Equestrylvania

by Brony_Fife

The Wolf Revealed, Part V

The look in Roaring Yawn’s eyes as he babbled Please don’t kill me! and I’ll talk! had been submission and terror, but to Shatterstorm his words sounded strangely practiced. Still, he has no reason to doubt that Roaring Yawn was telling the truth—especially not after he’d given him some scars on his left foreleg to match his right.

His familiarity with the base’s layout aids Shatterstorm (and it doesn’t hurt to be able to fly and crawl up walls to keep out of sight, either) as he makes his way to Rose Blade’s personal chambers. He’s around the corner and hiding and down the hallway and in every shadow. He haunts the base’s anatomy, an invasive and unfamiliar virus infecting her, poisoning her, killing her on his way to her heart.

Some Guards run through the hall beneath him as the sirens continue to wail. From his perch, clutching fast to the ceiling, Shatterstorm watches and waits for them to turn the corner, his breath held until they disappear from his sight.

Down he goes, landing on the ground as gently and quietly as a feather. He dashes down this hallway—down that hallway—down the next hallway—past the empty suits of armor and the rows of doors—ghosting by windows where once upon a time a younger pegasus would stare out and question why the fuck he was even here—where he and Tiger Cross first became friends—where his mind falls to pieces for one second because Tiger Cross is dead and Rainbow Dash is about to join him—where Shatterstorm failed to save them—where Shatterstorm’s chest heaves with grief—but for only one second—only one—then he jolts under shadows, to the chamber where he and Rainbow Dash had been before. The deep bass of his heartbeat ravages his chest as he throws the doors open.

He looks to the right, where the big red door lies in wait like the mouth of some giant predator. A second later, he pulls the door, only to find it locked. His hind legs make a much more effective key.

Shatterstorm shoots through the doorway before it even hits the floor, his wings open and lending him speed, his hooves pounding against hard floor before coming to a screaming halt. He’s met with awful smells and low lighting. Rose Blade’s quarters has the appearance of an apartment: a small kitchen on the right, a darkened sitting room on the left stocked with bookshelves and all the comforts of home…

His heart withers the moment he claps eyes onto Rose Blade’s houseguests.

Blank eyes set in destroyed faces stare out at nothing. Their broken forms lean where they sit on the bloodstained chairs and couch, a tea tray on the coffee table between them. The whispering blue glow from the nearby fish tank—along with the red and orange lights here and there reflected by Rose Blade’s pet fish—paints this nightmare with exotic colors.

Shatterstorm is frozen to the spot. He doesn’t realize he isn’t breathing until he feels his face begin to burn, and inhales deeply—only to regret it. Hot vomit crawls up his esophagus, its acrid bitterness already staining the back of his teeth by the time he forces it back down.

His heartbeat didn’t slow down before, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to yield. Breathing heavily through his mouth, Shatterstorm begins to look away—

—only to notice the steam rising from the tea on the table. How long ago had that been put out?

---

He knew Shatterstorm would be here. The moment the sirens blared, Whisper White knew why they’d cried out. He’d put the tea set down, hid, and waited. Whisper White is good at waiting.

The moment his target burst into the Captain’s quarters—because Whisper White is smart and knew he would come here—he tenses, his pelt prickling with the excitement of his incoming battle.

When Shatterstorm is close enough, close enough that Whisper White can smell his pretty, pretty smell, Whisper White glides out from his hiding place. A falling leaf would have made more noise.

He doesn’t know Whisper White is here yet. Whisper White remembers his training—the years of grueling training he’d endured—the years of his childhood spent in King Sombra’s regimen—the years he spent killing and killing and killing. He remembers the first few years where he would kill just as silently and as quickly as he moved.

But he eventually entered his teens and discovered it was much more satisfying when his prey would look at him—look him in the eyes—see his cute little smile—just as he brought his hooves down on them and ended them and watched every moment of their lives glimmer and broil in their panicked eyes before the lights went out. Much, much more satisfying.

