Chapter 8 - Remnants
All she could hear were the screams, the cries of anger and agony, shouts for order that only added to the entropy and mobocracy as they scurried about like ants in a frenzy, a monstrous hoof having stomped the mighty mount to oblivion.
She plodded slowly down the center of the cobblestone street, stepping over rubble and furniture blasted from buildings... bodies. What buildings hadn’t been leveled to the ground were aflame, city workers far too busy to give the soaring flames even a second glance, leaving the hopeless task to the owners. Though, even the ponies invested in the burning property didn’t seem to bother. Unicorns and pegasi and earth ponies alike just sat back in the street, staring, family members and friends caressing, all dusted a similar color of the dirt spectrum from soot and debris.
A mare ran frantically from group to group amongst the chaos, tears streaming from her eyes as she searched for something, the task proving as easy as finding a needle in a haystack.
She stopped as the frenzied mare ran up to address her. “Have you seen my foal!?” she yelled, despite the close proximity. The mare waited a whole quarter second before dashing away without receiving an answer, panting like a steam engine.
A large, four story building—one of the older ones—gave away at the foundation, and like a finished game of Jenga, came toppling down in a cloud of brown dust and crumbling brick.
When she squinted, far ahead down the street, was a maroon airship, crippled and turned onto its side, having clipped a building and crashed to the city of Canterlot below.
Anger flaring in her chest like a dog kicked one too many times, she flared her wings and barreled forward, growling under her breath. She did not know who they were, or what had been their motives, but they would pay.
“Slipstream.”
Slipstream’s eyes shot open. Wiltings looked back at her from where she lay on her side, their muzzles only a few inches apart, her deep, cobalt eyes alert and wide. “Wha—”
Wiltings pressed a hoof to her muzzle in a sign of silence and mouthed, “Longcoats.”
Slipstream blinked, then looked to the left and right. White light filtered in through the opening in the makeshift roof, the angle of which suggesting it was about nine in the morning. The diesel in the firepan had long since burned away, and left now only a metal tin and the charred canvas below.
The others were still asleep.
She heard it from the other side of the canvas shielding, the sound of shuffling and low mutters
Wiltings shifted the tiniest bit and turned her head towards the stack of rifles four feet away. “Are you sure?” Slipstream mouthed to her.
Wiltings hesitated, eyes darting to her brace, then back to Slipstream. “Can you?”
Slipstream shifted her weight, and quiet as a mouse, rolled to her belly, suppressing a gasp of pain as she applied weight to her left leg. There was no doubt that she had injured it to the extent of no more than a crack or sprain, and while she didn’t need a brace, moving it the wrong way often resulted in rather unpleasant pain.
The noises from beyond the canvas continued as Slipstream made her way to the weapons. Throwing a look back, she eyed Wiltings, who was dragging herself across the ground to rouse the others. Slipstream, careful not to coax any noises from the weapons, gathered three, one under each wing and another hanging by its strap from her mouth.
Wiltings had roused two by the time Slipstream had made her way over to them. Slipstream shook as she gave out the rifles, praying her body wouldn’t fumble and make a noise. Chances were, if the ponies outside were sneaking up, then they knew there were ponies within the canvas, which also meant that they thought they were sneaking up. As seemed a second time, Slipstream had the element of surprise on her side, and sacrificing it could very well cost her the lives of everypony here.
Ambling back over to the pile on the tips of her hooves, she grabbed the last two rifles, one of which had a cracked stalk.
The sound shifted, moving around to the open entrance. With a quiet hiss, Slipstream set the one rifle down and took up the other. She hated trying to aim. One would think somepony would have thought up a rig by now capable of making aiming and shooting a little easier. Behind her, she heard the minute sounds of three other rifles readying, the ponies wielding them working the slides as quietly as possible.
An orange head poked its way around the canvas flap and stepped out, freezing comically at the greeting party.
It was a Longcoat, stallion, and a young one from the way he carried himself. The rifle levitated beside him was pointed to the left, useless, and he knew it.
Two rifles discharged simultaneously and the Longcoat went rigid as he was struck. His levitation died and his rifle fell; he tipped after it, twitching and bucking, hooves digging troughs in the snow as the life left his body through the two bullet holes in his chest.
