> Dissonance
>  by RanOutOfIdeas
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Prologue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


DISSONANCE



“cog·ni·tive dis·so·nance (/ˌkɒɡ.nə.tɪv ˈdɪs.ən.əns/) noun.

1. the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions.

2. the denial of what’s right in front of you.

3. an unreliable way for cowards to live with their mistakes, past and future.

4. you can’t run forever.”





The evening sun was shining faintly on the scoped lever-action, its glint scarcely noticeable in the white hills near Wallace. It would be reasonable to say only a skilled hunter would distinguish it from the piles of leaves and snow littering the forest floor.

Unfortunately for the limping quadruped in the rifle’s sights, the only hunter for miles around was currently prone, covered by a white blanket and itching to pull the trigger.

His target was already hurt, the limp betraying the internal damage. Frantic movements, eyes and ears desperately scanning its surroundings, heavy breaths, ragged looks. Bleeding just a bit. A clean shot, enough to disable the critter, shouldn’t be too difficult. Might even be merciful.

If he could stop shaking that is.

“Bloody cold,” croaked the man to no one as snow got through the glass cracks on his goggles. It was hard to keep the rifle steady when your hands were trying not to form icicles.

The hooved creature proved aware enough, its ears rigid the moment his complaint was made. Its head was scoping the area, exposing a bit of the neck but not enough for a comfortable shot. He had to bait it a bit more.

Unfortunately, nature was fighting rather formidably to seep into his layers of clothing. The snow infiltrated the blanket and warmed inside his camouflaged vest, making a wet patch that would herald more than a simple running nose. Waiting was not a very good prospect.

“Just a bit more. Come on,” he silently urged. The man moved and was now holding the stock of the rifle with his bandaged hand, hoping the bipod would do its work on the soft soil. It did, somewhat. His crosshair now only swayed as much as a certain drunk Irishman he knew.

‘Collins – no. Not now. Focus.’

The thing was now definitely aware of his presence, looking straight at the pile he chose as his temporary cover. His repositioning had moved a bit of snow – the blanket hiding him now askew – allowing it to spot his hiding place.

And allowing him, in turn, to see its front now fully exposed.

“Beautiful,” and a pull of the trigger was all the creature could faintly hear, before collapsing backwards.


***


It wasn’t uncommon to have hunting cabins strewn about in Nova Scotia’s many low mountain ranges. Hunters that wanted to evade the buck law regulation would pool their resources to construct small outposts where they could rest and pile their prizes without declaring their hunt to the Department of Lands and Forestry – and risk losing their hunting license.

Of course, with a whole new world of sentient animals arriving some years ago at the CERN, in Switzerland, a lot of licenses were called into question anyway.

It was a diplomatic attempt to ease relations with the more conservative side of the Equestrian Animal Rights Coalition - just one of the many new organizations humanity would have to deal with that sprouted from the collision of the two worlds. 

Turns out, deer were both sentient, and regarded quite fondly in this alien world.

Frank was doubtful when his tutor suggested they spend their hunting trip on one such cabin. After all – if the purpose of it was to hide illegal doings – one could easily make the connection they would be using it for similar ends. And that was more unnecessary trouble on their backs. 

Especially if they offended their deer Father Christmas, or whatever it was.

In contrast, his mentor assured him he was good friends with the equestrian government, and promised they would be fine. Frank countered by asking if he thought the two nobles at the Cavalry Club were enough to count as ‘all of the equestrian government’.

Collins just told him to shut up, as usual.

So far their trips were mostly legal but, if he knew his mentor, that could very well change at any moment. Uselessness in comfort, as the old man would say.

The dead deer was dropped on the snow leading up the entrance to the house, with Frank leaning back on the wooden fence closely surrounding the cleared pathway.

“I know. I’m late. Finally got our dinner,” he said and nodded to the dead animal. “Curious to see what you do with it. I’m starving.” His stomach kindly added a groan of agreement.

The older man sitting on the porch closed his book, carefully setting it on his lap, and took a quick look at the animal. “The deal is you get both of us good game and I handle the cooking.” He looked a bit more closely at the carcass, eyes mechanically checking for all the signs a skilled butcher should be aware of.

Satisfied, he nodded, as if already expecting the obvious outcome. “That,” he pointed at the sorry thing with his bony finger, “is not good game, and it sure as shite won’t feed both of us long enough.”

Frank’s brows snapped together and the corners of his mouth soured down. “What are you on about?” he dared ask. “It’s big enough, I shot it clean, no antlers.” – he listed off with his fingers – “Not a bad catch at all.”

The old man lightly shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes peacefully. “We’re in spring, Frank. It’s big because it hasn’t burned the fat from winter.”

Frank raised a single eyebrow, a glint reaching in his eyes. “So, not going to contest my shooting?” he allowed a smirk to deform his face, theatrically raising both arms. “Has the infamous Thomas Collins forgotten how to be an absolute ass?”

Thomas just opened one eye slightly, his face infuriatingly neutral. “No objections if something’s done well enough.”

Him pivoting from their usual banter stopped Frank in his tracks. “Wha-? I… no, there’s always something.” He looked incredulous, eyes searching for answers. “What is it? Should’ve gone for the head? Used a better caliber?”

“No,” was the quiet and definitive answer. “You did fine.”

Frank eyed the geezer up and down for a while, defiance of the words spoken etched into his face. Thomas just stood as he was, resting, decidedly not looking at him.

“…I don’t know what you’re playing at, you crotchety wanker, but – for the record – I’ll take what I can get.”

That got him a more familiar and not-so-spontaneous reaction. “Maybe you can get yerself a decent feckin’ rifle! What kind o’ gob puts a bipod on a feckin’ brush gun?” Thomas bellowed out, arm cocked back and book in hand, ready to launch. Good old blistering Irish rage.

With the deer hurriedly slung back over his shoulder and working as cover from the threat of a leather-bound, two-hundred-and-three pages worth of damage, Frank walked quickly past the seated man and towards the old oak door. 

“There he is. Tommy, me lad, you’re lettin’ the ol’ accent slip through!” he said, in a mock replica of his friend.

“Crotchety my arse, you crusty –” he threw his arm “– cunt!” and the book hit the deer harmlessly.

His poor launch was only met with Frank’s receding laughter.


***


The forest was hushed after being defiled by the man made weapon. Crane had his wet vest now slung over his shoulder, with the white blanket used to hide his position now discarded. He hoped that leaving the still warm barrel of the gun on top of the vest would help dry the wet spot.

After a quick inspection of his belongings, he glanced over at the spot the creature had dropped. With a fully exposed front, penetrating one of the shoulders was easy. The joint would be nothing but scrap and sinew. Not enough to kill, as evidenced by the wheezing sounds still coming from it, but he wouldn’t need to rush to secure the target.

He removed his cracked goggles and inspected them, clearing the snow that had gotten through. There was a bit of dried, flaking liquid in some of the interior, and a small hole breached the side of the reflective glass, right where his right brow would be. As a snow visor, it wouldn’t be doing its job very well anymore.

The shot was effective, but the tactic had been haphazard, out of his norm. It wouldn’t die immediately, sentenced to a long and agonizing recovery - if it even had the chance. More so, relying on the target to expose itself was bad practice, and exposing himself for a better angle was plain stupid. 

He gently shook his head, hoping his thoughts would just dissipate in the snow.

‘It’s just the cold. Deal with it.’

Putting the tight-fitted spectacles back on his forehead, he collected the white mantle, stuffed it on his backpack and started making his way over to the downed animal.


***


Whoever had built the cabin wanted it to last several winters. Starting from a simple polished stone base on the foot of the low mountain, the logs that made up the walls were all coated in an oil finish made to last the harsh winters. The fireplace took up most of the living room, with fresh wood waiting to be turned into cinders resting inside. Two rooms and a door to the outside lay on the back of the structure, and a simple kitchen complemented the otherwise barren residence. With no more clutter than was necessary, only the most useful equipment was kept inside. A survivalist dream.

“I saw the birds scattering twice,” Thomas called out from the hearty stove, embers catching on quickly from the burning logs.

“Well,” Frank began, adjusting the animal on his back, “I… might’ve missed the first shot”

Thomas turned towards his friend and crossed his arms, the stove now warm and ready behind him. “And you still hit the deer that clean?”

“Lever action, remember?” Frank kept moving his shoulder, careful not to lose his balance or drop the deer. “I could probably get rid of two casings while you’re still pulling the bolt on the first one.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, mouth drawing a thin, curved line. “Nevermind the time the birds would need to settle and scatter again, I bet you can’t shoot twice while prone using that bipod o’ yours.”

Frank groaned shifted his ankles away from his friend. “If you’re gonna be pissy about the bipod every day, fine. I’ll take it off.” He looked downwards. “It was cheap anyway…”

Collins stared at Frank’s downturned face concealing his eyes with his unkempt hair. Frank kept looking at various points of the stony masonry, admiring a craftsmanship he didn't have enough knowledge to appreciate. With each passing second, Thomas’ eyebrows got lower and lower until a frown creased his somewhat wrinkled face.

“Francis Crane…” Thomas muttered and shook his head, letting the frown go. “We ought to work on your fibbing.”

“Look, I’m sorry. Can we quit yapping and skin this –“ Frank nodded his head at the carcass on his shoulder “– thing? I’m not worried about a stray bullet in the middle of fuck all. Don’t see why you’re getting your knickers in a twist, either.”

“… Fine,” he breathed out, moving towards the door to the outside. “I’ll get the hooks. I’m content you didn’t pock it full o’ holes, at least.”

The skinning of the deer was a tedious ordeal; mechanical and familiar. The disgust went away after a couple dozen times seeing an animal’s insides, and the novelty not long after. Turns out, Collins was right: there was quite a bit of fat in his catch.

Not that it bothered Frank too much. He learned to deal with the crankiness and high standards long ago.

Collins grunted and threw his carving knife on the table. “You finish this up and hang it. I’m too old to be holding carcasses up.”

Frank quickly picked up the knife and continued skinning. “What do you want done with the skin?” he asked while concentrating on a difficult tendon to cut.

“Don’t care. Make a hat with it to hide your ugly mug. I’ll get started on the curry.”

Ah, the legendary Collins recipe. When modified for vegetarians, it was a complete hit in the Club back in Birmingham. The locals thought it was decent, but the visiting ponies absolutely adored it. Every time he served them, he’d tell the same story about how the original recipe was developed while infiltrated in enemy territory, using nothing more than a couple of condiments he’d scavenged from a blown up store. Just some good old human bullshit that the Club loved to bite into. 

If he had to summarize old Thomas in one word…

It would be ’bastard’. But if he bothered using two, it would be ‘glorious bastard’.

The simmering pot full of the precious liquid was quickly put in the kitchen counter, where Frank watched with anticipation as the wafts of smoke followed the curry’s every move with a promise of perfect taste bud stimulation.

“Watch it. It’s still hot,” warned Thomas, his bowl still simmering on the table where he plopped down.

“Like that’s gonna stop me.” He gulped down a big spoon of the deliciously hot liquid, pridefully trying to ignore the flaming sensation. The regret was instantaneous. “Ugh,” Frank mumbled through his burnt tongue. He tried collecting the bits of snow that had gathered in his clothing and quickly stuffed his mouth with it.

The burning lesson didn’t last long enough, considering the spoonful that followed right after. “Hmm, you gotta teach me how to cook like this.” 

Thomas quietly smiled at Frank’s arrogance biting his ass. “So you can show off to the ponies at the Club instead of me?” He turned an accusatory spoon at Frank. “Wasn’t the shootin’ enough, now you wanna steal my cookin’?”

Frank took on a challenging smirk. “Afraid I’ll be better at it too?” he asked, challenging his old mentor.

Thomas scoffed, “Watch it. Age might make me a bit slippery on the trigger, but it doesn’t affect my curry.”

Frank simply raised his bowl with one arm in toast. “Amen to that.” Then he pointed at Thomas. “And I didn’t steal anything. You taught me willingly.”

Thomas just grunted back.

Collins sat comfortably in his padded chair while Frank ate happily on the counter, satisfied in the simple act. It was always a calm time, when they got to eat together. Frank thought they should’ve had more moments like these, to balance the harsh exercises.  

Except Collins wasn’t a very… approachable person. Friendly insults aside, he was a drill sergeant through and through. And god knew how hard it was just to get that stubborn old fool to accustom himself with the banter.

Once they were done, Frank collected their bowls and went to the sink. Turns out his deer, although fat, was quite the delicacy. His clean shot made sure it wouldn’t taste like powder. Which reminded him…

“So… what was that back then?” he said while scrubbing the bowl.

“What was what?”

Frank turned slightly to look at Thomas at the quiet response. He had his back to him, already reading another book. Where does he keep so many– no. Focus. “Don’t fuck around now. You never compliment my shooting.”

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “Your shooting was fine today.”

Frank gave him one quick laugh, short and dry. It rasped his throat. “Yeah, right. It’s never fine.”

“Not this time.” He refused to turn still. All Frank could see were his straight laced shoulders. Tensioned, even.

“Alright, the fuck is up with you?” Frank exclaimed and threw the bowl in the sink, splashing water on his clothes.

That had finally earned Thomas’ attention. He breathed out as he finally turned to Frank. “Look,” he began slowly, pronouncing his words with more care, “Ponies are all about being better, yeah? Well, I'm taking a page from their book. Being better.”

Frank didn’t believe his ears. This… this was the man who made him crawl through shit and mud in the training courses of the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh,  with his old buddies in Ireland. The man who made him drink chicken blood to survive in the savannas of South Africa. The man who made him dive for his own parachute above Omsk, who made his life into a drill course, into a constant nightmare...

But also the man who saved him from the streets. Who fed and warmed a would-be thief when he had no obligation to. The man who taught him how to defend himself. The man who gave him at least some purpose, jaded as it might be. The man who made him who he is.

For a hefty price.

‘Fair enough, Collins. I guess Dewdrop and her friends managed to scrape a heart out of you after all.’


***


Collins stood outside, appreciating the beauty of the red pine trees and white branches. He was thankful Beatrice had let them stay at her cabin. A lot of good memories were tied to this place; to her. Of their time together as boisterous teens. Before she was truly ingrained in the royal family tradition of looking like a disappointed pebble.

One of these days, he should introduce her to Frank. That’d be a sight. A Middlesbrough brat meeting a royal. He would probably fumble the proper greetings and just go with ‘Yeah, no. I’m not one for the fancy twaterings’. No amount of training could teach that boy manners. But he tried.

Frank’s accent seemed to have toned down over the years, even.

“Well, I’m full and bored. What time is it?”

Speaking of the devil. “Not late enough to be bored already,” Tom scolded him.

Frank stretched his arms and sat on the steps right next to Thomas. “Well, I blame you for the lack of entertainment,” he accused, balling up some snow into his fist. “Fucking Canada? I know you wanted to show me how to hunt in the snow, but why Canada?” - he tossed the snowball away - “This is hardly ‘untouched nature’, quiet and boring as it may be.”

It didn’t take long for Collins to come up with a reason that didn’t require they go excavating his past dealings with the Royals. The world was providing plenty of excuses nowadays. “Because Russia was too much trouble. Especially now with those fanatic clashes in the bureaus,” he remarked, looking distant. “Even Britain is down in the shitter with people for and against conversion bashing each other like fuckin’ dogs.”

“Huh.” Frank got up and leaned into the porch. “Heard some radicals wanted to bomb the bureaus in London to kingdom come.”

That had set off some alarm bells. “And where the feck,” he said, looking straight at Frank, “did ya hear that?”

“Some website on the net,” he said dismissively.

Thomas only frowned at him. He knew exactly what kind of website that was. The ones Google didn’t index for your viewing pleasure. That the European Union didn’t want indexed.

“I was curious alright?” he said, throwing his hands in a placating gesture.

Thomas eased his frown, but kept a stern face. “You’re not going radical on the ponies, are ya?” He rested his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I took you to Birmingham for a reason. Seen that kind of crap too much as a kid.”

Frank looked up, mildly surprised. “You mean the Troubles?” he asked, flexing his knuckles to ease their tension. “You don’t talk much about your kid days.”

Thomas looked out into the forest, eyes drifting through what looked like even more unwanted remembrances. “It’s… not a very fond memory.”

Frank nodded. “Must've been a shitty childhood.”

Thomas quietly shrugged. “Shitty time all-around, Franky,” he admitted, “I’m not one to hog all the sewage.”

“Drop the Franky, ‘Tommy’,” hissed his charge.

“Drop the Tommy then, you cunt.” Collins slapped him upside the head.

Truth was, Thomas was also worried about the news of London he got a month ago. The newfoals, the potion. Seemed like the perfect world some ponies claimed to have wasn’t clashing well with Earth. His friends in the SAS had kept him up to par: some radicals from the Ponies for Humanity’s Health had offended some, admittedly, unsavory individuals in the middle of the city. Then of course, an idiot brings a bottle of purple liquid, another pulls out a knife and everything goes downhill.

And the last thing he wanted was to have Frank get involved in either side. He knew very well how… easily immersed he could be. Especially if these radicals were offering camaraderie, danger and unplanned undertakings. Really, anything that clashed with his training regimes.

Naturally – after a minute of silence – Frank couldn't resist opening his beak some more. “They might have a point, though,” he said, drawing Thomas out of his thoughts. “I read that those Newfoals aren’t right.”

“Fuck me, I knew it. You ARE reading that extremist shit.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Frank. “You wanna be a rebel. Have I taught you nothin’? Where’s your bloody discipline?”

“Hear me out, will you?” Frank appealed. “This doc, Erika Kraber, released her findings a couple months ago. Scientific findings she made together with a pony.”

Tom huffed and readjusted his watch. “Great. And look where that got everybody.”

“My point is,” Frank insisted, “this is legit. They are verified and not sponsored.”

Thomas was absolutely livid. This shit again. He had been contacted by Algernon Spader over the phone a day or so ago, something about meeting up and establishing a PMC of sorts, the bastard. He didn’t get many details on account of hanging up right then. 

He was doing that on a lot of old contacts that decided to bother him on this hunting trip. This was a time for him to try and… do something about Frank, not be bothered every fucking day for almost a month now with urgent calls from people he wished he’d never hear from again.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Britain was going to war, or something just as asinine.

What a bastard. Spader was a control-freak; first chance he got, he would take the reins and install some complicated system that Thomas could never understand. It’s what happened last time – during Nimrod – and it would happen again.

But… he owed it to Frank to at least hear him out. His own words from mere minutes ago stood against him. He had promised Dewdrop.

With a sigh, Thomas conceded. “Alright, let me see it.”

Frank looked surprised, but quickly pulled out his phone and started flashing through the many charts he had. “I’ve got it saved here. Look: 89.4% of the Newfoals interviewed had some form of radical personality change after…”


***


*Beep* went the crystal.

It was a curious fact, how human technology could be replaced so well with alien minerals. Crane sometimes thought back on how the famous techno-magical devices were first introduced to humankind, not unlike an Apple presentation from the ponies. Everyone had clapped. Everyone. Those were memories of better times, and promises of a bright future.

‘And now we have to act as if it never happened.’

He checked the sparking crystal PDA mounted on his left wrist, some wires hanging loose. He could feel it pulsing, unknown energies flowing through the contraption to make it work. In this particular screen, a miniature pony with a nurse cap was waving incessantly with a concerned face, followed by a display showing various red points in his body.

Honestly, he probably would’ve found a way to get rid of the pony avatar if it wasn’t so useful. That, and it was pretty adorable.

Not that he would admit it.

Resting his earmuffs on his neck, he looked closer at the wounded creature - a pegasus. A hole bled on her right shoulder and a bigger hole had sprung from a couple centimeters down her back. The bullet hadn’t hit the lungs at all. The shot was clean.

Francis could now hear a commotion further down the hill they were in. He casually looked up, towards the source of the noise. Frantic stomping on snow, three pairs total, spaced out in two quick hits each beat. One heavier, decisive.

‘Standard equestrian chasing squad, no humans. Probably converging on the sound of the shot.’

He looked down again. The snow was stained red from the pegasus’ wound, her pristine tan coat tarnished with her own blood while her long, brown mane spread itself on the snow. That right hoof was unusable, the only organic connection left were some bits of muscle and splintered bone.

It was quite easy to tell when you hit an equestrian. Usually there isn’t much clothing to conceal the wound, and their colored coats clashed horrifically with the blood that squirted out. A tiny, vibrant piece of candy sullied by lead, oozing its ichor.

With adrenaline pumping and face marred with pain, she tried to crawl with her good hoof away, but a heavy weight put a stop to that.

It took a moment for the black boot to register in her mind, but once it did, she lethargically looked up.

His was a visage heralding death. His pants were stained with red, cloth shredded all around the apparent wound with dried blood as a companion. The pearly white-and-gray jacket with a pattern that disfigured his silhouette was askew, a white vest hanging on his shoulder. Reflective, cracked goggles stood unused on his forehead, a neck gaiter keeping his warm breaths mostly in, a cheap-looking beanie and a piece of white cloth sticking out of a backpack that didn’t close all the way completed the ensemble of misery.

Despite his lower face being covered with the dark-gray cloth, she stared at it. His gun was now unholstered, squinted hazel eyes forced on his face by the sharp cold winds.

Her eyes were narrowed and a bit blurry with tears, but as soon as she recognized that steely gaze, they shot open. “C–Crane? Oh, you b–bucking…” she stuttered, teeth clacking from the cold and shock.

She tried desperately pulling her hoof away with whatever strength was left in her shoulder, but he only applied more pressure. Pegasi bones were a lot sturdier than most would give them credit for. Unfortunately, they also hurt a lot more when broken; if you want a pegasus dazed, hold their spine stationary, pull off some primary feathers and pressure their joints.

Turning their other shoulder to mist also works, but that’s neither here nor there.

He could definitely hear the two lighter pairs of stomps right at the edge of his little crime scene now. The chasing squad had converged on his position effectively.

“Hey, Ape! Get those filthy–”

“–hands away from her!”

For what he could discern between the strikingly similar female voices, they had completed each other’s sentences.

He turned his head and saw two Newfoals arranging themselves around him, their bare flanks accusing their nature. A unicorn and an earth pony, one with a steel-blue coat and mauve mane, the other the inverse, scowls dotting their faces. 

In their eyes was hatred. Hatred for what he was. Or better, what he wasn’t. And some perverse desire as to what he could be.

Honestly, it was a nice change of pace from the usual euphoric look they carried all the– no. Don’t go there.

An armored unicorn arrived a bit late and put herself in the middle, impassively, with her horn lit up. Her coverings had scraps of royal guard armor stitched together, most probably enchanted. From the gaps, he could see her artichoke fur and moss-colored mane.

No more than a look and she had assessed the situation, crossbow cocked and ready.

“Dice, give us shields!” the leader barked off, “Skewer, prep some potion!”

Crane stepped off the mare and turned to the arrivals, but kept his lever action aimed at the downed pegasus. His breath slithered through his covered mouth, vapor clouding his vision slightly.

A purple vial was in the jaws of the earth pony Newfoal as the lead unicorn - the only one covered in a blue sheen - stomped the snow and snorted.

“Now, step away from her, human.”
> Chapter 1 - Rekindling
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Of all men else I have avoided thee.

But get thee back. My soul is too much charged

With blood of thine already.”

– Macbeth





For an outside observer, this encounter’s result was already decided the moment the shields went up. Crane thought so too.

A human with a gun that hadn’t seen proper care in weeks, snow infiltrating every moving part, caliber too weak to break through shields – thaumic or kinetic. Two devoted Newfoals and an armored natural-born, all alert and healthy, while he was injured, cold, beaten? Even his crystal PDA was a bit frightened, with the little pony nurse hiding behind one of the warning pop-ups. Whether PHL or HLF, there was little to be done here.

Good thing Crane was neither.

“Flash Sunrise,” he said simply, pulling his neck gaiter down with his free hand, his unkempt beard free to be messed by the wind. “You better not waste that vial on me, Skewer.” He glanced at the earth pony Newfoal.

