In the aftermath of the Chaos Space Marine assault, and the opening of a Warp Rift in the ruins of Canterlot, Ponykind struggles to survive with the loss of all its Princesses. Drawing its allies close, and trying to fight back against the slowly rising Daemonic tide infecting the world, the remnants of the once-proud kingdom cannot forsee the events beginning to bear down upon them. The Ruinous Powers of Chaos are not yet done with this world...and neither is the Imperium.
Meanwhile, on the other side of a certain dimensional portal in the Crystal Empire, life at Canterlot High goes on much as normal. But, unbeknownst to the student body, a new threat is rising on the other side of town - a threat utterly focused upon triumphing over its self-proclaimed rival.
The only problem is...they're not as good as they think they are...
(If you haven't read the first one, this won't make much sense....for obvious reasons.)
“A story: A man fires a rifle for many years, and he goes to war. And afterward he turns the rifle in at the armoury, and he believes he's finished with the rifle. But no matter what else he might do with his hands, love a woman, build a house, change his son's diaper; his hands remember the rifle.” -Anthony Swofford, ‘Jarhead’
Why?
It was one of the simplest of all questions. It was, in some ways, the query from where everything else was drawn. But what did the question even mean, really? In all of history, before history had folded in upon itself and been warped to be scant more than the plaything of demented Gods, had any question been simultaneously so probing and so vague?
The question of why, that desperate desire to make sense of a world that no longer bothered to do so itself, in turn posed all other queries. But, at the end of the day, it proved scarce little.
It was why Adamant Tower did not bother to ask the question as he ran. Well, one of two reasons – the other was that he had done so countless times before. He had stayed up all night, the whispers clawing at the edge of his perception and denying him the healing hours of sleep, and so he had thought and he had questioned. He had tried to be analytical, to set aside the depthless scorn he felt for those who had caused this desecration, to consider rationally every decision from every guilty soul that had led to this point. He couldn’t do it. And, in the end, it didn’t matter. Every morning he awoke, and the Crystal Empire still stood at one minute to midnight.
Adamant Tower had been a Guard in the Crystal Military, though that felt like a lifetime ago. Perhaps it had been; time, in this new world order, was as malleable and driven by whim as everything else, it felt sometimes. His sea-green coat had once rippled with the hard, magical gleam that rendered every citizen of the Empire akin to the crystalline rock for which it was named. But it had been a long time since any of them had looked like that, and now that coat was dirty and covered with a mixture of grime and drying blood. Old wounds, from encounters he was lucky just to escape. Such was life.
His amber eyes darted around the eerily quiet street as more unwelcome recollections wormed their way into his head. He had been in the throne room, the day the fire had started and Princess Cadence – last true ruler of the Crystal Empire – had been taken from them. He remembered with all-too-vivid clarity the beast that had done it. That he had not died that day was a source of constant shame, and his primary reason for leaving the Guard, but all that had already come to pass. Forward, pressing onwards, surviving each day; these were the things that mattered now. He looked up, grimacing as he did so, wondering what the sky would do today.
There was no moon, and no sun, anymore. That had been one of the most bizarre things to adapt to in the aftermath of…everything. That life even persisted on the remnants of Equestria at all was nothing short of a dark miracle, but it did, protected under a sky that eternally ran the colour of spilled vitae. As Adamant Tower looked up, a dark shape passed through the clouds; it was impossible to make out exactly what it was, and with what he knew of the things that now plagued the land, Tower guessed it rarely bothered to keep to a single form at all, but the outline of two huge bat-like wings flapping through the ruined sky was starkly apparent. He gasped, eyes widening, ducking into the cover of an abandoned house’s doorway until he was sure whatever it was had left.
The pony poked his head out from his hiding spot, casting a furtive look up and down the street. In this new, post-apocalyptic world, the Crystal Empire had stood against all odds and expectations as a bastion of sanity and order, even if both those things were crumbling more and more with the passing of each day. In another moment of unintentional introspection, the former Guard wondered if it was because this was the place where that first betrayal had taken place; the eye of the hurricane of insanity that had followed, as it were. The fact that he was wasting time even considering this twisted the angry knife in the Crystal Pony’s gut. Taking a deep breathe, he bolted from the alcove, galloping across the street before ducking into a similar hiding spot on the other side.
The reason for his stealth was that, even in the Crystal Empire, the world was far from a safe place. Even after the execution – no, not execution, assassination – of the Princesses, whatever rent in the fabric between worlds had been opened was only widening. Things stalked the street, especially in this district, for reasons none had quite been able to determine. Daemons, the remnant of Equestria had taken to calling them – not Daemons like those found in Tartarus, though surely that infernal realm must have been overflowing by now, but beings from a far more sinister and disturbing place.
Concentrate. That was all pointless conjecture, what mattered was what was happening now. Taking a deep breathe, Adamant Tower darted from cover, still-strong hooves carrying him across the cracked cobblestone street. He skidded into a similarly protective shadow of another building; this one had been some sort of bazaar, by the look of it, though the elegant fabric canopies were torn and ripped without exception. Those canopies blew in the unsettling wind that always whistled through these streets now, the same wind that caused the hardened stallion to shiver. He told himself that it was because he was cold. Not even he believed that.
Normally, the stallion wouldn’t have risked crossing this district of the city. The other ways were safer, from the Daemons at least – most of the time. But that day had seen an event of particular intensity, if the word ‘event’ could truly be used to describe the sheer side of a building mutating and twisting into a leering, pus-dribbling eyeball. The worst part about it was that, in this new world order where chaos apparently reigned, such a thing was hardly an unusual occurrence. But the fact that it’d happened within the grounds of the Empire’s main streets themselves had been calls for alarm, and whilst the council that now tried its best to rule the shattered remains of the kingdom frantically debated how to react, the Guards had taken matters into their own hands by cordoning off the area. Anypony who passed was liable to be called on to present some form of identification, and he could do that without that right now. The last thing he needed was his history in the Guard himself to be discovered, not when they were borderline conscripting new members.
So he had chosen to come this way, risking the streets of the haunted district. It might even have been a slightly quicker route, had he not been taking cover and biding his time every second minute. A noise scratched at the edge of his perception, causing the ponies’ ears to flick up and down nervously. Was it real, or just a figment of his imagination? With Daemons clawing their way into reality more and more with every passing day, were those two things still mutually exclusive? He was motionless for a while longer, the pony’s heart slamming against his ribcage. Eventually though, it seemed his fears were unfounded, or if the Daemon was there it was waiting for him to make the first move at least. Taking a deep breathe, Adamant Tower glanced up into the crimson sky again. The shape he’d seen before had gone, which was a small mercy, he supposed. Licking lips that had suddenly gone dry, the pony lowered his head, galloping out once again.
He was nearing the end. The end of this particular gauntlet, at least. Before long, Tower knew, the street would start to curve round, eventually opening out back into the habitation of the Crystal Empire proper. The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. He didn’t even bother to hide now, relying on speed rather than caution to protect him. The stallion paid the nagging notion at the back of his mind that he was being watched no mind – in these times, you always felt like you were being watched.
He was close. Oh yes, he was very, very close. His breathe was coming in short little gasps, trying to feed oxygen to muscles that were being strained in an attempt to get out of here as quickly as possible. He didn’t look back over his shoulder, not yet, which was probably the smart thing to do – it would merely have slowed him down. But when the shrill cackling came, it was even more of a surprise to the poor pony. He practically skidded to a halt, the muscles that were burning before locked with icy dread. He felt sick to his stomach already, as much due to his own nervousness as it was the sheer, perverse wrongness of what Adamant Tower knew was standing behind him.
As he turned, body shaking, ears pressed flat against his skull, he wasn’t disappointed. The creature was standing about 20ft down the street, eyeing him with feral amusement. It was bipedal – at least, it was choosing to appear bipedal – but the natural grace of its forms was starkly contrasted by the pincers it had in place of hands. They opened and closed, snapping at the air, whilst taloned feet scratched at the cobbles. Black eyes, like a doll’s eyes, peered deep into him as if searching for and enjoying the taste of every secret and vice he’d ever had. And yet…and yet, he could not bring himself to find the beast repulsive. Something in it spoke to Adamant Tower, undeniably beguiling. It was every soft touch he’d ever felt, every kiss from a lover, every fleeting moment of pleasure. His conscious mind rebelled against such weakness…but his body seemed almost eager to give in.
The effect wasn’t lost, even as the creature charged, an undulating shriek tearing from its throat whilst the pincers slashed through the air. It didn’t even fade when the daemonic maiden was steps away, soporific musk burning the stallion’s nose and filling his lungs as he stared in awe. But the sound of guns…yes, that was enough.
The beast was punched off its feet as the bolts slammed into it, each mass-reactive round exploding deep within the warp-forged flesh, bursting it out. The Daemon landed in a crumpled, dismantled heap, tainted blood steaming as it seeped into the ground. As it did, the haze lifted from the stallion’s mind; he let out a shuddering gasp, eyes widening as he stumbled backwards away from the corpse. It eventually sent him tumbling onto his plot, but that was hardly the biggest concern facing the ex-guard right now. Near death experience aside, the fact that something had just saved him from that fate should have been a lot more reassuring than it was.
Adamant Tower had never heard that gun fire before. But somehow, he knew. He knew there was only one breed of warrior in all the cosmos that would employ such machines of death.
“And now it taints even the ground itself.” The voice was a baritone rumble, impossibly deep, as if the voice was being dragged and amplified through a powerful form of microphone. Seconds later, the owner of that voice stalked from the shadows. Adamant Tower’s breathe caught in his throat. The being was huge, at least as tall as three stallions his size standing atop one another’s shoulders, and the smoking gun he carried across his chest was similarly oversized. He whirred and hummed quietly, audible even at the distance, and over the blood pumping through the ponies’ head. The towering creature took a few more heavy steps forward, sheathed sword at his side clattering against the rest of his armour. Eventually, he seemed to notice the pony cowering beside him. The head swivelled, looking down with curious disdain, two red eyes burning beneath a scorched and tattered hood. The stallion stared back, eyes trembling, body fighting for breathe that would not come. Even so, despite his fear being perfectly justified, Adamant Tower was wrong in one respect. Before, when he’d seen a creature such as this, it had been a steel-clad devil.
Now, though, he looked upon an Angel.
***
“Come on, Bon Bon, pick up the pace!”
Normally, Bon Bon would have come up with some witty retort in answer to her friend’s insistence. It was usually the way her and Lyra’s friendship worked, anyway – the latter would come up with some ‘brilliant’ idea, leaving it to the former to point out the many and varied ways it would crumble upon contact with the real world. Today, though, Bon Bon had a headache, and was finding it very difficult to do anything besides grumble. The sharp ringing of the final bell at Canterlot High, driving more nagging spikes of dull pain into her mind, didn’t help that.
So instead, the girl just grit her teeth and mumbled something quite unladylike under her breathe. Holding one of the straps of the rucksack she wore on her back tighter, Bon Bon nevertheless set off after her mint-green coloured friend. Lyra was negotiating the wide corridors of the school with an irritating ease, humming happily to herself, the little harp symbol braided on her skirt occasionally catching the light as it swayed.
Bon Bon wished she could say the same for herself. Perhaps it was just the pain ringing in her head, but she almost felt like she was stumbling through the brightly-lit halls. In truth, the girl wanted nothing more than to get home, turn off the lights, and lay down, but she knew her friend wouldn’t be letting her off that easily. Her focus stolen for a moment, as she rubbed her aching temple and growled softly in annoyance, Bon Bon couldn’t help but let out a yelp of annoyance as she was nearly knocked flat by a blur of motion.
“Hey, watch it!” She snapped, having to raise her voice to painful levels over the sound of ambient chatter and rolling wheels. The little blur of orange, black hoodie, and camo shorts looked over its shoulder.
“Sorry!” Scootaloo called back, her voice only half-sincere before she banked her scooter to the left sharply and rounded a corner. Bon Bon’s glare deepened, another agitated noise leaving her as she started to walk again, eyes still focused on where the freshman had been moments before. In truth, she didn’t really understand how scooters were allowed at school in the first place.
She was so distracted that she nearly caused a collision of her own. She stopped just before she hit the girl, face immediately softening on seeing who it was. She stooped down, crouching as she helped pick up the leaflet’s the near-miss had left scattered over the floor.
“Sorry, Fluttershy…” She apologised, wincing a little. The shy girl was dressed in the white vest and green skirt she always seemed to wear, pink hair covering one eye. She held the recovered animal shelter leaflets to her chest, feet pointed inwards, one visible teal eye staring at the floor.
“O-oh…t-that’s okay, I should have been paying more attention…” It was regrettable, really. Despite the brief wave of popularity she and her friends had rode after the events of the last Fall Formal – though in truth, no-one was really sure what had happened there, Bon Bon included – things had eventually more or less gone back to normal, and the animal shelter was struggling for volunteers once again, though through no lack of effort on its greatest advocate’s part. For a moment Bon Bon wondered whether she should stay, try to help the girl. It would have been the right thing to do, but she wasn’t in the mind-set for it right now. Plus, for every second she fell behind, Lyra would tease her for it later. Wincing apologetically once again, Bon Bon got back to her feet and set off at as brisk a pace as she could manage.
Yes, ‘back to normal’ was certainly the way to describe it. All around her, the students and faculty of Canterlot High went through the everyday motions; Vinyl leaning on a wall, arms folded over her chest as she nodded along to the beat undoubtedly blaring in her headphones, boys virtually lining up to catch a glimpse of Rarity at her locker, Trixie getting yet another packet of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine. All expected…all boring.
She caught up with Lyra outside the front door, negotiating her way awkwardly through a veritable tide of freshmen. She was sat on one of the walls by the front steps, legs kicking idly. Lyra couldn’t help but smirk as her friend emerged, taking note of the sour expression worn.
“What took you so long?”
“Shut up.” Bon Bon snapped, folding her own arms. After a moment, she exhaled, face softening a fraction. “C’mon, let’s just get going, I’ve had enough of this place for one day…” It was unlikely to work, she knew that, but it was worth a try anyway. To Bon Bon’s amazement, it almost seemed to be successful – that is, until they got onto the street by the road.
“Umm…Lyra?” She asked, stomach dropping in despair as they began to walk in different directions. “We both live…this way?” Bon Bon pointed out, jerking a thumb over her shoulder for emphasis. In response, Lyra’s grin widened, her golden eyes seeming to twinkle a little.
“Apparently this truck or something tipped over on the other side of town earlier, spilled paint all over the road.” She explained, merrily skipping most of the details that didn’t really make sense. “C’mon, I wanna go check it out before they clean it up!”
Bon Bon’s face was unmoved for a moment, blinking dumbly as she tried to fight through the haze of dull pain and decipher what her friend had just said. When she did, the girl’s face instantly grew more wary. “The other side of town? Lyra, you know that’s not a nice neighbour-“
“Oh, c’mon.” She responded, rolling her eyes with a giggle. “It’s like, the middle of the day! What’s the worst that’s gonna happen?”
“Actually, it’s like three o’clock.” Bon Bon corrected, frowning in annoyance. “And…I don’t know, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea to just go wandering around there...”
Lyra, of course, was already walking, her more…’air-headed’ tendencies creeping to the fore as she ignored her companion’s protests. “Yeah, yeah, are you coming or not?” Bon Bon’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, one eyebrow twitching a little.
“But…it’s like, forty minutes’ walk!” She whined at last, the only protest she could think of in the heat of the moment.
“Look, I’m going, with or without you.” Lyra called over her shoulder, not slowing down. “And if I get murdered, or abducted by aliens, or whatever you think is gonna happen, then you’re gonna feel really guilty.” She said no more, but as Bon Bon silently seethed in frustration at her friend, she had to admit that Lyra did have a point. Hands bunching into fists for a moment, before relaxing grudgingly, she moved to walk alongside her companion once more.
“Hey, you’ll enj-“ Lyra began, smiling.
“Don’t talk to me.” Bon Bon cut her off, not looking round at her.
Lyra did at least keep to her word, not even trying to initiate conversation as they walked. Their route led them through the suburbs, down the main street, past Sugercube Corner, the public library, the town playing fields. Eventually, the quality of the buildings around them began to decline more and more, as they moved from the centre of the town – where Canterlot High was located – towards its outskirts. It was startling in a way, how quickly the disparity between the two areas came on. Graffiti, mostly unintelligible, started to cover the walls of the sidewalk. The shops were all distinctly lower-value, most having some sign of break-in, and litter covered the streets. People passed with angry glares at the two, clearly out of place girls, keeping themselves drawn close. Even the sky seemed to turn a metallic shade of grey.
“Lyra…” Despite her earlier snapped command, it was Bon Bon that broke the quiet. “I…my head’s really hurting…I think we should go back…” Instinctively, she drew a little closer to her friend, anger on her face turning to nervousness as she cast furtive looks around.
“Relax, will you?” Lyra retorted, seemingly more comfortable. She didn’t sound as brave as before, though. “It’s just in your imagination…it can’t be far now.”
Apparently, though, it was. Bon Bon’s shoes hadn’t been chosen for walking in, and they were clamped tight around her aching feet. Her head felt just as tight, but it was her nagging fear about all this that was providing her the most discomfort. They were being stared at now, she was sure of it, something about them drawing onlookers like predatory sharks. “Lyra…seriously, it’s not going to be worth it, and it’ll be getting dark by the time we start walking back anyway…”
Lyra, finally, came to a stop – for a second, looking like she might agree with her friend. She grimaced, looking around them, giving an involuntary shiver.
“This place is a bit of a dump…” She admitted, at least having the common sense to keep her voice down. “I didn’t know it was this bad…but we’ve gotta be close.” She paused for a moment, and Bon Bon could have sworn she saw the cogs in her brain turning as Lyra thought. “Okay, what about this…you wait here, I’ll go scout on ahead? And if I don’t see anything, we can go.”
What?!” Bon Bon asked, before realising how loud her outburst had been. She dropped her voice, now a hissing whisper. “Don’t you dare leave me here, Lyra!”
“I’ll be gone literally for five minutes.” Her friend insisted, holding up a placating hand. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” She gave Bon Bon a quick hug, cutting off any argument, before turning and walking away. Bon Bon considered calling out for a moment anyway, but didn’t. It wouldn’t have helped.
So she stood there, where she’d been told to, hugging herself close, and wondering how she’d let Lyra talk her into another situation like this. She wasn’t stupid, and knew better than to make eye contact with anyone, but the feeling of unease still persisted, gnawing away in her gut. Seconds slowly dragged on, surely coming together into minutes, and still Lyra didn’t come back…and the area seemed to grow more and more hostile. Already, she could hear sirens blaring in the distance.
Eventually, it all got too much for her. She was going to find Lyra, and then she was going to go home, and then she was never going to come here again as long as she could avoid it. Bon Bon set off, walking briskly at first, but soon progressing into a small jog without thinking. She could hear her phone and books rattling around in her backpack, but that was a concern for later.
“Lyra?” She called out, mumbling an apology as she accidentally clipped someone walking past. “Lyra?” No response. She bit her lip and stopped a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, gaining a few dirty looks as people had to walk round her, trying to think like her friend. It was that that led her jogging through a twisting maze of back-alleys, stepping awkwardly over discarded boxes and under rusting fire escapes.
When she eventually emerged, back onto a street of some kind, what she saw surprised her. Across the road was what could only be a school…a crappy school, by the looks of it. There was none of the towering, refined elegance of Canterlot High; the front gates were rusting, graffiti scribbled over those walls too, the slab sides of the building making it look more like some war foundry than a place of learning. Still, it was odd. She hadn’t even realised there was another school in town, though in retrospect, perhaps she could have.
It occurred to Bon Bon that she could, and should, have just phoned her friend. She put it down to the headache, and resolved to do that now…or at least, after she’d retraced her steps to where she’d been left. Even so, she couldn’t help but stare for a moment from across the street, intrigued in spite of herself. The girl assumed that most of the students had already gone home, but there were still a few of them congregating in the front yard. All boys, from what she could see, and all about her age, most of them with grey skin – though there were some bronzes, and even a few dirty yellows. They stood in little groups, all talking quietly amongst themselves.
Then, as if alerted by some secret signal, one raised his head and looked straight at her.
Bon Bon gasped, eyes widening in fear. He wasn’t doing anything immediately threatening, nothing besides meet her stare, but still she knew it was time to leave. Turning away quickly, and subconsciously aware of the boy’s cold eyes on her back, Bon Bon began to walk with her head down…going face-first into a lamppost. It seemed that the pain was deliberating her more than she would have liked to admit.
She fell onto her back, groaning as she covered her face with her hands, blood seeping out her nose. Her backpack opened and spilled its contents, books and personal possessions now cluttering the sidewalk. Her first thought was ‘not here’ – not in this part of town, not with what was across the street. She tried to rise, but couldn’t, the stinging sensation too pronounced for the moment.
Even so, and despite the fact that her hands still covered her eyes, Bon Bon could feel the shadow loom over her. That it belonged to someone, and that that someone wasn’t Lyra, was obvious. She didn’t look, fear locking her joints, body starting to shake a little. Whoever it was didn’t speak, not straight away. Instead, they just looked down at her, observing Bon Bon as if she was some kind of invasive animal species.
“Hello there, my dear lady.” He said at last, voice…surprisingly friendly. A slurping sound reached her ears, as if he’d just taken a drink of something hot, giving a small sigh of satisfaction. “I…do believe you’ve accidentally found yourself within the wrong neighbourhood.”
Unsurprisingly, the city had begun to descend upon them the moment the gun had been fired.
After the brief stare-off between alien and stallion, in which Adamant Tower had still sat on his rump like some wide-eyed colt – which, in truth, was how he had felt – the former guard had done everything in his power to get away. The sight of his rescuer’s armoured contours, the bulk of his form, it all brought back memories he’d tried to forget racing to the fore. He’d been right after all; there may have been differences, but the resemblance between the figure before him now and the creature that had murdered the Princess was uncanny. The notion of even one of them being back on Equestrian soil elicited an undeniable feeling of horror.
And there wasn’t just one of the giant war-gods. There were nine of them.
The Guards had already formed a perimeter, spears lowered, what little magic could still safely be mustered. The crowds were massing behind them, all staring – some screaming in fear, some baying for the blood of the intruders. Adamant Tower’s contribution was to shuffle back, taking in short and panicky breathes, eventually rising and scurrying away into the crowd. Trying to stop himself shaking, and hoping the press of Pony bodies all around him would shield him from sight, the stallion turned around and dared to look back at the aliens.
That they couldn’t actually stop the Space Marines was self-evident. A single one of them had managed to overwhelm the Guards, last time, though he had admittedly had surprise on his side. But whilst defeating these invaders in open conflict was an impossibility, that the ponies’ blood was pumping hot through their veins was also self-evident. The objects of their hate, avatars of what had reduced their kingdom to the sorry state it found itself in, were standing right before them. Peaceful resolution in such a situation seemed impossible…from Adamant Tower’s own experience, anyway.
Two of the aliens raised guns with slow, almost mechanical, precisions, silver barrels tracking over the crowd. Ponies gasped, shying away, some foals crying as the Guards fought harder to keep their own tempers under control. Another revved his sword, the sound of an engine tearing through the street as the teeth whirred and chewed the air. The stallion couldn’t be sure, but an equally fierce growl seemed to leave the creature’s helm. A bottle was thrown from somewhere, smashing against the armoured thigh of a warrior in crimson and white. His hand twitched, reaching for the pommel of a sheathed blade, but in an impressive display of self-control he restrained himself. The last five, including the one who had slain the Daemon, remained as silent and inscrutable as statues, even as the crowd’s anger began to become more and more evident.
Tense silence persisted for a moment longer, as if both sides were waiting to see what the other would do. It was the Space Marines who spoke first, in the end.
“Xenos.” The one who had just been hit by the bottle took a step forward, the Guards bristling a little in response. He raised a red gauntlet, in an almost placating gesture. “We are representatives of the Imperium of Man, warriors of the Legiones Astartes…and we mean you no harm.” Those last words were spoken in an almost grudging tone, but he followed through nevertheless; the alien’s helmet swivelled round to regard his companion revving the chain-weapon, green eye lenses glowing. The warrior growled again in annoyance, but lowered the sword. He then passed the same scrutiny onto the two aiming their guns – they, however, did not even return his gaze.
“Why should we believe you?” Somepony in the crowd shouted, voice hoarse with anger. The muttering suggested to Tower that it was a view held by a majority of the crowd.
“They probably caused that big…eye thing to come today!” A mare added to the chorus, an accusation met by more jeers of support. Two of the silent warriors glanced at one another, one hand each still on the hilt of their swords. Those five all carried a blade by their sides, though the one who had saved Adamant Tower seemed to possess the most ornate of the collection.
“String the bastards up!” Came the third cry. The jeering then was the loudest of the lot, the Guards unable to keep the mob surging forward a little. Some of them even seemed inclined to join themselves. The Space Marines backed closer together, the sword-wielders drawing fractions of steel, the one who had spoken before still trying to keep the situation under control; that was a plan that was rapidly failing.
It left Adamant Tower strangely conflicted. He didn’t want to witness a massacre, and if the crowd slipped its bonds and descended on the aliens, that was exactly what would happen. He did, of course, want some measure of retribution for the death of Princess Cadence – it wasn’t something anypony had ever expected to have the chance to do. What parts of his brain were still making sense, however, told him that that wasn’t what they were going to be getting here. If the impending disaster was to be averted – and by this point, it seemed minutes away at best – somepony had to do something pretty damn quick.
And, he supposed, guess what lucky stallion was going to get that job.
“They saved me.” For a moment, Tower still didn’t realise that he’d spoken out loud; he almost immediately regretted it. The crowd’s eyes turned almost collectively on him, some confused, most outraged. The Space Marines looked down at him too, the aliens’ scrutiny making him almost physically squirm. At least they weren’t pointing the guns at him, though.
“T-they saved me…” He went on anyway, inwardly cursing himself as he stood on quivering legs. “He did, at least…” He gestured to the alien with the ornate sword. There was no response. “He killed one of the…the…the things, too.”
That got their attention, at least. The crowd followed his hoof direction, making an array of disgusted noises as they backed off from the shredded remains. The Space Marines just watched, as if trying to judge what his game was. He wished he knew. Again, the weight of assembled scrutiny bore down on him, as if it were a physical thing. “I…”
It was one the aliens, once again, that saved him. “We are Legiones Astartes.” The warrior in crimson and white repeated once more, voice presumably amplified by his helmet. “Servants of the Emperor of Man…we wish only to speak with your lords. You seem reasonable…for Xenos.” That last bit was added under his breathe, and Adamant Tower wasn’t even sure he had heard it. Still, their combined efforts had managed to change the mood in the crowd. Where once anger had been the dominant feeling, now uncertainly reigned. The cries to execute the intruders…somehow were still there, but now mumbling was the prevailing noise. Adamant Tower had to admit, his heart was still slamming out a furious rhythm against his ribcage. Tension crackled through the air.
And then, with a growl, the Guards relented.
They at least had the sense to relieve the Space Marines of their weapons, this time – the two who had been aiming their guns looked like they were about to burst into furious action, but a word from the hooded alien who had saved the stallion brought about their grudging acquiescence. The crowd parted to let them through, still lining the streets, still glaring with barely-disguised loathing. As they were led away, it gave Adamant Tower his chance…he’d already attracted enough attention for one day. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on them, slowly backing off into the mass of ponies all around, not wanting to act too swiftly.
He made it about five steps.
A hoof on his shoulder stopped him, the sudden applied pressure making the stallion’s muscles lock. Sighing in beaten frustration, he turned, locking eyes with one of the Guards. It wasn’t anypony he knew. Most of them were probably dead.
“You stood up for them.” The Guard said, voice hard as crystal. “So you get to come with them.”
Adamant Tower was quiet for a while, meeting the soldier’s grim expression with a blank one of his own. “Well…aren’t you generous.”
***
They were, at the very least, a varied brotherhood.
Two of them, warriors in black and silver, were the silently fuming, gun-totting Marines who had nearly sent the situation spilling over to violence earlier. Voss, Legion Seeker, and Moulkain, Battle-Brother. Both of the ‘Iron Hands’ Legion, from the 19th and 23rd Clan Companies, was all they had said. Adamant Tower wasn’t entirely sure what a ‘hand’ was – presumably some type of hoof – but he had noticed the atmosphere in the room immediately darken further the moment the word ‘iron’ had been spoken.
The warrior with the chainsword was a beast in storm-grey, a clash between old and new. His snout-nosed helmet hung by his side, servos whining each time he moved, yet a cloak of what looked like bear pelt was draped from his wide shoulders. Tribal fetishes and charms were criss-crossed across the chest, and festooned the casing of his huge gun. Helsturnn, a Grey Hunter, he had introduced himself as. The Marine claimed he was one of the ‘Rout’, but the others had called him a ‘Space Wolf’; again, the discrepancy was odd, but few dared question it. He wore his smouldering anger much more openly than the Iron Hands displayed their evident cold rage, his face like thunder. He was quiet, though, besides the occasional wet growl.
Zuriel was next, the diplomat, who had up until now done nearly all the speaking. He named himself an Apothecary of the Ninth Legion, the ‘Blood Angels’, 27th Company. Of them all, he seemed to be the only one not furious in some way. He had removed his helmet in some gesture of compromise, and his face was both patrician and noble, but the look in his eyes was…haunted, perhaps, as he spoke. A deep darkness lay there, smouldering beneath the service, forced down only by formidable willpower. Whatever it was, Adamant Tower didn’t want to know.
And lastly, the group of five, the main force of the disparate band of Space Marines. Their armour was universally scarred, deep gouges cut into it in some places, but it was still recognisably the deep and brutal green of a forest. Cream linen robes, equally defiled, were draped over them, the hoods sheltering helmets reminiscent either of beaks, or knightly apparel. These men had introduced themselves as ‘Dark Angels’; Gideon, Joshua, Uzzael, and Baramiel, under the command of Sergeant Nehemiah. It was the latter warrior who had saved the stallion from the Daemon, though he hardly seemed pleased about it. They still stood motionless, their stoicism matched only the Iron Hands, though these five were even harder to read. A furtive air of secrecy clung to them, shrouding the air. Again, the stallion didn’t want to get too close. He was far too close as it was.
They had assembled in the chamber that had once belonged to the Princess. Once. The throne was unused now, none quite daring to sit upon it – to dishonour the memory. The elegant carpets and tapestries were gone, consumed by fire. The door still held the marks of the blaze, scorched onto its very surface. In their place were maps, charts, as well as the occasional memorial to those who had fallen. When your world was a warzone, it paid to try and keep on top of it, even if you were losing.
The council that faced them were a varied group – six members, none of whom were pleased. Three had always been servants of the Crystal Empire, even before the Fall, two mares and a stallion. Before they had held some low-ranking positions perhaps, but greatness – or at least responsibility – had been thrust upon them, and in the absence of royalty it was up to them to steer their kingdom. The other three were all of a unique origin. A Mare who had somehow managed to escape Canterlot, and had worked in the treasury there; an envoy from the Griffon Kingdoms, sent a few weeks after the first Daemonic incursions began to hit their lands; and a Saddle Arabian, with much the same story. These were the six that ruled the last true bastion of Pony Resistance for leagues…and these were the six that currently stood in judgement of the Space Marines.
Or at least, they thought they did.
“Tell us again,” The former Canterlot Mare began, voice laden with mock sincerity. “How exactly you nine came to assemble, let alone be here? You cannot deny, my lord, that it all sounds very suspicious.” She was the one that was doing most of the talking. The Crystal Ponies were having trouble just controlling their anger. To speak with disrespect to one of the aliens, Adamant Tower considered, was practically suicidal, but he supposed he could forgive her the anger. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he didn’t feel it himself. The Marines might have saved him, but he could not forgive them for what their silver counterpart had done all those moons ago.
“As I have said, in the aftermath of a great war in our species, many of us came to be separated from our Legions.” It was the Blood Angel speaking again, predictably. “To continue the war against the Archenemy was all we desired, but over time, our paths crossed. Though there was…reluctance, from many of us, we reasoned we could punish our foes more by working together.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said this before.” Said the Griffon, tapping his talons on the desk. The Space Wolf bristled slightly at such a dismissive attitude, even if it was all engineered, but he managed to keep his temper in check. “In truth, how your little brotherhood was formed is irrelevant. What we want to know is how you came to walk this world.” Tower was about to point out that they had only been answering the mare’s query, but thought better of it.
“There was a wound.” Adamant Tower jumped a little, and even the other Marines turned in muted surprise, as Sergeant Nehemiah spoke. His voice was similar to the Blood Angel’s, perhaps a little deeper. They all sounded the same when they wore the helmets, though. “A rip, in the fabric of the universe. We had….seen something similar before, something that we were trying to find. It looked similar enough…and we trusted to hope.” He tensed subtly, armour giving a faint whirr. “We were…mistaken.”
“So…to clarify…a ‘rip’.” One of the Crystal Ponies interjected, in a voice that would perhaps have been intimidating to anything else in the cosmos. “A ‘rip’, like the ones these monstrosities are known to appear from…and you simply decided to walk in?”
“They killed the Shaytan on sight, my friend.” The Saddle Arabian pointed out, turning to look at her. “That cannot be denied.” He spoke with an accent, a trait from his homeland, and he couldn’t help but slip into the dialect – ‘Shaytan’, Adamant Tower knew, was Saddle Arabian for ‘Daemon’. He was also the only one who seemed willing to give the aliens a chance, and the Blood Angel wasted no time in capitalising upon that.
“Lords, ladies, I do not claim to know what has happened here. But I swear, on the blood of my Primarch…” He hesitated a moment, fingers curling into a fist, before relaxing. “…I swear that these abominations are as repulsive to us as they are to you. My Legion has suffered at their hands, exactly the same as your kingdom has! We find ourselves with a common enemy, and if my brothers and I are to be trapped here, then we wish nothing more than to take the fight to them!”
It was certainly sincere in principal, even if Zuriel’s words were perhaps a slight embellishment. It was obvious that the Space Marines had a distaste for the Ponies – or Griffon – for the sheer crime of being different, but it was also obvious that any mention of the Daemonic incurred a greater hatred still. The stallion, to his own irritated surprise, found he believed the towering Apothecary. The opinion of the Council, however, was harder to judge.
“…No.” The former Guard felt his stomach drop – it’d been doing that a lot this afternoon – as one of the Crystal Ponies shook her head and slammed her hoof onto the table. “No, I won’t believe it. These…these things, I won’t risk their destroying the Empire! Not whilst I draw breath!”
“You are being blinded by your hatred.” The Saddle Arabian insisted, his face drawn in a frown. “They wish to help, if not directly alongside us then at least striving against our enemies! You would deny them, and us, that aid?”
“It’s easy for you to say.” The former Canterlot pony snapped. “You haven’t suffered as we have, you didn’t-“
“But their weapons can kill the Daemons.” The Griffon pointed out, speaking slowly, lion-like tail flicking a little. “That he’s here is living proof of that.” Adamant Tower suppressed a gulp, shying away a little as all the eyes in the room – Equestrian or alien – turned upon him once again. “They can reliably kill the things, or at least send them back to wherever they’re from. That is more than we have so far accomplished.”
“Yes, and they also seemed to have few qualms about wandering into one of the portals used by these Daemons!” The Crystal Pony stallion shouted across the table at his fellow members. “For which they still haven’t given convincing reason! We can only assume that they are in-“
“We lost our Chaplain.”
The room went silent, even the Space Marines once again looking round in surprise as Nehemiah spoke again. The Wolf glared, his distaste written evidently, but both Zuriel and the Iron Hands seemed equally wary. It took a few moments for Adamant Tower to realise why – they didn’t know. Whatever the sergeant had meant by that, this was new to his companions, too.
“…my deepest condolences.” One of the Mares sneered, utterly without sympathy. The hooded Marine looked a little uncomfortable, like he’d already said too much, but he was evidently smart enough to know the situation wasn’t going to be diffused any other way.
“He is not dead. We…lost him. My squad was accompanying him, upon…” He hesitated, gesturing to the other Dark Angels. “Upon a mission. During this mission, a gateway was presented to us. We passed through it together, but upon emerging out the other side he was no longer with us.” The shame of failure clung heavy to his every word. “We have been searching for him, far and wide, allying with our companions here to continue the war as we do so. Upon seeing this second portal, we thought that perhaps it bore some connection to the first. Instead we ended up here…and now, we are speaking to you.”
Silence clung to the room, heavy in the air. The Marines still stared at their brother, and the Saddle Arabian looked at one of the Mares, a small but triumphant smile on his face. Adamant Tower was simply trying to stop himself shaking in a distinctly unmasculine fashion.
“You see?” The Griffon said, finally breaking it. “No malice. They did not even intend to be here, and now they are they wish to strike back.”
“You certainly changed your opinion swiftly.” A Crystal Pony mare muttered, glaring at him. “A few fancy words, and you’re drawn in.”
“I’ve certainly heard this story before.” The mare from Canterlot admitted, not sounding like she believed it a moment.
“You act like this because you want to believe them evil.” The Saddle Arabian maintained. “To do so justifies your hatred, you are hearing only what you wish to hear from them.”
“Well, can you blame us?” The stallion who sat the council barked in response. “After last time, we can’t-“
“Last time?” They all froze, a few eyes widening, as Helsturnn – the Wolf – finally spoke. His bare head had snapped round from the Dark Angels to stare at them, golden black-pinned eyes intent. “You said last time.” He repeated with a growl, when no answer was forthcoming. “What did you mean?”
Now, the Council seemed apprehensive. Adamant Tower wasn’t sure he blamed them; though logically it made no sense, they had all been assuming the Space Marines knew of how the doom of Equestria had been delivered. Trying to decide who it would be to explain was an awkward job, to say the least.
“You are…not the first we have ever had dealings with…” One of the mares admitted, the arrogance gone from her voice now, a small shake beginning to creep up her body. “There were others…who brought the Daemons here in the first place…others, l-like you-“ She stopped, ears flattening against her forehead, as the atmosphere in the room grew even darker. As Adamant Tower slowly backed away, Nehemiah took a step forward. His voice was the sound of tombstones slamming together.
“What…others?”
***
She stared down into the mug, and wondered how they’d reached this point.
Five minutes ago, Bon Bon had been on her back, nose bleeding and some part of her afraid she might actually die here – foolish, of course, but given the circumstances she could perhaps be forgiven. Now the girl had been brought into the yard of the school she’d been observing, sat on a picnic table bench, given tissues to wipe her nose clean. A small mug of piping hot tea had been handed over, the vapours creeping up her nostrils and rubbing against her brain. They were surprisingly soothing.
Amazingly, Lyra had managed to find her. It might have been her fault they were in the situation in the first place, but Bon Bon cared for her friend enough to forgive her. Hugs had been shared, apologies made – but the strangest apology didn’t come from either of them.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Said Mordecai, as Lyra slowly sat beside her friend.
He was the boy who had loomed over Bon Bon when she’d fell, but he was also the one who had helped her to sit, and given her a drink from his flask. He was…odd. Polite, but odd. His skin was a deep grey, eyes flecked with green. The boy was dressed well; not exactly clad in suit and tie, but certainly better than most of his contemporaries even at Canterlot High. He was handsome, certainly, cheekbones defined and eyes gleaming with wry amusement. That amusement spread down to his lips, which were pulled in a small smile that Bon Bon had trouble believing ever left his face. There was something uncanny about him – a strange sense that she’d seen him before. Bon Bon knew she hadn’t, but the nagging feeling she couldn’t quite place remained.
“Urm…no problem.” Lyra said, looking at him with similar confusion. She seemed far from mad, if anything she’d been grateful he’d helped her friend out, but for once Lyra didn’t seem to know how to react. Bon Bon couldn’t blame her. “I…thanks, for looking out for her, if something had happened I-“
“Think nothing of it.” Mordecai assured, holding up a hand to silence her. He was still smiling. “To chance upon your dear companion here was certainly unusual, but far from unwanted. It is so very rare that we get any visitors here…especially from such an esteemed locale as Canterlot High.”
She hadn’t told him that she was from Canterlot High, Bon Bon realised suddenly. She hadn’t told him much of anything, besides her name, and what she’d been doing there. Even so, she just couldn’t bring herself to distrust him. Lyra nodded, accepting his words blithely. Mordecai’s grin grew a little, something…chaotic flashing behind his eyes. It was so swift, she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. His grin was infectious, and Bon Bon had to take another sip of tea to maintain a straight face. It was as if there was some big joke that she was missing, and only he knew the punchline.
“Although…” Mordecai began, chuckling softly to himself. It was an attractive sound, she couldn’t deny. “I’m afraid not all of us here would feel the same way…we’re not exactly the friendliest to newcomers.” He sat up a little, looking over Bon Bon’s shoulder. “Are we, my friend?”
Lyra looked confused, turning to follow his eyes. Bon Bon wasn’t, but she looked anyway – she knew exactly who his words were directed to.
The boy who had been sitting on the other side of the two girls, and until now hadn’t deigned to say a word, gave a small grunt that didn’t really answer anything. He wasn’t dressed as well, though from what she could see of his skin, it was lighter – more silvery. She thought he was glaring at them; the reason she only thought it, was because the boy’s entire head was encased within a tined motorcycle helmet. The visor completely blocked any view of his face, the glass pretty much sheer black, and she wondered how exactly he could see out of it. That was only the least of her questions, but answers weren’t forthcoming – when she’d asked why he was wearing it, both boys had completely ignored the question.
Lyra looked like she was about to ask the same thing; a quick shake of the head from Bon Bon stopped her. Lyra shrank back, hands moving into the pockets of her hoody awkwardly. Mordecai didn’t seem like he was paying any attention to that, instead focused on speaking with his friend…or at least, Bon Bon assumed they were friends.
“Now now, when we have guests here, we must try and be polite.” He insisted, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “I know you realise that, Zuko.” Zuko – that was his name – gave a snorting sound from behind the helmet. It could have been a laugh, or a growl; perhaps it was both. Bon Bon shuffled away from him a little more on the seat. She’d never heard a boy growl before.
“I…like…where is ‘here’?” Lyra asked after a moment, and to her credit it wasn’t a bad question. Bon Bon followed her eyes, and Mordecai followed both of theirs’, all three of them gazing at the slab-sided building in whose courtyard they sat. Its very walls seemed to exude bitterness. He gave a magnanimous, if exaggerated, bow.
“Oh, how rude of me! My dear ladies, allow me to welcome you to Olympia High! Finest educational establishment on this side of the town!” There was pride in his voice, but it was undeniably sarcastic. “Primarily, of course, because it is the only educational establishment on this side of the town.” He giggled to himself, and Lyra giggled too, though she looked surprised about it.
“I’ve never heard of it.” She admitted, before catching herself – at least Lyra realised how rude that could sound. “Like, sorry…there’s the junior school and all, but no-one’s ever mentioned this place…”
Mordecai didn’t seem offended, at least. “I would imagine not; why ever would you? As you can see, we are hardly a shining bastion of quality and care. There is certainly none of the opulence of Canterlot High – but be assured, we know of you.” He nodded sagely, seemingly to himself. “Oh yes, after the exciting little debacle at your last Fall soiree, you were the hot topic of conversation for almost a whole week!” Another sage nod. “High praise, high praise indeed.”
Of course, news about the whole thing with Sunset Shimmer had spread fast, it was always going to. At least one person had uploaded a video of it, and it was clocking a fair number of views. Still, to hear that it’d been such a point of contention here was more than a little disturbing – Mordecai at least seemed perfectly nice, but the building gave of an aura of malice, as had every other student Bon Bon had seen, even in passing. Lyra, apparently, thought the same thing.
“Well…umm…this has…been nice.” She nodded, with a smile that was clearly plastered on as she slowly stood. “But, like, it’s getting dark…we should be getting home…”
“Yes, sorry…” Bon Bon added, handing the mug back. “Thank you…for the tea…it helped.” She smiled at that, sincerely. Mordecai’s smile back was equally sincere.
“Of course, forgive me, I did not mean to bore you for so long with my lecture.” He set the mug and flask down, pointing down a side street. “Down there, if you maintain a direct path, you will find a bus-stop. I cannot claim the service is perfect, but it will take you where you wish to go.” He smiled again. Bon Bon merely turned her head slowly, eyes shooting daggers into Lyra. The other girl blushed, nodding slowly. With another awkward wave, they began to walk – first leaving the courtyard, then crossing the road. Both of them left it until they were completely out of sight before starting to run.
Mordecai and Zuko watched, the former still with a smile on his face as he refilled the mug. “Well…they were certainly pleasant.” He mused, taking a sip.
“He’s going to go apeshit.” Mordecai turned to look at Zuko as the helmeted boy finally spoke, but offered no more reaction. “You know that, right?”
“When does he not?” Mordecai pointed out, utterly unconcerned. Zuko gave another grunting sound.
“…True…but that’s not the point! You shouldn’t have brought her here, and you shouldn’t have told them all that stuff.”
“Why ever not?” Mordecai frowned now, setting his drink down and folding his arms. With his general tone, it would have been easy to think he was being sarcastic. Only one who’d known him for a long time could tell his confusion was utterly sincere. “What would you have had me do, old sport? Simply leave her there?” He scoffed. “We are not brigands, by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Yes, but…everyone was staring.” Even if his face was hidden, how uncomfortable that made Zuko was evident. He was right, too – all the other boys had been staring as Mordecai helped Bon Bon in. They’d swiftly, none of them wanting to sit around with anyone from Canterlot High. To say that the classy, fancy, oh-so-elegant school was unpopular around Olympia High was an understatement – though there was one who went even further than that in his dislike. They both knew who it was, too.
“You have to admit, if nothing else it was an intriguing distraction.” Mordecai nodded, retrieving his tea. “I don’t even really recall what we had been doing beforehand.” Zuko looked away, as if trying to remember himself.
“…I think we were beating the shit out of each other.”
“Ah, yes, that was it.” Mordecai nodded, as if Zuko had just said they were watching TV. “Do you remember what inspired such a dreadful scuffle?”
“”You kept calling me a pea-“
“MORDECAI.”
Zuko was cut off in the middle of his sentence, the sheer intensity of the voice making them both sit up a little straighter. Mordecai’s smile grew again. “Ah…that’ll be him now.”
The figure who had shouted was stomping across the courtyard, amber eyes – a similar shade to Lyra’s - blazing with suppressed fury. His hands were clenched into fists by his side, face locked in a dark cowl, brown hair falling in front of his face. His skin was the same shade as Mordecai’s, his shirt decorated with yellow chevrons on a black background. A bold fashion statement, to be sure. He carried an aura of weary, agitated confusion with him at all times, though right now that was forced under by rage. The boy behind him seemed far calmer, and just amused to see what was going on – skin a bronze colour, eyes blue. He smirked at Zuko as they reached the table, whilst the first slammed his hands down on it, leaning in closer to Mordecai.
“Khr came to find me.” He said, voice low and threatening. He was surprisingly good at that, and it was just a shame that Mordecai was nearly impossible to threaten. “Said you had some friends here?”
“Why were you talking to Vhalen?” Zuko asked, sitting back and folding his arms. “You two were gone an awfully long time.”
“He came to find us.” Barbus, the last boy, explained, taking a seat on the table and just watching the exchange. The other, however, would not be distracted. He growled again, leaning in a bit closer. Though he was undaunted, Mordecai leant away a little all the same.
“They were two perfectly pleasant girls.” He insisted, voice calm. “I thought-“
“They’re the enemy!” Lorkhan’s hand slammed down on the table before he stood back up, expression still furious. Unlike Mordecai, he wasn’t handsome. Few of them were. “You’re…you’re fraternising with the enemy!”
“’The enemy’?” Mordecai parroted, looking truly stunned now. “Lorkhan, my boy, I understand your dislike for them. It is commendable, it truly is. But-“
“You shouldn’t have let them go!” He insisted, arms folded as he spun back around to glare at Mordecai. “They’ve been close now, they know where we are! That makes us…vulnerable!” Well, at least his paranoia was still intact.
“So?” Zuko’s voice was muffled by the helmet as he spoke; though he had been arguing a similar platform moments ago, Lorkhan’s hatred for anything to do with Canterlot High had to be controlled swiftly. “What are they going to do? Who are they going to tell?”
“That…this…it…” Lorkhan was eloquent as ever, working himself into more and more of a petulant fury. Barbus and Mordecai shared a glance, both of them shrugging subtly.
“Say we went along with your plan, then.” Barbus began, tilting his head sidewards in a way that looked almost intrigued. “What exactly would we do?” Lorkhan’s face screwed up thoughtfully as he thought it over, one foot tapping against the hard stone floor.
“We…we could grab ‘em.” He suggested, at last. “Grab them, and-“
“Don’t be stupid.” Zuko snapped, growing weary of this already. “What are we, some kind of…super-soldiers?”
“Fuck no.”
“That’s idiotic.”
“It is rather unlikely, Lorkhan.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Somebody could’ve died.”
Barbus’ last pronouncement seemed to end it, Lorkhan having shrunk in on himself a little as their disapproval became more and more apparent. He wasn’t going to give up on this, because he never did, but it at least brought the immediate argument to a close.
“Right…now we’ve established that us being super-soldiers is an utterly ridiculous idea, I’m going home.” Barbus nodded, standing and slipping off the table. “Zuko, you want a lift?”
“Are you taking the Growler?” The helmeted boy responded. Barbus grinned.
“By ‘the Growler’, do you mean the Honda you bought off your Granddad?” Lorkhan grumbled, still pissed about Mordecai letting anyone from Canterlot High go before he got to them. Barbus was the only one of them who could drive, and so he was the one who provided the taxi surface. “Do you even know what ‘Growler’ means?” Barbus’ smirk answered that question, at least.
“Yes, I fear I must be going, too. Things to do, people to see, and all that.” Mordecai nodded, standing and screwing the mug-lid back on his flask. He picked his schoolbag up, hanging it over a shoulder. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.” None of them said anything as he turned to leave, but the polite boy didn’t mind, humming quietly and merrily to himself as he made his way down the street.
“I’m coming too.” Lorkhan mumbled, looking round at Barbus.
“You want a lift now?”
“You know that you’ll give me one.” Lorkhan pointed out. With that, his attention turned to Zuko. “I need to come round to yours for a bit, anyway. I want to watch the video.” Even in spite of the tinted helmet, the sensation Zuko screwing his face up in disgust was palpable.
“Lorkhan, can’t you do that in your ow-“ He trailed off as he his friend’s angry glare deepened, the meaning finally clicking for Zuko.
To expect a unified response by a species, or even a kingdom, in response to staring down its own destruction was a flawed plan. Logically speaking, it should not have been; indeed, it was at those times of impending annihilation that unity and fidelity should have been at their strongest. And yet, such was never the case – there were as many differing opinions on how to face oblivion as there were those to profess them.
Some of them were good ideas, presented before the Council and worked into the new law of what remained of Equestria’s kingdom. Others were downright foolish, or at the very least untenable, often plans formed out of irrational fear. These were gently dismissed at best, discarded angrily at worst. Very few of the ways in which ponies responded to the Fall were outright dangerous, but the small sect that had taken it upon itself to elevate the architects of all the terror that had come to pass to some strange form of divinity certainly fell into that category.
They were a small group of insane mares and stallions at best, for there was little sympathy for the aliens that had come before to be found. Of those who did believe accepting the damnation was the only way of surviving it, fewer still were able to find anything concrete upon which to build their faith; the steel-clad monsters had not left much behind when they had disappeared, and any sign of their passing was either in the areas of the world that were now under quarantine, or else hastily taken care of.
That did not, in every case, mean destroyed.
Adamant Tower quailed as his eyes settled upon the mural facing the group. It was in one of the dungeons beneath the Crystal Castle, or at least one of the chambers they could still use – many of the oldest and darkest passageways were lost to them, the Daemonic threat prowling the shadows like a starving pack of dogs. The mural was not originally from this chamber, however; the building upon whose wall one of the cults had created this work of ‘art’ had been reduced to rubble, yet some outside power had protected the painting. The few powerful unicorns who remained warned that taint lay upon it, and any who approached found their skin prickled by a nauseous sensation. The image that drew the most attention was the largest, in the centre; one of the aliens, his gunmetal-grey armour offset by bronze trim and black and yellow chevrons. Horns sprouted from a roaring, daemonic helm – or perhaps it was simply his head - and he roared to heaven, an oversized gauntlet depicted as crushing an equine skull. The drawing was crude, yes, but as a focus for supplication it served its purpose. Far more worrying were the symbols daubed around the image of the warrior, five of them repeated over and over: an eight-pointed star. A stylised skull rune. A flowing, burning eye. Three circles connected in a triangle. And finally, a wickedly elegant combination of a sickle and moon. They made the eyes ache to look upon, flaring if they were approached, and that seemingly-waiting power was part of the reason the graven image still existed. So the wall stood here, locked away in the dark, even after the Cult that created it had been quashed.
“It’s them.”
Amongst the Space Marines, it was Joshua – one of the Dark Angels – who broke the silence. Until now, he and his brothers had remained silent, with the exception of sergeant Nehemiah – and he was taciturn at best. He and his green-plated brothers had endured much between them; campaigns alongside the Lion himself, the Thramas Crusade, the Unremembered Empire, and one thing they had sworn not to speak of even in private. Even so, the sight of such a blatant depiction of one of their wayward cousins, in so unexpected a place, was enough to compel him to speak. “The Iron Warriors. It was really them.”
The Iron Warriors. The IV Legiones Astartes. The ‘Corpse Grinders’, though that had always been the name they’d loathed above all others. One of the nine Legions that had thrown in their lot with the deposed Warmaster, and one of the Legions that had been sent running back into the Eye during the Scouring. Shortly before wandering through the portal, the ragtag group of Astartes that now found themselves face to face with the grim idol had heard tell of a great battle between the sons of Perturabo and their nemeses, the Imperial Fists, on some worthless planet in the Sebastus belt. That any of the Fourth Legion had escaped Dorn’s vengeance seemed unlikely to the Loyalists, but the proof stood before them.
“Is there nothing their heresy does not touch?” Nehemiah growled, hand once again reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. From the way his brothers murmured, the answer seemed to be a definitive ‘no’. Though the words were passed along a general vox channel, to every Space Marine in the immediate vicinity, it was only the Dark Angels who spoke; their rage was great, but the rage of some of their companions was greater.
Zuriel stared at it, exposed face a mask of barely-contained rage, one crimson gauntlet trembling. He had not been on Terra with his brothers, his ship thrown wildly off-course through Warp disturbance, but he had heard the tales. The Iron Warriors had been the ones who had brought the walls of the Emperor’s palace crashing down. They had brought sons of Sanguinius crashing down with them. If anything, Voss and Moulkain seemed possessed of a greater fury still. It had been the Iron Warriors, once again, who had opened fire into the back of the Iron Tenth’s ranks at the Dropsite Massacre, Medusan warriors falling in the hundreds under the thunder of the heavy siege guns and ranks of cold, disciplined bolter fire.
The Fourth Legion was directly complicit in the murder of the Blood Angel and Iron Hand Primarchs. Even if all their other crimes were ignored, for that they could never be forgiven.
