A Bigger Hammer
Pneumatic valves click open, sending jets of compressed air into the empty Church around you, inching up the pressure bit by bit. You’re on sacred ground, Isaac, the Bronitologists' sanctum sanctorum, and … paintings? Candelabras? What are they running here, a museum? You'd think they'd have the cheddar to pay their utility bills. Emergency lighting isn’t part of their belief system apparently. And not one, but two welcome booths to receive the faithful. Judging by the shattered windows, the attendants had gotten a little too excited by the goings on, caught up in the rapture of their impending doom. Get your tickets here, folks. Giveaway bonanza today, courtesy of the pony community of Thiessen Towers and oh my goddess there’s the Princess. We’re coming to you sweet holy one, let us ride bare-back together, onward to Convergence!
You step over the debris, picking out the larger shards in the soft candlelight. Or maybe Princess Dementia had pulled them through the glass, biting out their throats and assimilating their flesh while they stroked her mane and shed tears of joy. Sick fucks.
Well shit. Choices, choices. Do as Gleaming says and wait for her to neutralize the gunship, or abandon the strategy of chumming with Celestia and look for Daina instead?
You call up your route, half-expecting the silver-blue line to snake back the way you came. It winds out and under a nearby door, leading deeper into the Church.
No, it can't be. Could this actually be good luck for Isaac? Daina's route ends here, right here according to the RIG’s calculations, less than three hundred meters away. That’s like five minutes, tops, depending on whether there are any battles to be fought along the way. Cleansing the infestation would have to be put off, sure, but that would be easier with your head screwed on right. Wouldn't it?
Nevertheless, this has also got to be a hotspot for the necromorphs. It might even be ground zero of the infection. Odd place for survivors to be holed up, waiting for your arrival. It would be wise to double-check with Daina, make sure she hadn’t fudged the coordinates.
Your air supply switches back to outboard external. That was quick. There must be a hundred outlets hidden in the grout and seams to fill a volume this size. You open the telecomm. "Daina? The Church of Bronitology? Why here?"
"It's one of the few places on Titan Station that Tiedemann can't monitor. Separation of Church and State," she replies.
You duck beneath the door before it can retract into the frame. You're actually going to make it, goddammit. You're going to pull through.
Fuck. Unlike those guys. Four Church members are lying face-up on the floor at the bottom of a staircase in the next room, encircled by candles and wild messages written in chalk, dressed to the nines in gold-embroidered ceremonial uniforms. All dead, and not a scratch on them.
So much waste. Full body donations to the magical horse in the sky. Check your souls at the door, ye faithful, all we can use is the machinery. As for Isaac, the see-saw’s swinging back the way of kill or be killed. Party time's over.
“This is bad. I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur to Daina, watching the bodies for movement. “This is the last place we want to be right now.”
“Isaac!” Daina shouts, her voice raised in panic. “My brother died trying to rescue you. This is important. This will work.”
She’s calming down now. You can’t fault her for being on edge. She probably knows what really happened to Franco, and it sure as hell didn’t involve gumballs and lollipops.
“I’m in a safe room at the top of the Church,” she continues. “Meet me there, OK?” The line goes dead.
Touchy, touchy. Well, she’s been up there for a few hours, so she must have decent defenses set up. A couple more minutes won’t hurt. The same goes for you. The necromorphs had come at you with unicorns, for Altmann’s sake; you’re getting to the top of this Church.
You circle around the remains of the Unitologists and hop up onto the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The flights spiral into the vacant darkness above. Steel and rubber arteries of pipes and wires hidden behind the violet papered sheetrock hum and hiss as you ascend.
You climb the final step, admiring the trim and finish bridging the walls and ceiling. Some real painstaking work. It’s more a mansion, really, than a museum. The amber sign next to the door at the end of the landing lends more to the impression of trespassing in some absent executive’s island chateau:
UNITY LIBRARY
_________________
Reminders
Stay with your tour guide
Please, no talking during church services
No recording devices
_________________
LISTEN
Who the fuck has their own library these days, like with old-style paper books? Filthy rich motherfuckers, that’s who.