The other head that had been emerging quickly popped back right as Slipstream fired. Her shot missed, sending up a little spray of snow fifty feet away.
The ponies around the fire who had not yet been awoken sprang to life, all minus Minnow, who rolled over with a groan.
There were three loud snaps from beyond the canvas, accompanied by three new holes in the windbreak as the bullets whizzed through their makeshift shelter. “Get down!” Slipstream yelled, dropping immediately. Years of strategic experience paid off when four more rounds followed the first three. “We have to get where we can see them or they’ll just shoot until we’re dead,” she hissed loudly. Pulling her hind legs up beneath her, she pushed forward and slid herself towards the opening in the canvas, climbing over the Longcoat who bled out in shock.
Wiltings tried to follow, but she was no good with her leg sticking out awkwardly. “Dig in,” Slipstream whispered. Wiltings nodded and started to paw frantically at the soft snow, digging herself down below the surface.
“Damn rifles,” Slipstream breathed, awkwardly handling the weapon she held wrapped in one hoof. Had it not been for the fact that the Longcoats were using projectile weapons, she would have gladly taken a sword.
“They must be a search team,” Wiltings said, positioning herself so she could aim her rifle.
“Why?” a stallion asked.
“The Equestrians retreated—that’s forfeiting the battlefield. Of course the Longcoats are going to send crews down to look for their survivors and salvage.” Now beyond the flap of the makeshift tent, she looked around, head only a few inches off the ground. Six feet away was a rather large snowbank cast by their shelter; that was probably her best bet. She couldn’t see any of the enemy among the wreckage, though it was most likely they had taken cover and set up position.
Slipstream looked back. Three ponies sat behind her, hunkered close to the ground. Wiltings had forfeited her rifle to Sage, who sat protectively beside Minnow. “Okay,” she whispered. “Defensive positions.” She waved her hoof towards the snowbank and nodded once, narrowing her eyes.
She flared her wings and gave them a powerful flap that carried her to her hooves. Pushing off with her hind legs, she threw herself forward. Landing primarily on her right leg, she half stumbled the rest of the way to the snowbank and dropped heavily into the semi-frozen snow.
Two shots rang out from somewhere across the snowbank and she ducked instinctively. A green stallion dropped down to Slipstream’s right and a bright orange mare took her left. The white stallion whom she remembered as the navigator from the night before bedded left of the orange mare.
“I spotted three,” said the green stallion to Slipstream’s right.
She looked over to him. His long mane, dark green, hung around his lighter green coat in a tangly mess. “Is that it?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, peering up. There was the very loud whiz of a bullet and his ears folded flat to his head. “There may be more.”
Slipstream rolled her front shoulders and propped the rifle on the snowbank. “What’s your name?” she asked absently, looking experimentally down the sights as the rifle aimed upwards into the cloudy sky. The remnants of the storm had passed, though the wind was still biting and it carried with it the threat of more snow.
“Price,” he whispered, ruffling his wings. “Aerial combattant squad leader.” He sounded like the trottingham mare aboard the Departure, only his accent was thicker and a bit more slurred.
Slipstream’s heart plummeted for a second. The orange mare was probably a body in the wreckage of the battlecruiser, wherever that was. “Origin?”
“South Trottingham, Equestrian citizenship running on four years now.” He laughed nervously. “Got myself a mare and two foals back in Manehattan.”
She poked her head up, sighting the rifle. Three ponies looked back at her from maybe thirty yards away, rifles trained. She ducked and two rifles discharged, pitting the snow above her. Jumping up, she took aim.
The two who had fired were frantically working the bolts on their rifles. She aimed for the one still sighted, knowing very well she was an immediate target. He fired before her, though somehow the shot missed. Slipstream took an extra second to aim as he went for the bolt, and when she fired, the sound of impact was clear as day. He yelled as he went down, writhing in the snow.
Slipstream dropped back down as the other two took aim. “One down,” she breathed, working the bolt. His grunts and groans reached her over the rush of wind in her ears, the mutters of his companions disconcerted. The orange mare to her left and the stallion beside her returned fire.
“There’s two more on the horizon,” the orange mare hissed. “They must have heard the shots.”