That had sent the leader’s ears up, face betraying her surprise. Right after, recognition dawned on her. “Ah buck. Flash Sunrise confirmed.” She lowered her crossbow and hooked it to her side. “Only one PER idiot I know who bothers with personal codes…” she mumbled, face souring. “That you, Crane?” she said louder, annoyance creeping into her voice.

“Hey there, Mr. Crane!” the twin Newfoals shouted in unison with syrupy happiness, large smiles quickly overtaking their faces and previous hate instantly forgotten. Much like a switch being flipped, a conductor set in the middle of a current.

He managed to keep his face neutral and professional, his signature not-quite-displeased downturn of mouth now adorned. “Hello, Skewer. Dice.” And then it soured into quite-obviously-displeased. “Stalwart,” he said evenly. “You’re not looking a second older.”

Stalwart approached him with a stony face. “The wonders of equestrian medicine,” she remarked. “And you look like crap. Unsurprisingly.”

“Pretty sure I’m well past that point,” he replied, looking at his torn clothing and bruises.

Stalwart didn’t bat an eye. “I was hoping you caught yourself in a bear trap somewhere far away.” She took a better look at his leg and smirked. “Heh, maybe you did.”

“Welcoming as always.” 

“You’re the bucker who left. You don’t get a welcome back,” Stalwart spat back.

He chuckled darkly in response. “Leave the PER? And lose your charming presence?” He waved his hand dismissively. “I know better than most just what happens to the fools who try it.”

“Afraid of being hunted by a fellow Fixer?” She dared say, with a challenging smirk defacing her muzzle. “Or maybe they’d send a Trailblazer. Would be nice seeing another pony putting you in your place.”

Crane breathed in and scowled at her. “I’m as loyal as ever,” he said and then used his boot to lightly push the pegasus at his feet, who was trying to quietly crawl away. “Unlike Skies over here.”

The staunchy mare approached the mess his bullet had made, making sure to carefully navigate the red spots staining the silvery snow. She pulled the pegasus’ head up with her magic, to have a better look. Satisfied at seeing the brown locks of mane and the tan muzzle scrunched in agony, she let it drop rather brusquely.

“The others were... riled up,” she commented, throwing her hoof at his direction. “I’ve seen you go off before, but never this long. Or without warning me...” she looked straight into his eyes. She felt no need to spell it out.

Crane couldn’t fool her, couldn’t bribe her, couldn’t even dare reason with her. Imperials were pretty resistant to those strategies. They always seemed to notice when something was afoot. 

What he could do was give her results and shift the focus. The wonders of letting scornful veterans run PER cells for too long: they get predictable and easy to read.

“Don’t beat around the bush, Stalwart. It’s unbecoming.” He cleared his throat, turning those cold hazel eyes to the pegasus at their mercy. “Frown upon my tactics all you want, I’d say it was quite effective.”

Stalwart turned back at the mare in question, strode towards Skies and stopped right in front her. The Newfoals were standing further back with manes and tails flickering about, seemingly unaffected by the harsh wind on their faces.

Crane followed Stalwart’s movements closely, a raised brow at her sudden interest. She lowered her head to be closer to Skies’ ears. 

“Should’ve ran faster, traitor,” she sneered as she loomed over her, venom dripping from her words.

“Stally, please! I wasn’t– agh!” her croaky plead was interrupted.

Stalwart’s horn glowed brighter – the spot where the bullet had gone in sparkling with the same dark shade of green – as the blood flowed faster. Contrasting her previous care, Stalwart now stood with her hooves stained in the dirty snow.

“It’s sergeant Stalwart Stasis to you,” she spat back, expression full of hate. “Of all the times you could’ve shown your cowardice, you thought now was the best?”

Crane crossed his arms. “She’s not gonna make it if you keep that up.”

Stalwart continued, disregarding Crane’s existence for the moment. Skies was whimpering, vocal chords exhausted at her pitiful attempt at garnering sympathy while the wound on her shoulder bled away her strength.

“I can’t interrogate dead mares, Stalwart,” Crane stressed and moved closer, hands hovering at his hips and ready to intervene.

Stalwart blinked, expression changing in an instant, and turned back to him. She had thankfully let go of her telekinesis. “I’m guessing she contacted your totem.” she commented without emotion, completely ignorant of the past minute.

Crane only sighed in return, mumbling something about it not being a totem. “Yes, she snitched – thought I had gone rogue and was going to help her escape. Don’t know how she got my PDA’s frequency, though.”

“Neither do I. Didn’t Bucky say it was ‘unfeasible bordering on impossible’?” She asked while signaling for Skewer and Dice to come closer.

Crane ignored her question and crossed his arms, brows furrowed, chin resting on his relaxed hand. As still and pensive as he could look. “Nevermind that, we’ve got her now. Any idea who else she contacted? Who might’ve run with her?” He looked at Stalwart to gauge her reaction.

There wasn’t one. Stalwart was already levitating the unconscious mare onto Dice’s back, letting the earth pony bear her weight. “Dice caught her trying to sneak away alone, we gave chase. Right now, all I have are suspicions,” she commented with a shrug, “but I’m sure you’ll prod me for them later. Let’s get her back.”

“Fine by me. And I need you to get in touch with Vigil. My PDA is busted.” He lifted his geared arm to emphasize his point.

Busted was a compliment. The crypto-tech mess looked like a forest of copper strands and pointy crystals had glomped Crane’s forearm and refused to let go. Curiously enough, the damage seemed to restrain itself to the metals and wiring while the crystals remained in perfect condition.

The pony nurse on the screen – he should really just give her a name already – did not take his words as a compliment, however, judging by her crossed forelegs and indignant pout. The little rascal even dared stick her tongue out at him.

A nasty frown found itself nestled on Stalwart’s face. “Planning to leave again?” she asked.

“Maybe. Contrary to what I said...” Crane passed her by, a small smile nestled in his face. “You’re not charming at all.”


***


They made quick work of getting Skies properly set up on Skewer’s back, making sure she wouldn’t drop and stopping the flow of blood with a piece of cloth Stalwart provided. She hadn’t bothered using a healing spell on the shivering pegasus, much to Crane’s chagrin.

The weather had worsened on their way towards wherever it was Stalwart had set up the group. Before, nature was content with the occasional sharp lance of cold wind, but now it was throwing the kind of weather that made you question the usefulness of fridges and their place in society.

It was forcing Crane to keep his hand in front of his eyes and made their progress slower than he’d have liked. Last thing he wanted was for someone from Wallace – the little town further north – to stumble upon them. Especially when Stalwart decided to bust out her old Trailblazer armor. Those flowy designs on the enchanted metal would be recognizable to most anyone on the coast.

“Couldn’t help but recognize this beaten path. Why are we going back to the lodge?” he yelled over nature’s attempts to claw his eyes out with sharpened slashes of air.

Stalwart didn’t seem bothered at all, thanks to the shield she conjured in front of her whole face. “Did you hurt your head as well as your leg? That’s where we’re staying at.”

“That’s where we were staying at. Did you seriously not move the group after a possible deserter?” he stressed.

While they talked, Dice slowed down and levitated a new set of goggles from her saddlebags, offering them to Crane. He thanked her quietly.

Her viscid smile only seemed to pull her cheeks further up, almost as if its owner was tripping on the pleasure of being helpful. The goggles were scuffed, but at least there weren’t any cracks for the icy gale to squeeze through.

“We couldn’t move,” Stalwart finally answered.

With the spectacles now firmly adorned, Crane finally let his bandaged hand rest by his side. “Why?” he asked.

It took Stalwart a moment to respond. A moment long enough to bring Crane’s gaze on her. 

“... Seeker’s pregnant,” she spoke through her gritted teeth.

Much like a bolder suddenly pressing on his shoulders, a heavy weight stopped any minimal progress Crane might’ve had on the snow clinging to his ankles. Though his face was covered and his eyes protected, they fell nonetheless.

“... Fuck.”

Stalwart looked back, an unreadable expression on her shielded face. “A lot happened while you were away.” Her eyes were looking… not at him, but through him. “We can talk better when we’re not being assaulted by Earth’s bucking weather. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Crane lightly caressed the ring on his right hand. “Bloody pregnant,” he cursed under his breath.


***


The sight of the old lodge was one he wouldn’t forget so soon. He’d struck gold when he found it abandoned. Last thing he had wanted that night, many months ago, was to have to clear out another large building after getting shot in the gut by a Human Liberation Front straggler.

As it stood, the tall wooden structure was definitely owned by some rich family before it was vacated. He remembered the multiple bedrooms spread throughout two floors, a grandiose fireplace that connected to a chimney resided in the open area at the middle that had large glass panels showing the side of the hill they were on, with heavy, long curtains providing some privacy for those inside.

And best of all: it didn’t show on any local maps. A private paradise.

There was snow gathering at the front of the lodge, where the porch extended outside. A griffon – male, gruff, nasty-looking beak, cold gray colors on his fluffed plumage – sat comfortably in a padded wooden chair, a lean metal rifle with a thin plastic stock in his lap. The rifle had some old, almost frozen patches of faded purple where you’d expect the bolt to be pulled.

He had a different, darker shade on the plumage around his eyes. The colors reminded Crane of a racoon. A racoon with wings and razors for claws.

Stalwart wasn’t even fazed by his menacing presence. “Scauper! We got Skies. Anything happen on your end?”

“Sup’, boss.” He nodded towards her, claws rubbing his beak for warmth. “Nah. Felicia and Jo were cookin’ somethin’, Bucky’s in his room with Seeker and Coffee while Bart’s doing whatever.”

After he was done frictioning his sharpened keratin, he shifted his eyes to Crane. “Seems like you got a pretty human-lookin’ shadow there, boss.” He almost imperceptibly moved his claw closer to the pistol grip of the rifle. “Who’re you, friend?” he drawled out in a welcoming tone.

Crane removed his goggles and pulled down the cloth surrounding his mouth, a smirk waiting to be revealed. “Really, Scaup? It’s only been three months, you featherbrained fuck.”

Scauper’s predatory eyes widened considerably. “Celestia damn it. Crane?” he beamed, somehow managing a facsimile of a smile with that solid mandible. “Well, I’ll be. I mourn your ugly monkey ass just so you can come back from the grave looking even worse?”

“Wasn’t dead,” Crane scoffed, “just in a time-out.”

“Three months is a long fuckin’ time-out, I’ll tell you.”

Stalwart could only shake her head in exhaustion at their back-and-forth. “I’ll let you two do your thing. I’ll get Seeker to patch Skies up. C’mon you both.” She waved her hoof to the Newfoals and they trotted inside, leaving Scauper and Crane to fight the freezing weather with their warm reunion.

“Ah, feathers,” he cursed as he observed Skewer passing them by with an unconscious Skies on her back. “So, young Skies really did try to run...” he breathed out, making a sad little whistling noise through his beak. “I was hopin’… eh, I dunno what I was hopin’. Did you have to ground the girl so bad?”

Crane crossed his arms, his brows touching together. “Can’t take chances with fliers. The moment she gets to a clearing, she’s gone.” He deflated, putting his hands on his hips and accompanying his motions with a sigh. “You know how it is.”

Scauper removed the rifle from his lap, gently leaving it propped up in his chair as he stretched his wings out. He winced as his left wing reached its full span. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Thing’s been pretty bad ever since you left.”

Now that they got his attention, Crane could see his wings looked terrible. Feathers were missing, some primaries were unaligned and he could even see the muscles twitching from overuse. 

The price of hours of flight in the gelid airwaves of the north, he guessed.

Crane nodded at the ground. “Stalwart told me about Seeker.”

“Oh, not that. Bucky’s the happiest stallion in the world. Between you‘n me, we can probably scrounge up enough food for everyone.”

His expression suddenly darkened. “It’s Penelope. She… well, she got hit by some PHL operative while we were on assignment.” The old griff shuddered as he remembered. “Bart couldn’t even throw the girl some potion before they split her skull open. We barely got away as is.”

Crane felt a chill run through his spine. He stared daggers at the door that had closed mere minutes ago: Stalwart had conveniently forgotten to mention that. Made him wonder what else she judged not worth sharing just yet.

Poor girl. The list of bright-eyed-volunteers was shrinking as fast as the list of volunteers-shot-by-PHL was growing. Crane knew from experience their operatives were tricky to deal with. Bastards could sniff out a careless infiltrator like a bloodhound.

He tightened his fists, the pain in his bandaged hand going ignored for the time being. “I… the fuck was Stalwart thinking? Sending Penelope to handle PHL operatives? Frighteners have a bad time dealing with them, nevermind fresh recruits!”

Scauper put his claws up to placate him. “In her defense, she did the best with what she had,” he remarked. “Bart, Coffee and I were there. And the Empire was pretty adamant we had to do it.” He poked one claw right on Crane’s chest. “With or without you.”

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a long-way-coming migraine finally rearing its ugly head. Some pencil-pusher in the Empire probably read that Stalwart’s unit had a Fixer assigned to it and figured that was that. He really needed to talk to Vigil. “And Bart? How did he take it?”

“Pretty bad, o’ course. Seeker suggested he drink the potion, but Stalwart preferred he wait. We are… well, were running low on human agents.” Something seemed to have entered his mind as he spoke, an uncomfortable memory contorting his features. “And, uh… I’d stay clear of him for now, if I were ya. Your name was between all the curses he was throwin’ around. Wasn’t pretty.”

“Man’s a walking cinder block, of course it wasn’t pretty,” Crane sighed, the weight of the past couple of months trying its best to get the better of him. “I’ll handle it.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, it’s good to have you back, bud.” He stretched a strong wing around Crane in a firm hug. “We should go to to Wallace once this is all cleared up. Cornucopia’s still heading the bar there.”

“I’ll hold you to that, you codge.”

The griff chuckled as Crane limped into the lodge, leaving him to continue his turn guarding the entrance in a more positive silence.


***


The inside was mostly unchanged, almost a perfect copy from what he was remembering minutes ago. 

That is, only if you ignored the enormous line of multi-colored specks of light hanging in the handrails of the second floor, blinking rapidly and ever so often in synchrony. That was new.

Crane saw it coming, though. He remembered being the party pooper to an excited Joanne with a long line of christmas lights rolled around her waist, begging to let her put them up. He knew for a fact Felicia had been behind it.

Figures they would do it the moment he left. He sometimes wondered which one of the two was supposed to be the teenager. There were times Joanne acted more mature than Felicia – definitely more than he’d expect from a fifteen-year-old – and other times, they’d be just as bad. His left thumb was never quite the same after they figured out how to use a lemon squeezer.

Crane heard rapid footsteps behind him. Faster than he could turn, he was grabbed from behind. The air left his lungs on impact. The attacker had crossed their arms over his neck, a heavy weight pulling his spine backwards. He almost lost his balance to this unknown attacker, but a quick step in their direction ensured his stability. His feet were positioned in a way to turn his body into a human piston with the turn of a shoulder and a twist of the torso.

His heartbeat accelerated. He reached for his rifle with his left hand. Fingers brushed the wooden stock with the promise of harm. He could launch the assailant forward and demand a surrender. If they resisted, then the trigger would be one pull away from...

A shrill voice in his ear froze him in the middle of the reaction.

“Frank! You’re back!”

A bucket of cold water wouldn’t have been as effective. His stance changed so fast he almost lost balance, heart floundering at the sudden waste of perfectly good adrenaline. He would recognize that strident little squeak with the palpable french accent anywhere.

His fingers strayed away from the rifle as he carefully put his hands on the skinny arms around his neck. He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Jo! You cheeky little bugger. I could’ve launched you into the ground!”

Her answer was mostly masked by giggling. “You wish, old man. I’m too strong for that.” She flexed her crossed arms around his neck to demonstrate her point.

“More like too arrogant.” He straightened back, waiting for her to release him. 

She didn’t. 

“You’re not letting me go, are you?” he asked, exasperated.

He could see the edge of a pointy light-brown nose and a single strand of her curly black hair intrude on his peripheral vision. “Do you have the feathers I asked?” she inquired.

Joanne had gotten into her head that if someone tied bird feathers to a potion bottle, they’d make the conversion churn out pegasi. Again, he blamed Felicia, but…  as far as he could see, it was a harmless little hobby that kept her from having to think too much about the other unwanted aspects of the PER life. He prohibited her from handling the potion bottles, though.

Didn’t help that every time he used her ‘special vials’, they actually did turn out as pegasi. Crane didn’t even bother questioning it anymore. Everyone eventually agreed that ‘statistically impossible’ should always precede ‘as far as we know’ these days.

As it happened, his mind had been too busy during his expedition to even remember what kind of feathers she wanted this time. Maybe he could nip some from Scauper?

Oh, wait. He already tried that once. Joanne had noticed it right away.

“Ah... not really.” he admitted to his slight.

Joanne squeezed his neck harder. “Tough luck then, rosbif,” she teased him. “I’m not letting you leave again, then.”

“I see you two are getting along just fine,” said an energetic, self-satisfied voice.

That was Felicia, the bane of his calm existence, standing in the open door to the kitchen, a wonderful aroma heralding promises of good food coming from inside.

She was a tall woman – almost as tall as he was – with pale skin and short, unkempt hair littered with pink frosted tips at the front. She had a burn mark on her left cheek crawling all the way to her neck and leaving its roots on her skin, marring an otherwise beautiful face with whatever history was behind the injury. She was wearing an apron over her heavy jacket, with the words ‘Smile!’ sewn all over it.

“Actually, non.” Joanne interjected quickly and jumped down from his back. “Frank doesn’t have the feathers I asked. I hate him with a passion now,” she quickly declared.

Now that she wasn’t strangling him from the back, Crane noticed the slight differences in Joanne’s appearance since last he saw her. The neat collar she had fashioned for herself was missing. Her once long and curly hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, with one long strand daring to go against the fold and falling in front of her eyes to be a constant reminder of its presence. 

Her attitude didn’t change one bit, though. Crane was on the cusp of shifting the blame for it again but… he knew that was partly his fault as well. As good of a scapegoat that Felicia was, he knew very well his place on creating the french monster and setting it loose to wreak havoc.

Crane shook his head and flicked Joanne’s ear for her little jest. “Wait for your turn, pest. Stalwart’s got dibs on the hate wagon.”

Joanne just threw her hand dismissively and scoffed. “Walmart doesn’t hate–”

Crane shushed her quickly, holding her shoulders and looking left and right. “How about we don’t give her any more reasons, eh?” he quickly whispered, holding back a smirk at their nefarious nickname for the mare.

Felicia had approached them with her arms wide open to add drama to her speech, ever-present grin adorned. “Quite the unexpected return of the prodigal son. Didn’t miss you as much as little Jo here” – she rubbed Joanne’s neat hairdo into a mess – “but as Pinkie Pie would say: ‘In the name of the Queenie, you must party to all, even the meanies.’”

“Meanie? Eh, I’ll take it. Tolerable to see you too, Felicia.” Crane stressed the word back at Felicia, not buying the whole spectacle she liked putting on.

There was a light behind her eyes, a giddiness Crane knew well enough. She scurried uncomfortably closer to him, hands clasped and mouth moving faster than he cared to process. “So, are you up for a conversion party yet? Bart thought about it, maybe we can convince him and Stalwart to organize–”

He pressed her backwards, out of his personal space. “Don't push it. You already got your bloody lights up.” He snapped his thumb back at the blinking glow above them.

She shrugged, that boisterous smirk pushing her right cheek into a dimple. “Good old Cranky-Crane. Three months out and you’re still as static as ever.” She shrugged at him, smirk still strong. “You’ll come around eventually. Everyone does.”

Crane’s rebuttal was interrupted as the PDA in his left wrist whirred dangerously. The little mare inside it was running around with a fire extinguisher, trying to put out the virtual fires spread around the screen. Her little nurse cap was missing, lost somewhere between all the messy icons and pop-ups.

“I should get Bucky to fix this sooner rather than later,” he muttered.

“Nobody dared touch that mess you call a room, so everything should be there. Pretty sure Bucky lost his tools, the clumsy dork, so talk to him about that.” Felicia pointed to his wrist.

“Will you be joining us for dinner, Frank?” Joanne asked with her hands behind her back. “We have some good vegetables left... and you never finished that story with Scauper’s beak getting stuck,” she spoke excitedly as she remembered the funny anecdote.

Crane missed this. The warm atmosphere, the happy smiles and their happy owners, the friendly banter with old friends, the safety of trusting everyone around him. It was getting ever more difficult to find moments where he could unwind and let his guard down a bit. And with the Barrier getting closer to the coast, they’d be getting rarer and rarer...

He almost blurted out a yes, but the mention of Scauper reminded him of his previous warning. It was rare enough Stalwart’s group had good food at hand, might as well not ruin the atmosphere with whatever Bart’s deal was. “Maybe later, kid. Think I’ll just retire for the day. Hope you don’t mind?”

“Hmm… That’ll cost you an extra story by the fireplace. On top of finishing the old one!”

“You drive a hard bargain, madame.” Crane chuckled. “Very well. It’s a deal.”


***


Crane’s room had a bathroom with a strong shower in it, so it took him little time to put his repeater on the little gun rack by the wall, throw all his clothes in the basket and settle himself under the hot torrent.

All the grime and blood stuck to his skin melted away, swerving down his body and into the drain. The rough stitches in his leg he had made with fishing wire threatened to come loose, but ultimately failed to do good on their threat. All his pain was just throbbing in the background now. The cozy embrace of the steamy water was all that mattered.

His bandaged hand got soaked and the faulty PDA sometimes sparked back on, but thankfully all the energy used to operate the thing was magical and not electrical. It’d be very difficult to take showers with it otherwise. It’s not like he could remove what was surgically implanted with his simple desire to not be filthy.

Once done and out of the shower, he cleared the droplets that were sticking in the mirror and took a good look at the man in the reflection. A scratched face looked back at him, little healed scars strewn about – metal fragments, grazing magical burns, human nails – all converging towards those brown, baggy eyes with soft wrinkles adorning their frame. The man’s hair was unkempt, and the beard was long enough to actually be called a beard and not just a feature. 

That wouldn’t do.

The razor made short work of the hair squatting illegally on his face. It was unwelcome and spoke of lack of discipline. He shaved it to look just as it was meant to be: a shadow that spoke of awareness of one's looks, but lack of time for proper grooming. Once he was done, he styled his hair with a practical slick backwards, the graying sides looking ever more white. Too white for a man his age.

He added a band-aid to a particularly nasty cut on his right brow – where the shards from the goggles cut him – and reapplied some gauze to his hand and leg. Looking up at the mirror, he could finally see his face. His face, as he chose it to be, not how nature demanded it look. His lips had even regained their color, now that the temperature was agreeable.

Through the door and into the spartan bedroom, he could see his old clothes arranged on the bed as if they had never moved, waiting for their owner to come back. A couple of dusty spoons and dull razor blades were set aside on his desk and bed stand, right next to a P365 pistol and some half-empty magazines sitting by a notebook with the text ‘find more bullets’ scribbled on it.

Felicia did say no one had meddled in his room. That included the chaos he left it in when he decided to go away.

The clothes by themselves were nothing of notice. The gray jacket was civilian in nature, some reinforcements and extra layers for padded protection against impact were added thanks to Felicia’s skills in sewing. 

The only notable characteristic of the black undershirt was that it was water resistant; a must-have when dealing with potion. His graphite pants were a bit out of place, with the pockets adorning it, but in today’s conflicted, warring world, nobody would give it a second look. It was a bit too long, but usually he just tucked the legs into his heavy boots.

What really stood out was his urban Osprey body armour, with extra knee pads lying by the end of the bed. That was something conspicuous enough that he’d reserve to use only if he knew he’d be getting shot at, which was unfortunately almost always. It protected all his torso and had some pads for his shoulders as well. 

It even had a hazard-proof hood that he could use with his S10 respirator that was hooked on the bedpost.

It had seen better days. Some rips in the cloth were obvious, while some had been patched up. Stains and discolorations were all over: some from dried blood, some were just sweat and most were splatterings of potion.

The little patch he’d added on the left shoulder was a bit faded, but the PER letters were still readable. Even the plaque in the breast with his surname stood proud. Obviously, he didn’t wear those when out and about, but he did keep them in case he needed recognition. 

