eyebrow as he opened the door.

He beheld a windowless room full of little treasures from countries before the Barrier ate them up. The walls were papered with signage from other countries, even a few paintings that looked like they must’ve come from other countries. There was no rhyme or reason to the decor, with a railroad sign sitting next to a beaten movie poster that looked like it was from the nineties, and written in Latvian.

“Hey there,” an Earth Pony sitting behind the bar said. “I’m Hoppy.” He smirked. “Actually, ‘Hopping Mad’, but my mother and father were clearly thinking I’d be, y’know. More mad.”

“That’sh right, me first name ish monkey! ME PARENTSH HATED ME!” Kraber said.

‘Hoppy’ blinked. “You’re Kraber.”

“Did the beard give it away?”

“No. The obscure pop culture reference gave it away.”

“None Piece is obscure?” Kraber asked. “Come on, people still talk about how they’re at soup all the time!”

Hoppy shrugged. “It is when you’re an alien from another planet who’s never even seen - aneem?”

“‘Anime’, Hoppy, it’s called ‘Anime’,” one of the patrons of the bar, a man in a white tank top and uniform blue trousers said tiredly. “Fifth time.” He glanced in Kraber’s direction. “He plays it up, the whole ‘clueless pony doesn’t do human culture’ thing.”

“Y’know, I used to play that card,” Heliotrope muses. “Then I realised it was kinda hackneyed.”

“You too, huh?” Aegis asked. “I gave up after they started thinking that I was stupid after I said I didn’t know what Breaking Bad was.”

The rest of the ‘bar’ was sparsely populated. There were a couple of ponies and humans - including Jessie and Biggs - sat in one corner. It was quiet.

“So what’ll you have?” Hoppy asked.

Kraber shrugged. “Something to make me not feel my face.”

“Huh, alright,” Hoppy said. He pulled out a smoking grey bottle. “Friend of mine called Bowman brought me this. Called Stoneale, apparently. Makes you literally shit granite for a month.”

“Four to six weeks,” the man at the bar muttered. “Bad idea. Medical opinion.”

He didn’t look like a Doctor, but who was Kraber to judge that particular metric?

“Alright, how about something less exotic,” Hoppy said. He put the Stoneale away and pulled out a purple bottle. “Rhubarb gin - can go straight, with tonic, or with lemonade. My recommendation is with lemonade because all the yes.”

“Fizz is good,” Kraber shrugged. “But...” he thought for a second. “You have any prickly pear and some tequila? A margarita with some prickly pear might be a nice change of pace.”

“Huh.” Hoppy looked surprised. “Okey dokey. I’ve got just the thing.”

He bent over, turning away, and poured a glass of purplish-pink liquid, before pushing it Kraber’s way.

“What’s the currency?” Kraber asked.

Hoppy frowned. “The currency?”

“For this place,” Kraber said, motioning. “We talking ration slips or what? I’ve done the ‘black market’ thing before.”

“Oh,” Hoppy said, nodding. “I dunno. A story? Captain Romero once told me he frequented a bar where you paid in stories. ‘The Captain’s Table’ or something. Never did tell me where the place was.”

Kraber laughed. Finally, things felt like they made sense. “What story should I tell, exactly? There’s the time I was on one of the Mercy Ships and had to put on a play, there’s the time Defiance had to put on a school play, the time I was in a musical… or the time I apparently got a phone call from my wife’s g-”

“The night surgeon putting on a school play,” one pegasus sitting at a corner table chuckled. “You? Seriously?”

“I… don’t think you’d like to hear the rest,” Kraber said, slowly. “A lot of them end in ‘And then he died, too.’”

He felt like he could’ve said more. Like there was so much he could’ve added. But for once, Kraber felt like he had said enough. If he had to jump through that many hoops, it probably wouldn’t be worth it.

“You’re sure? Cause I’d like to hear about the one where you got Louis and Prisma killed,” a voice asked from behind him.

...Fok.

---

Author's Note:

AN:

Jed: Yes, that’s TCB Galatea. And yes, that’s Spectrum/Reduxverse David Elliot. Because WHY NOT MUDDERKUFFERS. This won’t be the last time either if I can help it. 😂

On a more serious note: as brief as this cameo for TCB Galatea is, it is a welcome one for me. She’s the sort of character that begs a little more elaboration, as whether in SPECTRUM or in Redux, she doesn’t get nearly enough time. Everyone’s always paying attention to the Prime one instead. 😂 

For more on Galatea, depending on which of the two “Spectrum” continuities you’re following, there’s Sledge115’s The First Second of Eternity for SPECTRUM (which I recommend for some downright excellent prose), or the Reduxverse’s The Silent Sentinel, which I’m egotistical enough to link to but not egotistical enough to pass judgement on, though it does actually elaborate on TCB Galatea more 😂 

Comments

[Jed R]

Once again, a joy to work on this chapter 🙂❤️

[RanOutOfIdeas]

Hey, waking up to some Kraber-patented action is quite the pleasant experience.

The words flowed out like a dam had burst.

Is this the first time we've seen him actually open up and vent to a pony? He really is progressing.

Also, I didn't notice this before, but the timeline says Newfoal variants were developed in August 2024. Are those new variants we haven't seen before, or do they include the Newcalves, Spitters, Shriekers and the like, and that date is a different one?

[Jed R]

10276695
Does it? Huh. Well, I can think of two explanations there (from my perspective, which obviously is something of an outside one these days) - that was something added for an older version of the timeline that nobody ever removed and we just ignored/forgot about, or that was something added to the new timeline… that we totally forgot about. Either way, I’d follow the general rule that “story trumps background material“ in terms of canonicity.

[Doctor Fluffy]

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Plus, it means the fights can be more interesting this way.

[keroko]

He didn’t look like a Doctor, but who was Kraber to judge that particular metric?

The last fokking person on the planet, that's for sure.

Aaaand of course someone with beef is going to ruin the one calm moment in Kraber's life. Because fuck Kraber's life.

[Doctor Fluffy]

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It's Dresden's Law in action.

He frowned and shook his head. “What about those goons from Summer? What are you going to do if they show up again?”

“If? I should be so lucky.” I winked at him and got out of the Hummer. “The real question is, what am I going to do if they don’t show up, and at the worst possible time to boot? Die of shock, probably.”

Butcher, Jim. Small Favor (The Dresden Files, Book 10) (p. 332). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

[Sledge115]

10276695

Also, I didn't notice this before, but the timeline says Newfoal variants were developed in August 2024. Are those new variants we haven't seen before, or do they include the Newcalves, Spitters, Shriekers and the like, and that date is a different one?

We're still working to refine both the Earth and Imperial timelines, so chalk it up to field testing in limited amounts before the later stage of the war sees more widespread deployment on the field.

[Doctor Fluffy]

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Agreed. There's... a lot of stuff I'm not really sure we've 100% shaken off.