The ponies running at them with no cover were easy targets. Slipstream dropped two from sixty yards; her three companions added the count up to five.
“Rightside!” Price snapped.
Slipstream swung her rifle right and sighted a short mare levitating a rifle, part of a group of three who had been attempting to flank them through the wreckage of the Friendship. Slipstream’s rifle bucked and the mare dropped onto her face, the bullet in her forehead quelling even the death throes. Price dropped the second member of the group, but before either Slipstream or the green stallion could reload, the last of the attempted sneak attack fired. He missed both of them.
A choked cry turned Slipstream’s head. The stallion hadn’t missed. The orange mare dropped her rifle into the snow and held her hoof against her neck, blood seeping around the wound.
To her right, Price ended the perpetrator.
“I’m dead!” the orange mare said, gasping, a million thoughts flashing through her eyes as she was carried off somewhere else.
“Let me see,” Slipstream commanded, placing her hoof over the mare’s.
“No.” She resisted, panicking.
“Let me see!” Slipstream yanked the mare’s hoof away. It was just a graze, a thin line cut through the flesh along the side of her neck. “It’s only grazed you.”
The panic faded from the mare’s eyes. “It is?” She placed a hoof over her chest.
“Yes.” Slipstream picked up the mare’s rifle and shoved it back into her forehooves. “You’ll be fine.”
The mare shuddered and grasped the rifle. “Hell, I thou—” Her head jerked like it was on a whip and the side of her face went to pulp. Blood sprayed Slipstream’s face and splashed into her eyes, stinging like acid. She cried out held up a hoof much too late. Spluttering, she wiped her forehoof across her face, blinking the blood out of her eyes.
The orange mare was on the ground now, dead. A shudder racked Slipstream’s body; she was wearing the mare like paint. Her eyes traveled to the source of the deadly bullet.
A Longcoat mare stood on the left, face panicked as she tried to fix the bolt of her rifle, a cartridge jammed halfway up the ramp.
Slipstream trained her rifle and fired. The bullet pitted the mare’s shoulder and she stumbled, but stayed up. Slipstream chambered a new round and fired again, this one hit her dead center of her neck. Her body emitted a crack and she dropped to the ground.
Slipstream ejected the spent cartridge. The smoking brass landed in the snow and melted a hole through it, disappearing below the surface. She tried once again to wipe the blood from her face. “Ouch!” She winced at a sharp pain in her cheek. Running her hoof back over more carefully, she found the source to be something hard and sharp-edged lodged in her face.
Carefully, with her hoof, she eased it out and held it in front of her eyes in curiosity. it was white and square, sharp on one end, the outside coated with blood.
A tooth... Oh Sweet Celestia and Luna above her tooth was in my face!
Her stomach heaved, and before she knew it, she had emptied the very-little contents of it into the snow. She dry heaved two more times, but there was nothing left to throw up.
“I’m empty!” Price ducked into cover and set his rifle aside.
In a bit of a daze, Slipstream grabbed the orange mare’s rifle and held it out by the barrel to the green stallion. “Here.” Her voice seemed to come to her from down a tunnel. “There’s blood on it.”
Price’s eyes widened the tiniest bit at her face, then darted to the limp shape of the orange mare. He nodded and took the rifle, checking the load.
“Left flank!” the white stallion yelled.
Slipstream took up her rifle. Her ears rung, reducing the sound around her to a shallow murmur. She barely paid the rifle in her hooves any mind as it seemed to aim itself. She watched it point, and kill two others, directed by her hooves.
“There’s too many!” It was Price. He no longer took any cover. Instead he stood, reared onto his hind legs as he covered from the center and right. “Celestia, we must be against a whole fleet!”
“I’m out!” The white stallion patted his coat down for more cartridges, then cursed. “Where are they all coming from!?”
Slipstream’s final round savaged a mare who had been running up the bank towards them. Working the bolt, she ejected the smoking casing and deflated. The loading ramp was empty.
Something whizzed by her head and that was her queue to duck. The white stallion, face panicked, hefted the bayonet end of the rifle. “Not like this,” he growled.
Before he could even attempt something similar to a valiant end, two bullets struck him clean in the chest, one after another. He went down, jaw working like a fish out of water.
“Three shots!” Price yelled.