Or fear. Crane had seen some of the toughest bastards shiver at the sight of a man with a purple bottle by his hip, proudly displaying on his shoulder who he was with and what he was willing to do. That, or they flew into a rage. Both worked wonders to make the adversary sloppy.

He had argued a lot with every PER leader in his past. Some didn’t want him to keep the armour because it was too ‘human looking’, that it made the Newfoals a bit nervous. He stood by the fact that the more people dismissed him as a friendly, the better he could do his job. 

It also helped that the insulated plates were a good way to not get splashed whenever those same leaders felt like showering his position with potion. He’d bet good money he had gotten splashed ‘on accident’ more times than most of the PHL. As much as he butted heads with Stalwart, she was probably one of the most level-headed when it came to friendly fire.

Picking the kevlar up, he fondly caressed the patch. His fingers felt the rough texture of its years of existence, the little bumps on the hard cloth from whatever impacts had occurred, the three-dimensional symbol coming out of the canvas as if yelling to the world: ‘Yeah, this is me. I’m with them.’.

Crane was finally back. Back to the bed he made for himself, all those years ago. The bed he’d have to lie in for however long this war would go for. The bed he’d probably die in.

He locked his door, threw himself on the mattress, closed his eyes and swimmed to oblivion.


***


Danger.

They are in danger. Do something!

Drive the car through the window. Brace for impact. Leave the car.

Duck, check surroundings, stand up, point, squeeze twice, dead, move up. Repeat.

Count the bodies. Only seven impacts. One is missing. Check the back... it’s clear. Get out.

Dodge wounded man waiting behind door, snap arm back, crack it, hook unstable leg, push spine, hit temple. He’s useless. 

Where are they? Dead? Truck marks on the dirt, going west. More UNAC– no, PHL... both.

Interrogate the downed man. Won’t talk. Dip knife in potion, put the sharp tip on his fingernail. Ask it again. They’re alive. Only five more now.

Stab his hand. Four left now. Tell the convie to find Scauper. Go bring them back.

It’s not far. One is outside. Aim for the neck. Three now.

Two.

...

Collins… I can’t...


***


Crane woke up with a quiet intake of breath, hand grasping the razor on his desk defensively as he carefully studied his surroundings without any brisk movements.

Nothing. Just his empty room with the light shining on some dust particles through the barred window.

Massaging his forehead, he sat up and hunched over. Deep breaths. Checking his PDA instinctively, a distorted screen faded in and out. 

Right, that was broken.

Slowly and unsuccessfully easing himself out of auto-pilot, Crane really took his room in. He had passed out without changing into his clothes, with the towel still tied around his waist. He was so used to the cold outside that the simple hearth of the lodge was enough to lull him to sleep. Or maybe he was so tired his body didn’t care if he shivered throughout the night.

Getting up and stretching his arms and legs, he put on the clothes he had thrown around in his sleep. There was enough light coming from his window, so he assumed it was time to get the day started.

His leg felt a bit wet and his eyes were crunchy. Some of his joints were sore, but he pushed on regardless. Coming into the foyer, he was punished for severely misjudging the power of the sun. The shining rays reflecting off the white snow pierced his eyes through the clear glass.

“Morning, sunshine.” An infuriatingly cheery voice intruded on his misery. It was Felicia. “They’re having breakfast on the kitchen, if you want some.”

She was sitting on the couch in the middle of the room, loading up some paintball guns. Well, more like she threw herself on the couch and whatever position she ended up was serviceable enough.

Coffee Bean was there as well, sitting in front of her like a dog and passing the gelatin capsules filled with potion. Coffee – or as Crane liked to call him, Stalwart’s little toy – was an Earth pony Newfoal the color of dirt, with an even darker mane. He had some very prominent muscles bulging from his brown coat, product of his combat-oriented conversion. 

Longer horns, leaner wings, stronger legs: all hallmarks of the evolution of the war. With the added bonus of looking more… appealing to the equestrian troops. 

Crane knew Coffee had been a willing convert, but he sometimes wondered if he would’ve gone through with it if he knew that the wonderful Stalwart Stasis would be there, waiting for him. Every. Damn. Night. And right above his room, too. 

But those were unnecessary thoughts about necessary sacrifices.

“Hrmph,” Crane groaned back at Felicia, dragging his feet to the kitchen.

The door was the last obstacle between him and the promise of grinding pure coffee beans with his teeth and then pouring hot water in his mouth. Cups were a useless annoyance this early in the morning, anyway.

He opened the door while clearing his eyes, bumping into someone in the process. Someone big.

“Apologies.” His hand lowered, he stared at the face of… Bart. The furious face of Bart – with that shaved head, the uneven stubble spread on his face, the poorly done tattoo on his neck, the chubby nose on his large face, arms built like tree trunks.

And the furious fist coming straight towards his face.

He could’ve dodged it. It was such a wild strike, full of emotion, that just turning his head a little would’ve made it graze his cheekbone and slip by harmlessly. But he didn’t. He didn’t even try.

Pain exploded in the bridge of his nose. A knuckle hit him square on. Not enough to knock him out, but enough that he was going to feel that for the rest of the day. He stumbled a bit back, hand reaching up to nurse the injury.

“Mr. Vega!” Crane faintly heard exclaimed from the back of the room. Seems like Bucky was here too.

Bart ignored the shout, thunderous steps bridging the distance his punch forced between them. “Where the FUCK were you? Huh?” He pushed Crane into the wooden door. “Out fucking with someone else’s life, I’d bet!” He reared his fist up for another hit. 

Alright, one was enough. Two was pushing it. And from Bart’s face, he wasn’t going to stop at two.

As he followed through with his second punch, Crane sprung back with gritted teeth. The feral attack was stopped by his forearm, which he pivoted to grab Bart’s triceps and twist the arm, locking the limb in his own armpit. The sudden surge of adrenaline caught Bart off-guard and allowed Crane to overpower him.

With his own muscles burning to keep Bart’s arm locked, he would’ve followed up with a quick headbutt but thought better of it. This was getting way out of hand and returning the favor would just make things worse.

Stalwart seemed to agree with his thoughts. “Celestia damn it, stop!” They were both forced apart by a green hue, each thrown back against the cupboards and forced to the floor. 

“Bucking human males, I swear!” Stalwart had gotten in the middle of them, hooves spread in a heavy stance. Her telekinesis was strong enough to hold them both to the ground, but Crane could see the strain in her face and body.

Bart was struggling in his magical bonds, clearly not content with being pinned. “That fucker got Penny killed!”

“I wasn’t even here,” Crane croaked at him.

“And for that I should fucking break you!”

“ENOUGH!” Stalwart’s horn crackled dangerously, some of the sparks flying off of it leaving burn marks on the ground. “Both of you, shut it!”

Bart was still fuming, but the smell of ozone coupled with Skewer and Dice standing at attention and Stalwart’s deadly stare boring into him seemed to do the trick. He looked like a pacified lion that knew the chain around his neck was keeping him from tearing his prey into pieces.

She cautiously released them and stood in the middle, switching her gaze between both men as if daring each to move again. Her tail was flicking like mad and her ears were attentive. “Good, now… Bart. Shut the buck up and go help Bean with the guns.” A sharp twist of her neck had her staring into Crane. “And you keep your flank down.”

For a moment, Crane thought Bart was going to defy her orders. He had gotten up and balled his fists, breathing heavily through his nose. But it just made his deflation all the more pleasing as he stomped his way to the door. Some heavy curses flew unheard under his breath.

Not wanting to aggravate Stalwart any further and finding the floor an acceptable seat for the moment, Crane shook his head and stretched his neck. A double-check of his nose revealed it might be broken, but it hurt too much to tell right away.

With all that excitement dying down, he realized everybody was looking at him. Stalwart had her usual pissy face on. Scauper was shaking his beak dripping with milk from his place near the sink. Skewer and Dice were standing at the back looking at the disheveled Stalwart, concern in their faces. 

And then there was Bucky – good old Bucky – looking as worried as a soon-to-be father. Not worried about Crane, mind you. Worried about his PDA.

“Oh heavens! Mr. Crane, what did you do to your personal device?”

It sparked dangerously in response. Crane looked at it in exhaustion. “It broke,” he exhaled out.

Crane had lived in London for a while so he was used to people having the most annoyingly posh accents on this beautiful planet. Even his had been pretty bad before. But Bucky put them all to shame; that unicorn screamed ‘fancy’ everywhere he went. Styled purple mane with a white streak, brushed baby-blue coat, perfume… the only thing distinguishing him from a noble was the brown, buttoned vest with rolled white sleeves he insisted on wearing all the time. He looked like he took too much inspiration from the professors in Oxford.

“Broke? Can’t you see it’s unsalvageable?” Bucky quickly approached him, levitating his arm for a closer look and thrusting his muzzle between Crane and the PDA.

“Doc, all I know is how much it hurt attaching that thing to me.” Crane tried to sneak a look around Bucky’s head while his arm was locked in place. “Is it that bad?”

“Well… no,” he admitted, letting the arm go. “But we should fix it as soon as possible. I’ve got my tools stashed in… uh...” He tapped his chin with his hoof, scrunching his face trying to remember. “Somewhere. I’m sure. Let’s fix this right quick so I can take Seeker’s breakfast to her.”

Only now did Crane notice the tray Bucky was levitating behind him. There were varied types fruits coloring the plate, with a couple of bread slices and even some warm tea. A modest, if varied, breakfast.

Crane thought there’d be more, if he was honest. He expected Seeker would need all the calories she could get, especially in this cold climate. Then again, he didn’t know how far along she was exactly - or how long equestrian pregnancies took. 

All he knew is that they were shorter than one would expect. Something to do with Imperial medical care and synthetic treatments being offered to all their citizens.

Crane had seen some fifty-year-old stallions looking as fit as their most athletic young colts.

Stalwart shook her head, her brushed mane swaying over her eyes. “Go to your wife, Bucky. I still need to talk to Crane. Jo should be there with some extra pillows for her.”

With a grateful smile, Bucky nodded and turned to the door to go to his wife and soon-to-be child. That reminded him...

“Oh, almost forgot. Congratulations, Bucky,” Crane said.

Bucky turned his neck, head tilted. “Uh... congratulations to you too?” He looked left and right before centering again on Crane. “What are we congratulating exactly?”

“The baby? You know… your baby?”

“Oh?… Oh! No, no. We usually don’t congratulate the stallion on these things. You should congratulate Seeker for it.”

Crane raised an eyebrow at him. This was weirdly specific enough to warrant his curiosity. “Why not both?” he asked.

“Erm… it’s in case of herds.” He fidgeted on the spot, twirling his hoof in the air as he searched for the right words. “We don’t– It’s… ah hay, forget it. Seeker gets grouchy without her food, so I should take my leave.”

He ushered himself out of the room, almost knocking the bowl of cereal Scauper had out of his claws, much to the later’s grumbling self.

The griffon spat some weird curse under his breath that Crane could only hope to understand. “Thank fuck we griffons don’t mess with that shit.” Scauper put his bowl in the sink and went for the door. “Worse than politics, I tell ya. Oh, and Crane?”

Crane looked at his friend, expecting some words of encouragement or maybe sympathy for having his nose almost caved in by a speeding truck.

“Dodge next time, will ya?”

He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

Crane grumbled a response, standing himself up at last. The morning was shaping up to be… well, honestly, probably better than most. A broken nose and some misunderstandings weren’t desirable, but far from the worse he’s had.

Stalwart decided she had enough of standing up and found a seat at the table, looking expectantly at him. She had locked the door after Scauper went through and a green hue surrounded it. He recognized the silence ward. 

With only the twin Newfoals to keep them company, it was left implicit whatever she wanted to say was not to leave the room.

“Alright, what do you want to talk about?” Crane asked.

“Skies is stable, but we had to sedate her,” Stalwart explained. “No interrogations yet. Seeker demanded she recover more and I don’t want a hormonal doctor on my flank so I conceded. We’ll have to content ourselves with staying in the dark for now.”

“That’s fair.” Crane admitted as he opened the fridge and shifted an empty milk carton to see the back. Scauper probably drank the whole thing. “I was planning on something else, anyway.”

“You’re also not going to receive any missions this week.”

The sudden tone of her voice and unexpected demand made Crane hit his head on the top of the fridge. “What? Any good reason why?”

She massaged her temple with a hoof, clearly too stressed to deal with this. “Nevermind the fact you’re looking for food while bleeding” – she pointed at his leg – “and clearly not apt for ground ops yet?”

He had forgotten about his leg in his sleep, and his morning stretching had made some of the stitches come loose. “Eh, you can let me worry about that.”

“And you can let me worry you’ll die and your corpse will start a Celestia damned witch hunt for the PER!” she spat back at him as she exploded upwards, the chair screeching back from her sudden movement.

Of course. Nova Scotia had been pretty calm for being in the coast and in Canada. Calm enough that Stalwart’s cell had been able to act relatively free of consequence. But as the Barrier got closer, the eyes of the world were turning to the seas and UNAC was sending more and more personnel to coastal towns. Add to that a PHL operative killing a PER member in a quiet, rural area, and you’ve got yourself a concerning pattern.

Crane calmly settled his hands on top of the table, looking straight at her. “Scauper told me about Penelope. What else happened?” he said with an edge to his voice.

Stalwart floated the chair back and collapsed into it, shoulders drooping. The twin Newfoals had gathered closer to her, with Dice carefully stroking her back.

“There’s a new group – or gang, or militia, or whatever the buck – near Wallace, with this crazy woman as their leader. They showed up right after we... lost Penelope.” She winced but pushed on regardless of the unpleasant thoughts. “Military surplus, armored vehicles, the works. I know they’ve set themselves somewhere northwest of us, but I don’t know where exactly.”

That was right in the way of their only road to Wallace. All it would take was one of these guys spotting their truck leaving the woods and they’d have a lead. No wonder she was stressed out: with Skies down, Scauper was the only one who could make a worthwhile fly for supplies now.

“So you want us going out as little as possible,” Crane concluded, clicking his tongue. He should’ve known things were looking too good. “Think UNAC’s backing them up?”

“Them, or some of the more meticulous HLF. Only explanation for that kind of gear. Either way, you’re not going out for at least a week. I already talked with Vigil and told him you’re back, but out of commission.” She let her worries escape her with a long breath, ears no longer hiding in her mane. “He was worried about you.”

Crane looked down at his cold hands, flexing them to get the blood flowing again. He dealt with one stone in his path, and a dozen more showed up with sharpened sticks. “I’ll talk to him once Bucky fixes me up. We rationing?”

Food would be a problem. No matter how much of a faithful disciple Felicia claimed she was, she couldn’t create dishes out of snow and happy thoughts just because ‘Pinkie Pie did it once!’. With Seeker expecting, Skies recovering and Crane now on the table… they’d eat a lot more than they could bring in.

“Yes. Three meals a day only. I’m not a fan of starving a pregnant mare, but… everyone opted in and Seeker insisted she’d be fine.”

Taking a moment to think and then nodding, Crane picked up the condiments he’d brought out and put them back in the fridge, electing to satiate himself with his trusty raw bagel and hard coffee. The annoyance of waking up substituted with this new worry, he took his cup filled with the warm bitter liquid and walked towards the door.

“Crane...” Stalwart said with an edge to her voice, as if preparing to scold a child for even thinking of doing something wrong.

He turned his neck, body still aimed at the goal of just leaving the kitchen already.

“Do not go hunting these guys. I already took a big risk chasing Skies, we’re not taking another so soon,” she warned him.

Crane frowned, the thought of just letting this be leaving a bitter taste on his mouth. “We’ll have to deal with them eventually.”

“There’s no reason to deal with them now,” Stalwart tapped her hoof on the table. "We can just about survive with our supplies and rationing. Don’t put us in the sights of whoever they are. That’s an order, if it has to be.”

He didn’t like having a bunch of unknowns roaming the forests, but he knew he was in no shape to take them on just yet. But once he was healed… he’d find them. Hiding and hoping they’d get tired of searching while living on the brink of going hungry was not what he wanted for the group.

He might even ‘stumble’ upon one of them whenever Stalwart decides to put him on patrol.

Resigned to his fate, Crane gently shook his head and opened the door. There was a lot to do, a world to catch up to, adversities to deal with, a war to win... he had been a fool to think there’d ever be a calm day in his life.
> Chapter 2 - The Arrival Of Those Who Never Went
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I've been wailing like a child 

At the bottom of a well 

I've been pacing like a man 

In a prison cell” 

– Buried Above Ground, Giles Corey





“Next!”

The magically-enhanced shout had clawed its way out of the cacophony of sounds and mutterings all around the crowded area and into the mind of one lonely unicorn mare, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

She had reached the front of the enormous waiting line, the cabin where she was supposed to enter flanked by heavily armored Imperial Guards with silver plates obscuring their eyes.

Already spotting some nasty looks from some of the more hasty ponies waiting behind her, she hurried over to the tiny cubicle, the heavy curtain shuffling open right as she passed. 

The seat, raised off the ground, was a bit old and worn but the crystalline wall with the reinforced frame looked freshly installed as it separated her from the spectacled unicorn stallion behind - which spoke absolute wonders of the Crown’s priorities.

Just your typical Imperial logistics.

Not that her sore flank was going to complain. She had waited hours in the middle of a bunch of ponies just to get here, went through an unimaginable number of background checks, endured the surprise visits from the Loyalty Guard to ‘check her certificate and family connections’.

Discomfort had been a promise, not a risk.

“Code of registry,” the young unicorn behind the glass droned out with a perfect pronunciation born from repeating the same phrase hundreds of times. He didn’t even look away from his crystal screen.

This was it. Hours of recounting what she’d have to say in front of the mirror, rephrasing the words - written in the notice she’d received in the mail - until they were seared into her mind. Finally about to pay off. 

“EMU-016180,” she repeated her code perfectly. “I’m volunteering for training in a PER cell. Group leader Stalwart Stasis, former Trailblazer, with additional asset listed as Mr. Crane, active Fixer.”

“Name.” He didn’t even inflect it as a question. It was simply the natural progression of this exchange.

“Alice LeBlanc,” she replied without thinking.

Upon hearing Alice’s name, the stallion seemed to be momentarily reimbursed with the cognition his job had usurped from him. 

He looked at her for the first time, his strong jaw tight and eyes serrated, stretching his neck to look for her cutie-mark.

The picture emblazoned on her flank - a crimson heart with rolls of gauze by the side - was still there, as proud as the day she had gotten it. 

Alice was one of the few that had gotten lucky with her mark still being useful to the Empire. As it were, it was difficult to find jobs for ponies with marks dedicated to cultivating flowers or making cheese when the country needed soldiers, crystal welders and doctors. 

Everyone had to adapt, one way or another.

The officer shook his head in an attempt to get back in order after checking that, indeed, her mark was there. She released the silent sigh she was holding hostage as he eased back into his chair.

His horn glowed, eyes scanning intently the words showing up in the crystal screen after he entered her identification.

“Purpose,” he finally said.

Alice blinked. “I… told you just now? What-”

“Purpose,” he interrupted in the same monotone.

“Erm…” She cleared her throat and dredged up her mind for what he might be looking for... What was their official name again? Oh!

“Training for assignment as Non-organized Variable Agent?” she offered.

He gave a slight nod. Or maybe that was just his mind drifting away. “Confirmed NoVA. Papers, please.”

She looked back at her stuffed saddlebags, magic grasping the bloated folder carrying all of the necessary certificates and vistas and checks and whatever else the Empire demanded from a volunteer. 

She gently floated them to the little alcove where the officer would pick them up for dissection.

“Please hold,” he stated.

With not much else to gaze at without creeping on the fellow, Alice readjusted herself on the seat. Because of her long legs, the tips of her hind hooves were slipping on the cold stone floor where the old pillow didn’t reach and it was starting to bother her.

She noted a little speaker right above the crystal glass, quietly jamming out little patriotic tunes that were occasionally interrupted with a nice, pre-recorded message. At least the tones were warm and cheery to contrast the gray and blocky cubicle she was in.

Quick Cure had warned her to have patience, but the butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t listen. The stories she recounted about her work on Earth as one of the Fixers for the PER, of how many lives were saved on the frontlines and not on some stuffy, sterile room… how could she just sit by and wait? Every second could be a life spared of pain.

She even had organized her folder in alphabetical order to try and save some time. But the bureaucratic underbelly of the Empire was not a beast that could be rushed by the whims of those under it. 

Nopony wanted it to trip and hit the ground, after all.

“There’s a discrepancy with your name, ma’am.” The stallion’s voice ripped her from her thoughts. “You said Alice” - her first name was spat out - “ LeBlanc, but there are records in the Canterlot General Board of Medicine that-”

“I changed it!” Alice interrupted him, wincing at her own exclamation. She looked back at the curtain to see if the guards outside had moved - she knew from experience that Earth veterans could be touchy about this. “Sorry. I spent quite some time under that... alias.”

She pointed through the glass to the folder he was holding. “The papers have my legal name,” she added.

The stallion on the other side readjusted his glasses, a hard expression on his face. “I’m obligated to inform you that bearing a name with explicit human origins is extremely discouraged on Imperial soil, ma’am.” He hunched closer to the glass. “Please, think of the Newfoals.”

“I know.” She sighed, chewing on her cheek. “This was from... before.”

“Of course...” He didn’t sound very pleased with the explanation. “Please hold.” 

He rose from his seat and disappeared out the back.

Darn it. Cure had assured her the name wouldn’t be a problem with the Equestrian checkpoint - as long as her papers were in order. But the Earth checkpoint was harsher when it came to slights like these. 

She hoped that little mistake wouldn’t cost her an even longer wait. Years of being called a name behind doors with close friends and later on actually changing it often accrued an unconscious habit that was hard to shake off. 

Not that she ever wanted to shake it off. It meant too much at this point, the legality of it all be damned.

She fiddled around with her braided ponytail, little tufts of royal-blue mane entangling themselves on the red ribbon keeping it orderly. She went for a look of practicality, forgoing all the dress etiquette drilled into her head ever since she was a foal.

Just another aspect of her early life she’d rather not take to heart.

Instead, she opted to wear her cherished medical coat over her snowy white fur and added a simple tie to her long mane. The colors were so similar, one could barely notice where the coat ended and her fur began.

She remembered dozens of hours spent with the medical committee, being reprimanded for using the coat outside sterile medical facilities, for spending far too much time with her infirms, for wasting resources on lost causes...

Anyway, that committee was now busy with an increased income of patients and she was a whole world away from them. And they probably preferred it that way, the proud snobs.

The young stallion returned with her folder nestled in his forearm. She noticed it had been flash-scanned, if the little wafts of smoke coming off of it were anything to go by. 

Somepony really wanted to make sure of the veracity of her documents, it seemed.

“Everything else seems to be in harmony. Please follow the guard waiting outside.” He pointed to her left, at the exit covered in a white, opaque sheen. A magical barrier. “He’ll take you to the hub and use the focus to teleport you to your destination. Glory to the Sun Queen.”

Picking up the monstrous pile of papers with her hooves so as to not magically burn her horn from the recent flash-scan, Alice stuffed them back in her saddlebags. 

Finally being able to stand up from that uncomfortable seat, she turned and trotted through the field obscuring whatever lay before her.

As she passed through, she expected to be met with a sprawling sight full of colorful dots moving about in synchronized trots, some galloping around the perimeter as an angry-looking officer yelled at their backs, crates of weapons and supplies being transported from point to point. Enormous metal pillars stretching up to the heavens, supporting the arched crystal roofs that kept Earth’s weather from sullying Imperial operations and protected any communications using the proles from being tracked.

And, indeed, it was all there. But it was the details that differed. 

Imagining a sight like this from the high towers of Canterlot was entirely different from experiencing it with her own eyes. She saw not the flowing architecture and uptight ponies walking the streets, but the straightforward and efficient engineering influenced by the Kirin and the preoccupied movements of all the creatures scuttling about.

One earth pony with a faded yellow coat wasn’t all that preoccupied, however, as he waited patiently for Alice to stop gawking all around, an understanding smile on his muzzle.

His face brightened once she finally looked at him. 

