01- Blaise Arrow
Three years after the Canterlot High Catastrophe
Blaise Arrow’s eyes opened, looking at the white ceiling. His head, he could tell, was wrapped in bandages, he could hear a beeping behind him to his left, presumably a pulse monitor. He found his head was being held in place by what he could only figure were sandbags. Slowly raising his arms, he found tubes leading into both of them, two on the left and one on the right. “I am in a hospital,” he thought, “not the hospital on base, either. Where am I and what happened?”
It took a moment or two for him to realize something. “I am in bed, in a hospital, with my head wrapped up. Why do I not feel worried or even concerned? I do not even feel anxious. I hope a doctor comes in soon.”
It was only a moment or so later when a nurse came into the room. As she leaned over him to check the monitor stand, Blaise managed to speak. “Excuse me, but where am I and how did I come to be here?” he asked the pretty nurse in his native Eastern language, the nurse having whitish skin and mixed yellow and pink hair.
The nurse gasped at his words, not expecting him to be awake. “The doctor should explain that, sir. I can say you have been here for twenty-four days after being flown here from the Eastern Empire. You needed specialized care that is only available here,” she told him in passable Eastern
“Just where is here, Miss June Flower?” Blaise asked, reading her nametag.
“Summer Haven Neurological Hospital, in Equestria City. If you will wait for a few moments, I will let the doctor know you are awake,” June said, noting something down on a clipboard she was holding.
“I can wait. It is apparent that I should not move or attempt to get out of bed at this time. Therefore, I will not,” Blaise said, his voice a bit raspy but sounding unconcerned.
“Be right back,” June said before leaving. Blaise lay there, looking up at the ceiling, waiting. It was less than a minute later when a doctor came in, a tall yellow-skinned man with short orange-red hair.
“Staff Sergeant Arrow, I am Doctor Trimline, chief neurologist. Can you tell me what the last thing you remember is?” the doctor asked, in Equestrian, which Blaise could understand, if not exactly speak well.
“My squad and I were going out to check a mobile missile battery. It had just arrived from the factory, and we were to do inspections. Did something go wrong?” Blaise asked, sounding unconcerned, responding in the Eastern tongue.
“I should say so, Sergeant,” Doctor Trimline said, pulling up a chair to sit next to Blaise’s bed. He did pour a cup of water and gave it to Blaise, with a straw. “You are going to need this.”
Blaise first sipped some of the water, then drank the whole glass down. “You are correct, Doctor, I did need that. Just what did happen?”
“Your squad started checking the electronics on the missile battery. From what we could tell, one of your privates hooked up something wrong, and something detonated. Fortunately, whatever it was did not detonate properly. The blast propelled shrapnel into your brain and skull. You were comatose when you were brought here. I led the surgical team that removed the shrapnel and put your skull back together, with some plastic lamellar pieces added for additional strength.”
Blaise listened to the doctor’s recitation, his expression not changing. “Can you tell me what happened to the rest of the squad?” he asked.
Doctor Trimline sighed. “You are the only survivor. You were thrown clear, but you still suffered a lot of damage. Honestly, we were not sure if you would wake up.”
“How much damage, Doctor? Will I be able to function in the Army, or will I have to change my specialty?” Blaise asked.
“Pieces of shrapnel did penetrate your brain in seven places, going from left to right. Your skull was broken on the left side, but you did not break the skin or scalp significantly, enabling the medical team to evacuate you without your brains falling out.
“First thing you will have to do is undergo some therapy, to see if there are any physical remainders of the brain damage. As to the military, that is not up to me. Let us see how you respond to the therapy first,” the doctor concluded.
Blaise laid there for a moment, looking at the ceiling, thinking about what he was told. “No one from the squad survived?” he finally asked.
“No one. They were closer to the malfunctioning missile and took the full brunt of the blast.”
“That is not good. Their families should be notified. Can you tell me if it has been done?”
“As far as I know, it has,” Doctor Trimline said with a sigh. “My army days were years ago, and that is standard procedure. Your family should have been notified as well.”
“I do not have any, Doctor. My parents died in a car crash shortly after I went to Missile Technologies school. I stayed in the Army because I have no place left to go. So, here I am.”
“Yes, here you are. Now that you are awake and conscious, I can remove your bandaging and remove your IV drips. Later, we will start physical therapy,” Doctor Trimline said, putting down his notepad and picking a small set of scissors from the tools in his white coat pocket. “Just hold still while I loosen these.”
“I shall do so, Doctor.” Blaise did just that, following all of the doctor’s instructions to the letter while his bandages and IV’s were removed. He was given a mirror to examine his head wounds.
Blaise could see his skin tone, a charcoal gray color, did look the same, some golden-yellow beard stubble showing. His head was shaved, again with golden-yellow stubble, but the scars from the surgery were of a pale gray color, easily visible. Some scars also showed on his left ear, which appeared intact.
“It is hoped your hair will grow out to cover the scars, in time,” Doctor Trimline said when Blaise put the mirror down.
“If I let my hair grow out. That is to be determined by what the Army desires I do after this.”