From where Slipstream hunkered, she could not see where his aim led, though when he fired, she heard the sound of impact.
“Two!”
“Slipstream!”
Slipstream looked back. To her horror, Sage had emerged from what had been their nighttime shelter, rifle primed. “Get down!” She waved her hoof frantically at Sage. “Run!”
The cobalt mare seemed to be in controversy. She swung her head this way and that, pink mane waving about her face. Gritting her teeth, she raised the rifle, then took an immediate bullet to the left of her chest. The rifle in her grasp jerked upwards and fired, the recoil knocking her off her hooves.
“Empty!” Price yelled. “I’m empty!”
Slipstream’s eyes never left Sage as she writhed in the snow, spreading a sheen of red over the white surface, face contorted in agony. A stallion—a red one she hadn’t been introduced to—poked his head out of the shelter and made a beeline for her. He wasn’t more than halfway when a markspony in the hills scoped him out.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
Slipstream turned away, breath fluttering in her chest. She found her eyes on Price; his teeth were clenched and his chest heaved in fear. He was an aerial markspony with no ammo left for his weapon; it must have been torture.
“Now what?” he asked, voice scarcely more than a whisper.
All around she could hear yells and shouts, the ruffling of hooves in the snow as they were encircled.
Heart thudding in her chest like a diesel piston, nerves screaming, anger soaring, she sat up on her haunches.
“Get your head down!” Price snapped, tugging at her forehoof.
Slipstream took a deep breath and balanced on her haunches. Raising her forehooves, she placed them on the back of her neck and closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, hoping Celestia would forgive her. Never before in her life had she ever thought about uttering the very word on the tip of her tongue. “Surrender!” Her voice cut through the air like a knife, silencing the yells and shouts and the gunshots all around.
Price, looking like he had just been slapped with a dead fish, slowly rose up to his haunches, mouth half agape. He looked at Slipstream unbelievingly. “We don’t know what they do to prisoners.”
She refused to speak as she watched the ponies that had kept them surrounded form up into a group. There were eleven of them, maybe more that had remained hidden. She refused to blink as they neared the snowbank, the ones in front running out ahead. She remained perfectly still as a yellow Longcoat ran right up to her and swung the butt of his rifle.
She sprawled out, blood painting the snow from the reopened cut in her brow. Resisting the urge to scream, she clenched her teeth until she felt her jaw would fracture.
All she knew was denial as a weight settled on her back, pressing her into the firm snow. Price was thrown down beside her, only he growled and snapped at his assailant. More of the Longcoats ran by, one of them shouting orders in heavy accent, the others following. They formed a ring around the entrance to the tent, then four of them moved forward.
Slipstream’s mouth went dry at the shouts and yells from inside. A moment later, a Longcoat mare pushed backwards out of the shelter, dragging Wiltings by the scruff, the confused and panicked captain writhing in distress. They brought Minnow out next, the mare barely conscious, muttering things in a state of semi-sleep.
The both of them were thrown into the snow in the same manner Slipstream had been and held down.
It was only now that Slipstream could identify their figure of authority. He was a tall, thick-coated, silver stallion, his short brown mane cut and shaped. “Four,” he said in a scratchy voice. He turned to a brown mare. “Where does it put us, in numbers?”
The mare checked a clipboard on the side of her barding. “Twenty-two, Sir.” Her accent was strong, though understandable.
The silver stallion eyed the four ponies in front of him and grinned. “We are lucky with these ones.” He pointed to Slipstream. “She is fleet commander.”
Slipstream went stiff as a board. She had forgotten to remove the rank from her coat. In the situation, all of them had.
His eyes moved to Wiltings next. “Second in command.” He moved to Minnow. “Captain.” He hesitated on Price, giving him a long, hard look. “You’re a fighter, yes?”
Price growled and gave the stallion his best eat-shit-and-die look.
One of the others of the group trained a rifle on Price. “Orders say official only for interrogation.”
The silver stallion held up a hoof. “But he knows battle.” He shook his head. “No, we take him.”
“Sir!” A mare who had been rummaging around their camp looked up and waved for the stallion. “This one is still alive.”
Slipstream gasped. It was Sage; the mare had survived being shot.
The stallion flicked his ears. “Bring her over.”