“G’morning, ma’am. Name’s Trotted Path, 4th Trailblazers Company, Logistics Division. Welcome to our little slice of Equestria on Earth!” he proudly announced, straightening up with a half-hearted salute.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Mr. Path...” Alice blinked, just remembering she was talking to a member of the Trailblazers. “Oh! Should I have referred to your rank? I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

Trotted Path dismissed her worries with a throw of his hoof, his smile still strong. “Heh, don’t worry about it. We barely talk to the recruits that pass by, might as well have a friendly chat.” He hunched over and pointed back at the cabin she’d just left, continuing in a faux whisper. “Don’t want my job sucking the life outta me like Paper Clip back there.”

Alice would have introduced herself as they started making their way around the site, but the assault on her senses was just too much to keep ignoring. So many industrial smells she’d never expected to breathe, so many metallic sounds making her ears twitch that she’d imagined only the heaviest of factories would ever produce. 

A world her mind could have never done justice, for it drew from a well she had never drank from.

Everypony in Canterlot knew, to some extent, that the Empire sheltered them from the specifics of the war. It was to be expected: nopony wanted to hear all the dreadful news of the hundreds that have died just last hour, every hour.

Living with those constant reminders of misery was… miserable. And if nothing could be done to change what was the very nature of war, then why suffer meaninglessly?

But even if Alice found the reasoning sound, it did nothing to amaciate her sorrow at knowing most ponies would never get to experience this personally. The work being done by the bravest of Equus.

The ponies working on welding the metal beams, the hippogriffs barking off orders to the Newfoals with heavy materials on their backs, the zebras and their few marching units… this was a scene being shaped by them. And maybe one day, she’d help shape it as well.

But first, she had to earn it.

Alice followed Trotted Path closely as he slithered through the many ponies carrying boxes full of hoof mortars, disassembled crossbows and purple vials of various sizes. Everypony seemed to know where to go, and the urgency they needed to arrive there. Every time Alice thought two ponies might collide, they easily swayed off of each other’s path.

They passed by sky-boats that were neatly lined up near an enormous opening in the front of the facility, all being filled and fueled for long-range flights. 

Alice wasn’t sure where exactly on Earth she was - the Equestrian checkpoint refused to tell her - but from what she remembered of studying Earth’s climate and geography, she’d guess the warmer areas of Europe.

Trotted Path, keeping to his promise of a friendly chat, decided to break the silence and pull Alice’s mind away from being lost in the sea of novelty.

“So! You’re going for -” his eyes quickly scanned the clipboard held on his fetlock “- Stalwart’s group? Hay and feathers, mare. Plenty of regiments needing good unicorns, you go and pick Stally’s mess?”

“Well… I’m not being assigned to her specifically,” she explained. “I’ll be tutored by the stallion. Mr. Crane, I believe. I… I’m not sure I’d be much help in a regiment just yet.”

“Stallion?” Path looked back at her, his face scrunched up in confusion. “Oh, the Fixer. Heh, good luck with that.”

As they walked and talked, Alice could see a tall crystal spire coming up further along. There were many Newfoal unicorns spread around it in a pattern that eluded her, with streams of magic connecting each other and the spire. 

They were barely moving, eyes closed in concentration. Alice almost mistook them for statues at this distance.

“Suppose you picked well after all,” Path continued, not missing a step, “I’m all for more ponies in those Fixers, the fuckers.” He snorted derisively. “I know us Blazers are stretched as is, but… not a fan of relying on humans. PER or not.”

“What was that Path?” Alice heard a strong, deep voice suddenly intrude on their conversation. “Cussing like a human now?”

She turned her head to the source of the sound. There, lounging upon a sky-boat, was the most well-built stallion Alice had ever seen.

He was an earth pony with a lush coat the color of gravel, with combed locks of the darkest black mane suavelly hugging themselves around his toned neck. 

His eyes were a fiery red that robbed your vision and forced you to look in their direction. The only itens concealing his form were the golden bands covering his whole shins. 

And what a form! Did Her Majesty come down from the heavens and sculpt his body from a perfectly polished stone, chiseling it and leaving the perfectly sharp edges?

“Sorry, Granite.” Path shrugged his shoulders. “Enough time on Earth… you know the rest. Just running my mouth, as usual.”

Granite’s confident smile never wavered as he jumped down from the sky-boat. “Careful you don’t run it too much, my stallion. Willow hears ‘the f-word’, she’ll pop your head.” He turned to look at Alice. “And who’s this?”

Alice would have said something, where she not still flabbergasted at his sudden appearance. And his appearance. All she managed was opening and closing her mouth futilely.

Path decided to save her from further embarrassment. “The newest addition to the Fixers, from what I gather.” 

“We still get those? Well, let me be the first to greet you, then!” He approached her with a disarming expression, offering his hoof. “Name’s Granite Fortress, Anchor for the Fixers.”

Alice shook it absentmindedly. He had a very firm grip. “My name’s- wait a minute... you’re an Anchor?”

That managed to bring her full faculties back. Anchors were supposed to be rare, right? Quick Cure had said something about them, being one herself. Fixers had some sort of hierarchy, though right now Alice couldn’t recall what exactly it was.

“Why hello there, Ms. Wait-a-minute.” He grinned cheekily at her. “Yes I am. Bunch of equestrians got promoted in the Fixers, and I was in that bunch. Long time ago, though.” 

He let her hoof go, disarming smile still ever present. “Say, d’you already have a trainer? Can’t imagine you got through Quick Sight without one.”

She recalled the letter she received in her family’s estate on Canterhorn Plaza. Signed by Sir Quick Sight, approving of her request to be trained and initiated into the Fixers.

She nodded, shoving the embarrassing unladylike yell she gave that morning into the back of her mind. “Indeed I do. He assigned me to Mr. Crane.”

“Crane?” Granite said, surprised. “Well, fluff me. You look more like Quick Cure’s kind of gal, what with the medical coat. But I suppose Sight knows his stuff.”

“You know Quick Cure?” she asked, interested piqued.

“Know her?” Granite’s eyes glazed far away. “She was the best combat-medic we’ve ever had. Saved me and Willow more times than I can count. Even Quick Sight once, though he won’t admit it.”

Oh. So it was from before Cure arrived in Canterlot General. Before they met each other.

“She never mentioned...” Alice started, not really knowing where to go with that.

“Ah, right…” The somber expression in Granite’s face was an undesirable squatter in a sunny villa. “Well, those’re not the best times. Pretty sure she went to a mind-healer after. Hope she’s doing better in Equestria.”

Alice opened her mouth to reply, but a static crackle stopped her. “Fortress. Return to Canterlot ASAP. Golden Nova wants to talk to you. Bring Willow. This message will re-”

The stallion tapped the little crystal in one of his golden hoof guards. Alice had missed them earlier. “Whelp, that’s my cue. G’luck with Crane… and don’t mind his attitude. He’ll warm up quick enough.”

With that, Granite left them, quickly trotting over to another crystal spire on the other side of the compound.

He looked even better from the back... No, bad Alice. Leave the nice stallion alone.

Path had a restrained grin on his muzzle, as if remembering an inside joke. “Congratulations, miss. You just survived meeting with Granite Fortress without being hugged to death. Guy’s a softy... well, until you get in the training ring, that is.”

He rubbed his foreleg, looking at where Granite had gone with something resembling a grimace. “Bucker almost broke my leg,” Alice heard him whisper to himself.

They had to stop right in front of a whole section of ponies marching in tandem, doing their daily routine around the checkpoint. Their numbers were large enough that Alice couldn’t count each head, but their hooves stomping the ground quickly and with force spoke of dozens of souls, ready and willing to fight.

Path clearing his throat grabbed Alice’s attention. “Sorry miss, but I have to ask: did you have somepony in Canterlot to help you get in the Fixers? Family or the like?” Alice could almost feel Path’s face souring. “Can’t imagine the apes there wouldn’t raise a fuss otherwise.”

She couldn’t hold back a quick chuckle at the absurdity of his claim. “Oh, I assure you, the last thing my family would do is help me get to where I am.”

His eyes widened in understanding. “Ah, I see. Fair enough. I’m a Fillydelphia colt myself, so I don’t much get all the family feuds and Guild clashes of you Canterlotians.” 

He seemed to wince after speaking that, turning his neck back with a sheepish smile. “Erm, no offense.”

Alice gave him a weak shrug, managing a small smile despite herself. “Can’t be offended if it’s true.”

As they finally arrived at the crystal focus, Alice saw a squad of pegasi - more Trailblazers, judging by their light armour - being warped out of existence. Probably being teleported somewhere else for one of their various specialized missions.

A natural-born pegasus mare with a fiery coloration was at the helm of the dozen or so Newfoals spread around, flying above them for a better view. She was shouting orders for them to reposition as they quickly, and effectively, arranged themselves in the right spots.

Trotted Path signaled for the mare to come down and hoofed her the clipboard he was carrying.

“G’morning, Cinder,” he greeted her. “One ‘port, PER cell. Coordinates are right here.” He pointed to a line in the paper.

Cinder frowned at him, her voice scratchy. “Newfoals are getting tired, Path. I just sent a squad to help out settlers in North Africa.”

She quickly scanned the clipboard, tapping it with a wing. “This is really far for a single mare, you know?”

Path shrugged. “She’s with the Fixers. Got a problem, send it to Nova’s office and handle that hassle yourself.”

“Fixers? They still kicking?” Cinder shook her head, her yellow cropped mane barely moving. “Bah, better the Newfoals with a headache than me.” She huffed and, with a beat of her wings, rose back up.

“Hey, Bright Star!” Cinder shouted over to a pile of wooden boxes. “Need a natural-born here, this one’s long-range.”

A unicorn stallion popped his head above one of the large boxes, a scowl slowly forming on his face. He trotted over while grumbling to himself, using his telekinesis to pick up a Newfoal mare and sliding her aside to make space for him.

Once everything was in place, Alice was instructed by Cinder to stand in the center of the formation and in front of the pillar, much like the squad before her. 

This was it. Just one step away from being out, miles away from any pony civilization. 

Waiting for her letters to arrive, waiting for the background checks, waiting in line, waiting for the officer at the booth to finally let her through… those were all mind numbing, easy to lose herself. Now? It’d be worth it. No going back. Not until she was done.

She ignored the cold feeling rising up in her gut.

Path remained outside the circle, but gave her a friendly wave. “Alright. Been a while since we ‘ported somepony to a PER cell. Bit of a warning: Stalwart’s got a very old crystal focus - PER’s at the bottom of the list for resupply - so the ‘port won’t be as clean as we usually have ‘em.” Path looked up at Cinder and she threw him an okay sign with her wing. “You might have to trot a bit ‘till you find her.”

Alice nodded, a bit uncertain. “Canada, right? I got this.” She patted her stuffed saddlebags, comforted in knowing she had prepared everything.

“Cumberland County. Somewhere in the woods south of Wallace. They’ve been having some heavy winds there.” The crystal on the breast of Path’s armor glowed in a specific pattern of blinks. “Alright! Stalwart’s pinged us back. May the Unconquered Sun shine bright on your path... and convert a human for us!”

“Alright you sacks of mana, power it up!” Cinder barked from above. “You too, Bright!”

Alice noted how content the Newfoals looked, helping the natural-borns to the best of their abilities. She could only imagine how much of a contrast it was to their lives before, surviving on a dying planet on the cusp of losing a war. 

Bright Star only grumbled in his corner, horn lighting up.

As the streams of mana being fed into the spire got thicker and thicker, a heavy white glow shone brighter right above Alice until everything around her took on the same shade.

A moment later, and everything on the Earth checkpoint slowly dissipated from her blurry view, as if her eyes were watering too much.

Path’s waving self was the last thing she could discern, until she discerned no more.


***


Alice could hear the loud pop of her entrance fading in the background as her hooves found the soft soil beneath them. 

The sudden change in the ambience was noticeable as shivers made their way up her spine and a loud whooshing noise took up most of her hearing.

Taking a look around, she didn’t spot any significant landmarks. All around her were unfamiliar tall trees and uneven ground. Path did say she was going to be a bit displaced, but he had failed to mention by how much exactly. 

Hopefully not much.

Deciding on a direction, Alice started making her way weaving by the trees and pushing through the light snow covering the ground. 

Unlike most ponies, she had never walked on snowy ground before - when the Crystal War came, she was too young to be drafted. And Canterlot wasn’t a very good place to experience it: the weather teams were ordered to do their best at keeping sunny skies, even during Hearthswarming.

She was expecting it to be… mushy. Turns out, snow felt much more like fine compacted sand rubbing itself at every press of her hooves. Maybe that was an Earth thing?

The colors here were also more faded than what she was used to - even though her family’s estate was also big on white-on-even-more-white. But that only accentuated the few spots dotted with some yellow flowers and the glimmer of the sun reflecting on them.

She almost dared say it was its own kind of beautiful, but the incredibly loud wind was holding back that praise. It was biting at her extremities, pinching her ears and robbing her of her warmth in the short couple minutes of being exposed. 

She could barely hear her own thoughts.

Alice pulled the lapel of her coat up as she dodged a large branch hidden by the snow - to try and shield some of her face as she trudged forward. It protected her cheeks well enough, but her ears were still being victims of the wind’s whispers. 

Well, unfortunately for Nature’s chaos, this mare had come prepared!

She stopped and floated out some of her documentation from her saddlebags, almost sticking her muzzle in them to look for her favourite white beanie. There were so many things crammed inside, it was hard to spot the little wool accessory.

A sudden metallic sound, similar to a lever being pulled up and down, broke the constant white noise of the wind. 

Startled, her magic shorted out and her papers swayed down to the snowy ground.

“Keep that horn dimmed or you’re dead,” a hoarse voice, gruff and laced with danger.

Alice managed to restrict her movement to a small jerk of her neck upwards, ears not knowing whether to hide in her mane or stay up to hear the apparent threat better. 

Whoever was beside her - a human man, judging by the tone and angle of the voice - had just pulled on something that definitely wasn’t a hoof-held camera. 

A deadly something, going by his words.

“Don’t turn your head,” he warned, “just identify yourself.” 

His voice was stripped of emotion, carrying just a slight edge. Stronger than she’d have judged it capable of being, from how abused his vocal chords sounded like.

This was bad.

She knew the basics of self-defense and even took some pride in her ability to create personal protective bubbles - the Empire stressed that every unicorn should be able to maintain a shield - but that was it.

She didn’t know any offensive spells, so she’d be stuck hoping this man ran out of patience before she ran out of mana. If she could even cast it before he did... whatever it was that he could do. Was that… a gun?

It had to be. Was Stalwart’s cell under attack? Is that why there were humans with guns here already? Could she yell over the wind in the hopes somepony heard it?

No. She could barely hear the man right behind her as it was. Any desperate calls would be lost to the hills.

“Your number,” he stressed the word, losing patience.

Alice couldn’t keep the stutter out of her voice. “N-number? I don’t-”

“PHL tags,” he interrupted, “or HLF identification. Don’t fuck with me, I know Yarrow’s split has ponies in 'em. You better give me something.”

Alice breathed in and out, trying to calm herself. All that did was encourage her hyperventilation.

Her mind was failing to conjure up a believable lie. All she could think about was how much time she was wasting thinking about her wasted time- STOP.

She was scrambling to come up with something, anything. Did she read about how the human groups identified each other?

There were… uh… three? UNAC, PHL... Wait. Those were the same. Were they? She couldn’t remember! Why did she read so much about human architecture and art and so little about their warring factions?

“Guess no one’s going to miss you, then.”

No!

“EMU-016180!” she shouted at the ground.

“Huh?” there was obvious disbelief in his tone, not as forceful as before.

Did… did it work? It was the only number she could speak convincingly enough... Could she breathe normally now?

“...Well, congratulations.” His voice took back its hard edge. “You just signed your own death warrant.”

What? 

Oh. Oh no. She gave him an Imperial identification. To a human.

And he recognized it!

“Wait! Please don’t-!” she started turning her head to beg him. To reason with him. To do something!

The next few seconds proceeded like dripping tar. She heard a faint groan of cold metal being pressured. It gave way to a satisfying ‘click’ of finality. 

Not one thought was fast enough to pass through her sluggish mind. Not one emotion managed to manifest itself on her face.

An explosion rose up above the wind and deafened her senses, shaking her to the very core. A cold feeling splashed into Alice’s muzzle. Her eyes squinted in an unconscious reaction. Her words died in her lips.

A moment passed. Then two. Her mind slowly came back to its usual function, no longer held down by the sudden desperation.

It had been a gun. He had shot her. She was...

Unharmed?

Alice carefully opened her eyes as they frantically scanned her surroundings, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

There was a spot in the ground where she noticed the snow had been moved. Like a whip had snapped there, flecks of clumped snow and dirt patterned the white ground. 

Some of it had splattered her muzzle, but she didn’t feel like there were any new holes in her body. 

All she could feel was a faint ringing in her ears and the beating of her heart. 

Her old medical professor - Doctor Sinew - piped up from the back of her memories, telling her all she had was sudden temporary tinnitus and a faster heartbeat - just barely sinus tachycardia. Nothing worth crying about.

According to him, she was the typical mare with an affinity for catecholamine. Bastard.

“Shame. Really thought PHL had stepped up their game.” The man muttered as his boots crushed the snow, cautiously getting closer. “All right, what’s an Imperial doing all the way out here?”

The sudden casual tone of the voice made her turn. 

Right behind her was a human man squatting down and looking at the papers she’d let drop. He had a small gun - a pistol! - on one hand, slightly pointed down as his forearms rested on his knees. There was a larger and much meaner-looking gun strapped to his back.

Was that what he had pointed at her? That thing was almost as long as she was!

“Wha…?” Alice breathed out, some remains of hyperventilation still leaving her system.

“Breathe. You’re off the hook.” He shot her a quick glance. “An Opposer wouldn’t stand there and get shot. Plus, nobody can fake these flash-scans.” Alice wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself as he perused her documentation.

The man’s visage chilled her. No matter how many times she saw a human, they would always be captivating to think about. 

All the little facial expressions and their combinations. The minutiae of their speech necessary to convey the context that a creature without a tail and moving ears couldn’t… the tragedy that such a being was plagued by a violent nature despite its desire for rationality and kindness.

She could never bring herself to hate them as some in the Royal Guard did. Admittedly, she had not witnessed the Army’s suffering at human hands, either.

This one in particular looked weary. His face had fading scars and eyes made to fool somepony into thinking they were tired and inactive. But she recognized that glint behind those hazel dots.

The way they every so often snapped up to her and went back, how they glided over the scenery to mask disinterest… he was watching Alice, still waiting for her to make a move.

She was reminded of Cure’s recountings of human soldiers. The sleek armour that looked like cloth instead of enchanted metal, the gun strapped to his back that was as dangerous as five crossbows shot together, the willingness to use it without second thought.

But that made no sense. The human military on Earth would not spare her if they knew she was an Imperial. They were at war, much as she disliked it.

She didn’t know the political landscape as well as she’d have liked, but she was told all humans fell into two groups: those who would harm her for being a loyal Imperial, and those who wouldn’t. And that meant...

“Are you... with the PER?” she tentatively offered. Perhaps a bit too trusting, but she was still reeling from the whiplash of Trotted Path’s friendly welcome to... this.

His gaze bore into her for a few seconds, then he pulled out a little purple vial, thin and easy to hide, from inside his backpack and held it out for her to see. “Last time I checked, yeah. Careful throwing those letters around, though.” 

He put the vial back and collected the pages laying in the ground, holding them in front of his face. “You didn’t answer my question,” he added.

Alice, calming down now, collected her scattered thoughts and answered. “I was looking for Stalwart Stasis’ group...” 

Hold on a minute, why was she the one being questioned? She had clearance from the Empire. What did this man have?

Alice shook her head, a frown crossing her face. “Wait, nevermind that, you shot me!”

The man clicked his tongue. “At you. Don’t worry about it. Wind like this? Nobody heard a thing.”

Alice puffed her cheeks out. “That’s not the point!”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yes, I shot you. That’s what guns do. What did you want? Bloody biscuits?”

“Bloody…?” Alice stuck her tongue out at that mental image. “Ew. Just... no. But also not a gun!”

He raises an inquisitive brow at her, papers lowered. “You’re not Royal Guard material, definitely not a Trailblazer... you look like a doctor.” A shadow fell, his eyes hardening. “Don’t tell me you're a volunteer.”

“Is... is that a problem?”

Her question prompted a low chuckle to himself. With no mirth or happiness, it sounded too much like a scoff. The insincerity was palpable, almost desperate.

Shaking his head, he stood up and offered her papers back. “Come on. We’re just couple minutes away.”


***


Crane carefully observed the tall mare as they walked back to the lodge, making sure to stay a bit behind her. With his left arm swinging with his stride, he keep his right hand stationary near the hip, where his P365 was. Just in case.

She gave a little gasp as she saw the lodge come up, horn lighting up with a cold blue glow. Out of her saddlebags came a little notebook and quill, with which she quickly started drafting something. 

She had the excitement of a bookworm filly who’d read about something and was just now seeing it with her eyes.

His fingers had twitched at the sudden shimmer on her forehead, but he managed to stay his hand. It was just a basic spell, nothing offensive.

Stretching his neck to see over her azure mane, he noted she was making quick sketch of the scenery. As her eyes quickly jumped from detail to detail, the quill drew all the images she sent through her telekinesis, as if it had an excited little life of its own. A pretty good draft, if he dared say.

Her notes looked horrible though. Written hastily, resembling a bunch of scribbles made by a bunch of chicken pecking around, dripping ink on the page. Crane swore one of the words was literally just a scratched line with dots.

A doctor, indeed.

She was so focused in her intense note-taking, she didn’t even notice as two newcomers walked outside through the front door, talking to each other. Stalwart was in the front, her face looking back, while Scauper looked as if he’d been rudely woken up.

Actually, Scauper looked like hell. He had lost even more feathers, one of his wings was slightly unfurled and his eyes were squinted.

“Just go out and find him,” Stalwart said, exasperated. “We’ve got a volunteer coming and I want everypony here for it.”

Scauper, for his credit, only grumbled at having yet another task on his claws. Though he quickly eased himself into a relaxed stance as he spotted Crane and the new mare in the background.

The griffon tried repressing a smirk but Crane saw the corners of his beak twitching slightly. “Sure thing, boss,” he said with a self-assured tone, pointing a claw at Crane. “Found ‘im. Now, can I go back to nappin’?”

Stalwart seemed confused for just a moment. Her drooping ears warned Crane the moment she figured it out, as the mare quickly turned around with practiced hoofwork.

Crane shouted over the wind, “Found your ‘volunteer’, Stalwart. Popped right as I was patrolling. Why the hell are we taking more recruits?”

“Celestia smite me…” Stalwart muttered, then continued in a louder voice, “I’ll explain it all inside. Better have everyone there to hear it at once.”

“You better.” Crane said and started walking towards them.

He stopped as he noticed the new mare was still blissfully lost in her drawing, the quill furiously adding some finishing touches to the paper. 

She was looking at it intensely now, and some strands of her blue mane had fallen in front of her face despite the braid. The world might as well be considered just a backdrop.

Once again, totally oblivious. Did she learn nothing?

He snapped his fingers right next to her ear, making it reflexively hide away as she squeaked some weird noise and fizzled out her magic. 

Crane caught the book before it hit the ground, expecting a magical shortage much like earlier. 

“Got to work on that composure, volunteer.” He suppressed the little upturn of his mouth and kept his voice neutral as he held the book out.

She huffed back at him, snatching it from his outstretched hand and securing it back in her saddlebags. 

“Glad you arrived safely, Ms. LeBlanc.” Stalwart said, once they all were under the porch. “Sergeant Path gave me a very late warning about your arrival. I hope it was a decent journey.”

LeBlanc then. Unusual name for a pony, but it fit with her pristine white fur. Hell, with the blue mane and that sneaky red ribbon tying her braid, she looked like a perfect mascot for France. Joanne’s going to love her.

“Sergeant Stasis.” LeBlanc nodded respectfully, putting some weird emphasis on the ranking. “It was a bit disorienting, but overall fine. Thank you for having me.”

“Don’t thank her yet, filly. You haven’t seen the mess she’s got on her hooves.” Scauper sniggered from his place, leaning on the doorframe.