The door slides upward. Right on the money. The library is an arcing hallway, encrusted with portraits and loaded with sagging wooden bookshelves. Fifty thousand credits per square foot, that wall, and not an iota less. No wonder the rest of the Station is a shithole. That’s a hundred families’ tithe contributions right there. A hundred hungry little kids who won’t be able to afford study files for …
A belch and a growl boom from beyond the hallway’s bend. What’s this? Not the timid tittering of a dream pony. You stalk forward, flexing your trigger finger.
One of the meat butterflies – the infectors – is hovering above another well-dressed corpse, flapping its skin-and-sinew wings and poking at the body’s bobbing skull with its repurposed coccyx. The corpse’s face ruptures, spraying blood blackened and boiling from hyper-accelerated metabolisis. It begins pushing itself up, twitching and cutting the air with its red, glistening new blade-arms.
Here we are. These fine ponies aren’t interested in carrots and candy. They’ve got a rumble in their tummies for plasma. Don’t worry, lads, Papa Isaac’s got just what you need.
Before the infector can finish squirting its yellow slime into the hole it had bored into its host’s skull, you pull the plasma cutter free and aim at its dripping proboscis. The incisions have to be precise. Perfect. Failing to serve these gentlemen with the utmost skill would be disrespectful. Offensive to the greater pony community.
The bolts explode from the muzzle of the cutter. One, two hit the mass of feelers and the blubbering orifice below, severing them from the creature’s deformed spine. It slumps down the side of the now livid mutation it had birthed.
You lower the laser sights, scanning down across the silk and gold-embroidered shirt. Two more shots split the creature’s kneecap, sending it to the floor on top of its bleeding progenitor. It digs its blades into the carpet and starts dragging itself toward you.
Thirteen charges left. Not a heck of a lot, and you’re not going to be finding any more if the past thirty minutes of hay-filled wheelbarrows was any indication. Maybe try feeding in one of the apples and hope it morphs into a clip?
The blunt tips of the blades are five feet away. No, there’s a more efficient option. You rush forward and kick the necromorph in the face, popping its ruined head like a baked melon. Another kick whips its arm backward, breaking it off in a brief red spray. The creature gurgles out a death rattle and collapses.
Damn that’s sweet. The punch of the plasma cutter pounding through your glove, every shot reminding you – promising you – that the real world is still there. That kindness and patience are not the answer. Mauling the shits into piles of poo felt pretty good too.
You continue down the library hall, sweeping the darkness ahead with the flashlight and laser guides. There have to be more. The bastards like clusterfucks. The way descends in a staircase, leading into what might have been a meeting hall before the outbreak. Somewhere secluded and safe, where curious students of holy Unitologist scripture could go after making their selections in the library and learn the holiest ways to end their lives.
There’s an elevator in the middle of the room servicing a narrow walkway above. The only exit, at first glance. Perfect for an …
The enormous blade of bone swipes across your ribs from behind, throwing you to the floor. You roll, ignoring the hot streaks of pain in your side, gaining enough time to see your attacker raising its pincers for the deathblow. There’s an infector behind it, already dancing its obscene jig with the limp body of another brave Unitologist.
You move the cutter over a few inches and start blasting, whiffing the first two shots. The third connects with the beast’s ankle, taking it down in a roaring, spitting tantrum. Before it can right itself, you spring to your feet and get to work on the infector.
“Wait! What are you doing?”
Two forest green limbs encircle your waist and pull you backwards. Your final shot goes wide, obliterating an icon of a sunbeam-crowned Marker.
You push down on her hooves, fumbling with the cutter. “Let me do my job, Gleaming! This isn’t your …”
The pegasus spins you around, glaring at you and shaking her head. She’s flanked by two pony companions carrying saddlebags full of gauze and medicine bottles.
She points at the floor behind you. “They’re crying, Isaac, you’re hurting them! Can’t you see?”
You turn back, fighting the urge to give the lot of them a close shave with the cutter. The monster dribbles out a whine and looks up at you with puppy dog eyes. At least that's what it would be doing if its eyes hadn't exploded and run down its face.
This can’t be happening. It had almost cut you in half a second ago. Why won’t they just admit they’re all trying to kill you?
“What do you mean? Look at them. Touch them. Wipe your little hoof across your buddy’s bushy little noggin there tell me how it smells. They stink, Gleaming. Like shit. Oh wait, I’m sorry, like BM’s. They’re dead, just like you. Just like your Princess.”