“So…” Helsturnn’s voice was the same low, canine growl it always was as he spoke. The Wolf wore his Maximus helm again, servos growling with him, but the way he sniffed the air was still audible. The fact that he spoke at all was enough to get the hooded warriors to turn; rarely did he speak in the immediate presence of the green-armoured Space Marines. Even with the fear pulsing through his body, Adamant Tower was clever enough to realise that some animosity existed between the two factions. “So…” The Wolf said again, running a tribal charm between two grey fingertips. “We know it’s them. The question is what we can do about the Olympian skijta.”
“You said that the traitors were the ones who reduced your world to this state.” Zuriel had by now just about managed to get a handle on his temper, turning in place to look down at the ponies. The Council, and their Guards, had followed them down into the dark, remaining a few steps behind. The anger from before was at least tempered, the ponies, Griffon and Saddle Arabian outwardly portraying a picture of unified calm, even if it was clear that only some of them really felt it. “What happened to them? Specifically?” The Blood Angel finished, fighting to keep his voice respectful as fury rocked him.
“Nopony’s really sure.” It fell upon the mare from Canterlot, the only one of them who had really seen what had happened, to answer. Even then, her story was sketchy and incomplete at best. “One of them came here, in the guise of a friend. It was he that…that slew the Princess. They attacked the Capital’s walls with some…huge metal monster, though it sounded like it was alive…” She shivered a little at the memory, before recovering her composure. “It was the first time we’d ever seen the Daemons…but none of us are really sure where they went. From what little we know of the area around the Rift, they aren’t still there…our best guess is that they went back to your world.”
Adamant Tower was standing a little off to one side, trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself, but even he was able to detect the subtle change that came across the Space Marines. The reason was obvious enough; that the Iron Warriors had been here at al was bad enough, by their reckoning. That they had presumably escaped retribution was intolerable.
In a moment of bleak humour, he wondered if they’d considered how the ponies felt.
“Do you see now, at least, that we have no reason to quarrel?” The Saddle Arabian delegate asked, a hint of pleased satisfaction in his voice at being proved right. Though he addressed his fellow Councillors, that his words were meant for them all is obvious. “Neither of us truly trust the other, that much is obvious, and in light of recent events only right. But it is also plain that we share a common foe…one whose schemes we can thwart far easier as a united front than we can individually.”
“What would you have us do?” One of the Dark Angels asked, turning to look at them. It was a fair question, Adamant Tower admitted – it was either Baramiel or Uzzael who had spoken, but he couldn’t tell which. “To march into the enemies’ eye with our guns blazing would be a worthy death…but a more lasting victory is also something to be appreciated.” Silence reigned for a moment, as all considered the – quite honestly, sensible – facts he presented.
“We shall work on a plan.” It was another Dark Angel, Sergeant Nehemiah, who settled the matter. “For saying a full Warp Breach has supposedly opened, this world is remarkably intact. Some means of striking back will be devised.” This, too, was sensible; though the ponies could not know it, the Dark Angels were renowned tacticians, their Primarch only equalled in that regard by Guilliman of the Ultramarines and the Archtraitor Horus himself. It was certainly a safe set of hands to leave the burden of strategizing unto.
“We shall aid in any way we can.” The Griffon nodded, ignoring the angry glances a few of his colleagues shot him. “Any chance to end this, one way or another, is something we have to seize.”
“Then…we have your hospitality?” Zuriel asked. The Apothecary sounded more like he felt wearily resigned than pleased, fiddling a little with the medical tools attached to one of his gauntlets. Another period of brief, awkward silence descended, the unlikely rulers of the Crystal Empire exchanging wordless glances that nevertheless seemed to convey their meaning.
“Our co-operation.” One of the Crystal Ponies sighed at last, and every syllable of it was grudging. It was enough for the Iron Hands; neither of them had spoken so far since arriving on the world, at least not to any of the others, and now was no different as they turned away from the hateful painting and began to stalk out of the chamber. Most of the pony membership of the Council tensed at the sudden movement, memories of before no doubt spilling back, a detachment of Guards hurriedly trotting after them to keep watch. The rest of the Marines took the acceptance in silence, each no doubt wrestling with his private thoughts on the matter. Adamant Tower couldn’t blame them, as he sat on his haunches; not for the first time, he wished he’d just risked going down the main street instead of getting caught up in all of this. He was just grateful that despite being brought here with them, everything seemed to have forgot he was there.
“What was his name?” Their collective attention was drawn once again as the Space Wolf’s gruff voice cut across the still air of the cell; Helsturnn took a step forward, glowing red eyes of his helmet playing across the painted form of the Iron Warrior. “The traitor.” He clarified, irritation evident. “You said one of them came here once. In order to know how to draw this blasphemy, the cultists would need to have seen him.” He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a foal, a tone utterly at odds with his voice. “You said he came pretending to be an ally…what did he say his name was?”
It seemed more a question of morbid curiosity than anything else, but still the Council was hesitant to offer a response. Only the Crystal Ponies knew, and they were hardly inclined to relive the memory. But there was one other who had seen the Traitor Marine himself. Adamant Tower wasn’t even really sure why he spoke, and for the second time that day instantly regretted it as all their eyes fell upon him.
“Zuko.” He said anyway, a curious note of regret in his voice. “His name was Zuko.”
***
“Zuko!”
As Zuko flinched, nearly falling out of the chair he’d been falling asleep in, his mind couldn’t help but wander onto the shrillness in Lorkhan’s tone. It was, of course, shrill only by comparison – with few exceptions, Mordecai being one of them, the voice of all the students at Olympia High was pretty gruff and deep. He didn’t know why that was, and he didn’t really care, but it made the sudden change of pitch even more jarring.
He shook it off, sitting back up and stretching painful muscles. His chair wasn’t comfortable at the best of times, but there hadn’t been much to do except fall asleep. Lorkhan had been here for two hours now, and in those two hours he had done little more than constantly replay the video he’d been so adamant about viewing. If anything, the boy seemed even less comfortable than Zuko was; he was perched on the end of the bed, spine hunched as he stared at the bright, grainy screen of the plain – but functional – computer. Plain, but functional. That was a metaphor for most of their existences, he considered in an unusual moment of introspection. Zuko shook that off too, putting it down to lingering sleepiness.
“What?” He growled, wheeling his chair over the dirty carpet to sit closer to Lorkhan. Zuko’s room was spartan, to say the least. His house, and the suburb on which it was located, wasn’t bad by any stretch; true, not as fancy as those at the other side of town, but it was hardly inner city conditions. Even so, wallpaper was peeling through sheer neglect, grey curtains and grey bedding eternally casting the room in a dark pall. He had a wardrobe, a few chests of drawers that none of his friends had ever seen him go into, and a bedside table on which rested a glove. Chevroned, as Lorkhan’s shirt was, for no other reason than he liked the design. He’d lost the other one, and simply never bothered to put the one he still had away.
“Look.” Lorkhan wasn’t paying attention to any of that detail – it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Instead, he was still staring – nearly unblinking, which couldn’t be healthy – at the screen, the light from it washing over his face. He’d paused the video, finger jabbing at something.
“You can see the wires.” He said, nodding, as if it was some kind of revelation. Suppressing a sigh, Zuko looked round at whatever he was gesturing it. The video wasn’t new to him; it was hardly new to anyone, having taken the internet by storm for about a week after it was uploaded. It showed a few students from Canterlot High – he knew them by reputation, Pinkie Pie, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, some others – seeming to sprout horns and wings before taking to the sky, launching a beam of rainbow-coloured light from them at what, apparently, were daemons. There was something about zombies, and a talking dog, too. He’d never looked into it.
“Couldn’t you do this at home?” He asked, not bothering to hide his sigh this time. Lorkhan wasn’t even listening.
“Look, wires, holding them up!” He jabbed again at the screen, face scrunching up in anger as he leaned in closer. “It’s fake, it’s all fake! They manufactured this whole video to make them look…I don’t know, magical, so they can further their plans and laugh at us behind our backs while they do it!”
“What…what?” For a moment, Zuko was truly stunned by the depths of his companion’s paranoia. It was another trait that they all shared, but here it truly ran rampart. “I…okay, number one.” He began, making the appropriate gesture with his finger. “What plan? I’m pretty sure that, before this afternoon, none of them from that place even knew we existed. Two,” Another finger went up. “Why would they care? They’re already a fancy-ass school…yeah, I don’t like them either, but I don’t have this weird obsessive hatred for them that you do, so why would they have it for us?” It wasn’t quite true – Canterlot High and Olympia High had met before, some members of faculty at least, and rumour said that it hadn’t gone well. There was bad blood there that went further than Lorkhan’s delusions. Still, Zuko ignored that as he raised a third finger. “And three…everyone, everyone, had been saying that this video is fake pretty much since it was released. They’re not getting any credit from this, we don’t even know if whoever uploaded it still goes there!”
Lorkhan sat back, face stony. For a moment, Zuko dared to hope that he’d even managed to put some sense in the boy’s brain.
“It’s a conspiracy.”
“Oh my God.” A hint of true despair crept into Zuko’s voice now as he sagged in his seat, helmet visor in his hands and shaking his head sadly.
“It’s a conspiracy,” Lorkhan went on, having turned around now and slamming the bottom of a fist into an upturned palm. “Between them and the police…that’s why the Government didn’t come down around their heads after this whole…daemon teenager thing!”
Annoyingly, Lorkhan had a point. Even if the video was fake, which it most likely was, all the buzz it had generated if only for a short time would certainly have been worth checking out. But as far as he knew, there’d been virtually nothing, even after a crater had opened up outside Canterlot High. They’d all put it down to the seemingly none-existent police force near the other school, and he wasn’t going to dignify the theory by acknowledging it in any case.
“’Daemon teenagers’.” He repeated, voice hard as stone, not quite ready to let that bit go yet. “Yes…I can imagine having a real problem with that ‘daemon teenager’ there.” Lorkhan must have started the video going again, Zuko tilting his head thoughtfully as the eponymous daemon teenager – now back in her ‘regular’ form, Sunset Shitlord or something, he didn’t know – was just about visible in the crater.
“She’s kinda cute.” He shrugged, only half paying attention. It made the sudden slap across the front of his motorcycle helmet even more surprising.
“Don’t pull a Mordecai on me.” Lorkhan said as he pointed, voice dark. He turned back to the computer, swiftly changing the video. They both sat in silence, Zuko folding his arms as the sound started to play.
Hey hey everybody, we’ve got some things to say…
“Yeah, okay, this one is a little weird.” He allowed as he watched the six girls dance on tables in the other school’s cafeteria. Lorkhan didn’t respond, cold anger radiating off him. In a way, it was almost impressive.
“We need to strike back, step up our game.” He decided, nodding to himself again. Zuko could almost see the cogs turning in his head. “Can’t let them get the initiative, we’ll get whoever we can and lay siege-“
“What is it with you, and siege metaphors?” Zuko asked, temper starting to fray. Lorkhan opened his mouth to respond, before closing it again – the smallest hint of a blush coloured his cheeks as he realised he didn’t really have an answer. They both turned back to the video, where the dancing girl with a Stetson removed the glasses of an amateur DJ he was vaguely aware of. This time, however, it was Zuko that stopped the video as another figure came into view.
“Oh…” He didn’t raise his voice, but a hint of grim amusement coloured his words now. “Now I know why you wanted to watch these videos…”
“Zuko…” Lorkhan said slowly, blush deepening and tone heavy with warning. Zuko, however, would not be dissuaded.
“The only reason you wanted to watch this video was because you,” He pointed at Lorkhan, who flinched as if struck. “Have a crush, on her.” He jabbed the screen of his computer again, gesturing at a yellow-skinned girl with pink hair and eyeliner. “I always forget about that, what’s her name?”
“Fluttershy.” Lorkhan growled, before instantly backpeddling – hand clamping over his mouth as what he’d done became apparent. It was enough for Zuko, who gave a triumphant snarl.
“Yes! For someone who hates them all so much, you sure seem pretty damn interested in her!”
“That’s a damn lie and you know it!” Lorkhan shouted back, standing now, body tensed and hands clenched into fists. Zuko was unfazed as he reclined in his chair a little. He would never be as painfully smug as Mordecai, or as willfully cruel as Vortun could be, but he’d have been lying if he’d said he didn’t enjoy these little opportunities.
“Look me in the eye, and tell me that.” Again, Lorkhan opened his mouth to reply. Again, he had to look away, nose scrunched up in embarrassment as he folded his arms.
“It’s hard when you’re wearing the helmet.” He mumbled in agitation. “Why are you still wearing it, anyway? We’re inside, and I know what you look like.” Zuko ignored it.
“What’s the matter, I think it’s adorable.” He insisted, sarcasm evident. “Don’t be such a baby, there’s no shame in it…bit weird, but there’s no shame. We all know what you want.” Lorkhan looked at him, as if he was confused. Zuko sat forward, elbows on his knees. “You.”
“Stop.” Lorkhan’s voice was quiet, understated even, but he knew exactly what his companion was inferring.
“Want.”
“Zuko, stop.”
“To.”
“Zuko.”
“Touch.”
“This won’t end well for you.”
“Her.”
“Think.” Lorkhan said harshly, taking a step forward and pointing with one hand, the other held ready to strike. “About what you say next.” Tense silence persisted for a moment, both of them staring at the other. Eventually, Zuko let out a breathe, sitting back in his chair in defeat. Lorkhan exhaled too, relaxing his body.
“…butt.”
Lorkhan practically leapt across the room, smashing into Zuko and making the chair topple backwards. The two boys went down with it, launching wild jabs and hooks at one another, rolling on the floor as they fought. Not elegant, but then it was never going to be. A head-butt from Lorkhan impacted against Zuko’s crash helmet, dazing them both. A knee from Zuko struck up into the other boy’s gut.
“Zuko…”
They both stopped, quickly scrambling to their feet, as the feminine voice cut across their tussle. His older sister’s cold, blue eyes rested on the two boys, both of whom looked more than a fraction embarrassed at having been seen writhing around on the floor mid-scrap. “There’s some kid at the door, go talk to her.” She sighed, brushing blonde hair from over her face.
“Why can’t you talk to her?” Zuko asked, trying to hide the awkwardness. His sister just glared.
“Because, like, I can’t be bothered? God, you’re the worst little brother in the world.” She sighed again, walking back to her room. They both heard the door close, Zuko turning to look at Lorkhan. Neither of them could be bothered to fight again, but the other boy still looked furious. Shrugging, Zuko began to head downstairs to find out what the kid wanted.
He opened the door, and didn’t immediately see anything. Behind the visor, he frowned, looking back and forth at the street outside his house. It was only as he stepped back to go inside that he spotted something. He looked down. The girl looked up, pink and purple curls spilling off her head, green eyes wide. No-one said anything for a while.
“Why are you wearing that?” The girl asked, at last. It was the third time today that somebody had asked Zuko that, and he was starting to tire of it.
“…Who are you?” Was his response, trying to ignore the creeping sense of déjà vu that was creeping across his mind. The girl stared for a moment, before apparently remembering what she was here for, thrusting a box up towards his face.
“I’m Sweetie Belle!” She beamed. “Wanna buy some cookies? They’re for my Filly Scout rally!” It took him a moment to process the information, during which time he realised she was actually wearing a scout uniform. She was wearing what looked like a red cape, too – and for whatever reason, the sight of it sent a small shiver through Zuko’s body.
Weird.
“Filly…Scout…rally.” He said slowly, trying to follow what she meant. He put the miscommunication down to Sweetie being a girl; it was not because he was particularly awkward when it came to talking to girls, it was simply that he didn’t do it very often. There were no girls at Olympia High – that was something else that simply was.
“Yeah!” Sweetie grinned, unaware of his inner monologue. “It’s in a few weeks…and I wanna get more money than Diamond Tiara, at least.” It surprised Zuko to hear genuine anger in her voice now, the girl’s face contorted in petulant disdain. For a moment, he thought of the other boy upstairs. The expressions were remarkably similar. “What’s your name?” She asked, black mood dropping as she looked at him again.
“I…Zuko…” He said, slowly. She frowned a little, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
“Do…I know you?”
“I don’t…think so…” The boy admitted. The silence descended again, the two continuing their stare off. Sweetie pushed the box of cookies forward again, shaking it slightly.
“Are you even meant to be here?” He asked. She froze, pulling the box back towards her, a nervous expression crossing her face.
“Well…not really…mom and dad said I’m not supposed to come to this side of town by myself.” She sighed. “And my sister would kill me…but all the houses I usually go to already got visited today, I needed to find somewhere else to sell them! And then I passed Lyra and Bon Bon, and they said that there were loads of people our age over here –“ Great, so they had told others, which technically meant that Lorkhan was right – “So I thought I’d give it a try.”
He was quiet throughout, visor unblinkingly focused on her face. Despite the tint, Zuko could still tell that the sun had pretty much gone down – and despite his earlier musings on the adequacy of where he lived, it still wasn’t the place for someone who still seemed like a kid after dark.
He said as much to her, and what he said next surprised him even more. “I’ll go get my coat, ride the bus back with you.” The grim boy offered. “And then we never speak to each other again.” Even doing that was taking a massive liberty, because lord knew that he didn’t go out of his way to help even the people he knew much, but it would save him having to indulge in her baking…
Lorkhan glared as he re-entered his room. Zuko set two boxes of the cookies he’d brought down on the desk, still holding the last one.
Voss didn’t even turn at his cousin’s words as they walked. He would have said that Helsturnn annoyed him, but in truth, no matter how hard he suppressed his emotions everything annoyed him at the moment. There were two major reasons for this; the first, and less influential of the two, was that he was an Iron Hand. The X’th Legion may have been destroyed as a single entity after the Dropsite Massacre, but there were some quirks of personality that would never leave. A mild disapproval or and distaste for…well, most things, was one of them.
The second factor, and the one that was causing far more immediate concern to the Medusan, was that he wasn’t sure he disagreed with the Wolf. He and Moulkain, his only brother in the assemblage, had had a civil relationship with the sons of the Lion at best as they’d travelled; the Iron Hands had respected their stubbornness and single-minded dedication in all things, but the need of the Calibanites to cloak themselves in secrecy and ritual had made the pair more than a fraction uneasy. Ever since the black sands of Istvaan, clandestine ritual was the enemy of the Imperium, as far as he was concerned.
And yet, that was what the Calibanites were insistent upon maintaining, by all accounts. Their constant, blasted secrecy. If it had been silence only towards the Xenos, who seemed just as happy to keep the Astartes at a distance at their end, that would have been one thing. Perhaps Voss would even have approved. But the Dark Angels had, of course, gone further than that – they’d sat in Council and schemed in the shadows and made plans upon plans upon plans, and yet not one of their brothers outside the First Legion had heard anything from them. When they asked, Nehemiah gave them nothing more than statuesque silence, and more often than not simply walking away. The revelation about the Angels’ missing Chaplain had provided some insight as to why they were behaving the way they were, but it didn’t stop it from eating away at the Iron Hand’s temper.
A week. A whole week since they’d arrived, since they’d first been cooped up in this Primarch-damned castle. And they had done nothing.
“Are you even listening to me?” Helsturnn spoke in an angry, guttural snarl now – so much so that Voss actually did turn to look at him. It wasn’t because he was particularly wary of the Wolf, and more because simple logic dictated that he wouldn’t stop growling until the Medusan acknowledged him.
“What would you have me say?” He asked, the studded helmet and yellow eye-lenses of his ‘Heresy’-pattern armour staring into the Wolf’s bared, canine features. Neither of them broke stride. “Yes, the Dark Angels are acting like fools. That is hardly unexpected. You, out of all of us, should know that.”
None of them were fools – even the Blood Angel and the two Iron Hands knew of the feud between the Dark Angel and Space Wolf legions. Honour had been sated in a first duel when Helsturnn and Nehemiah’s paths had first crossed, but the tension that came with it never quite dissipated. Here, in this rapidly deteriorating situation, it was being stretched to breaking point. Sure enough, the Grey Hunter gave a low, wet growl of acknowledgement, dreadlocked hair covering his face as he cast predatory glances around the corridor. “I’m just as frustrated at this as you are.” Voss went on, if only in the hopes of ending this conversation.
“I very much doubt that.” Helsturnn mumbled in return, face drawn in an angry grimace.
The two found their way to a window, neither speaking as they just looked out. Up above the sunless, red sky roiled and twisted as it always did. The Crystal Castle had been, from what it looked like, fairly battered over time – yet even so it managed to affect at least some air of dignity, though almost everything within it was too small for the Imperials to actually use. Out there, the world looked more like what Voss had seen of the Warp through the limited view Navy vessels gave. It provoked nothing in the Iron Hand besides more simmering disgust.
And undeniable part of him wanted to get out there. He was a Vigilator, a scout; he was supposed to be out there, blazing a trail for others to follow. The Xenos had at least contributed maps that allowed the Astartes to place themselves in the world, but it didn’t feel like enough. Voss knew that Helsturnn felt it too – the Wolf was a natural Hunter, a stalker of prey. Being cooped up like this was…wrong.
Zuriel had found work in the medical wing of the castle. It had taken the Apothecary some time to master the differing anatomy the aliens possessed, but despite their prejudices he was an accepted – if not trusted, or even particularly welcome – member of the infirmary. Voss had often criticised his cousin for providing such direct aid to the Xenos, but in truth there was a spark of jealousy in his criticism – at least the Blood Angel was actually doing something with all this time. His own brother, Moulkain, rarely left the sparse chambers which the Astartes had been assigned. The Tactical Marine used that time to constantly make modifications to his armour and weapons, however small and seemingly insignificant. When asked about it, the Iron Hand had shrugged, answering that it was how he made himself ready.
Voss’s period of unusual introspection was cut short as a storm-grey gauntlet rested on his shoulder. The Medusan looked down at it, about to comment on the inappropriateness of the sudden brotherly display, when the Wolf’s expression gave him pause. Helsturnn was motionless, nostrils flaring as he sniffed, still facing out the window but with his black-pinned eyes fixed firmly on his companion.
“We are being watched.” The Grey Hunter said in a low voice.
Voss did not turn, or indeed make any real movement at all. Inside his body, though, the mix of gene-wrought biology and grafted-on cybernetic began to go to work; his left hand, the hand every X’th Legionnaire replaced with metal in honour of their fallen Father, clenched and unclenched slowly, whirring softly as it did. Bionic eyes refocused, thought commands making them ready to gather the most detail when he swept the corridor behind. Pistons in his leg tensed, preparing themselves to maintain a stoic, grinding advance towards the adversity Helsturnn claimed.
Such was war, when you were an Iron Hand. Voss would have it no other way.
“They’re always watching us.” He pointed out anyway, staring forwards like the Wolf did, keeping his machine-like voice low.
“It’s not one of the horses.” The Grey Hunter responded, tongue quickly licking over his canine fangs. “Doesn’t smell like one of them.”
“Do you have a plan?” The Vigilator responded, combat senses heightening already. From the way the Wolf was practically straining at the leash, he could already work out what it was going to be. Not for the first time, he considered that Lord Manus would weep, could he see his son now.
“Of course I do.” Helsturnn responded, a feral grin crossing his face for the first time in a while. “We charge.”
They turned on their heels in one motion, setting off almost immediately into borderline sprints. The Space Wolf was faster, bounding through down the corridor at a loping run – howling as he went, pleased just to have the adrenaline pumping once more – but Voss was even more relentless, smashing aside furniture as they pursued the target. At the very least, Helsturnn had been right; something had been lurking at the edge of the room, turning tail and darting away. Whatever it was, its gait wasn’t the same as the ponies’ – whilst it too was bipedal, it scuttled rather than galloped almost like a lizard.
Even in spite of its head start, the creature was never going to get away. The Astartes had been banned from carrying weapons in the upper areas of the palace, besides a simple combat knife each. It was Nehemiah’s insistence, rather than that of the Xenos, that made them all comply – besides, the Dark Angel had said, if they really needed to take the fortress it was unlikely they’d need weapons at all. They certainly didn’t need weapons now as they closed on whatever it was that’d been watching them. By luck alone, it was Voss that reached it first. His left hand shot out, bionic hand closing in a vice-like grip around the creature’s tail. It gave a cry of pain, scrambling desperately to try and break free as Voss lifted it off the ground contemptuously. Claws scratched ineffectually over his ebon-black chest plate, licks of green flames dancing over his helmet.
“You got it, then.” The Wolf growled from behind him – the growl, Voss supposed, came from the exhilaration of the hunt. Helsturnn would doubtless be disappointed it wasn’t him that caught their prey, but the Grey Hunter was already drawing his frost-cold knife to cut it open. The Iron Hand wouldn’t deny him that.
“Stop!”
The command wasn’t exactly imperious to the two Astartes, but it did make them halt – more out of confusion than anything else. Guards had quickly surrounded them, filing in from all directions, spears lowered and expressions stony. Helsturnn rolled his eyes with a quiet groan, putting his knife back in its leather sheathe. Voss just looked at them all impassively, still gripping his captive tight.
“He’s one of us.” One of the Guards said slowly, fighting against his own anger and fear. “Put him down.” For a moment, Voss wasn’t actually sure he’d heard correct – anatomically speaking, the thing he was holding was definitely not equine in nature. It took him a moment to realise the pony might have meant it metaphorically. He let go of the purple dragon’s tail unceremoniously, the reptile slamming face-first into the ground with another yelp. He turned to look up at the Space Marine, wiping away the blood trickling from his nose. Even Voss had to admit, the depths of hatred in the lizard’s eyes were surprising.
“You can’t blame us.” Helsturnn shrugged, folding his arms over his wide chest as the Guards lowered their spears and Spike backed away. “With Daemonic filth running around seemingly at will, telling us you had a pet Dragon would have been a good idea.”
“I’m not a pet!” The dragon snapped suddenly, more green flame spurting out of flaring nostrils as he clenched his claws and took a step forward. The two Astartes looked down at him – the Iron Hand emotionless, the Wolf trying his best not to laugh. “My name’s Spike.” He insisted, eyes narrowing and fangs flashing as he looked up at them. Though neither of them could know it, the dragon had grown over the years – taller, lither and more muscular, the reptilian features of his body made more pronounced. The dragon fought a moment to shackle his temper, turning to the Guards with an angry expression.
“We…did tell you they were here…” One of them said, with a slightly awkward expression on his face.
“I didn’t think you were serious!” He snapped, expression darkening even more. “I didn’t think they’d actually let monsters like this in again!” Whilst utterly non-threatening to the transhumans, the force of Spike’s anger was impressive in its own way, making the Guards take a step back in places. “What am I gonna tell her?”
“Her?” Helsturnn’s wet growl cut across his anger, making the dragon turn back to look at the Space Wolf with only a hint of fear. “Who is ‘her’?” Spike’s silent defiance only made his mood darken further. “Listen, boy…if you are a boy…tell me, or all their little sticks won’t stop me gutting you.” It was, perhaps, a little excessive, but Voss realised that the Grey Hunter’s question was reasonable; if the dragon was referring to some other power base in the city that the Astartes had not been introduced to, then that was worth looking into. Spike, to his credit, held on bravely in defiance – he managed almost thirty seconds. Only when the Space Wolf sighed, reaching for his knife again, did the boy break.
“Fine.” He mumbled, turning his back on the two Astartes. “Follow me…I’ll show you the lives your kind ruin.”
***
“Every moment of this is pain.”
Lorkhan was not even really aware that he had mumbled the words. Right now, try as he might to concentrate, he wasn’t really aware of anything at the moment – besides a sudden, but keen, appreciation for the sands of time that were currently slipping through his fingers.
He imagined that the others were all feeling much the same, though it was hard to tell in the near-total silence. The classroom was a grey-walled and rectangular thing, desks lined up in orderly rows facing the front. No colour, besides greys, blacks and bronzes. Certainly no posters, no fancy computers, no…anything, really. Everything was stripped down, functional.
Business as usual, then.
He blinked himself back to a state of alertness – more or less – shaking off the lingering numbness that had threatened to overtake his brain. Casting a furtive glance around the room, Lorkhan was at least a little relieved to see that most of his contemporaries looked in a similar state of half-wakefulness. Only Mordecai seemed truly attentive, sat across the room by the window, and that too was to be expected.
“And so, if our desire is to find the square root of the longest side of the triangle, we must return our attentions to the square roots of the two remaining sides…”
At the front, droning on at the edge of Lorkhan’s perception, was Mr Forrix. Mr Forrix was the Maths teacher, and also Vice Principal of Olympia High. With all that said, it didn’t take a genius-level intellect to see the man was broken. His tall, stocky body was obviously muscled, but the face that crowned it never smiled. Frown lines were drawn tight across his slab-like brow, whilst bleak grey eyes that had been worn down by too much drudgery looked out over the room. In all honesty, the aging teacher looked to be simply going through the motions as much as all his students were.
Lorkhan let the teacher drop from his mind, words fading back into background noise, as he allowed bitter paranoia to once again overtake his thoughts. After Zuko had ditched him last night to go and take a little girl…a Canterlot little girl…back home, Lorkhan had seen no point in staying around, and left for his own home. He’d spent most of the night after that both stewing in his own disappointment in his companions – why did he always stop just short of calling them friends? – and desire for revenge. It wasn’t revenge targeted against anything in particular, the boy considered as a moment of unusual and uncomfortable introspection passed over him; it was revenge simply for the fact that some had what he didn’t.
Lorkhan’s rancorous thoughts were cut off by a physical sensation pressing against the back of his head. He blinked in surprise as the paper airplane fell to the ground behind his seat, hesitating just a moment before turning and glaring at the culprit. At the back of the room, the obvious culprit returned Lorkhan’s look with a sneer. Kroeger was a student who violence practically emanated from, and who no-one really wanted to risk getting in too close proximity to…with the exception of his gaggle of cronies, who right now were sitting around their brutish-looking chief and smirking. Lorkhan didn’t even bother reading the doubtlessly insulting slur written on the launched piece of paper, instead just letting more angered scorn cross his face as the two students stared off. Lorkhan was one of the few who weren’t wary of the meat-headed Kroeger, if only because prolonged exposure to Rorke gave one a certain detachment from violence, and it led to no shortage of acrimony between the two.
“Am I not holding your attention, Mr Lorkhan?”
The boy in question jumped a little in his seat as his name was spoken, and he felt the eyes of everyone else in the room fall upon him. Closing his eyes just in time to avoid seeing an even more infuriating look cross Kroeger’s face, Lorkhan didn’t turn around immediately. When he did, momentarily glancing at Mordecai’s smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but in reality was just aggravating, Lorkhan allowed his dead-eyed gaze to meet that of Mr Forrix’s.
“…No, sir, you aren’t.” His words were respectful, but bluntly honest – it was the general relationship the student body and faculty of the school had worked out. Forrix said nothing straight away, expression not changing.
“Would it be too much to ask you to at least try and pay attention?” The older man asked, at last. Lorkhan considered for a moment whether he should mention the paper aeroplane incident, before discarding the idea; it wasn’t like anything would be done about it.
“I can try, sir, but I can’t make any promises.”
“You don’t like Maths, do you Mr Lorkhan?”
“I like it well enough, sir.”
“But you wouldn’t want to be doing it, if you had the choice.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, and there was no hint of remorse or regret in the teacher’s voice, but Lorkhan still took a moment to think it over.
“I…probably not.”
“Mmm.” The noise Mr Forrix gave was hard to interpret; it wasn’t annoyed, pleased, or even committal in really any direction. “Well…I didn’t want to be stuck here teaching a lot of stupid, ugly children…and yet, here we are now.”
Before Lorkhan could say anymore, their discussion was cut off by the aging intercom speaker mounted on the wall crackled to life. The exchange between teacher and pupil forgotten, the entire class looked up, attention refocusing on the source of the noise. After a few blurts of discordant static filled the room, the noise more-or-less stabilised, a gravelly male voice cut across the cell-like room.
“Student body and faculty to the main auditorium. The Principal wishes to make an address.” It said no more, quickly fading back into silence. Even so, a noticeable shiver ran over the seated boys. If there is one thing they all shared a dislike of, it was being called to attention like this. It never ended well.
“Oh, great…” Mr Forrix mumbled, a weary sigh leaving him. Even so, dutiful nature seemed to overtake him, the man motioning for them all to stand and ushering them from the classroom, into a hall that was no milling with equally miserable students. Noticing the no doubt agitated expression on Lorkhan’s face, Mordecai advanced to walk beside him, infuriatingly polite smile across his face whilst he held a book under one arm.
“Cheer up, old sport.” He insisted, patting Lorkhan on the shoulder. “Perhaps he won’t decimate us today?”
“It’s the Principal.” Lorkhan pointed out, voice little more than a mumbled growl. “He’s definitely going to decimate us.”
***
In a hall with maybe two hundred people in it, perhaps twenty of them could look him in the eye for more than ten seconds. Frankly, Zuko thought, that in itself was impressive; he certainly couldn’t count himself amongst that number.
If Mr Forrix was made of stone, then Principal Perturabo was wrought from steel. He was huge, towering over any other member of the school – Zuko estimated that he must have been at least six and a half foot, but even that seemed too small. Perhaps it was just his sheer presence that made him seem tall. He was bulky, too, thick slabs of muscle cording around his chest and every limb. Wintery eyes that contained nothing of warmth or humour passed over the seated collection of people before him, as if he was appraising each and every one of them for any weakness. They all looked back at least in his general direction, an uncomfortable silence falling across the auditorium.
Principal Perturabo kept his silent, menacing vigil up a moment longer, hands clasped behind his back. When he did speak, there wasn’t even the pretence of any welcome.
“As some of you may know, yesterday members of Canterlot High trod our grounds.” He began, his voice like tombstones slamming together. Oh, Zuko thought. So it was about that…predictable, really. He thought the fact that even the Principal got behind this whole ‘bitter hatred’ thing was ridiculous, but he’d never dared raise it with the man. Still, when the crowd gave no real reaction, Perturabo began again.
“At this time, we have no real evidence as to who had the initial idea of bringing them on site.” Zuko knew, of course – it’d been him and Mordecai, for damn’s sake. Of course, since everybody was going to use this as an opportunity to incriminate anyone they didn’t like, he appreciated that it could be hard to pin down a straight answer. Fucking Canterlot High. Before they’d blundered in, everything had been refreshingly dull and straightforward. “So,” The Principal went on. “In order to demonstrate the punishment for letting strangers onto school property, we will perform a decimation.”
Great, Zuko mused, as an uneasy ripple and occasional groans rang through the assembled students. Fucking great. It was a stupid policy that the Principal insisted on enacting every time there was a problem, and it was a stupid ‘problem’ to begin with, he considered with admirable detachment. Idly, he looked around, helmeted head scanning to see if there were any obviously thinking the same thing he did. It was that that made him cross eyes with Rorke.
Rorke was a short boy. He was also ginger. These two things combined to make him practically the embodiment of rage. He twitched visibly on occasion, perhaps the only one of them not physically uncomfortable with the Principal’s scrutiny, and a berth of one or two empty seats on both sides of him was open. They were only mutual acquaintances through Lorkhan, and in truth, the other boy unnerved Zuko; a twitch sent him looking back to the front, hoping silently that Rorke wasn’t still watching. Perturabo had, in that time, pulled a dark grey cloth off of something that sat beside him on the stage. Zuko’s heart sunk a little as he realised it was a tombola machine…so, they were actually going to go through with this, then. Aware that he now had all of their undivided, fearful attentions, Principal Perturabo began to crank the device’s handle with menacing slowness, never once averting his gaze from the masses. The central compartment turned, the scraps of paper inside tumbling over and over within it. As it spun, the machine gave off music that sounded as if it belonged in a circus; if the handle was turned at the appropriate speed, perhaps it would even be jolly. With the pace reached now, though, it was more disturbing than anything else.
Eventually, he stopped turning, the music fading. Opening the hatch on the side of the tombola machine, Perturabo reached in, searching for the first ‘winner’ of the lottery. He pulled it out, Zuko holding his breath as the Principal’s eyes flicked down to the torn paper.
“Rhodaan.” He read out, voice uncaring.
“No…” Everyone turned to look at Rhodaan as he stood, face pale, shaking his head in terrified denial. The boy backed up , almost tripping over a few seats as he did. “No, n-no…” Others were rising, advancing on him – none wished to deny the Principal. As they grasped his arms, Rhodaan began to thrash like a maniac, desperately trying to slip from their grasp. “No! No, i-it wasn’t me! No!” He couldn’t get away, and couldn’t resist as they dragged him towards the back of the room, protesting all the while. Even when the doors slammed shut, his screams could still be heard from down the corridor.
‘Poor bastard’ Zuko mused, as he let out a breath and the Principal began to crank the handle once more.
When they were done, a tenth of the school had been dragged off, students and staff alike. By lucky coincidence, none of those who Zuko was close with were counted amongst that number. With a simple glare from Principal Perturabo, the assembly began to disperse, students practically trampling one another in an attempt to get out of the room. Zuko was far calmer in his motions, the crash-helmet wearing boy keeping a steady pace as he turned what had just happened over. Despite the fact that this entire shameful display had occurred because of Mordecai’s actions, Lorkhan would undoubtedly blame Canterlot High. He would also undoubtedly want ‘justice’. And, finally, Zuko would undoubtedly get caught up in it all. He just hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t too illegal.
On the stage, Principal Perturabo watched them go, radiating cold disgust as he always did. They were his boys, true, but it didn’t mean he felt any particular kinship with or care for them. So lost was he in his brooding reverie, the man almost didn’t feel his phone vibrating in the back pocket.
“Hello, brother.” The equally contemptuous, if somehow more noble, voice on the other side spoke. “I was just wondering how your little public school was getting on.” Perturabo’s eyes narrowed, rage twisting his gut further as a single vehement whisper left his lips.
After that moment, the memory was a blur. She remembered running - well, flying, as fast as her wings could manage - in a desperate attempt to escape the steel monster's clutches. She'd known it wouldn't work, rationally, but she had to try. To stay where she was would have been to accept death.
The bodies were far more vivid in her mind's eye. At the time, she'd hardly noticed them, trying her best not to look at the coldly mangled remains of what had once been her kinsfolk as she fled. Some part of her must have studied them even subconsciously, though - most likely the same part that was forcing her to relive this now, that wouldn't allow the magnitude of what had happened to be forgotten. There were stallions, mares, fillies and colts. Sometimes, it was hard to tell where one body ended and another began, so intertwined and piled were the shredded corpses. Some had been blown apart from the inside, smoking craters rent open in the soft flesh. Others had been hacked away at by a grossly oversized saw, the whirring blade reducing some of the bodies to unidentifiable hunks of bloody meat. The worst of all, in many ways, were those that hadn't been subjected to either of those first fates; instead, they were trampled underfoot or ripped in twain by a being of horrifyingly prodigious strength. The carpet of slaughter covered the floor, almost every inch of it soaked in arterial crimson.
In the waking world, it had taken her a few seconds at best to bolt downstairs in an uncharacteristic burst of speed, but here in the dream time was not quite so linear. She was flying, body and wings straining furiously, but she wasn't going anywhere - trapped in some motionless limbo, surrounded by the murdered dead. Behind her, the monster was coming, each step of its artificed boots - or were they claws? Perhaps - shaking the world around her. It was far from the only unsettling sound pressing down upon her; outside, wolves were howling. Once again, that was a break from reality. There had been no wolves on the last day. What her dream had interpreted as a wolf, however, had been sufficiently dire that she saw no problem with the connection.
Eventually she reached the door, although she didn't remember actually moving from where she had been 'trapped'. The next bit was always the worst, and no matter how many times the dreams came, it never grew easier. Even so, she couldn't stop her body from going through the motions - a hoof, reaching out for the door, desperately grasping for freedom. A cold, metallic claw grasping and tightening around a leg. That leg shattering. She knew the pain wasn't 'real', but it felt real, real enough that she still tried to scream in breathless agony as she dangled upside down. The room was spinning, the same dead bodies she'd been observing only a few moments - or maybe a few hours - ago beginning to scream mournfully. She would have attempted to cover her ears, trying and failing to block out the maddening sound, had she not been flailing in blind panic.
And as always, she looked up.
The steel monster was a beast of jagged edges and burning wrath. Horns sprouted from its head, curling and twisting around one another in blasphemous patterns. It wore the colour of beaten metal, highlighted with dirty bronze and ebonite black. There were yellow and black stripes criss-crossing its body, appearing to shift around with every second to assault her eyes further. By far, though, the worst was the face. Two pricks of red light bathed her, burning into her fragile body and down further to the very soul with an ancient, bitter maliciousness. Below them, what had been she thought a speaker of some kind in real life became a distended, crushing jaw, shadow and flame pouring out of it from the depths of the monster's body.
It had a sword in hand, and it was coming for her. The grip on her ruined leg never faltered as adrenaline kicked in, imploring her to struggle with even greater force. She thought that, at the time, it had actually spoken; now though the words were worthless, the beast screaming in five voices at once as it drew closer with the knife. As the very tip pricked her stomach, one last burst of energy propelled her to reach out, to try and lay a hoof on the thing that she knew would bring her salvation.
And still, the knife kept coming.
***
The last Element woke with a squeal and a start.
Fluttershy sat up in the bed, covers draped over her, muscles rigged and sweat drenching her skin. It took a while for the mare to calm down - she closed her eyes and swallowed deeply, forcing herself to take long if shaky breathes. Opening her eyes again with a last, lingering exhalation, the Pegasus wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced around her chambers. The monster and his knife were gone, bringing only the scant comfort this room provided her.
Even so, Fluttershy couldn't help but be worried, even more so than usual. In her dreams, she had always hit the button on the control panel she had in real life, consigning the Iron Warrior to death under her fortress-cottage's guns. She never relived the panicked, agonising process of dragging her body into what was left of the Everfree to hide that had followed, but the nightmare she had just been awakened from marked the first time her subconscious had not saved her. Once, perhaps she would have dismissed it as a horrible dream. Now, with the way reality and unreality seemed to blend at will in Equestria, the Element of Kindness wasn't so sure.
The Pegasus sighed, letting melancholy overtake her for just a moment, before flapping her wings and rising from the bed. Down below, one leg dangled almost uselessly - the limb had never really recovered from being trapped in the sheer power of the Traitor Astartes' grip, and whilst her wings could carry her, if Fluttershy wanted to walk on it she usually required a splint or other support. She set herself down at her dressing table and mirror, opening her mouth to call her animals to help groom her. The mare stopped herself just in time, heart sinking even more - she hadn't done that in what felt like an age. The only creatures who answered her gentle summons now were as twisted as everything that spent too much time exposed under Equestria's poisoned sky.
Losing her connection to the animals had been the biggest blow for Fluttershy. When Spike had found her in the Everfree after the departure of the Iron Warriors, she had wanted to give up entirely. Only the dragon's constant insistence, and in some cases straight-up carrying her had allowed them to outpace the storm and reach the Crystal Empire - the last 'safe' haven that they could have hoped to reach. They hadn't been the only refugees to make it - notably, the Cutie Mark Crusaders had also been recovered, and though at first traumatised had now found some fulfilment as her hoofmaidens - but being an Element of Harmony had made her a symbol of hope for the whole Empire. That, in truth, was why she carried on. She thought of her friends every day, and cried for them most days too, but Fluttershy also hoped that the small services as a figurehead she could provide made their memories proud. At first, it was the last job she'd wanted, but seeing the effect her very presence had on the ponies that remained at least helped focus her mind.
Fluttershy began to comb her hair and clear the lingering sleep from her eyes, trying to ignore just how much older the stress-lines that covered her face made her look. She could ask the Crusaders to do this, she considered; even Spike in a pinch, though the dragon was likely to be busying himself with the duties of servitude at which he excelled. Still, this morning - or what she considered to be morning, with the loss of sun and moon she could never tell - the yellow mare decided she'd do it alone. In all honesty, Fluttershy reckoned she might have slightly unnerved the three girls the previous night. They'd been sat in her chambers, sharing stories of the old times; it was one of the first times in a while that Fluttershy had seen them smile. Applebloom had been recounting the tale of when the three had tried to set their teacher up with her brother. At the time, they'd been panicking, but in hindsight all three considered the entire misadventure hilarious. Still, when Sweetie told of how she'd first discovered the problem with their love poison in the book they'd been using, all three of them had been stunned into silence by Fluttershy's sudden and humourless laugh. Sweetie had found a story in it that at the time spoke of ancient legend, but in light of recent events seemed virtually prophetic.
Dragons came. The kingdom fell. And Chaos reigned.
The mare's morbid musings were interrupted by a knocking at her door. After a demure acknowledgement of "come in", Fluttershy's expression finally widened into a soft smile as Spike entered. Though she knew he was a servant of the state now and probably here on business, he was still her friend, and forgetting all decorum for a moment she floated up and over to wrap him in a hug. The dragon reciprocated, but his smile seemed glassy and more forced. Fluttershy wasn't sure whether or not to comment on that.
"Good morning, Spike." The mare smiled, releasing him eventually. One 'positive' from her situation was that she had lost most of the stutter and stammer from her voice; it was still soft, but laced with a degree of resolve that in truth she didn't really feel. On the rare occasions she considered it, Fluttershy liked to think that their connection as Element bearers meant that it was part of Rainbow Dash or Applejack's spirit working through her. Considering the alternative as to what had happened to their souls didn't bear thinking about.
"Hey, Fluttershy." The adolescent dragon smiled back, slightly more relaxed than before. "How did you sleep?" Before she could even respond, her expression told Spike all he needed to know. He grimaced, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"How's the city today? Has all the damage from that awful manifestation last week been cleared up?" She asked hopefully, studying him as she did so. Spike hid his emotions we'll, but inside Fluttershy knew that this had been just as hard on him. Perhaps even more so, with the loss of the closest thing he had to a mother and his beloved Rarity. More than anypony else, Fluttershy knew that her death and his powerlessness to stop it ate away at the reptile, and the fact that neither of them really knew the fates of any of their friends didn't help. But he shouldered it all courageously and stoicly, turning the grief to focus and service wherever he could.
So when his own smile faltered a little at her question, it was even more of a cause for concern. "Well...yeah." The dragon nodded, looking away and running his forked tongue nervously over his lips. "Pretty much...but that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about, if you don't mind..." Something in his tone made her pause, Fluttershy's trademark nerves flaring to life once more. Even so, she nodded. Spike didn't say anything, instead tentatively gesturing for her to look up.
There, standing just outside the doorway, she saw them.
"Fluttershy..." Spike's voice took on a measured tone as he held up his claws in an effort to placate the mare. "Fluttershy, calm down..." Fluttershy did not calm down. Her wide and trembling teal eyes rapidly panned over the surfaces and curves of the three Space Marines' power armour - one midnight black, one storm grey, and the other a mixture of alabaster white and crimson. Already, the Pegasus had begun hyperventilating, panic rushing to the fore as old memories reignited and the familiar pain in her hind leg roared back to life at the mere site of them. As the dragon desperately tried to soothe her, advancing slowly and holding her shoulder tight, the mare began to squirm and frantically attempt to back away.
Voss watched all this in impassive silence, his helmet covering the expression of disgust his face would surely have curled into had most of it not already been replaced with bionics. It was both immensely satisfying to the Iron Hand to see Xenos cower before the warriors of the Legions, no matter how reduced those Legions may have been, and personally insulting to have to tolerate standing in the presence of touch weakness. On his left, Helsturnn wore his feelings much more openly - a similar expression of distaste, though it was tempered by an unusual note of at least passing interest in the scene before him. Deep down, the Medusan considered, his Fenrisian cousin was probably still agitated from the frankly embarrassing debacle with the reptile that had led to this point. Of the three of them, only Zuriel - who they had picked up on the way, and who stood at the front of the trio - seemed possessed of a desire to diffuse the tense situation.
They watched for a while, as Fluttershy asked in tones that were disbelieving, if not quite able to reach anger, as to why they were here, and Spike trying to explain his reasoning for bringing them to see her. Eventually, when she'd got at least a fraction of composure back and had turned to face them - her face still locked in an expression of panic - Zuriel took a step forward.
"Lady Fluttershy." Helsturnn bristled momentarily as the scion of Sanguinius knelt, but it seemed more a gesture of respect and an attempt to calm her than any admission of fealty. "My apologies for startling you as such...I understand that this must be a difficult sight for you." No doubt, Voss considered; the fact that they hadn't wiped these Xenos that we're not even humanoid out at first sight still rankled with him, let alone all the playing nice the Imperials were forced to endure. "I am Zuriel, Apothecary of the Blood Angels. These are my brothers - Helsturnn, Grey Hunter of the Vlka Fenryka." He offered a slight nod. "And Voss, Vigilator of the Iron Hands." He did not. "It was not our intention to disturb you...we have been working with your people, and we only wish to know the story of what befell the kingdom so we can better undo the traitorous works of the Fourth Legion." Zuriel finished, golden-blonde hair framing the patrician features that were so reminiscent of his Primarch.
At least he hadn't apologised for them, the Iron Hand consoled himself. He despised the traitors utterly and completely, but had Zuriel apologised for their destruction of a Xenos nation Voss would have killed him where he stood. Still, his attention was soon distracted as the words prompted some recognition from Fluttershy.
"The...f-fourth legion?" She asked, looking away. "That...that was what he called them." The response caused the Blood Angel to tilt his head in confusion.
"Who?"
Fluttershy still looked hostile and wary to them, Spike interposing himself between the two factions. Even so, the pony scrunched up her face, trying to recollect.
"The...Warsmith...he was a Warsmith." She said at last. Two things were apparent as she did - a shiver rocked her, most likely from the connotations of the word she tried not to think of, and also a mood of profound sadness that settled over Fluttershy. "He was my..." Voss tensed, preparing to end her on the spot if she said 'friend', and damn diplomacy and Nehemiah's plans. "I thought he was different..." She sighed at last, closing her eyes and hanging her head. "But he wasn't...he was just like all the rest of them..."
After an awkward silence, Spike took a step toward her, rubbing the mare's spine softly. "I...look, I don't really trust these guys either, Fluttershy." He confessed, casting a sharp look at the Wolf as he did. "But they say they want to fight back with us...and maybe telling the story would help?" He suggested. Fluttershy still looked unsure, even after the Blood Angel had offered his own respectful nod. Eventually, though, she nodded back and with a deep breath began to recount the events.
It was clear that reliving the story was both stressful and cathartic for her, and the three Space Marines did not intervene. She told them of the Iron Warriors falling from the sky in the remnants of their ship, the destruction of her cottage, and the slaughter at the Castle after the Traitors had somehow been apprehended. She told them of a battle against shape-changing Xenos, the Iron Warriors' mission into a place called the Everfree, and the building of a fortress to replace her house. She described the Iron Warriors attempting to eke out an existence amongst the ponies, their appearance at some sort of Gala, and the subtle change that had spread amongst them after that. Finally, and with obvious horror setting in at the vivid memory, Fluttershy recounted in excruciating detail what she knew of the day the betrayal had come and Equestria had been virtually destroyed. Voss felt his anger rise at the mention of what was obviously a traitor Titan, something that he at least had in common with the Xenos, but it was Helsturnn that spoke.
"You killed an Iron Warrior?" He asked, not hiding his surprise as the Pegasus finished her story. She hesitated, swallowing nervously.
"Well...I-it wasn't really me, but..."
"But you did help kill him." The Wolf clarified. She squeaked, but gave a small shrug. Helsturnn didn't reply, but a modicum of respect did seem to gleam in his eye.
Voss wasn't paying attention to that. He was listening to his vox crackle to laugh. Beside him, the Grey Hunter straightened, nostrils flaring.
"Vigilator-Captain."
"Moulkain." He responded. They both spoke in the Terzig dialect of Medusa, all clipped syllables and emotionless inflection, but the other Marine's agitation was apparent.
"Contacts sighted."
"Don't tell me Daemon-spawn are in the castle." Despite his request, Voss's eagerness was almost tangible.
"Then I won't tell you. But war calls."
The Iron Hand needed to hear no more as he turned and bolted from the room, his Fenrisian brother loping in his wake.
***
"Isn't it nice when we all get together like this?"
"Shut up, Zuko."
If the flat sarcasm in the helmeted boy's voice hadn't been quite so apparent, Lorkhan might have been inclined to let it slide. As it stood, though, he was feeling no such generosity - he hated travelling by public transport at the best of times, and when it was after school and forcing him into such cramped, smelly confines as this bus trip was, it grated on him even more. The fact that this journey had been wholly his idea was something he chose to ignore.
At the very least, he was surrounded by people that he knew, even if 'liked' might have been a slight stretch. Opening his eyes and dismissing the silently seething, yet thoughtful reverie that had descended upon him, Lorkhan gripped the handrail tighter and looked among the assemblage that Zuko had alluded too. It contained everyone from their little group; Lorkhan had insisted that they all come, finally getting the six of them to cave after what had been a full day of consistent nagging, and although he didn't trust them as far as he could throw them he was still glad he wasn't doing this alone.
It was hardly the most earth-shaking concentration of power. To his left, Zuko and Barbus leaned on the doors of the bus as it rumbled steadily through the streets. The former had his arms folded, and his displeasure at all this could be felt even with his features masked. To Lorkhan's right stood Mordecai; irritatingly, he didn't need to lean or grab onto anything to keep his balance, somehow managing to stay perfectly straight-backed despite the vehicle's poor suspension. He wore his usual smug, yet gregarious expression on his face, offering Lorkhan a slight nod as their eyes met. That left three others, all of whom were far from the skilled operatives the self-elected leader of the group might have wished he had at his disposal.
Rorke paced like a caged animal, expression locked in its usual furious scowl as he prowled around the small area of the bus he could walk in. Every time it shook, knocking him into a wall or threatening to make him stumble and fall, the short boy swore loudly and colourfully. Anyone attempting to ask him to stop was quickly silenced as they fell under his eternally-violent glare.
Vortun stood against the back of a seat, staring blankly forward and utterly unconcerned by the small rocking motions the buses' journey sent through him. He was huge, a slab of dense muscle and ugly features towering over almost everyone he knew - only a few, such as Principal Perturabo and maybe Mr Falk, were as large. A transfer student, Vortun had swiftly become a fairly renowned member of the Olympia High student body, if only because any questions about where he was from and when he was going back were met with the commonplace brutality.
And finally, there was Varvillon. He was the only one of them who had managed to acquire an actual seat, and was the one who looked more than any other like he was just along for the ride here. He idly ran his tongue over the braces that covered his teeth, intelligent eyes focused down on the book he was reading. Something horticultural, no doubt - Varvillon's unusual fascination with all things plant related was also notorious, and the only reason that Lorkhan didn't fly into a tirade every time he saw the boy indulging his passion was because if nothing else, he could get shit done when it came down to it. That was probably why he'd asked the studious individual to join them in the first place.
"Vhy couldn't ve have just taken ze Growler?" Vortun rumbled, tiny piggish eyes still staring forward. Lorkhan was hardly predisposed towards giving him an answer, but fortunately an exaggerated sigh from Barbus alleviated him of the need to.
"She has five seats, and you take up about two on your own. We wouldn't all fit." He explained, in a voice that made it apparent he'd made that clear countless times before. Slowly, Vortun turned to look down at him. Barbus didn't flinch, exasperation overriding any nerves he might have had. "Besides, I'm not letting you stink her out." He added. Vortun didn't say anything for a moment, slow but purposeful body held still. Then, he broke into a deep, gurgling chuckle. Barbus grinned, only fractionally relaxing.