With the help of another Longcoat, the mare lifted Sage brought her over to stand drunkenly before their superior. Once she was standing on her own, the two Longcoats backed away, leaving her facing the silver stallion.
“What is your rank?” the stallion asked boredly.
Sage’s head drooped a bit before she looked up, blood matting her chin. “Medic,” she gasped. Her pink mane hung around her face, eyes firm and determined. Every breath seemed to be agony to her as liquid rattled in her throat, blood running from one nostril.
The silver stallion tutted and shook his head. “She has suffered a punctured lung.” He flicked his tail. “Injuries are too great for resources.”
A rifle clicked somewhere.
Slipstream writhed under her captor. “No!” she screamed, battling against the weight much more than hers.
Sage’s eyes widened in realization. They flashed for a moment in fear, but sank immediately after, replaced with cold, hard realization.
The low caliber shot sliced the air and Sage flopped over in the snow.
Slipstream screamed, voice burning her throat and cracking her voice box. She squirmed and writhed, ignoring the pain in her leg. “I’ll kill you!” she bellowed, trying to lash out for the stallion who only looked down at her calmly. How dare he act as if he had done nothing!
He would die. That’s all that mattered. He had just ordered the death of a mare and not flinched a bit. “I’ll kill you!” she repeated.
The stallion sighed and looked down at her. “This, commander, is war.” He spoke to her like he would a curious child. “Exceptions can not be made.”
Slipstream hissed, wishing he would come just one step closer so she could tear his throat out with her teeth. “You’re scum!” From her position on the ground, she spat, and managed to land a glob of her saliva on his foreleg. “You’ve no right to live!”
There was a searing pain in the back of her head as her muzzle was shoved into the snow, and her ears began to ring. Somepony had hit her—that much she could derive. But after two more lashes of pain, she wasn’t sure of anything. A final blow sent her once again into the sea of black.
Thrush sat in the captain’s private quarters aboard the Strider. It was possibly the only room that fit even the meekest definition of nice. It was four feet by five, a single bunk taking up the entire wall left of the door and a combination dresser and desk on the other. Thrush sat with her head upon the desk, feeling the tilt and unsteadiness of the airship around her. During the battle, her possessions of trinkets and doodads had been scattered. So far, she hadn’t bothered to pick them up, and every time the vessel shifted, they went rolling and bouncing around her hooves, bumping into one another in a sort of mournful game.
She lifted her head, sorrowful eyes focusing on the oak paneling that covered the walls. She looked down to the documents she had spread out before her, orders from Canterlot, captain’s logs, battle procedure and fleet instructions.
Where had they gone wrong?
It wasn’t her fault. But, it wasn’t anypony’s fault. Had they put Celestia herself in command of the fleet, she too would have failed. The Longcoats had been simply too well-equipped and too prepared to fall in a battle against such an unprepared assailant.
But now what would they do—what would she do? She was now captain of an entire remnants fleet. This was something she had never anticipated. She had wanted more time, needed more experience. Being the third in command meant that you were important, not that you were ready to command all of Equestria’s aerial power.
In one fatal minute, Slipstream and Wiltings had both taken the fiery plunge. Thank Celestia she hadn’t seen it happen, but she had heard it all over the radio from the tail gunner of the lend vessel. There had been a collision, and both airships had gone down. Just like that, decades of experience had gone down the drain and the fate of Equestria had been handed to a timid mare with less than five-hundred hours of flight experience and less than twenty minutes of battle experience, not counting today.
The radio she kept on the side of the desk crackled. “This is captain Salt…” There was a moment of hesitation from the mare. “We’re not going to have enough fuel to make it back.”
Thrush’s heart sank a little further as she reached for the receiver. “Captain Salt, what is your current status?”
“We’ve got about four tons of fuel remaining. We lost a tank during the battle and the other reserve was drained to keep balance since we’d already lost the ballast. It’s a support vessel, not as maneuverable as the cruisers.”
Thrush swore under her breath. “Windspeed and direction?”
“Approximately four and a half knots north, northwest.”