He stands just behind Shatterstorm, totally unnoticed. He waits. Again, Whisper White waits, waits for the moment he can make some noise.

Shatterstorm shudders the moment he sees the Captain’s guests. No surprise. The Captain was too rough and took too long with those anyway. The Captain loves brutality even more than Whisper White does.

Then Shatterstorm’s ear twitches. Danger.

Whisper White takes that as his cue. He glides, again soundlessly, using his small, coltish body to get underneath Shatterstorm, shivering with delight slightly as he feels his beautiful prey against his Crystal Pony flesh. Shatterstorm is up and flailing and slamming into a wall and falling down and landing on his forelegs before he can even yelp.

And Whisper White is on him, clown-white, glittering hooves battering against Shatterstorm’s pretty face. There’s grunting. There’s heavy breathing. There’s sweat and spittle and shouts and blood and everything everything everything Whisper White lives for. He smiles, his lips curving without mischief or maliciousness, as he beats Shatterstorm—and beats him—and beats him—and throws him into the living room. Shatterstorm falls against the coffee table, spilling the tea set all over the guests.

There’s a look in Shatterstorm’s eyes that go well with his perfect bruises. Determination. Good. Whisper White has only ever seen determination on this level in the eyes of a hooffull of ponies—King Sombra, the Captain, Princess Luna, the lovely Rainbow Dash…

Her magenta eyes. Like a valkyrie’s. Whisper White didn’t even need to look at her in the bathroom to know how powerful her eyes are. How strong she is. He can see it in her eyes. Eyes like a valkyrie’s.

“I knew you’d come for her,” Whisper White says coolly.

Standing back up is a battle between Shatterstorm and his own legs, but whatever force of gravity that still holds him together lends him the power. He snorts. Whisper White looks in his eyes. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful determination. Beautiful, beautiful.

“You’re both beautiful, you know,” he continues. The way Shatterstorm lifts an eyebrow is comical, and gets a chuckle or two out of Whisper White as he—for once, slowly—saunters around him. “Yes, beautiful. Both of you. Your determination. Your strength. It’s a shame you use it against the Captain.”

Whisper White already has a plan in his head—and just by closing his eyes, it happens. Shatterstorm is lifted and thrown down to the couch, knocking it over, sending the guests spiraling to the floor. The glorious noises the guests make as they land remind Whisper White of his early days as part of King Sombra’s elite: that sound was the only thing that noted his existence, and by the time anypony heard it, it was too late: the prey was dead and Whisper White was gone.

The excitement Whisper White felt before is swelling, aching. It grows and builds and begs for release. His smile, still small, still boyish, hides a giggle that bubbles in his throat.

“But you’ll never see her again,” he says. “You’ll die before that happens. It’s a shame, too—so beautiful. Both of you.”

There’s something that ghosts by Shatterstorm’s eyes, dancing with his determination. “You really think Rose Blade feels about you the way you feel for him?” he asks salaciously. “The only reason you’re his number two is because he’s fragile.”

Whisper White’s eyes shoot open, his smile unmoving, unflinching. Impossible. That’s impossible. The Captain? Fragile? Such a powerful creature, with his smile and his mane and his green eyes and his strength, his beautiful, beautiful strength? Impossible.

“He needs somepony there to stroke his ego,” Shatterstorm continues as he struggles back up to his hooves. “He needs you… because he’s weak and he knows it. He’s weak and he’s afraid.”

There’s a pause. It’s heavy and growing heavier by the second. Impossible.

Whisper White’s hooves wrap around Shatterstorm’s neck, yanking him forward. Their muzzles touch. All the while, Whisper White smiles as their hot breaths mingle. “Was that supposed to make me angry?” he asks, still smiling, his eyes merely slits.

His breath becomes hotter and his eyes snap awake and his pupils become microscopic black islands in oceans of electric yellow. “Because it did,” he says, still smiling, always smiling.

The fish tank. Whisper White introduces Shatterstorm to the Captain’s pets, holding his head underwater, patiently, waiting, waiting, waiting—waiting for the inevitable, coming limpness of body, slacking of form, one tiny, final gasp before everything Shatterstorm was and is falls silent.