Your guide peers at the necromorph groveling at your feet. After a moment, she nods and raises a hoof.
"Oh, now I get it. The Princess said you might be sick, which is all the more reason why you need my help to ... um, never mind. I'm not supposed to be talking about that."
The butt of the plasma cutter grinds against your palm. "Talking about what, Gleaming? You’re being very evasive. That’s not how friends treat each other in my book."
She scrapes the red carpeted floor and looks to the side. "Nothing. Not important. Let's get moving. We're almost there!"
The rescue ponies turn their noses up at you as they rush to tend the wounded necromorphs, massaging their torn limbs and pouring purple liquid from the medicine bottles into their unhinged jaws.
Whatever. Whatever. Let the fucking cheap shot slide. They’re all getting what they deserve when you have your lace doily tea party play date picnic with their carrion blob Princess and send them back to the primordial pus from whence they came.
“Come on, come on,” calls Gleaming Over, waving you on to elevator. “Go on up. It’s a little tight for me in there.” She says with a hard glint in her eye. “I’ll meet you up on the catwalk.”
The elevator door is an alloy relief of Celestia, triumphant before her sun. The Unitologist verses that you’d seen scribbled over every available surface since you'd entered the Church had sometime in the last few minutes become a foreign script; choppy glyphs and swirls arranged in curves and patterns. And the candles, the candles are still there, glowing, whispering secret words of encouragement and peace you can almost understand.
The ride up is only a couple of meters. You join Gleaming Over on the catwalk and head through the door at the end.
Something crinkles under your boot as you pass into another branching corridor. You pull your foot back, waiting for the inhuman scream of some new species of flesh puppet.
Papers. Papers strewn on the floor, yellowed and thin with fine wrinkles, dropped perhaps in the rush of the exodus. Not a beartrap of bone or chitin waiting to snap shut and take off your foot. Not this time.
They’re pencil sketches. Simple, accurate renderings of ponies in all their poses, moods and labors. Swirling clouds, dark, vine-encumbered forests, neat sunflower gardens. There are even some fantastic animals that looked like they could wreck a city without much effort. These are more than just children’s doodles, judging by their age and the obvious care that had gone into preserving them. They're drafts. Blueprints for a new reality. For the Bronitologists or Unitologists or whoever to leave them behind was like chucking da Vinci's prototype schematics in the dumpster on the way out the door. Then again, if their goddess is walking among them, why do they need drawings?
Something catches your eye as you step up behind Gleaming Over, who had tramped over the pages without even looked down. One set of characters repeats, one part of the lore that the artist had tried to communicate above the other patterns. Luna and Celestia, Celestia, Celestia and Celestia, Luna, over and over again, on almost on every sheet. Here posed with curled foreleg, there flying, other times reclining in a royal bower surrounded by pillows and tapestries. All of the likenesses were looking out at the world, smiling, inviting any who happened upon them to join in their wonderful, grand design.
Join them in Paradise.
Ssh, ssh, not now. Not when you're so close. Their faces are too much. Their delight is shining through, too bright. Look away from the Sun, Isaac. Hide from the Moon. Over there. The branch to the right ends in a mural-sized stone portrait of a woman’s face, stern and resolute. You’re in her domain, believer.
Her domain. The tall woman, the one on the history placard at the Church's entrance. She'd been holding a pen, guiding the faithful to the Royal Sisters. Guiding them through the gateway.
It's her. You're looking into the eyes of the person responsible for all of this madness. No help that way. Better talk, buddy. Better say something before you look down again and see those loving, welcoming faces. “Hey, Gleaming,” you mutter as she leads you through another door.
A booming loudspeaker cuts off your question. “Have you ever felt like you were meant to be part of something bigger? Then maybe Bronitology is for you. Founded two hundred years ago by our savior …”
The rest of it is lost. Gleaming Over is heading off across the room, and you're standing, shaking your head, swaying on your feet. Giving up. Is that what you're doing? The fighting, the running, the countless times you'd pinched it shut just in time to avoid loading your trousers - the RIG's bionic enhancements could only do so much to keep you going. Rehydration and electrolyte balancing are not part of the package.