Stalwart squinted her eyes at the griffon. “Do you want a permanent nap, Scauper?”

“Naw,” he said, a shit-eating grin forming on his beak. “That’s more Coffee’s thing, innit? Appreciate the offer, though.”

Crane could almost hear Stalwart grinding her teeth, yet he spotted a hint of a blush at the tip of her ears. 

Stalwart could handle one snippy bastard - sometimes admirably so - but two? And together? That was a job beyond most leaders in the PER. 

Crane would know. He had the unfortunate experience of having to lead one such cell for a couple of days. He was relieved to hand them over to their new leader - a gangly pegasus who would probably break in his first month.

He cleared his throat. “Alright. You three can stay out here discussing Stalwart's sex life if you want, but I’m out of this wind.” He pushed open the door, looking away from Stalwart to hide his little smirk.


***


The rather large fireplace had been lit while Crane was out patrolling, with Dice sitting beside it like a dog with a lit horn - filtering the smoke so it wouldn’t trail outside. He noted she had her eyes closed and a toothy smile pushed her cheeks up.

Felicia was sitting right in front of the blazing embers and humming a little tune, skinny hands warming in front of the fire while Bart and Coffee shared the couch right behind her.

Bucky had to stand up beside them, seeing as the bulk of the large man and stocky earth pony was occupying the whole couch. He didn’t seem to mind, though, as he was lost in a rather hefty book floating in front of his muzzle.

“Alright, everypony,” Stalwart started, standing straight and making everyone look in her direction. “I’d like to introduce you to-”

She never got to finish, interrupted by a grinning Felicia appearing in front of them in one flash and three hops. Almost touching LeBlanc’s face, much to the latter’s surprise.

“Oh my Celestia. Hi there! I’m Felicia Esperanto. What’s your name?” Felicia blurted out.

LeBlanc was taken back at the sudden invasion of her personal space. She tried her best to keep her eyes away from the ghastly burns on the woman's cheek and neck, but that was a difficult job considering they were suddenly all that the mare could see.

Felicia noticed it. Crane saw how she slightly turned her head to the left, pulling back a bit. How her smile was just slightly dimmer than before.

LeBlanc deftly cleared her throat and put on a warm, reassuring tone. “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Esperanto. I’m Alice LeBlanc.”

Crane’s eyes widened slightly from his place in the back. Seems like he had been hasty in calling her surname unusual.

Felicia gasped, putting her hands in front of her mouth and looking for all the world like she’d just witnessed a puppy being dropped. “Oh, you poor thing. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Erm… for what, exactly?” Alice asked, her head turned in confusion.

“For being given a nasty human name, of course. It couldn’t have been easy.”

“Oh, that? Heh, actually, I was the one that chose it.” Alice rubbed the back of her neck with a hoof, a sheepish smile on her muzzle.

Felicia seemed at a loss. “You did? I-I didn’t... uh...” She switched her gaze over between Crane and Stalwart, as if begging for some help.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. It was unusual, sure, but hardly what he was worrying over. She could’ve been called Sprinkledink McGee for all that it mattered. 

What he wanted to know was why she was here. New recruits don’t just show up these days - Penelope, rest her soul, had been the last they ever got.

Stalwart was willing to take it from there, not looking the least bit surprised by the name. “Names aside, I was informed yesterday Alice was going to be assigned to us, effective immediately...”

A smile grew on her face. A sickly sweet smile that she made a point to direct it towards Crane. “Would you like to inform us as to why, Ms. LeBlanc?”

That was not the smile of good news, at least not to whom it was directed. And of course the direction was his.

Alice nodded, oblivious to the tension brewing. “Gladly. I’m here for a two-month period, to be under the tutelage of Mr. Crane as a trainee to the Fixers, under the approval of Quick Sight,” she stated matter-of-factly.

What.

If her name had shocked everyone near the hearthy fire before, this new revelation had stunned them silent. Even both Newfoals looked around, confused at everyone’s confusion. 

Crane could barely form a sentence. A Fixer trainee? That made no sense. Fixers didn’t get new recruits, not since Europe fell. If anything, they were losing people by the day - Portland alone had cost them three members, even if they had been just Frighteners.

And that was without touching on the fact that he was supposed to train her? Who the hell thought saddling him up with a unicorn was a good idea? All he knew about offensive spells was how to not get hit by them.

The silent mood was having an effect on Alice. What was initially a confident expression quickly morphed into confusion. Then uncertainty. Crane - through the haze going by his head - noted that she seemed to be chewing her cheek as her eyes darted left and right.

It was Bart that broke the shocked silence.

“Crane… the fuck is wrong with you?”

Crane leered at the burly man, his brows knitting together. “Don’t put this on me. I didn’t ask for her.”

Alice snapped her head back at him, eyes widening. “Wait… you’re the Fixer? But you’re a human!”

A quick unbuttoning of his sleeve and a flick of his arm showed her the PDA that denoted his function. “How many ponies you know named Frank?”

“I know plenty named Crane!” she exclaimed, stomping the linoleum floor.

“Well then you got me beat. I don’t know any named Alice.” He stressed her name out and turned on Stalwart, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

“Her entry was signed and none of the captains in the Guard vetoed it.” Stalwart said simply, shrugging one shoulder.

“Of course they didn’t. They leave that shit to Nova.” Crane locked his arms together. “Send her to Granite - he loves training new ponies. Or Willow, or any of the other Anchors. Just not me.”

Alice frowned slightly. “I wasn’t exactly given a choice on this matter either.”

“Stalwart had a choice,” he rebutted. “Could’ve denied it, told them we’re maxed out. Which we are.”

Stalwart bristled. “We are also without a way to deliver a foal!”

Her ears were stiff, and Crane could see the veins lightly popping on her neck. This had been eating at her for a while.

She took a calming breath before continuing in a quieter tone. “I’m not going to turn down somepony with medical experience. Human hospitals will have Seeker tagged as PER the moment she doesn’t present them identification.”

Crane knew that well enough. Without an equestrian identification, there was no way to get Seeker out of whatever hospital delivered her baby. And considering her past as a Bureau doctor… yeah, that wouldn’t be pretty. 

“You’ve got a mare expecting?” Crane heard Alice whisper to Scauper in the background.

He noted the griffon clicking his beak. “Told ya it was a right mess, didn’t I?”

Crane tuned them out as he put a hand on his chin and focused on the problem.

Nobody in their group knew how to deliver a foal, except for the pregnant mare herself. He had hoped to come up with a plan before she got into labor, but the past couple of days had put a lot on his mind. The pain in his leg still spiked every so often.

Stealing an ERIC - a nifty acronym for equestrian refugee identification codes - wouldn’t be too hard, but considerably risky. And a shitty move. Pretty much damning whomever he stole it from to the life of a nobody. Seeker would never accept it.

Stalwart did have a point. Add to it the fact that apparently Quick Sight had signed this and Golden Nova hadn’t vetoed it… yeah, Crane knew this mare was staying.

But maybe he could still squeeze something out of this. Adding another mouth to the table might just break it. They had to get another source of food, and that meant...

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Stalwart huffed, satisfied. “I’m glad.”

Crane pointed to Alice, who still looked a little lost. “She and I will be getting a mission for today, then.”

Stalwart’s mouth snapped down. “Oh the buck you will. I already told you: one week. At least.”

His gaze bore into the mare. “You want another member, you need more supplies. Scauper is dead on his claws the way he’s flying back and forth. This is unsustainable and you know it.”

Silence was all that met his remark. Stalwart’s deep orange eyes were sizzling him faster than eggs in a frying pan, her face not even twitching. 

Her lack of a rebuttal was telling. She didn’t disagree, but she wasn’t entirely on board either.

Crane decided to roll back and try another route, for that final push. “Stalwart, I’m back to shape. I can barely feel the pain in my leg anymore,” he lied through his teeth. “Besides, I’m training her, right? Do you really want us making a racket here and risk attracting somebody, wind be damned?”

Stalwart finally turned her chin down, taking a deep breath. She didn’t have her eyes closed, but her gaze was far away.

Felicia put a comforting hand on the mare’s withers. “He… might have a point, Stally. Everyday we spend here is a day we’re not helping save humanity.”

Bart was nodding as well, though he still gave Crane the stink-eye. “Wouldn’t mind going back out to fuck the PHL over. For Penny,” he added quietly from the couch.

Stalwart deflated. “Fine. However! I’ll be the one setting the rules. And Crane won’t leave without fixing that bucking mess.” She pointed to the still broken PDA on his forearm.

Crane gave her a curt nod, satisfied with what he got. Just getting out would do wonders to his psyche - relaxing for a day or two was good, but with the impending storm on the horizon? He’d much prefer making sure he had an umbrella.

“Did you ever find those tools, Bucky?” Felicia piped up from her place next to Stalwart.

The stallion lowered his book, oblivious to the tension previously in the room. “Unfortunately not. I haven't the faintest idea where they disappeared to.”

Alice’s ears perked up at that, her head tilted slightly to the left. “Tools? For crystal welding? I saw some pointy shapes stuck on the roof, when I was sketching.” 

Alice magically opened her notebook and floated it over to Bucky. “Looked like crystal-tipped tuning poles to me. Didn’t fit with any human architecture I’ve ever read about - not even lightning rods.”

Bucky’s face brightened. “That’s them! Sharp eyes, Ms. Leblanc. Thank you so much.”

“You’re more than welcome, mister…?”

Bucky folded his leg over his chest, bowing his neck. “Do-it. Bucky Do-it, crystal architecture and engineering, at your service.”

Crane made a fine point of looking straight at Felicia.“How the bloody hell did they get on the roof, I wonder.” He slathered his voice in sarcasm.

The woman just rolled her eyes, the pink frosted tips of her hair bouncing around. “Skies and Joanne were playing outside. Something about ‘harnessing the power of lightning’. Maybe it was that?”

Crane narrowed his eyes. “Did you-?”

“No,” Felicia interrupted. “Joanne’s old enough to come up with her own shenanigans, Crane. You should know - I heard about the Italian PER.” She finished with a large teasing smile.

Italy… what a mess. Europe as a whole had been. He was younger, a lot less restrained, PER was still somewhat young and more daring in their actions, with a lot more leeway. 

They were all riding higher than they should.

Literally. His old group hijacked a helicopter - an old EC155 - from the Bundespolizei, hours before the Barrier swallowed Munich. He had faked an injury to the policemen running rescue, making them fly higher to lessen his apparent blood pressure.

High enough in the skies that a quick swab of potion to the back of the neck wouldn’t doom them to a Newfoal pilot crashing on the buildings.

A lot of stories came out of there, a lot of myths were born. Some memories that Crane cherished dearly. Some that he wasn’t particularly proud of.

“Aha. That’s the face of somepony who’s reminiscing~” Felicia chirped, wagging a finger. 

Crane didn’t bother acknowledging her, losing himself in the large windows and the snowy countryside shown in them.

Barth harrumphed from the couch, looking at the flickering embers. “Fucking Skies. Figures the Opposer bitch would be the one losing our shit. Bet she was planing this from the start.”

At the mention of the pegasus, the room took on an uncomfortable atmosphere. Alice was the only one who looked lost.

“Mr. Vega, I understand not being... thrilled with Ms. Skies actions, but let’s not be too forward here. It’s not as though… as though she went to the PHL. Or anything of the sort,” Bucky said, unsure of his words.

Bart gave a single, booming guffaw. It sounded to Crane like a bear coughing its lungs out. “Yeah, right. She was just taking a stroll outside for some fresh air, no warning us or nothing. And this asshat blew her fucking shoulder out for the hell of it... know what?” He sneered towards Crane. “I sincerely fucking believe that last bit.”

Crane’s nails dug into his palms, though he maintained a neutral face. “Don’t pretend to know what I have to do and why I do it.”

Bart scoffed in return. “You Fix-its and all that hush-hush bullshit. I’d much rather just throw those government-loving, corporate-licking bastards some well-deserved potion.”

Crane tried, but failed to keep his face from twitching. “Fixers,” he corrected in a forced tone.

Stalwart stomped her hoof. “I will be deciding what to do with Skies, after Crane interrogates her,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “Now, somepony go get Bucky’s tools. My crystal focus hasn’t seen this much use ever since Washington, and the old girl is getting testy.”


***


Dice turned out to be the one to go outside and get the poles stuck in the roof. They were a bit dented at the tips and frozen all over, but the crystals seemed just fine. According to Bucky, that was all that mattered.

They decided to go up to Seeker’s shared bedroom for the scholarly stallion to have his desk to work in peace. Crane noted that Alice had followed him upstairs and away from the warm fireplace, though decided not to comment on it. 

Crane wouldn’t want to be near Bart either. The chip on that wanker’s shoulder just seemed to grow.

Seeker wasn’t inside the very well-kept room, with all its furniture neatly cleaned and properly aligned. He heard she had insisted on keeping the same bedroom, nevermind that she was pregnant and it was on the second floor 

If you could call a internal veranda overlooking a lobby ‘the second floor’.

Crane could hear some comotion inside the bathroom that was annexed in the back of the room, and figured that’s where the mare was. Joanne was supposed to be up here too, but she was nowhere to be seen. That girl could be quite sneaky when she wanted to.

Bucky seemed completely ignorant of the lack of people. He focused entirely on arranging all his tools on the desk, ordering them by size and utility. He fumbled a bit with two poles that apparently had the same length, then shrugged and put both on top of each other.

Once satisfied, he nodded and pulled Crane’s arm with his magic, plopping a stool for him to sit his flank and work on the crystal contraption. All the while humming an annoying little tune.

Crane didn’t get a stool, so he had to awkwardly hunch over and watch as all the metal poles floated around with precision, every so often having arcs of electricity jump between them and his PDA.

Just as he started losing himself counting the wrinkles of the wood in the desk, he faintly heard the click of a door being unlocked. 

A soft voice broke through his bored self. “My Celestia. I didn’t quite believe Bucky when he told me. Four days and you don’t even come up greet me, Francis?”

That was Seeker’s voice, the earth pony mare standing right in front of the bathroom. She had a light-red coat bordering on brown with a maroon mane, cut short. It reminded Crane of a slightly longer pixie cut.

She looked visibly pregnant. Way more than Crane would’ve expected since he last saw her. Three months ago, nobody even suspected she might be carrying, yet there she was, looking like she’d been at it for six months.

If they got hit by one of the HLF groupies or, even worse, a PHL raid… she wouldn’t be able to outrun them. She was already a bit unstable on her hooves as it were. It was a grim thought, but one that couldn’t escape his mind.

All the more reason to deal with this new threat in the northwest as soon as possible. The longer they waited, the worse it could be. 

Crane cleared his throat from his uncomfortable position. “Ah, morning, Seeker. Sorry about that, I was busy helping the Newfoals seal some of the windows, then Stalwart wanted help making glue grenades with the last of our solidifying paint...”

Seeker held her hoof up, stopping him. “I understand completely, Mr. Crane.” There was a warm, motherly smile touching her muzzle. “I, for one, am glad we have you back. Sun knows my bloated flank will need it.”

“You look fine,” he said. “When are you due?”

“I honestly don’t know. The spells I have are not really suited for obstetrics. I’d much rather work with Newfoals than actual foals.” She chuckled. “They kick less.”

Alice choose that moment to clear her throat and make herself known. “Excuse me, Ms. Seeker? I believe I could help with that.”

Seeker turned to look at the voice, surprise on her face. “Oh my. Pardon me, dear. I didn’t even see you there.”

Alice had a comforting smile, the kind you expect to see on a friend bringing good news. “That’s quite alright. I’m Doctor LeBlanc.”

Seeker gave an acknowledging nod, then put a hoof to her breast. “Thrill Seeker, Newfoal physiologist. I know, not a very fitting name for an old mare like me.”

Crane scoffed at that. She looked barely five years older than Alice herself, even with the foal on the way.

Seeker continued unperturbed, “You’re from Canterlot General, I assume?” 

Alice nodded surprised, with her mouth hanging slightly open at the accurate guess.

“I knew it. I could never forget those customized medical coats. They were a hit on the Bureaus,” she explained, pointing at the accessory in question.

Alice looked at her own white coat - no, not her fur -  and smiled, fondling her lapel. “Well, they are quite comfortable.”

Seeker approached Bucky, still slaving away on the crystal device. “Bucky, you didn’t tell me there were new ponies!” She gave him a playful jab in the flank.

The stallion jolted with a shrill whine, neatly combed mane momentarily disheveled. Crane suppressed a snicker, though he didn’t bother hiding a smirk.

Bucky settled down with a nervous chuckle, hoof dusting his brown vest. “Sorry, dear. Stalwart sprung this up on us just today.”

“Blast.” Seeker cursed, her brows knitted together. “Of course she did. Let me guess: she wants you to do the labor.”

That had been directed at Alice, who rubbed a foreleg sheepishly. “Well, my specialty is mnemology but… I have some experience with parturition.” She looked up with a timid smile. “Emergency shifts are no joke, heh.”

“Oh, that mare.” Seeker said, her tail flicking angrily. “As if stopping Bart from converting wasn’t enough, she rips a doctor from Canterlot - one with emergency training no less! I swear, I’ve never met a more stubborn pony.”

“It’s no problem at all.” Alice said. “I actually chose to come here, originally. To train under -” something caught on her throat “- Mr. Crane.”

Seeker’s right brow spiked up as she turned towards Crane. She didn’t look very pleased, judging by the tight-lipped smile forced on.

He put his free hand up, palm outstretched. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t know.”

Seeker was still staring at him, the hints of a frown ebbing their way in, just to be sweeped away in afterthought. Like motes of dust that the owner found undesirable. 

Crane shifted around uncomfortably, hand still being held in place.

“Well…” Her face finally settled back on its warm features. “Today is just full of sur-”

“Aha!”

A shout. Of course it had been Bucky, his stool falling backwards as he shot up. 

Seeker gave a little jump, caught of guard by her husband’s shout interrupting her. Alice looked startled as well, her ears attentive and eyes widened.

“Bucky!” was his wife’s indignant cry.

Bucky turned to her, head tilted. A clear of the throat was necessary to recompose himself. “Ah, my apologies, gentlemares. It’s fixed, Mr. Crane.”

Took him long enough. His back was hurting like hell. “Alright, thank you Bucky… wait, where’s the nurse?”

Crane was looking the contraption all over. Some of the previously warped metal had been melted back into a clean surface, the crystals now warm to the touch. As smooth and slim as the day they installed it, with just a little bit of an extra thrum of energy he had never felt before. Maybe Bucky gave it a boost?

Though no matter how much he fiddled around with the settings, his tiny companion was nowhere to be seen. The screen looked… empty without her. Like a clock missing one of its hands.

“Nurse? I’m afraid you only have doctors here, Mr. Crane.” Bucky gestured to the room. “Even if I am not of medicinal background myself...”

Crane shook his head, still fussing with the screen. “No, no. The little avatar on the screen. She’s been there ever since… well, ever.”

“On the screen? A background daemon, you mean?” Bucky’s eyes took on a dangerous, excited glint. 

Crane saw the lecture coming a mile away as Bucky’s chest swelled with air and pride. 

The stallion quickly enunciated each word with perfect diction, “Lady Sparkle’s primary architecture doesn’t allow for daemons on such devices. The unix environment of the prole network requires an init process, or a template if you feel daring. Your PDA doesn’t support unix-based appli-”

Crane held Bucky’s muzzle shut, the stallion still mumbling regardless. 

If he could figure out what happened to the tiny pony nurse, listening to Bucky vomit two dozen different books on the matter would not help in the slightest.

“I... eh… got it, Bucky. Thanks for the fix.” Crane got up, his back popping painfully. “Guess I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“But I haven't even explained-!” A glare from Seeker cut his words short. “... nevermind.”

Dusting himself off, Crane left the ponies and their respective goodbyes behind. Alice chose to stay in their room a while longer, to handle some health concerns with Seeker. Questions about her pregnancy and the like. He didn’t mind.

Next to the now closed door, in the shadows cast by the sun’s rays coming through the panes of glass, Crane leaned his head back on the wall and rubbed his eyes.

A trainee. 

A civilian trainee, no less. One that most certainly didn’t fully know how guns worked or how to fight properly - hadn’t even bothered throwing up a shield when she got held up. Judging by the size of her horn and the glow of her corona, she could’ve even put up a decent fight.

This was going to be… complicated. Most unicorns would’ve reacted, no matter his threat. Giving up on their magic was giving up their life to whoever got them with their pants down. This unicorn clearly didn’t have experience with danger, yet here she was, volunteering for Earth.

He didn’t know if he should applaud the effort, or look away to spare himself the pitiful sight.

At least she seemed knowledgeable enough on her area. Crane never worked with a medic before, but he figured it’d be better than suturing his wounds with fishing line. His leg was still aching from that mess he made.

Besides, this wouldn’t take more than two months. After that, she’d either be hopping around places like Granite, or staying in Equestria like Cure. Only some human Fixers really bothered being assigned to a PER cell.

Static blew up in his ears, his tympanus ringing like a bell.

“-rane? Is that you? You’ve pinged in the grid… A-Are you back online? Oh, please be back online!”

Crane winced, massaging his right ear. “Jesus, Vigil. Yeah, I’m here. My hearing on the other hand...”

“Oh, thank the Illustrious Queen. Where did you go? One moment you were there, the next you... weren’t! The PDA’s signal can’t just disappear like that!”

“I...” Crane didn’t continue.

Where did he go?

His eyes roamed the lodge. Coffee was still sitting on the couch, giving an empty stare to the fire, while Bart had gone out for his shift on the patrol. 

He saw Skewer near the foot of stairs, gazing out the window in a searching pattern, her face a comical caricature of a hardy soldier looking for the enemy, hidden in the bushes.

It was pretty quiet now, with most members of their debased group of desperate derelictors either on their own rooms or planning the end of the world. At least that was probably what UNAC was printing about them.

Or maybe ‘humanity’s only hope’ was just raiding another PER safehouse, slaughtering most of the people inside and torching the rest, not once looking back or stopping to think about what they did. No, they were drinking heavy liquor and patting each other’s back for a job well done. 

The Human Liberation Front, the Ponies for Human Life, the UNAC...

‘Damn good aim, Echo 0-1. That bitch’s head is a goner for sure - hell, she’s still twitching! Echo Leader must be proud.’ 

The... goddamned... UNAC.

“C-crane?”

Crane snapped his eyes open and looked down. His knuckles were losing their warm, red color and his fists were tightening ever more. His injured one more so than the other.

Where did he go, indeed.

He slowly opened them, finger joints creaking and snapping in protest. “It’s... complicated. I went off grid, investigated those PER disappearances, found… nobody, then my PDA got damaged.”

“Damaged? How did-? Are you… okay?”

He looked himself over. His leg, his arm. The sting on his brow was barely there anymore. “I will be. Stalwart cleared me just now. So, tell me you’ve got something.”

“Uh, y-yes, actually. Quick Sight sent this one straight to my office just this morning, high priority. Didn’t even pass by Golden Nova.”

“Sight gave you a debrief personally?”

“I know. It’s unlike him, e-especially keeping this from her. He said Pochard thought it’d be a good start for your, uh, ‘newly assigned professor career’.”

Really funny. Seems like everyone in the top brass was having a laugh at his expense. As much as Crane could call those two ‘top brass’. “Right. What are the details?”

“Okay, um… here. Convoy raid at the Confederation Bridge, one civilian truck with no markings - plate Y29 693. Expected resistance is minimal if not non-existent.”

His eyes narrowed. “Unmarked truck, no resistance? The hell does Sight want us to raid, a family running from the coast?”

“Would that be… a problem?”

Crane gave it some thought. “It would be unusual,” he finally said.

“It’s probably not a family. Sight suspects it’s moving important cargo to Montreal, under the wraps. Once secured, you are to confirm the contents and deliver the truck to the nearest PER cell... t-that’d be the one in Port Elgin, I believe.”

“Elijah Cross’ cell.” Crane nodded, even though there was nobody to see it. 

Cross was… quirky, but decent at getting the job done - he was a natural at converting little settlements off the beaten path. “Alright, I can get to the Bridge in two hours max.”