"Vortun does have a point." Zuko interceded, looking presumably a little more intently at Lorkhan. "I don't like the fact that you've talked me into doing this in the first place, let alone having to pay actual money to ride this piece of shit."
"Well I'm sorry, my armoured personnel carrier was in for repair." Lorkhan snapped, a little more vehemently than he had perhaps intended. Realising that more people were starting to stare, he dropped his voice to an agitated mumble. "And keep it down, would you? The last thing we need is for any agents of the Canterlot crybabies to report back on what we're doing."
"I must say, Lorkhan; all this paranoia is hardly the sign of a healthy mind." Mordecai cut in, looking legitimately concerned for his companion. Lorkhan chose to ignore it, not wanting to get into an argument with his slightly unsettling comrade now. In any case, it would have been swiftly overshadowed by Rorke speaking his first coherent sentence in a while.
"What..." He trailed off for a second, muscular spasm around an eye stealing his attention. "What are we doing? You weren't exactly clear on why you dragged us all out here, except to continue your personal crusade."
"We receive a friendly visit from our supposed rivals, Principal Perturabo at least tries to justify decimating us, and Rorke actually speaks sense for once." Zuko chuckled, taking a step away as Rorke's fuming expression was turned onto him. "Truly, we live in the end times."
"I have already advised him that the present course of action is hardly the most diplomatic we could be pursuing, considering the already existing tensions at present." Mordecai sighed, hands still clasped behind his back. "Sadly, we all know that the temperament of those who study at our establishment leads to a certain degree of unsubtle directness, when it comes to resolving crises."
"...shut up, witch." Barbus groaned, rolling his eyes as they all just about processed what the words meant at the same time. Mordecai's expression instantly changed to an irritated frown.
"You know as well as I do that magic is a fiction, my dear boy."
"Well, I also know that you gotta be doing some sort of ritual, since you hardly ever leave your room unless it's for school or to piss us off." Barbus grunted in retort. "And if Sunset Shithead or whatever her name is can turn into a daemon, who says you're not a witch?"
"You don't actually believe she turned into that bat-thing, do you?" Varvillon asked, expression disappointed as he finally decided to look up and contribute. "You're joking, right?" Barbus's expression told him everything he needed to know, Varvillon's face contorting to an expression of actual disappointment. "Give me strength."
"There was that massive pillar of light from the sky the night that that video supposedly took place." Barbus emphasised his point by jabbing a finger into the air in Varvillon's general direction. "You have to admit that that was strange, and I haven't heard any explanation so far that sticks."
"Nanomachines, son." Zuko put in, the tension dispelled - for the most part - as even Rorke gave a snarling chuckle. It quickly died off as Lorkhan's expression of cold displeasure became more and more apparent. They squirmed, none of them enjoying the biting scrutiny. Only Mordecai seemed unexpected.
"If you're all quite finished." The self-appointed leader said, voice threatening despite the lack of obvious emotion. The silence suggested that they were. "We're doing this because they deserve it." He went on, voice utterly convinced. "They sent those two girls over knowing full well that once they were discovered, we'd be the ones suffering-"
"No they didn't." Zuko pointed out, though a look from Lorkhan quickly pushed him back into silence.
"Even if it wasn't intentional...I would quite like to get back at them for that." Barbus admitted, to Lorkhan's internalised glee. The low murmuring suggested that that at least was something they agreed with.
"So, if retribution is our merry band's goal, then what is our precise stratagem?" Mordecai asked, polite yet business-like. At the very least, they all seemed on board now.
"I vill obliterate zem." Vortun nodded, voice as close to gleeful as it ever got. 'Obliterate' was his favourite word, for reasons not even he seemed able to discern.
"Yes." Lorkhan nodded, smirking as he nodded at the larger boy.
"I vill crush zem to itty-bitty paste." Vortun went on, hand clenching into a fist as an ugly, feral smile crossed his face.
"No." Lorkhan clarified. Ignoring Vortun's look of disappointment, he knelt down, feeling all their confused and weary eyes on his back as he unzipped his rucksack and began to fumble around in it. Eventually, with a pleased chuckle, he pulled out a chevroned box - holding it almost reverentially before him. The others crowded around him, even Varvillon closing the book and rising from his seat to get a look at whatever it was that was getting Lorkhan so excited.
"...it's a balloon." Zuko said, flatly.
"No." Lorkhan answered, face unimpressed as he pulled the box further away from them. "No, Zuko, it is not a balloon."
"Then what the fuck is it?" Rorke growled, rapidly losing patience. Lorkhan shrugged, with a knowing smirk.
"Stink bomb."
That seemed to get them. All of the boys, even Vortun, backed away to the edge of the bus quickly, staring at both Lorkhan and the box with thinly-veiled shock.
"Where did you get that from?! It's huge!" Barbus hissed, eyes wide. "And wait, you've had that thing rattling around in your backpack all afternoon?!"
"Umm...yes?" Lorkhan responded, not really seeing the problem. "And I made it in Science this afternoon, it's not like they pay attention to what we do as long as we aren't blowing shit up. This thing here is the first wave of our artillery bombardment. My plan is, some of us will go to scout out the terrain and see if we can herd any stragglers into one place, whilst Zuko-"
"Woah, woah woah woah!" The helmeted boy interceded, holding his hands up in denial. "Okay, one, again with the siege metaphors. Two, don't...shake the box like that, please. And three, why the hell do I have to do it?!"
"Would you rather Rorke do it?" Lorkhan pointed out. A quick glance at the boy in question, who at that moment was stomping rather forcefully on a bug that was more than likely already dead, was all Zuko needed to answer the question.
"Okay, fine." He mumbled, clearly displeased with the resolution. "Wait...won't school be out anyway? We'll be stinking up an empty place."
"Again, oh ye of little faith, I have the solution." The boy with the box sighed. "Their website says one of their sports teams was out, doing...something, I don't know. Anyway, point is that we wait for their bus to get back, the team gets off and bam!" He shook the box again for emphasis, his companions backing away further. "Flawless victory confirmed."
As he finished, the smile on his face changing from smug to almost manic, an uncomfortable silence fell. The others all glanced at one another, not quite sure who was going to be the one who would say what they were likely all thinking.
"You've...researched this quite thoroughly, haven't you?" Varvillon finally spoke up, a sigh of relief leaving most of the others as he took one for the team. Surprisingly, Lorkhan didn't get angry - he just stared at the other boy, blinking slowly, still not really understanding the concern. Any further debate between the two was cut off as the bus suddenly came to a stop; the jolting arresting of motion sent Rorke, Zuko, Varvillon and Barbus tumbling down into a heap, all of them venting their displeasure at the fact. Lorkhan just managed to grab a handrail, arm feeling like it was about to rip out its socket as he clutched the stink bomb tight, whilst Vortun's size provided him more stability than the others. Mordecai simply maintained his balance as if it were nothing.
When they'd finally picked themselves up, dusting their now-dirty clothes off and exchanging the customary harsh words, the group dismounted from the bus, Vavillon hacking and coughing a little as it sped off in a cloud of oily smoke. Lorkhan was the first to touch solid ground, the wild grin returning to his face as he covered his creation up again and looked around. The other formed up behind him, also taking the opportunity to observe their surroundings. Even Mordecai's raised eyebrow seemed more contemptuous of the well-to-do side of town than anything else.
"Alright, let's do this." Lorkhan nodded, face suddenly becoming hard and serious as he cast another glance around. As he took in the clean streets, neatly mowed and maintained patches of grass, and groups of people looking strangely at the clearly out-of-place group, another fact settled irritatingly in his gut.
"...which way do we go?"
***
"Oh, come along Rainbow Dash." Rarity mumbled under her breath, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingertips. She'd known it'd been a mistake, offering to get dinner with her brash friend when she returned from the sporting trip, but the athlete had been quite insistent. Applejack and Fluttershy were busy at their farm and the animal shelter, respectively, Sunset had been in a foul mood after yet another day of being ostracised by the vast majority of the Canterlot High community, and Pinkie Pie was...well, whatever she was doing, Rarity wasn't certain she wanted the details. She, on the other hand, didn't have to watch Sweetie that night, or have anything else to attend to - and of course, she was too generous to say 'no'.
She was stood against a low wall - not leaning, heavens no, that would dirty her favourite skirt - across the street from Canterlot High's car park, arms folded over her chest impatiently as she waited. In the car park itself sat the coach which had, about five minutes ago, pulled back into the school. It looked comfortable enough, but then it was most likely heated, whilst she'd been standing there for what must have been ten minutes by now. The fact only darkened the girl's mood further, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to pinpoint her friend in the milling mass of students that had got off it.
Even considering that they were all in their sports kits, she wasn't difficult to find - that distinctive hair could have been seen a mile away. Rainbow's distinctive, raspy laugh cut through the air as she exchanged words Rarity couldn't hear with Lyra, switching her weight from one leg to the other every few moments. By chance, their eyes met across the road; Rainbow waved at Rarity, blissfully unaware of the fashionista's annoyance. It swiftly became apparent as Rarity's pretty features deepened their scowl. Rainbow's expression changed to one of awkward apology, the girl holding up three fingers.
'Give me three minutes', she meant. It was always 'give me three minutes' with Dash.
"I say, that hubbub over there seems rather exciting."
The sudden voice close to her made her jump, Rarity forgetting her frustration for a moment as she looked round to the source. The boy who had spoke was leaning on the same low wall - not close enough to be creepy, but not far enough away to seem disinterested. Not that she particularly minded - normally, perhaps, the slightly snooty girl would have forced a smile at him, and quickly made an excuse to leave whoever had approached her that day behind. But he felt different; he was handsome, yes, but more than that his smile seemed genuinely friendly. The simple surprise of his approach robbed her of the ability to speak momentarily, Rarity internally cursing how foolish she must look, standing there staring.
"Did they win?" The boy went on, apparently unconcerned by her lack of response. Instead, he turned to look at the bus, and the students congregated outside it - none of whom appeared to have noticed him. "Your team." He clarified. "Were they victorious?"
"I..." Rarity trailed off, for once quite unsure of how exactly to respond. She was hardly socially obtuse, but never before had she been put on the back foot quite like this. "They seem in high enough spirits...I would assume so." She supposed at last, turning back to look at the group.
"Ah, excellent." He smiled, genuinely pleased. It faltered into a gentle grimace of concern as he returned his gaze to her. "You seem rather...uncomfortable, my lady...would you like a spot of tea? I find it most invigorating."
That, of course, should have made her wary. He looked about her age, but it could be hard to tell sometimes, and her father had always been insistent that his 'little Princess' mustn't talk to strangers - let alone accept drinks from them. But...in everything he had done so far, it seemed to Rarity that the boy had been utterly sincere - and she was a big girl, now. If the absolute worst were to happen, heaven forbid, she even had considerable backup in the form of the sports team, who were easily within earshot. With all that in mind, Rarity put aside her trepidation and nodded, doing her best to smile politely. "Well, if you're offering, that sounds wonderful."
He nodded, pleased once again, reaching down to his belt and unclipping the flash attached there. Unscrewing the top, he quickly filled the lid-cup up with steaming fluid, handing it over to her. Rarity took it with a curt 'thank you', cupping it in both hands and inhaling the aromas deeply...whoever he was, she mused, he knew his stuff when it came to tea. Closing her eyes and tilting the cup, Rarity took a few delicate sips. The seamstresses' face almost instantly blossomed into an attractive smile as the warm liquid ran down her throat, any doubts about him expelled for the moment.
"I must say darling, this is delightful." She conceded, taking another sip. "You're a veritable life-saver...I hope you intend to tell me your name." She giggled. He chuckled too, hands still clasped behind his back.
"I am very glad to be of service, my dear." He nodded. "And of course...Mordecai, of Olympia High." The boy finished, extending a hand. She held the cup in one, letting her other soft hand be enveloped by his grip.
"Rarity." She offered back, eyes lidding a little as she let her smile widen. The boy's grin was practically infectious as he bent over a little further, still lightly clutching her hand as he raised it, planting a small kiss on the back.
"Enchanté." He chuckled, returning to his full height and letting her go. At any other time, Rarity would have found such a display cringe-worthy at best, even if it did appeal to her ego - now, though, her sapphire eyes widened as a blush tinged her white cheeks. Holding the wrist of the hand he'd kissed and biting her lip, Rarity returned her attention to the bus, trying to regain her composure. It'd been longer than three minutes, and still no Dash, but now she hardly minded.
"I-I must say, I've never heard of this...Olympia High." The elegant girl conceded once she'd calmed, before quickly worrying that she'd offended him. She needn't have; Mordecai gave another amused snigger, nodding once more.
"We do get that quite a lot." He conceded. "I'm afraid the reverse is not true...alas, that is rather the reason for my presence now." His words made her frown even as the blush still clung to her face, Rarity looking at him.
"I...don't follow, darling."
"Ah, you see, my dear friend Lorkhan is rather...single-minded, when it comes to his dislike for your fine educational establishment." Mordecai explained, as casually as if he was telling her what the weather report for the rest of the week had been. "I confess I cannot pinpoint the source of his obsession, but regardless I can hardly leave him to pursue it alone. Loyalty, you see? After an unintentional visit from some of your contemporaries yesterday, he has been rather pushed to the brink in terms of maintaining his calm, and when this afternoon our student body as a whole was punished for it...well, you can understand the effect it would have upon him." He went on. "I must say, I am rather surprised and impressed that he was able to produce the noxious munition he intends to unleash upon your athletic corps over there all by himself, but I suppose that is merely what one receives for underestimating their colleagues. He, as well as Zuko and Varvillon, are attempting to manoeuvre themselves into a position from which the foul-smelling grenade can best be delivered into their midst. Meanwhile, Vortun, Rorke, Barbus and myself have been commanded to 'secure the perimeter', as it were, though between you and I, I struggle to imagine the former two securing anything beside an appointment for psychological evaluation."
Even after he is done, Rarity stared at him, blinking in dumb incomprehension. She'd heard the words, of course, but actually discerning what he was saying was taking even her some time. As she thought she was beginning to understand, Rarity still wasn't certain she actually believed him - if nothing else, because it would mean that he had just told her the entirety of his group's plan.
"I...see." She said at last, still thoroughly confused even as she found herself unable to be truly suspicious of the boy. "That sounds rather...well, villainous." Mordecai chuckled in a manner that made her chew her lip once more, eyes sparkling a little.
"My dear lady," He purred, in a voice that seemed unfittingly soft. "We are nothing if not villainous." Ignoring how Rarity blushed again, he looked back over the road. "Ah, I do believe that they're in position!"
Rarity followed where he was looking, frowning a little in spite of her rosy cheeks as she struggled to pick out anything. Before long, however, she saw it. Poorly concealing themselves behind a parked van, hidden only because none of their targets were looking for them, were three boys. They were crouched down, peering over the bonnet, eyeing up the sports team. One of them, presumably this 'Lorkhan' fellow, stared with barely contained loathing - as if being in proximity to anyone from Canterlot High was enough to cause his discomfort. Another of them looked simply intrigued as to how this would play out, and the last...his face was hidden from her.
"Is he...wearing a Mo-" Rarity began, brow furrowing, before a raised hand from Mordecai stopped her.
"I would advise not bringing the matter up, should you ever meet him." The boy suggested. Rarity didn't pry, instead watching with rapt, disbelieving fascination as the helmeted boy rose a little more, bringing something into view. She wasn't sure why he was going to throw a balloon at them - the whole 'stink bomb' issue had yet to sink in - but in any case, he never got to do it. By chance alone, Lyra glanced in their direction. eyes threatening to pan over the three boys before her brain kicked in. She frowned at them, leaning a little closer and ignoring what her teammates were asking, before a grin crossed her face.
"Oh, hi Zuko!"
Everything went silent. The Canterlot High students stared at the boys. The boys stared at the Canterlot High students. Zuko was frozen, balloon still held over his head. Dash loomed utterly bemused by the sudden turn of events, and Rarity couldn't blame her, whilst beside her Mordecai had put his face in his hands and begun to shake it sadly.
"ZUKO, DROP THE HAMMER."
Lorkhan practically squealed the order, drawing back quickly in an attempt to disengage. Zuko didn't 'drop the hammer', looking back and forth in panicky confusion even as Lyra continued to wave at him. The third boy was already gone, bolting away impressively quickly.
"THROW IT ZUKO."
"I CAN'T."
"THROW. THE. BALLOON."
"I THOUGHT YOU SAID IT WASN'T A BALLOON?!"
"FALL BACK!" Lorkhan shouted, already sprinting as fast as he could. "FALL BACK!" All of the boys Rarity could see, with the exception of Mordecai, complied with his order - 'Zuko' still hadn't lowered the payload.
That all changed as another figure jumped out, presumably after flanking the group flanking around the group. He might have been short, Probably no taller than Rarity's sister, but the twitching and screaming ginger boy had the desired effect on the target - the athletes almost instantly huddled behind Rainbow, their captain, in fright, and even she seemed temporarily unmanned by the figure about to plough into their ranks. He never got the chance - Rarity wasn't even sure how the bigger boy had been hiding, but her mouth dropped open as she took in his sheer mass. Whoever he was, he paid neither her or the other students mind as he stormed out the shadows and grabbed the small boy, who was presumably his companion. He wasn't fast, but he was building up momentum, able to carry his co-conspirator despite all the thrashing and attempts to claw out. They barrelled across the road and past Rarity and Mordecai, following the others into the park beyond the wall.
"Yes, well, I rather think that is my cue to leave." Mordecai grimaced, watching them pass. He turned back to Rarity, who once again found herself unable to form sentences out of sheer bemusement, and offered her a slight bow. "'Til next time." With that, he turned and vaulted the wall with surprising grace, following after his companions.
Rarity watched them go, heart pounding like crazy in her chest even as her mind raced to catch up, She watched the six of them flee, and heard Lorkhan - who she had gathered was the nominal leader - blame everyone but himself for the failure. Most of all, though, Rarity noticed the lip of the hill coming up. The boys didn't, and as one tripped and rolled down it, swearing every time they rolled end over end. It took even her a moment to realise that Zuko had let go of the stink bomb at the top of their fall. It hung in the air for a moment, almost as if possessed by some higher power, before dropping and cracking open. If she'd strained her ears, Rarity might even have heard the soft sound of the released vapours spreading over the fallen boys at the bottom of the hill.
The second battle of the Crystal Castle was, in many ways, like the first. Once again, the forces of Chaos clashed with the soldiery of the Crystal Empire in the winding, twisting maze that the fortress presented to those unused to it. And, again, the kingdom's fate threatened to be forever altered on the outcome of that battle.
The second time, however, there were numerous, notable differences. The first of these was that the armies of the Ruinous Powers consisted of more than just one man - packs of Daemons, the children of the Dark Gods themselves, stalked the castle's halls with murderous intent. The second was that whilst the Ponies may have been taken by surprise with the suddenness of the Daemonic incursion, this time they were not unprepared. Successes against the Nerverborn had been few and far between, but by now most had at least a rudimentary idea of what it was they faced, and if nothing else panic did not spread amongst the garrison.
The third, and most telling, of the differences was that now, the Legiones Astartes fought on the side of the ponies.
Adamant Tower skidded to a halt under a table, taking a moment to catch his breath and watch as one of the robed, green-armoured Space Marines opened fire on a shrieking Daemonette. It wasn't, he consoled himself, cowardice that compelled him to hide - far from it, he knew he was fully capable of fighting, or at least trying to fight. But he was without any weapons, and until he recovered them, the pony recognised that all he would do was get in the way. Ever since the Astartes had been granted permission to dwell within the castle, several of the more zealous members of the Crystal Guard had been interrogating him; perhaps that was understandable, considering that Adamant Tower had been the first to come into contact with the towering aliens. At the no-doubt disappointing revelation that he knew no more than anypony else, they had eventually released him, choosing to ignore his leaving the military for now, considering the circumstances. He'd just been on his way out when the first of the Daemons had materialised - foul, horned things, slimy guts dripping freely and a single bloodshot eye in the centre of their foreheads. The stench had been near-intolerable, and the droning of flies surrounding them an assault on the ears. All things considered, the pony considered it was safer inside the castle than out, for now.
The lithe monstrosity was torn apart in a hail of shot, something it seemed the Dark Angel was becoming proficient at. The Marine in question - Adamant Tower thought it was the one named Uzzael, but it was still hard to tell - held his smoking gun level for a moment, before lowering it emotionlessly. From beneath the table, Adamant Tower watched as the hooded Marine tilted his head, as if listening to someone speak. Then, without further delay, he set off through the castle with gun raised. The pony hesitated for a moment, weighing up his options. On the one hoof, following the Space Marine would probably lead him straight into danger. On the other, having one of the aliens by his side was probably the best defence against that danger there was. The decision made for him, the sea-green pony scrambled out from under the table in pursuit.
"You should remove yourself, Xenos." Adamant Tower flinched as the Dark Angel addressed him; the Space Marine hadn't even looked round. "We will deal with this incursion. If you find any value in your life, you will not interfere." The pony couldn't tell whether or not the Astartes was threatening him, or merely offering information. Either way, and despite the primal dread standing beside the colossal figure invoked, he didn't leave.
"I-if they're attacking, I want to help where I can." The pony insisted, swallowing and trying to affect a confidence he didn't feel. It was followed by an awkward chuckle. "B-besides, after last time, l-letting your kind rampage around on your own in here seems like a bad idea..." He instantly regretted it, squeaking in fear and letting his ears fold against his skull, as Uzzael stopped and looked down at him. Too far, it seemed. After a moment of the crimson glare burrowing into him, the Space Marine just gave an exasperated growl, heading off again.
They reached the main foyer of the castle soon enough, arriving from a side chamber. Around the giant, crystalline grand staircase leading up, the main battle raged. The other four Dark Angels had assembled around the top of the staircase, Sergeant Nehemiah co-ordinating the unshakeable defence from the middle, using the construction as a natural defensive feature as they rained fire down upon those Daemons trying to slavishly dash their way up the stairs. As Uzzael moved to join his brothers, his own bolter spitting death, Adamant Tower found he could identify two major distinctions of Daemon. One was a sinuous, but muscular breed of horned creature, their skin a visceral red. They were invariably at the front of the Daemonic charge, a tangible need to slaughter and maim burning in their eyes, but the volleys of bolt fire were enough to put them down it seemed. Advancing behind them at a more measured, even lumbering, pace came the plague-infested creatures the pony had seen earlier. Though their approach was far, far slower, it also took considerably more firepower to drop one of the creatures.
The difference between the two breeds worked in the Daemons' favour. Trying to ignore the buzzing of flies, or the sonorous chanting of the diseased creatures that reverberated through the foyer, Adamant Tower's heart nevertheless began to pound harder still as one of the Bloodletters made its way to the top of the stairs. It bore down upon a Dark Angel, the Space Marine distracted by putting a bolt round through a Plaguebearer's eye. He turned as the howling Daemon's sword fell, unable to fully move out the way in time, raising an arm to defend himself. He avoided the worst of the blow, but not all of it; Adamant Tower reckoned he had a fairly good idea of just how strong power armour was, which made the way the sword sailed through it as if it were paper even more horrifying. The Dark Angel stumbled back as his severed limb dropped to the ground, blood gushing from the wound.
Before the Bloodletter could bring its sword round in a decapitating blow, it was knocked off balance, a group of five armoured ponies slamming into it; the Space Marines might have been bearing the brunt of the fighting, but the residents of Equestria were equally committed to doing their part. As if energised by the blood it had spilt, the daemon of Khorne lashed out again, cleaving two guards clean in twain with a single sweep. A third died as his head left his neck, but before the Bloodletter could move again, a volley of bolt fire cut it down. Elsewhere, where the Daemons were not so gorged on their own successes, the Guards were having slightly more luck - dragging the warp-spawned monsters down through sheer weight of spear-thrusts.
"Xenos!" Uzzael's bark swiftly recaptured Adamant Tower's attention, the pony jumping a little as the Dark Angel addressed him. The Astartes had formed a perimeter around their wounded brother, shielding him with a hail of fire whilst his super-human body worked on stabilising itself. "You wish to ingratiate yourself to us? Seek out the Apothecary, bring him to us." The transhuman knight ordered, the pony taking a moment to work out that he was referring to the Blood Angel. Nodding, and deviating only to retrieve a spear from a dead Guard - well, it wasn't like they'd be needing it, after all - Adamant Tower sprinted away from the battle.
At first, he had no idea where to even begin looking for the other Space Marines. The pony was mainly concerned about not being killed, ducking and skidding along the floor as Pegasi clashed with airborne Furies overhead in the corridor. More than a few of the walls were dripping with blood - most of it pony, but some of it daemonic. Eventually though, Adamant Tower realised that he might be able to track his quarry by listening for the sound of their weapons. Sure enough, as he took a fleeting moment of stillness to listen, he heard the guns barking from what sounded like all over the castle. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
The distraction nearly killed him. The Daemon that came at him now was something out of a drunkard's nightmare - arms ending in pincers, a head that looked almost equine filled with far too many glassy back eyes, its body sinuous and multi-breasted. Even so, Adamant Tower found something...almost beguiling in it. A pleasant scent tickled his nostrils, sapping his will to fight, beckoning him closer to the Fiend of Slaanesh with a silent siren song.
The monster shrieked as more bolter fire slammed into it. The spell was broken, and Adamant Tower screamed, dashing back just in time to see the two Iron Hands march down the corridor with their weapons raised. This monster seemed more resilient than many of its cohorts, coiling and dashing out, all of its limbs skittering across the ground as it closed with the Medusans. In one movement, the two Astartes locked their guns to their thighs and drew swords as long as the pony's forelegs. They fought with merciless, cold and calculated anger, ignoring the multiple slicing blows the Daemon rained down upon them. In short order, the two Marines had despatched it, not a sound leaving them except for the occasional sparking of armour joints and the last tremors of the creature's death-shriek.
They looked down at it for a moment contemptuously, before setting off again as if they had not just been fighting for their life. They didn't even look down at the pony as they passed, Adamant Tower having to leap out the way to avoid being trampled. He sprinted after the two machine-men, his pleas for them to listen thoroughly ignored.
In the end, it was the Apothecary that found him. Even with the majority of his armour being red to begin with, it was still clear that Zuriel was caked with gore. The medical tool affixed to his left wrist had clearly seen use, but it was his whirring chainsword and bolt pistol that were out now. As Adamant Tower searched the castle, the Blood Angel rounded the corner, looming over the pony. For a moment, the former Guard froze, hoof tensing around his spear. There was something unsettling about the Blood Angel; he twitched, eyes glassy yet rage-filled, as if some deep-seated anger threatened to overtake him. For a moment, it seemed like the Marine might even strike the pony. Eventually, though, he calmed, letting out a shuddering breath as his blood-streaked face became more noble again.
"...o-one of the Dark Angels." The pony squeaked, still shaking a little even as he got his voice back. "H-he's injured...they sent me to get you." The Space Marine nodded, imposing features nevertheless twisting to a look of gratitude.
"Where can he be found?" The Apothecary asked, voice measured. Adamant Tower looked down, trying to swallow his nerves as he thought.
"I...t-they were at the foyer's staircase, when I left them..." He recalled. "B-but they might have retreated..." He gave the matter a few second's more thought. "They'd probably go to the throne room...i-it's the most defensible position."
"The majority of the Daemonic taint has been purged, though at great cost to your kinfolk." The Blood Angel told him, still sounding at least a little sympathetic. "Your assumption seems viable...come, let us go."
They did. They ran fast, the pony just about managing to keep pace with the Space Marine despite his exhaustion, hooves and boots pounding along the ground. On the way up the castle, they passed Spike - he had recovered a spear from somewhere himself, and had taken to guarding the door to Fluttershy's room. It was unlikely he could've done much if the Daemons did attack en masse, but for now it seemed secure enough. Despite that, the piles of Pony bodies they passed on the way up - most mangled in some way, and often decapitated cleanly - did make Adamant Tower feel a little bit sick.
At the top of the tower, in the throne room-come-council chamber, the Dark Angels and Iron Hands had indeed focused their defence. It wasn't clear where the councillors themselves were; maybe they were dead, co-ordinating the defence elsewhere, or had simply fled. Even so, as the pair of them sprinted and galloped through the great doorway, battle already raged.
Only one Daemon had made its way to the chamber. Only one was needed. It was kin to the red, horned Daemons that Adamant Tower had seen before, but slightly larger, with its body clad in thick plate of blackened brass. Four horns erupted from out its head, jagged and coiling, and the sword it clutched in one claw burned with an incandescent white light. In the other claw, a flail struck out in great arcs, the screaming skulls attached to the end of it never shattering or even cracking despite how many times they smashed into power armour. Bolter fire streamed from the warriors of the First and Tenth Legions, but the Herald of Khorne seemed unaffected despite the volume slamming into it, the shells either exploding harmlessly against the rune-marked armour or otherwise dissolving into thin air.
"Stay." Zuriel commanded, and Adamant Tower had no trouble following that particular order as the crimson-clad warrior advanced on his foe. The Herald turned, staggering only a little as it seemed to register a bolt round - though it still wasn't hurt. With a roar, it charged, muscles rippling with every movement. The few ponies that remained in the room did, in spite of their obvious fear, move to intercept the Daemonic champion. It didn't even slow down as sword and flail lashed out, dropping the heroic guards to the ground in a particularly unheroic heap of spilt blood and mangled bone.
Some of that blood sprayed onto Zuriel's face. As it did, a change seemed to come over the Blood Angel Apothecary. The look on his face from when Adamant Tower had seen him earlier, the expression of glassy and towering fury, returned with even greater force. His mouth hung slightly open, and the pony's eyes widened as he noticed the sharpened fangs the Astartes possessed. What was even more surprising was that it seemed the Space Marine was about to leap and meet the Herald in single combat, despite the death sentence that was. As his hand hovered over his blade however, Zuriel evidently straining at the leash to act the Daemon was knocked out of its leap with a howl as bolter rounds finally found their mark. It rolled, armour smoking, landing in a crouch and wasting no time before it was moving again.
By now, Adamant Tower had found his way beside the Dark Angel with the missing arm, though it didn't appear the Space Marine even noticed his presence. The Dark Angels were surrounding the Daemon, sergeant Nehemiah's sword crackling with energy as the power field played around it, whilst the two Iron Hands stuck together. Whilst such a stratagem prevented the Daemon's escape, however, it also spread the Calibanites out.
It had reached Uzzael, and to the Space Marine's credit, he did not waver. He did not even stop firing as the Daemon bore down upon him, shells opening up more wounds on the Herald, before dropping his bolter and drawing the sword at his side in one deft movement. It intercepted the hellblade, but only just, by some miracle not being sliced clean through. The Dark Angel adjusted his posture to compensate for the unwanted blade-on-blade contact, intending to bring it round for another chop, but the Blood God's warrior would always be faster. The flail slammed round at lightning speed, the sheer force even knocking the sword out of the Space Marine's hands. The sword followed suit, opening up a great gouge through his robes and green power armour, already sinking right down to the black carapace within his body. Finally, as Uzzael reeled, the Herald dug the talons on one of its feet into his chest, raised himself up, and thrust the blade downwards tip-first.
It parted armour with ease, sinking into the Space Marine's body all the way to the hilt, serrated edges and all. Uzzael tensed, the noise of blood being vomited up faintly audible as every muscle locked. Moment's later, the Herald tore his sword out his front; the Space Marine practically folded open, collapsing down to the ground as his organs poured out with him. Adamant Tower just watched it all, and as far as he knew, his heart had stopped; he had never seen a Space Marine die before, let alone in such an ignoble and messy way. He hadn't even really considered that they could die.
Nehemiah's anguish at his brother's death manifested as a roar, the sergeant closing on his foe with righteous fury, sword in hand. It did not, apparently, particularly bother him that his chances of surviving such a duel alone were negligible - honour had to be restored, and a death avenged. Adamant Tower made the tactical decision to cower as the Astartes officer swung his blade, the energised edge of the power sword parrying the Daemonic sword with far greater ease than even Uzzael's length of refined steel. The two clashed and riposted, almst too fast for the pony to follow, Knight of Caliban matched by the manifestation of war. Nehemiah's bladework was impressive, and his artificer-wrought plate allowed him to weather the blows that did penetrate his guard and return with his own, but gradually he began to be pushed back.
One of the Iron Hands elected to intervene before a fatal blow could be struck, any acrimony between the factions momentarily forgotten. He advanced, bolter mag-locked to his obsidian-black thigh in favour of pistol and gladius. As Nehemiah overbalanced on a strike and the Daemon swung, he stepped into the path of the blow, pistol barking once before the sword meant for the Dark Angel carved a diagonal line from shoulder to waist. He toppled backwards, the sword thankfully sinking nowhere near deep enough to bisect him, but the flail crashing into the side of his helmet was enough to drop him unmoving onto his front.
That sacrifice, however, gave Nehemiah his chance. The Dark Angel took his sword in a two-handed grip, lashing out with all his might. Almost miraculously, it found its mark - the Herald howled as the arm he used to hold the flail was cut away at the elbow, disappearing into ethereal vapour. The Daemon staggered, but if Nehemiah had wounded it, its end was revealed a moment later. With a maddened howl, Helsturnn finally arrived. The Wolf was covered, almost head to foot, in blood, the liquid sinking into his beard. His black-pinned eyes were wild with bestial fury, the murder-make beating as loud in his blood as his chainsword whirred in his hand. With a cry of 'Fenrys Hjolda!', the Space Wolf hurled himself into the air. Preoccupied as it was by deflecting a blow from the Dark Angel, the Daemonic Herald saw the danger only seconds before the Fenrisian's chainsword bit town, teeth chewing the air and screaming, before biting deep into Daemonic bone; the Astartes did not stop, pushing down further as the Khornate howled and thrashed, only savagely tearing the blade out when it had become firmly lodged in whatever passed for a skeleton within the Herald. It barely had a chance to stand, almost dazed, before Nehemiah's sword flashed round and separated its head from its neck.
As the decapitated body slumped down, the malignant presence in the air slowly started to ebb away - the Daemons had lost their leader, and so drew back, like wolves surprised when their prey bit back. Even so, the stench of blood remained thick in the air. Adamant Tower stayed motionless for seconds longer, before daring to take a step forward, watching the Astartes with wide-eyed awe. They did not seem tired, though a stranger feeling he couldn't place had descended upon them. As two of the Dark Angels knelt beside the corpse of their brothers, hooded heads bowed in mourning, the downed Iron Hand slowly picked his way to his feet.
"You live." Nehemiah didn't move, or even turn his head to look at the Medusan, still gripping his sizzling power sword in a green gauntlet. The Iron Hand received no help from his brother, and asked for none, instead tapping his chest - which sparked, rather than bled.
"They forget who they are fighting." He said, with customary monotone bluntness. The Blood Angel, for his part, was kneeling beside the dead Angel, wrist-mounted device already whirring.
"Would you rather we leave his legacy here?" Zuriel asked, when the Dark Angels looked at him with evident suspicion, despite their helmets. "I swear, if at all possible, we will return this to your brothers." The First Legionnaires looked unsure for a moment longer, before one gave a wary nod. Adamant Tower winced in surprise as the Apothecary buried his medical tool in the the remnants of Uzzael's chest, eventually retracting it with a sickening *crunch*. Whatever it was, the pony couldn't see.
Helsturnn was silent for a moment, staring at the ground. Then, with a roar, he turned to Nehemiah - almost as if he was going to start the Dark Angel. "This is on you!" He howled, gesturing around the room with his bloodied chainsword. "All of this, your brother's death...it is on your head, Angel!" One of the other Dark Angel's stood, hand moving to the grip of his sword, but a raised hand from the sergeant halted him. They stared at each other, Nehemiah's crimson glare matched with Helsturnn's wild, naked eyes. Adamant Tower, for his part, just retreated back a step. "We have stayed here, at your directive." The Space Wolf went on, voice now a low growl - but no less threatening. "We have waited, patiently, for you to offer some form of leadership...and all we've received in return is death, and Maleficarum." As the two Iron Hands stepped to stand behind him, Helsturnn took a step forward. "I will not wait here a day longer, Nehemiah." He promised, voice now at its lowest yet. "Not a single day more."
Tension crackled in the air. It was palpable, prickling over Tower's skin, and had his muscles not been locked in fear - he was smart enough to realise when he was watching something he shouldn't be - he would almost certainly have given a reflexive squirm. Nehemiah stood, as stony as ever, helmet betraying nothing of whatever thoughts lurked below. After what felt like an hour, but couldn't have been more than a minute, he did move, gaze shifting to stare out one of the few remaining windows in the throne room. The tortured sky raged above, seeming to roil with even greater fury now that it had been offered sacrifice. Nehemiah was still silent, though even the pony could tell that a million thoughts must have been running through his head. When the Space Marine did speak, it was with a tone of grim finality.
"We go into the storm."
***
"You know, if it had worked, it would have been very effective."
The most irritating thing about Zuko's statement was that he was correct. The group had managed to escape any pursuit by their self-imposed rivals at Canterlot High - though, none were actually sure whether or not their had been any pursuit in the first place, though Lorkhan would doubtless tell them there was - and if Principal Perturabo was aware of their escapades, he had given no sign. It seemed like they'd actually gotten away with it...until, of course, one took into account the smell. No-one was quite sure what Lorkhan had done to create it, but after the stink bomb had fallen on them no amount of scrubbing that night had allowed any of the boys to fully was away the pungent aroma. It clung to them, a tangible reminder of failure that also served to make all their fellow students stay well, well away from them. Varvillon had proposed it would fade in time, but until that time came the seven of them found themselves relegated to the computer lab as the lunch hour dragged on - a wide berth having formed around them all.
None of them answered Zuko's assertion. Instead, with the sole exception of Lorkhan - who was still sat slamming his head into one of the desks, as he seemed to have been doing all day - their response was to a man was to glare at their helmeted companion. He looked at them all in turn, blank visor slowly panning across their faces, before a sigh left him. "Look, I said I was sorry, can't you just let it go?"
"Letting things go is hardly our speciality." Mordecai chuckled quietly, but it was swiftly overshadowed by a growl from Rorke.
"All you had to do..." The short boy began, hands clenched tight into fists as he narrowed his eyes at Zuko. "Was throw the fucking balloon. That...that was it." He snapped, one eye giving an involuntary twitch.
"They were all looking at me, what was I supposed to do?" Zuko snapped back, his own temper rising at Rorke's aggressiveness. "If I had thrown it, we'd have been in even deeper shit, and we probably would have gotten decimated again today!"
"You think zat ze Principal would care?" Vortun asked, slab-like body rumbling as a gurgling chuckle left him. Zuko's helmet quickly turned to look at him, the boy evidently not enjoying the two-pronged attack.
"Yes...no...look, I don't pretend to know what the Principal thinks." He muttered. "But I do know that you smashing your way through like the Terminator, or whatever, that didn't help!"
"Or picking me up and carrying me around like a ragdoll." Rorke added, both he and Zuko looking a little uncomfortable to be agreeing on anything. Vortun, either way, was unfazed.
"You vere just lucky I didn't twist zere little heads off...zat vould have sent a message."
"Really?" Zuko asked, chuckling humourlessly as he sat back and folded his arms. "Even the girls?"
"Especially ze girls." Vortun answered, without missing a beat. A moment passed, before Zuko shivered, looking away and shaking his head.
"You're a scary bastard, you know that?"
"Don't try and change the fucking subject!" Rorke piped up again, returning his eternally-enraged gaze onto Zuko as he twitched again. "This is all still your fault, you soft little prick."
"Oh, well, I'm sorry." He said in an exasperated sigh, clearly not sorry at all. "Though you have to admit that the plan itself was more than a little flawed."
"Well, duh." Varvillon snorted, before tilting his head, tongue licking over his braces thoughtfully. "Why are you even wearing that helmet? We all know what you look like now."
"Oh, for God's sake, not you too!" Zuko snapped, irritation finally boiling over as he stood from his seat. "Look, does it even matter? The point is-"
"Gentlemen, please, let us not grow unsettled." Mordecai sighed, the scant signs of anger fading as he he stretched a little. "Though I confess that the stench we all give off is...unpleasant, it is hardly the end of the world."
"How come you're suddenly so cheerful?" Rorke muttered, before his brow furrowed in a frown, mind slowly ticking over. "Wait...I saw you...talking with that Canterlot bitch." They all looked at him, once again with the exception of Lorkhan, Mordecai's face creasing into an irritated frown of his own at Rorke's choice of terminology.
"Yeah...yeah, I saw that." Varvillon nodded, looking at Mordecai with something getting dangerously close to admiration. "The one with the legs."
"Most people have legs, Var'." Zuko pointed out, voice deadpan.
"Yes, but not like these." The boy expanded, eliciting another amused giggle and roll of the eyes from Mordecai.
"Oh, for the love of..." Zuko sighed, shoulders slumping a little in despair. It was a posture he was slowly getting used to. "You're as bad as him." He insisted, gesturing over his shoulder at Lorkhan. "Not having some burning hatred for them is one thing, but-"
He was cut off as Lorkhan, suddenly, moved into action. The boy sat up straight as an arrow, eyes wide and synapses in his brain almost visibly forming connections. He moved no more, but the suddenness was still enough to make Zuko flinch, looking his companion up and down. "I...didn't think it was going to offend you that much." He offered, glancing at his equally confused comrades for support.
"...no." Vortun said slowly, leaning in a fraction closer. "No...zat is ze face you wear ven you have just figured something out, Herr Lorkhan." Granted, that was a rare enough occurrence, but none of them had time to inquire any further before Lorkhan exploded into movement. He practically dived into one of the empty chairs in front of a computer - they were old, inelegant, but functional models - frantically booting it up. The others crowded in behind him, looking over his shoulder and trying to veil their intrigued and bemused expressions. Eventually, Lorkhan had found his way to the internet, loading up the video of some girls from Canterlot High forming a flash mob and dancing on the cafeteria tables while singing.They all knew he had watched this video countless times; whatever it was that possessed him to now, it must have been a veritable epiphany.
"There." He paused the video, at a position that all of them had overlook before. The camera recording had focused on two figures, standing on a table - one of them, a boy with spiked blue hair and a guitar. Flash Sentry, they all knew him. That wasn't what Lorkhan was focused on, however. "Who," He asked, poking his finger at the image of the purple girl singing beside him. "The bloody hell, is that?"
They looked at her, for once concentrating intently. Not even Mordecai made any immediate remark, as they one-by-one realised that they didn't know. "Dunno. Probably just some bitch we haven't seen before, who gives a shit?" Rorke growled, shrugging in annoyance.
"Must you always use such profanity?" Mordecai tutted disapprovingly, but Lorkhan didn't even appear to hear him.
"This 'bitch', as you put it, is the same one who...grows wings and a horn, and shoots the rainbow laser...thing at the Daemon teenager in the other video." Lorkhan explained, the strangeness of that sentence apparent even to him. "You know...not the kind of person who'd just disappear off the face of the planet afterwards?"
His logic made, for a change, an uncomfortable amount of sense. The other boys glanced amongst themselves, each of them noticing the admittedly strange nature of his point, whilst Lorkhan continued to work what he'd 'discovered' through in his mind.
"Well..." Zuko spoke up at last, swallowing a audibly even within the helmet. "The song's about 'helping Twilight win the crown', right? I'm guessing that's Twilight."
"I don't care what her name is." Lorkhan muttered, not tearing his eyes from the glow of the screen as his musing reached its zenith. "I'm guessing she was there a week, maybe two at most...then she disappears, but why would she just leave?" Something seemed to suddenly occur to him, the boy hurriedly scrolling down to the video's comments. Navigating his way through the repeated utterances of 'fake', and...less savoury things, he eventually found one that brought him to a halt.
"'Isn't that the girl who lived in the library?'" He read out, sitting back in his seat. They all listened, and all wanted to ask why that was so important, but at the same time none wanted to run the risk of disturbing him now. Mordecai, it seemed, worked it out seconds before anyone else did.
"Lorkhan, old friend-"
"You can just walk in." For the second time that day, the light of epiphany glimmered in Lorkhan's eyes as a rare grin blossomed across his face. "By all that's...you can just walk in." He sounded in complete awe, possibilities flooding his mind at the revelation. Even the others had to admit, it was something none of them had considered before.
"Lorkhan, I...frankly, I'm pleasantly surprised that you figured this out on your own, but I really would caution against attempting infiltration..." Mordecai began. Even he flinched in surprise, however, as Lorkhan spun round in the chair and pointed at them all with an intense expression.
"Tell me you don't want to." He said, addressing them all. "Tell me you don't want to just...just see what it's actually like in there. You know...walk amongst them, and they wouldn't even know!" They tried. None could - even if it was perhaps the most petty form of 'revenge' imaginable, they were to a man bitter individuals. Any chance had to be taken.
"Wait...wait...hang on." Zuko said, trying to inject some calm to counterbalance Lorkhan's exuberance. "It's tempting, but we can't...they know what a lot of us look like, after last night's debacle." It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, even Lorkhan sighed - his enthusiasm nipped at the bud.
"You have a point." He mumbled, the admission clearly wounding his pride. "We would need someone who managed to avoid getting themselves noticed last night..." They all reached the answer at the same time; as one, the group turned with painstaking slowness, eyes coming to rest on the target.
Barbus had been quiet until now, just spinning in the chair and fiddling with his car keys. After a moment, he seemed to realise they were all looking at him. He raised his head, glancing amongst them in confusion, before reality sank in.
"...oh, no."
***
"I told you! I told you there was something off about them!"
Ever since the Dazzlings' song in the cafeteria at lunch, and the division it had torn open in the student body at Canterlot High, Sunset Shimmer had hardly stopped reminding the girls that she'd been right. Normally, the constant insistence would have irritated Applejack - but her newest friend had been having a hard time recently, and such obvious validation would make anyone get a little hyper for a while. Even so, as she sat in her seat in the classroom - trying to ignore the glares shooting around the room from everyone else - she found herself wishing things were otherwise. In her heart, AJ knew Sunset did too.
"Yeah yeah, okay, we get it." Rainbow said, folding her arms as she rocked her chair back. Applejack was between the two, and took the brunt of Sunset's irritated expression, but she knew neither of them were truly mad with each other. She also reckoned she knew why Dash's temper was on such a hair-trigger.
"Are you still moody 'bout last night?" The farmgirl asked, making sure to keep her expression sympathetic as she looked at her friend. Rainbow's expression creased in annoyance, before a sigh left the athlete.
"Not...annoyed." She explained, running a hand through her multicoloured hair. "Just, like...confused. I'm still not really sure what the heck happened...and Rarity going all gooey doesn't help." Dash finished. Applejack could agree with that - their fashion-conscious friend had been a little distracted all day, and the only explanation they'd really gotten out of her was that she'd met some guy the night before who was, as she put it, 'the perfect gentlemen'. If he was involved with the individuals that Rainbow had described then Applejack doubted that very highly, but she hadn't wanted to get into an argument with her friend.
"Ah...guess that makes sense." Applejack nodded, before turning to Sunset. "And ah know what yah gonna say, sugarcube...ah agree, we need tah figure out what's goin' on with 'em, but panickin' ain't gonna help nothin'." It wasn't the answer that Sunset had wanted to hear, plainly, but she could see the sense in it. She sighed, giving a nod, retreating in on herself a little again. Applejack grimaced, opening her mouth to offer something supportive, when Rainbow cut her off.
"Besides, if it's a Battle of the Bands they want, they're gonna get crushed by the Rainbooms and the most awesome guitar-player in the world!" She grinned, face lighting up with glee, before noticing the looks the other two were casting her. "Oh...and a pretty good bassist, too." Dash amended, blushing a little. It swiftly gave way to a perplexed frown. "Where's Mr Cranky Doodle? Aren't I usually the one who's always late?"
No sooner had she spoke, the classroom door swung open. Chatter almost immediately died as the figure strode in, powerful steps carrying him to the front in short order. He was tall, clad in a dark green jacket, heavily muscled body evident even at a glance. Even so, Applejack considered, he wasn't attractive - something in his form made him imposing, and even more than that, simply unsettling. She cast a glance at Sunset, who returned it furtively; whoever this was, it wasn't their regular teacher. He reached the front of the classroom, almost instantly beginning to scribble on the board. The students all watched him, wide-eyed and more than a little fearful.
"Umm...you're not Mr Cranky Doodle..." It was Flitter who piped up in the end, asking the obvious question. He stopped writing, Flitter giving a whimper and sinking down into her seat a little more as his arms fell to his side. The towering figure turned - he was at least six foot, Applejack estimated. At least. As his face came into view, the farmgirl found herself staring - there were a few scars, here and there, but the eyes were the most drawing feature. They were old - the eyes of someone who had all the answers, and wasn't telling any of it yet. Flitter gave another nervous whimper, but the man didn't seem angry.
"Your teacher, I'm afraid, had an accident last night preventing him from working at the moment. For the foreseeable future, I will be your substitute." He explained. His voice was deep, but not unkind. Normally, such an explanation would have elicited whispering from the room, but none dared now. The vagueness only deepened Applejack's suspicions, but it wasn't her that spoke.
"Alright...then, who are you?" Dash asked, trying to remain nonchalant as she folded her arms again. She gave a quiet gulp as the substitute's searching eyes fell on her, but her firm expression held.
"'Sir' will be more than sufficient, Rainbow Dash." He answered, in his rumbling voice again. Yes - definitely suspicious. The use of her full name made Rainbow pale a moment in nervousness, but she just about managed to hold it off.
"Well, like...what if we need to find you or something? Should we just ask for the big guy?" She chuckled, though it swiftly faded into awkwardness as the athlete realised she was the only one doing so. The substitute certainly displayed no levity, merely holding Dash's slightly nervous magenta gaze. After a moment, however, he did the last thing Applejack expected; he smiled.
"You may refer to me by my title." He offered, nodding. "Mr Cypher."
This was getting, to Adamant Tower's mind, beyond the point of a joke now. He'd just wanted to get home with as little hassle as possible, dammit; if he'd known the scale of insanity he'd find himself embroiled in as a result of that detour, he'd have just chanced his luck on the regular route.
Given their situation, the Astartes seemed to be taking it surprisingly well, or so he thought at least. It was always hard to tell what silence meant with them. That wasn't the only thing they were being unsettlingly vague upon; since they'd left the Crystal Castle, none of the aliens had said so much as a word to the pony. He was, apparently, here to navigate, in spite of his repeated protests that he would know the way about as well as they did. Still, it never paid to argue with Space Marines, especially not when they were in a bad mood. They hadn't even told the surviving governors of the Crystal Empire where they were going, or that they were taking him - although, Adamant Tower consoled himself, it was unlikely his kinsmen would have cared much anyway.
"Reminds me of home." Adamant Tower couldn't help but flinch and give a small squeak of surprise as the gruff voice rang loudly and close in his ears; almost instantly, he regretted being taken off guard and giving the Space Wolf cause to grunt in displeasure. "Russ's balls, Xenos, is there anything that doesn't make your race wet itself?" Helsturnn asked, his voice as snarling and gruff as ever.
Adamant Tower wanted to say one of any number of things in return - that, given the circumstances, he could be forgiven for being on edge, that the ponies had fought the Daemonic incursion to the best of their ability, and that if it wasn't for the Space Marines and their treacherous brothers they wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Self-preservation outweighed all of those urges however, so instead the sea-green pony just folded his ears against his skull, gulping a little nervously.
"I...s-sorry..." Was all he said in a small, frail voice. The answer didn't seem to please the Grey Hunter, but the Space Marine also didn't seem like he wanted to get into a debate about it. Instead, Helsturnn took another glance round the wasteland the squad found itself in; snow crunched under foot or hoof with every step any of them took, the pony on more than one occasion having to stop himself sinking deeper down into it. The Warp-touched sky above them made the journey more unsettling still. What could only be assumed to be Chaotic energy prickled across both skin and armour, never overpoweringly so but always present, whilst the clouds above continued to roil and occasionally darken with Daemonic silhouettes. Sometimes, sharp cries rang out, the source impossible to pinpoint - they always stopped, and always set off again with the feeling of been pursued.
"Reminds me of home." The Wolf said again, nodding. "Besides all the taint, I mean. But the snow." He tapped a grey boot on it, the crunching sound ringing out again, as if to illustrate his point. "It's good snow, I'll give you that. Like the snows of Fenris."
Adamant Tower wasn't really sure how to respond to that - the fact that he was being indirectly complimented alone was enough to flummox him. So he didn't say anything immediately, instead keeping his head down and walking. Just as he was about to express awkward gratitude, however, Helsturnn looked down at him. "Are you frightened, Xenos?"
Again, what the pony wanted to say was that the Space Marine had just accused him and all of his kind of being cowardly, and so asking it a second time seemed to be just an exercise in arrogance. Once more, however, he was smart enough to know not to antagonise the Space Wolf. Instead, Adamant Tower just sighed, an expression of guilt crossing his face. "Yes...I don't know how you talked me onto this suicide mission, but...yes, I am."
Helsturnn was quiet for a moment, whilst the pony just remained grateful he hadn't mentioned that, despite everything, he'd actually quite like to live. After that moment had passed, the Wolf just grunted.
"Good." He said. "Shows you're taking this seriously." The fact he'd just been complimented again once more surprised the pony enough to actually look up and round, but the Space Wolf had already shifted his attentions; his golden, black-pinned eyes now focused on the group of green-armoured Space Marines who were leading the group. Bitter winds caused their robes to waft back and forth, their towering forms seeming to disappear a little behind the snow. Adamant Tower watched them, though without the open hostility of the Space Wolf. They seemed...reduced, somewhat, with the death of their brother. What had before been secretive silence was now near-total obfuscation.
"Why do you hate them?" The pony asked softly, before he could stop himself; for a moment, he wondered if he'd gone too far, and the Wolf would strike him for it. Instead, Helsturnn gave a predatory growl.
"An old feud." He shrugged, voice gruff. "They don't like the Rout. We don't much care for them. We've crossed blades, Nehemiah and I, as tradition requires." He gave another noise, an animalistic chuckle. "And, more to the point, it's all their fault. The vaunted First Legion....aye, they aren't taking that well." He said, chuckling again. Adamant Tower still didn't really know what the Grey Hunter meant, but as he kept walking - the cold now feeling like it was settling into his bones - his eyes fell on another detachment of the group. These, if anything, made him feel even worse.
"And what about...them?" He asked, gulping as he gestured towards the two Iron Hands. The black-armoured Space Marines had maintained a steady but implacable pace, marching through the snow as if it were nothing. Helsturnn glanced at the two Medusans, a grin crossing his face; Adamant Tower instinctively shied away at the flash of enlarged canines.
"Best stay out the steel mens' way, lad." He advised. "They get the job done, but by the Allfather, they're cold bastards. No soul in there, no spark. They'll kill you if they deem it 'logical' to do so, and they won't give a damn who knows." He paused, glancing down at the pony's nervous expression. "You think I criticise them?"
"...no." Adamant Tower admitted after a while, trying to swallow his unease. "I think you like them immensely." Helsturnn watched him for a moment, before the Space Wolf threw his head back, giving a roaring laugh of genuine amusement.