You're not leaving this room - that's the special goodnight message your mind is telling you. The lights are out - on purpose for once. Folding chairs are arranged row and column in front of a projector screen, and in each one, happy as a clam, is a variety of human gone wrong. Necromorphs, men, women and ponies, slouching, cross-legged, chin-on-hoof - all captivated by the infomercial flashing in front of them, one big, happy family washing their brains at the Bronitologists' masterpiece theater. Say what you want, the fuckers know how to put meat in the seats.
Gleaming Over stamps her hoof. “Isaac! Come on, chip chop, buddy. We're taking a shortcut. This will cut a good five minutes off our route, but not if you're going to zone out watching videos." She stands in the doorway, keeping it open for you.
Shortcut. Five minutes. Good. Because you're not going to last another ten, unless Gleaming lets you curl up on her back for a nice little nap. And judging by the stinkeye she'd given you at the prospect of another joint elevator ride, that's not going to happen.
You nod, because you're too weak to answer her, and creep behind the silent, grinning audience. Daina had better have a grilled ribeye and a gallon of water to go with the meds she'd promised if she's expecting you to be of any use hashing out an escape plan. Once more unto the breach, visions be damned.
Gleaming Over lets you go first, giving you a once-over as you shimmy by. She's knows about the illness. Probably on the lookout for signs of you flipping out on her and her playmates again. It's only fair. One paranoiac deserves another.
You had emerged into a security monitoring booth. Rack-mounted flatscreens showing thirty or more locations throughout the Church flicker in black and white. Little forms were ambling down the two-dimensional halls, sitting around playing cards, hanging decorations, drawing on the walls. Was that Candle turning that corner?
One by one the panels fill with static, the volume rising and falling in staccato bursts of noise and jabbering.
The attacks are coming faster. Sharper. She needs to fuck off already.
Nicole's voice spits through the speakers. "I'm so cold, Isaac. It hurts."
They're torturing her. Hunchback fucks sawing off her arms in the shadows, dancing like clowns, watching for your reaction. She had put herself to sleep and they're still torturing her. Using her mind. Her voice.
"Stop. Stop," you whisper, pounding on the keyboards. Anything to kill the images. Put the shitheads back in their place.
But it doesn't stop. Nicole's twisted voice keeps cutting, stabbing. "Where are you going? You can't run from the pain forever. Soon you'll beg for a way to end it all."
End it all. Like she did. How would that translate? Throwing yourself a birthday party? Inviting all your new friends, handing out the favors? Coloring books, powdered sugar, ice cream cake, cider all around. I'm here to stay, fellas, tie on my feedbag.
"Through here, Isaac," calls Gleaming through the echoes of laughter and screams. God's own Marker, thank you Gleaming. There's the red and yellow tip of her tail slipping behind a corner. She'd gone ahead out of sight, past another set of screens and into some other room.
It's fine. Gleaming's here to get you where you need to go. You're down, but not out. It's just Nicole being Nicole, breaking your spirit, trying to get you to kill yourself. No sweat.
All at once the grating noise of the static dies away, and the drab video feed returns. Where is that mare? If you lose sight of her for too long, the shitheads might return for real, and you obviously don't have the pep to deal with them anymore.
You stumble around the corner of what looks to be a maintenance closet. There she is, waiting by a duct access point. She'd pushed some storage crates out of the way and was scanning her hoof in front of the access panel, trying to open it.
Pretty sure your RIG is decommissioned when you flatline, hon. No offense. You move up next to her and wave your wristband in front of the chip reader. The narrow tunnel opens, revealing the station's inner workings.
Gleaming leans back against the wall, inspecting her mane. "Thanks. Yeah, I know it's not the most convenient route, but you need to get used to doing things our way, you know? We’ll call it practice. You first.”
How very kind of you, and such sage advice. Practice makes perfect. You pull yourself into the hole and crawl into the darkness, trying not to imagine yourself with a snout and hooves.
"That's the way. In you go," she says. You hear her scoot in behind you, bumping the metalwork with her hooves and wingtips.
There was a time, not too long ago, in fact, when you would have kicked her face in. You've come so far, Isaac. Made so much progress.
You reach the other end, without your helpful guide tearing your legs off as luck would have it. You'd taken a big chance letting her take the rear. None of the ponies had made the social faux pas of mutating, but after the movie theater, anything's possible. The safety mechanism of the exit panel activates. You flip onto your back to pull through so you can land on your feet. Once you're out and steady, you look back in to give Gleaming a hand. She's lagging behind. Some very unponylike curses echo from around the dark bends of the duct.