“That is true. Go ahead and order what you desire from our menu. You are not under any dietary restrictions,” the doctor advised, tidying up the bandage mess.
Blaise did not answer until the doctor was about to leave the room. “I am uncertain if I desire anything at all. Require, yes. Desire, I do not yet know.”
Four months after the missile battery blast, back in the Sombran Empire.
Staff Sergeant Arrow stood at attention in front of the desk of Fort Brave Heart’s commanding general’s desk. “Staff Sergeant Arrow reporting as ordered, sir!”
General Standing Wave returned the salute crisply. Well, as crisply as one could with an artificial arm. “At ease, Sergeant. Do sit down. I am to remind you that some matters we are about to discuss are not to be spoken about outside this room.”
Blaise sat down in the chair, back straight, as if he was still standing. “Understood, General.”
General Standing Wave opened a thick folder on his desk. The fact that it was a folder, and not a computer file, emphasized the confidentiality order. That, and the red and white tape on the borders of the manila folder. “Sergeant, I have here your therapy reports from the hospital. It shows you have no long-term physical or intellectual disabilities remaining, but there is one glaring one that will make you unable to remain in the Army. That is your complete lack of any emotions whatsoever.”
Blaise looked at the General impassively. “I am aware that such a lack will make it difficult to be an effective leader of troops, either in schooling or out in the field,” he said.
The General nodded, looking back at the fit young man sitting across the desk. “I am pleased you can realize the difficulties. That is why that, as of this coming Friday, you are going to be discharged from the Army on a full medical discharge. You will also be promoted to Sergeant First Class as of now, which will increase your disability payments.
“You are also going to undergo retraining in another field of work, one that will minimize your contact with the public. All the reports I have of you indicate that your emotionlessness makes many people uncomfortable to be around you for any great length of time. I know this is being worded poorly, but do you have any preferences on what field of work you would like to be employed in?” the General asked.
Blaise made no reaction to the choice of words. “What would be most logical, given how I affect others, would be to be placed in some sort of corporate technical position, able to use my knowledge of electronics, computer repair, and engineering. I have no preference to which corporation, or where.
“I realize that on full disability, I would most likely not need to work, but that would not be logical at all. I am still alive, I am and always will be a soldier, and soldiers do not remain idle one second more than necessary,” he said in his emotionless voice.
“That is correct, Sergeant First Class. Once a soldier, always a soldier in one’s heart. Fortunately, my injuries allowed me to stay in and pursue my career. Your injuries do not allow that.”
The General flipped some more pages in the thick file. “Yes. About the blast that injured you and killed your squad. The missile battery was new, freshly delivered from the factory. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, General. My squad was assigned to do final acceptance checks. It did not pass.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Obvious,” the General said sarcastically. The sarcasm did not register on Blaise’s face. “Yes, it did not pass. Subsequent examinations showed the not only was that particular battery defective, the whole production run showed the same defect, meaning that under testing, the units would randomly trigger an explosion somewhere in the missile systems, either the warhead or the rocket motors.
“Now, that information is to remain classified, Sergeant. NO ONE outside this room now is to be told of the results of the investigation. Is that understood?” the General said in a tone of voice that demanded compliance.
Blaise stared back at the General. “Understood, sir. I am not even permitted to talk about it in my sleep or in my dreams, if I had any, which I do not,” he said in his bland tones, but the General could tell looking into Blaise’s amber eyes, that he would do as ordered.
“Yes. To that end, a sum of five million dollars will be deposited to an account which you will have access to at your discretion, in addition to your disability pay and any other disbursements you will be due.
“Report back to your barracks and wait there. Someone from Separations will be there within an hour to start the process of not only separating you, but placing you in a job, training, and housing. Remember your orders, soldier!”
Blaise stood up from the chair. “I will remember them, General. It has been an honor to serve under you. May we meet again sometime.”
“Dismissed, Sergeant Arrow.” Blaise pivoted precisely, then exited the room. General Standing Wave shuddered some once the door to his office shut. “I cannot tell if he is a man or a machine, just by looking at him. Hope he has a good life.”
Six years after the Canterlot Disaster
Blaise Arrow was placed in Equestria City, working as a technician for Silver Innovations. He had a modest car, a modest apartment, and lived a quiet life. When Silver Innovations merged with Rare Debonair to form Rare Innovations, Blaise went along with the merger. His evaluations were always near the top of the charts, but few ever sought him out for anything more than work related activities, and he never reached out. He was a no-show for any social event the companies held, either taking an extra shift so someone else could attend or ignoring the parties entirely.
If anyone could be considered a friend of Blaise’s, it had to be Rip Current, one of his co-workers in the Technology Department. Rip Current was a former Navy engineer, who mustered out after feeling that he was being denied a chance to move up the ranks. While Rip Current was a technician on par with Blaise Arrow, he did not shun social events, he just chose to go to only a few of them. The chunky green-skinned and pale blue haired fellow accepted Blaise for what he was, and did not try to change him, unlike many others at work, who generally gave up in disgust at Blaine’s unemotional reactions to their attempts to get him to socialize.