“Understood.” She released the button. No airship can stretch that little fuel against a headwind. After a moment of thought, she addressed the radio. “Shut down two of your engines and try to make it as far as you can. When the time comes, evacuate whatever crew members aren’t needed for essential flight and try to put her down as nicely as possible. If we’re close enough to the border, we might be able to come back for her.”
“Understood, Commander.”
Thrush closed her eyes and returned her head to the desk. What would this come to? The enemy had let them escape, so it seemed. A few of their more maneuverable vessels had given chase, but only for about twenty miles. Perhaps they hadn’t wanted to waste the fuel.
She had left her second in command at the wheel, and were she needed, he would call. For now she needed some sort of rest, even if she couldn’t sleep. She needed to calm her nerves and take her body out of overdrive. It was over, for now.
For the longest time she sat there, listening to the rumble of the engines and the hiss of air as it raced around the gored shape of the airship. No war was worth this much pain, and that’s what she kept telling herself.
There was a heavy knock at the door.
Thrush picked her head up and wiped her expression clean. “Come in.”
A tall buck pushed into the cramped room. “Captain,” It was her communications expert, “we’ve been in telegraph range of Canterlot for the past ten miles. They’re demanding the outcome.”
“Tell them… tell them we’ll return in an estimated four hours and I will give my summary.” She stood. “This is not a story I can tell with a button. “
He turned to leave. “Yes, Ma’am.”
She stopped him with a forehoof. “Do tell them one thing.” A counter attack could very well be imminent on the horizon.
His ears perked. “Yes?”
“Tell them to prepare.”
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Personally, I believe the rating is just right since teen can also be related to about 16 or something like that. The contents are definitely 16 though if you added more gorier details, then I believe it should be bumped up to mature.
This is just starting to make me wonder now, when exactly in time did this occur before the original story? Pardon me if it was mentioned earlier but I don't think it has.
2651534 We integrated it in. IN the original OSG&W, Ravens spoke of a past war with 'the enemy from the north'. I actually do not know how long ago it was, but in estimated time I'd say (if pony years are equivalent to humans) fifteen to twenty years.
Now, don't take that as canon though. I don't know the exact time.
2651991 Hmm... but basically this was before the time of the mane 6 correct? And give or take your estimate then just maybe it was slightly before the time they were born. Was curious to think about it since there was the Sparkle Generator and several other innovations that slip my mind as of the moment
2652104 Because I wasn't the most familiar with all of the technology he had integrated, I kept things pretty simple. A bit more advanced than canon Equestria in the show but nowhere near as advanced as Ravens'. Basically, they're still learning their stuff.
She picked a tooth out of her face... her friend's tooth which had just headaspolded in front of her. Add that to all the other psychologically mutilating moments in this story and ya... this is mature.
Sorren. You have captured the brutality of warfare in such graphic and emotional detail that I've never, and I mean NEVER, seen before. No one else I've read in pony fiction has ever written out the essence of blood soaked terror and cold death as well as you have right here in this story. What's more, you have my rapt attention as I wonder what could Equestria possibly do to overcome these odds, what fates would befall these in-depth emotional characters you've pulled from thin air and placed in giant floating death traps which only heighten my concern for their safety, what lies in store for the captured crew members and who else survived.
I suppose I should mention though. Knowing the sheer depth of which you are writing this, and knowing what sometimes happens when the "bad guy" throws females in a cell to be guarded by disgruntled soldiers on "guard duty"... I'm not saying I'll stop reading, but warn me if this might get cloppy somewhere in the future. It might get awkward unless you play it more as a plot device. Just saying. Not saying, "that's bad, never do" more "tell me to duck first."
As for the timeline... This might have to be considered pre-mane6. I'm also certain there is a griffon war that happens post mane6 as Fluttershy seemed to have her medical ships from empathy medical helping the wounded indiscriminately. I'd have to read the passage in OSGaW again though.
Also, out of curiosity, why do you have a little pegasus sitting upside-down acting "cute" and then write things that give (weak-willed) people PTSD on contact?
2655173 Wow, thank you so much again for that comment.
And to your question: because why not? I like poking in all genres, and it's more of a punch to the face when cute upside down pegasus writes something that makes your blood boil.
And, I'd never write clop for this. And even if I were to integrate it (not sure if pushing boundaries) I wouldn't describe. I'd make it apparent of what happened and leave it at that.