"Wait." The entire party stopped, pony almost tripping over himself, as Nehemiah did. "Be silent." He added, raising a gauntlet. It was clearly aimed at Helsturnn, something the Wolf picked up on, expression changing to a scowl.
"Did I offend you, Calibanite?" He asked, growling. Nehemiah offered him no answer, keeping his head cocked slightly sidewards. Before the Wolf could speak again, the sound hit them all - it was faint, Adamant Tower having to strain his ears to hear it, but the sound of smoke puffing and wheels grinding on rails was undeniable.
"It's...a train." Zuriel said, a little superfluously, helmet vox disrupting his voice.
"There was a train that used to run between the Empire and Canterlot..." Adamant Tower remembered, flinching only a little as all their eyes fell on him. "I-it never turned up at any of the stations when the Iron Warriors and Daemons attacked, and nopony's been out to look for it...it was just assumed it'd stopped somewhere out here."
"Evidently not." One of the Dark Angels grunted. Their sergeant said nothing, still listening to the faint sound.
"You were brought along to navigate." Nehemiah said at last, refocusing on the pony as he drew his sword. Around him, the other Astartes readied their own weapons. "Navigate." Adamant Tower gulped, but nodded, taking a deep breath before heading for where he remembered the tracks to be with the giants in tow.
***
"Warsmith to Havoc. Warsmith to Havoc. Come in Havoc, over."
In any other situation, Barbus might well have cringed at the try-hard nature of Lorkhan's decided code-names. It wasn't fear that was preventing him now, because he refused to acknowledge that he was afraid. Rather, the combined weight of frustration pressing down on him at that moment was inuring him against such things.
"Okay." He muttered, as he looked up at Canterlot High towering above him. He still wasn't really sure how he'd let them talk him into this; he hadn't really been given a choice. Lorkhan was probably the giddiest Barbus had ever seen him, and had wasted no time in somehow scrounging together a small 'bug' for Barbus to wear on his collar, and would consistently transmit noise to Lorkhan's own walkie-talkie. The fact he'd managed to repurpose the technology all by himself was actually surprisingly impressive, but getting dragged out of bed early along with Zuko and Mordecai to arrive at the school with the rest of its students quickly killed any chance at respect. "One, why do we have to have these stupid codenames? And-"
"You have to say 'over', over." Lorkhan's voice crackled back to him. Barbus closed his eyes, letting out an irritated, lingering sigh.
"Why do we have to have these stupid codenames, over...and two, this is the stupidest shit you've ever thought of." He hissed, through gritted teeth. He knew it wouldn't stop Lorkhan now, but he had to say it.
"Bloody hell, just relax." The self-appointed leader remarked. "We know it's possible, it's been done before...it's for one day, what's the worst that can happen? As long as you remember the code-word for us to come get you out, over."
"Yeah yeah, 'Basilisk'." Barbus sighed. "And, well, for one, skipping school seems like a bad idea-" He never got to finish, as the sound of the walkie-talkie being fought over from the other end reached his ears. When it settled, it was Zuko who had apparently won.
"Do you think Principal Perturabo would care?" He asked - Lorkhan's mutter of 'you have to say over' just about audible. It was hard to deny that he had a point, and the knowledge relaxed Barbus, but only a little. "And be fair to him, 'Havoc' is alright as far as his weird obsession with sieges goes."
"It's not bad." Barbus conceded. "But 'Warsmith'?" There was another noise of conflict on the other side.
"Warsmith is fine....it feels appropriate, over." Lorkhan insisted once he'd rested control back, sounding almost vulnerable. "Now shut up and go, you can slip in with the rest of them. We'll be right behind you, over."
What Lorkhan meant by that, of course, was the Olympia High version of 'right behind you'. Barbus turned, eyes narrowing; way over on the other side of the street, the other three watched back, at the very edge of the range Lorkhan's walkie-talkies would cover. Mordecai and Zuko waved, whilst Lorkhan just glared and shooed Barbus along. Sighing in exasperation, and swallowing any lingering unsurity, Barbus hiked his bag a little further up his back and headed into Canterlot High.
Even the foyer was enough to get him to stop, mouth slightly ajar. The only room of the school he'd ever seen before was the canteen, and then only in videos. Seeing the extent of the towering interior of Canterlot, with its clean floors, pristine walls, delicate banners...if Olympia High was a fortress, then this was a palace. It was labyrinthian, about five hallways arcing off to who knew where. Chewing his lip a moment he picked one at random, setting off down it as other students milled around.
As much as the expansive majesty of the inside of the school inspired grudging admiration in Barbus, it also subtly stoked his bitterness. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he could see where Lorkhan was coming from; they spent almost every day in a damp, dreary building, with graffiti covering the walls and discontent lingering in the air. The knowledge a place like this existed just an hour away was at least a little infuriating. That said, however, perhaps his observation about discontent had come too soon; it was subtle at first, but Barbus - who was well used to such things - soon noticed the sense of division in the air. Students stuck in little groups, muttering to one another and casting dark glances at other assemblages. It felt familiar to Barbus, but it was also...unexpected.
"This is Havoc, Warsmith." He decided to play along, whispering into his lapel-mounted bug as he walked. "I'm in...this place is a fucking maze. Ev-"
"I can't hear you unless you say 'over'." Lorkhan repeated, though he at least had the sense to keep his voice down. Taking a deep breath, Barbus went on.
"Everyone...it's weird. Seems like they've forgotten all those goody two-shoes messages about harmony we heard about, over."
"I'm going to need more to work with than that, over." Lorkhan retorted. At least he was being a little professional, Barbus supposed. Still, he searched for the right words.
"It's like...they're all divided, in little groups, over." He mumbled. "They're acting like..." When the answer hit him, he actually had to stop. "Like us."
Uncomfortable silence followed his words, even Lorkhan keeping quiet. Aware that the corridors were thinning of other students, Barbus knew he'd have to find somewhere to lay low soon. Before he could, something stopped him. "Hold on...I want to check this out, over." He whispered, before straightening and heading over to a nearby poster. It was brightly coloured, a guitar and other instruments prominently displayed. The words 'talent show' had been scrawled out, and swiftly replaced with 'Battle of the Bands'. He relayed the information back to his companions, frowning a little. "Weird...the poster's disgustingly colourful, but the alteration's-"
"HI!"
Barbus gave an audible, embarrassing yelp, practically jumping out of his skin as he turned and pressed his back against the wall defensively. The sudden, loud voice in his ear belonged to a grinning girl about his age; her skin and hair were both shades of pink, as was the image of the heart emblazoned on her shirt. She swayed side to side a little, still grinning, seemingly incapable of staying still for a moment. As he tried to stop his heart slamming against his ribcage, Barbus realised he even knew her name. Pinkie Pie; she was one of the ones who had helped shoot the rainbow-laser-thing.
"...hello." He said, just grateful that Lorkhan and the others were keeping their mouths shut. She grinned wider, giggling innocently at his awkwardness.
"You seem real interested in that poster, mister!" Pinkie beamed. "Did you know it's changed? It used to be the talent show, but then my friend Sunset showed these girls round and thought they were kiiiiiiiiinda weird, and then they sang this really strange song in the canteen that made everyone go loco, so now all the bands are competing against each other, and Sunset thinks it's dark magic or something - are you entering? Me and my friends are! I guess that makes us competitors, but I'm sure you'll be great, I've never seem you before-" She paused in the midst of her constant vocal stream, expression turning neutral as her own words sank in. Barbus's eyes widened fractionally, the boy trying his hardest to hold back a gulp and his sweat. He pulled his head back as far as it could go as Pinkie leaned in closer to him, her expression thoroughly suspicious. Her baby-blue eyes narrowed even more as she examined him closer and closer, until eventually their faces were centimetres away at best.
"...Are you new?" She asked, not letting up or changing her face. It wasn't exactly what he'd expected, Barbus's own worried expression changing to one of still-worried confusion. Still, he was quick to grasp the bone he'd been thrown.
"Umm...yes?"
He flinched again as Pinkie straightened, letting out a loud and lingering grasp, eyes sparkling. "Oh my goodness!" Before he could ask, she had reached forward and grasped his hand in her own, soft one; it wasn't a sensation Barbus was familiar with, cheeks even turning a little red. "I thought there was something special about you, nobody even told me we were getting another new kid yet!" Pinkie exclaimed, giving her biggest grin yet. "You have to meet all my friends! And the Principals! Oh, but you don't wanna be late to your first lessons, silly, c'mon!"
Without giving him a chance to explain or comment any further, she had yanked him away, setting off down the corridor at an impressive speed, practically ripping his arm from its socket in the process. He had to run to catch up with her; though he remained thoroughly confused as to what exactly had just happened, Barbus decided it was better to just play along for now.
***
"Bombardment!"
A triumphant chuckle from Zuko, and sigh of disappointment from Mordecai, heralded the former's victory in their game. Zuko quickly collected up the cards in the pile that had formed, adding them to his own hand; it was about that time Lorkhan lost patience with them.
“Would you two shut up?” He hissed, still leaning over the walkie-talkie almost religiously. He had been that way all morning, ever since the ‘development’ of Barbus suddenly running into a problem. Throughout the hours they’d been sat there on the grass, Lorkhan had heard incessant female chatter from his end, and the occasional shuffling of feet. The desire to speak up and ask him what the hell was going on was nearly overpowering…but he also didn’t want to blow his cover, not to mention that Barbus technically hadn’t given the signal-word yet. Lorkhan frowned, looking back round at the other two, sat on the grassy verge behind him. “What the hell are you playing, anyway?”
“’Bombardment.’” Zuko answered, slapping a card down atop the one Mordecai had just placed between them. “Toramino showed me how to play. Take two decks of cards, split them in half, make sure each player has the same half. Then you put cards in the middle, one at a time, and if you put the same card down that the other person did you shout ‘Bombardment’. Loser is the first person to run out of cards.” Lorkhan frowned again, mind turning the explanation over.
“Isn’t that…just snap?”
“Something akin to that, yes.” Mordecai agreed, grinning as he put another card down. “Bombardment!” Taking a moment to revel in Zuko’s muttered curses, he collected up all the cards in the middle, their hands once again evened out. Lorkhan rolled his eyes, turning away from them, listening to the chatter of background noise from the walkie-talkie.
After about five minutes, in which time he’d managed to lose the game, Zuko looked up. Giving a small sigh himself, he headed over and sat beside Lorkhan, blank visor swivelling to the other boy. “He’s not going to get away from her, you know?”
“I know.” It was Lorkhan’s turn not to look up, still staring at the walkie-talkie, with a mix of anger and pleading.
“Just relax, geez.” Zuko said again, trying to calm him whilst at the same time not actually show anything in the way of concern. “Look, he’s in deep, deeper than any of us have ever got. You’ll get your information when he gets out of there.”
“You said it yourself.” Lorkhan grunted in response. “We’ve never had anyone in this deep before. This is…genuine unchartered territory…” He was quiet a moment longer, before standing, the brief period of introspection passing as he looked round at the seated Mordecai and his cards.
“Give us a go.”
***
“Hey Pinkie, how come you’re…late…”
Rainbow’s question trailed off in confusion as Pinkie and Barbus sat at the table. The athletic girl was staring at him; they were all staring at him. In truth, he was staring at them, though Barbus consoled himself with the fact that the attentions of five girls he’d never so much as made eye contact with before suddenly giving him their full attention would potentially unman anyone. Even so, he swallowed, trying his best to give them all a small smile as Pinkie giggled.
“This is Barbus!” She grinned, putting an arm round his shoulder and pulling him towards her in some bastardisation of a side-hug. “He’s new, so I’ve been showing him round all morning!” They didn’t look convinced, Dash tilting her head a little, but at least they didn’t have any reason to not believe it. “Say hi, Barbus!” Pinkie insisted, giving him a friendly poke. For a moment he still didn’t say anything, giving another swallow.
“…Hello.” He said, again, deciding to stick with the classics.
“Ah…howdy there, partner…” One of them, wearing a hat, ventured in a thick country accent. She at least forced herself to brighten into something resembling a smile. “Well…ah’m Applejack. Y’all have met Pinkie,” She gave what Barbus could only describe as a sympathetic smile, which honestly seemed completely appropriate. “An’ these are mah friends: Rainbow Dash, Rarity, an’ Fluttershy.” She paused, blushing hard. “Oh…an’ Sunset Shimmer.” Applejack added, shooting the girl an apologetic look. Sunset at least didn’t react to the farmgirl’s mistake, instead continuing to stare at him untrustingly, whilst Fluttershy gave a cautious smile and wave. It took a moment for Barbus to catch on to who she was; when he did, it was hard to keep the grin from his face.
“Hey, Fluttershy.” He said, not shouting but certainly putting a little emphasis on the name so the bug picked it up. Although their walkie-talkie was still off, Barbus could just imagine Zuko and Mordecai’s laughter whilst Lorkhan blushed up a storm. “And others. It’s… nice to meet you.” He lied. Fluttershy looked surprised he’d singled her out, but smiled again, nodding.
“Uh-huh…” Sunset said, finally deciding to speak up as she regarded him closely. “You…too…where’re you from?” She asked suddenly, not letting up. It caught the boy off guard, making him take a moment to respond.
“O…” He caught himself, eyes widening, as the natural answer almost pushed its way over his lips without thinking. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Barbus tried to make the pause look like nothing, even as his heart rate started to pick up once more. “Oregon.” He finished, wincing internally at the rushed nature of the answer even as he gave a calm grimace. “I’m from Oregon.” He re-iterated. They all stared at him, with the exception of Pinkie, even more flummoxed than they were before.
“I…see.” Rarity said, with a smile that was painfully forced. “Well…welcome to Canterlot High…I suppose…” He nodded, giving an equally brittle smile in return. At the very least, the brief discourse did seem to make them lose interest in him; the rest of the girls went back to their own conversations around the table, only occasionally granting him furtive looks. Barbus sat, a little awkwardly, staring at the table and doing his best not to squirm in place. He couldn’t be certain, but getting his head dunked into the toilet by Kroeger and his goons may well have felt better than the simple uncomfortableness of this infiltration.
“I think they like you.” Pinkie whispered melodramatically to him, leaning closer and remaining blissfully unaware of his real identity. The suddenness of her voice made him flinch defensively, drawing a quick glance from Fluttershy. Once he was certain that she hadn’t got that close to visit some ill-treatment unto him – a novel idea to Barbus – he relaxed a little.
“They don’t seem to trust me.” He whispered back, silently finishing with ‘they’re right not to’ in his head. “Your friend…Sunset, in particular.” It was true; she was annoyingly competent, it would seem. Pinkie just giggled, shaking her head.
“Oh, it’s not that…well, it is, but she’s kinda suspicious of everyone at the moment!” Pinkie explained, as if that made things better. “Like I said, she was showing these girls around, and now everyone else is angry with each other…she’s actually really nice.” The girl assured, smiling. Barbus didn’t really believe her, but decided not to press it any further.
“So…whah exactly are ya skippin’ soccer practice tonight, again?” Applejack asked as the lunch hour dragged on, eyes focused on Rainbow as she spoke.
“Uhh, I’m not ‘skipping’, AJ.” The athlete reiterated, as if she actually believed it. “I’m just…y’know, taking a night off, that’s all.” She looked at them all in turn for a moment, leaning nonchalantly back in her seat with blue arms folded over her chest, before sighing. “Oh, c’mon…new Daring Do book, I’m not waiting an extra two hours to find out what happens!”
“Oh yes, that did come out at the weekend, didn’t it?” Rarity nodded, with a genuine smile this time. “How is it, dear?” Rainbow’s face lit up at the question, face practically radiating excitement as she spun round in her chair to face them.
“Uh, awesome, what d’ya think?! This time, Daring Do goes to this jungle-continent, and has to outwit these weird lizard-people to get the idol of Kroak!” She squee’d, raspy voice cracking a little. “I’m only like, halfway through, right now she’s in the city of Xla…Xlo…” Her smile faded, a frustrated expression crossing Rainbow’s face as she thought. “C’mon, I know this…it’s like, Xli-“
“Xlanhuapec.”
Rainbow stopped, words catching in her throat, as she and all the others looked round in surprise. None were more surprised than Barbus, who seemingly hadn’t intended to speak out loud. “I…” He looked at them all again for a moment, realising he had to finish. “It’s…the temple-city of Xlanhuapec…y’know, if we’re thinking of the same thing.” He mumbled, shrugging.
“I…yeah…that’s it.” Rainbow nodded, evidently still caught off guard. “You…read Daring Do too?” She asked, inclining her head a little. The boy wasn’t sure exactly what to say, so just gave a nod. Dash looked at him for a few seconds longer, before the faintest hint of a smile began to creep across her face. “That’s…that’s pretty cool. I haven’t met anyone else here who reads ‘em…except Twilight, when she was here.”
“Yeah?” He asked, ignoring her last point as he looked up a little. “Me too, at my…old school, people used to say I was weird for doing it.” Technically, that had the advantage of not actually being a lie.
“What?” Rainbow expressed, obviously amazed. “What’s weird about liking awesome stuff?...Dude, the end of the book before the last one, where she finds out Ahuizotl’s her grandfather?” She asked, grin plastered across her face.
“I know!” He said, knowing he didn’t need to say any more, smiling at her; to his own surprise, part of Barbus realised he was actually relaxed. “Or in the movie, where she’s fighting the rock-golem on the bridge?”
“That’s like, the best part!” Rainbow finished, giving him her full attention now – and ignoring the astonished looks of the others. “There’s a con that’s gonna be in town soon, like, next month.”
“Really?” He asked, genuinely surprised. “I hadn’t heard anything about that.”
“Mm-hmm!” Dash nodded. “Apparently it’s just a little thing, only half a convention hall, but I’ve never been before…” She trailed off, silence falling for a moment. “Favourite book?” The athlete asked eventually. Barbus tilted his head, mulling it over, trepidation forgotten for the moment.
“Probably…the Claw of Huegh.” He decided, nodding sagely. Rainbow nodded too, with a lopsided grin.
“Not bad…not bad.” She agreed, shooting him a teasing smirk. “But it’s not ‘Endless Wastes’…aw man, the bit where she has to fight the monsters, I could not get to sleep until I finished it.” She looked thoughtful again. “What were they? Minotaur, Hydra…what was the last one again?”
“Basilisk.” He said, nonchalantly. Rainbow nodded, and might have said something in return. But he didn’t hear it as Barbus’s body froze; a deep, towering feeling of horror starting to well up in his gut as what he’d just said sank in.
“Belay that order.”
He spoke calmly, words directed for the bug on his lapel, even as panic started to rise inside him. The girls stopped, frowning at him a little, not comprehending.
“Are…y-you okay?” Fluttershy asked. He didn’t answer, or even look at her, standing and staring at his collar as his voice became more frantic.
“Belay that order!”
***
“We’re coming, Barbus!”
Lorkhan’s ‘heroic’ cry wasn’t really dedicated at anyone in particular as the three of them ran for Canterlot High’s front door, but he shouted it anyway. The moment he’d heard the word ‘Basilisk’ – and he had to give Barbus credit for working it so cleverly into conversation with his captors, for a moment Lorkhan had actually believed he was genuine – he’d been on his feet, sprinting for the door with Zuko and Mordecai in tow.
“This does seem rather drastic, old sport!” The latter called out, keeping pace regardless and showing no sign of tiredness. As they pushed the building’s front doors open.
“We never leave a man behind!” Lorkhan called back, voice a snarl. True, he wasn’t really certain what his own plan to deal with this was, but it was the thought that counted.
“With…all due respect, Lorkhan, I rather think that’s just you!” Mordecai retorted. Lorkhan wasn’t listening, the trio skidding to a halt as he looked around the main foyer. It had sounded like Barbus’d been taken to the canteen, but…well, he didn’t exactly know where that was.
“Y’know, we could just actually listen to what he’s saying.” Zuko pointed out, voice level as he glanced over at Lorkhan. In response, the boy reached into his belt, pulling out the walkie-talkie through which their companions shouts were echoing.
“Can’t you hear?” He asked. “They’re torturing him!” Ignoring the mumble from Zuko, he glanced around again. “Look for…something. Anything to cause a distraction.”
They did. But when the distraction came, it was not from them. Lorkhan flinched as the fire bell, suddenly, began to ring like crazy, the loud chiming echoing through the halls. He looked round with a smirk, though it swiftly died as he saw both his companions still standing there.
“Wasn’t us.” Zuko shrugged. Frowning, Lorkhan took another glance around, methodically scanning the whole corridor. Eventually, he spotted the culprit; the man standing beside the fire alarm was certainly imposing, almost as big as Principal Perturabo, with a craggy face and whispy, long hair. Lorkhan frowned, feeling like he knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. The man just smiled, looking at Lorkhan a moment longer before slipping away.
The unexpected fire-drill had caused something of a panic amongst some students, and into it all stumbled Barbus; he seemed to have escaped from his captors, looking around almost in a daze. They spotted him a second before he spotted him, and as Barbus opened his mouth to speak, Lorkhan had already grasped him. Navigating their way through the mass of students all arguing with each other was surprisingly easy, just as easy as ignoring all of Barbus’s protests about his ‘rescue’. When they slipped outside, going virtually unnoticed by all who passed, Lorkhan, Mord’ and Zuko had already started running – leaving their crumbling friend with little choice but to run and catch up, fuming all the way.
If the cold at first had been consistently unpleasant, now it was brutal. It had set in under skin, right down to the bone, feeling like it was threatening to lock joints solid. So disorienting was the ever-present, freezing sensation that it seemed to almost be driving the tiny Xenos walking at the group of Astartes’s feet to say something out of desperation.
Not that he would, of course, if he knew what was good for him.
Baramiel, formerly of the First Legion’s Twelfth Order, and now battle-brother of the Dark Angel Chapter’s third company, paid the Xenos no further mind, and returned to his brooding. That was no unusual thing for a son of the Lion, to brood, but even with that said he and his three remaining brothers had truly been going above and beyond in recent days. He could not blame them; he knew he did not want to be here as much as they did not want to. He wanted to find their Chaplain. He wanted to return to the Rock, or whatever it was they were now calling the remnants of Caliban. He wanted to leave their erstwhile companions behind, and return to the Hunt that mattered. Selfish, yes, but with the way Uzzael’s death still hung heavy upon them he reckoned he could allow himself a brief period of melancholia.
The helmeted Space Marine’s thoughts were distracted as the crouching, gunmetal-grey figure gave a sniff. Beneath the plate of his Crusader-pattern headpiece, Baramiel felt his lips curl in disgust. That was another thing. They were waiting on a Space Wolf.
“You look as frosty as Russ’s smile, brother.” As if his thoughts had been open to the air, the deep voice sounded in his ear, a chuckle not long in following. Suppressing a sigh, Baramiel turned only fractionally as one of the other Tactical Marines, Gideon, approached.
“Was that a jest, brother?” He asked back over the private channel, not bothering to hide the tiredness in his words. “That is unlike you.” He kept the implicit request for the other Angel to keep with tradition unspoken.
“True.” Gideon conceded, pauldrons grinding and rising fractionally in what presumably was a shrug. “But you were shooting proverbial daggers into the back of our feral friend’s head, and I thought it was only right I intervened.”
Baramiel’s curt response was forestalled as the other Calibanite’s words sank in. He had been staring, now he thought about it; it was a breach of emotion, unbecoming of a knight of the Order. His thanks, such as they were, were conveyed in a slight inclination of the head, but that was enough to convince Gideon to keep talking. “You don’t like him, do you?” It was clear that he was referring to the Grey Hunter, and apparently the other Dark Angel took Baramiel’s grunt of disinterest as a question in return. “I do. He’s not too bad.”
That was sufficiently surprising to make Baramiel actually turn, inclining his forest-green helmet quizzically, even as the arctic air threatened to freeze his robes solid. “Uzzael would reprimand you, if he had heard that.”
“Then it is a good thing that Uzzael is no longer with us.” Gideon retorted. Inside his helmet, Baramiel once again felt an expression of displeasure crossing his face.
“Careful, brother.” He warned, voice low. “That one was in bad taste.” Gideon held his gaze a moment, their blood-red eye lenses unwavering. Then, he relented, bowing his head in contrition. Silence descended for a while after that, occasionally followed by the group following Helsturnn as he directed them towards the supposed train-tracks. The Blood Angel was engaged in his own quiet conversation with Joshua, the other tactical marine, whilst the two Iron Hands as ever kept to themselves.
“I have an observation.” Gideon suddenly piped up. Baramiel had not realised they were still conversing, and couldn’t quite hold off a sigh on that one. Once again, however, Gideon appeared to take that as incentive to continue, the palm of his gauntlet rubbing around the pommel of the ceremonial sword at his side. “This was a good world, once.” For the second time in their conversation, Baramiel found himself taken thoroughly off guard, looking round at Gideon oddly.
“A Xenos world?” He asked, as if clarifying he hadn’t misheard. “You think this was ever a haven? All we have seen so far is ice and corruption.”
“Which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, makes it hard to form a judgement.” Gideon countered. He had a point. “But, yes, I do. This was a peaceful world once, before the traitors came.” He paused, giving something that could have been a sigh of his own. “It is…different now. Something more than just their lands has been lost in this whole, sorry mess…” He trailed off, as if remembering himself, inclining his head again. “Forgive me, brother. I ramble.”
“You do.” Baramiel agreed, though the apology made him content to let the matter slide. Even had the Astartes wished to say any more, he would have been cut off; as they began to walk again, Helsturnn tapped something with the tip of a ceramite boot. Kneeling, he wiped away a few layers of the thick snow, a grin crossing his canine features once more.
“There’s your damn railway, Angel.” He remarked, as gruffly as ever. Sergeant Nehemiah – who, up until this moment, had remained as stoically silent as ever – did not offer the Fenrisan any words of thanks, head slowly panning to follow the rails. Baramiel watched him, the urge to scrutinise coded into his gene-seed pushing to the fore.
“What are you watching for?” He murmured, the question directed mainly at himself. Gideon was still close enough to hear, not averting his own gaze.
“Who knows?” The other Angel retorted, his voice just as low. “The only time I have seen him look so maudlin is when our…’eternal friends’ are involved.” At the mention of them, both Astartes promptly fell silent, shame and anger bubbling gently in both their guts.
“You said it yourself.” None of them had expected the machine-drawl that was Voss’s voice to break the silence, but break it it did, the son of Ferrus taking a step forward. “The tracks will lead us to the Xenos’s fallen capital. There, we will find the source of this Chaotic breach, and purge it from existence.” Always so certain. “Anything else is a waste of time.” The Iron Hand’s brother, Moulkain, as well as Zuriel remained diplomatically silent, whilst Helsturnn gave a low murmur of agreement.
“The plan has not changed, brother.” Nehemiah assured, after a moment’s pause. “Caution, however, can be as acceptable a virtue.” That would certainly rattle a few of them, and Baramiel even briefly considered whether his sergeant had actually made a joke. Nehemiah had begun walking before he could decide either way, heading the direction they presumed was away from the Crystal city. The other Astartes followed suite, whilst the pony continued to awkwardly trot through the snow by their feet.
It was actually him that broke the quiet that time, in a move that would undeniably have surprised the transhuman had they had time to process it before things got considerably worse. They had all by now gotten used to the way the taint sunk into the world of Equestria manipulated the surroundings, carrying rocks through the air or making snow fall upwards. So, when the rails began to gently shake, even the Wolf paid it little mind. As the shaking grew more pronounced, and they stopped to examine it, it dawned on the Xenos before any of his Astartes guardians.
“Why…haven’t we heard the train for a while?” Adamant Tower asked, voice shaky, ears folding against his head.
The scream of the engine’s horn answered the question before any of them got the chance. As if it had been hiding behind some stage curtain that was suddenly pulled back, the ‘train’ crashed into existence. To name it any sort of mode of transportation seemed generous; it had clearly once been cutesy, the carriages looking almost like muffins whilst stylised hearts formed both decoration and the shape of some windows, but the Warp had not even left that untouched. Trails of multi-coloured aetheric fire streaked off it as the daemon engine sped forwards, whilst some of the wheels were replaced with muscled legs to drag itself forwards. Tentacles burst from windows and lashed violently through the air whilst molten metal and fouler-looking liquids dripped constantly from the flanks and underside of the machine. Most disturbing of all was the front, once a simple plough and exhaust, now mutated into a leering face with far too many eyes that howled and chomped pointlessly at the air as it sped forwards, seeming to chew up the very track as it went.
Whilst Adamant Tower screamed, the Astartes moved into action fluidly and without conscious thought. They fanned out, unslinging their bolters, though all were conscious that they had precious little ammunition remaining to them. Zuriel drew back, the precious gene-seed his narthecium now carried tempering his more aggressive side, whilst the Iron Hand’s usually emotionless frames now radiated unbridled horror. Briefly, Baramiel wondered whether they would be safe simply backing away from the train-tracks. That idea, however, was quickly put paid to; with a sickening, grinding sound, the daemon engine actually lurched off the track, the rock deep beneath the snow protesting as the hell-bound wheels were dragged over it. The lack of a conventional means to carry itself didn’t seem to mind the train, which whipped around like a steel snake in an attempt to grind the Astartes beneath itself.
Helsturnn, as always, was the first to charge. He pounded across the snow like it was nothing, not slowed for a second, his chainsword already out and howling through the air as he leapt. What exactly he was intending to do wasn’t clear, but the grey-armoured warrior certainly cut an impressive figure as he closed through the air like a thunderbolt; the tentacle that shot out and closed tightly around him, then, was even more sickening. The Grey Hunter howled some more, in frustration rather than pain, as the slick appendage coiled around his waist and began to tighten. As he thrashed, more of them burst from the side of the train, closing around legs and arms and sending the *crack* of splitting Ceramite through the air. He had no love for the man, but Baramiel’s battle-senses kicked in anyways, raising his bolter and firing once. The unerringly accurate shot struck a tentacle, blowing it apart from the inside in a shower of gore. Capitalising on the momentary distraction, and his freed arm, Helsturnn clawed and bit deep into the limb restraining his waist, the pressure leaving instantly as it retracted, the Wolf spinning almost gracefully in the tentacles that still held him to lash out with his sword. Their ends dropped off as the teeth passed through them, and he dropped too, though the momentum of the train sent him crashing head-first into the snow and rolling over and over.
There was no time to aid him, the other Astartes similarly beset. For such a monstrous engine, the train was surprisingly agile, hissing and roaring as it slid through the snow. The carriages lashed out like wrecking balls behind it, forcing any in their path to run as fast as they could or dive for cover. For the Iron Hands, the latter was not much of an option. They held their ground, firing in short, efficient and hate-fuelled bursts, only retreating when absolutely necessary. More than once, it almost cost them their lives. Voss was caught by the back end of the last carriage, the force of the impact sending him through the air, landing as hard as the Wolf had.
Gideon had a point, in his own way, Baramiel mused, firing off another shot into the machine’s flank. Perhaps once, this world was worth defending. Now we are tossed around like ragdolls, and what does it matter? He had precious little time to indulge some melancholic thoughts further, as he felt the presence of Joshua and Gideon by his sides. The former was still one-armed, but adjusting to the disability well, pistol clasped in his remaining hand and barking with each shot. The bolts sunk deep into the train’s sides, but they didn’t seem to be doing more than irritating the Daemonic entity.
“We are getting nowhere with this.” Joshua grumbled, back off as the ammo-clip ran dry, forcing him to swap to his bolter. The other two Dark Angels gave grunts of acknowledgement, maintaining their short firing bursts. Even as he did, Baramiel found himself wondering where their sergeant had got to. His question was answered quickly enough as Nehemiah suddenly came into view. The Astartes officer was, much like Helsturnn had, making a beeline charge for the train. He seemed to be having much greater success thanks to the energised edge of his power sword, wielding it with knightly skill and hacking off a seemingly-endless rush of tentacles as he swung his weapon in great arcs. Eventually, he reached the side of their enemy; taking his sword above his head in a two-handed grip, Nehemiah struck down, passing the blade through the corrupted metal and tearing a clean gouge into the side of the machine. It didn’t have any obvious effect, besides just making the machine angrier. With a howl, the train twisted again, the sergeant beating a hasty retreat. Behind his helmet, Baramiel frowned.
What are you doing…
The answer hit him the moment he saw the monstrous train open its mouth and roar again in animalistic frustration. He had to hand it to him, his sergeant was no tactical slouch. Seeing that Voss had already risen, some of his bionics giving the occasional spark, the tactical marine made a beeline for him, strafing around the possessed engine.
“Brother.” He said when he reached him, cutting straight to the chase. “Do you have a melta-bomb?”
“One.” Voss answered, not turning to look at the Dark Angel or inquiring any further. Even when he saw the maw at the front of the train open once more and understanding dawned, the Iron Hand gave no more acknowledgement than a nod and mumble of “very well”. Covered by their bolter fire, he began to advance at a steady and relentless pace, striding over the torn-up ground as he primed the bomb.
Nehemiah was still running, robes whipping behind him as he sprinted, daemon engine snapping at his heels. He caught the Iron Hand’s eyes, veering round and powering towards him. The train kept on coming, snaking around again, skidding over the ice. The melta-bomb was already in Voss’s iron hand, the red light in the centre blinking furiously as he stopped and braced himself.
They were only going to get one shot at this, and they all knew it. Nehemiah peeled off, banking harshly to the side, but the possessed machine was in no such position to do so. It kept on coming, murderous attention now refocused solely on the onyx-clad marine. Voss did not waver, or even seem to move at all, staring down the onrushing foe with mechanical impassiveness.
When the train was no more than ten feet away, he finally moved with a speed his usually ponderous nature wouldn’t suggest. One arm shot out, hurling the explosive through the air almost like a discus, before his bionic legs compressed and sprang Voss out the way. The train had no way of avoiding the throw, not at such a short distance. The melta-bomb passed between its teeth, sinking deep down into whatever passed for the thing’s gullet. It still kept on coming for a few moments, wheels and claws grinding across the ground, before the device detonated – with one last howl, the daemon engine came apart in a mighty plume of fire, the arctic wastes seeming to shake a little as it did. Shrapnel that had once formed the train’s body hurtled through the air, forcing the Astartes to duck or risk getting their heads taken off. Only when it everything had finally fallen silent did they dare rise, glancing around to make sure the sound hadn’t attracted any more monsters from beyond the veil. In that, at least, they seemed to have gotten lucky.
Nehemiah patted Voss’s pauldron once, though the Iron Hand gave no reply. Noticing one of the pieces of shrapnel near him, Helsturnn walked over to it, crouching down to read the faded words scrawled on the side.
“’The Friendship Express’.” He quote, growling again. “We almost got killed by something called the Friendship Express.” He stood up, giving the metal a kick.
“Is it Iron Warrior?” Moulkain asked, the Iron Hand actually deigning to speak for once. Helsturnn shook his head. Zuriel, meanwhile, appeared to have suddenly thought of something as the Wolf spoke; he searched around in the snow for a few moments, eventually kneeling and pulling something out. Adamant Tower hung slightly limp in his grasp, obviously shaken by the monstrous engine, which was perhaps understandable.
“Are you alright?” The Blood Angel asked, words lent an echo by his Maximus-pattern helmet. It took the pony a few moments to reply, and when he did it was with a small shiver.
“I…can’t help but feel like a bit of an afterthought on this.” He chuckled weakly. The Apothecary nodded, not asking what he meant as he lowered the equine back to the ground. Their pulses all just about calmed by now, the Astartes returned their attention to the remaining train tracks, stretching out into the distance.
“Well…at least we don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Helsturnn chuckled humourlessly, gesturing with his head towards the carcass of the train. They didn’t even wait for the order this time, the Astartes resuming their trudge towards what had once been the capital of Equestria, pony in tow.
In the centre of it all were Baramiel, and Nehemiah. The sergeant had not moved, not yet, and the tactical marine couldn’t quite keep his eyes off his brother. Now he had noticed the officer’s even more pronounced than usual brooding, it was all he could focus on. Nehemiah looked up, meeting the other Dark Angel’s gaze. He held it for a moment, seeming to grimace despite the helmet covering his face, before the two set off with the sound of boots crunching through the snow their only companion.
***
“Well.”
Somehow, the way Principal Perturabo spoke the solitary word made Lorkhan feel even more uncomfortable than had the man immediately launched into a tirade. It was all he could do not to physically squirm in his seat, and that was restrained purely because to do so would have been a complete admission of weakness. In the seats beside him – though he, of course, had been placed squarely in the middle – Barbus and Zuko seemed to be having much the same sort of reaction. Mordecai, of course, was the only exception, and even he’d been made to shut up for once.
In some schools, the Principal’s office was perhaps a room of finery, a room designed to impress. Principal Perturabo’s office was not one of those. There were no windows, the only illumination provided by a flickering and dying lighting strip on the ceiling. Filing cabinets filled the back wall, whilst the centre of the room was dominated by a desk that looked like it was made of pure steel. There were a few papers and pens on it, all meticulously organised, as well as what looked like a bobblehead in the shape of some sort of heavily-armoured walker. They didn’t question it. The other thing they didn’t question hung on the wall, behind the Principal’s desk; where other teachers might have kept their diploma, Perturabo instead hung a single newsclipping. Though Lorkhan was doing his best to ignore it, he couldn’t ignore the words ‘local man ruins everything’ printed in bold as the headline. Probably best he didn’t say anything about that.
“Well.” The boy’s attention was diverted anyway as the Principal spoke again, his slate-grey eyes never seeming to even blink. His voice was like stone smashing together, leaving a profound sense of dread to settle in the group. “You seem to have been on quite the adventure yesterday.”
Perturabo’s words were addressed to them all, but some part of Lorkhan knew they were directed mainly at him. Swallowing, he ran his hands together nervously; after they’d sprinted away from Canterlot High the previous day, he almost dared to believe they’d at least gotten away with it, with the help of the strange man who’d pulled the fire alarm. That had lasted until midway through that morning, when the four of them had been briskly summoned to the Principal’s office. Realising that the eyes of his companions were on him, he took a deep breath; he might not have been a nice guy, but he wouldn’t shirk from responsibility.
“Yes…sir.” He added, keeping his voice and expression steady as he replied, not quite able to look the Principal in the eye. “Yes, we did…” Perturabo nodded from behind the desk, hands still clasped before him, apparently appreciating the honesty at least.
“So,” He said. “You admit it was you?” Feeling the others still looking at him, Lorkhan nodded again.
“Yes…it was.” He repeated. “It was my idea, sir…I was behind it. They were just following orders.” Zuko, Barbus, and even Mordecai seemed surprised at his shifting of the blame all onto himself, but they were all smart enough not to say anything. Principal Perturabo didn’t seem particularly moved either way.
“You were the commander of this little operation, then?” He asked, eyes narrowing. Feeling himself want to squirm again, Lorkhan just nodded. “Do you know,” The Principal asked, after a moment. “How much effort I have had to expend covering your arse after you and your little company’s series of ‘raids’?” Lorkhan gave an audible gulp, shaking his head. “My counterpart from Canterlot High is not pleased with your antics.” Perturabo finished, not really answering his own question. “I defended you only because you are some of my own, and I don’t particularly feel much care for any of you in the first place.”
There was nothing Lorkhan could say, not in the face of such towering displeasure. So he just nodded, shrinking in a little on himself in spite of his best efforts, as if Perturabo’s anger was a physical force. The Principal took a deep breath, but even his exhalation sounded disapproving. “I admire your tenacity,” He admitted, glancing over them all now, sounding sincere enough. “But this great crusade of yours, Lorkhan. It ends now.”
Even now, part of him wanted to protest, to impose upon the man the importance of just what Lorkhan was doing; nothing he could have said would have met with a positive reception, though. And so the boy capitulated, nodding submissively at the demand, looking down and closing his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He agreed, still keeping his voice level as he prepared to ask the question that was on all their minds. “Are you…going to decimate us?”
It was a stupid question, really; of course they were going to get decimated. They were going to get decimated so hard, they would not be able to recall a time before being decimated. And yet, Principal Perturabo did not speak straight away. He did not speak for a long time, and Lorkhan didn’t dare look up, even as his gut churned in nervous confusion. When he finally did, it was hardly what any of them had expected.
“What did you find?”
Lorkhan couldn’t help his confused frown as he looked up. For a few moments, he was robbed of words, even with the Principal’s penetrating glare. Thankfully for him, it was then that Mordecai finally chose to intervene.
“If I may, sir?” He asked, in his usual polite and cheery voice. Perturabo’s gaze shifted to him, the man giving a single nod. “Barbus here was a remarkably effective agent.” Mordecai admitted, the boy he’d named unable to stop himself given a small smile of satisfaction. “We learned there is some awfully bizarre form of division amongst our good counterparts at Canterlot High; frightfully odd, and none of us can quite work out why.” He shrugged. “Although, if I may be so bold sir, presumably it is something to do with their upcoming Battle of the Bands competition…from what we understand, it’s being taken rather seriously.”
It was, again, a long time before Perturabo spoke. Throughout the whole, drawn-out silence, Lorkhan had to physically restrain himself from throttling Mordecai for admitting that that was the only real thing they’d gleaned. Zuko and Barbus, wisely, remained silent, though they did cast a glance at one another.
“Battle…of the Bands.” The Principal said slowly, as if making sure he had heard correctly. The way Mordecai nodded enthusiastically made Lorkhan physically wince. Perturabo gave a low sigh, slab-like body unmoving. “Enter it.”
It was Lorkhan’s turn to question if his ears were functioning properly. He looked up, eyes wide, the rest of his face drawn into even more of a perturbed frown than before.
“…Come again?” He asked, forgetting discipline for a moment.
“Enter it.” Perturabo repeated, ignoring the momentary slip as he held Lorkhan’s gaze. “I do not care what you have to do. Enter it, and prove our superiority over Celestia’s precious little students. If you win, we will forget this ever happened.” The Principal’s countenance darkened again as he leaned over the table a little, seeming to tower above them all. “And, if you lose…well…the shame of defeat will be the least of your worries.”
Lorkhan gulped again, as did the others, all of them forced down into their seats further. In truth, he wanted to do anything except what Perturabo had asked of them, the very idea of it making him feel angry and nauseous in equal measure. His fear at that moment, however, trumped all those emotions; before he even really realised what he was doing, he gave a shaky nod. That seemed to satisfy the Principal, who sat back in his seat and already began to look over the papers on his desk.
“Get out of my sight.” Was the only way he acknowledged them. None of the four boys had to be told twice, all of them rising from their seats and practically sprinting from the office.
***
“So, are you getting decimated?”
To Lorkhan’s evident surprise, there were actually people waiting for them outside the office. Rorke cut straight to the chase, his expression just as feral and thunderous as ever as he folded his arms over his chest. Varvillon seemed just as expectant, whilst the stocky form of Vortun dominated the group as he looked down at them. “You’re getting decimated, aren’t you?” Rorke asked again, growling, a finger spasming at some misfiring synapse. “It’s your own fault, I told you it was a stupid plan.”
“Actually, Rorke, we’re not.” Zuko snapped, his annoyance plain even behind the motorcycle helmet. The short boy frowned, glancing at them all in turn. Lorkhan chewed his lower lip, trying to think of how best to phrase this.
“Well…not…exactly.” He said, drumming his fingers on an arm. “I…don’t suppose any of you can play an instrument?”
Silence descended, all three of them looking at him in unmitigated confusion. “…Tell me zat is a joke.” Vortun rumbled, his words slow and laden with warning. Lorkhan sighed, but shook his head, explaining to the three newcomers what exactly had occurred inside the Principal’s office. As they listened, at least Rorke and Varvillon’s faces changed from puzzlement to abject horror, whilst Vortun remained outwardly impassive.
“No.” Rorke cut him off before he could even finish. “No. I’m not doing it. Fuck that, fuck you.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby about this, old sport.” Mordecai tutted, rolling his eyes. “We need all the support we can get, and I can almost guarantee it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Shut up, Mordecai.” Barbus grumbled, the first thing he’d said in a long time. “It’s your fault for mentioning that stupid Battle of the Bands in the first place.”
“Well, what would you have had me do, lie?” The polite boy retorted, turning to face Barbus. “You know full well that Principal Perturabo would have seen straight through us.” Barbus grumbled, looking away; he’d been particularly crabby ever since they’d pulled him out of the school the previous day, though he hadn’t actually explained why.
“I’m not fucking doing it.” Rorke repeated in a growl, absolutely adamant. “Not this time, Lorkhan. We’re Olympia High, we don’t make pretty pictures, we don’t pride ourselves on athletics or any of that shit, and we definitely don’t form bands!” He’d clearly worked himself up, shaking a little and having to restrain himself from trying to kick something.
“I repeat.” Zuko muttered, mostly to himself. “Isn’t it nice when we all get together like this?”
“Rorke’s right, Lorkhan.” Varvillon said, the admission clearly a difficult one to make. “If we did this…it would be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. I mean, imagine if anyone else got wind of it: Toramino, Kroeger, Berossus. We’d get run out of town by them for having lost our minds.”
“Look,” Lorkhan interceded, grimacing. “I bloody hate this as much as you all do, believe me. But does it really sound like we get a choice?” He looked at Rorke, Vortun and Varvillon, who glanced at one another. “You guys knew what we were doing, that makes you culpable…you think the Principal would just let you off?” He might have done, but that didn’t seem to occur to them, the trio all looking a little nervous. “Besides, Rorke said it himself, we’re Olympia High. How good can those Canterlot losers be compared to us?” He went on. Appealing to some sense of communal pride was a gamble, but amazingly, it actually seemed to work. Lorkhan was quick to capitalise. “It’ll be fine. We’ll just go, win this bastard thing, and no-one except us will ever know.”
“Students.” No sooner had the last words left his mouth, the school intercom network crackled to life, Perturabo’s voice ringing out over the speakers. “Your contemporary Lorkhan and his group of accomplices will be performing in the Canterlot High Battle of the Bands in the near future. Feel free to mock them heartily.” A pause. “Also, you’re worthless and I hate every one of you.” As the intercom shut off, Lorkhan was well aware of the six pairs of eyes furiously boring into him.
“Well, well, well.” During the momentary announcement, it seemed none of them had heard the other group emerging at the end of the corridor. They knew that voice, though; silently fuming, they turned as one towards the sound of the noise.
“Andraaz.” Lorkhan muttered, face dark, as the others fell in behind him. Andraaz smirked, at the centre of his own group. He was shorter than Lorkhan, but broader, hair cropped close to his skull and an ugly scar running down one cheek. It would not have been accurate to say he and Lorkhan were rivals, but Andraaz had certainly made a point of belittling everything he did ever since they’d both arrived at Olympia High. Behind the stout, antagonistic boy were nine of his own compatriots: Morax, his face locked in an eternal sneer. Rhodaan, still looking a little shaken from his own ‘winning’ of the lottery earlier that week. Ipos, the baby-face of the group. Vallax, Algol, Nostraz, the unusually spindly Oriaz, and Gamgin, none of whom Lorkhan knew well or cared to know. And of course, Merihem; he was huge, at least as big as Vortun, grinning whilst the foreign student glared even harder.
“If it isn’t the latest pop sensation,” Andraaz went on, his smirk wide and cruel. “ ‘Lorkhan’s losers’.” His cronies all chuckled at that, whilst Rorke’s hands clenched into fists. Lorkhan didn’t react as blatantly, but his frown didn’t leave.
‘Can I just point out how cliché this all is?” Zuko asked; apparently not, since none of them seemed to be listening. Lorkhan took a step forward, jabbing a finger at him.
“Leave it, Andraaz.” He snarled through gritted teeth. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“No, but it’s so damn funny I can’t not get involved.” He laughed back, hands in his pockets as he and his group ambled over, getting right into Lorkhan’s face. “I can only imagine how you got into this situation…when you lose to a bunch of effeminate Canterlot babies, do you become one of them or something?” He asked. “It’d be a better fit for you.” They all laughed at that, whilst Lorkhan tried just to keep his temper in check, Varvillon muttering behind him.
“We’re not going to lose.” He said flatly, Zuko’s ‘cliché’ comment ringing in his ears for some reason. “Actually, we’re going to win. We’re going to kick the arse of everyone at Canterlot High in this competition, and when they finally admit that we are better than them...it will all be because of us.” He finished, glad none of his own group argued. Andraaz raised an eyebrow, snorting derisively.
“No.” He replied bluntly. “You won’t…you’re going to lose, because you’re a loser. And when you all do, nobody will ever let you forget it.” For a moment, Lorkhan thought the boy was about to do something even more patronising, like tap his cheek. Andraaz thankfully didn’t, chuckling one more time before turning on his heel and marching away. His associates followed suite, whilst the other boys continued just to shoot daggers into the back of their heads.
“Come on.” Lorkhan growled when they were gone, need for both validation and vengeance burning in a way that felt oddly…right. “There’s got to be a music room around here somewhere.”
They walked for a long time, and for the most part it was without stopping. The encounter with the Daemon Engine had finally snapped the already-strained patience of the Astartes, and Adamant Tower’s dislike at being out in the wilderness before had been refined into a near inability to even think straight while he was. He hadn’t told any of his towering companions about that, but the pony guessed they were relatively aware even without him speaking up. And so, they just walked, stopping to rest only when they had too and following the twisting and in some places, nearly indecipherable, path of the train-tracks. Most of all, they attempted to ignore the occasional malicious chuckles that carried through the air around them, dogging their heels at every step.
Some part of Adamant Tower had assumed that they were going to follow the line all the way to the very end, marching right into whatever was left of the city of Canterlot – though he had no idea how much was even left, given that every story he’d heard said a different thing, though they all agreed that it was a haunted place now. He’d been trying to peer up to the mountaintops way in the distance, to see if he could spot any of the remnants of the Capital for himself, but that seemed in vain too. Thick clouds of smoke and mist that were almost certainly not natural coiled around where it would sat, and on occasion the former guard was even able to spot the dark shapes of sky-borne daemons sailing through the skies and towards the peak like it was some kind of debased eyrie. That particular observation left him especially uncomfortable; he’d considered pointing that out to the Astartes, though had swiftly realised that they wouldn’t much care.
In either case, however, Canterlot was not their immediate destination. On the ragtag band’s march, they had passed through the splintered remnants of a few towns, many of them apparently having been ravaged by the Daemonic hordes in the past. Those were the lucky ones; a few, that they always circumnavigated, seemed to have taken the corruption into the souls of their buildings. Corrupted spires made of bone reached up, some ludicrously high and nearly touching the clouds, whilst bulbous growths pulsed on the side of some structures that remained. The only time the Space Marines ever spoke to Adamant Tower at all was when they saw a town, and only then to tell them about it. Some he knew, some he didn’t, but at the very least the armoured aliens always seemed satisfied with his answer.
Eventually, the snows began to recede, opening up onto what would once have been a temperate grassland. The death of the sun had soon put paid to the agreeable climate, all the blades of grass standing to attention beneath their feet and hooves as they passed over it. From what the pony understood, Cloudsdale should have been near here, pumping the sky full of weather. Then again, he didn’t even know if Cloudsdale still existed. Far to the right, just at the edge of his vision, sat the Everfree Forest. Adamant Tower repressed a shiver. Barrack room gossip had always said that the forest was a cursed place, and he didn’t even want to think about what evil lurked beneath its boughs now. It looked like great furrows had been carved through the tree line; there were huge expanses of barren land, as if one or many things had ripped the trees asunder in their fury.
At least one thing had, the pony reminded himself. The dark shape hurtling from the heavens, brining death upon their world.
“It’s…it’s Ponyville.”
It was the first time in a long time that Adamant had spoken without being prompted, and that was enough to make the Astartes stop too, even the Iron Hands training the yellow slits in their helmets upon him. For once, he wasn’t bothered by their scrutiny, or even by the constantly blood-hued sky. The sight he could see from atop the hill they had crested, resting down in the valley below, was enough to send a shiver through him.
“It’s…Ponyville.” He said again, as Nehemiah tilted his helmet within its robes – the closest the Angel ever got to asking a question. Taking a moment to swallow and compose himself, the former Crystal guard nodded. “This was where the Elements of Harmony lived.” ‘Was’ was the operative word; the town was as much a ruin as most of the ones they’d seen before, little more than the skeletons of buildings that were somehow still smoking. In the back of his mind, something told Adamant that they never stopped.
“’Elements of Harmony’?” Helsturnn asked, lupine features creasing in a small sneer. “Never heard of them.”
“You have.” Zuriel countered, voice as soft as it ever got as he nodded. “Fluttershy, their queen-like figure. She was some sort of manifestation of these Elements…some form of psychic power.” He finished, shoulders rising in a shrug. All in all, the pony was merely glad they didn’t ask him to explain what the Elements were.
“Does it matter?” Voss asked, disinterest clear in his machine-like voice. Before the Vigilator could go on, the Dark Angel sergeant stopped him.
“It matters immensely.” Nehemiah said, red eye-lenses refocusing on the town. “If this is where their Elements lived, then this is also where they lived.” He growled the world, and Adamant Tower felt the rest of the Astartes tense at it. He felt himself tense at it, his own sense of outrage mixing with the unrelenting fury that bled from all the Space Marines.
“Especially when we take that into account.” The words came from an Angel, Gideon. His words were not met with questions, not straight away at least. Instead, all followed the point of his green-armoured finger. Once again, they all tensed. The edge of the forest could just about be seen looming into vision, and at its outskirt sat a monster; once, though Adamant Tower could not have known, it had plied the heavens in its mission to carry warriors to forge the Imperium of Man. Later, it had carried those same warriors to destroy what they had built. Its name was Olympian Sun, and even in death the very sight of it was enough to inspire a feeling of dread – or as close to it as the Astartes could feel - in those that looked upon it. Dread, and anger.
“Do we investigate?” Helsturnn asked, raising his chainsword a little in anticipation. Nehemiah remained silent, crimson eyes seeming to burn a hole in the sundered vessel’s flank.
“No.” He decided, and it was clear that the decision cost him. “There is nothing to suggest that our objective lies there, and I have no desire to set foot in that filth.” The Wolf gave a small growl, but he did seem to recognise the sense in that, lowering his weapon. “We will investigate the town.” The Dark Angel decided, refocusing his attention once more. “My brothers will go with Voss, and scout the main town. Moulkain, Helsturnn, Zuriel…Pony.” He said, catching Adamant a little off guard. “That structure, there.” He nodded, inclining his head towards the shattered remains of a farm-house. As one, the Marines all set off, leaving Adamant sprinting to catch up.
They reached the farmhouse in little time, Helsturnn prowling ahead like the lupine beasts from which his Legion took its name, Zuriel and the near-silent Iron Hand Moulkain flanking the pony. They walked through the skeletons of trees in a ruined orchard, across war-ravaged fields that could produce nothing. As they walked, they passed a pole, erected quite haphazardly in the middle of one of those fields. A charred corpse was slumped at the bottom of it, the ropes that had held the pony up burned away by the fire that had also claimed their life. Adamant gave a small wince, quickly moving along. What waited inside the remnants of the farm-house was little better; bodies, three of them, scattered across the floor. One had been cleaved in twain at the waist, whilst the other two’s skulls were shattered beyond repair. As the Astartes spread out, pacing through the remains of the house – not that there was much worthy of examination – the pony trotted over and looked down at the body. Once, a deep sadness might have fallen over him at the sight. Now he just felt tired.