“The truck should be arriving in four hours. I’ll be close to the radio… i-if you need me.”

All right. Seemed like a simple ordeal to be finished in a couple of hours, if a bit weird. Alice would probably need some saddlebags prepared for her, though. Crane doubted the ones she brought were filled with actually useful things.

He descended the stairs, turning to the Newfoal mare still watching out the window. “Hey, Skewer. Do you mind prepping some saddlebags for a day trip?”

Skewer’s ears perked up. Her characteristic lusterless grin growing to meet Crane’s neutral face. 

The grin didn’t reach its usual proportions, though, as a little wince went through her muzzle.

“You alright?” Crane questioned, keeping the concern out of his voice.

She was massaging her temple, with one eye closed. Then she looked quizzically at her own hoof. “Ow… nn- yes? Yes, of course, mister... Crane.” She looked around in a disoriented haze. “Uh, what was I supposed to do again?” 

The confusion didn’t last, and she perked up right quick. “Ah right, saddling. At your service!” she snapped a salute, beaming.

And off she went, sauntering to the kitchen with a singular goal in mind.

Crane fiddled with his ring, swiveling it around on his right ring finger. Who had Skewer been before conversion? All he knew was that she was Dice’s twin, both converted at the same time by the same vial. Yet he couldn’t help but think...

He drew a shaky breath, his mind somewhat disarrayed.

Stalwart, with some probing from Seeker, took care to keep the Newfoals in the cell alive - it’s how they managed to survive so long with a life-expectancy measured in hours. Crane agreed with the idea on principle.

But after Europe, he stopped giving Newfoals the time of day, stopped the friendly banter that they barely ever kept up - maybe it was too human? He limited his interactions to be business-like: hello, thanks, do this, get that, hand me some potion...

That last one usually got them a bit too happy, eyes fluttering open and close as the sounds of bottles broke and wails of horror followed. And the unnatural progression to the screams of bliss.

Much like a horrid creature holding your trembling vocal chords, then surgically pulling each of them taut - one yank at a time - until it was satisfied with the sound.

Crane shook those thoughts away. He had to be ready for this raid. His first real outing after returning to the fold, and he’d be accompanied by a complete unknown that was easily startled and didn’t have horn discipline.

He was better off not wallowing in the past.
> Chapter 3 - First-Time Fumbles
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“To share the supreme knowledge; 

you, with corporeal eyes,

may see what the vain science 

of erring and miserable mortals cannot“

– The Lusiads, Luís Vaz De Camões





“No guns.”

Crane stared at Stalwart as she stood in front of the door to the cold outside, holding his lever-action in her aura - pointed upwards, thankfully.

Alice was by Crane’s side, fiddling with the saddlebags Skewer had prepared while Joanne was trying to help her, to no avail. The slender mare looked uncomfortable, looking every which way with her ears on the fritz, uncertain on burying them in her azure mane. Probably just jitters born from the incoming mission.

Crane was more worried about resisting the urge to snatch his gun from Stalwart’s field, keeping his scowl at a minimum. “We’re going for a convoy raid. I want my gun.”

“Which is classified as a seeding mission, with minimal resistance no less.” Stalwart clearly didn’t care much about hiding her own nasty face. It flew high and proud on her muzzle. “No guns.”

“Seeding mission? Don’t start with your Trailblazer terminology.” Crane locked his arms together, flicking his eyes up to his floating gun and then Alice. “How am I gonna teach the mare without a bloody gun?”

Stalwart scrunched her muzzle up. “Not my problem you took to solving everything with a bullet. Tartarus, this might even teach you a thing or two about our ideals.” She tapped Crane in the stomach.

He didn’t flinch at the jab, opting to stare at her with a raised brow. “How long do you plan on cheesing me off?”

“As long as it takes for you to act like PER.” She floated up another gun, a much thinner one resting by the door, and threw it at him. “Better not think your three month vacation made me forget. Take the bucking air rifle, the car’s already got  some vials - it’s in the same clearing we usually leave it at. ‘Ours is to heal and be reborn’, remember?”

Crane pressed his teeth together to refrain from grumbling. How could he not remember? They just added ‘reborn’ to Caitlyn North’s slogan and called it a day. 

Joanne had finished helping Alice with her bags, as she now stood in front of the mare. “Don’t let him do anything stupid, Ms. LeBlanc.” She leaned in, hand in the side of her mouth in a mock attempt to quiet her faux-whispered words. “Frank can be really pigheaded. It’s not his fault, it’s the brit in him.”

Crane didn’t look back at them, busying himself with adjusting the strap on the rifle, but a smirk was present as he incarnated the best Londonian he could. “I’ll have you know, you’re off your trolley. That’s pure rubbish.”

A giggling Joanne was worth the momentary pain of dipping back into that accent. “Eww, beurk. No, don’t ever do that, you sound like Bucky.” She turned back to Alice and her conspiratory whispering. “Forget the brit, he’s just pigheaded.”

Alice had a timid grin as she looked back and forth between the man and the girl. “I will… take that into consideration, Joanne.”


***


This human was a puzzle to Alice. The difference between his behaviour outside, when they first met in the snow, was such a stark contrast to inside the lodge, she had nearly reeled back. 

He was yet another question put before Alice - one that reminded her too much of Quick Cure when they first met - and also one that would not have its answer in the end of the textbook.

Such was the nature of her area of expertise, helping mend minds. No true answers, just accurate guesses. It didn’t help that she was feeling rather uncomfortable with going on official business so soon - Crane hadn’t even taught her anything yet!

But he was once again back to few words, fewer humours. Leading her through the almost barren trees and uneven white ground, stopping Alice every so often to go a few paces in front and check if everything was clear.

Sometimes he reminded her of a wounded animal, desperately looking every which way for the predator hiding in the bushes, so it could know where to start running. And other times, especially when he went far enough ahead and thought Alice wasn’t looking, he took the mantle of the hunter. Not watching in caution, but searching with purpose.

Scauper, the gray griffon with the odd accent, had told Alice about the unknown group settled somewhere north of them, and she had the distinct impression Crane wouldn’t mind too much if he encountered them. 

Just another thing to add to the list of ‘did not expect, muzzle up and deal with it’, that Alice was mentally keeping track of. The list was longer than she'd have liked, and that too went into the list. Recursion was a wonderful, horrible thing.

Their vehicle came up after a considerable amount of time wading their silent path. It was resting in a clearing close to the main paved road, with some snow mounds clinging to its wheels. Alice wondered if leaving it on the open like that was a wise move, but kept the criticism to herself.

Crane opened it with the keys Stalwart had given them, and quickly motioned for Alice to enter by the passenger side.

The inside wasn’t exactly grand or extravagant. Not like the synergetic Earth checkpoint where she arrived, or the cosy lodge that Stalwart had her group in. But it did stand out on its own.

It was cold machinery with a warm tapestry pulled over it. The entrails of the car weren’t purring yet, but they held power in their every piece. She could feel the cold steel and electrically-conductive materials - hallmarks of humanity - stranded behind the silky cloth of the seats and the rubbery sensation of the carpets. Like a powerful beast whose intestines had been made comforting to those that inhabited it.

Ooh, that was a good one. Alice pulled the notebook that she had sneaked into the saddlebags and noted her musings down, adding a quick sketch of the interior for good measure.

There was a cardboard box in the backseat, filled with glass bottles that clinked as they settled themselves, one large and bulky while the others were small, with feathers tied to the top. 

Crane pulled two colorful orbs from his now unslung backpack, added them inside that very box and rested his thin gun smelling of grapes by the side of his seat.

One turn of the keys and a quiet roar of the engine, and they were on their way to this ‘Confederation Bridge’. A trip that shouldn’t take more than one hour, according to Crane. The roads were mostly silent as they ran their course.

Too silent, Alice noted. She might as well take a page from Trotted Path’s book and strike up a friendly chat. She and Crane were going to spend quite some time together, after all, and it’d help clear the air.

She turned towards him, a polite smile on her lips. “So... What does Stalwart want us to do?”

Maybe asking him about it would help ease the pit forming in her stomach. She felt like she was going into a room blindfolded, and was expected to perform perfectly.

He refused the polite gesture and didn’t turn as well, keeping his eyes on the road. “Stalwart would much rather we stay back twiddling our thumbs. Quick Sight and Pochard want us commandeering a lone truck. They are the ones sourcing this.”

Her smile remained through his somewhat cold shoulder, but it was now laced with confusion. “Pochard? I don’t think that name ever came up.” She rubbed her forehooves together, the smile turning sheepish. “Admittedly, my knowledge of the Fixers is not as encompassing as I’d like it to be.”

He twitched his eyes to her, then back to the road, face tinged with some curiosity of his own. “You got through Quick Sight’s absurd standards without knowing who Jones Pochard is?”

Alice’s response was a simple shrug. To be honest, she had never been interviewed by Sir Quick Sight. Only the Loyalty Guard bothered with the personal checks. And it wouldn’t be the first time she had gotten through limiting standards with some cheeky back-and-forth of her own. Politics ran in the blood, whether she liked it or not.

It was the first time she did it without her family’s intervention or the gentry’s support, however. And what a wonderful feeling that had been, as if stretching wings she never really had and just leaping. To glide into a spot in the Sun all her own... even if Earth’s sun wasn’t quite the one she grew up with.

Crane clicked his tongue, mulling over something in his head. “Pochard was the first. He created the Fixers out of his old PER cell, and Quick Sight was his first volunteer - the only pony one for quite some time.”

Alice listed her head to the side, something not quite adding up about Crane’s explanation and what she knew for a fact. “Wait. I thought Sun- Golden Nova was your leader.”

Crane narrowed his eyes, yet kept them forward. “She is. The official head, that is. Stays on the other side of the Barrier playing politics with her equestrian Fixers. Pochard is the acting head, the ideal to hold the rest of us up to. There's a lot of back and forth between them, especially after Pochard disappeared for almost half a year.”

The ideal Fixer… whose practices and standards Alice had absolutely no idea how to fit. Because she didn’t even know he existed in the first place.

Ugh! Could this man just… slow down and do things as a teacher should? Lesson first, aptitude test later. Even Doctor Sinew knew that much, horrid professor that he was.

Alice reigned in her frustration, trying for a diplomatic tone. “I, uh… are you sure we should be going on a mission so soon, then? Clearly there are some... things I wasn’t made aware of, and-”

“This one’s time sensitive, so no going back.” He finally looked away from his precious road and to the mare sitting shotgun. “Relax. This should be pretty quiet anyway.”


***


The Confederation Bridge was an enormous thin line that disappeared into the horizon. The thing was supposed to connect mainland Canada with Prince Edward Island, using a box girder structure to achieve that task. 

Crane didn’t really know all the history behind it. He heard some locals calling it ‘The Fixed Link’, but that was about it.

He had stopped the car in the little road that went under the end of the bridge. Stretching his neck out the window, he could see quite nicely any trucks approaching from the north. He couldn’t, however, read their plates from down there.

He killed the car’s engine and tugged at his gloves. “Alright. I’ll have to go up and wait. You stay in the car.”

Alice opened her mouth, maybe to protest, but decided on saying nothing. One of her ears was attentive, yet the other was folded back.

Crane reached for the box in the back, pushing aside a large gallon of vinegar and picking two orbs that swirled with multicolored paint. With them and the air rifle in hand, he threw open the door and got out. He barely heard Alice uncertainly wishing him good luck.

Crawling up to the little hill the bridge ended on, he found a spot in the tall grass that served well enough to watch all the comers and goers without being seen. With the sun setting soon, the movement was very slow, if not outright non-existent. 

The reason was simple enough: the Barrier was coming, and this bridge was the main connection between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. When the time came, it’d be the first thing the Empire would want destroyed, stranding everyone left on the Island to potion bombardment. Most people who recognized the death-trap left it long ago. 

Not all, though. One car passed by harmlessly, looking for all the world like it was just going on a slow tour. Five minutes later and a van came, this one with some bags strapped at the top - nothing of note. 

He could see Alice’s muzzle frowning by the windshield, her ears folding ever more backwards. Don’t like sitting still, Ms. LeBlanc?

It was only in the eleventh minute that Crane spotted a truck, coming through the lonely bridge with no other vehicles accompanying it. The number of the plate tugged his lips up: ‘Y29 693’. It was going faster than the speed limit would demand, betraying the hurry of the driver to reach his destination.

Not fast enough to throw Crane’s aim off, however. He was PER after all - hurling things with force and precision was kind of in the job description.

The grenade hit the mark, right on the grill of the vehicle. In the same instant, color exploded and engulfed the whole front, solidifying a second later. The tires locked in their position, and the brakes weren’t fast enough. 

The truck left the lane, then the pavement, and crashed down the hill.

The impact on the tree by the side road - just in front of the abandoned Cape Jourimain Nature Centre - almost made Crane wince. The tree was tilted by the force of the hit, but its roots held it in place.

He threw an okay signal back to the car and Alice nodded slowly, her deep blue eyes quivering as she chewed on her cheek. 

Huh, he wasn’t really expecting her to recognize the gesture. He’d done it on instinct.

‘Always communicate. Keep the intel flowing. Fail that, and those fecking bastards will have you by the balls.’

Crane shook his head as he looked back at the Confederation Bridge’s length, seeing far into the other end. Nobody was coming. He was clear to run to the ‘accident’.

He slowed down once he approached the scene, one hand on the air rifle strapped to his back. The truck, surprisingly enough, held strong. The glass wasn’t broken, the fuselage was only slightly dented, no smoke was coming off the motor. The glue grenade had done the trick, the hard crust taking the brunt of the damage.

The front door, slightly ajar, was thrown open as a chubby man dropped from it. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, his head bleeding from an unseen injury hidden by the thinning brown hair.

Crane kneeled next to him to check if he was still breathing… he was. Knocked out cold and barely alive, but alive nonetheless. They could probably just tie him and-

Something fell from the back of the truck, a heavy thump marking their presence.

Crane snapped his eyes up, seeing armored boots from under the truck’s carriage. Someone in the back had opened the doors and dropped to the road.

He’d seen those types of boots with mint-green highlights before. Better yet, he saw bastards wearing that thing survive frontal spell hits and .308 gut shots at less than a hundred meters. PHL ceremonial armor. Wholly potion-proof.

The air rifle strapped to his back felt pretty useless right about now.

“What the fuck was that, Rusty?” the soldier yelled in a high-pitched voice. Female, probably late twenties. She sounded disoriented.

Being low to the ground already, Crane saw the opportunity and quickly crawled in the underside of the truck, keeping her feet in sight the whole time. The asphalt pebbles scattered by the crash prickled his forearms through his clothing, but none perforated it.

There was no way he was going to take this woman down without some advantage. Her armor would absorb any kind of punch he could throw. And, if he remembered right, the neck covering would leave enough room that choking her out would take far too long.

‘No resistance’ his ass. Stalwart might as well have crippled him for this.

The soldier stomped her way to the left of the truck - Crane’s right - intending to check on the driver, probably. She stopped in her tracks, though, gasping at seeing him laying on the ground, bleeding.

“Ah, shit. Rusty!”

That moment of shock-and-stop was all Crane needed. He grasped the metal curtain in the side of the truck, curled his leg in and heaved. His foot shot out right into the back of her knee.

The armored leg didn’t just buckle, as Crane thought it would. It flew up, like a kite with a strong gust of wind. Her body fell in tandem, momentum snapping her head on the ground with a plastic-sounding thud.

Crane couldn’t lose the pressure now, lest she recompose herself. Pulling himself out from under the truck, he threw his own body at her, pinning her legs with both his knees.

She had a rifle - M16, modern handguard with a vertical foregrip, a sucker for the old reliable. There was a strap keeping it tight on her torso, so no chance of taking it away.

Her right hand went for the gun. She managed to fold her fingers on the grip, but that was as far as she got. Crane’s left hand seized her wrist and kept it away from aiming at him. 

She still managed to squeeze the trigger. A hail of explosions called off and metal plinks, rocky splinters and a meaty thud replied in kind. The barrel soared erratically with the recoil.

Crane couldn’t risk another burst. Even with the clean bridge, somebody might check on the sound, a bullet might ricochet on him… he had to take her out. There had to be a weakness.

Both their muscles burned, teeth bared as they tried to overpower one another. Crane was taking the edge, forcing her down ever so slowly. Her free left arm was thrashing about, hitting him on the shoulder pad harmlessly. She didn’t have the reach to hit his face.

What he recognized between the flailing limb, was that her gas-mask was of old design. From before the PHL R&D came up with a better version. Nearly impossible to forcibly remove... but at the cost of having a brittle unified visor.

Jackpot.

Crane hammered his fist into the transparent cover, the solid knuckles of his gloves bouncing with a resounding whump. 

Instead of the energy being redirected, as it would’ve been by the newer equipment, the visor absorbed it all. He could see the woman’s green eyes wince in an unconscious reaction as she grunted from the impact.

A little white crack slithered on the side, by one of the many pins.

Crane didn’t stop, abusing her confusion from the first blow. Another hit, and the cracks engorged. One more, and he felt the air hissing from the fissures, the pressure pushing it out. He hoisted a fourth, and brought it down mercilessly.

Her face flew to the side with the power behind the punch, shards of the protective casing flying alongside it like droplets of rain reflecting the sun. The visor lay broken. 

He reared his fist for a final blow, this one to be a knockout.

Except her left arm was reaching to her waist. Crane saw the round device strapped there, and the two knobs ready to be tapped. A shield-generator, fully charged but switched off. 

If that thing went on...

He changed the target of his reared fist, going instead for her left elbow. Not enough to crack her forearm - though a weak-spot, his punch was no bullet - but enough to pin her arm to the ground, away from the generator.

Unfortunately, with both hands being held like a clumsy couple in the middle of a dance, Crane was open for the perfect headbutt. 

Her forehead impacted his nose - the goddamned nose again - and some of the pieces of the visor scraped his skin. Darkness exploded in the corners of his vision.

The woman had put so much desperate force in the headbutt, Crane fell backwards with a groan of pain. And she didn’t let up.

Maybe in the heat of the moment, she forgot about her gun. She looked young, after all. Little training. Probably got in the PHL through a pony friend of hers. Or maybe she thought his own reinforced kevlar would hinder her bullets. In any case, she chose to fall on top of Crane, hands grasping his throat.

The position of her arms didn’t let him abuse the opening in her visor. He tried hitting her elbows again, but they held strong.

She squeezed his neck harder, eyes squinted in anger. It was obvious she didn’t have the strength to break Crane’s neck, but she could still restrict his airflow.

He tried punching her abdomen… no luck. The ceramic piece protected it too well. He might as well be lightly shoving her there.

His fingers were becoming numb. His lungs burned, begging to receive the oxygen that never came. He had to come up with something in the next minute or he was done for. 

Think, don’t panic. Where is the opening?

Her arms were locked in. Her torso was protected. She had him down to rights... but her stance was unstable. If he could prop himself on his forearm, he would have enough leverage to turn her over. Her gun was also awfully loose now...

A bottle hit the woman in the face, breaking apart in a dozen shards as her head snapped backwards. Some purple liquid sprayed back alongside spittle and blood. She yelped in pain.

And then she screamed.


***


Alice had heaved the bottle as hard as she could with her magic. Maybe too hard, considering she felt something give as she hit the human on top of Crane.

But she didn’t know what else to do! That soldier, a woman maybe? She was attacking Crane, and then she heard the same explosions from before - gunshots! - and… and she was supposed to sit back and watch? Hope whatever was left could be healed?

She was trembling slightly, magic still holding the broken bottle with the feather tied to it, but the situation seemed to have calmed down. Crane had gotten to his knees, massaging his throat, while the woman…

Oh, dear Celestia, the woman.

Her armor highlighted in mint-green had ripped in certain parts as her limbs bulged. Little pores littered her skin like maggots in their nests, crawling all over and leaving their trails in the color of purple fur. Snapping and warping bone, deciphering how best to serve the new chrysalid.

Her eyes scuttering about, independent of each other, slowly but surely glazing over. Their irises bleached clean of their green, growing in size to their new blue pools of color. Her ears were climbing on her skull, leaving spots of discolored flesh as they accommodated themselves on the top of the head.

Then were the wails that gripped Alice’s stomach and cinched her mind. Cries of terror and the gurgles of someone being drowned. No matter how deep she buried her ears, the sounds kept ringing. They had come knocking, and it was her turn to answer.

A hand reached out to her. Maybe in anger, maybe in desperation, maybe just sinews stretching rigidly. Alice couldn’t know. The fingers in it didn’t last long enough to convey any message. They snapped back, rolling onto themselves as a snail would when flayed by salt. 

Then they disappeared, the whole hand pulling back into the sleeve, leaving a flacid piece of protection to clunk listlessly in the asphalt.

There was a golden logo printed on the piece: a lyre. The lyre. Scuffed, discolored, and with a drop of viscous purple liquid slowly dancing its way down, to the soundless tune of the strings, until it dripped on the ground. A lonely plip.

Finally, silence. The mass of armor and cloth carefully covering whatever lay inside, unmoving, like the wrappings of a newborn... no, not a newborn. A Newfoal.

A gloved hand suddenly reached over Alice’s face, and she almost shrieked. As it were, the sound caught on her throat, choking itself in a pitiful mewl.

“Hey... hey!” It was Crane’s gruffy voice. “Don’t go frolicking on your thoughts, now. Breathe.” 

He had pulled Alice’s sight away from the… that. His eyes bore into her, brows pulled down. Was it concern? Contempt? She couldn’t decipher anything right now.

“T-that…” Alice drew a shaky breath, some part of her mind trying to follow his advice. “That was…”

“Yeah. Battle variants are that way.” Something about his frown… Alice felt there was a lot more he wanted to say, yet he didn’t. “She’ll be... fine.”

Alice sure hoped so. There were the weak reminders in her mind: this was for the better. It was everypony’s duty. Not only to Equestria, not only as a doctor, not only to the Queen… but to Harmony itself.

But those reminders were feeling pretty weak at the moment, pushed aside by the bloated feelings that spewed from that scene and stitched themselves into her soul. Alice’s shuddering, almost hiccuping breaths spoke well enough of it.

She was shocked out of her brooding by two purple legs clutching her neck and a warm face caressing hers in an affectionate nuzzle.

“Oh, thank you so much!” chirped a voice. A familiar voice.

Alice snapped her neck around, horn glowing and ready to… to something. The two large blue eyes that met her stopped any action, however. Those blue pools, that voice...

It was the woman- the mare. She had a smooth, almost glistening purple coat and deep blue eyes that weren’t entirely focused, lost on whatever thoughts were going through her own mind, probably. The short gray mane on the top of her head, in a mohawk, stood in contrast to her dark coat like a beacon streaking by the middle of a rainy night.

Alice noted the two wings resting on her back, with firm muscles and lean feathering - a rather dashing pegasus. She was… smiling. No, not just smiling, beaming from ear to ear.

It spoke of joy, but stood with such contrast to what achieving that joy entailed... Alice couldn’t help but feel the needles pricking her spine, all the way down to her tailbone.

“Y-you…?” Alice stuttered. Words were floating around her head, yet she could not catch a single one.

The Newfoal left the hug that Alice didn’t reciprocate, holding her wing out in a greeting. “Glass Breaker, ma’am. At your service!”

Alice saw Crane giving a pointed look at Breaker’s greeting, eyes way too narrowed at those last words. He turned back with a resigned grumble and went to kneel by the other human man, lying on the road motionless.

Usually, Alice would have joined him. In a better state of mind, she would have noticed the pool of blood by the unknown man’s body and jumped to help him however she could. Humans couldn’t support healing spells without serious risks, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use good old fashioned Earth pony techniques.

However, right now, the state of her mind was far from the best it could be. The Newfoal in front of her robbed the little she could manage to think. She was a siphon for her worries, tunneling them all to herself.

Alice held a shaky foreleg over her breast. “I’m L-LeBlanc. You... you thanked me?”

Breaker nodded enthusiastically, with obvious restraint as to not actually jump in place, her short gray mane bobbing with her motions. “Of course, Ms. LeBlanc! You did save me, after all.”