Whisper White’s excitement mixes with his anger. His breathing becomes more hoarse, more shaky, more airy as his ears are kissed by Shatterstorm’s drowning gasps.

Then there’s a clap. Shatterstorm brings up both wings—both of them shooting upwards and into Whisper White’s ears, clapping them, quick, sudden pain chased by ringing and dizziness. The single moment of slack that follows allows Shatterstorm to suddenly bring up his head—bringing it up just as fast as his wings, colliding with Whisper White’s muzzle, putting fireworks in his mouth and setting them all off at once.

Whisper White, stunned, staggers backward. Then Shatterstorm’s hind legs are lifted and they fire like rockets.

This brief connection launches Whisper White into outer space. There’s stars that pop and suns that burn brightly and galaxies that swirl and dark colors that swim and no gravity or up or down. The wall greets Whisper White with a slap to his back, the impact leaving a huge crack and shaking the paintings off the Captain’s wall.

Sounds come back and the darkness fades and the colors stop swimming, but they take their time. And just as Whisper White opens his eyes, the fish tank flies at him and pushes his head back into the wall for a split, intimate second. There’s pain like no other, lights popping against darkness, water splashing, fish flopping all around him as he falls forward.

Then Shatterstorm shouts. Anger. Anger born of determination. Yes. Beautiful.

Then Shatterstorm is on him. And Whisper White feels it: the hooves that trample and stomp and punch and kick and dig deeply into every inch of Whisper White’s body. The way his hooves kiss and smother into Crystal Pony flesh as he screams a warrior’s song as Whisper White grunts under every fierce blow. There’s blood in the air, and on the wall, and all over Shatterstorm’s beautiful, beautiful face.

Whisper White’s lips fly back and his voice whimpers out of his lungs, shaky and warbling, growing into passionate screams as Shatterstorm pounds and pounds and pounds.

Beautiful.

---

The auditorium quakes beneath the Wharg’s padded feet as it catapults itself to its prey. The howl that whips from its open maw dances with the sound of cheering Royal Guards. Its eyes—beady purple little fireballs in dark, hairy caves—burn furiously as its prey, unfettered, runs towards it.

Rainbow Dash, even on hoof, even bound by the wing-clamp, lives up to her name—all moving colors and blurry image and mesmerizing speed. Her magenta eyes don’t burn the same way as the Wharg’s and her howl doesn’t shake the world the way its does and her hooves don’t pound the way its paws do. But her eyes are like a valkyrie’s. Her roar is like a tiger’s. Her hooves are like a locomotive. She’s dangerous. Unstoppable.

The clash that explodes the auditorium’s building tension is a colossal thing, a perfect painting, a godlike moment frozen in time. The Guards all cheer the moment it happens: the giant Wharg bearing down its glistening, bloodied fangs on a leaping, whooping mare one-third its size.

The explosive clash is followed by a deafening silence. The Wharg is taken aback, staggering stupidly on reluctant legs. Rainbow Dash steps backwards, unsure if the blood on her hoof is from her enemy, her previous cellmate, or herself. The dazed look in the Wharg’s eyes and the snarling wobble of its lips implies an opening—and, like everything else she’s ever wanted in her life, Rainbow Dash reaches out and takes it.

The Royal Guards cheer for the blow that lands—and for the blood that spills—and for the howls of pain and for the teeth that bite and for the hooves that stomp and for the claws that swipe. All the while, as his subordinates cheer, Rose Blade smiles slowly, coyly, reveling in the sight of a beautiful mare battling a beautiful beast.

Finally, the bear-trap jaws of the Wharg come down on Rainbow Dash, teeth digging into either side and lifting her up off the floor. A sound erupts out of Rainbow Dash’s mouth—not a scream, not a shout, but a sound like cracking thunder. The Wharg has drawn out her anger, and as it shakes Rainbow Dash around like a rag doll, its jaws closing more and more on the clamp, bending it, breaking it little by little, that anger festers—and broils—and electrifies—and the moment that clamp breaks with a bang, Rainbow Dash escapes like a cannonball fired from its barrel.