“Did you know them?” He just about managed to stop himself jumping in surprise as the voice spoke up behind him, the surprise coming from both its suddenness and its unfamiliarity. Moulkain, the Iron Hand tactical marine, looked down at the body impassively. It was the first time one of the two black-armoured warriors had actually spoken to Adamant, but that forced only a few moments of silence upon him.
“…would you care?” He retorted, voice flat. Moulkain didn’t say anything, and Adamant found he didn’t care about that either.
“Attend us.” The sudden sound of Nehemiah’s voice from across the vox-network dragged their attentions away from the remains. “In the town square…we have found them.” The link went dead before Moulkain could ask, but it was unlikely that he would have done so anyway. Adamant glanced at him, but the Medusan had already started walking, turning and stomping his way clear of the building. The pony followed, not sparing the bones behind him another look.
I’m becoming more like you. Only in little ways, only bit by bit, but the more time I spend with you the more natural it becomes.
Helsturnn and Zuriel had apparently already got the message, though considering the silence the Marines always walked in it was hard to tell. The rest of the town was just as much a charnel house, the still -decaying bodies of ponies littering the streets. Occasionally, the singular bark of a bolt discharging or the sound of steel being drawn could be heard nearby, but from the fact that no great monstrous hordes descended upon them it seemed likely that these were just to scare off or incapacitate individual lesser daemons prowling round the streets. If nothing else, Adamant could see for himself that the invaders had been thorough. There was not a building left intact; to his left, the remains of a boutique, flattened almost in their entirety. To his right what looked like a bakery, smashed clean through and with more than one roof-timber burnt to a cinder. None of that seemed to interest the Astartes, though, who concentrated around the wreckage of a town square. The moment Adamant joined them, waves of blatant hatred emanating from them hit him, lighting an angry fire in the pony’s belly.
There were bodies. They were not of ponies. Despite the soot and ash, not to mention simple dirt, that had settled upon the plates of the armour scattered around, he could still see the silver glinting beneath. It was not alone. Another body was a few feet away, cracked and curved horns pointing to the sky. Beside it, a gun, almost appearing to be seeping into the earth itself. The flicker of hate swelled brighter in his breast, but it was nothing compared to the Astartes. They stared down at all the corpses, clearly having to fight the urge to desecrate them as they stared at the warped, twisted parodies of themselves.
“So,” Helsturnn growled, loathing thick in his already-rough voice. “It seems the fourth didn’t burn this world without a fight after all.” He prodded the greave of a dead traitor with the tip of his boot, before snarling and giving a harder kick. The body moved ever so slightly, armoured head rolling to the side. With eerie calm, Zuriel stepped forward. The apothecary looked down at the corpse, kneeling beside it. With all their eyes on him, he extended the arm baring his narthecium – that was what it was called, Adamant knew – the drill spinning to life. Tilting the Iron Warrior’s head back, he drilled down into the neck, and then the chest. Withdrawing his bloody arm, the pony could just about see what he held – two innocuous looking organs, one extracted from each location.
“The progenoids.” The Blood Angel said, voice forced to mellowness as he regarded them. “The genetic data of Perturabo.” The scene was very reminiscent of what had happened to Uzzael’s body back in the Crystal Empire, but Adamant tried not to think at that, staring at the two bloody chunks like the rest of the Space Marine.
With a clench of his fist, Zuriel crushed them.
“Wait.” Zuriel was still kneeling as Baramiel spoke, the Dark Angel glancing over all the bodies as their eyes fell on him. “Wait…something about these bodies…it’s strange.” He said, evidently frustrated he couldn’t explain better. “Something is not right.” The other returned their eyes to the dead; predictably, it was the apothecary who worked it out first.
“Their wounds.” He said, glancing over them all again. “These were made with Astartes weapons.” The group looked at him in surprise, before re-examining the evidence. Sure enough, it seemed, the medic had the right of it; the wounds on them were not things ponies could easily have done.
“So?” Voss asked, looking back up. “Traitors killed other traitors. Are we supposed to be surprised?”
“This was not some random, opportunistic act of betrayal.” Zuriel answered, still pouring over the Chaos Marines’ injuries. “Many of them were to the front. And these guns, too, were fire in this area, but there are few pony bodies.” He looked up, giving Voss a sidelong glance. “This wasn’t a backstab. This was at least two factions trying to forthright kill each other.”
Adamant Tower was not really listening to him. His face had hardened, eyes unblinking as an ear twitched. There was a rumbling sound, rising above the constant background noises, heavy treads on the ground that got closer and closer. The pony looked up, Nehemiah beside him.
“I heard it too.” The First Legion sergeant confirmed, before something huge and horrible smashed its way through the side of a building.
***
Lorkhan was, by his own admission, not a reader. He didn’t mind admitting that if asked; he saw himself more as a man of action, in his own mind at least. But he did know people who were readers, and those people had told him a great many things. One of those things, he believed it had been from Mordecai, was about the five stages of grief; some detached part of him, the purely rational side of his brain, told him that this was what he’d just experienced over the course of the last hour.
Well, four stages. He hadn’t quite moved past soul-crushing despair yet.
“We’re going to bloody die.” He mumbled, head in his hands and body hunched over as he sat, which he supposed counted as acceptance in a way. The rest of the cramped, odd-smelling music room had fallen silent now, the rest of the group standing rather sheepishly around a collection of old, battered-looking instruments.
“I…didn’t think we were that bad.” Barbus attempted, giving a small shrug as he folded his arms. The looks the rest of the group, even Mordecai, gave him were enough to shut him up. Lorkhan stayed where he was, face still buried in his hands, giving a stifled groan before looking up and placing his palms together.
“Ok,” He said, with a calm he clearly didn’t feel. “Let’s just…check we’re all on the same page.” He paused again, as if taking the stark reality facing them in. “This Battle of the…the…of the losers is what, this weekend?” They all nodded. “And, with the sole exception of Mordecai’s weird skill with the keyboard…not one of us has any sort of musical talent whatsoever.” The boy who had been complemented gave a little smile of satisfaction, whilst the others just looked at each other gormlessly again. Lorkhan sighed, slumping down in his chair even more. “We’re going to bloody die.” He repeated, mumbling even more this time.
“I do…rather think you’re viewing this rather pessimistically, my friend.” Mordecai interceded, still smiling. “We are just…experimenting, as it were…although I admit that that has never been our strongest point.” He grimaced.
“We don’t even know what types of band we are yet.” Zuko pointed out. Lorkhan looked up, about to concede that the boy wasn’t talking out of his arse for once, when the others all decided to chime in as well.
“Classic rock.”
“I’m rather partial to simply classical.”
“Rap.”
“Smooth jazz, yah?”
“Oh come on, look at us.” Rorke snarled, spitting and narrowly missing an amp. “We have to be heavy metal.” Something about that was oddly fitting, but none of them quite wanted to admit that Rorke had made a fair point about anything.
“Let’s just…start right at the beginning.” Varvillon insisted, pulling his coat around him a little tighter. “Let’s just work out a name…maybe the rest will come from that.” It was a weak suggestion, but it was the best they had at the moment, all of the boys looking at the ground in thought.
“Well…” Lorkhan started, rolling his tongue around a cheek. “If we do go down the…’heavy metal’ suggestion, we should have a metal in our name…” There was a chorus of mumbles, and a few nods. “And we’re sort of the underdogs in this, so we should link to fighters too.” He went on. “Some kind of…metal fighters…” They all lapsed into silence again, turning the problem over.
“Hey.” Zuko said, helmeted head lifting a little. “What about the ‘Iron Wa-“
“What about ‘Tin Titans’?” Rorke growled, cutting the other boy off. Lorkhan thought it over a moment, before shaking his head.
“Tin’s not an imposing metal.” He pointed out. Rorke cursed, returning to thinking.
“I’m serious, guys.” Zuko tried again. “I have a good feeling about ‘Iron Wa-“
“’Brass Bombardiers’?” Varvillon offered, looking up. Again, they decided against it; according to Lorkhan, it made them sound too much like a marching band.
“I still reckon we should have a try at ‘Iron Wa-“
“’The Olympia Experience, featuring the Warsmith?’” Mordecai proposed. Despite the fact that the use of his self-appointed codename did do a fine job of bolstering Lorkhan’s ego, again the suggestion was discounted.
“Look, would you all just listen?” Zuko snapped, temper starting to fray beneath the crash helmet. “I am telling you, ‘Iron Wa-“
“What about…’Steel Soldiers’.” Barbus attempted, a thoughtful expression on his face. Ignoring the way Zuko threw his arms up in despair, the other boys all though it over. None of them, not even Rorke, was able to come up with an objection right away.
“Zat is…actually not terrible, provided ze style of music fits.” Vortun rumbled, giving a small shrug of acknowledgement. Barbus allowed a grin to creep across his face again, pleased with that compliment at least.
“It implies…aggressive music.” Mordecai nodded. “Hard rock, industrial noise, hippity-hop…yet, I agree that it has a certain charm to it.”
“It’s campy.” Lorkhan admitted, grimacing. “It’s campy as fuck…but that’s the sort of thing those Canterlot bastards will eat up.” He raised his head, nodding at Barbus. “Not bad.” Ignoring the mumble of ‘that’s two you owe me’ from the other boy, he looked round the rest of the gathering. “So. ‘Steel Soldiers’. Are we all decided?” As one, their gazes all fell on Zuko.
“…Yeah, fine.” The boy grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t give a shit anyway.” That was good enough for them, the atmosphere in the room relaxing a little now that at least some progress had been made.
“So,” Varvillon asked, trying to keep the momentum going. “What’s our next objective?” A moment’s silence lingered, before the group gave out a collective groan; none of them knew what to tackle next, and none of them had the patience remaining to work it out.
“Well…this has been enlightening, gentlemen,” Mordecai assured them, stepping away from his keyboard and slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “But I am afraid I must bid you good day, I have a guest tonight. Toodle-oo.” Before any of them could argue, he’d turned on his heel, marching out the door with effortless grace. They all watched him go, not diverting their eyes until the Music room door shut, returning their attentions to Lorkhan. He returned the gazes, meeting all their eyes in turn, before giving a sigh of defeat.
“Yeah…piss off, then.” He mumbled. “But you idiots better have thought of something by tomorrow.”
***
Earlier that day, however, life carried on outside the dreary and stifling confines of Olympia High. Whilst the Canterlot students were still a little bemused as to what exactly had caused the impromptu fire-drill the day before – and if Principal Celestia knew, she wasn’t telling – the interests of at least one group of girls had shifted rather notably.
Sunset Shimmer’s locker creaked as it opened, but the girl was hardly listening to that. Bending over to rummage around, and conscious of her friends’ eyes on her back, she eventually found what she was looking for; grinning, she stepped back, turning around.
“When…I was Principal Celestia’s student back in Equestria, she gave me this.” She brushed the dust off the cover of the thickly-bound book, revealing the sun image emblazoned on the cover. “Even after I abandoned my studies, I held onto it…” She grimaced a little, voice growing wistful. “Deep down I guess I knew I was making a big mistake, but I might still have a way to reach out to her…” She flicked through it, finding an empty page and running a hand over it tenderly. “Maybe it still works.”
“…That’s a book, darling.” Rarity’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was disbelieving. It was Fluttershy and Applejack who had really suggested the need to try and get Princess Twilight back, to help combat the spell of the Dazzlings; with the Prinicipal and Vice-Principal apparently under the trio’s sway, there weren’t many the Rainbooms could turn to. “What do you mean ‘if it still works’?”
“It used to be that if I wrote something here, it would appear in the pages of a book back in Princess Celestia’s library.” Sunset explained, clutching the tome close to her breast. “I get a message to her, and she can get a message to Princess Twilight.”
“What are you waiting for?” Dash’s raspy voice stole her attention, as did the pen suddenly dangling in Sunset’s face. “Get to writing!” Dash insisted, a grin plastered across her features. Sunset took it, looking at it unsurely, before giving a small sigh.
“Long time since I’ve written these words…” She mused, committing the pen to paper. “Dear Princess Celestia…” The pen slid across the paper easily, purple light trailing in its wake.
She wrote. When she was done, they waited. Seconds passed, then minutes. Sunset seemed to accept that it would be a while before they found out if it worked, but the others seemed to have been expecting…well, anything more.
“Is…something meant to happen?” Pinkie asked, glancing up at her friend. Then the book started to shake.
“Hey, it’s working!” Dash grinned, looking at it. Sunset’s eyes widened, her breath coming shallowly, shaking her head as she took a step back and dropped it to the ground.
“N-no…” She insisted, a palpable feeling of dread hitting her like a train. “No, something’s wrong! It…it’s not supposed to do this!” As soon as she’d spoken, the others took note, drawing back warily as the book continuing to violently shudder. It opened and closed at random, straining at some invisible leash like a restrained beast, and though it was surely impossible it almost seemed to be…screaming at them.
Fluttershy was holding onto Applejack for dear life, the farmer hugging her back as she watched on horrified. The pages inside flicked, like a child’s flip book. As they did, Sunset saw years of her life burn away; every page, even those with writing on them, were left momentarily blank. On every one, something pushed its way to the fore. The image of a bladed, eight-pointed star slowly began to become visible, covering every scrap of parchment within the tome, burning onto both paper and Sunset’s retinas. She closed her eyes as looking upon it started to become physically painful, legs shaking and dropping the girl to her knees. She panted hard, vaguely aware of tears streaming down her cheeks as she did. The book continued to roar and howl as if it were alive, and as it did a sibilant whisper filled the air around it. Sunset couldn’t work out what it was actually saying, but the sound was ringing loud in her ears, making her squirm involuntarily. It felt like the sensation she’d experienced when transforming into the she-daemon, but even the power in the air around the book was ten times as potent. What part of her mind was still capable of functioning raced, desperately trying to find some answer; something was clearly intercepting the magic, latching onto to the arcane qualities of the book and making it its own, but what?
What force in the cosmos could do…this?
It stopped suddenly, the whispering and the pain leaving as if it was never there. Sunset’s body shuddered, her teal eyes snapping open and lungs drawing in a sharp gasp. Once she could breath again, she shakily wiped the lingering tears away, looking round. The book was closed, lying still, a foot firmly clamping the cover down. Slowly and breathlessly, Sunset looked up. The figure who had saved them wore his usual hooded jacket, though in her half-delirious state it almost looked more like a monk’s ceremonial robe.
“M…Mr Cypher…” She managed to stammer, shivering again. The man looked round at her, dark and cool eyes holding the girls, but he did give a small nod. Stepping off the book, he knelt, holding it under an arm before straightening.
“I think I had better take this.” He said, voice as deep as always. She wanted to tell him no, to explain the importance of the book, but it seemed their chance to contact the Princess had gone anyway – and in any case, Sunset didn’t have the strength remaining to her. She felt a strong hand take her under an armpit, helping her back to her feet.
“Y’alright, Sugarcube?” Applejack asked, letting Sunset lean against her as she did. The former unicorn looked around, taking in the still-recovering forms of the others; she’d been hit the hardest for whatever reason, perhaps her greater magical connection or something darker, but they weren’t unaffected. Dash was shaking all over, prismatic hair thoroughly ruffled. Fluttershy was pale as a ghost, and with an angry red bite mark on her bare arm that almost looked self-inflicted. Rarity seemed in the worst shape of all, taking deep pants and crossing her legs, face red with shame. It appeared she’d wet herself. Sunset winced, nodding weakly, leaning against a locker as the substitute teacher walked away without another word.
“What…what the hell…w-was that?” Dash asked, her voice more afraid than accusing. Sunset watched Mr Cypher go, swallowing nervously.
“I…I don’t know.” She admitted. “But…I get the feeling I…really shouldn’t have done that…”
***
Mordecai’s fingers froze above the keyboard as the memory washed over him. It had been at school, earlier that day, about halfway through one of the group’s musical ‘practices’. That was all Mordecai could really say, because in truth he wasn’t sure what had happened; a feeling of light-headedness had washed over him, an unusual but not unpleasant tingling feeling lighting in his gut, making him stagger momentarily. It had passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him more confused than anything else. The fact that his compatriots had seemingly been unaffected by it made it all the stranger still.
He’d tried not to let it distract him, at least to the best of his abilities, but for some reason the thought had lingered. It was not the first time Mordecai had been rocked by an inexplicable feeling that seemed to target him alone, but never one that had made him outwardly react as noticeably. Odd. Very odd indeed. He shook it off, realising he’d allowed himself to become bogged down in introspection before returning his nimble fingers to the electric keyboard before him.
He’d managed to dig the instrument out of the depths of his closet once he’d returned home, and after rooting through his house – it was quite a small, cramped place, but given the family’s single salary it was all his mother could really afford – he’d eventually been rewarded with the two batteries he needed to get the blasted thing operational. From then on, it had just been…practice. Endless, focused practice, the boy unwilling to even look away from the instrument as he worked. Mordecai had used to be quite good at it, and that still made him the best player in their ‘band’ at the moment, but that still left him rusty and out of practice.
That was something the boy wanted to fix, because in truth, he really did want to win this competition. Partly to avoid decimation, he didn’t mind admitting that. And partly, it was because getting that victory would be some form of validation. It would prove that he and the others were worth a damn. It would be a jolly amusing thing, to see the reaction to such a group from left-field taking the title. It might even get Lorkhan over his peculiar obsession with their erstwhile adversaries, though Mordecai wasn’t holding his breath on that account.
He paused as he did, annoyed with himself even as he did, glancing absent-mindedly around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was his. A few books lined the shelves, accompanied by the occasional globe or other such item of culture he’d managed to scrounge up from a variety of places. The desk he sat at sat just in front of the window looking out over the street. He could hear the sound of police sirens echoing through the night from somewhere in the town. His rucksack was slumped by his bed – it was a double that he’d somehow managed to squeeze into the cramped chamber, and was certainly surprisingly comfortable. Lorkhan was the only one of the others who’d ever seen it, and though he’d claimed it was “poncy as hell” Mordecai suspected he was really just a little jealous.
He shook the indulgent thoughts off for the second time that night, internally chiding himself for being so easily distracted and returning his attention to the keyboard. More musical notes filled the empty air of the house, a little awkwardly at first, then gradually growing more fluid.
Mordecai was so engrossed in his playing, he did not notice the sound of the front door opening. Even if he had, he would have probably simply assumed it was his mother returning from a grocery shopping trip. When the door to his room opened, however, the familiar chuckle was not one he could ignore.
“Of all the things I expected to find you doing, attempting to restart your brief musical career was not one of them, my friend.”
It was a male voice. More importantly, it was a male voice he recognised. Stopping in his tracks, Mordecai felt an ecstatic grin slowly cross his face; he spun his chair round, jumping to his feet and opening his arms magnanimously in response to the other, newly-arrived boy’s own grin.
“Ah, Ahriman!”
Christmas Special Part 1: In which numerous crimes are committed
It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house…one creature was stirring.
That was a problem.
Applejack was not quite sure how she was aware of the disturbance. It would have been wrong to say she’d been sleeping peacefully beforehand, but the girl had at least been resting. Something, however, had begun to make her a little uncomfortable. The faint sounds from below had eventually confirmed her suspicions. At first, she thought she was dreaming, or at the very least merely hearing things in her tired state; the noises were faint, and only occasional. Eventually, however, Applejack had been unable to deny their existence to herself. She wasn’t angry, or scared, as she lay in her bed and stared at the roof of her bedroom listening to them. More than anything…she was curious.
After a few moments thought, the girl finally moved into action, sitting up and swinging her legs over one side of the bed. Taking care to avoid stepping on Winona – the dog had chosen to sleep curled-up beside her bed, earning itself a sleepy scratch from her – Applejack rubbed her tired, emerald eyes. After letting herself yawn, and stretch out, the girl set off out the door and along the upstairs corridor of her and her family’s home. It was an old building, cold night air working through cracks in the wall and brushing over her skin. Applejack considered going back for her nightgown, considering that right now her attire was a loose-fitting tank top and some shorts. She preserved, though, continuing to pass the tinsel-strewn bannisters and head down the stairs.
As she did so, thoughts crowded her mind. Who could be making the racket – Applebloom? Her little sister claimed not to believe in Santa anymore, and as a freshman she really shouldn’t, but Applejack had always had a sneaking suspicion that her sibling hadn’t quite been ready to let go just yet. Even so, if she was getting ready to wait for him, she’d chosen a strange time for it. It was nearly one in the morning…and on that same note, Applejack was having trouble believing that it was Granny Smith or Big Mac putting the presents out. They would be far more discrete; part of her realised she should have been taken it more seriously, but for the moment the girl was too bleary-eyed to really care, heading for the lounge to sort this out…whatever ‘it’ was.
The lounge, when she got there, was much as she’d left it last night. In the corner stood a Christmas tree, the lights softly twinkling and shimmering. There were presents under it, more than she’d seen. That’d already been done, then; strange. The cushions of the sofas were unmoved, and nothing else in the room disturbed. Most importantly, no matter how much she looked, Applejack could see nothing that could be generating the mysterious rummaging noise; she frowned, eyes panning over the room again. She only stopped when she realised it wasn’t coming from living room at all.
The sound of clattering could be heard behind her, emanating from the kitchen. Applejack froze, eyes widening, suddenly very alert. Slowly, she turned round, considering going upstairs and waking her brother. Frankly, she was amazed he hadn’t heard yet. But…whatever it was didn’t seem to be aware of her presence, and that gave her an advantage. Tossing it up for a moment longer, the girl decided to go and take a peek. Swallowing, and taking a deep breath, she began to creep towards the kitchen; she hesitated outside a moment, just listening to the noise, before tentatively peeking her head round the corner.
She was not sure what she had been expecting. Perhaps a thief of some kind, and in that respect she was technically right. The fridge door was open, obscuring the figure of the person behind it, but whoever they were was searching through it quite leisurely. They were bent over, backside and their feet the only things visible on them, and apparently still unaware of her scrutiny. Applejack frowned once again, walking into the kitchen a little more completely; she had no problem admitting she was thoroughly confused by all this, but whoever this was just didn’t seem…well…threatening.
Applejack opened her mouth to speak, but the girl needn’t have bothered. As if suddenly realising they weren’t alone, the intruder froze. They stayed where they were a moment, presumably contemplating what to do, before straightening and looking at her. Applejack stared. They stared back.
“Hey.” Lorkhan said, raising the turkey leg to his mouth and taking a bite. “How’s it going?”
***
Yesterday afternoon…
“No, Dashie, this is serious!”
Pinkie’s voice was about as close to reprimanding as it ever got, the girl not even looking round from the store shelves. It was still enough to catch Rainbow slightly off-guard, the girl stepping back and raising her hands placatingly. The pink girl didn’t press the issue any more, eyes continuing to scan over the ranks of baking products laid out before her.
Behind her, Rainbow shared a glance with Rarity and Fluttershy, both of them wrapped up warm in fashionable fake-fur coats of the former’s making. They had all pleaded with Pinkie that going to the store on Christmas Eve was just going to an exercise in getting themselves crushed by panicked crowds doing some last-minute shopping, especially since the night was drawing in, but their hyperactive friend had been adamant. She had to make more Christmas cookies overnight, and had run out of supplies to do so, thus making this trip slightly more important to her than oxygen. Somehow, Dash, Fluttershy. Rarity and Applejack had gotten roped into it; Sunset had declined to join them, and based on the girl’s sullen mood when they’d called none wanted to risk upsetting her further. In all fairness, the crowds had dispersed by the time they got there, leaving a few sad-looking Christmas decorations hanging around the aisles, and festive songs faintly audible over the speaker system.
“Pinkie, dear, not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you all, but how long is this going to take?” Rarity asked, grimacing a little. “Sweetie and I have our little cocoa-drinking ritual to indulge in, she’d never forgive me if I missed it!”
“Yeah,” Rainbow nodded, hands in her coat pockets as she kicked some of the snow off her boots. It was starting to pile up on the sidewalks, though the soft flurry had abated for now. “Especially since some of us look like we’re getting a littttllllle antsy…” Her last words were framed with a smirk, voice teasing as she looked over at Applejack.
“Knock it off, Rainbow.” She mumbled, arms folded over her chest and leaning back on the shelf. For the second time in as many minutes the athlete flinched in surprise, the other three girls looking round at their friend.
“Are…you okay, Applejack?” Fluttershy ventured, frowning in concern. The farmgirl bristled, hugging herself a little tighter, evidently annoyed about having drawn attention to herself.
“Ah’m fine.” She said, with a little more vitriol than intended. Taking a deep breath, she forced her words to soften, though only slightly. “Ah’ve just…got a lot of stuff tah be doin’ right now, an’…forget it, it don’t matter.” She grumbled, waving a hand dismissively. The others were silent for a moment, looking at one another.
“Forgive me, darling…” Rarity began, apparently offering herself as the sacrifice. “But…isn’t the harvest season over now?”
“Ah do more than just that.” Applejack snapped, frayed temper getting the best of her for a moment. “Ah’ve gotta get the animals in, start tallyin’ up the sales logs for the year with Granny, finish wrappin’ everyone’s presents, trim the dead branches off the trees…” She trailed off again, sighing.
“Oh, Applejack.” Pinkie said, a warm smile crossing her face. “You don’t have to worry about all that day! Christmas is a time to relax, to be with friends, not to worry!”
“Easy for y’all to say.” She mumbled, expression darkening further. Pinkie looked a little hurt, but it was Dash that spoke on her behalf.
“She was only trying to help, AJ.” The cyan-skinned girl said, frowning herself now. “You didn’t have to snap…or act like such a Scrooge.” The words hammered home to the farmgirl, and for a moment she almost apologised; she didn’t mean to snap at her friends, and she knew it wasn’t their fault. Still, Rainbow’s abrasive attitude was the last thing Applejack needed right now.
“Well, ah’m sorry, not all of us can just spend the holidays goin’ round chuckin’ snowballs an’ skivin’ outta any responsibility!” She retorted, fixing her friend with an angry glare. Rainbow, never the most understanding young lady at the best of times, didn’t back down.
“Yeah, and not all of us have to be a complete douche about it!” She snapped, magenta eyes narrowing. They held one another’s angry glares for a few moments, the other girls looking nervously between them. Then, Applejack sighed, turning away.
“Forget it, ah don’t need this right now.” She mumbled, already walking away, ignoring Rarity and Pinkie’s pleas for her to stay. Even Rainbow softened, trying to offer some form of apology, but the farmgirl wasn’t having any of it. As the door slammed shut, the girls stared for a moment, before giving a downtrodden sigh in unison.
They were not the only ones privy to Applejack’s outburst, however. On the other side of the aisle, behind the sparse shelves, Perturabo remained stock-still and fumed. If there was something he hated more than his brother…Dorn…and his own students, it was people who refused to get into the holiday spirit.
He hesitated a moment longer before moving, towering form seeming to consume the aisle as he strode down it. The cashier seemed a little cowed as the man paid for his assortment of fresh fruit and vegetables, essential for a healthy lifestyle, but Perturabo spared her no mind. He didn’t even particularly care if Applejack’s friends saw him as he marched out the store, although it was doubtful that they could have missed him. It was quite a long walk, pushing an hour, but he had time to spare. Finally reaching the house he was looking for, the man drew up to it and without hesitation gave three heavy knocks.
It was a while before it was opened, or even the sound of someone coming down the stairs could be heard. When it finally opened, Lorkhan noticeably jumped back, eyes widening and almost choking on the chocolate bar he was eating.
“P-Principal Perturabo?!”
***
“You…” Applejack began, the word catching and dying in her throat from sheer bemusement as she looked the boy up and down. “What…why…” She blinked a few times, as if to make sure what she was seeing was real. It was. Lorkhan watched with dispassionate interest as she took a deep breath, the girl’s head tilting sidewards and letting blonde hair spill over a shoulder. “Whah…are you eatin’ our turkey?” She asked, as if that was the strangest thing about all this. “Our…frozen turkey?”
The boy paused, looking down at the food as if that was news to him. He turned it over in his hand a few times, examining the meat closely. Then, he shrugged. “Pretty much the same as what I get at home.” He explained, taking another bite out of it. Applejack continued to stare at him for a moment, mouth hanging slightly ajar, before she shook her head and tried to blink the whole bizarre scene away once more.
“Right…right.” She said, trying and failing to understand, before looking up at him once more. “Look, it’s Christmas, ah don’t wanna have tah cause a fuss an’ call the cops, so just…y’know, get out.” She asked, gesturing towards the back door. “How did yah get in, anyway?” Applejack went on as the question suddenly occurred to her. Lorkhan swallowed what he was chewing on, returning the half-eaten turkey to its plate and that plate to the fridge, closing the door and pointing to the nearby window.
“Climbed in.” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And trust me, I would love to be back in my own bed right now, but I can’t go until we get this over with.”
That one got her attention, Applejack’s gaze diverting from the open window – which explained the draft, at least – to him, expression growing suspicious once more. “Get…what over with?” She asked, speaking slowly and warily. Once again, Lorkhan paused, his own expression growing uncertain.
“You…don’t know?” He asked, voice equally wary. She shook her head. He stood there a moment, face drawn in a grimace, before speaking again. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Before she could answer, he’d hidden behind the open fridge door once more, whipping his phone out and hastily dialling a number.
“Yeah?” The voice that eventually picked up sounded like it had just been roused from slumber, and was not too happy about that. Lorkhan couldn’t care less about that.
“Rorke!” He snapped, voice a whispered hiss. “You were supposed to come to the Canterlot bitch’s house at midnight and pretend to be a ghost, what the fuck happened?”
“What?” He growled, sounding genuinely confused. “You were serious about that? I thought you’d just been on the Nog-“ He paused, brain slowly ticking something over. “Wait…have you actually done it?” Lorkhan hesitated, finally opening his mouth to reply, but Rorke’s laughter cut him off. “Oh, shit…oh fucking hell, that’s priceless.” The other boy chuckled, even that sounding like a growl. “How’s it going?”
“How’s it bloody going?!” Lorkhan hissed in reply, features curling into a scowl. “I’m in this random house at one in the morning, and its freezing, and the girl’s asking why I’m here while she’s dressed in her…her underwear-“ Rorke’s laughter cut him off again, certainly not helping to dispel Lorkhan’s growing blush.
“Oh, geez…good luck.” He said, amused snarl audible in his voice. Rorke hung up before Lorkhan could say any more, leaving the other boy to sigh in frustration and hang his head a little. Taking a deep breath, he stood back up, Applejack still staring in utter confusion.
“Call me the ghost of Christmas past.” Lorkhan insisted flatly. “I’ve been told you’re not getting into the Christmas spirit.”
“Ghost of…not getting…” Applejack repeated, looking away and seemingly gaining no greater insight than before. After a moment, however, something seemed to dawn on her. “Wait…did Pinkie Pie put y’all up tah this?” She asked, sighing and looking up once more. “Is this about yesterday aftahnoon?” In all honesty, Lorkhan had no idea; Principal Perturabo had not been particularly forthcoming in explaining his motives. He’d simply issued his orders, and even outside the school grounds, something had compelled Lorkhan to follow them.
“Sure.” He decided. “Let’s go with that.” He sighed, scratching his forehead and adopting his most business-like expression. “Listen, I don’t like this either, but I like what would probably happen to me if I said ‘no’ even less. So let’s just…try and make this as painless as possible for the both of us.” He didn’t phrase it as a request, but she just gave a small nod, and that was good enough for Lorkhan.
He pushed past her, heading into the living room once more, arms folded over his chest. After remaining frozen in place for a moment, Applejack hurried after him, now convinced she was dreaming. Lorkhan seemed to have no such hesitation, glancing idly around the room, eyes lingering on the Christmas tree.
“Huh…not bad.” He conceded, a hint of jealousy in his voice. It died after a moment. “A bit wussy for my taste, but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any less.” The boy examined the room a little more, eyes eventually falling on the presents at the base of the tree. He strolled over, picking one up quite casually and giving it a shake. It rattled.
“Hey!” Applejack snapped, finally compelled into action. “Be careful, y’hear? That’s for Applebloom!” Lorkhan dropped the present unceremoniously, looking back round at her.
“’Applebloom’?”
“Mah sister.” The girl explained, sighing a little as she did; after her argument with Rainbow earlier, Applejack had been locked in a bad mood, heading straight up to her room and ignoring her sister’s concern when she’d arrived home. She’d apologised, of course, but the guilt persisted. Lorkhan wasn’t aware of any of that, of course, but still nodded.
“That her?” He asked, pointing to a photo on one of the walls. Applejack took a moment to locate it, nodding, melancholy deepening slightly. It’d been taken a few years ago, before even she was a freshman; she was holding Applebloom, the little girl smiling and wearing a Santa hat, Big Mac behind them. She wasn’t entirely sure where the sudden sadness came from, but Lorkhan noticed it, head turning to her. “Why the long face?” It didn’t sound like he really cared, but she answered anyway.
“Ah was…not a very good sister tonight.” She admitted, grimacing. The fact that she was having a casual chat with the boy who had broken into her house should have unnerved her, but at that moment Applejack’s thoughts were elsewhere. “In fact, ah’ve been a bit…grouchy all Christmas season.” Part of her had always been aware of that, of course, but to actually say it brought the fact home to AJ. Once again, she gave a small sigh, rubbing a bare arm.
“Yeah?” Something in his voice compelled Applejack to meet Lorkhan’s eyes; the tone still wasn’t friendly, but it seemed softer, more invested. They maintained the look for a few moments, and for once it was actually Applejack who broke it. “Well, you can’t have been like that all the time.” He observed, folding his arms over his chest. “Why now?”
“If ah knew, would we be havin’ this conversation?” She snapped, fixing him with a dark look, before sighing apologetically. To his credit, Lorkhan didn’t look phased. “Ah dunno…it’s just…it’s so much work for me an’ Mac.” Applejack said, something compelling her to explain herself. “It just feels like…I ain’t got time fer-“
“Can we hold it a moment?” The girl did indeed as Lorkhan spoke, fixing him with a strange look. He didn’t return it this time, looking at the vibrating phone in his hand. “I have to get this.” He apologised, raising the device to his ear. “Hello?”
“Rorke said you’ve broken into a girl’s house.” Lorkhan sighed as the boy’s voice reached his ears.
“Hello to you too, Varvillon.”
“Have you?” He hesitated a moment.
“Well…yes, but-“ Once again, and to his increasing frustration, Lorkhan found himself cut off by one of his companion’s hysterical laughter. “Yes…yes, I’m glad you think this is so funny.” He would have said more, but a faint sound in the background reached his ears. He frowned, trying to place it. “Is…that an engine?” As he asked his question, Varvillon abruptly fell silent, as if looking at someone else to provide him with an answer.
“I…gotta go, Lorkhan! Good luck!” He said insincerely, hurriedly hanging up before Lorkhan could question him anymore. With a frustrated cry, he shoved his phone back into a pocket, stewing in anger for a moment before noticing Applejack’s unimpressed glare.
“Can ah continue now?” She asked. He shrugged.
“If you want.”
“It just…don’t feel the same, y’know?” Applejack went, playing with a lock of blonde hair idly as if she hadn’t been interrupted; Lorkhan was no expert, but even he could tell that this was doing her some good. That almost certainly hadn’t been Principal Perturabo’s intention, but still. “But none of the girls are actin’ any different…so maybe ah…” Once more, she fell quiet. The uneasy silence lasted for a few moments, before something seemed to dawn upon the girl. “Maybe ah just grew out of it all.” Applejack mused quietly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Ah mean, me an’ Rarity are the oldest…maybe it’s just…natural.”
“…Yeah, maybe.” Lorkhan’s answer was clearly not what the farmgirl had wanted to hear, earning another dirty look from her. ”What? What am I supposed to say that’ll spare your precious feelings?” He was being honest, if nothing else, and AJ seemed to respect that at least.
“Well…are we done here?” She asked, patience finally at an end. “Can yah go?” Mercifully, Lorkhan nodded.
“Yeah…I think I’ve done all I can here. You seem to have everything under control.” With that, he headed back to the kitchen and the window he’d climbed through, almost as if he was rushing to get out. Applejack stayed in the living room momentarily, still staring at the photo on the wall. After a moment’s contemplation, she followed.
“Thank yah,” The girl said, arms folded as she leant awkwardly against the doorframe to the kitchen. “Fer listenin’…even if yah are a weirdo.” The boy was crouching on the kitchen worktop by the open window, favouring her with one last look.
“Bloody Canterlot scum,” Lorkhan mumbled, though it didn’t seem like Applejack had heard him. Sighing, he raised his voice. “Yeah yeah, whatever. The next one’ll be along in like an hour or so.”
Applejack stared a moment before the words sank in. When they did, her eyes widened. “The…the ‘next one’?” She repeated. “What d’ya mean the ‘next one’?” Lorkhan, apparently, was in no mood to answer her question. Instead, he somehow managed to squeeze through the open window, back into the cold night outside. And he managed to do all that whilst forgetting about the now-icy water trough sat just outside that window – though from his falling motion as he left, he became familiar with it soon enough.
“Bollocks!”
***
“I…gotta go, Lorkhan! Have fun!”
Ignoring the agitated squawking from the other end of the call, Barbus hung up, breathing a slight sigh of relief that swiftly morphed into a chuckle. It was enough to let him forget the cold for a moment, but only for a moment; soon enough, Barbus shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself and blowing on his hands, rubbing them together.
“That was abrupt.” In the driver’s seat beside him, Barbus looked round, raising an eyebrow. Varvillon nodded in agreement, but didn’t turn. Instead, he kept looking out the Growler’s front window over the dark, empty, snowy street.
“He heard the engine.” The boy explained. Leaving the thing running kept them warm as they waited by the side of the road, but it did make them a little more conspicuous. “You said he wasn’t to find out what we were doing.” Barbus nodded.
“So…he is actually at Applejack’s house?” The familiarity implied in using her name made Varvillon hesitate, but he nodded. Barbus grinned, chuckling himself. The group fell quiet for a while, until something in the back seat moved, the whole car shaking with it.
“Vat…are ve doing?” Vortun asked, face drawn in a frown as he tried to clarify that. He took up virtually the whole back-seats of the car, leaning forward to stick his head between the front two. Neither of the others flinched, Barbus shuffling over a little and pointing at a house across the street.
“See that?” He asked. “Well, I was talking to Khelmaur the other day…that house is where Coach Golg lives.” He announced, a little triumphantly. It certainly got their attentions, Vortun and Varvillon both looking at him in surprise.
“Wait…Coach Golg lives here?” The latter asked, glancing around the suburb. Erasmus Golg was the gym teacher, and one of the few people that every student at Olympia High could agree they hated. It was rumoured that even Principal Perturabo thought he was an idiot, a point of view that was hard to argue with, but kept him on the payroll simply because he was such a harsh taskmaster in class. The idea that he lived here, on the comfortable side of town, was hard to stomach. “Are…are you sure?”
“Khelmaur said house number twenty-seven. That’s gotta be it.” Barbus insisted. “And look, his car’s here.” Barbus went on, gesturing across the road. A car that looked like Coach Golg’s was certainly there, but it was hard to make out any detail. “Don’t tell me that this doesn’t appeal to you.” In truth, it did; both of them were sufficiently bitter at the hardships Golg had put them through in the past to make whatever revenge Barbus had in mind appealing. Still, it was undeniably more risky than either liked.
“So…vat exactly do you intend to do?” Vortun asked, raising an eyebrow. “And vhy can’t ve tell Herr Lorkhan?”
“We can’t tell Lorkhan, because after last time I don’t trust him, Zuko, or Mord on a stealth mission.” Barbus explained, not bothering to hide his exasperation at the memory. “And from the looks of it, he’s still got an old-fashioned chim-“
“No.” Barbus came crashing to a halt as Varvillon’s firm words interjected. The boy’s face was just as serious. “No,” he repeated. “I know what you’re going to say. You want one of us to somehow get up onto the roof, in the spirit of the season go down the chimney, open it up from the inside and do…something.” Barbus remained silent, cheeks turning a brighter red; that was exactly what he’d been about to suggest, but there was no way he could admit it now. Still, Varvillon caught on. “Forgive me for sounding like Rorke, but fuck that. I’m tired of…sneaking around everywhere. It’s not what we do, it feels…out of character…” He trailed off, all three of them looking a little uncomfortable at that. Barbus decided to take the initiative, clapping his hands on Varvillon’s shoulders.
“I give you my word,” he said, voice as sincere as it had ever been. “This is the last sneaking we do. After Christmas, everything goes back to how it used to be…just give me this one gift.” He implored. The slight sappiness of it made Varvillon frown, but after a moment he relented, sighing.
“Alright…for you. You owe me.” He grumbled. It was all Barbus needed to hear; the boy grinned, raising his fist to bump – an offer that Varvillon took him up on – whilst in the back seat, Vortun mumbled despairingly and rolled his eyes. With that, Barbus put an arm around Varvillon’s shoulders, gesturing out with a wide sweep of his other arm.
“…go get ‘em, Santa Claus!”
TO BE CONTINUED
Christmas Special Part 2: Olympians roasting on an open fire
The sharp, luminescent numbers on her bedside table’s clock changed. Two A.M.
Applejack froze, staring at it, gripping her bed sheets tighter but otherwise remaining motionless. This was it, if she was correct; provided she hadn’t just dreamed the bizarre encounter from earlier, and the boy and his accomplices were at least roughly following the plot of a Christmas Carol, now was when the next ‘ghost’ should arrive. She kept her attention firmly on the clock, ears straining to pick up any change in her surroundings. Winona was still by the side of her bed, slumbering peacefully.
From the sounds of things, there was nothing. She swallowed, slowly sitting up and casting a look around her shadowy room. Still, nothing had changed. She examined it closely, green eyes staring intently, peering into every shadowed corner and across every mirrored surface. All revealed the same thing. Finally satisfied, chuckling quietly at herself for being gullible enough to even consider believing him, Applejack lay back in the bed. Rolling onto her side, the farmgirl closed her eyes with a smile, pulling the sheets up over her more and trying to empty her mind of the day’s stressful events.
“Hello!”
Her eyes snapped open, an uncharacteristic yelp leaving the girl as she sat up and scrambled backwards, pulling the bed-covers up instinctually to cover herself. She didn’t have to look far. The boy crouched on her bed, hugging his arms round his knees. He wasn’t unattractive, had she had time to consider it, and pleased excitement glimmered in eyes a similar green to her own. She couldn’t tell what he was wearing, aside from the gentlemanly hat perched atop his head. An…unusual fashion choice, to be sure. Somehow, Winona still hadn’t woken, scratching her ear in the depths of sleep as Applejack panted.
“What…how…who…how did ya…” She stammered, unable to finish any of her questions; the boy wasn’t threatening, but his sudden appearance had understandably unnerved her. In return, he just giggled.
“The Ghost of Christmas Present, at your service.” He announced, doffing his hat a fraction. “How do you do?” He didn’t wait for an answer, hopping gracefully off her bed and straightening, dusting himself down. Applejack continued to stare and grip the quilt, mind racing to process the information.
“Ghost…Christmas Present…” She repeated, looking away and nodding. “You’re…with that other gah…the one who was here earlier.” The boy chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back and nodding.
“Guilty as charged.” He confessed, with a knowing smile. “And I trust that Lorkhan has explained the purpose of our little exercise, then? Excellent! Come, come, we haven’t got all night you know!” Applejack wasn’t able to get a word in edgeways before he was by her bedside, a strong hand grasping her own and inducing an involuntary blush. Bemusement prevented her from offering any resistance to being dragged out of bed, the girl stumbling to keep up with the ‘ghost’ as he almost skipped down the landing.
“Wait!” She asked, voice an embarrassed hiss. “Wait, ah’m still in just mah vest an’ shorts!” Her guide didn’t really seem to hear, or care about her state of undress, continuing to merrily hum to himself. It sounded like ‘Rocking around the Christmas Tree’. “Can ah at least get mah coat?” Applejack insisted, and finally he relented. The boy let go of her hand as they reached the front door, turning around and swaying expectantly as Applejack slipped her thick winter jacket on. She did question why she was going along with this so easily, but although they were weird these boys still didn’t seem dangerous to her, and playing their game was probably the easiest way to get this over with.
“Are you ready?” The boy asked with a friendly smile, adjusting his hat a little. “Top show! Let us not tarry any longer, my d-“
“Wait,” she asked, cutting him off – which, despite the rudeness, he didn’t seem to mind – and raising a hand. “You…wanna go outside?” He looked momentarily unsure if he’d heard right, then round at the door, then back at Applejack. Finally, the boy chuckled indulgently.
“It is rather cold, I do realise.” He conceded, tone a little teasing. “But I give you my word, I will not detain you for long. Only until my message is imparted.” The farmgirl held his gaze a moment longer, trying to find any trace of dishonesty in his voice or face. There didn’t seem to be any. Finally, Applejack sighed, nodding and gesturing for him to lead on. That seemed to be enough for the boy, who quite casually grasped her wrist again and pulled her outside.
The night was dark, cool winds whipping around the two of them, though at least it wasn’t snowing. Applejack was tough enough to not let the temperature affect her too much, but she still pulled the coat a little tighter around herself; the boy gave a little shiver, shaking his wrists to get the blood flowing, but remained as cheerily unstoppable as ever. He set off quickly, crunching through the snow that had fallen already; he hopped up onto a fallen log, peering off into the distance somewhere. Applejack held back a moment, watching him. There was something about his appearance that seemed familiar, although it took a while for her to work out what it was.
“Wait a second…” She began, walking over to meet him arms folded. “You look like this gah mah friend’s been describin’ and goin’ all goo-goo eyed over…Mordecai.” She recalled, looking him over again. He turned his attention back to her, slightly taller than Applejack when he stood on the log, grinning and nodding.
“Once again, you have my number.” He chuckled. The sound was a little infectious, drawing one of the few smiles Applejack had given since the previous afternoon out.
“Yeah…Rarity would really lahk to meet’cha again.” She suggested, chuckling herself. Mordecai’s expression grew thoughtful, the boy shifting his hat once again before rubbing his chin.
“Rarity…the name does ring a bell…” He nodded. Before Applejack could respond, he was off again, heading deeper into the orchard of deadwood. She watched him go, grumbling in frustration, but the farmgirl followed all the same.
It was hard to tell how long they walked for, but if Applejack’s memory of the size of her land was correct it was at least ten minutes. The trees began to thin out, exposing her to more of the cold winds, Applejack mumbling as she wrapped the coat even tighter around herself. Mordecai continued to show only minor signs of discomfort. Eventually, they made it to the very edge of the Apple family property, the boy bounding up to stand on the fence much as he had done the log before. With only her slippers on her feet, Applejack couldn’t join him, but she remained just a step behind.
“There…do you see it?” He asked cheerily, pointing over into the distance. Applejack followed his finger, squinting as the cold assaulted her face. Even through the dark, it wasn’t hard to see the shining beacon of light in the centre of town proper.
“Yeah…the town Christmas Tree.” She nodded slowly. “Was…that all yah wanted tah show me?”
“I do so like to go and see the Christmas tree when it’s erected and lit up.” Mordecai smiled, once again ignoring her question. “It is rather a bit of a trek, but I find with most things in life that the more you put in, the more one tends to get out.” He let the point hang for a moment, though the girl didn’t take him up on it.
“Well…yeah.” She said, as if it were obvious. “It is pretty impressive, but…it’s fer the kids, right? Keeps the…y’know, the illusion alive fer ‘em an’ all.” He held her eyes a moment longer, the smile fading and an altogether harder-to-place expression crossing Mordecai’s face. Then, he reached down to his belt, searching for something.
“Ah ha!” He exclaimed happily, pulling out the small digital camera in the same moment. Switching it on, he started to flick through the pictures, beckoning her over. As much as Applejack tried to deny it, she was intrigued, enough to do as he bid.
“Do you just…carry that around?” The farmgirl asked, looking down at the device.
“I have a passing interest in photography.” Mordecai answered, continuing his search. “Ah, here we go!” He settled on one picture, turning the view-screen so she could see. Applejack squinted again; it was a couple of people about her age, having a snowball fight outside school. As she looked harder, she realised they were people she knew; Vinyl, Mystery Mint, and Cloud Kicker could all be made out clearly, grins on their faces.
“I passed them earlier today, and they were all quite consenting to be photographed.” Mordecai said, answering both her immediate questions before AJ could voice them. “But look, you see? They’re all rather getting into the Christmas Spirit something proper.”
“Yeah, well…so?” She retorted, returning her attention to him. “They all have probably got the time fer it.” His response, yet again, was a grimacing smile.
“I did get a chance to briefly converse with them, delightful ladies one and all.” He chuckled to himself. “Ms Mint here is having to care for her elderly grandfather over the holiday season whilst her own parents attend various work-related calls. And Ms Scratch’s work at the music store…well, it was Black Friday not too long ago, if you recall?” He asked. She did, and as she processed the information, Applejack felt her frown soften.
“…yah ain’t lyin’?” She asked, looking back at him. He gave a small nod.
“For once, madam, I am not.” Mordecai confirmed. He was quiet momentarily, before another idea struck him. He reached into his other pocket, pulling out a phone, quickly finding a number and setting it to loudspeaker.
“Yoo-hoo!” He called into it, unable to suppress a small giggle. “Tiny Tim!” The voice on the other side sounded less than pleased at the moniker.
“What…do you want…Mordecai?” The male voice crackled back, grunting with effort. It sounded to Applejack like he was trying to squeeze through somewhere whilst also answering his phone.
“Oh, just checking how things are going this fine Christmas morning.” The polite boy smirked back. “Has old Saint Nick brought you everything your little heart desires, Varvillon?” Varvillon – she remembered that name from earlier, Applejack’s frown deepening again.
“Not…the best…time.” The other boy managed to grunt back, the sound of him rubbing against the stonework in a confined space ringing out. Mordecai was unable to resist raising an eyebrow.
“I must say, you do sound awfully active for so early in the day.”
“Like I said, not…fuck…a good ti-“ He trailed off, the sound of him pawing against something in an attempt to hold his grip audible, before it seemed to give way. “Bollocks!” Mordecai winced at the sound of a body striking the floor hard, before hanging up. Applejack just looked at him with concern.
“Is he gonna be alright?” She asked. The boy looked doubtful.
“I see an empty chair at the table next Christmas…probably because he’s got himself incarcerated, but hey ho.” The boy shrugged. “But, you see my point?”
“Ah…ah think so.” The stubborn girl admitted. “Ah’m not the only one who’s got it hard at Christmas time…”
“But you are the only one who can keep the spirit of the season alive for yourself.” Mordecai finished. It was delivered with unusual sincerity and kindness, enough to make her flinch a little.
“You…aren’t like that other guy. The one who were here earlier.” Applejack observed. Mordecai’s response, as ever, was a gentlemanly chuckle.
“Lorkhan?” He queried. “Oh, my dear, believe me when I say I am well aware.” He glanced down at his watch, sighing. “Alas, I am afraid my time with you is spent. All that remains is for the final spectre, at three.”
“Right, right…the ‘Ghost of Christmas Future’, right?” AJ asked, allowing herself a small smile. “Ah am kinda curious tah see how y’all are gonna pull that one off.” Mordecai grinned, giggling a little again.
“We have something in mind.” He promised, an enigmatic gleam in his eye. “Well, I must depart, but I hope I have helped at least somewhat.” She wasn’t really sure what to say, so the farmgirl said nothing. That seemed to be enough for Mordecai; he gave her one last respectful bow, before turning and almost gliding away into the trees like the ghost he claimed to be. In a few moments, he was gone.
That was when Applejack decided she really needed to get out of the damn cold.
***
“Bollocks!”
Varvillon just about managed to get the word out before his grip in the cramped chimney stack faltered. His previously irritated expression morphed into one of panic, fingers desperately crawling on the dirty walls. It was no use. His foot came loose, and the rest of his body following it down. With a *thump*, the boy crashed down to the base of the chimney hard, taking a moment to roll around groaning quietly in pain and letting his rattled bones scream.
Amazingly, he hadn’t broken anything, which suggested to Varvillon that he’d somehow managed to squeeze further down the antique chimney-stack than he’d thought. Being thin did, it seemed, have its advantages. After a few moments, he managed to stagger out of the – thankfully, unlit – fireplace, coughing heavily and kicking a glass of sherry that had presumably been left out for Santa over. Looking at his phone, Varvillon groaned; the screen was smashed, crushed under him when he’d hit the ground, though Mordecai had already hung up. Bastard. He was covered almost head to toe in soot, but for a reason the boy couldn’t place, that felt oddly appropriate.
By the time he’d limped over to the front door, his expression was no more impressed. Vortun, practically filling the doorway, just about managed to hold off chuckling at his companion’s dirtied form. Barbus did the same, but seemed far more excited about the fact that they were inside. Nodding, and patting Varvillon graciously on the shoulder once more he stepped inside. Vortun lumbered in afterwards.
“Zis is Golg’s house?” The foreign student asked, looking around with the vaguest hint of approval beneath the sneer he always wore. Barbus didn’t say anything as he padded lightly through the hallway, but seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“Apparently.” Varvillon answered, arms still folded as he coughed a little again. “You…do realise this means he’s probably upstairs, asleep, right now?” The implications of that made all three of them pause, shivering in unison.
“We’ll be quick as a flash.” Barbus promised in a whisper. “We’ll just…I don’t know, do something to get revenge on all the times he’s tormented us, and then get out.” They headed into the living room, having to stop a moment just to look around – even Varvillon, who had not got a good look beforehand. It was surprisingly spacious, and surprisingly comfortable-looking. Much like Applejack’s, not that they could have known that, a Christmas Tree sat in the corner and twinkles softly. What caught Varvillon’s attention, however, were the rows of Christmas Cards stuck to the walls.
“Doesn’t something about this feel…odd?” He asked, frowning a little. “Like…Coach Golg doesn’t have this many friends, right?” Vortun nodded, but Barbus wasn’t listening. He’d spotted something by the base of the tree.
“Woah…you two, check it out!” They turned just in time to see him lift a present out of the pile. It wasn’t wrapped, but even if it had been they could have worked out what it was. “I didn’t know Coach Golg played the guitar.” Barbus mused, turning the instrument over in his hands as he examined it. “It’s…not bad, too.”
That was the last straw for Varvillon. He’d always liked to think of himself as the smart one of the group, and something about this was painfully wrong. He screwed his eyes closed, resting his fingertips on his temples as he tried to think it through.
“Why would Coach Golg get a guitar?” He asked, drawing both his companions’ attentions. “Why would he have all these cards? Why would he put presents under his own tree? Why would he set out sherry for Santa?”
“…Because he is…a man-child?” Vortun suggested slowly. Varvillon shook his head, still straining to think. Then, the boy’s eyes snapped open, two pricks of light in his soot-blackened face. Without explanation he hurried over to the side table for something he’d subconsciously seen before. Eventually, he found the unopened envelope, grasping it and reading the address hurriedly.