Saved her… 

Some worm in the back of Alice’s mind dared feel… elated at the reassurance. It was the familiar, comfy whisper of fond memories. Of her time signing release forms and being lavished with gratitude by the patient and praised by their family. Truly, the part of her job that made all the rest worth it. 

But she had never needed to cause pain to achieve it, not back then. Hard decisions? Sure. Lost patients? Every doctor had one. Harsh critique? Always, and usually by her own nagging self-doubt. Yet to make a patient writhe in pain, contorting on the asphalt? That one was new.

Did she desire the title of a saviour? The images flashing by her mind and ripping through the tranquil facade didn’t make her feel like one. 

“I... I didn’t-” Alice tried, but was interrupted.

Breaker had put a firm hoof on her shoulder and drooped her wings in an affectionate sign, showing how easily the Newfoal had already adapted to her new body. 

“No need to be modest, ma’am. I was probably going to get shot by that… eugh, gun.” The Newfoal scrunched up her muzzle, but quickly warmed back up. “If you hadn’t helped, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I… suppose so? But… forget about me. Are you okay?” Alice started looking at Breaker's body all over with the precision of a practiced professional, grasping limbs in her telekinetic grip to check for bruises or other worrying signs. “Pain? Any injuries? I heard bone snapping!”

Breaker had a sheepish expression on her face, yet her smile looked none too crooked. Always present, always reassuring Alice she had done a good thing. “Well… nopony ever said being reborn was easy, right? But I’m here, and better than ever. Honest!”

Crane had come back, eyeing the Newfoal and muttering under his breath - something about ‘another damn pegasus’. Alice didn’t quite get it, nor did she appreciate his use of swears in such times. 

“Driver’s dead… stray bullet caught him in the neck,” he said, his mouth in an infuriating neutral downturn that Alice was fast associating with the man’s resting face.

He picked up the gun that was laying in the ground, pulling some kind of metal bolt back and looking inside. Satisfied, he turned to Alice, his face not exactly pleasant. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

She had to quietly shake her head to make sure what she heard wasn’t just a fly buzzing around her mind in the after-effects of shock. Alice mirrored his expression and let her own mouth twist down. “I... was just trying to help.”

He stared at her, his eyes wrinkled in what she could only guess was displeasure. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“You also told me it was going to be quiet.” She couldn’t quite keep her vexation in check this time, for it had been burbling inside and Breaker’s conversion only served to finally boil it. “Would you rather I clap my hooves as you were choked?”

Crane’s expression was steely, keeping steady as a rock in the ocean. Yet something simmered behind his face, promising to turn ablaze at any moment. “I was handling it. You, however, almost splashed me with potion.” 

Curiously, Alice wasn’t sure his frown was entirely directed at her. His eyes were too distant, even as they drilled into her own. But the intensity was undeniable. Whatever he was thinking, it was not a pleasant thought.

“What you did was thoughtless,” he continued as his voice steadily rose up, but never quite reached a shouting level. “Now we’ll have to cart around a damned Newfoal!”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” This man was unbelievable. She snapped her hoof to point at the discarded armor in the pavement. “Not the horrific display just now?”

Crane looked like he was going to enter a tirade. His eyes were narrowed and his stance was hard. But something passed by him, like a shadow winding through his frame, widening his eyes to those of a man who was just visited by an unpleasant reminder.

He was quick to recompose, closing his mouth with a tight jaw. His sigh robbed him of the pressure, shoulders relaxing and leaving whatever he wanted to say behind. “Forget it. This is a waste of time.”

And just like that, he turned around and left Alice to stare at his back.

She was brought back to her thoughts on the man, earlier in the day. This... would be quite the two-month endeavour, she could already guess.

But so had been Quick Cure, when she first arrived at Canterlot General. Alice could still feel the bump that the medical textbook made against her forehead, thrown at her at an alarming speed on Cure’s first psych evaluation. 

And now she might as well have shaped Alice’s life.

Crane, oblivious to her musings, pointed to Breaker then turned his thumb back at the body on the ground. “You, dump the body in the water and clean away the potion.”

Breaker snapped a crisp salute of her wing to Crane, then sauntered up to the cadaver and hoisted it onto her back with ease. She barely strained with the chubby man’s weight, using her wings expertly to keep the balance of the body.

Alice wanted to protest the treatment of the cadaver - obviously not up to par with how they treated the deceased back in Canterlot - but wisely decided on not riling anypony up any further. Maybe some other time, when cooler heads were prevailing, she could ask that they be more respectful with the recently departed.

Or better yet, that they be more careful not to have any recently departed to begin with.

“LeBlanc.“ Crane was looking at her, his face a void of expression. “Just... get the vinegar in the car. It’s the large jug. Spray it around the front of the truck and the paint should melt. You can do that, yeah?”

Alice pressed her lips together and nodded without another word. She trotted back to the car, leaving the truck - and the lifeless bundle of armor that Breaker had been wearing - behind.

All the way, she caressed the area where Breaker had nuzzled her, mind whizzing back and forth, up and down, with no signs of being able to make sense out of the waves crashing onto her body, thrashing her all around the place.


***


Crane left both mares behind, going instead to confirm the cargo. 

The walls of the truck were looking quite inviting for his head to bang upon them until the dent was visible. It would do as much good as his latest brilliant behaviour.

First he exposed himself to get an opening to shoot Skies, then he brought Alice out here, then he hoped she wouldn’t interfere while he got everything done, and now he admonished the mare on the predictably imperfect job...

That last one hit Crane the worst, like a bucket of cold water once he realized he was doing it. And it had sneaked up on him, too; that petty diatribe of ‘if it’s not perfect then it’s not good enough’, it reminded him too much of...

It stung having that applied to himself, but applying it to others? It wasn’t like him. Couldn’t be. What he wanted... needed was to just ease back into the mind-numbing commonality, or it would cost them dearly. Even Alice, who doesn’t even know what she got shafted into.

His mind went to the M16 now strapped to his back. Maybe if he hadn’t been denied a gun, then none of it would’ve happened. One shot in the woman’s leg, another to the visor, and they wouldn’t have a Newfoal to contend with...

Except that lie was so thin, even Crane didn’t believe it. He had done without guns before. All of the PER had, and a lot of them still did - the ‘true believers’ that scoffed or sneered at Crane’s preference of lethality over conversion. That wasn’t what was new about this. 

Deep down he knew the real reason for his hasty behaviour. It was shrouded in the glint of moonlight on the shattered windows and the dew on rotting wood walls, the marks of boots left on the snow, the metal jaws that caught his leg unaware...

And there he went, breaking his own self-suggestion of not wallowing in the past. 

Just forget. Forget about before - for good this time. Forget those three months away and alone. Forget about… 

What’s done is done, and Crane made sure it was done for good. Case closed, eyes forward, next in line.

Besides, his nose wouldn’t survive the imprinting on the solid metal walls.

He shook his head, focusing on the truck in front of him. It had the back doors already open, where the - former - woman had dropped from. A short leap, and he was inside of the stuffy metal coffin.

It was filled with wooden crates with a red cross marked on them, four pink hearts on each nook. Further in the back, there was a little alcove with a steel chair, some magazines and papers - probably where the soldier was staying at. A nice little refuge from the cold metal, keeping the darkness at bay with a little light bulb strapped to the wall with tape, powered by a tiny battery on the ground.

There were also some cabinets tied down to the sides. They looked like they were carefully removed from an office and stuffed inside this truck, judging by some of the dust still atop them and the paint flakes on the bottom. File cabinets, locked with sturdy padlocks that sparkled in the hue of the setting sun.

Crane brought up his left arm, rolling up his sleeve and unveiling the PDA there. The lack of the pony nurse still stung a little, if only to remind him that somehow things weren’t the same anymore. That his comfort zone, sweet little lie that it was, was teasing him by staying just long enough to create a craving, then running away like a chuckling seductress.

The PDA connected to Vigil’s contact quickly enough. “Yes? Who is it?”

Crane couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Vigil… I’m the only one with this frequency.”

“Oh… y-yes, of course you are. Sorry, Crane.”

“No worries. Truck’s ours, by the way.” Crane cautiously approached one of the crates, pushing the lid open. It wasn’t nailed down. “There are used medical supplies here, along with some file cabinets.”

“That was… quick. Were there any issues?”

“The driver’s dead, and we got a Newfoal. Some PHL woman that was guarding the cargo.” Crane bit back a remark about a heavy trooper with shields classifying as ‘minimal resistance’. Vigil wasn’t responsible for this intel, after all. He just relayed the information. “What should I be looking for?”

“A guard? That’s… oh dear. L-let me get in contact with Quick Sight. He didn’t exactly tell me what… yeah.”

Case in point, Sight was being shady with the intel. Because why would an Imperial handling human resources ever care about sharing information?

With nothing better to do as he waited for confirmation of the cargo, Crane decided to check the place his assailant - now calling herself Glass Breaker, irony be damned - had occupied.

The light bulb had survived the crash unscathed, with some old magazines from before the War all disarrayed on the floor. The woman was probably relishing in the nostalgia… or just plain didn’t have anything better to read. 

Guard duty was hellish, and Crane knew it well. The opportunities to help the Imperial Army guard something were few - usually just to help their understaffed sections - but one was already too many, the sheer bore that it was. 

Whenever they weren’t ambushed like this truck, that is.

There were also what looked like bland pages of paper with neat writing resting by the side of the chair. Letters penned with blotchy ink, dried by candlelight. Someone was a sucker for the old days… or an equestrian.

Crane picked one up, if for nothing else then to check if it had anything he should be worried about. Breaker wouldn’t mind... Newfoals never minded.

‘Hey, Diane. Yes, I am writing you a letter in ink. I did it with one of my own feathers, too. I thought it’d be, I don’t know, romantic? Sue me.

How is the North treating you? I know they have some interesting side projects in Canada. 

Take up some initiative, offer to help them. Trust me, PHL loves that, especially if you have an earth pony officer. Industriousness is their whole jam, or so the stereotype goes. Kind of like us pegasi and flying.

I’m looking after Marco, just like you asked. He’s doing fine, but sometimes he disappears out of nowhere and his ‘friends’ refuse to tell me where he goes. I think he’s still hung up on that attack on Venice... even though it’s been years. 

You should really talk to him, y’know? Get him off this path of his. It won’t lead anywhere good.

In any case, be safe, enjoy your time there. And get a better mask! I know you’re keeping that old thing with you still. Just because it saved you once doesn’t mean it’ll save you always. I didn’t call in those favours to get you that nice suit of armor for nothing!

I miss you already,

Top Shelf’

Diane then. Poor girl. Wrong place at the wrong time, or so Crane comforted himself with. Not that it mattered anymore. That name was dead. 

But this Marco guy… an attack on Venice? Crane had been there, and the last attack he remembered was the one he participated, in conjunction with Imperial forces. The city was wiped clean, the canals running purple as his group hovered above on their stolen helicopter, raining conversion below.

The PDA crackled to life again, robbing Crane’s attention. “Sight confirmed the medical supplies, but he said Pochard wants you to check the cabinets.”

So Pochard was keeping tabs on this as well. That was... interesting. Normally he’s way too busy, and that couldn’t have changed much after he returned. Being away for six months couldn’t have made his assignments any easier. Well... not that Crane was one to talk. He was missing for his own three months as well. 

No wonder the Trailblazers dissed on Fixers so much. Disappearing doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“One second,” Crane said, approaching the cabinets. There were some plaques denoting what exactly was inside of them, but the locks stopped his attempts at opening any one. 

Now that Crane had a closer look, he saw that the sparkle on the padlocks wasn’t just the glint of the sun. It was the distinct equestrian magical glow, much like the aura of an unicorn. Except this one was more than one layer, with three coronas of darkening mauve hues encompassing the padlocks.

“They’re magically locked, looks like heavy-duty spells... but I think I can make out the labels.” He squinted slightly in the darkness, the sun now almost completely gone. There were three sections with fading letters as their titles. “It’s just a bunch of medical gibberish to me. Prognosis, Diagnosis and... Anamnesis, I think? They’re a bit faded.”

“O...kay. Let me relay that to them.”

This was a curious one, indeed. You put a guard in the back of a truck if you want protection, but also discretion. PHL didn't want anyone thinking this was their cargo... and as far as Crane saw, it really wasn’t all that much - even with the few crates of medicine. Yet Sight and Pochard got wind of it regardless.

“Well, they sound satisfied… I think. Sight’s instructed you to divert the delivery to the cell in Port Elgin. Good work, Crane.”

With one last look around to make sure he didn’t miss anything, Crane dropped outside and closed the doors. Breaker was flying back from the ocean and Alice had finished cleaning the front tires, the large vinegar jug floating half-used by her side. 

Now to hope it would still drive well. 

“Alright. Come on, you two,” Crane said with a nod. “We’re taking the truck.”

Alice looked back at the underside of the bridge, still looking discomforted. “Are we just going to leave the car there?” she asked.

Crane waved his hand, keeping to his walk towards the cabin of the truck. “It’s rewaned. Don’t worry.”

Breaker strolled up to his side, that anemic smile still present, and still without target. Just existing, like a druggie with no reason to be happy, yet happy nonetheless.

Alice passed by him as well, but she wasn’t so forthcoming, as her frown attested to her confusion. “Re… waned?”

“Acronym. Reverse Want-it Need-it - as long as it stays still, nobody finds it. Shieldwall came up with it, I think.” Crane allowed the mares to hop into the cabin before he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Now settle yourselves. This thing will take a lot longer to get to Port Elgin than the car.”


***


“Extend your right wing for me, please… does this hurt?”

A blue aura pinched the side of the limb, eliciting no reaction from the Newfoal. “I feel absolutely fantastic, Ms. LeBlanc.”

Breaker was sitting in the middle of the unified seat like an obedient dog, and Alice was toddling over her like a concerned parent. Crane was holding his head up with his elbow propped on the dashboard, steering the vehicle with his other hand.

He rolled his eyes. “The Newfoal said she’s fine, Alice.”

“Now the left one. Extend and hold,” the good doctor said, ignoring his protest.

A feathery appendage smacked Crane in the face. He spluttered, pushing the wing back to Breaker’s side as his other hand tried keeping the truck steady. “Fucking hell, can’t this wait? I’m driving here.”

“Well, excuse me for being a little concerned.” Alice continued with her inspection, spreading the feathers to check Breaker’s primaries. “That conversion could have hurt Breaker in any number of ways, so I’d like to be thorough. Maybe I should ask Seeker about this...”

Crane slowly put his elbow back in the dashboard, then propped his head once again with a quiet grumble. “Wasn’t the conversion designed following your Archmage’s standards?”

Alice’s gaze was hard as it stared at him. “With all due respect, Lady Sparkle’s standards are not mine. Are you telling me you’re completely okay with that… scene?”

Crane flexed his knuckles as they gripped the wheel tighter.

His seat was feeling uncomfortable, gripping at his legs too much - which made no sense since it had felt just fine for the past half-hour drive. He tried to ignore it.

“... Newfoals can take it,” he finally offered.

“Does that mean they should?”

Crane furrowed his brows, not answering the question.

That didn’t deter Alice from continuing, as he hoped it would. It only encouraged her further. “Wouldn’t you like somepony to help you once you convert, Mr. Crane? ‘Do unto others as you would have them do to yourself’.”

“This war’s gonna kill me before I get to prancing around on grassy fields with glassy-” Crane stopped his words, almost biting his own tongue. That had come out with too much force. “Nevermind... And better not quote that to me. I’ve already done some pretty nasty things to myself...”

He looked down to his left wrist, the smooth crystal device still hidden by his sleeve, always quietly pulsing against his own heartbeat in an arrhythmic fashion.

“Don’t say things like that,” Alice said, a concerned frown ebbing its way into her muzzle.

“Look, better not-”

Crane never finished, instead noticing something coming up on the road.

Something that looked distinctly like an armored car and some police barriers in the middle of the road. There were some plastic road signs passing them by, signaling all vehicles to slow down for inspection.

He perked up, putting both hands on the wheel. “Ah, shit. Checkpoint.”

Alice noticed it as well, looking back and forth between the road and him. She had her horn alight, but was withholding whatever spell was built up. “I… should I put a shield around us?”

Well, at least she asked before doing something this time. 

Crane shook his head. “Not yet. It’d give us away and they could have something that’d pop it. Hold on.”

He slowed the truck down, just enough not to raise suspicion, and put the M16 down in the nook with the worn-out carpet. No need to disquiet whomever this was with a big rifle on his lap. Or with a Newfoal by his side...

“Breaker, lose the smile and put Alice’s bags on your flanks. They’ll spot you a mile away the way you are now.”

The smile wasn’t lost, but it dimmed slightly. “I can’t help that I’m happy, Mr. Crane.”

Yeah, yeah. Crane knew well enough how much of a pain it was to ask Newfoals to just tone it down a little. You know, so people won’t immediately shoot them. They didn’t like it, but if you made it an order they usually complied. Usually.

Now, getting them to curse was downright impossible. Crane remembered Scauper trying to get a Newfoal to say ‘fuck’, long ago, and all he got was a stern scolding by an angry Seeker.

“Lose. The. Smile.” Crane punctuated his words with wags of a threatening finger in front of Breaker’s muzzle. She had gone cross-eyed to observe the movement. “HLF doesn’t do checkpoints this far north anymore, so it’s probably just UNAC or some local police. And I can always fool those bastards, even with you here.”

“But they’re still humans!”

Crane lifted an eyebrow at Breaker’s protest, the pegasus squirming under his gaze. 

“Erm… the bad ones, I mean,” she quickly amended.

“That was an order.” His expression was serrated, not brokering room for any further argument. “Act natural and I’ll make them let us through. If they don’t, Alice can throw a shield up and we run.”

Crane fully stopped the truck once he got close to the lightly armored car parked by the side of the road. He could only see two officers, a really thin one in the middle of the road holding his palm up for the truck to stop, and a bald one by the car’s door with a submachine gun strapped to his side - a H&K MP5, single-fire, from the looks of it.

And not just police officers. They had the UNAC logo on their car and clothing, with very light kevlar coverings. About what Crane expected from a checkpoint duo. This shouldn’t be much of a problem.

The soldier approached the driver’s side as the thin man stood further back, watching the scene with the military-patented scowling face.

“Bonsoir... monsieur,” the bald man started, struggling with the words like a kid reading a sentence for the first time. Clearly a non-native.

“We can do this in english, if you want,” Crane said, adopting a strong Canadian accent. Might as well run with the man’s assumption as his mind raced to come up with a cover story.

“Ah, many thanks. I’m Corporal Mallory and that’s Specialist Campbell. We’re with United Nations Allied Command, as you can see.”

The bald man, Mallory, stretched a hand up with his badge. There was an old photo there, from when he still had long hair, along with his full name and ID. It was legitimate, as far as Crane could remember from the document.

He pulled the badge back and continued, “We’re running a simple search, so if you don’t mind coming down and opening the back of the truck, so we can clear you through...”

Crane checked his shoulder pad - just in case he had forgotten about sticking his PER patch there - and opened his door, hitting his boots on the ground. “Is this gonna take too long? Montreal’s been on my ass for this shipment of meds.”

“Not long at all, sir.” Campbell, the thin one, said with a very thick scottish accent. “The mares have to step off, though. Regulation, you know?”

“Yeah, no worries. Hop off, Glass.” Crane offered the Newfoal his left hand, and she quickly jumped off the cabin. She hit the ground with a wince, rubbing her forehead after. Did the pegasus forget she had wings? Whatever.

Campbell stood next to Breaker, rifle on his hand but not aimed anywhere, finger off the trigger. This was looking good. Just let them check the container, write them off as just another supply run, and keep moving.

Crane motioned for Mallory to follow him as he walked. “C’mon. I’ll open the back for you.”

Mallory was observing him, like he was appraising a piece at an auction. “Osprey armor… that’s some enviable equipment you got,” he said, nodding to Crane’s chest, “Mister…?”

Crane forced a disarming chuckle, waving his hand at the soldier. “A trucker can never be too careful hauling cargo around, eh? Name’s Adam Whittaker.”

“I can relate, Mr. Whittaker. My father used to take me along trips on his tanker,” Mallory said, patting his own vest. Then he turned with a smirk. “We usually didn’t have two mares by our side, though.”

Crane replied with a smirk of his own. “Nothing like that, monsieur. Just came from up north and those two keeners paid me a hefty sum to ride them south.”

“Fair enough.” Mallory glanced over his shoulder, closing in with Crane for a whisper. “That unicorn doctor’s a looker, though. She’s former gentry, for sure.”

Their conversation was interrupted before Crane could respond, however. The moment they got close to the back doors, an animalistic screech stopped both cold.

“Breaker, don’t!” Alice shouted from inside the truck, probably still fiddling with the seatbelt.

Breaker had jumped at Campbell, socking him in the throat and pommeling him with her wings, looking like a mother hen attacking a predator threatening her children. 

The thin man went down, his rifle knocked away, yet Breaker didn’t relent. She jumped atop the man and continuously tried to smear him on the ground. The saddlebags had become askew, leaving her markless flank clear for the world to see.

“Fucking- that’s a Newfoal!”

That had been Mallory, deftly spinning around and shouldering his MP5. He looked horrified for a moment, but anger overtook his features. He was looking at Crane with murder in his eyes.

“You...” the soldier breathed the word out more than said it. The gun was pointing at him now.

“I didn’t fucking know!” Crane yelled, forcing the sound to be surprised. “Shit, I was just giving them a lift!” He kept his arms clear from his hips, palms out to placate the man and a horrified face of his own. Time to improvise and wait for the right time.

The soldier didn’t say anything, but Crane noted he pulled his finger off the trigger.

Campbell was still trashing about, trying to reach for his gun and failing. “Ack! Corporal, get this mangled fud offa-!” he managed to yell before Breaker hit him square in the teeth.

“What are you waiting for?” Crane shouted at the soldier frozen in front of him, pressuring the man even more. “Go shoot that thing and help him!”

Mallory looked conflicted, his eyes turning towards his partner at every scream and grunt that rang out. Crane had the whole day to wait, but the Corporal didn’t know that. His clock was ticking faster and faster.

The MP5 finally lowered, its owner's face set in a hard press. “Stay the fuck still. Move and I’ll fucking shoot you too.”

At the responding nod, Mallory turned around, aiming at the obvious threat at his partner’s throat. He reached to unlock the safety, but the mess of limbs on the ground and the distance would make for a very risky shot.

That had also left Crane out of his eyesight and free to step ever more closer, inching his way forward. The Magnum revolver on the soldier’s hip was a very tantalizing sight. 

That could pass through their bulletproof vests, the MP5 might not.

The desperate visage Crane had put on fell from his face, a scowl taking over. He shot forward, reaching for the holster. There was no time to fiddle with the safety strap and pull the gun out. The barrel was already touching the corporal’s leg, anyway.

With the plastic grip in a firm grasp, a single flex of his finger pulled the metal trigger.

The bullet exploded out, passing clear through Mallory’s bent knee and splattering blood on the road. He faltered with a pained scream, the leg immediately going limp and destabilizing his stance.

Crane finally snapped the strap open and pulled the revolver out, but he wasn’t fast enough to beat Mallory’s reaction. The man had pivoted on his good leg and aimed the MP5 at his chest.

A shot rang out, much quieter than the revolver. It struck Crane like a truck nonetheless. Didn’t feel like it had perforated the armor, but damn did it hurt.

Crane took advantage of the kinetic impact to help turn his torso with a grunt, giving Mallory his profile. It worked to make him a smaller target, the Corporal’s second bullet whizzing by with a crack of air where his shoulder used to be.

Pushing the momentum of his move, Crane abused Mallory’s half-kneel position with a kick to the side of the head. His boot impacted like a hammer and the man’s neck bent like a nail, forcing his center-mass on the destroyed knee.

Mallory yelled, too dazed to react in time and with pain lacing through his body by pressing on an already horrible injury. Crane pulled the revolver up and aimed at the vulnerable man.

Without a helmet, a .44 bullet was final. The head snapped with the bang and the body slumped backwards, splayed on the cold asphalt. The MP5 clattered to the ground, indifferent to the damage it had done.