Not so swift at this yourself yet, are you sweetheart? You turn to get your bearings.
There's a hiss, something dull and heavy cutting through the air. Your arms come up, your palm bumping the buttons on the back of your RIG's wristband by accident. A white-gloved hand slams downward onto your forearms as your helmet collapses, pressing you to your knees.
The room's natural acoustics, strange now after being filtered through your helmet's audio circuit for so long, are alive with a chorus of whispers. The candles! You can hear them, and in their endless dancing perceive the joy of the one they were set to honor. Their esoteric musk takes you by surprise.
Another scent is washing over you, like vanilla on a high wind in the sunlight. "Make ... us ... whole," Nicole says from above, as if she's complimenting the sky on a beautiful sunrise.
Her long, broad wings surround you as she leans forward, gentle but strong beyond belief. She's pressing something towards your exposed forehead. The unicorn horn. Its fibrous roots are twitching, yearning for skin and bone in which to weave, to heal all the humanity away. You can be clean. You can be free. Nicole's rosy, loving eyes are saying it.
So tired. Just relax.
It would be so easy. Who was it you were fighting for? Daina? Some theoretical survivors of a dirty infection on a dirty space rock? Be with her. Take the horn.
It dips downward, little by little. Nicole smiles. She always had a sweet smile. You search the face you know so well, the upturned lips, the narrow, delicate nose, the eyes, beaming with profound compassion.
If it really was her, if those eyes were a soft blue instead of metallic pink, you could stop fighting, and start your life over with her.
Your burning triceps shudder against her impossible weight. She can't win. They can't win. They won't.
And she's gone. Nothing left but a ringing in your ears. Nothing but a sad-looking carrot quivering in your hands.
"Hey, uh, buddy. Want to talk about it?"
Gleaming Over is sitting by the duct, keeping a safe distance. She must have struggled out while you were arm wrestling with Nicole. Probably saw the whole thing. Probably considering leading you to the nearest airlock and ejecting you into Saturn before you hurt somepony.
Now now, calm down. She just wants to give you a shoulder to lean on. Be your mentor. Necromorphs are your support group, champ. Unfuck yourself now.
"Uhh, give me a minute. Let me walk it off a little."
"Anything you need, pal, take your time." She goes back to picking at her mane, tearing the strands apart and checking the colors. Her green eyes flick up from her work now and then, tracking you.
Great. Don't worry about me, sweetheart. Just gotta find a way to forget that just happened. First, let's get rid of that vanilla smell and activate the old helmet. That's it. Now where in this intestinal logjam of a space station are we? That high-backed chair and desk place it as an office. Pretty swank. Some high-ranking Bronitologist dignitary's little throne room judging by the quality of the woodwork and brimming bookshelves. God, transportation costs from Earth alone were ridiculous for that stuff, and that was three years ago. But that's OK. It's all part of the cult connection. All taken care of courtesy of the shits they're selling hope to.
The titles of these books. Priceless. The Sixfold Path to Harmony ... Writ of Celestia's Blessings ... The Transformation: What We Believe ... Equine Peace, Equine Truth ... Green Bounty, Confectionary Pleasures: the Diet of the Goddess - nice - A Strong Mare for a Strong Family ...
Family - that’s right. You’d been trying to cajole some more information out of Gleaming Over before being interrupted by Tiedemann’s lackeys back at the Church entrance. This one's hiding something, and not doing a very good job of it. She's in the mood to talk, so why not try to trip her up? It's an excellent opportunity to distract her from your little heart-to-heart with the carrot, too.
"OK, I'm ready. Let's go."
She stands up on all fours. "All set, wiz? Follow me. We'll ease up the pace for a bit. And don't be shy - I'm here to help." She walks past you to the exit. You toss the carrot onto the desk and follow her.
The corridor on the other side bears right. Someone put a lot of effort into decorating this one. Glitter-streaked drawings and portraits of ponies are plastered on the upper half of the walls. Pink streamers had been hung from between the ceiling panels. The wafting tips brush the top of your helmet as you pass.