“This isn’t twenty-seven!” He hissed, turning back to the other two. “We’re on the wrong side of the road! Barbus, you idiot, this is the wrong house!” They both widened their eyes, Vortun glaring angrily at the self-elected leader of the group, whilst Barbus set the guitar back down and hurried over to read the envelope himself.
“Shit.” He cursed, pursing his lips and taking a deep breath. “Okay…okay, we’ll go back to the front door and leave. They’ll never know it was us.” He trailed off, cursing again. “Whose house even is it?”
His question was answered a moment later as the lights in the room were flicked on. All three of them froze, straightening up and widening their eyes even further. Then, as one, they turned towards the entrance to the room.
The boy standing there was about their age, clad in plain pyjamas. He was classically handsome, they supposed, sculpted face now set in a stony glare. Far more distracting was the spiked blue hair that he seemed to have gelled even before going to bed. But the most visually arresting thing about him was the baseball bat he clutched unwaveringly in his hands. After a few moments of wracking their collective brains, all three of the boys realised they knew who he was. This was Flash Sentry; a guitarist, and all-around pretty boy from Canterlot High. Normally, they’d have sneered, but currents events quite prevented anything except blank shock on their faces as they stood in a huddle.
“Okay.” Flash said, adjusting his grip on the bat’s handle slightly. He was outnumbered, but his voice still brimmed with confidence. “You losers have five seconds to explain what you’re doing in my house, before I beat the shit out of all of you.” Had they been thinking rationally, the trio might have recognised how slim the chances of Flash ‘beating the shit’ out of Vortun were. All their minds were still racing, however, desperately searching for the best solution as they stared at him.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh, hey! Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way-”
Before they could finish their impromptu carol, Vortun’s boulder-like fist struck out. He crossed the distance with impressive ease, smacking their aggressor clean across a cheek before he could react. Flash crumpled wordlessly, both Varvillon and Barbus flinching back a step. After a moment of staring in shock, they relaxed.
“Is…he dead?” Varvillon asked, sounding more annoyed than concerned. Barbus prodded the motionless body with a foot.
“I decked his halls.” Vortun snorted. Barbus shook his head, retracting his foot.
“Nah, just unconscious…that was a good hit, though.” He complimented. “Doesn’t sound like anyone else heard, somehow…c’mon, get him up on the couch and let’s go.” Varvillon and Vortun did so, unceremoniously dropping Flash onto the pillows before stepping back.
“Y’know…I hate to sound like Lorkhan…” Varvillon began, folding his arms. “But that was actually pretty satisfying…” When he didn’t get a response, he turned, wincing. “Oh, c’mon Barb’…you’re not going to steal his Christmas present, right?”
“What?” The other boy asked, walking over to join them with guitar in hand. “It’s nice, even we can appreciate that…and it would help with our little ‘problem’ right now…” Reading the looks on their faces, he gave a disappointed sigh, but nodded. “Okay, fine…I guess that is a little low, even for us.”
Any further ruminations Barbus might have offered were lost as a small, painful groan came from the couch. They froze once more as Flash shuffled a little; the boy seemed still in a trance-like state, but he’d be out of it soon. Barbus glanced at Varvillon with a pleading look in his eyes. After a moment, the soot-covered boy nodded with a small smirk.
Flash’s eyes flickered open, vision swimming a moment, as he groaned and raised a hand to his throbbing head. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the three figures looming over him in the darkness. One of them had a guitar in his hand.
“Peace on fuckin’ Earth, Sonic.” Flash heard the lead figure say, before the butt of the instrument crashed into his forehead, and the world was black once more.
***
Sleep would not come to her after Mordecai’s departure, of that much Applejack was certain. It was partially because her mind was still trying to deal with the over-stimulation the night’s confusing events had caused, and partially because the girl knew they were not over. Strangely, Applejack found she didn’t resent the idea of that now; she was eager to get this over with, and as she’d admitted to Mordecai, more than a little curious to see how exactly they completed the trinity.
She’d at least dressed herself in her usual attire now, still trying to shake out the bone-deep cold being practically dragged outside had let set into her. Applejack clutched a mug of cocoa she’d whipped up tight, breathing the warm fumes in deeply, allowing herself little smiles as she sipped. As she did, the farmgirl kept thinking the latest boy’s words over. He had had a point, Applejack wasn’t so stubborn as to deny that. In all honesty, she couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed for assuming that she was the only one who had it hard around Christmas time. With that said, the girl wasn’t entirely sure what Mordecai wanted her to do with the lesson he’d tried to impart. It was still the early hours of the morning after all; besides, once she’d at least apologised, Applejack knew the girls would let their argument go. Then they could put this whole business behind them, and everything would go back to normal.
It was halfway through that last thought, as Applejack’s eyes lazily scanned over the lounge windows, that she saw him. It took her a moment to establish that he was real. The half-opened curtains made his form a little hard to distinguish, a problem compounded by the still pitch-black sky. It wasn’t her imagination, though. Applejack stared a moment, taking a deep breath, slowly setting the mug down on a coffee table. Then, with more trepidation than she’d expected, she rose and slipped her thick coat back on before heading outside.
He stood quite a way away, deep in the heart of the orchard, near to where Mordecai had taken her. He was also the only one that didn’t come to her. Applejack crunched her way through the snow across to him, a little irritated by his inaction, and a little unnerved by it. She knew the story these boys were emulating, and perhaps some subconscious part of her had genuinely expected to come face-to-face with an ethereal spectre from beyond.
The figure before her was not an ethereal spectre. He was actually a little chubby, not strikingly so but more than the other two had been. Despite that, the girl still felt plenty uncomfortable. The boy’s face was hidden, concealed behind a black mask. A motorcycle helmet, she noted, to be exact. During the day Applejack might have just found it odd, but now there was definitely something at least a little eerie about it.
When it became clear that he wasn’t going to speak, and at that moment wasn’t even actually looking at her, Applejack cleared her throat. “The…ghost of Christmas Future, ah presume.” She’d meant to offer a light chuckle as she spoke, but all that came out was a small shiver that she decided to blame on the wind. The ‘ghost’ looked round at her lightning-quick, staggering a little, like a marionette being tugged on strings. She took a step back, raising a placating hand. “Alraght, alraght…what is it you wanna show me?”
Still, the ‘ghost’ didn’t speak, which at least meant he was in character. He gave another near-spasming stagger, an arm reaching out and catching himself on a tree. The figure was doubled-over a little, staring at the ground, the other arm waving as the first rested on Applejack’s shoulder. She frowned at it, looking into the dark of his visor.
“Me?” She asked, not following. “Yeah, ah know, y’all are interested in me fer some reason…what does this have tah do with mah future?” His response was to paw weakly at his own neck, and over his shoulder, Applejack could just about make out the distant lights of the town Christmas tree. “Ah’m…ah’m gonna die?” She asked, still perplexed, before an idea hit. “Or…mah Christmas Spirit’s gonna die?”
He grasped her arms, making Applejack flinch a little, shaking her slightly. Even as he did, however, epiphany continued to unfold in her brain. “You’re right…y’all are right!” She exclaimed, grinning and gripping his forearms back. “If ah keep this attitude, ah’m gonna be lahk ah am in this dog-gone field now; alone, on Christmas Day!” She let go and stepped back, slapping her forehead, ignoring him for the moment. “Lord, ah’ve been so stupid…the girls were right…” She sighed, looking down glumly. Moments later the usual determination crossed her face, clenched fist striking an upturned palm. “No. Ah can still save this…ah’ve got time.” She turned back to the boy, ignoring the way he gripped his throat again, grinning and pulling him into a tight embrace that both warmed her with the contact and made him thrash even more. “Thank yah…all of yah.” Then she let go, Applejack turning and sprinting back inside. She scribbled a quick note to her family explaining what she was doing, before running back out towards the town. She wasn’t entirely sure what her plan was, nor did she particularly care about the time. All she knew was she was going to make her wrongs right.
Zuko, meanwhile, did not follow. He didn’t even move far from where he’d been standing. He still staggered, back and forth, arms moving through the air almost like he was in a daze. Then, he paused. His legs quivered. Finally, the boy toppled, landing face-first in the snow.
“…Zuko?” Lorkhan’s head poked out from one side of the tree he’d been hiding behind, Mordecai’s from the other. “Zuko.” He repeated, voice still a hiss. The boy didn’t move. Frowning a little, Lorkhan glanced at Mordecai. The polite boy just shrugged. He was also the first one to leave the cover, heading over to their companion and kneeling beside him.
“Ah, I believe I’ve found the problem!” Mordecai’s voice was as cheerful as ever as he stood back up, facing an expectant Lorkhan. “The icy temperature seems to have…frozen the seal between his helmet and his neck, making it damn hard for air to get in. I…do believe he’s unconscious.”
“Unconscious?” Lorkhan asked to clarify, looking down at the body. “If we leave him out here, he’ll freeze to death.” Mordecai nodded, his expression a grim one.
“So,” Lorkhan began, as they turned and began to walk away through the field. “What did you ask for this year?”
But he didn’t die, though. It was a joke.
Slowly but surely, air began to reach him once more, his unconscious body still sucking air into his lungs. Zuko sat up, coughing a little, shuddering as he was jolted to wakefulness. The ground was cold beneath him, enough to actually make him shiver, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. When he did, eh also remembered that Lorkhan and Mordecai were meant to be there with him, the two promising they wouldn’t leave. He called their names.
They’d left. Of course they had.
Cursing under his breath, Zuko staggered to his feet once more, resting his hands on his thighs and taking a moment to recover. When he finally had, he stood up, hugging himself a little in an effort to keep warm. The girl’s house wasn’t far from here, windows glowing with an inviting light. For a moment he actually considered it. Common sense reasserted itself a moment afterwards, the boy sighing and beginning to hike towards the town as Applejack and presumably his companions had.
The bus service wouldn’t be running for another hour or two, if they did at all on Christmas Day, so there was little to do except wait. It was still a bit of a stretch for him to accept that it was Christmas – perhaps that was merely because the sun still wasn’t up, however. With most of the town empty and uninviting, the helmeted boy found himself wandering in what felt like endless circles. As he did, his irritation simply rose and rose – mainly at Lorkhan, for dragging him into this to start with, and then ditching him. Stupid Lorkhan. Stupid Christmas; after that experience, Zuko would be quite happy to never celebrate the blasted holiday again.
Eventually, against all odds, he managed to find a store that was open. His stomach was growling by that point, but he had little money on him, just enough to buy a single sausage roll. It was better than nothing, he supposed. He headed back onto the streets quickly with his prize in hand, glancing at the nearest bench and sitting without further thought, trying to ignore the cold now radiating through the lower half of his body.
“Hey.”
He froze as the feminine voice piped up, before turning slowly to his right. A girl was sat there, dressed in thick winter clothing, teal eyes focused on him. He couldn’t believe he’d missed her before. “I didn’t mean to startle you…” She said apologetically. “I just….you surprised me…I didn’t expect to see anyone else out this early.”
“…it’s alright.” He said at last, after searching for the right words. As he stared at her, recognition hit suddenly; though her fiery hair was hidden beneath a woolly hat, he recognised her as Sunset Shitlord…no, Shimmer, definitely Shimmer. She was Lorkhan’s ‘Daemon teenager’, and also the girl Zuko had – he recalled, embarrassment flooding him – admitted was ‘kinda cute’. “What are you doing out here?” He went on, to his own surprise. Sunset looked away, rubbing an arm grimly.
“The people at the Hostel I live in were getting a bit…rowdy.” She explained. “I just needed to get out of there for a while…what about you?”
“I was ordered to break into someone’s house and then left to freeze to death.” He answered bluntly. Awkward silence persisted a moment, before she chuckled.
“Well…you win.” Sunset laughed. Once again, Zuko surprised himself by returning the snigger. The girl’s chuckles were cut off by the sound of her stomach rumbling; she winced, cheeks turning red, a hand gripping her belly. “Sorry…”
“No problem.” Zuko assured her, glancing around them. He took in the sights: the tinsel covering the lamp-posts, the snow on the ground, the images of reindeer and jolly fat men in red suits hung in vacant store windows. Then, he looked down at the sausage roll in his hand. With a sigh, and without really understanding why he was doing what he was doing, Zuko held out the pastry towards her.
Sunset flinched as he did, equally caught off-guard. She looked down at it, then back up at him. Her mouth opened, but Zuko cut her off. “Just take it.” He mumbled, trying to ignore the annoying sensation of warmth that now radiated off his cheeks round the helmet. “Before I realise what the hell I’m doing.” She nodded, quickly taking the foodstuff.
“I…thank you.” She said, giving a small but warm smile. “…What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He mumbled again, folding his arms. “This isn’t canon anyway, you won’t remember it.” Feeling her blank stare on the side of his head, the boy sighed. “Zuko…it’s Zuko.”
“Zuko…” Sunset nodded, looking back at the ‘gift’. “…Merry Christmas, Zuko.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So Zuko said nothing, continuing just to look at his feet and hug himself tight against the cold as he heard Sunset begin to eat. Around them, the snow had started to fall again, soft particles of white drifting down from out of the sky. As it came to rest on and all around the two of them, it took Zuko a moment to realise his face ached somewhat.
It took him a moment longer to realise it was because of the small smile crossing it.
The eight Astartes, without exception or pause, raised their bolters and began to fire as the figure smashed its way through the side of a building. Even above the dry snapping of timbers and the endless pattering of shells off ancient, corrupted ceramite, the combined roar of their guns could be heard. Not that Adamant Tower had any real intention of staying long enough to listen, of course; the sudden bursting into action from both sides had done more than enough to trigger his survival instincts. Besides, even without looking behind him he knew this was kin-strife. He couldn’t interfere with that.
When he’d made it down the remnants of a street, far enough to escape the sudden feeling of sickness that had come over him when the newcomer had arrived, the pony skidded to a halt and looked back with wide eyes. The coalition of Imperial Astartes had taken up defensive positions around the edge of the town square, taking advantage of what limited cover there was to surround the enemy. The fact that even Helsturnn was keeping his distance spoke volumes as to the seriousness of the threat.
Approaching from the still-crumbling ruins of a townhouse was a vision out of a nightmare. Ash and dust flaked from its body with every step, exposing what had once been deep silver and bronze armour beneath. That armour was warped nearly beyond recognition, forced apart from within so that corrupted flesh spilled from a hundred cracks. In some places, most notably its arms, the corrupted flesh had taken over completely to render them eternally-mutating messes. Two piggish little eyes stared from the almost comically undersized head nestled in the center of the walking tank, though even its face seemed to constantly ripple with change.
Yet despite all the mutation, Adamant knew it could only be one thing. It was an Iron Warrior.
It lumbered forwards, heedless of the explosive shells striking home all over its body as the ground shook beneath each footfall. The Iron Warrior paused when it reached the corpse of one of its brothers, bracing a foot up on it. The force made the silver armour almost sink down into the ground. A lucky shell, Adamant couldn’t see who had fired it, caught the traitor in the face. It did flinch that time even as its corrupted flesh rushed to repair the damage, the grossly oversized talon of its right hand flexing. Then, before the pony’s horrified eyes, that hand began to ripple and change.
He had heard all the rumours, of course; that in the aftermath of the Chaos Space Marine attack there was still something not entirely daemonic lurking in Equestria. Refugee columns had been attacked and left with what looked like bullet wounds, whole isolated settlements left as smoking ruins overnight despite. He hadn’t believed them, and the Council had dismissed the attacks as the work of the daemons. But still they had persisted, and they had even given it a name – Obliterator. With what he would witness in a moment, it certainly seemed fitting.
None of the loyalist Space Marines sought to stop firing as the obliterator’s arm reformed, stubbornness and the desire for vengeance perhaps outweighing tactical sense for a moment. The Iron Warrior ignored their vented fury, flesh running like a river over its right arm as three metal barrels began to push through. Some juice that to the pony’s sickened mind didn’t seem to be wholly organic or artificial dripped from them as the barrels began to slowly cycle round and round. With a noise that Adamant first thought was a roar, but then seemed to be more like a laugh, the traitor extended its arm and began to fire.
More shells tore through the air now, the stream of bolter fire finally slowing as the Astartes dived to avoid the torrent spewing forth from the assault cannon. The Iron Warrior continued to laugh as he moved the gun-arm round in an arc, clipping one of Zuriel’s pauldrons. Crimson ceramite was torn free, the Angel stumbling back and firing blindly. Another round lodged itself in Moulkain’s power pack, nearly tearing it clean from the Iron Hand’s body and sending it sparking. Even the pony had to hit the dirt, pressing himself against the foul-smelling ground and shaking in fright as a round missed his head by an inch and cut a path through his messy hair.
“You cannot imagine ze joy it brings me to see you all here, mein cousins.” Was it…was it speaking to them, even as it tried to kill them? Adamant found it hard to believe, but it seemed the Iron Warrior was doing exactly that, and managing to maintain a rumbling monotone as it did. “I feared zis world vas running out of things to amuse me.”
“Oh shut up, you traitorous skijta.” Helsturnn cursed, popping up for a moment to let off a few more ineffectual shots before hunkering down once again. The Obliterator chuckled.
“You remind me of one of my brothers, dog. He vas an idiot…more so zan ze rest.” Even above the deafening din of the combined gunfire, Adamant could pick up something strange in the Iron Warrior’s voice. It was different to that of the loyalist Marines’s – less formal, the vocabulary less tight and clipped. Perhaps it had something to do with the nature of its corruption, or perhaps it simply had not had chance to speak amongst brothers for a long time. Even as it stepped off the body of its brethren and released a burst of putrid flame from its other mutated arm, Adamant could feel the Obliterator’s eyes studying its foes closely. “I can still read your thin-blooded heraldry…First Legion. Sixth Legion. Ninth Legion, and Tenth Legion. All primogenitors…ze Powers have blessed me indeed. I have missed killing your kind in ze war.”
“We killed our share of you in the Heresy, too.” Nehemiah’s words were calm as ever as his bolt pistol barked, light rippling down his power sword. “The last we saw of your kind, you were all running into the Eye.”
“You fought in ze war?” It was hard to tell given the distortion in its voice, but the Iron Warrior seemed genuinely surprised. “Zat is good…far more satisfying.” To Adamant’s eyes, it smirked, the other arm converting to some tainted form of flamethrower now to add to the conflagration. “With who do I have ze honour of sparring, cherub?”
“Nehemiah,” the Angel growled, doing his best to ignore the insult. “Knight-sergeant of the First Legion.” The Obliterator nodded, as if it was sniggering.
“Vortun.” It rumbled in return. “I do vat I vant.”
No sooner had the traitor finished speaking, the Wolf leapt into action. His patience thoroughly strained by being forced to take cover, Helsturnn rose firing his bolter one-handed as the other unhooked and revved-up his chainsword and his power hunter’s legs carried him across the short distance. Distracted as he was by the Dark Angel, Vortun turned too slow to stop the Grey Hunter as he flung himself forward. With a howl, fangs flashing, Helsturnn braced himself on the corrupted traitor Marine’s body and locked his bolter to his thigh. Using the now-free hand to grab hold of what remained of the armour, he struck down in curving, slashing motions with the chainsword. The whirring teeth passed across the Obliterator’s exposed face, digging in deep to the tainted flesh. Even from a distance, Adamant Tower could see black, oily blood spray through the air and hear the Obliterator’s cries of frustration towards the Wolf. A vengeful grin slowly crept its way over his face as he stood.
It faltered when one of Vortun’s arms reshaped again. The power claw that had taken the place of one of the flamethrowers suddenly closed around Helsturnn’s leg, talons crushing the storm-grey ceramite with ease. The Space Wolf howled, dangling almost like a child’s doll as the Iron Warrior straightened as much as he could. Uncaring of his comrade’s proximity, Voss unhooked a grenade from his belt, quickly priming it before hurling the explosive with clinical precision. Vortun turned just in time to catch it on a thick pauldron, though he still staggered as the blast and accompanying shrapnel washed over him and Helsturnn. Ignoring the metal shards now cutting into his face, the Wolf took the grip of his sword in both hands and started to hack at the claw holding him. It didn’t really seem to pain Vortun, but it did irritate him. With a heavy step forward, the Obliterator drew its arm back before hurling the Space Wolf through the air.
The idea that anything could throw a Space Marine around like a ragdoll seemed ludicrous to Adamant, but the evidence existed before his very eyes. Helsturnn managed to twist himself in the air slightly, landing in a crouch and skidding to a stop only a few yards away from the pony. Adamant spared him a nervous glance; the Wolf was breathing hard, yellow eyes flashing with feral instinct as blood seeped down and matted in his beard. The predatory sight was unsettling, to say the least, but the pony didn’t have much of a chance to worry before Helsturnn growled and began to charge once more. He was limping slightly, the leg that Vortun had crushed evidently giving him problems, but anger seemed to be carrying him through.
Another Astartes was approaching, closing in on his brother fast. Zuriel, the apothecary, presumably to treat whatever wounds Helsturnn had suffered in his crash landing. He was fast, and heedless of the bullets, but even with the five other loyalists pinning the traitor down Vortun was still cutting a healthy swathe of destruction through the area. A thousand calculations passing through the Obliterator’s head at once, he extended a lascannon from an arm, aiming it squarely at where the Blood Angel would have to stop to examine his brother. Adamant’s eyes widened too, as even he saw the path the laser would take. It would hit. More to the point, from what he had seen so far of the weapon’s capability’s, when it did hit there wouldn’t be much left over of the Apothecary.
A flash of sable caught his eye, suddenly bursting from inactivity into unstoppable motion. Moulkain was moving to defend his crimson brother. The exposed servos in the Iron Hand’s legs pumped and whirred as he stomped his way closer, his boltgun unleashing another torrent of unerringly accurate fire. It tore into the Obliterator’s face, reducing more of it to a bloody ruin. Still, Vortun stood. The continued punishment from the Tactical Marine, not to mention supporting fire from the other Marine’s, did have the desired effect of drawing his attention; thick oil dribbling down the front of his silver armour as he took aim with the lascannon.
Moulkain was a son of the Gorgon. He was cold, remorseless, a seemingly unstoppable walking mountain of steel. But he was not fast. Even as Zuriel and Helsturnn began to peel off to help stabalise the latter, a beam of crimson light was unleashed from the barrel of the gun. It cut through the air, and try as he might the stoic Iron Hand couldn’t quite move himself aside in time. The laser punched clean through his chest, through both hearts, atomizing the bionics and scant flesh that remained. The Iron Hand jerked, finger tensing around his gun’s trigger and letting loose another barrage of shots as smoke rose from the gaping hole bored clean through him.
Then he dropped, and the Medusan did not rise again.
Helsturnn howled as he saw another brother die, almost clawing at the Blood Angel as he tried to return to the fight. Voss reacted with a typical lack of emotion, still punishing the Chaos Space Marine with boltgun salvos. And Adamant just stared. The pony couldn’t help but have his jaw hang slack; he knew the Astartes could die, Uzzael had died, but actually bringing himself to believe it was quite another matter. With some effort, he managed to pull his eyes away from the body, and onto the Obliterator.
Every shell that hit him, every blast of a grenade, only seemed to anger him more. The Iron Warrior was on the warpath now, even with the repeated wounds he’d taken. Blinding balls of superheated plasma exploded from the cannon his arm had become, setting the bone-dry grass around the warring cousins ablaze. His rage was palpable, and right now even the mutual hatred between the Astartes seemed to be secondary to Vortun’s desire to live up to his name – to obliterate anything he could.
Breath harking in his throat, Adamant realised the Iron Warrior’s beady eyes had settled squarely on him.
***
When he was feeling particularly poetic, which thankfully was rare even for him, Mordecai would often muse on the differing personalities of each of his companions…he couldn’t quite bring himself to call them ‘friends’. Though he wasn’t quite sure if he believed in any sort of creator-figure, Mordecai found it mildly amusing how easily he and the others slipped into the archaic view of the four temperaments; He himself was the only one who really fit the Sanguine personality type, though he wished there were more. Zuko and Varvillon were Melancholic, of that there was no doubt. Rorke, and to an admittedly lesser extent Lorkhan, would always lean towards the Choleric. And while the usually relaxed traits associated with the Phlegmatic type seemed overly-generous for Vortun and Barbus’s demeanors, it was probably the most fitting.
Of course, that was an over-simplification, as easy as that was to forget sometimes. But it did drive home to Mordecai that out of all those he considered himself close with, only Ahriman was truly calm.
The newcomer chuckled as Mordecai got to his feet and opened his arms, a disarmingly warm smile on his own face. Ahriman reached up with a hand, flicking a light switch almost without actually touching it. As light flooded the room, he began to approach, though his movements seemed more akin to gliding than actually walking. In contrast to the silvery hue of Mordecai’s own skin, Ahriman’s was almost golden. Dark, clever eyes that flashed with constant curiosity took in the room around him, brown hair cropped close to his head. Even as Mordecai took in the sight of his friend, he realised that the boy’s clothes were different than he remembered; the last time he’d seen Ahriman, his robe-like garments were predominantly crimson with golden and ivory trim. Now, however, he wore a deep sapphire, with only gold remaining to accentuate it around the sleeves and neckline.
The polite boy put such thoughts to the side as Ahriman reached him, the pair of them holding one another’s gaze for a moment. Then, with another grin and chuckle, each grasped the other’s wrist and shock. It was an old, curious gesture that showed mutual respect between warriors. Mordecai was not certain why he used it so often, only that it felt…fitting.
“In the flesh.” Ahriman’s voice was deeper than his own as he responded to the greeting, but accented and rich, as smooth as flowing wine. “I apologise for barging in on you like this, my friend. I did not mean to…interrupt.” On the last one, he gave a teasing smile, inclining his head towards the keyboard Mordecai had been practicing with. The boy looked round, chuckling in admission.
“You did no such thing, old sport, I assure you…it is always delightful to see you.” He let go of Ahriman’s wrist, quickly pulling out his tea-flask and pouring them a cup each. “How the dickens have you been?” He asked, handing one of them over and sipping from the other. “I must say, the change of fashion suits you.”
Ahriman chuckled as he swirled his own drink, but beneath the amusement Mordecai detected a hint of sadness in his voice. It was confirmed when the boy sighed. “More necessity than choice, I’m afraid…after recent events, many of us decided that maintaining old red-and-gold was in bad taste.” Reading Mordecai’s blank look of questioning incomprehension, he grimaced. “Prospero High was…vandalised. The hoodlums from Fenris State, we believe, more than likely with Russ’s quiet backing.” The calm demeanor cracked for a moment, anger curling Ahriman’s lips into a sneer at the mention of the old rivalry. “Many of our libraries were stolen from at best, torn apart at worst. Khalophis, Phosis, Ankhu Anen, Principal Magnus himself…I’m not really sure where they all went.” He sighed sadly, still grimacing. “I keep contact with a few of the others. Sobek, Amon, Hathor. It is…not enough. The school has been closed until further notice, though those of us that remain wear these colours still as a mark of remembrance.”
Mordecai stared as he listened, mouth slightly ajar in disbelief. Lorkhan’s hatred of Canterlot High was one thing, and the school had had problems with others – most notably Terra Academy and Deliverance Prep – that had sometimes spilled over into violence, but the idea of actually attacking with the mercilessness Ahriman described remained deeply shocking. For a moment he said nothing, blinking slowly as he processed the information.
“Oh, good heavens…I am sorry, old thing.” He insisted, patting the other boy on the shoulder fraternally. “That is truly awful…” Ahriman remained silent a moment, before smiling once again, shaking his head.
“You have my thanks, but you need not fret…I already have a plan in mind.” He promised cryptically. Before Mordecai could press him any more, Ahriman returned his attention to the keyboard. “And enough about me…you still haven’t explained this. I haven’t heard you play this old thing in years.”
It was Mordecai’s turn to grimace, nodding thoughtfully. “To be quite frank, this is more from necessity than choice myself…” Feeling Ahriman’s eyes on him, Mordecai took a deep breath, and began to explain. He told his friend about Canterlot High, about Lorkhan, about the threat of decimation following their repeated acts of aggression, and the Battle of the Bands. Even as he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling Ahriman anything he didn’t already know – although, that was how he usually felt when they spoke anyway.
“…as you can imagine, it isn’t not going as well as one would hope.” He finished with a sigh. “Lorkhan and the others are marvelously stubborn, but they do not have any…what’s the word…” He thought on it for a moment. “Skills.”
Ahriman couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that, though he still seemed sympathetic. Silence persisted for a moment before the golden-skinned boy reached out, playing a quick melody on the nearest keys.
“How much time do you have?” He asked. Mordecai gave a slightly morose chuckle.
“Barbus knew…all I remember is that it’s not long.” Ahriman nodded again, rolling his tongue round his cheeks thoughtfully. Though Mordecai kept his expression calm, deep down he nurtured the hope that his friend could come up with some solution. Ahriman usually could.
When a smile broke out across the boy’s face, Mordecai let the unfamiliar sensation of hope blossom within him a little more. Ahriman nodded, turning his attention onto the polite boy. “I…believe I may have a solution to your problem, my dear Mordecai…if you will allow me to displace you for an evening.” He didn’t need to ask twice, Mordecai reaching over to don his hat and coat. Ahriman gave another pleased smile, before leading him out.
***
The walk had been undertaken in amicable silence, if only because Ahriman’s theatrical side meant he’d reveal nothing until he wished. The night air was cold, but mercifully still. The boy had led Mordecai to a house in the center of town; it belonged to Ahriman’s family, who Mordecai knew were immeasurably better-off than his own mother, though very rarely did they stay there. Ahriman explained he’d needed a break, to focus his mind, and so he’d chosen to vacation there for a while. Mordecai saw no reason to disbelieve him, and in any case he was far more interested in the countless knick-knacks and curios dotted around the expansive home. Ahriman himself was a bit of a collector, and the scholarly parts of Mordecai almost chomped at the bit to examine some of the items he spotted. They were not, however, what Ahriman wanted to show him.
“What…are they?”
Mordecai’s question was met by a good-natured chuckle. The answer to it should perhaps have been obvious. The instruments sat in the room before him, laid out with uncanny care. He counted a keyboard, a drumset, guitars – everything the band had been practicing with that afternoon. They were in considerably better condition than the shoddy equipment that Olympia High had offered them, but despite his shock Mordecai couldn’t help but feel that there was something ‘off’ about them. Perhaps it was simply the jarring design of them; unlike the grey, blocky things he’d been used to, these were sleek and coloured a reflective ebony. Highlights of bright pink and regal purples added splashes of colour, predominantly concentrated around the almost-spiked edges of the instruments. As he examined them, Mordecai saw two designs repeated over and over. The first was a sickle-and-circle design, his intellectual side picking out the combined symbols for male and female. The second was far more ominous, though the boy couldn’t place why; an eight-pointed star, each edge of the Octed barbed and sharp.
“They are how you will win.” Ahriman answered, as Mordecai found himself struggling to pull his eyes away from the star. He had remained at the entrance to the room, as if wanting to keep his distance from the gifts. “An…interesting design choice considering your group’s predilections, I appreciate, but I didn’t have much of a choice on the design when I acquired them.” As strangely entranced as he found himself by the instruments, Mordecai kept an ear open, expecting an explanation on just how Ahriman had brought them into his possession. None came. “Play one.” He said instead, gesturing with a hand.
At that, Mordecai looked round, part of the boy wondering if he was being mocked. Ahriman certainly seemed serious enough, though. Grimacing thoughtfully, he turned back to the esoteric instruments, instinctually making his way over to the keyboard. He searched for an ‘on’ switch, but none could be found; reasoning that it must always be on, he shrugged, fingers pressing down on some keys in a basic melody.
The sensation hit him like a train. It was warm, tingling, setting every nerve in Mordecai’s brain and body alight with blissful fire. He staggered, shivering as the sudden onrush of pleasure made his nostrils flare a little. Before he knew it, he was back at the keys. Mordecai knew he was an amateur player at best, but his fingers moved almost with a life of their own to fill the room with more of the melody. The light-headed feeling from earlier had returned, far more pronounced now, but he almost couldn’t feel it beneath the heights of ecstasy and deep, crushing depths of sadness his own music inspired within him.
Eventually he could take it no more, the usually-composed boy stumbling away and taking in a deep breath. Panting hard, he raised a trembling finger to his eyes. It came away wet. He paused; he had not cried, had not even come close to crying, in years. Now, however, tears cascaded down his face – the emptiness caused by the music stopping gnawing faintly in the back of his mind.
“You didn’t imagine it.” Ahriman said, before Mordecai could voice the question. He didn’t seem as affected as his friend had been, but he had not got away freely. “These instruments were engineered by a…unique benefactor, so I have been told.” He took a few steps forward, patting Mordecai’s shoulder now. “I can have them delivered to your school; they will do give you what you need. Consider it a gift, from one friend to another.”
Mordecai was not quite sure how to respond to that. Normally, he would have asked how Ahriman could assure him of all these things, but right now his mind was firmly focused on the offer presented before him. Eventually, he swallowed, turning back to look at the other boy.
“…You…you said you had a plan.” He managed, voice regaining some of its old tone – he’d been meaning to offer gratitude, but the words had slipped free instead. Ahriman didn’t seem to mind, instead smiling and nodding.
“A plan to restore all we have lost…I believe I have found a stratagem, a planned chain of cause and event that holds the key to our salvation and will undo all that has befallen us.” He seemed to be talking more to himself now, slipping freely into melodrama as a distant look of hope crossed his face.
“I call it the Rubric.”
***
“So…where exactly did you get these, again?”
Lorkhan’s voice was distinctly unimpressed as he cast his eyes over the assembly of instruments in the center of the room. True to his word, Ahriman had somehow got them all there by the time school had started the next day, but the reaction from Lorkhan and the others had been one of thinly-veiled contempt. In true, Olympia High fashion, they trusted no resources but their own, and especially nothing brought in from the outside that looked as unsettling as these did.
Mordecai opened his mouth to reply, before catching himself; though they’d only met once before, it couldn’t be said that Lorkhan and Ahriman had hit it off. To avoid any further snarled disgust, Mordecai merely shrugged.
“Does it matter, old thing?” He responded, smiling as politely as ever. He’d finally managed to get over the euphoric sensations the music had inspired in him last night, though some of the tingling hadn’t quite gone away. “We have a tool at our disposal, one that will help us claim victory in this little soiree. I would respectfully suggest that we would be fools not to take it.”
“I don’t know…” Zuko mused, glancing at the black instruments once more. “Something about them feels…weird. Like, stuff we shouldn’t mess with.”
“Are you scared?” Varvillon smirked, though behind it he seemed just as apprehensive. Zuko looked at him with what might have been a glare behind the helmet, whilst the others just stayed quiet, each one turning their own private thoughts over.
“Vat is so special about zese music-making devices zat you think zey vill help us win?” Vortun asked, the large boy folding his arms and glancing at Mordecai. He didn’t waver as all their eyes fell on him.
“I must insist one of you just…plays one.” He answered, with a soft smile. The others gave him another look of suspicion, but before any could argue Lorkhan relented. Mumbling his breath, the self-elected leader of the band made his way over to one of the guitars. Assuming, as Mordecai himself had done, that the instruments were in a constant state of readiness, he idly strummed his fingers over the strings.
All of them, with the sole exception of Rorke – who just looked even more agitated than usual – shivered as the music played. Mordecai had been able to prepare himself this time, but even he and the intractable Vortun still felt blissful spasms course round their body. Varvillon seemed the most affected of all, breath shaky as sweat already beaded on his brow. Lorkhan shuddered, looking down at the instrument in surprise. Staring for a moment, he began to play again, more of the music sinking into the minds of the group. For saying they were usually so blunt and focused on the tangible, the effect the instruments had had on them was startling to say the least; though Mordecai didn’t take a proper look, he thought he even saw a few other students stop outside the door to listen in.
“…this will work.” Lorkhan’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t believe it himself. Then, a manic grin split across the boy’s face. He dropped the guitar to the ground, walking over to grasp Mordecai on the biceps; the others all gasped with surprising protectiveness as the guitar hit the ground, but when Varvillon rushed over to examine it, there was not a scratch on it. “This will work!” Lorkhan repeated, grinning wider still as he shook Mordecai a little in excitement. “We…we can win this!” His enthusiasm was almost infectious, eyes alight with glee as he rubbed his hands together.
“W-we can win…by cheating.” Zuko clarified, though he seemed just as affected as all the others.
“Not cheating.” Lorkhan retorted, far too excitable to be brought stopped now. “More just…playing to our strengths!” The others nodded, once again with the exception of Rorke, who continued to glare.
“So…right, right.” Barbus said, holding his hands up to call for calm. “I hate to be a downer, but let’s think about where we are…we have the name-“
“’Steel Soldiers’.” Zuko mumbled under his breath, obviously still hating it.
“And we have the instruments, now.” His companion finished. “Has…it occurred to anyone that we’re not actually entered in this competition yet?”
That stopped them all, dead. None of them had even considered that yet. Lorkhan’s arms slowly dropped, whilst the others exchanged glances, not quite sure what to say.
“So, let me guess.” Zuko began in a deadpan voice. “More sneaking?” A groan from the others expressed exactly what they thought of that. Lorkhan did not join the chorus, however. He stood looking at the ground, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“There is…one other way.” He said slowly. Their eyes turned to him, and he looked back at them. None of them had clicked yet.
“Some…other way, old sport?” Mordecai repeated, confusion evident. Lorkhan nodded, but he didn’t clarify anything, clearly hesitant to voice it.
“Oh…” Zuko caught on first, the boy taking a step back as he shook his head. “Oh, Lorkhan, there’s got to be another way…” The penny seemed to drop for a few others, more quiet moans of despair leaving them.
“Vould somebody explain to me what exactly he is babbling on about?” Vortun snapped, heavy brow furrowed in irritation. Lorkhan sighed, fidgeting a little; it was hard to tell, but it seemed to be from genuine nervousness.
“I’m going to talk to the Brotherhoods.”
***
“So he took them?”
Ahriman did not dignify the other seated man with a question straight away. The golden-skinned boy interlocked his fingers, resting the tips of his two index digits on his top lip. His face was drawn hard, displeasure etched in every line of his expression.
“He did.” He answered at last, sitting back and folding his arms as he kept his tone business-like. “This…scheme of yours continues apace.” As he finished, the man on the other side of the desk gave a chuckle.
“Of all people, you should be the last to sound so disgusted by another’s ‘schemes’, Ahzek.”
“Ahriman.” He looked round at the man, cultured voice made of stone. “The importance of names is lost on you, it seems…although, ‘Cypher’ must have been chosen for a reason.” Mr Cypher chuckled at the accusation, nodding, but said no more. It was still early morning; the student body, and even most of the staff, of Canterlot High hadn’t arrived yet, but the enigmatic supply teacher had asked his co-conspirator to meet him. It wasn’t something that Ahriman relished.
“I understand the need for such…unpleasantness.” He assured, looking over at the hooded figure. “But you will forgive me if using those I consider friends as mere pawns is distasteful to me.”
“And yet, you did it anyway.” Cypher pointed out calmly. Tense silence descended for a moment. Finally, the teacher moved his chair aside, opening the top draw of his desk and looking for something in it. After a few moments, he found it. Ahriman’s eyes followed the brown book as it was held up to the light. It looked like it had once been a simple journal of some kind, but now the covers were burnt and clasped with heavy metal locks. Looking at it made him feel queasy in ways he couldn’t quite describe, but there was also something undeniably alluring in it. He stood and walked over, hand reaching out to take it. Cypher pulled it just out of his grasp, shadowed expression never changing.
“We had a deal.” Ahriman said firmly as his prize was denied to him. “I need that-“
“For the Rubric, yes.” Cypher finished, the tone of his voice carrying the distinct impression that he knew something Ahriman didn’t. “Believe me, my boy, I’m well aware…in any case, the deal has changed. I need something more from you.”
“That wasn’t the agreement.” Ahriman hissed, through gritted teeth.
“It wasn’t.” Cypher agreed. “But you’ll do it anyway.” Ahriman looked as if he was about to argue, a moment of adversarial silence stretching out again. Finally, the Prosperine student backed down; he had a suspicion he’d need that book if his plan was to succeed, and whilst it pained him to aid Cypher and trick Mordecai into taking the instruments, pragmatism had taken over.
“…Tell me something.” He asked, trying to keep himself civil as his natural curiosity took over. “What is this about? Really, what do you have to gain from making sure the group from Olympia High wins this…’Battle of the Bands’? I had thought at first that perhaps it was simply some cliché, ambitious plan to take over this school, but…that seems far too straightforward for all this.” Mr Cypher studied him for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, the ghost of a smile began to creep across his face once more.
“As perceptive as ever.” The burly teacher nodded. “I should have expected no less…you’re right. This is about a lot more than any petty bid for power over Celestia.”
“I’m going home, Ahzek.” Cypher ignored the boy’s look of irritation as he looked out the window, looking a little lost to thought now himself. “I’m finally going home.”
Somewhat fortunately for Adamant, the immobilizing terror of the Obliterator’s attention falling squarely on him was soon taken care of by another. Despite his injuries, and despite the Blood Angel most likely warning him against it, Helsturnn would not sit by and watch their guide be reduced to ash. Some part of the pony’s mind, probably induced by stress, wanted to laugh. Perhaps they’d grown fond of him after all.
The Space Wolf moved deceptively quickly, especially with the fact that at least one of his bones must have been broken taken into account. He covered the distance as Vortun’s arm morphed into another corrupted weapon, bending down and scooping Adamant up in one fluid movement. It was lucky he did so. Seconds later, the ground where the pony had been standing was practically vaporized, Vortun howling in frustration as his prize was denied to him. Another shot rang out, scoring a blinding line over the Grey Hunter’s pauldron. He staggered, smoke rising from the struck armour as both Astartes and pony averted their eyes. He didn’t stop running though.
Eventually, they rounded a townhouse, the Space Marine tossing the equine down with little grace as another shot punched through the building over their heads and the sound of bolter fire continued to echo. Adamant didn’t mind much, letting out the breath he’d been holding and allowing his knees to quiver. Helsturnn snarled with a flash of fangs. The death of the Iron Hand, Moulkain, didn’t seem to have really registered for the group yet, but he was angry all the same.
“Stay. Don’t die.” He grunted, drawing and gunning his chainsword as blood seeped down from the cracks in his armour. Adamant didn’t argue, nodding weakly.
“T-thank you.” He managed, but his saviour was already on the move. Deciding to take the Space Wolf’s words to heart, at least for the moment, the pony crawled into the best cover he could find and lay as still as he could. He was out of the Obliterator’s eye line now – or at least, he hoped he was, but it was had to tell exactly what Vortun could and could not do – and thus hopefully out of immediate danger. It didn’t stop his body from shaking. Adamant’s ears folded against his skull, each step any of the warring demigods took or shot they made sending out shuddering seismic vibrations.
After what felt like an age, but in reality couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, curiosity once again got the better of the pony. He dropped onto his front and slowly began to crawl forward, eventually peeking round the side of the ruined house and at the town square-turned-battlefield. He did so just in time to see an Angel fall.
By now Vortun was beginning to slow, the sheer volume of bolter rounds he’d absorbed taking a toll even on his corrupted flesh. He would not die in silence, however. Spitting out oily black blood from the gash in his face that served as a mouth, Vortun stopped focusing his fire on the surviving and vengeful Iron Hand to instead take aim at two of the approaching Dark Angel’s, Joshua and Baramiel. They didn’t take cover straight away, not even with the former having to fire one-handed, natural stubbornness perhaps overwhelming tactical sense for a moment. They peppered the Obliterator with gunfire, only compelled to move when a scorching melta beam cut through the air towards them. They headed in opposite directions in an attempt to split their adversary’s firepower. It would probably have worked too, had they not underestimated the traitor marine’s capabilities.
Considering how slowly and purposefully he moved, Vortun was capable of surprising turns of speed. As Baramiel braced himself once again and began to fire from the hip, he suddenly lurched into action, dropping his own stream of weapon fire as he stomped towards his marked prey. Baramiel was First Legion, a knight-lord of Caliban. Honour prevented him from running. He clamped his bolter to his thigh and drew his sword, taking the grip hands and lashing out as the Obliterator’s talons slowly carved through the air. Honour was his undoing. The masterfully wrought blade lashed out, carving yet another deep scar on the Chaos Space Marine’s warp-twisted face, but it would have taken a swordsman of greater skill than even the veteran to deflect all the blows that were coming for him. Eventually, one ponderous but crushing strike slipped under the warrior’s guard; the energy-wreathed talons sank in to Baramiel’s abdomen, the Dark Angel freezing as pain rocketed through his system. With an almost contemptuous motion, Vortun ripped his claw up, tearing away robes, dark green armour, fused bone, and the front of Baramiel’s skull. The Astartes’s corpse collapsed to the ground, blood bumping from where his face had been.
The idea that anything could kill even one Space Marine was hard for Adamant Tower to believe. He’d seen them take more punishment than he’d thought possible, and despite their entire journey up to that point, only a single one of them had fallen. The fact that two of them had died in what could well have been less than five minutes was enough to make his gut feeling like it was eternally dropping. The effect on the other Astartes was far more straightforward; it seemed to just make them angry. Both Helsturnn and Zuriel practically strained at the leash, clearly aching to charge forward and try and avenge their comrade in bloody melee. Even the usually stoic Nehemiah was having trouble remaining calm in the wake of another brother’s death. But for the moment, they all curbed their rashness, no matter how much it irked them.
It was hard to argue that the Obliterator could not see his doom rapidly approaching. The lurching stride to tear Baramiel apart had been born out of hatred fostered over millennia, or as good as millennia, rather than any tactical sense. Cracks were starting to form over Vortun’s armour, points where the loyalists’ combined fire could exploit. He staggered back, perhaps finally feeling the effects of all the wounds he’d suffered over his twisted life catching up with him. Plasma shot forth from the rapidly reforming guns that pushed clear of his thick, tainted flesh, but the shots were wild and poorly-aimed at best. Another punishing salvo of bolter fire sent the Obliterator back another step, more of the black ‘blood’ dribbling in a river down from the front of his ancient armour. Even as he dropped to a knee, having to drive the talons in one hand into the ground just to keep himself more or less upright. Throughout it all, an unsettling sound could be heard even above the chorus of chattering guns and bullets hitting home; it was the deep, manic laugh of the Obliterator.
It was impossible to know which of them had fired the shell that finally toppled him, but eventually, topple the Chaos Marine did. The loyalist Astartes continued to release short, controlled bursts from their weapons, even as their enemy spasmed and a deathly stiffness set into his limbs. He dropped to his other knee, armour actually screeching as it was forced to contort in ways it no longer could easily. With a final shudder, the Obliterator toppled onto his back. The ground shook once again as he collapsed.
Slowly, the gunfire tapered off, the surviving Space Marines and pony looking warily at their foe. Vortun was not quite dead, weak breaths leaving him, but his strength did seem spent. After a further moment’s hesitation, Nehemiah began to approach, drawing his power sword and letting the energy field wreath it.
“I…I vas born on Terra…” The Dark Angel paused as the quiet words left the Obliterator’s mouth. Vortun nodded as best he could when lying on his back, continuing to speak, seemingly to himself. “I remember…ze Europan hives…Attica, I think.”
“You were not born of Olympia?” Despite everything, Nehemiah seemed unable to contain his curiosity. He twisted his blade so that the point sank into the earth, kneeling beside his foe to listen. Vortun could not shake his head, but gave a grunt to the same effect.
“Nein…ze accent, yah?” Nehemiah gave a nod of understand. The dying Chaos Marine hesitated a moment, letting out another shuddering breath. “…did you ever see him, cousin? Your Emperor?”
“No,” Nehemiah admitted, sounding a little disappointed at the fact. ‘Well…yes. He only came to Caliban once, when Lord Jonson was elevated to command of the Legion…but I was just a boy, then. Did you?”
“Dah.” Vortun said with a chuckle, though it soon devolved into a hacking cough. “Once…before ze Primarch was found. Back ven ve were just ze Fourth Legion.”
“I had heard you were once called the Corpse Grinders.” The first legionnaire said, helmeted head tilting to the side slightly beneath the robe. Another wet and pained chuckle left the traitor.
“I always liked zat name…the irony behind it.” He sighed, a bloody mist leaving his ruined lips. “I remember ven lord Perturabo first walked amongst us. He asked us…” He coughed. “He asked us to decimate ourselves…did you know zat, cousin?”
“I did not.” Nehemiah conceded. Vortun smirked.
“It is true. Ein-tenth of ze Legion, decided by lottery and put to death by our own hands. I remember beating one of the primus medicaes until he did not move…yes…I vas an Apothecary, back zen.” He said, as if he himself had forgotten. “Most of my kind, zey vere ze legion Techmarines. Not me…no, flesh was always my area.” He looked down at himself, and chuckled. “Perhaps ze Gods do have a sense of humour, after all.” part “Why did he do it?” Nehemiah asked, refusing to be distracted from the story he’d been told. “Why did Perturabo order you to kill one another?” Vortun’s piggish, blooshot eyes returned to him.
“He vanted us to be ze best.” He said simply. “I hated him for it, for a long time. I could not understand vhy ze false Emperor had put a madman in charge of us. I did not hate him forever…all of us admired our Father, even if ve feared him.” He hesitated again, slipping into reverie. “Sometimes I vonder vhy I was vas not chosen to die along with ze rest of ze legion whose loyalties couldn’t be guaranteed before ze war. Perhaps it vas because I vas already old guard. I may well be ze oldest Iron Warrior left in the universe, if only for ze next few moments. Perhaps I slipped through ze net…perhaps Lorkhan simply decided it didn’t matter anymore, one he took control.”
“Lorkhan?” Nehemiah repeated. “He was your…Warsmith, did you call them?” Vortun gave a grunt of acknowledgement.
“Dah…not ze best, or even ze first, but…he vas my Warsmith.” The mutated Astartes said, the faintest hint of fraternal affection colouring his voice.
“Did he live?”
“I do not know.” Vortun admitted bluntly. “Part of me hopes zat he did, zat he still strikes against your Imperium in his own way…part of me see ze cruelty in zat.” Silence reigned for a moment, periodically punctuated by the traitor’s pained coughs.
“Why are you telling me this?” Nehemiah asked, with deceptive softness. “Does it ease whatever remains of a soul within you?” Vortun gave a sound that could have been a snigger.
“I hated you all…ve all did. For ten thousand of your years, we wreaked that hatred on you. Salamanders and Ultramarines, Blood Angels and mortals, witches in shining silver…ve punished zem all.” As the memories flooded in, he gave for the first time what could have been a genuine smile. “But I am not sure if I still hate you. Perhaps I have simply let it go. Zis vorld…I ripped zis town apart. I burned zere city of Manehatten to ze ground. I tore down every tree in zere forest and made it burn, even if zey just grew again…here, I really vas…ze Obliterator.” He finished. A curious note of humanity inflected his voice as he gave a lingering, content exhale. Nehemiah stood, withdrawing his sword from the ground.
“You have murdered two of my brothers today, traitor.” He said, voice growing hard once again. “And I have still heard your confession. Wherever your tattered soul ends its journey, I hope that it burns there.” As he took the grip of his sword in both hands and raised it, Vortun began to break out in a final chorus of hacking laughs.
“So self-righteous,” He snorted, not a trace of fear or regret detectable in him. “I vas wrong…I do still hate you.”
When the tip of the sword fell he was still laughing, laughing for all the world to hear.
***
Lorkhan hesitated outside the door, and closed his eyes. A sigh left him. For a moment, he considered heading back and trying to find some other way, because if he was honest with himself the boy really didn’t want to do this. It wasn’t that he was scared, or even particularly nervous. He couldn’t deny that there was a little bit of dread, but that was only because he reckoned he knew exactly how this was going to go already.
Swallowing his reservations, he put a hand on the door and pushed. The sound of the aging hinges creaking in protest as the entrance swung open was enough to make him wince. Squinting a little, Lorkhan tried to peer into the darkness beyond. As opposed to the corridor behind him, where the light flickered a little and an impossible-to-place scent lingered, the room in front of him was as lightless as it could be. Setting his face hard, he hesitated just a moment longer before stepping in.
His feet tapped out rhythmically on the tile floor of the bathroom as he stepped in, doing his best to not glance around. The male toilets – there were female toilets, but nobody actually knew what they looked like for obvious reasons – of Olympia High were surprisingly spacious considering how cramped everywhere else seemed to be, but that didn’t make them particularly luxurious. There was always the peculiar smell of gasoline and motor oil lingering in the air, and the walls and stalls were covered in frustrated obscenities. Three mirrors lined the wall to his right, though all but one of them were cracked.
Lorkhan flinched as he heard the door harshly slam behind him. It took considerable willpower not to turn round defensively; part of him wished he’d brought one of the others, even Rorke, but there were certain traditions and formalities he had to adhere to by coming to this place. He might not have been afraid, per se, but he still wouldn’t dare break them.
“You can come out, you know.” He did his best to keep his voice level, though a tremor of irritation still crept into it. “I know you’re all there.” Silence persisted a moment, the desire to grind his teeth together in annoyance nearly overpowering Lorkhan. Then, the sound of steps began to echo again.
He turned to his left as the four figures scuttled into view, supressing a sigh as he did so. They were all about his height, though it did vary, their steps weirdly synchronised. They were hooded, faces tilted down and concealed by the shadow. He couldn’t tell if they’d been waiting actually in the stalls, or simply beside them, but it had clearly been them who had closed the door. As they formed a loose semi-circle around him, his back to the wall, Lorkhan grimaced again, holding his ground even as a hand clenched into a fist.
“Who comes before the Brotherhoods of Stone?” The first one said, voice an exaggerated whisper.
“Steel.” The second added, his voice harsher but in a similar tone.
“Cold.” The third went on, sounding like a hiss.
“And Thunder.” The fourth concluded, giving a lingering exhale as he did. Lorkhan fought the temptation to roll his eyes and point out that they all knew very well who he was. If they wanted to indulge in mindless theatrics, letting them wouldn’t hurt his chances of getting what he’d come for.
“Lorkhan.” He answered, as flatly as he could manage. “I’ve come to ask for the Brotherhoods’…help.” To his annoyance, an infuriating chuckling sound rose from the four hooded figures before him.
“You seek out the Lyssatra,” The one who had formerly been last to speak began, all of their voices dripping with melodrama as they spoke in reverse order now.
“The Kheledakos.”
“The Apolakreon.”
“And the Dodakatheon.” The first finished. “And you ask for our help?”
Despite how utterly incorrect it was, Lorkhan liked to think that he was a reasonable-enough man. In most circumstances, he probably would have let them have their fun. Right now, however, he didn’t have much time to waste. Mumbling an expletive, he headed back towards the door; the hooded figures watched him, though as he reached for the light-switch the air of mystique they tried to perpetuate swiftly fell away.
“Lorkhan, wait-“
He ignored the half-finished demand as he flipped the light on, cold white light bathing the bathroom. An unimpressed look crossed his face as he turned back to the others in the room with them, who gave pained noises at the sudden brightness, averting their faces from the light even more and rubbing suddenly sore eyes.
“Do you guys just sit in here all day and wait for someone to come in?” Lorkhan asked, folding his arms over his chest. “Geez, you read one book about ancient Greece and you start getting all cult-like.” The boys mumbled, a lot less threatening now, adjusting the towels they’d draped over their heads in an attempt to still obscure their faces. It wasn’t really working.