Blaise’s car was in for repairs one cold winter’s week, and he had arranged with Rip to be given rides to and from home and work. Blaise insisted that Rip pick him off and drop him off about a mile from his apartment, because that way Rip would not have to make a detour. Rip made his customary one attempt to try to get Blaise to change his mind, then acquiesced.
Blaise was walking home from the drop off point when he was jumped by not one, but two muggers, bundled from head to foot against the cold and snow. “Okay, you! What you have, we want, so give it all up now and we won’t mess you up too much!” one of his attackers said to him, definitely a female.
Blaise just looked at the pair dispassionately. “No,” he said as he started walking again.
“You don’t talk to us that way, buster!” the other thug, also female, snapped out, drawing a pistol while her partner drew a rather large knife.
Blaise stopped, turned, and looked at the pair. “I talk the way I want to who I want when I want. Attacking me would be foolish,” he told them, face and voice again dispassionate.
“We’re in charge here!” the one with the knife snapped as she charged at Blaise.
Blaise raised his hands, prepared to defend himself, when an ashen-gray glow appeared around his hands. Something resembling a pistol crossbow appeared in his left hand, while a small shield appeared in his right. He blocked the charging mugger with the shield, sending her into a snowdrift, while firing at the one with the gun.
Blaise watched as a grayish-white bolt flew from the crossbow, flying directly to the second mugger’s gun. The impact of the bolt with the gun caused the gun to glow a bright bluish color, apparently searing the hand of the second mugger, who let out a screech of pain, dropping the gun, which fell to the snow, melting whatever it touched.
“Beanie!” the first mugger shouted as she freed herself from the drift. “You’re going to get it now, buster!” she growled, setting up for a charge. In reply, Blaise fired again, this time the bolt hit the knife, which also glowed blue. The first mugger screamed again, opening her hand to drop the knife, but the knife did not fall, sticking to her hand, still inducing pain.
“Let’s get out of here!” Beanie shouted, holding her burned hand. The two ran off, disappearing into an alley.
Blaise looked down at his crossbow and shield. “Interesting,” he said as the devices faded. “I think I will have a pan-fried steak tonight with a side salad and mashed potatoes instead of stopping for a hamburger.” He put his hands in his pockets and continued walking.
Once his car was repaired, Blaise went to a secluded area he knew that being his forge and cabin,about sixty miles north of Equestrian City, to practice with his newfound tools. The bolts, he found he could vary their intensity, and even direct them, IF he is paying attention to where the bolts are supposed to go. Otherwise, if he did not pay attention to their flight, it was like firing an ordinary pistol. The shield, after some effort to simulate strikes, showed he could deflect blows against him with it, but again, he had to pay attention. “I would ask why, but gifts like this strike at random. Someday, I will know the reason why I have been gifted. Until then, I won’t worry about it,” he said to himself as he walked back to the car.
Blaise never told anyone about his talent, nor did he practice with it much. With the rise of metahuman violence in Equestria City, he never felt the desire or the need to go out hunting for problems. The few times problems encountered him, he never backed down, nor hesitate to strike. He never felt the desire to kill, just to make the problems go away. Killing was not necessary, he rationalized, except in the most extreme of circumstances. Maiming, wounding, burning, now those were acceptable. As he said to himself, “I do not know of any way to interrogate a corpse.” The shield on his right hand, he found, could be shaped to conform to his fist to add extra damage potential for a punch, or expand to cover him. When he did that, he could not fire his crossbow.
As much as it could be said he enjoyed anything, he did enjoy his job at Rare Innovations. While he was not much of an innovator, he can and did use what he had to its utmost, pushing the gear to and beyond its normal limits. Blaise did notice what Fabrication was doing for the head of research, a Miss Twilight Sparkle, and did investigate. However, not being able to fully comprehend everything, he just stuck with what he knew, submitting memos as to how to improve some of the designs he saw, always with the caveat that he was just a simple technician, not a researcher. He did not expect any replies and did not receive any. He had a job to do and second-guessing the Head of Research was not one of them.
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What a delightful story :) welcome to Equestrian City n.n
Nice work. I've had my own ideas like this and always thought there could be so many stories to be told in Equestrian City and you've done a great job in highlighting this character. Interesting to see a character that despite having these abilities, would rather not use them if possible and just live his life doing what he can. He seems extremely easy to relate to, at least for me. his not out to change the world or get a quick payday with his abilities. He just does a job and does it the best he can. Can't wait to see more.
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Next chapter next week! Stay tuned to this channel! Updates Mondays! Same meta-time, same meta-channel!
announcer gets walloped by a flying boxing glove
Not here, Doomsday Desmond!
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Alden has impressed me and the rest with his abilities and knowledge of our lore o.0
We are eagerly awaiting response to what he has to share and welcome him fully into the writing team :)
Interesting new side story to Meta-verse. You have my attention.
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May I keep it (in a good way, of course) for some time to come.
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I believe you will
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Thank you for the vote of confidence. That's one, is there any more out there?