You step up in line with your guide. You're best buds, just two friends groovin' down the hall, shootin' the breeze, havin' a convo on the way to work.
You smile behind your visor. An old customer service trick to make yourself sound more engaging. "Been on Titan Station for a while?"
Gleaming Over nods without looking up. "Yeah, five years or so. As you can imagine, dead moons don't get a ton of precipitation. So EarthGov put out a bid request to mine and process hydrosilicates from the smaller chunks of Titan still floating in a local orbit. And surprise, surprise, the CEC won the bid! Like there's anyone else that has a chance." She smirks and ruffles her wings.
Nothing gets them warm and fuzzy like talking about the fam. "So, did you transfer by yourself? Do you have a husband, or fiancée waiting for you back in the Towers?"
“Husband? Ha ha, no. I was a dude.”
That's ... an odd way to put it. Must be some new slang. You were in la-la land for a long time, Isaac. Not like you'd ever left. “You mean a dude, like you, uh, were single, hung out with the guys, played rugby, that sort of thing? Not your typical girl?”
“Yeah, that’s precisely what I meant, because I was a guy. A man. Packed heat, if you catch my drift.” She looks up with one electric green eye and winks.
A ceiling panel flips open by your head, and the cigarette pony swings out upside down, blowing a party horn into your ear.
You grunt and fall to the side, covering the side of your helmet. Your shoulder rakes a row of Christmas tree drawings free from the wall. The sparkly sheets drift to the floor.
That. That right there. An entirely new feeling Isaac, or rather, several feelings at once. The whole lunch buffet of I’m fucked, contract cancelled, have a great life.
Gleaming Over tries to hide her giggling. “Hee hee, nice one Smokey. Actually, Isaac, I'm going to have the honor of bearing my first foal in a few months, believe it or not. It was …”
Vomit splatters the inside of your visor. Done. You're done. Enough.
You disconnect the neck couplings and yank the reeking helmet off your head, not even letting it finish folding into standby. And whoops! There it goes, bouncing down the hallway along with your last fuck.
“What the hay, man? Are you OK?”
Am I OK? Good question. Some questions are trivial. Some are stupid. And some, like whether or not the ponies, the necromorphs, or anything else is real, are ill-defined. “I’m awesome, Gleaming. Awesome. I understand now, buddy.”
It’s time. You extract the foam finger from your belt. Somehow it made it through the hellish gauntlet of the last few hours, not even a scratch or tear, hanging in there strong and true as if fate had squeezed one last footnote into the back chapters of history for its safe passage to this moment.
You hold it up, tracing over the white painted lines that formed a palm and knuckles on its hard, porous surface. Because it is fate, my friend, and your destiny is to deliver Isaac and the one or two people left still clinging to their humanity from this holocaust.
“I win.” You slip your hand into the narrow slit.
Gleaming Over chuckles. “Hey, what’re ya doin’?”
Get the feel of it, Isaac. Stretch out that arm. Try it out. “You ponies have obviously not been properly entertained. You're still feeling," your index finger slides into the foam pointer, "hmm, yes, you're still feeling a bit glum. But we're going to take care of that real quick, don't you worry."
Gleaming Over sits back on her haunches, her tail swishing much too close to a set of Candle's candles. "Umm, no, everypony I've talked to is pretty excited. The Convergence, remember? Weren’t you paying attention back at the Towers?"
You grip the tool of your liberation with your free hand, aiming at a muddy watercolor horseshoe painting for practice. It fits snug. Secure. "Mmm hmm. Yup, Convergence. Gleaming, could you do me a favor and sit still right there for just a second?"
The rainbow tail stops swishing. "Uh, sure, OK."
You point the finger at her snout. "Now, please describe to me, with as much detail as you can, how this makes you feel."
"Pointing a foam hand in my face? Doesn't really do much for me. Now can we get going, we're wasting time and ..."
"Bang bang bang bang bang!"
Gleaming stares at you, a smile spreading across her face. "What ... in Celestia's name ..." She falls to the floor, consumed in wave after wave of loud, unbridled laughter.