“Mr Soulaka said he’d heard you were looking for us.” One of them snapped, voice tinged with embarrassment, Lorkhan felt his eyes narrow. Soulaka was the Biology teacher, and a decent enough sort, but his involvement with these ‘organisations’ had always struck Lorkhan as a bit weird.
“Besides, the Brotherhoods are a key part of the school’s history.” Another grumbled. That bit was certainly true enough. As long as he was obeyed and his students were kept in line, Perturabo didn’t much care what they did; in place, the various ‘secret’ societies had started up, the Dodekatheon being the oldest. They were painfully over-dramatic, but they did do an irritatingly good job of keeping everyone in line and making sure no one group was able to bully all the others into submission. Still, that didn’t mean Lorkhan had to like it. He’d actually been invited to join the Dodekatheon’s ranks once, but the thought of getting involved made his skin crawl for reasons he couldn’t place. He didn’t want to think about what the other three, less established organisations did in their downtime.
“Whatever, very cute.” He retorted, voice laden with sarcasm. One of them, in particular, caught his eye. “Hey, Shon’Tu.”
“Hey Lorkhan.” The hooded boy responded, accidentally dropping the act and the tone for a moment, before a harsh nudge from one of the others quickly brought him back into line.
“Oh, very well.” The one representing the Dodekatheon snapped. He reached up, pulling the towel back over his head. Amber, almost golden eyes were framed by thick brows and angular features, whilst hair that had already taken on a silvery shade of white was pulled tight around his head. Lorkhan raised an eyebrow as he felt the boy’s poorly repressed anger smoulder. Toramino. That one actually was a surprise. “What do you want?”
“You seem particularly grumpy today.” Lorkhan observed, not quite able to stop himself needling the other boy. It was practically tradition, by this point. “Still pissed that Principal Perturabo won’t make you a hall monitor?” Toramino’s eyes narrowed, but even when he glanced round angrily at his three fellows, their sniggering didn’t stop.
“If you’re trying to ask for our help,” He growled, through gritted teeth. “You’re not going the right way about it.” He did have a point, and Lorkhan held a hand up defensively.
“You’re right.” He conceded, trying to adopt a business-like expression once again. “Listen. You’ve all heard about this…unpleasantness Principal Perturabo’s making me and my group go through with Canterlot High, right?”
“Everybody’s heard about it, by now.” One of the still-hooded figures confirmed. Lorkhan frowned internally; he couldn’t quite place who that was. Even so, he nodded.
“We’ve been making progress. We’ve got our band name, and we’ve got the instruments,” they were currently kept under lock and key in the music room the idea of losing them now intolerable. “But we aren’t actually entered in the competition yet…” He trailed off, sighing and steeling himself. “I don’t like this whole cult thing you guys do, but I can’t argue that you do have a pretty good stranglehold on this place. There must be some way you can…y’know…help me out a bit?”
“Help…you out.” Toramino repeated, obviously enjoying the fact that Lorkhan needed his help even if he was still angry about perceived disrespect. “That’s an interesting request. What’s in it for us?” Lorkhan couldn’t blame him for that, and fortunately he’d been thinking about it on the way over.
“As crazy as it sounds? School spirit.” He raised a hand even before Toramino’s lip could curl into a mocking sneer. “I know, I know, but think about it. As much as it pains me to admit it, you run this shit, Principal Perturabo aside. But, like…what does this place even matter?” He paused for effect, just as Mordecai had taught him, inwardly pleased at the sight of two of his audience giving a thoughtful glance to one another. “Let’s face it, this place is ass and we all know it. But if we managed to beat those uppity Canterlot bastards, then people’d start taking notice. And if we get respect, it follows that you get respect.”
Shon’Tu and the two other hooded boys were murmuring amongst themselves, the idea apparently taking them in quite considerably. Toramino did not join them. He remained silent, cold eyes still locked on Lorkhan, his nose wrinkling with distaste. At what, it was hard to say.
“I know I’m hardly the most…popular guy here.” He began, which was an understatement to say the least. “But come on, Lorkhan. We’ve tried to bring you into the circle before, and you’ve always been quick to offer your opinion. But now…you’re proposing an alliance?”
“It’s not about what I think.” Lorkhan insisted, or at least tried to. “And I know we don’t get on, but…you actually have a chance to do something with all that influence you’ve accumulated here! There’s got to be someone you can get in there just to sign our names up, doesn’t that appeal to-“
“Principal Perturabo doesn’t want you to win.”
The suddenness of Toramino’s calm interjection actually made Lorkhan stop mid-stream, flinching and blinking in surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, but Toramino nodded again. “He really doesn’t. Or at least, he doesn’t care. You think he’s sent you in there because he thinks you have a chance?” He chuckled, shaking his head as the other boys fell silent. “Perturabo doesn’t care what happens to you. Even if, by some miraculous chance you did win and avoided being decimated, it’d just happen again in the future.” He shook his head again. “You’re determined, I can see that, that’s actually pretty impressive. But if you think this matters to him enough that we should get involved, you’re deluded.”
The silence was drawn out for a while. Lorkhan kept his lips pursed, head bowed slightly, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
“You’re wrong.” He said at last. Despite how unusually soft it was, or maybe because of it, all their eyes fell on him as he looked up defiantly. “You’re wrong. I think it does matter. Not because it’s us or anything, but…pride…that matters to him. And it matters to me too.”
It was hard to tell if his little speech had actually convinced anyone, but at the very least a few of the hooded boys were listening. At least one of them even seemed impressed by his little talk. Toramino, however, was not one of them. His sneer only deepened, mouth twisting into a look of disdain. It was in that moment that Lorkhan realised his efforts had been in vain.
“That’s all well and good,” the white-haired boy said, arms folding over his chest. “But I’m not convinced. We won’t help you. The Brotherhoods have decided.”
“No, we haven’t.” One of the other representatives said, stepping forward. Lorkhan dared to let hope flutter in his gut, even if he tried his best to not let it show on his face. “Only you have.” His tone was calmly defiant, but an angry glance from Toramino quashed any dissent.
“Do not backchat me.” He hissed, eyes narrowing in frustration. Toramino was hardly the most popular of students, and that was saying something, but his temper was infamously bad – enough to bring about obedience compliance. Lorkhan sighed again, feeling his dislike for the boy spike even further.
“Sorry, Lorkhan.” Shon’Tu apologised. His response was just to scowl. With Toramino still grinning, the ragamuffin ‘council’ turned, slowly heading back to the toilet cubicles.
Lorkhan stood there for a while, waiting and staring at the cubicle doors. The others were still in there, but they seemed to be waiting for him to leave first. The feeling in the air was undeniably awkward. Then he turned himself, rolling his eyes and muttering, before stomping back outside.
***
As he left the bathroom, Lorkhan walked for a while. He didn’t really know where he was going, or indeed if he was going anywhere. The act of walking itself was an attempt to cool the shackled anger bubbling up inside him. Eventually, he leaned back on a graffiti’d wall, curling his hands into fists again as he growled in frustration.
He couldn’t go back empty handed. Mordecai had surprisingly come through for them with the instruments, and the others were doing their best. He was the self-appointed leader of their band, the one who’d got them into the mess to begin with. He refused to be the only one to let them down; it was one of the boy’s few redeeming qualities.
“Hey.”
As he detected someone leaning against the wall beside him, and he worked out who the voice belonged too, Lorkhan sighed again. He didn’t want to speak to many of his classmates right now, but this one particularly would be unpleasant.
“Honsou.” He grunted in greeting, looking round with a weary expression. The other boy gave a wry smile. Though he was about the same age of Lorkhan, he looked a little younger, and whilst his hair was short – a common style at the school – his facial features weren’t as blunt and stocky as most of the others’. There was always something unsettling about Honsou; he was a transfer student, like Vortun, but he’d never seen fit to reveal exactly where he was fun. There was even rumours that he was an expelled student from Terra Academy, though if that was the case then keeping quiet about it was probably for the best.
“You look grumpy.” The other boy said, nodding. “Like, more than usual…is something wrong?”
“What do you care?” Lorkhan snapped, having to take a deep breath after. Honsou chuckled, shaking his head but apparently unaffected by the sudden outburst.
“Humour me.” He insisted, keeping his own arms folded. “Consider me a concerned citizen…is it about the whole Canterlot thing?”
Lorkhan flinched even at the name, opening his mouth to reply. Something made him pause, closing his mouth. Like Toramino and the others had said, everyone knew about it by now. “Yes.” He conceded in a grumble. “Yes, it is about that…” Honsou said nothing, but his calculating eyes continued to play over him. It took a moment, but finally Lorkhan relented. With some hesitancy, he explained the problem.
“Huh…” Honsou mused when he was done, nodding in thought. “That does sound like a problem.” Lorkhan just gave another grunt of annoyance. Rational thought was telling him to just leave, but something…expectant in the air convinced him to stay put.
“I’ll do it.”
Lorkhan did not react to his words immediately. He took a moment to process that they’d even been said. As it finally sank in, he looked round into Honsou’s smile. The other boy nodded as Lorkhan frowned. “I’ll do it.” He repeated, with a shrug. “The Dodekatheon and the others don’t care about me. I don’t give a shit about them…and if you guys can get into that place, which was actually pretty impressive, I’m sure I can.”
He wasn’t wrong, Lorkhan was aware of that. But the means wasn’t the point. Throughout all the time they’d been in the same school Lorkhan had probably spoken four times to the boy, and never more than a few words. He waited for a catch. None came.
“…why?” He asked slowly, fiddling with the rim of his chevroned shirt idly. Honsou chuckled, clapping Lorkhan’s shoulder and making him flinch reflexively.
“Because it’s been a while since anything interesting happened here, and I find something amusing in the fact that you’re actually going through with this.” Lorkhan pursed his lips even more, breath slowly escaping over his lips as his body tensed more. Honsou wasn’t unaware of it. “You want to know what the catch is, don’t you?”
“I would quite like to, yes.” He responded in a flat but cold tone. Honsou smirked again, clapping his shoulder again knowingly.
“…Win.” He said, simply. Before Lorkhan could argue either way, he pushed off the wall, starting to walk away with focused intent. Lorkhan watched him, still leaning on the wall, arms folded tight as his mind raced to process the information.
“I will…” He nodded, the words quiet and almost self-directed. “I will.”
They did not try to bury the dead. They would have had to strip them of their armour, and even though – at least in Baramiel’s case – there wasn’t much to recover intact anyway, having to carry it around did not appeal to even the Iron Hand. Even besides that, the ground they found themselves upon still reeked of the pervasive taint of Chaos. The idea of laying their fallen to rest in it seemed disrespectful at best, and with the possibility to outright harm them at worst.
Instead, they burned the bodies once Zuriel had retrieved the gene-seed. Despite how charred the majority were already, the timbers that had once been houses in Ponyville were pressed into service of fine funeral pyres. They creaked as Moulkain and Baramiel’s corpses, even stripped of their armour, were laid upon them, but they held. It only took a little effort to get the fire going. The flames crackled through the eternal crimson glow the sunless sky bathed the world in, snapping and dancing as if they had a life of their own.
There were only six of them left now: Nehemiah, Joshua, Gideon, Helsturnn, Voss, and Zuriel. Seven, if Adamant Tower was included. As he stood beside the Space Wolf and watched the bodies of the two other Astartes turn to ash, the flames reflected in the steel of their weapon and his own eyes, the pony contemplated on two things. The first was that he was alive, when three gene-forged super soldiers who had fought against the worst horrors of the universe had died. That was grimly ironic enough, only made worse by the fact he knew the other Space Marine were just as aware of it. The second was, again, just how little this was starting to affect him. That they had died was shocking, but Uzzael’s death had shaken him for days. Now, he felt nothing but a stoic numbness as he watched two of their companions return to the earth.
Although he couldn’t be certain, the pony wagered that is how the other legionaries felt too.
“We go no further tonight.” Nehemiah’s voice was weary, even wearier than usual, but even now it brooked no argument. The Dark Angel rested his palm on the pommel of his sheathed blade, tattered robes blowing softly in the wind as he glanced around the wreckage of the town. “We take a night to recover…to mourn. In the morning, we begin again.” The movement was subtle, but the Calibanite glanced over at Voss, as if daring the unstoppable Astartes to argue. For once however the tenth legion vigilator was silent.
Helsturnn, though, did the arguing for both of them.
“We are Space Marines, Dark Angel.” He snarled. Adamant thought that statement was a little superfluous, and he was sure he’d heard the Wolf say it before. After all this time, the days were starting to blend together, if you could even call them days. That said, the way the Grey Hunter’s nostrils flared convinced the pony against arguing. “We do not stop. Not until the mission is complete.”
“I am aware.” The Dark Angel kept his calm remarkably well, even as he felt the eyes of his two remaining brothers bore into his back. Over the discussion, the ‘click’ of Zuriel cycling melancholically through the gene-seed canisters affixed to his narthecium could be heard. “But we serve no-one by dying in this forsaken place…and we still have to decide what to do with that.” He turned, inclining his head towards the body of the tainted Iron Warrior. Vortun’s body lay slumped and unmoved on the ground, still grinning despite the sword wound lanced through its face. They had considered burning it, but decided that that would afford it something far too close to dignity.
“Leave it.” The sergeant and the grey hunter looked round as Gideon spoke up. His voice was hollow, and even stonier than before. The loss of Baramiel appeared to have hit him harder than he would have liked to admit. “Leave it,” he repeated, armoured shoulders raising a little in a shrug. “I don’t want to let it get away with what it did, but there’s not much more we can really do. I’d rather not waste any of the resources we still have on it.”
“Gideon had a point.” Zuriel piped up, looking up at last. The white portion of the Blood Angel’s armour were streaked by mud and dirt, whilst blood had dried in places that made it hard to tell where it ended and the crimson ceramite begun. “I would…very much like to vent my own fury upon the remains of the traitor, I assure you, but for the sake of the mission we must remain logical and sanguine.” Silence reigned a moment, all of the Astartes bar Voss exchanging glances.
“I sincerely hope that was not a joke.” Joshua, the handless Dark Angel, muttered. Adamant didn’t really get it, but he was smart enough by now to say nothing. The Space Marine’s soon got to work in any case, searching to try and find somewhere to shelter for the night. Adamant helped too, sticking close to the Blood Angel apothecary as they combed the ruins of the town. Eventually, the group decided on the burnt-out wreckage of the town hall.
It had been a circular structure once, with multiple tiers of construction and high glass windows. The entire top half had been demolished when something had smashed its way clean through, but the lowest level was still somewhat usable. Trusting in the twisted timbers to provide them with some sort of cover, the Space Marines and their guide settled down. It was quiet, and cold, but Adamant knew better than to ask for a fire.
“You shouldn’t have spoken to him.” The pony flinched as he heard Helsturnn speak up again, almost able to feel the Dark Angels rolling their eyes in frustration within their helmets. At the very least, however, the Space Wolf had dropped his voice, and was at least trying to speak civilly. “I understand why you did, but you should not have done so.”
“He was finished, brother.” Nehemiah responded, trying his best to stay composed himself. “There was no harm in it.”
“We both know it is not as simple as that.” The Space Wolf had the unique quality of making everything he said even when he was trying to be calm, into a growl. “He was a traitor, and a…a monstrosity. We risked corruption enough by simply standing in its presence.” He took a sniff of the air again, his grey body hunched over and idly thumbing the teeth of his sword. “Besides, giving it last rites like that…it makes me sick.”
“I understand that.” The Dark Angel conceded. “But that thing was a brother of ours once, despite what it allowed itself to become. I still do not think there was a danger in it.” He paused, to let the discussion sink in. “Besides, he offered some information about what the Iron Warriors were doing here.”
“Hardly any.” The Wolf snorted in return, some belligerence starting to creep into his tone. Had he not been so on edge, Adamant would have groaned. “You should never underestimate the prey, Nehemiah. Even when wounded, they can-“
“Yes, they can get away.” The pony flinched, and even the other Astartes seemed a little surprised at the sudden anger that crept into the Dark Angel’s voice. “I suspect you Wolves know that better than any, or must I recount the events of Prospero?”
The silence in the remnants of the building was choking, even as the Wolf slowly bristled. The scent of his kill-urge filled the air, fangs flashing and pupils dilating. The Dark Angel did not back down immediately, continuing just to stubbornly stare. Finally, however, he put his pride aside and held up an apologetic hand. For a moment it seemed like Helsturnn wouldn’t accept it, the grey hunter’s shoulders still tensed and his body ready to pounce. Eventually he calmed, the anger slowly seeping from him.
“What about you?” Adamant Tower froze, his eyes widening, as Zuriel spoke up. Somehow he could tell that the Blood Angel was speaking to him, and sure enough the apothecary’s eyes were unwavering. So were those of all the others. Even so, the crimson-armoured Marine did sound genuinely curious. “You’ve come with us on this whole journey. You’ve been our guide. This was your world, before the Iron Warriors reduced it to…this…do you think that sergeant Nehemiah should have spoken with the traitor?”
“I…” That was the best that the pony could manage straight away, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. The combined sudden scrutiny of the group made thinking coherently a challenge to say the least. “I…I think that…” He looked between them all, from the helmeted faces of the Dark Angels and Iron Hand, Zuriel’s curious expression, and Helsturnn’s feral scowl. “Yes.” He said at last, sighing a little and looking down as the Wolf’s frown deepened. “I know our cultures are very different and all…heck, I don’t even really know what mine is anymore.” He chuckled humourlessly. “But we used to believe that everyone deserved a second chance, no matter what they’d done…though I suppose I don’t really think that any more. Not about the-“
“’A second chance’.” For the second time that evening, all of them were surprised into silence. Adamant felt what seemed to be ice spread through his veins as the Iron Hand’s slow, methodical drawl reached his ears. “You believed in second chances.” There was something about his deep and almost artificial voice that was far more unsettling than any of the others. For a moment, it was hard to tell if he’d even asked a question, or was simply making a statement.
“…umm…y-yes?” Adamant answered nonetheless, all the limited familiarity he felt he’d built up with the Marines falling away under the Iron Hand’s scrutiny. The Space Marine said nothing, just staring at him for a moment. That was all it took for the pony to realize he’d given the wrong answer.
“Your weakness disgusts me.” He was on his feet in seconds, servos whirring in his legs as the Medusan grasped his bolter and aimed at the pony. Only an equally rapid reaction from Gideon saved Adamant, the Calibanite rising and knocking his brother’s arm aside. The shot went wide, the booming report lingering in the air. Voss struggled against Gideon as the other Space Marines got up and half-readied their own weapons, but his eyes never left the pony. “Our brothers are dying for this cause. Blood of the Imperium, spent for a worthless world you couldn’t even defend yourself. You do not fight. You do not produce. You do not even hate correctly. You hide behind your walls and cower…what is your purpose? What is your function?!” For the first time, real anger began to crack his voice, the Iron Hand straining in Gideon’s grip.
“Brother, be at peace-“ Nehemiah began, but Voss would be silenced as he turned his furious gaze on his commander.
“Do not tell me to be at peace, Nehemiah.” He practically spat, bionic hand curled into a fist. “Tenth Legion blood has been spilt on this world now. A son of the Gorgon has perished, for nothing. What is it you intend to do? What is even your stratagem?”
“Close the Warp gate in what remains of their Capital.” To his credit, the first legion sergeant didn’t miss a beat before answering. “Fight our way through the entire Daemonic host, if that is what it takes-“
“And you think that that will work?” If before it had been an undertone, now Voss’s scorn bubbled up to the fore in force. “It is illogical. It cannot be done. The numbers do not lie.”
“That does not sound like any Iron Hand I have ever heard.” Helsturnn’s own disgust was prominent, baring a fang as he looked at the Medusan. “Ferrus would be horrified to-“
“Ferrus is dead.” The Iron Hand’s sudden blunt pronouncement cut off even the Space Wolf’s condemnation. It was not that the content was surprising, they all already knew it, but to hear Voss suddenly give voice to it with such bitterness was offsetting. “Ferrus failed. He had a duty, and he failed because he let weakness creep in.” His helmeted head swiveled, the piercing cold of his eye-lenses falling on the pony. Adamant had stumbled back in an attempt to clear himself of the Iron Hand’s anger. The pony was on his back, eyes wide with animalistic urges of fright and sweat coating his brow. “He allowed emotion to cloud his mind, and my Primarch failed.” Perhaps some of the still-human part of Voss hoped that giving voice to the concern would help lift it from his mind. It evidently did not.
“That is not the point.” Zuriel insisted, unwilling to lay a hand on their enraged brother for fear of setting him off further. Instead, he simply raised a gauntlet, clearly imploring the Medusan to calm. “We are doing this because it is the duty of the legions to fight evil such as this, not-“
“No.” Voss’s interjection was sharp and curt, but it was final. “It is exactly what you are doing here. Talking to the traitor filth, accepting any mission on behalf of these abominations,” the last word was clearly spat at Adamant. “It is all letting in the same weakness that consumed Ferrus. I would stop aiding you, if there was anywhere else to go.”
“And yet, there is not.” Gideon sounded just as frustrated as Voss, though his anger was directed at the Iron Hand. It seemed to be will alone that was stopping the Dark Angel from cracking. “We are committed to this now, and we gave our word to see this done. You gave your word. So unless you want to be guilty of the same failure you’re accusing your Primarch of, I’d suggest letting it go, brother.
Voss at least looked at him now, his anger redirecting every few moments. He held eye contact with the Angel, aware of all of the others looking at him too. And, just when it seemed he’d do the unthinkable, the Medusan had the good sense to back down. He snarled under his breath, pulling out of Gideon’s grip and turning away, bolter still in hand. Without another word the vigilator stormed away; they thought he was going to leave completely, but he did not go further than the perimeter of the camp, his bulky silhouette standing watch atop a pile of broken timber.
“…I think you made him angry.” Joshua’s comment was superlative, but it didn’t stop the usually taciturn Dark Angel expressing the thought. Nehemiah sighed as the Blood Angel crouched down and slowly helped the pony to sit up.
“I think before we are done here, brother, we are all going to be a lot angrier.”
***
“So, am I gonna have to be the one to say it?”
Considering that Sunset had, up until that point, been silent throughout the entirety of the Rainbooms’ band practice, Rainbow could perhaps be forgiven for finding her sudden contribution slightly irritating. There were only a few things that prevented the brash girl from snapping at her newest friend. The main factor amongst those was the knowledge that she was right.
“Yah don’t have to…ah know what it’s gonna be.” Applejack sighed, laying her bass down and rubbing her eyes with her strong hands. “We can’t do nothin’ against the Dazzlings, right?” Sunset hesitated a moment, before hugging herself tighter, looking away and nodding grimly. “Ah thought so.” Applejack sighed. For saying she was usually so stubborn and willing to keep pushing on, her sudden spiral into what almost seemed like giving up was enough to jar the rest of them.
“C’mon, we can’t just quit!” Rainbow, predictably, had taken on the task of insisting they continue. “The school needs us! If we don’t stop ‘em, who knows what’ll happen?” The looked at her, perhaps a little surprised to see the athlete taking such a broad view. Rainbow held their gazes a moment before sighing. “Plus…I reaaaaaaly don’t wanna lose to them.”
“Well, what exactly do you suggest darling?” Rarity’s voice was as polite as ever, but as she ran her nimble fingers idly over the keys of her instrument it seemed that the fashionista was swiftly running out of hope herself. “We can certainly play our hearts out, but without Twilight and her magic…” She trailed off with a sigh, Rarity and the rest of the band looking over at Sunset. She shrunk in on herself a little as she felt their scrutiny, slumping down to sit on the floor and curling her knees up to her chest.
“I…I don’t understand…” She admitted softly. It seemed partly an apology, but mainly a question she was directing at herself. “Why didn’t it work? Why did…that happen?” They’d all made an unspoken pledge to not speak about the effect that Sunset’s journal had had on them when they’d tried to use it, but in truth it had kept the fiery-haired girl up every night as she turned it over in her mind. “It’s never done that before…”
“Well…I-I mean, maybe she…still got it?” Fluttershy suggested, the shy girl trying to find anything reassuring in the situation. None of them really believed her – not even Fluttershy herself. Uncomfortable silence persisted as the thought occurred to them all in the same moment, but it was Applejack that gave it voice.
“You…you don’t think somethin’…happened to her, do ya?” The farm girl asked quietly. “Lahk…after she went through that portal, somethin’ happened to her world?” The girls looked at one another, distress written across their faces.
“N-nah…” Rainbow chuckled a little, but the worry in her own voice was clear. “I…I mean come on, it’s Twi…she’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could have happened to her?” None of them really wanted to answer that.
“Well, in any case, there is nothing we can do for her from here.” Rarity’s voice betrayed her own unease at the thought, but she did her best to keep it hidden. “I rather think we have our issues to deal with here, in any case.”
“No argument there, sugar.” Applejack nodded grimly. After a moment her face turned quizzical. “Whah have things been so weird here lately?” She tilted her head and looked at Pinkie, who until that moment had been strangely quiet. “Lahk…where did your friend from last week go? The new kid?”
“Hmm? You mean Barbus?” She asked, her poofy hair bobbing a little as she nodded. Rainbow was quick to cut her off.
“Yeah, what did happen to him?” She asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at nobody in particular. “One minute he was here, and the next he was screaming something about an order and the fire alarm went off.”
“I haven’t seen him since then.” Pinkie shrugged, looking slightly upset at the fact. Despite the ridiculousness of the thought, she would no doubt blame herself for him not coming back. “Sorry, Dash…” The athlete blinked, gripping her guitar slightly harder.
“…What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, trying to be nonchalant about the issue. It was enough to make Applejack snigger despite their situation.
“Oh come on, don’t y’all try and deny it, yah were lovin’ that little chat you were havin’ with him.” She smirked. It didn’t sink in immediately, Dash continuing to just stare in incomprehension.
“Well…yeah, it was good. I don’t get to talk about Daring Do mu-“ She paused mid sentence as what her friend was implying sank in. Dash’s eyes flashed in annoyance as she scowled. “Oh come on, seriously?! I do not!” Applejack’s maintained smirk didn’t help her calm down. “I do not.” She insisted again. “Like, doesn’t matter to me if he turns up again or not. Nuh uh. Don’t give a damn.” She shook her head emphatically, folding her arms over her chest. One eye snapped open after a few moments to see all of her friends – even Sunset – looking at her in slight disbelief. “I do not…” Dash repeated a final time, though this one was an agitated mumble.
“Yes, Rainbow. We all believe you.” Rarity nodded, the tone of her voice making it clear they did anything but. The fashionista looked over at Pinkie with a curious expression of her own. “But Applejack does have a point. That whole affair does seem slightly odd…you’ve really not heard anything from him at all.”
“Nope.” Pinkie shook her head, lightly tapping the drums around her with the sticks. “But I’m sure wherever he is right now, he’s happy, at least.”
The slow, grating carnival music filled the auditorium as Principal Perturabo cranked the tombola’s handle. Lorkhan couldn’t help but give it his full attention, eyes fearfully wide. Barbus and Mordecai on either side of him were the same. The crumpled pieces of paper within the turning glass ball fell over and over one another, almost mocking him with each new revolution. Pertuabo’s expression never changed even as he stopped and uncrumpled the released paper, looking at them all with cold disgust.
“Obax Zakayo.”
To his credit, which was more than Zuko would normally say for the boy, Zakayo tried to fight. He wasn’t as big as Vortun or as scrappy as Rorke, but he was strong and unwilling to just let himself be dragged away. He stood from his seat sharply as numerous students and faculty closed in on him, his hands raised defensively and balled into fists. Kravix went down from a right hook to the face. Mr. Vull Bron, the geography and geology teacher, took a panicked knee to the gut. But there were always more to replace them, and only one Zakayo. He howled as the towering form of Merihem picked him up, draping the other student over his shoulder and starting to lumber away. Everyone else in the room, besides the Principal himself, shuddered as the doors slammed closed.
“Well,” Perturabo said flatly, voice as stony as ever once all was still. “Don’t you all have somewhere to be?” None of them needed to be told twice. As one, the assemblage stood, practically falling over one another in an attempt to get their stuff and get out. Most were simply glad it was the end of the day.
“I don’t know why you were looking so worried.” As Lorkhan slung his rucksack straps over his shoulder, the rest of the group doing the same, Zuko’s helmeted head swiveled round. “Technically we’ve sort of got a grace period until this stupid competition’s over. We can’t get decimated until then.”
“You know what?” Barbus countered, folding his arms over his chest. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel nearly as secure as I thought it would.” There was a general murmur of assent from the rest of the group, but Lorkhan didn’t join them. He was too busy glaring at the tombola machine on the stage. He hated it. He hated what it represented, especially since Perturabo seemed to have adopted a policy of decimating the school simply because he was bored. He knew that most of the others at the school felt the same about the machine, but it didn’t lessen his loathing in any way.
“Err…Lorkhan?” He was brought back to attention by Varvillon’s fingers snapping in front of his face. “Earth to Lorkhan?” The boy flinched, looking round in maintained annoyance.
‘What?”
“I was merely curious to know how your rendezvous with the brotherhoods yesterday went, old boy.” Mordecai explained, smiling as he usually did. Lorkhan had kept to himself that day, and given vague answers at best. Now promised to be no exception.
“I got it done.” He snapped, his brow creasing with weary irritation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get in.”
“Are you sure?” Varvillon asked. There was an undeniable degree of eagerness in his voice that Lorkhan found unseemly. “Does…this mean we can go and use the instruments again? For practice.”
“Isn’t the point we don’t need to practice?” Rorke snapped, snorting the beginnings of a nosebleed back up a nostril. He seemed even angrier than usual at the suggestion. “Those things make me feel…feel…” He trailed off, and the short boy’s face creased into another expression that was veering dangerously close to thoughtful. Varvillon just sneered dismissively at him.
“Lorkhan.” The brief debate was stopped by another voice, this one making Lorkhan close his eyes and tense. As if even thinking about him had summoned him, Honsou stood behind them, a knowing smirk on his face. “It’s done.”
“You got Honsou to help?!” Barbus hissed, casting the group’s ‘leader’ a sidelong glance.
“Nobody said anything about the half-breed.” Rorke growled. Honsou simply laughed off the derogatory moniker, keeping his eyes on Lorkhan.
“It’s done.” He repeated, offering no explanation as to how he’d accomplished it yet. “You’re on the set-list. Your ballet recital or whatever is this weekend-“
“How did you do it anyway?” Zuko asked, more tolerant than the others and folding his arms over his chest. “And I thought you’d enjoy watching us fail as much as everyone else would.”
“I just walked in, if you idiots can manage it anyone can.” Honsou shrugged. At the back Vortun gave a snorting snigger. “The Canterlot babies all too busy hating each other anyway to notice what I was doing.” That certainly matched what Barbus had told them after his own bungled infiltration. Unable to shake a nagging sense of curiosity, Lorkhan shared a glance with Mordecai. The polite boy seemed just as intrigued. “Anyway, you didn’t let me finish.” Honsou chuckled. “The thing’s going on this weekend, but the auditions are tomorrow afternoon.”
“What?!” The cry came from the seven of them in unison, and was almost afraid.
“Nobody said anything about auditions!” Rorke snapped, lashing out with a foot and kicking the closest chair over. “I’m not doing any fucking auditi-“
“Yes.” The iron in Lorkhan’s voice made even Rorke pause. “You are.” He sighed again, rubbing his face once more. For the thousandth time, he cursed Perturabo for making them do this, and wondered if maybe it would have been easier to just take their decimation. “But…I understand that that doesn’t leave us much time.”
“Not my problem.” Honsou shrugged, pausing only to pat Lorkhan’s shoulder. “Try not to die.” All of them watched with narrowed eyes as he left, followed by a sigh.
“It’s fine.” Varvillon insisted again, trying to sound casual. “We were going to have to do this anyway for real, we may as well see what we’re up against. Plus, we’ve got Mord’s instruments.” He grinned.
“Indeed, I’m certain we shall be absolutely smashing.” Mordecai smiled as he clasped his hands behind his back, as hopeful as ever. “I’m actually rather looking forward to it.”
“Makes one of us.” Zuko muttered. Lorkhan kept his lips pursed, drumming the fingers of one hand on the opposite bicep. Eventually, he raked a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he began. “Okay. You guys go practice the song-”
“We have a song picked out?” Barbus asked, blinking in surprise.
“I think it was chosen outside of the scene to make it more of a surprise.” Zuko answered calmly, Barbus nodding in understanding.
“Go practice, the song.” Lorkhan finished through gritted teeth. “Everyone knows what instruments they’re playing, right?” They nodded. “Okay…by tomorrow afternoon, you will have it perfect. No mistakes.” Without so much as a goodbye, the boy turned and began to stalk away down the aisle formed by the seats. The others watched him a moment as they maintained the huddle.
“And vhere exactly are you going?” Vortun asked, meaty face twisting as he raised an eyebrow.
“They know what we look like.” Lorkhan reminded without slowing or turning round. “We’re going to need some disguises.” They all flinched on the last word, but kept silent until he’d left proper.
“Should…we be concerned?” Barbus asked, gulping a little.
“Oh, yes my dear boy.” Mordecai chuckled, rubbing his chin. “We should most definitely be concerned.”
“There are no words that accurately describe how much I hate you.”
“You’ve made your point, Ro-” Lorkhan paused halfway through the ‘debate’, his face creasing in a perplexed frown. The others noticed, regarding the boy with confusion of their own as they stood in a rough circle.
“Is everything quite alright, old sport?” Mordecai prompted, folding his arms over his chest. Lorkhan nodded, looking away from the boy he’d been arguing with as he swallowed.
“Weird sense of danger view.” He murmured. A nonplussed air descended over the rest of the group.
“…You mean Déjà vu?” Varvillon prompted, biting down a sigh. Rorke gave an involuntary twitch at the fancy talk, but Lorkhan just waved a dismissive hand.
“Whatever. Point is I don’t know what you morons are complaining about. It’s fool proof.” The others looked from him, then down at the things by his feet. There were many words they could have applied to the situation. ‘Flawless’ was at the very bottom of the list.
Lorkhan had at the very least come through on his promise to get them disguises. They’d be hidden alright, mainly from any chance at dignity. The boy had done little more than raid the kitchen section of a department store for all its tin foil, and had spent the night before working it into some form of outfit. He’d added some painted cardboard for pauldrons and a chest piece, masking-taping it all together in his crude if functional style. Somehow the boy had managed to scavenge the main cylinders of a few vacuum cleaners and attach the straps from unused rucksacks to let them wear them as stylised backpacks. Most eye-catching were the masks. They were skeletal and made from cardboard too, a rushed deep silver paintjob applied to them. Whilst the rest of the group curled their lips into either winces or sneers, Zuko looked at them. He couldn’t deny the sinister air that clung to the rushed designs, nor the fact that there was something oddly fitting about them. He took another moment to appraise Lorkhan’s creations. The fact that he’d made them all by himself was impressive…they were still shit, but it was impressive.
“You cannot be serious.” Rorke growled, unwilling to let their prior argument drop. “Fact that we’re fucking doing this is one thing, that we’re doing it for Canterlot shitting High is another, but I am not dressing up like a bunch of fucking tin soldiers-“
“Steel Soldiers, my friend.” Mordecai interceded with a drop of the band name, ignoring the other boy’s spit landing on him, as he looked back at the ‘disguises’ himself. “And I’m rather coming round to them. This competition does seem like one that requires a little bit of the old ‘razzle-dazzle’.” He chuckled with a coy grin.
“Besides, there’s nothing to worry about, right?” Barbus asked. He lay a hand on Rorke’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him, withdrawing it instantly at his companion’s growl. “We’ve got Mordecai’s magic instruments, as long as we’re using them we can’t lose!”
“We do have those, right?” They all turned as Varvillon spoke up. Usually it was rare for him to speak about anything besides a sarcastic put-down or to gush about his precious plants, but ever since they’d first used the instruments a subtle change had come over him. As he spoke there was a hint of almost desperation in his tone; it made Lorkhan more than a little uncomfortable to hear his compatriot’s growing reliance on the sensations that playing the instruments provided.
Why do I always call them my compatriots, and never my friends?
“Of course we’ve bloody got them, you idiot.” He snarled, fixing Varvillon with a dark expression. At least the other boy didn’t flinch. “Honsou said it was all sorted out. It’s not like the Canterlot cry-babies are hard to trick.”
“No he didn’t.” Barbus murmured, as they looked at the building towering over them. He was the only one who’d spent any real time in the building, but that didn’t mean that seeing it again was particularly encouraging. Even when it was after school hours it wasn’t any more inviting. He paused a moment, breath catching in his throat. What if Pinkie was there, or Rainbow? Heck, what about Fluttershy, how would Lorkhan deal with that? He glanced at the boy, but if Lorkhan had even thought about it he gave no indication. Any concerns their fearless leader might have had were locked behind his stony demeanour.
“We’ve got them.” He insisted, though nobody had actually spoken up and doubted him. “And this is just an audition, anyway. Even if we didn’t, I reckon we’re still better than most of these idiots…” He trailed off, not even Lorkhan able to believe that particular lie.
“It von’t fit.” Vortun’s customary, laconic bluntness was enough to draw Lorkhan’s attention to him, his head angled to look up at the large muscle-bound figure. “Zese costumes. Ze…masks.” The last word was inflected with unmistakable scorn. Lorkhan nodded, and to their surprise actually gave a rare chuckle.
“Don’t worry big guy, I haven’t forgotten you.” He crouched on the sidewalk, handing out the various ‘suits’ – they’d already had their backpacks distributed – before rummaging to the bottom. Grinning to himself the grey-skinned boy stood, handing over a final item of clothing. Vortun’s expression remained just as unimpressed as before.
“Zis is a raincoat you’ve attached pieces of card to.” He said to clarify, looking at his own mask. “And zis is just a cheap mask in the shape of a monkey’s face you got from a happy meal.”
“I couldn’t find another one that’d fit you.” Lorkhan muttered. Vortun gave a rumble of disapproval and shook his head.
“You are actually ze stupide-“
“I don’t mean to alarm anyone, gentleman, but we should probably get in there and change.” Mordecai pointed out. “We’re cutting it rather fine as it is.” Grateful for the distraction, Lorkhan nodded. The group gave a few more disbelieving mumbles, but the fact that they’d already made the effort to come this far convinced them to go a little further. Clutching their outfits tight the company advanced on Canterlot High with slow but measured intent.
“It’ll be fine.” Lorkhan started in surprise, looking round as Zuko’s crash helmet swivelled to face him. “You had a scowl on your face you only have when you’re worried.” The boy explained. “Seriously, I’m sure it’ll work out…”
“When did you get so damn hopeful?” Lorkhan sneered, though mainly it was because of how uncomfortable Zuko’s sudden optimism left him. The boy shrugged.
“We have the advantage, with those instruments. Logic dictates that if they do to this lot what they did to us the first time, it’s in the bag.” Lorkhan looked at him a moment longer, before nodding and turning back to the school.
“You’re right.” He decided, trying to thread a confidence he didn’t feel into his voice. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
***
“You look ridiculous.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Barbus muttered. He was the last of the group to assemble inside, and the last to have finished changing. No matter how crude Lorkhan’s disguises had looked out on the street outside, it was nothing compared to actually wearing them. They were hot, clingy, and the vacuum cleaner-wrought ‘power packs’ made him feel like he was about to topple over backwards. He could barely see out the two eye-slits cut in his cardboard mask, and even then Barbus’s vision was filled with the blank stares of similar masks. Something about the facelessness of the group ignited a strange feeling of familiarity within him. He tried to chase the thought, but its true meaning eluded him.
Even with the masks though, he could tell who was who. Rorke was the shortest of them and spasmed with the same furious energy as always, whilst Vortun…Vortun looked like he was abut to pull somebody’s head off, the smiling monkey face that hid his own making the image all the more unsettling. Zuko had actually removed his motorcycle helmet for once in favour of the mask, leaning back on the wall and folding his arms. Mordecai had insisted on bringing his gentlemanly hat and wearing it during their performance, the two items of clothing exuding a curious dissonance. Varvillon was idly reading the notice boards and examining the photos hung on the walls, his contempt obvious even behind the mask.
Lorkhan didn’t join in any of their discussion. He stood a little way away from the group, his back to them. He’d acted strange ever since they’d entered; they boy had refused to even leave the main foyer for a minute or two, instead staring wide-eyed at the gilded refinement all around. The school was very much as Barbus remembered, but he hadn’t been certain how Lorkhan would react to being neck-deep in the stronghold of his ‘enemies’. Apparently, it was with uncharacteristically quiet reflection.
Even Vortun put aside his anger as they looked at the bandleader curiously. Lorkhan still refused to acknowledge them. He extended a hand and ran it over one of the walls, his fingers tracing a light path over the stone. His breathing was slow and measured, but Barbus and Zuko shared a glance as they picked up the unmistakable signs of the boy fuming to himself.
“Well don’t just stand there,” the order was cold and clearly delivered through gritted teeth. “Where the bloody hell are we supposed to be?”
“I do find it rather odd that we have yet to detect any sign of our competitors’ own entries.” Mordecai mused, rubbing his chin under the mask as he cast approving looks around the corridor. “It is rather spick and span…” He murmured, banking on the others not hearing.
“You think Honsou played us?” Varvillon’s paranoia was not surprising, and if anything it was a concern they all shared. Rorke growled, and as he did Barbus noticed a faint but unmistakable sliver of red began to trail down the front of his mask.
Your nose’s bleeding again. Shit, Rorke, what’s happening to you man?
“If he has, it’ll be the last time he ever does.” Lorkhan assured darkly. For once nobody dared argue with him, not when his mercurial mood had shifted again. By the time it had sank in for them all that none were willing to take point their leader had already taken off at a measured but relentless pace down the corridor. They shared a last glance before following, outfits clattering as they moved.
“I feel like I’m about to pass out.” Varvillon whined, walking up alongside Barbus. The boy grunted his sympathy but didn’t elaborate, which Varvillon apparently saw as an invitation to continue. “And we must look like space-men. He can’t actually expect-“
“Think of it this way.” Zuko interjected from the other side of him, hands worked into his pockets. “Imagine how we’ll look to any of them.” It seemed good enough for Varvillon, and any contribution from Barbus was forestalled by Lorkhan suddenly stopping, beckoning him to the front. With an awkwardness that didn’t just come from the bulk of what they were wearing, the boy picked his way to the front.
He’d barely stopped for a moment before Lorkhan spoke. “Hypothetically,” he murmured, the dark eye-slits of the mask casting a sidelong glance. “If I was going to play along with all this, where would we go? This place is a bloody rabbit warren.” Barbus gave a nonplussed blink within the confines of his own disguise, but nodded and tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Mordecai had an annoyingly good point about how quiet it is earlier.” He whispered back, feeling like a scout reporting to his general as he watched Lorkhan’s hand slowly clench and uncurl. He’d expected him to hate being here, but the speed that the boy’s bitterness was clawing its way to the fore was unsettling. “Could be their music room, could be their gym…I don’t know.” He confessed, wincing at the disapproval he felt emanate from his counterpart. ”Should…we split up?”
“No.” Lorkhan’s rebuttal was as emphatic as it was swift. “That’s suicide in enemy territory, and I’m not going to lose any of you.”
“I always did have a suspicion that you cared.” Mordecai piped up from the other side, having apparently chosen to insert himself in the conversation. Barbus flinched in surprise while Lorkhan favoured him with a dark look.
“Let me rephrase. I’m not going to lose any of you until we’re done with this. Then you can all piss off and die.”
“We’ve got movement!” Varvillon hissed, forestalling any further debate. He, Zuko, Rorke, and to the best of his ability Vortun were crouching at the edge of the walkway the group had just crossed, peering up over the parapet and down at the school’s main foyer. The other three stumbled quickly into the small amount of cover remaining, the top halves of the masks peeking up above the railings. Mordecai’s hat somehow remained squarely stop his head.
“Who the fuck is that?” Rorke growled as they watched the girl down below skip through the foyer. Realising that the question was mainly directed to him – their assumption that he knew every aspect of everything about Canterlot High was starting to grow tiresome – Barbus squinted and peered at her. Blue hair with black stripes, similarly blue skin from the brief glance he’d got, purple clothing; despite his best efforts, he realised he couldn’t even remember seeing this one. Something in the way she skipped and hummed put him in mind of Pinkie Pie, but it clearly wasn’t her. The uncertainty only added to the collective pool of mounting frustration.
“Fuck it.” Even with his previous sour mood taken into consideration the way Lorkhan suddenly stood attracted the attention of his cohort. Their leader, however, was already marching away. “She’s the only other damn person we’ve seen so far, I’m not letting her escape. Zuko, Barbus, Mordecai, get down there and follow her. Rorke, Varvillon, Vortun, you’re with me.”
“But didn’t you just say we shouldn’t split- okay.” Barbus’s protest was swiftly cut off as Lorkhan turned to him with frosty belligerence, his head lowering deferentially. Without another word needing to be shared the two groups rose and set off in pursuit, like cogs in a machine.
Barbus’s group headed left, quickly skidding to the top of a flight of stairs and taking them two or three at a time on the way down. If they’d stopped to think about it Mordecai might have commented on the ‘uncouth’ zealousness of their run, but the fact that they were actually doing something that felt productive was enough to placate them for the moment. All of them strained their ears to try and follow the sound of the humming. The constant rattle of their clothing didn’t make it easier.
“I just want to say how easy and comfortable it is to run in these things.” Zuko deadpanned as they halted, already sounding out of breath. Barbus grunted in understanding. Mordecai didn’t deign to comment; he stood slightly ahead of the two of them, holding onto his hat as he looked furtively all around the corridor for any sight of the girl.
“Can’t you just use your magic to track her down?” Barbus asked, having to brace a hand on a wall to catch his breath.
“As I have explicitly informed you on numerous prior occasions, my dear boy, I am not some sorcerer!” Mordecai snapped, sounding about as close to irritation as he ever got as he tried to think of a way out of their predicament. Barbus couldn’t blame him for the confusion. There were about three corridors leading off from where they were, and no indication of where their quarry had headed. For all its failings, he couldn’t help but admire Olympia High’s forthright and functional layout a little more.
“Though I abhor being a quitter, the situation is looking rather grim, gentleman.” Mordecai said at last, voice slightly muffled as he turned to them. “The damsel we wish to locate could be anywhere within this cavernous building, and the more we dash around in a panic the more tired we’re going to get. This is hardly conducive to a pre-performance regime.”
“You think there’s gonna be anything left of us able to perform if we go back to Lorkhan without her?” Zuko chuckled darkly, though his nervousness wasn’t hard to pick up on him. The other two looked at him a moment longer before setting off at a sprint again.
If there were higher powers in the universe, they seemed to be watching over the team in that instant. The path before them twisted round corridors and up and down stairs, taking them past classrooms, lockers and trophy cabinets. Zuko proposed they stop to ‘borrow’ at least one of the awards contained within, but they’d built up too much momentum to afford losing it now. Finally, the group converged on a set of double doors. They slowed down just before reaching it. It was a good thing they did.
“Oh, shit.”
The fact that he muttered the curse didn’t make Barbus’s agitation any less blatant. Opening the door with surprising gentleness, the three boys stuck their masked heads through the crack and looked around. They’d found a sports hall of some kind, though it seemed a lot cleaner than their own school’s. Bunting hung from the ceilings and basketball hoops, and even from speakers hung in the corners of the room. A few tables were set out with glasses and bowls of punch atop them. Most eye-catchingly of all was the fact that the room was packed. There were Canterlot High students everywhere; small ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones. Boys, girls, skin-tones of every shade. The various groups looked just as hostile to one another as Barbus remembered, but he didn’t have to crunch the numbers to see how stacked against them the odds were.
“I knew it.” Zuko murmured, a drawn-out sigh leaving him as he looked round the gathering. “We’re in Hell.”
“At least we’ve found what’s-her-face.” Barbus pointed out with forced levity, nodding his head towards the blue skinned girl. She was with two others, one with purple hair streaked with green and the other with a wild crop of gold. Even at a glance they could tell there was something odd about the way they carried themselves; other groups kept their distance from them too, but that seemed more out of respect than hostility. Barbus narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and something told him that beside him Zuko was doing the same.
“Well, let us be optimistic. They do not appear to have detected our presence thus far.” Mordecai noted, sounding the least concerned of the three. He was right, although for how much longer was debatable. “And I’d say we’ve fulfilled Lorkhan’s request. I’d advise a speedy retreat gentleman, so as to not push our luck.”
“For once, I’d agree with you,” Zuko began. “Except for that.” He gestured slightly with his head, the other two following his gaze. Barbus was only just able to refrain from cursing. The instruments, their instruments, were up on the stage and set out as if to perform. It wasn’t clear whether Honsou had set them up or not, but even if he hadn’t circumstances had apparently changed. Even from a distance the strange qualities of the instruments was apparent; more than a few members of the milling crowd cast longing glances towards them, but none dared approach.
“Well, that is…unfortunate.” Mordecai conceded, rubbing his masked chin thoughtfully. “But I would still suggest staying positive…even if we are meant to perform, we should link up with the others first.” Barbus was only half-listening, continuing to appraise the crowd. He couldn’t see any sign of Rainbow, Pinkie, or any of their friends. The fact bothered him more than he felt comfortable admitting.
“I hate it when you’re right, but you’re right.” Zuko nodded with a small sigh, slowly starting to retreat through the door. “Let’s just find the others, and hope none of them have done anything-“
The attention of everyone in the room, including the three intruders, was drawn suddenly to the stage as a crashing noise rang out. Barbus’s gut felt like it was dropping away as the figures stumbled their way into view. Somehow, Lorkhan and the team he’d taken with him had managed to find a side door onto the dais, though it was almost certain that that hadn’t been his intent. Rorke, predictably, had already begun to thrash like a mad dog in place. Vortun was restraining him, which in this case meant hoisting him one-handed off the ground by the scruff of his neck. He was still wearing the ridiculous mask. Varvillon seemed the most calm, having wisely hidden himself at the back and rested a hand on one of the drum kit’s cymbals. That left Lorkhan front and centre. Even in his disguise, Barbus could see the anger slowly rising in the other boy, tension locking his muscles as he found himself confronted with everything he hated.
“…stupid.” Zuko finished, with a more pronounced sigh.
The dull thud of Mordecai’s palm hitting his forehead summed Barbus’s feelings on the matter up perfectly.
***
“Where the heck were you?”
Aria’s question was delivered with the usual lack of enthusiasm as Sonata approached. If anything, the slightly belligerent siren sounded even more agitated than usual. Sonata brushed that off in her usual airheaded manner as she re-joined them, giggling.
“I had to go to the bathroom. There’s like, so much stuff in this place that I barely even knew where to start looking.”
“I didn’t know that you were potty-trained.”
“Hey!” Aria’s response to Sonata’s protest and petulant pout was to chuckle, folding her arms and glancing around the hall some more. Adagio was only half-listening to their conversation. Instead, the head siren was taking a moment to enjoy the fruits of their labour so far. Their plan had, touch-wood, gone off mainly without a hitch Their various ‘competitors’ were too busy being at each other’s throats to work out what was going on, not that Adagio particularly suspected any of them could offer meaningful resistance, which only increased the potency of the glowing red gems round their necks. She gave a triumphant smirk. There was still the small matter of finding the source of the Equestrian magic, but that could wait until after victory in the Battle of the Bands. They’d have all the time in the world then.
Adagio’s smirk lasted until the ruckus started on the stage. At first her bemusement was enough to keep the siren from even getting angry. The room fell silent, Aria and Sonata sharing a confused glance as everyone turned to look towards the source of the disturbance. When the figures stumbled out, Adagio couldn’t help but wonder if they were all being mocked. At best, they looked like a bunch of tin cans that had sprouted limbs but not quite grasped the finer points of motion yet. And was that part of a vacuum cleaner on each of their backs? Her mouth parted in puzzlement, the siren blinking slowly as she tried and failed to work out the strategy. Managing to look away from the massive one clutching his smaller brethren, the girl noticed the figure at the back, his – she assumed it was a ‘he’ – resting on one of the instruments almost affectionately. At least that explained whom those belonged to.
Everyone stared. The animosity the Dazzlings had sown briefly fell away as the student body of Canterlot High tried to grasp exactly what they were looking at. The feeling seemed to be mutual. Adagio’s gaze moved on once again, this time resting on the intruder at the front of the stage. Her eyes narrowed. He seemed almost shell-shocked, locked in place as he stared out over the crowd, but there was something about him she couldn’t place. Those suspicions only deepened as he slowly raised an arm and pointed at the crowd. The siren waited, trying her best to anticipate what potential insight or proclamation this potential thorn would offer.
“FUC-“
“Hello!” The first speaker was cut off half way as three more of them emerged from the other side of the stage, ‘dressed’ in a similar fashion. The one who had interjected wore a hat that somehow balanced atop his head, and was generally surrounded by a nauseating air of cheerfulness. Even from a distance, Adagio could tell he was the only one who didn’t want to plough their way clear of their predicament. “It’s a pleasure to see you, ladies and gentlemen.” He went on with an effortless dramatic flair. “How’re we all doing this fine afternoon, hmm?” A few people mumbled an answer without intending to, but most continued to stare blankly.
“Who are you?” Adagio flinched, turning round sharply and hissing as Sonata spoke. Aria had had the same thought, both girls casting the third of the trio a dark look, but the ditzy siren didn’t seem to notice or care. The eyes of the figures on stage fell on her through the slightly unnerving masks, two of them mumbling to one another. The one with the hat just nodded.
“We are…well, I suppose we’re today’s entertainment!” Something told the Dazzlings’ lead singer that he was making this up as he went along, but Adagio had to confess a curiosity about who exactly they were. “To celebrate your little event here, we thought we’d play a jaunty little tune or two for you, didn’t we…umm, Warsmith!” He seemed to decide that on the spot as well, glancing at the figure who’d spoken before. He was still stock-still and staring intently forward. “Didn’t we, Warsmith?” The polite boy prompted again, this one sounding like it was through gritted teeth.
“Let’s just do this thing.” A slightly chubbier one at the back muttered. They fell into action pretty quickly, the big one with the monkey mask dropping the short boy who had just about calmed down…relatively speaking. Adagio did her best to keep her eyes on the lot of them, waiting for any trick or sign of their intent. The big one went for the drum kit, the stage rumbling a little as he sat. The polite figure had a keyboard, the short one and their eternally miserable-sounding friend guitars. The figure that’d stuck close to the instruments had gone for a bass, whilst the last of the group – arguably the most normal, Adagio mused, or maybe just least odd – had a tambourine. He seemed less than pleased about that. Their leader had elected to sing; his microphone, and all the instruments, certainly had a curious design. The purple, black and pink colouring didn’t seem to fit with whatever theme it was the band was going for, but there was something even the siren found oddly alluring about them.
“This is a joke, right?” Aria’s agitated mutter was loud in Adagio’s ear as the girl stepped forward and looked at the stage with undisguised contempt. The head siren looked round at her coldly. As she did she took in the sight of the other bands laughing quietly to themselves at the ludicrous display and preparing their phones to record.