Cheers and whoops from the audience. An approving smile from Rose Blade. Were Rainbow Dash not pissed off to her current extent, she might have opened her pride’s mouth wide and gorged upon the praise. Her ego might have been nourished by their adoration.

But not today.

Her audience and their cheering fade away like somepony slowly turning the volume down on a radio. They quiet, quiet, quiet until the world is only Rainbow Dash and the Wharg. The dead bodies, torn with their insides and their blood painting the floor, sink into darkness. The world is only Rainbow Dash and the Wharg.

As Rainbow Dash flies above the Wharg, it looks up with those purple, feral eyes burning brightly. She drops like a hammer, hooves out. It opens its mouth, teeth bared. Again, a clash. Again, blood. Again howls and roars and cheers.

A hoof extends, a nose it bends, and the Wharg lets out a roar. A paw is whipped, and flesh is ripped: blood flutters to the floor. Cheers and jeers all abound as there comes a second round of hooves of steel and claws so long. Their shadows dance in death’s advance—their battle rings like a song. Thumping applause at punches and claws, every voyeur in the audience grins.

And all the while, Rose Blade smiles—because whoever falls, he’s the one who wins.

---

Shatterstorm snaps out of it. His breathing is even worse now than when he came in, his heartbeat an incessant clamor in his ears. All around him, darkness and the stench of death. In front of him, a wall colored by the lights dancing in front of his eyes—the things you see when you close your eyes so hard you see shapes.

He suddenly feels cold. Spent. Heavy. Every inch of him is covered in sweat. Every inch of him hurts. Every inch of him heaves with every tired, ugly breath.

And there, lying beneath him, is Whisper White: unconscious, bruised, beaten, bleeding, one eye crumpled into unrecognizable jelly, and still

fucking

smiling.

He shudders. Shatterstorm never liked this bastard. But he has to admit, this scuffle was… enjoyable. Relieving, even. Haven’t been in a fight like that since the Changeling invasion.

He takes one last sigh of breath as he gets up off Whisper White and stumbles his way to the bathroom, where no doubt Rainbow Dash waits. On his way there, the kitchen nook—still lit, by the way—reveals a body bag. Evidently, this guest wasn’t invited to tea time with the others.

He opens the door.

He turns on the light.

The blood. The instruments lying behind the bathtub. The chains on the floor, tying into the walls and to the toilet. Shatterstorm has had to see some truly ugly things in this line of work, but this is…

He sees the feather. Cyan feathers.

Her feathers.

The body bag out in the kitchen nook. Shatterstorm turns to look at it, his jaw going slack, his ears drooping, his breathing once again becoming spastic.

“No,” he whispers meekly, his eyes growing wide and wet.

No. Not Rainbow Dash. There’s no way she’d have gone down without a fight. There’s no way she…

Just like there was no way Tiger Cross could have gone down without a fight. No way. But he still fell. He still was killed—because you are worthless and you weren’t there.

You were useless to Tiger Cross. You were useless to Rainbow Dash. You’re useless to everypony. You can't save them. You can’t save anyone. WORTHLESS.

Wait. Stop. Stop. Don’t fall apart.

He breathes deeply. His breath is still shaky, interspersed with tense half-sobs.

Shatterstorm walks to the body bag and, with some reluctance, draws the zipper down to reveal the cavernous remains of a face. He gags, hot bile begging to escape, forcing it all back down. The zipper goes further down, revealing the ravaged body of a complete stranger. No form of identification… just another nameless traitor, another bag of flesh Rose Blade had his way with—another sin he’ll be made to pay for.

While this poor soul met a gruesome end, Shatterstorm whispers a prayer of thanks to Celestia that Rainbow Dash may still be alive. But was Roaring Yawn lying about keeping her in the bathroom, or…?

Back into the bathroom, where all the blood and all the implements of horror lie. His eyes scan the room again, picking up detail after detail, looking for a clue. There’s a grill next to the tub, with all the other dangerous instruments. How had he missed that before?