What now, Ms. Over? Not so spry, are we? “That’s right. Enough of your shit. No more games, no more playtime. I told you once, I’ll tell you again. That’s what he said, right? Good ol’ Smokey here? You and your pallies, your scheming pack of lovebirds and BFF’s have done nothing but let me down again and again and again, and I find your behavior completely unacceptable. Isn’t that right, Ma? You Unitologist scarecrow! Look where it all led! Look who’s on the path to damnation! Look at the drain it’s all circling around! Your killing spree is over you fucking monsters.” You bring your heel up to stomp the helpless pony, avoiding her wriggling wings and legs.
No. Keep it consistent. Maintain the strictest scientific discipline. As she wipes the tears from her eyes, you tickle her under her foreleg with the toe of your boot.
She laughs harder, spluttering out a few words. "W-wait! You’re sick! You … y-you don't know the way!"
"Don't worry. I'll figure it out without you, Gleaming. This,” you shout, wagging the floppy red finger down the dark passage ahead, “this will point the way! I’m leaving now. Shouldn't be too hard for you to," you hit her a couple more times with the Hand's devastating ordnance, "get over it."
She collapses again, snorting and guffawing.
The party horn goes off again. "You want some too, don't you?" you shout, spinning and firing the Hand at Smokey's head. "Bang! Bang bang bang!"
He cracks up, dropping his horn. After a few more shots he crumples, clutching his ribs and falling down next to Gleaming. They look at each other for a moment, then laugh even harder.
Sweet, sweet victory. You stand up straight and straighten your lei. Motherfuckers had ruffled it. "See that? Now you bastards are mine. Time to swab the fucking decks."
Armed and blessed with the Hand, you jog on to the end of the hall, already able to hear the hoots and cheers of your hapless, unsuspecting foes.
Stats
Page generated in 0.031 seconds
Total duration
662 users online
877,972 hits today, 2,054,621 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
He has lost it xD lol
Sweet Holy Robot Police Officer, you actually used the finger! I am now happiest convert evah!
Aah' yes...
Titan shall be rocked now! Nothing will be able to stand in the way of Isaac and his Foam Finger!
5161806
Yes indeed, Isaac has had a breakthrough. What can possibly stop him now?
5162024
Glad you like it! It just makes so much sense, doesn't it? I've had to restrain myself from having him unleash it before this chapter.
5166116
There will be blood ... and laughter
5170261 he must accept Princess Luna's loving embrace >=D , just like the rest of us. Pegasus mare convert <<<
the uh... Big Funny Glove?
I'm having the strangest feeling that the ponies aren't part of Isaac's subconscious...
5171411
It's ... number one
5187324
Hmm. That's an interesting interpretation
just watched this, immediately thought of this story. So imma just leave this riiiiiiiight here.
5193159
Excellent. Excellent.
I wish I could paste a .wav of the sound Isaac makes when he takes damage every time a pony snuggles him.
5187840
The BFG is a powerful wepon
ARRRRGH! I can't believe I MISSED this! Stupid FiMFiction update wiping all my Follows on fics! Stupid, stupid, stupid! ISAAC!
Isaac: "Wut?"
If you see a pony named Knighty, TICKLE HIM TILL HE POPS!
Isaac: *cocks "handgun", grins*
(UPDATE! GLORIOUS UPDATE! YUM!
)
5275482
So glad you like the turn things have taken! 2k+ words into chapter 11. It's going to be a bit different, just a prelude to the climax, really. I'm so looking forward to writing that in all its glory.
Which reminds me, once this is done I'll go back and address the issues you so diligently pointed out.
Three months=2594 words. The best dead space thing Iv read in the past few years.
Well time to wait a another year and get two chapters.
Still worth it in my book.
5328328
Is that really the average? Dang
Thanks for your patience and support. You know, there might be a coincidence here, an alignment of sorts, you might say. Keep an eye on the updates tonight
Well I feel like an ass now.
Crap.
Still...It`s not like many people still love the dead space Franchise after Number three.
So to some degree I'm surprised you're still going after all this time.
Really I would be happy to wait three or four more years if it lead to the final chapters of this master piece.
Thought your comment definitely get me excited.
Sorry real life I'm off until two tomorrow.
who had tramped over the pages without even looked down
She's knows about the illness
1. Looking.
2. She.
Welp, Isaac found the ultimate handgun. Time for him to roflstomp everything until the boss
The ultimate finger, it makes the ponies laugh and collapse of laughter unlike the plasma cutter...
The Horns have been unleashed BITCH!