“Who cares if it is?” She snapped back quietly, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not like they look like much of a threat.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the one with the microphone give a small involuntary shudder, but pressed on. “I’m interested in finding out what this is all about, so just relax.” Aria cast her a dark look, but complied. The lead Dazzling was satisfied with that, turning back to the ‘band’.
And then, they began to play.
Even from the first few plucks of the guitar strings, the sound hit Adagio and everyone else in the room in a wave. The siren had to stagger back a step as even she threatened to be overcome by…she didn’t know what it was. Something old, something forgotten and hungry. Though she didn’t and perhaps couldn’t take her attention from the slow-starting source of the noise something told her that her band mates felt the same. Indeed, Aria glanced around with uncharacteristic nervousness and scratched her bare arms erratically, whilst Sonata simply wore a thousand-yard stare as the music clawed at her senses. As the bass, the drums and even the tambourine kicked in, the leader of the band glanced at his keyboard-playing accomplice and nodded before raising the microphone.
”Back in time before time, the chosen one made the steel of blood and glory! Out of the flames came a new king, and today the gathering will stand! In the battle of the brave, who will be the new gods of metal!”
They’d gone for power metal, then. Normally Adagio would have found it laughably cringe worthy; normally, though, it wouldn’t be working. Whilst the effect on her was potent enough whatever it was they were doing was infecting the regular humans with even greater potency. No one was laughing now. Somewhere a girl was starting to shriek, though whether it was from horror or joy was unclear. A short, fat boy was beginning to urinate himself without even realising. Another boy shivered and collapsed to the ground. On the stage meanwhile the song continued to play.
”We'll take them one-on-one, the war has just begun! And we'll fight them side-by-side, there is no place to hide! It's a journey for the brave I'm master, no slave! We come out from the dark, and relight the metal spark!”
The band themselves seemed to be getting more into it now, with the sole exception of the short and twitching one. He seemed disgusted to be even holding his instrument. Adagio watched as the one wearing the hat bobbed his head happily from side to side whilst his fingers moved with inhuman speed over the keys. Veins and muscles rippled along the drummer’s neck and arms, whilst the bass-player looked like he was about to have a seizure. By now Adagio wasn’t sure it even was them playing, or if they were just the conduit for something far more sinister. And still it went on, the veil between reality pulled tighter and tighter by the song as it continued towards its fever pitch.
”The last metal troops will rise! Born in the fire we meet them eye-to-eye! The last metal troops will rise! Born in the fire we meet them eye-to-eye, and kill for metal!
We kill for metal”
“D-Dagi?” For once, the chief siren couldn’t muster the strength to be irritated by Sonata’s nickname. She didn’t look round, but the blue skinned girl continued regardless. “This…this is bad, right?”
“We’ve got to do something!” Aria hissed, taking an impressive step forward through the wave of sound to stand beside her fellow Dazzling. “We’re losing them!” She wasn’t wrong – even the gems hung around their necks seemed to have been caught in the song’s snare, sending out bursts of their own brand of magic. In all honesty it felt more than a little weak right now, looking at what they were up against.
“Quite so.” If the sudden and cultured male voice at her ear didn’t make Adagio start in surprise, the hand resting on her shoulder certainly did. She turned sharply, unaware of the sweat trickling off her forehead as she looked into a face she didn’t recognise. Golden skin and dark eyes met her gaze.
“Who are you?” Adagio hissed, her vision starting to swim a little as the euphoric haze continued to pull at the siren’s defences. The boy gave a smile, and the fact that he seemed to be one of the few others who hadn’t completely lost their mind was enough to convince her to listen.
“An explanation.” He said bluntly, but with an undeniable dramatic flair. “I am an explanation.”
***
Behind the mask, Mordecai’s own grin grew wider and wider. He’d expressed some concern over their choice of song, deriding it as ‘tacky’, but now it was in full swing the boy had to concede that he might have been wrong.
Rorke was angry, but then Rorke was always angry. Mordecai’s major concern was the student body arrayed before him; as unprofessional as admitting it might have been he couldn’t help but take a certain malicious glee in watching the oh-so-friendly and composed students of Canterlot High be overtaken by the unique qualities of their instruments. One girl was crying, another shrieking until her throat became hoarse. The boy who had fallen earlier had been mercilessly set upon by the band of pretty boy Flash Sentry, his body spasming as frenzied blows rained down on him. Most amusingly of all were his friends from before, Lyra and Bon Bon, and how grabby they were starting to get with one another’s faces. It was all he could do not to giggle, the music surging through his own body and rewarding the boy’s glee with more pleasurable twinges.
The one individual here that really held Mordecai’s gaze as they played though was Lorkhan. He didn’t think the boy saw it, and wasn’t sure even if the other band members could see it, but Mordecai was well aware of the corona of energy enveloping their singer. Dark majesty rippled from him, literally rippled, little sparks of purple lightning sparking off his body. The grin on his face as he sang and whipped the crowd into more of a frenzy was palpable, and Mordecai couldn’t blame him for it. Usirien Lorkhan, the boy who was on the margins of even Olympia High’s cold fraternity, had his sworn enemies eating out the palm of his hand.
Our steel is unbreakable, the king is untouchable, the blade is bloody red! A true metal head! We cannot feel the pain, tonight we go insane! It's the savage prophecy, we'll break the enemy!
Let's ride together and strike them down with force!”
The still-rational part of Mordecai’s mind chuckled good-naturedly at the frankly ridiculous lyrics Lorkhan was blurting out like he’d been born to do so, before throwing back his head and adding his own howl to the mass. Undignified, yes, but given the circumstance he’d let himself off. As he lowered his head and licked his dry lips, panting heavily and allowing the music to control his playing for the moment, something else caught his eye. It was only a glance at first. He wasn’t even certain he’d seen right, but the inevitable second look at the one group of girls not enthralled by their song confirmed it.
“…Ahriman?” He murmured to himself. There was no way he could have heard it, but on cue Ahzek turned from the girl he was talking to and looked at the stage. Their eyes met, and a mournful smile that was distinctly lacking in humour crossed his face. Mordecai stared back, not enjoying being the one in the dark for once. Ahriman turned and disappeared back into the frenzied crowd, a sole pillar of focus amidst the madness, but the damage was done.
Mordecai had lost concentration and diverted his own attention from the music, and whatever it was that provided them with their power did not like to be ignored. The flawless control he’d had a moment before faded and left his fingers as a disorganised mess. The sound faded instantly, and with it came a palpable backlash of some sort of energy. As the crowd howled and descended into a total state of lunacy Mordecai stumbled back. He hit Rorke first. The short boy gave an unseemly scream, finally pushed over the edge of his temper as he took the neck of his guitar in both hands and started to smack the body against the ground. It didn’t break, perhaps it couldn’t, but it seemed to be helping him at least. Mordecai tripped backwards and hit Lorkhan. It was enough to knock the other boy off-balance and stop his singing. Zuko was next, then Barbus, and finally Varvillon – the boy clutched onto the bass tight as they crumbled into a heap, as if it were more important than his own life. Vortun, the only one not dragged down by one thing or another, reacted surprisingly quickly. He stood from the drum-kit and yanked a nearby release cord. In one fluid motion the curtains by the stage closed.
As Rorke finished slamming his instrument against the ground and screaming and the crowd outside continued to experience the after-effects of the music, the Olympian students didn’t rise immediately. They lay in a heap atop one another, Zuko squirming and groaning in irritation. Somehow, he’d ended up on the bottom. Mordecai blinked the blinding headache away and reached out for his hat, resting it on his brow once more. Vortun took his mask off, the face beneath twisted in a sneer. Varvillon gave what almost sounded like a whimper.
“Are ve leaving?” The foreign student rumbled. Lorkhan shifted, Barbus crying out beneath him as their leader’s elbow rammed into a shoulder. He sat up slowly, sighing and hanging his head with the spiked microphone still in hand, letting the moment and the sounds linger just a moment longer.
“Yes,” He said at last, his voice as calm as he could muster behind the sweat-drenched mask. “We’re leaving.”
A curious thought struck Adamant Tower as he watched the last embers of the fire turn grey and cold.
As far as he or any other pony, with the possible exception of lady Fluttershy, knew the Astartes were the be-all and end-all of the human race. They had mentioned being gene-altered warrior and, of course, their origins were alien to the indigenous races of Equestria. But there was little to suggest that any branch of humanity existed besides the colossal war machines he found himself bunking down with in the ruins of Ponyville town hall. Even without the knowledge of just how divorced from the rest of their species the Space Marines were, however, the similarities they bore with the Equestrians could in some instances be particularly jarring.
He hadn’t realised that Space Marines needed to sleep, for example.
But obviously they did, given the slumbering forms of several of the giants that surrounded him now. When Nehemiah had suggested they try and get some rest the pony had reacted with what he thought was understandable surprise, and Zuriel had offered some explanation on the limits of Astartes biology. They weren’t fools, of course; at least two of them were awake at any time and standing watch, and the rotations were swift. Even so the inert and unsettlingly unattentive airs given off by the sleeping Space Marines was enough to make the pony nervous. Then again, he mused to himself, perhaps he should feel honoured. Maybe he was the only one of his kind who even knew that Space Marines could sleep? Maybe that made it so he, again with the exception of Fluttershy, knew more about them than anypony else that remained?
It still didn’t make him feel better.
The Space Wolf and the Iron Hand had the current watch, and that didn’t reassure Adamant either. He’d almost managed to convince himself that Voss’s lashing out from earlier had simply been a response to the stress of losing his battle-brother – he blinked, surprising himself as he used the term almost without realising – but the Medusan’s usually impassive and detached personality made such an explanation hard to countenance. The memory of it, the sudden display of aggression towards him, had left the pony in what felt like an almost catatonic state for a while after the tension had diffused. Zuriel had called it ‘transhuman dread’, the psychological effect that being confronted with creatures of a Space Marines’ stature had on mere mortals. It seemed as appropriate a term as any, and the last traces of it clinging to his mind was what stopped the pony from sleeping.
At least Voss was patrolling the outside of the building, Adamant supposed, and wasn’t in there with him. The realisation that he actually preferred the company of the Space Wolf was almost sufficient to provoke a dark chuckle from him. If he strained his ears he could just about pick out the vigilator circumnavigating the building outside, bionic limbs adding weight to his ceramite armour and making each step reverberate. He supposed that it was a testament to the stealth that being a vigilator presumably entailed that Voss was as quiet as he was.
“Lad.”
The sudden throaty growl snapped the pony from his reverie, head raising sharply and glancing around. The fire had long since gone out and left the ruin in blackness, but red light was still able to shine in through the split timbers. It reflected off Helsturnn’s golden eyes. The two pinpricks of yellow stared at him, fangs occasionally flashing too, and some deep-seated survival urge from the earliest days of ponykind made Adamant fold his ears against his head and draw back defensively. At the very least he didn’t whimper. The grey hunter chuckled, lupine eyes flashing with feral amusement as the buzzing of power armour that Adamant had managed to tune out crept back into his consciousness once more.
“Still scared of me, eh?” The Space Wolf asked. His voice was quieter and perhaps fractionally softer than usual, though even then it remained a throaty rumble. The pony took a deep breath and shook off the worst of the fear that clung to him. He shrugged.
“For saying we’re supposed to be working together, you’ve not exactly given me much reason not to be.” He pointed out. There was more bitterness in his voice than he’d intended, but the small chuckle the Fenrisian gave suggested he didn’t disagree. “But you and Zuriel are more amicable to me than the others.” The pony conceded. “So…not as much as I was.” He hesitated a moment before. “We’ve had this conversation before. Why?”
He had been expecting some kind of grunted put-down from the Astartes, so the fact that Helsturnn seemed to be genuinely mulling the answer over was a mildly disconcerting surprise. The Space Wolf stood before offering any explanation, slipping the combat blade he’d been fiddling with back into his belt. “Let’s walk and talk, horse. No son of Russ should be cooped up in a pen like this.”
“Umm…didn’t he tell us explicitly to wait?” Adamant pointed out as he glanced at Nehemiah. The Dark Angel sergeant was sleeping, or at least looked like he was, and rested the palm of one gauntlet atop the pommel of his sword whilst the blade’s tip dug into the ground. The pony looked away and immediately regretted asking as he felt Helsturnn’s scowl. The Wolf started to walk away without another word. He clearly expected to be followed, and Adamant momentarily considered not playing along and staying put. It lasted a few seconds before his body started to move of its own accord and he quietly trotted after the Astartes.
The sky was the same moonless, arterial crimson it always was nowadays. Adamant shivered as he trotted out into it, looking up with some trepidation. A storm was raging somewhere in the ‘clouds’, a crack of what he hoped was thunder echoing cross the tortured sky. Although day and night were no longer concepts that carried any weight the shadows cast by rubble and ruins still seemed elongated and even more threatening than usual. Voss was still patrolling, and Adamant could not help but tense up as he heard the Medusan’s steps get closer and closer. Finally he came into view. The light twisted his black armour and silver trim into a visceral shade of red. He stayed put a moment even after Helsturnn gestured for him to head back in side, eyes methodically from pony to Astartes and back again, but after what felt like an age the vigilator finally complied.
“Let me ask you something, lad.” Helsturnn began again in his gruff voice. The Wolf had already begun to mount a tumbled pile of rubble as he spoke. He crouched atop the fallen wood and stone, the debris somehow supporting his weight, and once again Adamant was struck by just how predatory he watched in the warped light. The ex-guard trotted closer all the same, tentatively sitting on his haunches beside him. Helsturnn didn’t look round, his yellow eyes still fixated on the castle looming on a distant cliff-side.
“…yes?” The sea-green pony prompted as an uncomfortable silence descended. The grey hunter stirred ever so slightly, and if he hadn’t known better Adamant would have said that he had been lost in thought.
“Do you know what’s in there?” There was a curious inflection to the transhuman’s voice. It put the pony in mind of some old stallion by the fire side recounting a tale from his youth, like a storyteller reciting the words to some saga to inspire his fellow warriors. Helsturnn was seeing more than just the physical process of their quest here, that was for sure. “Inside the castle. Do you know what awaits us at the end?”
“…why would I?” An impudence that the pony had not intended crept into his voice nevertheless. “Nobody’s set hoof in Canterlot since its fall, the Iron Warriors were probably the last…” He hesitated, memories of bright plasma shot and a falling carcass etched onto his mind. Helsturnn seemed momentarily as maudlin as he thought back to his own past. “No. I don’t.” Adamant finished eventually. “If I did, I would have told you…”
“Aye, I don’t doubt you would have, whelp.” Adamant felt like he should be offended at the name, and so the fact that he wasn’t surprised him. It almost seemed like a term of endearment. “You might be a Xenos, but you’re not stupid, I’ll give you that.” The old Wolf allowed with a toothy grin. “But you’ve heard nothing? No sagas, no stories, whispered rumours even?” He cocked his head, nostrils flaring as if sniffing the blood on the air. The town seemed to constantly stink of it. “Stories have power, lad. Everyone in the Rout knew this. Even the lies are inspired by something’s wyrd.” The term was unfamiliar to the pony, but he knew better than to ask as he looked at the Space Marine. “So share some with me.”
“…I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but shouldn’t we wait for your friends to wake up?” He used the word without thinking, and realised it too late. Fortunately the shrill squawk of some daemonic creature in the distance stole their attentions. Helsturnn’s sword was already in hand, the storm grey of an armoured finger poised over the activation rune. When it was clear it was just the noise of a far-off and presumably wandering predator, both relaxed, and Adamant took the opportunity to begin again. “What I mean is…like, it seems pointless telling the same story twice. I might be able to think of some, but I suppose the others would want to hear it…” Helsturnn’s silence was hardly helping. The pony even worked up the courage to frown at him. “They would care, wouldn’t they?” The grey hunter’s sword was still in his hand. He tapped the flat of its body against his chin, thinking it over.
“Zuriel would.” He allowed at last. “He’s a damn pretty-boy but he’s got some sense in him. Voss will go in regardless as long as it brings the machine-man some measure of satisfaction, if they can even still feel it. And as for Nehemiah and his brothers…” He trailed off with a chuckle, but there was something decidedly hostile about it. “Dark Angels are not known for sharing information. It would compromise their inflated sense of self-importance and the air of mystery they try to affect.” He laughed quietly, and to Adamant’s own surprise he was laughing a little too. Helsturnn grinned at the sight, before spitting dismissively. “First Legion, my arse.” He snarled, baring his fangs on instinct.
“Okay, I see your point.” The pony allowed. He sat back a little, ignoring the threatening nature of his surroundings as he tapped his chin. “Well…yes, there are rumours. There was always going to be rumours.” He pursed his lips as he recalled how he’d heard most of them; the few taverns that existed in the remnants of the Crystal Empire were always packed as Equestrians and the refugees from other lands tried their best to drown whatever sorrows assailed them, and since leaving the Guard he’d been no different. At the time he’d considered it a weakness. He supposed that it was actually paying dividends right now. “Some say that it’s exactly how you’d expect, all rubble ruled over by daemons, and that anything that enters gets torn apart in seconds. Some say that all the monsters left a while ago, and that all the Council had to do was send a reclamation force to seize the ruins and start rebuilding.” Their journey here had so far put paid to that idea. “And others…” At that he fell into thoughtful silence. Helsturnn kept looking at him, obviously intrigued now.
“Aye?” He prompted, shifting a little atop the pile of rubble. “And others?” Adamant looked back up at him as he rolled his tongue around a cheek. The pony gave a small shrug.
“Some say that whatever gateway brought them here’s just sitting there still, and on the other side is…I don’t want to know. Some say that the castle’s been rebuilt inside to its former glory, though that’s just creepy. Others, like those cultists who worship the daemons we mentioned, they think we’ve already been consumed by the gateway, and that this is just some…mass delusion.” He gave a dismissive scoff, but the winds whistling around him turned it into a shiver.
Helsturnn listened to all the possibilities, still with the look of a wizened sage on his face. When Adamant was done he gave a shallow nod, body rattling as he exhaled.
“Sounds like the wyrd has been twisted, for sure.” That word again. The pony wondered whether he should ask, before deciding against it. “But our own is bound to it, now.” The Wolf went on with a degree of accepting finality. “Whatever your species thinks happens after you die, lad, I’d make peace with it. Wouldn’t surprise me if we’re all-“
He stopped his pronouncement of doom mid-sentence, the very silence jarring the pony. Helsturnn ignored him. His nostrils flared and sniffed, his grip on the sword tightened, his posture changed to that of a prowling animal atop a rocky outcrop. Adamant felt it too, his rusty but not absent guard instincts hammering in his brain. He looked up at his companion. The grey hunter looked back down, the spirit of the hunt already overtaking him. His voice was a wet and feral growl.
“Maleficarum.”
***
The sounds of madness were still ringing loud in the group’s ears as they fled from the hall, but they were slowly getting quieter. Most of them suspected that was due to the constant clatter of their equipment. They had left the instruments behind, somehow instinctually knowing that despite the frenzy they’d inspired no-one would dare touch the devices, but most of their costumes were still intact. It spoke volumes on their dedication to getting out of there that none of them had collapsed from heatstroke yet.
Eventually the group reached the corridor they’d started in, and it was in the same moment an unconscious decision to take a breather was reached. They all skidded to a halt, bar Vortun who was the slowest and could simply stop, some leaning back on the wall whilst others doubled over and braced their hands on their knees. Silence reigned as all tried to comprehend what they’d just achieved. Lorkhan slipped his mask off and held it loosely by his side, the others all following suit except for Zuko.
“We…we did it…” As Rorke let a thick glob of split land on his palm and used it to try and wipe off the blood drying on his face, Barbus slowly straightened. The boy’s voice was both dumbfounded and borderline hysterical. “Holy hell, we actually did it!” The unusual sensation of success flooded them all in the same moment. Barbus and Zuko shared an echoing high-five, Varvillon allowed himself a fist-pump, whilst even Vortun gave a triumphant smirk.
“Did you see us?” Varvillon was just as eager to revel in the feeling as the rest of them as he gave a maniacal giggle. “Did you see them? We…we rocked!” A maddened energy seemed to have infected him in the aftermath of their performance, braces flashing in the light as he grinned and his cheeks taking on a red glow. Lorkhan paid his mania little mind as he stared at the floor. None of them seemed to notice their leader’s quiet, or at least none of them commented on it. It was only when he pushed off the wall and pointed down the corridor that their attentions were drawn.
“Fuck you!” He shouted, and for once the smile on his face seemed genuine. “Fuck you all! And fuck every bloody idiot who said we couldn’t do it!” He turned back to the others, folding his arms with a smirk. “I still don’t bloody believe it…but when Principal Perturabo hears about this, boys, I think our stars gonna be on the up.” He grinned as their cold pride continued to fester, Barbus and Varvillon sharing a small chest-bump. Only two of them hadn’t joined the revelry.
“We shouldn’t have done that.” None of them were really paying attention to Rorke to start with, but if they had been they might have noticed that for once he sounded borderline calm. The boy gave a reflexive sniff, some blood still trickling out his nose. “Listen, you bastards.” He growled, the others finally realising he was speaking. “Those shitty instruments…we shouldn’t mess around with them.” For a moment something close to realisation threatened to pass over the group, before Rorke twitched and it was gone.
“Oh, lighten up.” Zuko insisted with a chuckle, earning a dark look from his spasming cohort. “I’m actually in a good mood for once, sorry if that offends you…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Although…what happened at the end there?” As if they’d only just remembered that something had indeed cut their performance short, the others all turned to Lorkhan. He shrugged.
“Don’t ask me. Mordecai tripped or something.” He looked at the polite boy now to elaborate further. Mordecai was, for once, the one not paying attention to them. A frown was in his face, tongue clicking as he took his hat off and ran it between his fingers. It took a few moments for him to realise he was the centre of attention.
‘Hmm? Oh…yes, apologies…it was entirely my fault, gentlemen.” He said. Mordecai had only been talking about his stumble, but it felt to the boy himself like there was something else he was apologising for and he was just unsure what it was yet. “I thought…” He looked between their faces and suspicious expressions, pursing his lips and giving a small smile. “Nothing, it’s nothing…no need to fret.”
“Whatever.” Lorkhan dismissed it surprisingly quickly with a wave of his hand. “Just don’t do it when we’re actually performing. As long as none of us fuck up, nothing can stop us now.” He announced, a malicious smirk crossing his face.
“Well, well, well.”
The feminine voice was sudden and jolting. The boys all tensed, instantly turning round and bunching up together defensively. The source of the noise came from the other end of the corridor. The three girls stood and stared at them for a moment. The blue-skinned one seemed genuinely happy to be there, the purple-skinned one the exact opposite, whilst the yellow-skinned and presumable leader of the group just smirked. Her hands rested on her waist, an amused but wary glimmer in her eye. She held Lorkhan’s angry gaze unblinking as Zuko slowly leaned in closer.
“Lorkhan.” He ‘whispered’, though it was loud enough that they could all hear. “They’re supposed to be crazy…” He looked back over at the girls, who were unmoved. “Why aren’t they crazy?”
“I have to say, that was quite the show out there.” The lead girl purred. She crossed the distance with effortless grace with her two companions in tow. Lorkhan was about the same height as her, and once again found himself angrily staring into the grinning face of a rival as he felt his previous elation fall away beneath him. “Honestly, when you first walked onto that stage, I thought you were a joke.” She confessed with a mocking giggle. “But I suppose the evidence that you’re not is back in that hall, hmm?” She smiled sweetly, before extending a delicate-looking hand towards him. “Adagio Dazzle. This is Aria Blaze, and…Sonata. A pleasure.”
Lorkhan did not take it. None of them did. Even Mordecai, usually the gentleman, held back. The sidelong glance he cast the band’s leader confirmed he felt as uncertain about this as the rest of them. Eventually Adagio lowered her hand, a slightly more hostile expression crossing her features as she began to slowly circle the group.
“Still, I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to give you all the credit now, would it?” She went on. The tension in the group increased once more, Lorkhan and Vortun sharing a look of concern. Despite how quick it was Adagio noticed. Her smile widened. “Oh, don’t feel so bad! Everyone needs an edge. We have our own,” It seemed unconscious, but Lorkhan noticed the way she fiddled with the red gem hanging round her neck. “The Rainboom’s have their ‘magic of friendship’, the Illusions have their fireworks and smoke machines, and you…well, your instruments certainly are very interesting.”
“How the hell do you know about that?” To the group’s mutual surprise it was actually Varvillon who snapped. He took a step forward, face darkening as an almost protective edge crept into his voice. Adagio chuckled and smirked at the reaction, whilst Sonata gave a giggle. As the lead Dazzling opened her mouth to reply, however, yet another voice cut her off.
“Because I told them.”
That was a voice they recognised well enough. The boys all started a little, Mordecai most of all, as the male figure drew attention to himself. His hands were clasped behind his back, and even though he smiled both it and his blue eyes were laced with ruefulness. That didn’t make his reveal less disconcerting.
“A-Ahriman?!” Even when his voice was cracking with surprise Mordecai remained well-spoken. “You…you’re working with them?” His shoulders slumped noticeably as the feeling of betrayal hit.
“You got the instruments from a shitting Prosperon?” Barbus hissed, casting him an angry look.
“I fucking knew it!” Rorke practically screamed as he shook and raised his fists belligerently. The group’s argument was cut short by Ahriman. He had raised a hand himself, and as he did a strange sensation of inactivity descended over the Olympia High band. Rorke struggled against it the longest, but soon enough even he had succumbed. Ahriman took a moment to ensure they were really listening before looking to Mordecai.
“You are right to be angry, my friend.” He apologised with a weary smile. “All I can say is that originally, it was done with the best intentions. Circumstances changed.”
“Like what, exactly?” Lorkhan’s question was voice as a snarl. Ahriman looked at him calmly, the two sharing a drawn-out silence. “You fucking set us up.” It seemed the Olympian was having trouble restraining his own temper. “You lured us into a bloody trap for-“
“I did not.” Lorkhan flinched as Ahriman’s warm and smooth voice cut him off. He shook his head to emphasise the point. “I did not set you or your band up, Lorkhan. Quite the contrary. I would very much like you to win-“
“Excuse me?” Adagio was the one who took offence now, raising an eyebrow as Ahriman looked at her. Sonata looked just as put-out, but Aria chuckled.
“The guy’s dealing in magic instruments that do…what we saw, and you’re surprised he’s swindling us?” She asked, meeting Adagio’s annoyed glare with a blank one as she finished checking her nails. “What deep insight’s coming next, fearless leader?” All of them were quiet as a snicker filled the corridor. Lorkhan and the rest of the band blinked in surprise, before slowly turning to Rorke. The boy gave an agitated shuffle.
“What?” He muttered. “It was funny.” The others just continued to stare in shock that he’d actually laughed at a joke.
“I would quite like either of you to win.” Ahriman continued as he spied his opportunity. “It doesn’t much matter to me. Both of you have the tools to do it, that is rather the point of a competition. Just make sure that the Rainbooms lose.”
“That’s hardly a challenge.” Adagio noted with a confident sneer.
“But do it anyway.” Ahriman insisted. Lorkhan took a further moment to process the information.
“Why?” The Dazzlings and the other boy looked back to him as he spoke up. “Why does it matter if they lose? They’re just a bunch of girls, what’s the big deal?” Ahriman took his time before answering that one, holding Lorkhan’s gaze unblinkingly.
“Damage control.” He said at last. “Just to be certain…nothing should go wrong.” He pursed his lips a little, the fact that he was having to implore an Olympian obviously grating at the boy’s pride. “Please just work with me on this. It is all for the good.”
Lorkhan felt the eyes of all assembled on him. They didn’t move him to speak. He grimaced instead, continuing to think. His mind wandered back to their previous infiltration of the school…that teacher. The teacher who didn’t look like a teacher; he had something to do with this. The boy just knew it. Ahriman seemed to catch on without any words needing to be spoken. He tensed, but he didn’t offer anything approaching an explanation. Finally Lorkhan capitulated with a small and frustrated growl.
“I suppose that is the best I can expect.” Ahriman allowed. He gave a small nod of thanks, before looking at Mordecai with another sorrowful expression. “I am truly sorry if I have betrayed your trust, my friend. That was never my intention.” Mordecai did not respond, his face stonier than the others had ever seen it. Ahriman at least knew when he had outstayed his welcome, and without another word he turned, the golden skinned boy swiftly walking away. Adagio and her band lingered a moment longer with the Olympians, both leaders staring at one another. They seemed equally aware that they’d just been forced into some kind of alliance neither truly understood, and equally displeased by the fact. Still, the Dazzling was the first to smirk. She turned on the balls of her feet and quickly began to leave too, Aria and Sonata trailing after her. The lead Dazzling stopped only once at the end of the corridor, to turn and blow Lorkhan a mocking kiss, before they disappeared from sight.
“Well…” Zuko mumbled, the deadpan snark re-entering his voice as he folded his arms. “There goes my good mood.”
“Oh, I’m sorry gentlemen…” Mordecai sounded genuinely remorseful – genuinely saddened – as he leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. “I’ve…I’ve rather ballsed all this up, haven’t I?”
“Why the fuck did you trust one of them?!” Barbus asked, turning to him and opening his arms out wide in disbelief. “Fucking Prospero High, how did you not think they’d have some other plan in mind?”
“I told you those instruments were fucking bullshit!” Rorke snarled, looking like he was about to hit Mordecai.
“It’s not the instrument’s fault!” Varvillon snapped back, taking a belligerent step towards Rorke. The short boy seemed surprised that any of them, let alone Varvillon, were standing up to him, but he snarled and turned to take both of them at once.
“You wanna fucking go plant b-“
“It’s not your fault, Mordecai.”
The swiftly brewing argument was cut short by Lorkhan’s surprisingly calm intervention. The boy wasn’t looking at them even as they all looked at him, his head bowed slightly. Rorke was the last to stand down, the boy shivering a little before finally expelling the tension in his muscles.
“It’s not your fault, Mord’.” Lorkhan said again, turning to the other boy. Mordecai looked back at him with a rare expression of genuine surprise. That anyone, let along Lorkhan, was standing up for him was cause for shock. “You were just trying to help. You couldn’t have known…” He grimaced, before sighing and unclenching his fists. Silence reigned as the others all looked at him.
“So…vat now?” Vortun, the least daunted, asked slowly. Lorkhan did not meet his eyes. He stared into space, taking another deep breath.
“We’ve still got a few days of school before the bloody competition.” He said at last. “Just…go home, get some rest.” Ordering them came surprisingly easily, but they didn’t look away just yet.
“…what about you?” It was Zuko who voiced what they were all thinking, traces of uncomfortable camaraderie in his voice. Lorkhan swallowed.
“Tomorrow? I’m…going to go see the Principal.”
***
The world had turned into a riot of sense and colour for a while. Every sensation was heightened, every feeling sharper. What had happened before the music was a blur, and what went down during the blissful peals of sound was even more unclear, but finally Snips had managed to stumble back outside.
He’d lost Snails. At some point the two of them had managed to get separated, which was unusual enough. Maybe Flash and his raging band of madmen had set upon him. Snips remembered that happening well enough. He couldn’t say that he liked Flash, a sentiment entirely born from jealousy, but the guitarist losing his damn mind had still been jarring. Still, the boy found it strange he didn’t care as much about his best friend’s fate as he knew he should.
He only stopped running when he reached the sidewalk. Closing his eyes, the little fat boy took in a deep breath, trying to clear his head with the crisp night air. The tendrils of the song still lingered in his head a moment, stroking his brain with titillating flashes of memory. He whimpered, but squeezed his eyes shut and slapped the side of his head, finally dispelling them. The sun’s dying light bathed him as it sank behind a hill, lengthening every shadow. Snips suddenly felt very tired, though it was impossible for him to say why.
It took him a moment to notice the cool feeling in his hand. Looking down, Snips realised he was holding his phone. Memory swiftly reasserted itself – he’d been filming throughout the performance. Elation surged through him and banished all weariness. He could watch it again! The song, the sound, he could experience it whenever-
Snips’s musings were cut off as something grabbed the back of his shirt and lifted. He heard the fabric begin to tear, yelping and kicking his chubby legs out in a futile attempt to escape the clutches of whatever was holding him.
Eventually, what was holding him turned Snips in its grasp to face it. It was another boy – in his dazed state, Snips must have missed hima. He was fairly wide too, but where the Canterlotian was short and fat his aggressor was tall and built with slabs of muscle. His face could not be said to be attractive, but the obvious unstableness flashing in his eyes made the blue-skinned student gulp. His captor looked at him a moment and waited for the struggling to cease, before an ugly sneer crossed his face.
“Hello, friend! My name is Merihem.” He looked down at the phone Snips still clasped onto for dear life. His grin widened in a way that made the shorter boy even more uncomfortable still.
It was another nightmare that brought Fluttershy to wakefulness. The darkness in the room hit her first. It was disorienting and close, nearing the borderline of being panic-inducing, her curtains accomplishing little besides darkening the constant angry red glow that stared down from the sky. The after-images of visions danced behind her teal eyes, steel masks and hazard stripes and jagged knives reaching towards her. Even in the opening throes of wakefulness the vividness of those memories were enough to reduce the mare to a squealing and squirming mess in the sheets. The aroma of fearful sweat beading in her butter-coloured fur slowly diffused throughout the room.
The tight feeling in her chest that always accompanied Fluttershy’s early morning episodes of dread was only soothed by the feeling of a hand resting on her shoulder. The touch was reassuring, but still enough to be notable. Her eyes snapped open. Dragging in a few deep and lingering breaths the Pegasus blinked away the hazy wetness in her eyes and tried her best to relax muscles that now ached with tension. It was perhaps another minute before she was able to recover some measure of composure, and focus sufficiently to make out the face of who’d come to her aid.
“Th…thank you, Spike.” Her gratitude was accompanied by the small, sad smile that had become common between her and the dragon over the time since the fall. The rubbing of her soft yellow hoof against his wrist was enough to draw out an, admittedly small, smile from Spike too, though an equal degree of concern still flickered in his green eyes. He hesitated before eventually slowly helping her sit up, pulling his claw back in the process and rising from where he’d sat on her bed. With a roll of her stiff shoulders Fluttershy leaned against the cushion and headboard, her eyes fixated on the curtains which were just about managing to hold back the tight of unnatural red light. It took her a few moments to even cotton on that she and the dragon were not the only ones in the room.
A slight gasp left Fluttershy as she looked round, trace elements of her old personality suddenly asserting themselves as she blushed and felt her ears fold against her forehead. The Cutie Mark Crusaders, though they hadn’t referred to themselves as such in quite a while, remained in a loose huddle as they looked at her. All three of them wore their concern far more openly than even Spike had. Behind Fluttershy’s hoof-maidens were two guards alerted by the sounds of distress, their spears clutched tight to armoured bodies as the ponies awaited some form of direction. The sight made her want to squirm again. She’d never gotten used to giving orders, or even having any real staff. Spike helping her was one thing, she knew him well enough to have become accustomed to his self-imposed servitude. But the Crusaders, and above all Guards being willing to fight and lay down their lives for her…Rainbow Dash or Rarity might have enjoyed using or, as Fluttershy affectionately expected of the former, abusing such a position of power, but she had no stomach for it. Even the fleeting thought of her friends was enough to make the smile she gave to assure those gathered that everything was fine even more forced.
It was enough for the Guards, the two of them warily backing off and returning to their posts. The three younger ponies trotted inside instead and set to their tasks; Scootaloo headed over to the window and, with a breath to steel herself, opened the curtains. The orange Pegasus frowned and drew back a little as she looked outside, taking in the new blasphemies that the touch of the Warp had visited upon their kingdom that ‘morning’.
“It’s almost as grim as your paintings from back in first grade, Sweetie.” She chuckled weakly, always the one to try and introduce some levity into the situation. The unicorn returned a muted snicker of her own as she delicately extracted the cushions from beneath Fluttershy and began to strip off the now-sweaty sheets. Applebloom remained silent, having made her way to a table and pouring a cool glass of water for the Element of Kindness. The mare cast them all a brief glance. They had grown since leaving Ponyville, not quite the size of a full-grown pony but larger than the children they had been. The fact that not one of them had managed to receive their cutie marks had been put down to the twisting nature of the magic that now infected Equestria, and proof that whatever powers might be watching it now had some sort of sense of humour. Fluttershy had spoken on the matter with them before. She’d expected the Crusaders to particularly suffer from that affliction, and so the stoic nature with which they took it had been particularly surprising and inspiring. If anything the trio had began to consider their blank flanks as a mark of honour – the possibility of hope for the future, to become greater than the situation all found themselves in now. What had hit them were the deaths of others. Applebloom and Sweetie had taken it hardest, though the confession the lord of the Iron Warriors had given Fluttershy as he’d unleashed his mechanical monstrosities had at least allowed her to give some closure to the latter, but Scootaloo hadn’t come out of it unscathed. The palpable loss of innocence that exuded from all three of them never failed to cut Fluttershy deep and keep the pain sharp. Perhaps that was why she kept them around.
As they worked, and Fluttershy finished stretching out, she found herself looking round at Spike again. The dragon was stood dutifully by the side of her bed, arms folded and a thoughtful look on his face. She studied him a moment. He glanced back, giving another attempt at a smile.
“…Which one was it this time?” He asked quietly, demanding nothing. She knew what he was asking, rubbing her eyes again. Usually her nightmares were filled with the figure of the alien who’d slaughtered the other ponies in her home and crushed her leg, the mare giving the limb a quick shake at the memory, but as she thought back Fluttershy recalled that he had not been the sole cause of her fear.
“Lorkhan.” Her voice was even more quiet than usual, barely above a whimper. Even saying the word was enough to make her curl up a little more. Spike’s concern became a little more apparent, but the mare held up a hoof to assure her aide she could manage. “I…I haven’t thought about him in a long time…”
Silence persisted for a moment, none present quite sure what to say. Fluttershy didn’t much care. Her gaze was fixed blankly at the mattress she sat upon as the mare allowed herself a rare moment of introspection on the matter; she wished she could hate Lorkhan. He was the one who’d commanded his fellows to tear the heart out of her world, he was the one who’d brought about the murder of her friends, he was the one who’d ruined her life…hating him would be so much easier. But she had been as close to him as any of the ponies had been with the aliens. She’d even liked to think of herself as his friend. Perhaps it was just because she’d never found out what happened to him. Sense told her that the Warsmith must have either left with his brothers or died, and Fluttershy could not quite discern which of those two options she would prefer to be the truth.
She was grateful for the most part that Spike kept quiet throughout her reverie. The dragon’s face was pulled tight in a grimace, scaly tail slowly wafting back and forth behind him, his sole reaction being a shallow nod. Applebloom quickly brought over a tray with the glass of water atop it, Fluttershy receiving it with a demure murmur of ‘thank you’. She gave it a few sips, letting the cool liquid clear her throat for her, lowering it and taking a final deep breath. “Has…umm…has there been any word from the…” A brief hesitation broke up her sentence. “The Space Marines.”
“No.” Spike sighed as he answered, arms still folded and doubt plainly writ onto his face. “Nopony’s heard anything, not that I’m surprised. If anything the storm’s getting worse…” It was his turn to momentarily fall silent and grim, and Fluttershy couldn’t blame him for it. “Even if they are planning to do as they said, I don’t think we’ll know unless something actually changes.” A bleak chuckle left the dragon. “And with the way the world out there’s looking, I don’t think they’ll be coming back anyway.”
It was hard to argue with him on that account. Fluttershy finally slipped out of bed and set the empty glass down, sighing in agreement. A small smile and polite gesture of her hoof was enough to dismiss the Crusaders. As they filed out of the room the yellow mare trotted towards the window, Spike in tow. If he had any doubts he didn’t voice them. Outside the sky continued to roil and churn in what always seemed to Fluttershy like agony. She sighed, allowing herself to lean against Spike’s hip a little as what could be the shapes of daemons flickered in and out of view in the distance. Her thoughts always were drawn back to the group of Astartes presumably out there now; she had little more hope than he did that they’d actually make any meaningful change, but at the same time Fluttershy knew that if anyone in Equestria could do anything, it was them. If anything she felt sorry for the pony she’d been told had gone with them…and guilty, that she couldn’t even remember his name.
She turned to the dragon to inquire after said pony’s identity, and it was then that she noticed him wince. The mare frowned, her soft lips parting in confusion, though confusion turned to horror as she saw him double over and clutch his stomach. As the dragon’s breath continued to grow more laboured and he squeezed his eyes shut, panic kept her frozen in place.
“S-Spike! W-what’s wrong?!” When it became clear that her friend wasn’t going to give her a verbal answer, dropping shakily to his knees and clutching his stomach, she rested her hooves on his side and tried to find some words to say. Fluttershy she knew she should have called for help or tried to get him into a more comfortable position, but the thought of losing another of her friends was nearly tipping her over the edge.
“Spike, p-please, talk to me…” She asked, starting to lapse into the tell-tale signs of hyperventilation. “Not you, n-not you too…” She sniffed, giving the struggling dragon another shake. The mare had no certainty about what was happening, but none of the possibilities were encouraging. She’d heard talk from down in the hospital wings, of sudden sicknesses and plagues ravaging whole swathes of the Empire. If it had struck at her friend, then-
Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as Spike convulsed, and burped.
A gout of green flame made Fluttershy stumble back as the dragon collapsed to his knees and gave a few heavy pants. Finally trotting back over to him and rubbing his back softly, breathing heavily herself to calm down, dragon and pony both looked down at the floor.
Their hearts stopped at the sight of the scroll. The last licks of fire faded away as it came to lie still, staring back up at them innocently. Its very existence seemed like an impossibility. With all the madness Chaos had unleashed upon the world, perhaps it actually was. Either way Fluttershy still stared down at it, legs wobbling in trepidation as she gulped.
“D-do you…think that’s a bad thing?” Spike looked round at her. His answer were accompanied by a bleak chuckle.
“Haven’t you been paying attention?” The reptile sighed. “It is definitely a bad thing.”
***
Lorkhan had slept little the previous night, if at all. The midnight hours had been spent staring up at the cracked ceiling of his room in the hope that the myriad of age-worn cracks in the plaster would offer some sort of answer to the myriad of problems besieging the fortress of his thoughts. The bleak scowl etched onto his face did not leave as he showered or ate breakfast, nor did it abate during the lonely walk to school. The only positive thing he could say about the whole situation was that at least the serried ranks of his compatriots had the decency to leave him be…sort of. Kroeger threatened to stuff him into a locker, of course, but Kroger did that to everyone – and one of the few things that Lorkhan did pride himself on was that he was faster than that violent meathead.
The others were largely still infuriatingly flushed with the ‘success’ of the previous night, and Lorkhan couldn’t help but take some grim amusement from the fact that Rorke, of all people, was the only one who seemed to truly appreciated how the situation threatened to spiral out of control. At least they, too, knew better than to bother him before he had anything to report or orders to give. It was lunchtime before cold vitality began to return to him. Though it truly pained him to miss an opportunity to indulge in a helping of what the slop the cook served for lunch, except in every conceivable way, Lorkhan immediately set off for the Principal’s office.
Part of him was well aware of just how insane what he was doing was. Few dared barge in on Principal Perturabo uninvited, and none came out well from it. But Lorkhan refused to allow cowardice to rule him in the moment; Perturabo would never permit an audience of his own accord before the Battle of the Bands was done, and this matter would not wait.
He did not even slow down as Mr Forrix attempted to halt him, taking just a moment to draw in a deep breath before pushing the door open and striding in. The low murmur of conversation instantly ebbed away as both figures within the small office turned to look at the newcomer. Even the mild traces of Lorkhan’s bravado drained away as he felt the Principal’s steel-cold gaze rest upon him. He skidded to a halt, biting his lip awkwardly and giving a pronounced gulp. Consternation turned to confusion as he looked round at the other figure.
“Toramino?” He asked, trademark paranoia seeping in as his expression became more suspicious. The white-haired boy smirked, clasping his hands behind his back and pushing his chest out proudly, but he said nothing.
“Mr Lorkhan.” Perturabo’s enforced calm was betrayed by an underlying rumble of rising anger. Lorkhan knew well how mercurial the school’s head was, and how volcanic his temper could become. It took only seconds under both their scrutiny to decide that offense was the best form of defence.
“I…I know this is unorthodox, sir…” He began, trying his best to maintain a straight and calm expression. “But you always said that we shouldn’t hold back any information that could affect the school as a whole, and…” He took in another deep breath. “Something strange is going on at Canterlot High, Principal. Something to do with their Battle of the Bands.”
In retrospect, Lorkhan might have preferred an angry reaction. At least there would have been something tangible then. Instead, oppressive silence continued to radiate from the other side of the desk. It was all he could do not to squirm. Toramino eventually let out a snort, Lorkhan’s hands bunching into fists reflexively.
“Oh, wow…you’re serious.” He chuckled in his grating, mocking tone. ‘Even for you, Lorkhan, this is a hilarious misjudgement. You march in here making demands, like-“
“If you’re quite done kissing my arse, Toramino.” The boy instantly fell silent at Perturabo’s icy rebuke, hanging his head in shamed contrition. The Principal returned his gaze to Lorkhan, who in turn offered a curt nod of thanks. The student body’s natural competitiveness was not an easy thing to shake off, however.
“What are you even doing here?” He asked as he frowned at his peer. Toramino opened his mouth to reply, but once again the Principal deigned to do so for him.
“He came to beg greater boons for his dress-up society.” Toramino’s face flushed an even more embarrassed crimson, but attention had already moved away from him. “Although, pain me to admit it as it does e raises a valid question. Why exactly are you telling me this, Lorkhan?”
The question made him clam up. Why had Lorkhan come to tell him this? He had never really paid the reasoning any mind, instead assuming that the Principal would know what to do. He’d expected orders, some chain of command to exist. It took him a while to come up with anything at all, and every moment he stayed silent he felt more of his credibility be stripped away beneath the glare of his Principal.
“Ahriman was there.” He blurted out suddenly, latching on to whatever he could. Toramino cast a confused frown at the Principal, but Perturabo said nothing. “Ahzek Ahriman, from Prospero High.”
“I know my brother’s favoured student, Lorkhan.” Perturabo’s face might have softened for the slightest moment at the thought, but it was over in a second. “Get to the point.”
“There was another band. These girls, the Dazzlings or something like that.” Lorkhan gave an angry sneer at the memory of them. “We were getting a little…competitive…and then Ahriman showed up and started making these requests. He said that since we were using his instruments, we-“
“You got help? From one of them?” Toramino’s surprise was matched only by the speed with which he pounced on even the possibility of weakness. Lorkhan knew he had to respond quickly, but how exactly to do that was another matter entirely.
“No…yes…sort of…that’s not the point!” He snapped, feeling Perturabo’s ire deepen every time he stumbled over his words. The fact that he knew what he was about to say would only make things worse was hardly a cause for confidence. “The point is…I…” He hesitated, taking in a deep breath. “Principal, I think they’re using some kind of…of dark magic.”
He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. The principal’s patience, which had already worn thin, could be felt crumbling entirely. Lorkhan took a reflexive step back, and even as he smirked Toramino scuttled round towards the door and the other boy. That he considered it safer to be closer to the target of Perturabo’s displeasure than the Principal himself. Perturabo’s gaze continued to bore into him for a moment before the Principal sighed. The pen in his hand snapped clean in half as he formed a fist. Lorkhan gave another gulp.
“That is a very…very nice story, Mr Lorkhan.” His temper rested on a knife-edge and was clearly just about to tip over. “It is good to see that you have managed to retain your imagination. I am afraid it rather falls apart, however, when I tell you that I spoke to my brother scant weeks ago and he specifically told me that he and his students were not using dark magic.” The boy would have pointed out to anyone else that that was a curiously specific denial to make, but right now he was focusing just on maintaining eye contact. Daring to look away now would only make things worse. At least Toramino had stopped smirking by now, though Lorkhan couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he’d have favoured simple mockery.
“This…event is, what? In two or three days? This weekend?” Perturabo asked. Lorkhan’s response was a shallow nod. “I will put this little display down to mounting stress, then. For now.” The Principal obviously intended that to be the end of the debate, but despite his rising unease Lorkhan couldn’t bring himself to bring up just yet.
“Sir…I…I really think-“ Whatever he was going to say was cut off as the Principal slammed both fists on the desk, the entire room echoing with the sound. Perturabo looked him square in the face, towering body shaking with barely-contained rage.
“Get…out.”
It was that that cast the two into action. Sharing the briefest of glances, Toramino and Lorkhan turned and fled from the office without a moment’s hesitation.
***
“Students.”
The school intercom crackled to life less than a minute after they were both outside. Static blared for a moment, Toramino glancing up at the nearest speaker whilst Lorkhan continued to stare at the ground. The Principal’s voice was remarkably composed, and as flat as ever.
“Could anyone practicing dark magic on school grounds desist immediately and report to the decimation room. It is making Lorkhan uncomfortable.”
“I told you.” Toramino’s voice followed on from the speaker cutting off almost seamlessly, Lorkhan closing his eyes and breathing a silent sigh of frustration. “I told you he wouldn’t care. Shit Lorkhan, what did you actually expect to accomplish by-“
“Shut up.” Lorkhan snapped suddenly, thankfully making his classmate fall into irritated silence. “Just…shut up, Toramino.” He had no doubt in listening to whatever retort the egotistical head of the brotherhoods was going to offer, not when his already-strained mood had been rendered so dark. He straightened up and sighed, marching away with an expression as hard and uncompromising as rock the moment he could.
Toramino watched as the boy left, patrician face drawn in a petulant scowl. Despite all the contempt he felt for the other boy, however, his own interest was undeniably engendered. He wasn’t as blind to his flaws as a lot of his compatriots believed; he did not, however, consider ambition to be one of them. And whilst maintaining the power he’d worked hard to acquire at Olympia High was always his prime concern, it never hurt to keep an eye on what the other schools they’d had dealings with in the past were doing.
As Lorkhan passed from sight, he tapped his top lip with a finger. It wasn’t long until a thoughtful grin crossed Toramino’s face. With a last chuckle himself he turned and walked away, mind afire with the opportunities opening themselves up before him.
***
“Okay then, I’ll be the one to ask, since you’re being your usual charming self.”
Zuko was the only one who was still waiting for him after school. It was an unexpected, and slightly uncomfortable, display of loyalty. It was enough even to briefly overpower Lorkhan’s foul mood. He came to a stop in front of the helmeted boy, blinking and glancing around the emptying foyer of the school.
“…Where’s Barbus?” He asked, raising a slightly suspicious eyebrow. The two had their lockers right next to each other, and to find either completely alone at the end of the day was certainly unusual. Zuko gave a small shrug and pushed himself off the wall, pulling his backpack a little higher up his shoulders.
“Dunno. He said there was this café place that he wanted to try, Sugarcube Corner or something-“
“I’ve heard of that.” Lorkhan interrupted, frowning in recognition. “That’s near Canterlot High…what the bloody hell’s he doing that for?” Zuko’s shrug did nothing to lift his spirits.
“Varvillon’s gone to tend to his flower garden. Mordecai’s in the library, and I didn’t care enough to ask what he’s doing. Vortun just went home, same as Rorke.”
“Which is what we’re doing.” Lorkhan added swiftly, already going for the door. Zuko’s helmet tilted in confusion, but after a moment he too began to follow.
“…going home?” He piped up after a moment, staying a step behind his compatriot as he glanced at him. “Huh, and here was me intending to just sit on the sidewalk and toss pebbles around all night.”
“If you don’t to do that after then be my damn guest.” Lorkhan responded. “But I didn’t mean our homes. We need to go and see Rorke.” He breathed an sighed inwardly at the sound of Zuko coming to an abrupt stop.
“I won’t do it.” The helmeted boy stated bluntly as his companion looked round, shaking his head. “I’m not going to do it, Lorkhan. You can’t make me do it.”
“Oh, stop whining.” The other student snapped, turning around and briskly starting to walk again. He was going to do it anyway, with or without backup, but he couldn’t deny that having Zuko with him would make him feel at least a little safer. “As much as it pains me to admit it, he was the only one of us who properly distrusted those instruments. If he has any other gut feelings about them I want to know.” It took a few minutes, and it came with a grudging sigh, but eventually the sound of Zuko jogging to catch up with him could be heard.
“This is a bad idea.” He muttered, folding his arms and looking away. “Like, even in a week of bad ideas, this one deserves particular notoriety for being shit…” Uncomfortable silence festered between the two momentarily. “We’re still going to use the instruments, right?” Zuko murmured at last, looking back at Lorkhan. The boy’s face was both grim, and uncertain.
It took them a while to navigate their way to Rorke’s house. They’d been past it a few times, but never actually inside, and the fact that it seemed a little more extravagant than either of their own homes was certainly jarring. There was even a small garden out the front, though the area was still as unwelcoming as any on their side of town was. The two shared a surprised glance, before Lorkhan shrugged and walked up to the door. After knocking a few times Rorke’s mother let them in. The pair of boys couldn’t help but wear their surprise openly again when the haggard-looking actually smiled at them. She left as they entered, leaving the two to look around. The building wasn’t exactly a castle, but it was clean and nothing was broken. A plasma screen hung on one of the living room walls, expensive-looking carpets covering the floors. The kitchen could just be seen through a half-open door. Bright stainless steel caught the last of the sun’s light as it streamed in through the windows.
“Huh…not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it.” Zuko mused, glancing around. “It’s actually quite…cosy.” The sneer in his voice was only subtle, a hint of bitter jealousy colouring his every word. Lorkhan’s scowl conveyed it much more openly. Yet again he didn’t bother to reply, instead straining his ear for any trace of their band-mate. Eventually some muffled noise took them both upstairs.
“What is that?” Lorkhan murmured as they walked down the corridor, clicking his tongue thoughtfully as his brow creased. He’d picked up the habit from either Varvillon or Mordecai. He couldn’t remember which. Zuko knew what he meant; the sound that came from down the corridor was quiet, but it was also consistent. For a moment it sounded like Rorke was having a conversation with multiple voices, but if he was then his usually snarling tone was hard to pick out.
“TV.” He identified at last, glancing back at Lorkhan. “It’s a TV, or video.” Lorkhan nodded his agreement and briefly tried to identify what the specific source was. The low volume and his own lack of real interest confounded his efforts. They were at the other boy’s door in a matter of steps. Without hesitation, Lorkhan placed a hand on it, starting to walk through.
“Wait…” Part of Zuko knew that his warning wouldn’t be headed, but it didn’t stop him looking away and murmuring thoughtfully. “Wait, hang on…something about this show’s familiar…” Lorkhan wasn’t listening, striding on through into Rorke’s room without hesitation.
“The instruments.” He began abruptly, not bothering with any greeting. “Why exactly didn’t you li-“
He stopped as Zuko’s warning finally sank in, his wide eyes on the television. Rorke stared back at him, his own eyes wide. It was a pleasant enough room, cosy but big enough to not feel cramped. There were a few posters on the wall, a dresser, though Rorke’s clothes were strewn haphazardly around regardless. Lorkhan didn’t care about any of that though. He just kept staring at the screen.
“What…” His expression started out blank, before creasing into a look of bewildered confusion. “What…” Eventually his expression morphed again. It settled on a look of abject, all-consuming horror.