And up above, an open air vent...

Shatterstorm snorts and shakes his head in irritation. “Dammit, Rainbow Dash,” he growls as he crawls up into the shaft. “Would it kill you to be feminine for once and let yourself be rescued?!”

---

The wall behind Rainbow Dash is nice enough to catch her, but rough enough to leave bruises and cruel enough to just toss her to the ground. For one tempting moment, unconsciousness dares dangle its carrot in front of Rainbow Dash’s nose, taking her legs’ will to stand and clouding her vision with spots and filling her ears with ringing silence.

Her body is this close to simply breaking. All the claw swipes and the bites and the bashing and the crashing have left Rainbow Dash in tatters. The Wharg charges her once more, its strides clumsy and tired.

Every muscle in her body, bleeding and battered, screams to simply lie down, give it time to rest, time to heal, to mend—to die, most likely. But that cutie mark on her flanks is a mark of destiny, a badge she earned by never going down easy, and never tiring, and never giving up.

Rainbow Dash forces herself to stand, pushes herself. She wishes she’d always been one who pushed herself, but there were years where she didn’t. Where she simply was a hot-headed loser, skipping lessons, falling asleep during class, not bothering to put any effort into becoming better...

The Wharg gets closer.

But that changed, didn’t it, Rainbow Dash? At some point, you realized how you were letting down everypony who believed in you. Dad never raised a loser, and he’d tell you. Every day. Maybe he’d compliment you on what you did right, or maybe he’d yell at you when you did something wrong, but he never gave you permission to lose.

Closer.

Dad didn’t raise a loser.

Closer…

Mom didn’t die for a loser.

The Wharg’s mouth opens.

A hoof covered in blood snaps it back shut.

Rainbow Dash’s wings carry her up—and around—and with a few mighty pumps, those same wings fire her like a laser beam—bouncing off the Wharg’s jaw—into its rib—through its hind legs—onto its back—across its face—across its face—across its face. Her hooves connect like electricity with every blow, frying the circuitry of the Wharg’s brain and body.

The Wharg, finally, lets out one last warbling howl before it falls forward, beaten bloody and senseless.

Rainbow Dash stands atop her fallen foe’s furry form, panting with exhaustion, sweat and blood caked to her body like war paint. She notices her audience has stopped cheering, instead just staring at the spectacle with wide eyes and gaping jaws. She flings her head back, sweat sparkling as it flies from her forehead, and gives out a throaty yell.

“WHO ELSE WANTS SOME?!”

---

The Guards all back down. Rose Blade rolls his eyes. “Fools,” he says, “she’s the one in the cage.”

“Sh-Should we go in and retrieve her, sir?” asks one Guard shyly.

Rose Blade looks once more at Rainbow Dash. Observing her. How beautiful she is, covered in blood and sweat. She’s a valkyrie, a warrior. All pegasi are, to some degree—but she’s a goddess among all of them, and the dangerous part is she knows it.

Still, even goddesses falter. Those two incompetent Princesses are proof enough.

He waves a hoof dismissively. “No,” he says. “Those iron bars should stay down. If she tries escaping, those wounds she has won’t let her get very far.” He looks up thoughtfully at the air vents she’d come in through. “Let’s see, now… She’s probably trying to escape, so she’s headed… yes, that ventilation system runs through the auditorium to the main hall, the kitchen, and the mess hall from here. Gather the best troops and place three or more of you at each vent.”

The Guard looks at his comrades. “You heard the Captain. Let’s move!”

As his troops get into position, Rose Blade looks back to Rainbow Dash as she half-struts, half-stumbles off the Wharg. Covered in sweat. Covered in blood. Good and roughed. A valkyrie. Goddess-like beauty.

Yes. Beautiful.

Rose Blade licks his lips. And smiles.

---

Her lungs feel as though they’ve swelled up bigger than her head. Her heart feels like it’s battling every artery, every vein, every capillary just to keep blood pumping. Her skin feels like it’s on fire. Her wings feel like every feather has been plucked off, every muscle twisted into something shapeless.

But Rainbow Dash staggers on. She regains her balance, finally, as she looks back up to the air vent. She sighs, and beats her wings, giving herself some lift, reaching up for the air vent. Her wings ache with every flutter.

She falls back down, landing on legs that have become jelly, falling to a belly dressed in blood and claw marks, panting heavily. Her body has become too heavy to lift. Her adrenaline subsides like a tide, leaving each wound to sparkle under a hot sun.

She opens her eyes and looks aside, catching Rose Blade smiling at her. Licking his lips like a pervert. Leering. Itching. Waiting for his chance at her. Her stomach lurches.

Sound becomes distortions. Sight becomes kaleidoscopes. Feeling becomes numbness. Everything begins swimming away from her. As her breathing becomes increasingly harsh, Rainbow Dash drifts into an ocean of a broken mind and broken body.

The first time she’d met Fluttershy at flight camp, the poor thing—so scrawny, so helpless—getting bullied—should rescue—and she did.

Her first race—against those three jock losers—broke the record—broke the sound barrier—did a Sonic Rainboom—Dad was so proud—first time she’d seen him shed tears of joy.

The first time she and Gilda tried witch weed—how they choked and sputtered—and got the giggles—and couldn’t stop—and they laughed and laughed.

The Wharg’s eyes snap open.

Pinkie Pie pulling pranks with her—the disappearing ink—the candy that tastes like boogers—classic stuff—lots and lots of laughs.

It grunts.

Read Mom’s letter—so beautiful—never met—never hugged—never kissed—never got the chance to truly love her—read Mom’s letter—her father cried.

It pulls itself back up on wobbly legs.

She challenged Applejack—so many contests—so many victories—so many losses—more than enough draws—best friends—best rivals—like sisters—sisters because you couldn’t have any—asked Dad once why not many years ago—first time she’d seen her father cry.

It stumbles and it staggers, but it comes closer.

Twilight Sparkle’s birthday—first time she’d celebrated her birthday with her friends—so much fun—Rarity kept leaving—so much fun—best friends.

Its lips draw back, revealing rows of teeth.

Met Shatterstorm just after all this insanity started—good guy—she can tell—too uptight—but good—she can tell—makes her angry—makes him angry—but feels good—good guy—she can tell—don’t leave

It growls, hungry.

don’t leave

The Wharg distorts into a blur. Rainbow Dash’s eyes are wet.

don’t leave

Rainbow Dash’s legs push her up, slowly, painfully.

don’t leave me here

The Wharg’s teeth look so much longer and sharper now that they’re only two feet away.

don’t look!

don’t look!

Yawning darkness. Crowned by yellowed fangs. A single, grotesque pink tentacle slithers out.

The wall said DON’T LOOK

The crow said DON’T LOOK

DON’T LOOK

But she ignores the warnings. Rainbow Dash looks anyway, staring deeply down into oblivion. She raises a hoof, ready to give one last punch. If I die, says the courage in the back of her mind, I’ll do it standing up, eyes wide!

The Wharg yelps. Falls.

Rainbow Dash blinks in stunned confusion, her hoof frozen in place.

Shatterstorm stands on top of the Wharg’s head. Its body has gone limp, its fangs stuck into its extended tongue, blood dribbling over its mouth. Shatterstorm himself looks beat-up, tired, hurt: one side of his face beginning to bloat with bruises, blood from his lip, a black eye. He has his usual scowl, and his usual screwed-down eyebrows that always make him look constantly pissed off. But his eyes shimmer, just like hers, with relief.

“Dunno about you,” Shatterstorm says in forced coolness, “but I’m getting outta here.” He extends a hoof. “You coming or not?”

Comments

[GMZ_Casper]

Okay, I have to admit, of all the chapters I have read, I have to love this one. Seriously, the feeling and the action in it is amazing, and the first chapter where a character finally give the fear attempt (the "don't look") the metaphorical finger for once. Can't wait to read more...