Dead. Now for the other...

Nursing his ribs and pocketing the revolver, Crane saw that Breaker was still atop the man on the ground and Alice was at the edge of the door, teeth gritted as she tried to pry the Newfoal off with her telekinesis. She wasn’t making much progress, though Crane did notice the truck was now with a blue sheen cast over it - a kinetic shield.

That wouldn’t do. They were now a lot closer to civilization, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect more traffic on the roads. Any scene of conflict was a scene Fixers were better off not being associated with, lest they risk their goals. They needed to get out of there, now.

“Breaker, get in the fucking truck!” Crane shouted among his pained breaths.

“I’ll save him as well!” she yelled back, not relenting her attacks even for a second. Bash, bash, bash. The man under wasn’t even moving anymore. There was no talking her out of it.

With his boots thundering on the road, Crane hooked his arms under Breaker’s flailing form and pulled her away. Keeping his speed, he threw her inside the cabin. The move stung like hell, his chest burning from his injury.

Alice, who was about to jump out, yelped at having a whole body smacking her backwards, but Crane paid it no mind.

He hopped up, hooking his arm on the door, and looked back on the scene. Mallory was done for, laying on the ground as blood pooled around his head in a facsimile of a halo. Campbell looked fine, if you ignored the swollen face, but a closer inspection revealed his throat had caved in, the Adam’s Apple just not existing anymore. He had died drowning in his own false breaths.

With no witnesses, Crane reasoned this could be mistaken by a simple bandit attack, or some encounter with the HLF. The only guns used were Mallory’s, and anybody could cave a throat in with the right angle and force. It should do.

In fact, anything that ended with UNAC with less of their bloated power would always do.

He nodded to himself and entered the truck, slamming the door closed and turning the keys. Crane hit the pedal and the truck surged forward, blowing smoke out the pipes with a rumbling groan.

“Breaker… you shouldn’t have attacked that man,” Alice had said eventually, hunching her neck to be closer to the Newfoal’s face.

“I’m sorry.” Breaker almost whispered as she hugged herself with her wings. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. He just… and I...”

It was rare to see a Newfoal without a smile or at least a positive twist to their expression. Some could frown while they fought, sure, but even then it looked like a happy-frown - if that was even a thing. Crane wasn’t certain if this was better or worse than those glassy looks.

What was up with Newfoals today? First Skewer, now Breaker… was the whole world turning upside down?

Well, that was a meaningless question. The answer had become obvious the moment CERN spit out a pony.

“Shh… it’s alright. You’re fine. You’re safe.” Alice cooed while she rubbed the pegasus’ back. Breaker seemed to be calming down, as her thankful close-lipped smile could attest to.

Alice turned to Crane. More specifically, she was staring at the crater on his vest, still smelling of gunpowder and burned metal. 

“Are you alright? I… I heard gunshots.”

He had been listing to his side, one hand still at the spot the bullet had hit him. His breath was labored and his expression was laced with pain. He hoped that impact hadn’t broken a rib.

“I’ll live,” he grunted, not managing to reach the dismissive tone he was going for.

Some chimes started jingling in response, and the pain in his chest got weaker, little by little. In fact, all his body felt just a little number, as if he had been dosed with a very light anaesthetic. Some aches he didn’t even realize he had been feeling just up and fading into the background.

Almost like magic.

Crane turned to Alice. Her closed eyes didn’t witness the blue glow that bathed the cabin and the windows sparkling with its reflection. Spreading around like a warm blanket, the aura even made the lapels of her medical coat flutter slightly in an unseen breeze.

He kept his eyes on her horn at all times, as if it could turn into a snake, ready to pounce on his neck. 

“I thought healing magic was bad for humans,” he finally uttered.

“It can be devastating,” Alice nodded, letting the glow subsidize and opening her eyes. “But this isn’t healing. I’m just lessening your perception of pain.”

Crane felt tense, in a perpetual state of light discomfort, yet no pain was found. He knew it was there, but his body told him it was barely anything of note. The power of a bullet, being reduced to a very strong punch.

He allowed the astonishment in his tone to fly freely. “You can do that?”

“I did tell you my specialty, did I not?” A note of pride was intertwined with Alice’s words, an unsure smile on her muzzle. “Cognitive remodelling is par for the course in mnemology. Enforced Sensitive Dissonance is the proper term.”

Mnemology… she had mentioned it. Wasn’t it where the ponies ripped memories out of their heads? Or was that just more PHL propaganda he heard about? Crane didn’t quite remember.

“... Thanks.”

Her unsure smile grew more confident. “Don’t mention it.”

The silence that ensued was nice. Crane wasn’t bothered with the quiet, and the white noise of the truck’s wheels rolling away on the asphalt were just as numbing as whatever Alice had done.

The mare didn’t agree with his mental assessment, however, judging by her face still tensing with so many unasked questions.

Sure enough, not a minute later, Alice sprung with another one once again. “Was that… had that been the Opposers?”

Crane didn’t sigh so much as he just breathed hard. “Opposer is just a broad term. We got the lyre-loving PHL wearing that damned instrument almost religiously.”

Then his tone darkened, his expression falling even further. “And then there’s UNAC. The not-so-loving bastards. That checkpoint was them, the truck was PHL.”

“They both seemed… a lot more prepared than I was led to think.” She readjusted herself on her seat, squirming around with her legs. “Wasn’t the PHL supposed to be civilian in nature? Or am I mistaking them for another?”

“No, you got it.” His gaze wandered to his gloved hand cozily sheltering his fingers, and the ring that there lay. “That’s just what happens when you let the military into your charity drive. And UNAC’s about as militaristic as they come, setting checkpoints and fashioning themselves the king of the world.”

“... Will those two men be alright?”

That had come across quieter than the other questions. Crane looked at Alice, and all he could see was innocence gazing at him, her trembling eyes in want of an answer. She hadn’t seen Mallory or Campbell’s bodies up close.

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” was his final response.


***


“They’re waiting for you in the Port Elgin Raceway. T-they will stash the truck until a squad of Trailblazers can take it back to Equestria.”

Crane tapped the PDA and it faded to black once again. “And we can drop off Breaker here as well.”

Alice lifted her head off the cold glass, where Crane knew she was slightly dozing off. The bags under her eyes were prominent on her pristine white fur and her blue mane was getting messy. “Whu… we’re not taking her with us?”

“Newfoals can’t help with supplies - it’s too risky.” He buttoned his sleeve back, hiding the PDA. “And right now, growing the group is the most conspicuous thing we can do. I just hope Cross will take her in.”

Breaker put a hoof on Alice’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ms. LeBlanc. I’m sure that I’ll do fine here... if they will have me.”

Alice was chewing the inside of her cheek, but eventually managed to return the smile. Hers was much more organic, quieted and unsure - at least when compared to the one Breaker had on her lips.

The truck came to a stop right before a big red barn in front of the race track and Crane descended. The ground was muddy, with little grass dotting the brown mush. There were some white picket fences surrounding the property, and the race track itself was fairly distant from the hub of houses and lights further south.

The night hid them well, and the truck’s lights were turned off, but there were already a couple of people at the front of the giant doors to the main barn.

Crane had brought the M16 out this time, keeping it slung on his shoulder, as well as the Magnum revolver shoved in the back of his pants. He wasn’t going to be caught unarmed for a third time today.

There were four men in makeshift motocross armor, with pairing helmets hiding their faces. They stood in a line, with a much more imposing man standing in their front, arms wide open in an inviting gesture.

“Brother Crane! It’s been quite a while,” the soft, elderly voice of Elijah Cross said. He was clad in the same clothes Crane saw him last with, so long ago: the long black overcoat with a brown scarf, almost in a parody of a priest’s robes.

Nobody knew if the old man had really been a priest, nor if he had any religion - he certainly seemed well versed on all the major ones that Crane knew, even if his spoofed dressings indicated a tinge of catholicism.

His long white hair - covering his back like a waterfall - could attest to years of experience, but his attitude was usually much more jovial than one would expect. For one, would an elderly priest carry two repeater-crossbows tied to his back and a bandolier of potion strapped across his chest?

“Elijah…” Crane narrowed his eyes at the man, not returning his grand gesture. The extravaganza was theatrical but, in the end, useless. “I'm not your brother.”

Cross clasped his hands in front of him, in what one would assume is a humble gesture. “Brothers in arms, if not in faith nor blood.”

Crane let his eyes roll the annoyance away. “We’re not exactly fighting on the frontlines here.”

The old man gave a crooked smile - the right side of his face tugging much higher than the left - quite satisfied with continuing the verbal spar. “Yet we fight together, nonetheless.”

Crane sighed, not bothering with the unending replies. Instead, he nodded at the four men keeping them in silent company. “Quite the welcome committee. Have you been briefed about this?”

“One of yours - Quick Sight, I believe it was - contacted me. Keep the truck stashed, deliver it to the Trailblazers that come. Somewhat lacking in information, but I am not one to question the Queen’s will.” He put an arm in front of his chest and bowed his neck. “Unfortunately, I shall be away to cleanse another town in the meantime. But rest assured, my best will stay behind with half my Newfoals and protect this with their lives.”

The four men standing in silence behind Cross reacted at that. A weak wave, a stiff salute, a small cough and a calm peace-symbol. Each with their own gesture.

Four agents and half however many Newfoals Cross had… should be plenty. Crane didn’t think he had been tailed, or that he left a trail for anyone to follow - maybe an exceptional operative could guess he was heading south, but other than that, not much else. Holding the truck should be a breeze.

“Good enough.” Crane waved back at the cabin, motioning for the two mares inside to come out. “We’re going to need a ride to the Confederation Bridge.”

“The Sun provides, Brother Crane. One of my men shall drive you there.”

Alice gingerly stepped away from the truck, looking around with a curious eye. She pulled off that notebook of hers again and started scribbling. Breaker just hopped off, this time using her wings to flap once and landing with a simple thud.

Crane cleared his throat, catching Cross’ attention. “We also got a Newfoal out of this. Can’t take her in right now, so I wondered if you-”

“We will shelter her.” Cross interrupted, putting his palm up in a halting gesture. “I am not one to turn away a Newfoal, Crane.” 

Breaker trotted closer to them, somehow noticing her turn had come up. She was looking expectantly at Cross, especially the bandolier on his chest. Crane could swear her pupils had even dilated a bit at the sight of the purple bottles.

Focusing on the pegasus in front of him, Cross knelt down, a fatherly smile on his face. “And who might you be, little one?”

She snapped her wing to attention, much like she had at the Bridge. Crane noted the smile was still the same, still just as bland. “Name’s Glass Breaker, sir!”

Cross’ fuzzy brows knitted together, his mouth twitching down. “Sir? Ah... you’re a warrior, then. Pity... though it is no fault of your own.” He got up with nary a grunt, the creaking one would expect to come from his old knees not present. “Follow Knight Guerra. He shall introduce you to your fellow warriors.”

One of the four men - the one who saluted - marched over and respectfully shook Breaker’s hoof. He pointed back at the barn, not saying a word but still conveying his meaning. Crane wondered if he was mute. 

Come to think of it, none of his ‘buddies’ said anything, either.

Nevertheless, the Newfoal went after him and into the barn, trotting like a giddy filly downhill a snowy knoll. If one looked just then, they wouldn’t even guess she had caved a man’s throat just over an hour ago.

That reminded Crane...

“Careful with that one,” he lowered his tone as he spoke to Cross. “She went to town on a UNAC guy. Usually, I wouldn’t look twice over that, except I had ordered her to keep quiet.”

Cross kept watching the Newfoal pegasus enter the barn, a dismissive smile on his face. “An instinctual reaction, most certainly. She doesn’t look a day old, after all… Worry not, Brother. We shall help her acclimatize.”


***


Alice hadn’t paid much attention to what Crane and this other man, Elijah, had talked about. Sha had been busy drawing the human race track - which looked surprisingly similar to the race tracks back in Canterlot, if less grandiose or refined - and before she knew it, they had to enter another vehicle.

Of course, she didn’t leave before running inside the barn and catching Breaker before she disappeared, intent on bidding the pegasus a proper goodbye... and sneaking another sketch or two of the inside, just for good measure. 

It had been surprisingly empty, with nopony in sight except Breaker and the man leading her, but Alice assumed the rest were probably further in, or on another floor altogether. The place was big enough to support two, after all.

With that done, a reserved woman that never introduced herself had taken them both back to the Confederation Bridge in a rather sleek car, driving faster than Alice would’ve thought possible. Once there, it didn’t take them as long to return to Wallace with their own vehicle, though Crane made sure not to ride on any of the main roads. 

He left the car in the same clearing it had been before and again they weaved their way through the forest, with Crane taking the lead once more. Almost a perfect rewind of the earlier moment.

The inside of the lodge was a comforting sight for her sore hooves and drooping head. It was late - later than when she’d usually be asleep by now - and that change in the timeframe was affecting her already.

Crane seemed to agree with her unspoken thoughts, pointing to her bedroom with a curt gesture. “Go get some rest. We’re done for today.”

Alice nodded, her eyes already feeling heavy. “Of course. Have a good-” Crane walked away without another word. “... night.”

Well… that was rude. Maybe he was still sore about her mistake earlier. Or maybe he was just as tired as she was. Ugh, maybe it would be better if they just started all over...

Anyway, that was a problem for tomorrow-Alice to work on. Today-Alice just wanted to shove her head on a pillow and pass out.

She let out a dejected breath and approached the couch next to the fireplace. It was closer than her bedroom and she needed a breather just then.

The events of the day were finally hitting her, all at once: spending the whole morning waiting to be cleared, teleporting to Canada, almost being shot, the... conversion, being reprimanded, seeing Breaker jump on that man with such ferocity, and all the little things inbetween… it was a wonder she had witnessed no deaths today.

Her saddlebags slid by the side of the couch and she plopped her back onto it with an unladylike groan. She didn’t much care about being ladylike at the moment - her mother and her tutors of proper behaviour could burn in Tartarus.

“Bit for your thoughts?” a bright voice asked her.

She turned her head. Felicia was sitting next to the now unlit fireplace, with one of the Newfoals laying in front of her - the unicorn twin… Dice, wasn’t it? The woman was brushing Dice’s red mane, the mare with eyes closed and a content smile on her face.

Alice couldn’t help but recognize that smile, even if it was on a different face. Reassuring her the whole trip to Port Elgin: that she was fine, that nothing hurt anymore, that what she did was good. 

It also brought back the sounds of the conversion, the sight of the body distorting, that hand reaching out to her...

Alice shifted away, softly rubbing her eyes. “It’s just… been a long day.”

“You saw your first conversion, right?”

She pointed her wide eyes at Felicia, who was looking at her with a sad smile. 

“How… how did you know?”

Felicia nodded down to the mare on her lap. “The way you’re looking at Dice.”

Oh. Was it that noticeable? Alice caressed one foreleg, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stare.”

Dice gave a quiet whinny, waving a lazy hoof to Alice and leaning even more into the brush on Felicia’s hand. She was almost sliding off the woman’s lap, her body turned into putty.

Felicia  chuckled, booping the Newfoal’s muzzle with the brush. “Heh, Dice says ‘don’t worry about it’.”

The sight brought a small smile to Alice’s lips. It was short-lived. “It’s just…” She wasn’t sure what it was, not entirely at least. There were too many things. So Alice settled on the most pronounced one. “It looked so violent.”

“Ah, that... Yeah, these days we don’t have much of the slow potion.” Felicia’s brush got enrolled in a knot in Dice’s mane. “Got to use a hardened version - it’s all we can get, really.” The woman pried it off, some red hairs stuck in it, yet the Newfoal had no reaction. “They can seem… harsh, at first.”

“They seemed painful.” Alice sweeped her hooves over her  eyes, clearing the humidity gathering there at the sting of the memory. “I didn’t come here to cause pain - Celestia knows how much I stressed over healing it. I just wanted to… I don’t know… stop it before it could even happen.”

“And you did. Trust me. There’s... no human on this Earth that’s not hurting, one way or another. It’s why I admire you ponies so much. I can really believe a pony could go about their life with a smile on their face.” Her brushing slowed down somewhat, hovering over another knot in Dice’s mane. “I’m… I’m not so sure about us.”

“I saw Crane smiling with Joanne.” Alice pointed out. She looked over to the kitchen, where the man had disappeared into. “And… well, he doesn't strike me as one who smiles a lot, yet there it was.”

Felicia couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Yeah, Jo will do that to you.” Her hand waved in a dismissive motion. “Of course we can smile, even if Crane’s just barely a smirk - I call him Cranky for a reason. But… it’s not the norm. Nowhere near how it is for ponies. I mean… you understand, right?”

Alice gave Felicia a sad smile. The woman had such a high opinion of ponies… an opinion Alice wasn’t sure she deserved. “Felicia… we’re not perfect, either.”

Felicia shook both hands, even with the brush still in one of them. “Oh, no. It's not about being perfect… well, not to me. Despite what Crane might think, I’m not some starry-eyed naive girl. Trust me, I know not everything can be unblemished.” Her scarred cheek twitched, head turning to gaze outside the large glass panels near the fireplace as strands of her spiky, pink-tipped hair fell across her face. “But I do want everyone to be the best they can be.”

Alice also looked to the snowy hills, the fine details of the landscape lost in the dark of the night. She could feel her own ears raised and attentive as her mind rumbled about, thinking of Felicia’s perspective on the matter.

‘Remember, Alice. No matter what horrors you see - and you will - please remember: death is incurable. As a doctor, Conversion will always be the better alternative.’

Felicia held her chin, a pensive expression of her own. Then she snapped her fingers, her face lighting up. It reminded Alice of how she’d look, whenever an answer to a difficult test came to her in the very last minute.

“I think I got another way you can look at this.” Felicia said, looking directly at her with cheeks tugged up with a small smile. “You said you changed your name, right? Still can’t believe you did that… but it couldn’t have been an easy thing, yeah?”

That took a long moment to think about. Not because the answer was hard or conflicted, no. Rather, the memories just decided to abuse this opening to flood in and be processed. 

Her parents had yelled in synchrony when they found out, each complaint as predictable as the other. Alice never quite figured out if they had a script planned for each and every possible grievance that might come by, with how well they spewed forth their criticism of all her actions, complementing each other’s words as if they were one single entity.

Then there was her older sister by their side, always with her pressed white suit and stylized mane. She never uttered a word. Standing as the contrast to the hollers and clamours of her parents and the nods of every butler in the estate, as a statue in the hurricane of sounds, as a monument to the proper standards Alice never quite met. 

Not a word.

Alice gathered herself with a quiet lungful of air. Then she exhaled. “No. No it wasn’t.”

At least Felicia’s features looked sympathetic. Her tone was careful, tiptoeing its own words. “But you’d say the change was worth it?”

Change… it always came down to change. And the costs that were tied to it.

During all the hard-working years at university, Alice’s professors would constantly barrage the students with the same jargon, straight from the books: inflicting momentary pain for long-term gain. Sometimes you didn’t have anesthesia, and the patient’s leg was gangrening. Soon, the infection would kill them.

Do you cut it off, despite them begging you not to?

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Death is incurable, after all.

Felicia nodded. “Then there you have it. Newfoals… they are a change, kinda like all others. And everybody should want to change to be the best they can be. Some people understand that...” Her once bright, livid eyes went away just then. They were on a trip all their own, far away into lands unknown. 

Felicia reached up to her burned cheek, her nimble fingers brushing over the coarse skin and rough patch, caressing them as a loving couple who wasn’t entirely sure of where their relationship stood. 

“... some people don’t.”

Dice stretched up to nuzzle Felicia’s hand in silence. 

There were still quite a bit of objections on Alice’s mind. They stood stubbornly over the river of calming reassurances and warm words. But the doubt had been... assuaged. Lessened and pushed back to a quiet corner. Soothed, so they could be properly dealt with by time - to be healed and forgotten. 

Sometimes just forgotten, as all mnemologists eventually had to accept.

Alice decided to join in the comforting gesture, putting her own hoof on the woman’s shoulder, a reassuring smile on her muzzle. “Thank you, Felicia. I think… I think I really needed that.”

“Heh, don’t mention it. It’s what I’m here for.” Felicia’s face lit up, a grin so wide her eyes were almost closed and the dimples on her cheeks were ever more noticeable. Now was clearly her time to let happier thoughts reing free. “So long as we end the day smiling… everything will be just fine.”


***


The door to the cellar creaked open. The stairs down into the darkness were short, just a couple of steps made of old wood that complained at the weight put on them. The place had been used before to store aging wine and more wood for the fireplace. Now, all it had was a lone occupant.

Crane descended into the dusty basement carrying a small metal tray with mostly fruits. He noted some cobwebs in the corners where the shadows weren’t all that encompassing. There were many pillars of somewhat-rotting wood reaching for the low ceiling, made to stabilize the floor above. This was an old part of the lodge that barely saw any use nor was kept in good shape.

He flicked the switch by the wall, the light blinking as the bulb swayed ever so slowly in the string keeping it tied and feeding it energy.

A weak beam of light shone down on the pegasus laying in a rag, both hindlegs tied to one of the wooden posts with a thick rope that glowed green whenever the light caught it just right. Stalwart wasn’t skimping out on the cuffs.

Skies looked horrible. Her coat was mussed and dirty, some of her brown mane sticking together in clumps. Her right hoof was lying motionless on the rag. The bandage on her chest, weaving all the way to her back, was old and stained - Seeker was doing the best with what little gauze she had.

The fact that Crane had seen a bunch of brand new bandages a couple of hours ago in that truck, yet couldn’t take a single one of them, bothered him somewhat. But orders are orders, and the truck was to be delivered whole.

Coffee had mentioned the mare was refusing to eat. It showed. Even through her usual thin build, her ribs had never bulged this badly, her bones were never that defined through the skin. Too much of this, and they’d have one less mouth to worry about.

Crane didn’t say anything as he pulled the folding chair from it’s spot leaning on the wall. He dexterously flicked it open and set it right in front of the weak pegasus, sitting on it and leaning back, one leg resting on top of the other, the tray on his lap.

“Skies,” he tried, voiding his voice of any emotion.

There was no response. All he heard were shaky breaths from lungs that had worked overtime to provide the body with surplus oxygen.

As if the lines on her cheek’s fur weren’t enough proof that she’d been crying.

“I’ve got your food. You didn’t eat anything Coffee brought... Again.”

Silence once more. She wasn’t even looking at him, the few locks of her long brown mane that weren’t stuck together falling in front of her face. Hiding her downcast eyes.

“Skies.”

No luck. She stubbornly refused to react. Her ears were buried, her face was down, her tail was pretty much a blanket over her splayed hindquarters. She wasn’t going to answer. Time to try something different.

“Does your wing hurt?”

That got a reaction. Not as much as Crane hoped, just a little twitch of her back. But it was a start. She was listening.

He knew Skies loved flying. All the times she hooked her forelegs under Joanne’s arms and floated her all over the place, the unnecessary glides she’d do to get from her bedroom to the kitchen, the near obsessive care she took with preening. Everytime, she had a smile on her face, a special glint in her eyes.

Most pegasi held their wings to a very high standard and Crane didn’t blame them. If he had the freedom of being able to go anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted… he wouldn’t like it being taken away from him either.

Funny how that turned out.

Crane picked up an apple that was in the tray, rolling it over on his hand. “I know quite a bit about pegasi wing recovery... comes with the job.” He readjusted himself on the chair. “They’re hardy things. As long as the tendons are fine and you’ve got enough energy, enough strength… they heal like a wonder.”

One of her ears, maybe despite her best protests, was up. Attentive.

“Seeker checked you. None of your tendons got severed, bullet went straight through your back. Muscle injury only. Your right hoof is the only thing with... permanent damage. However…” 

Crane unfolded his leg, leaning forward. A meaningless act to a ghost audience, if it weren’t for the gray eye he spotted between the little openings in the curtain of brown mane. Watching him.

“Your health is horrible. Anemic, even. Too severe for just three days rejecting food...”

Skies squirmed, folding into herself, her left wing twitching while her right wing remained motionless. Yet no sound came, and Crane was still in a lonely monologue.

He sighed, putting his elbows on his knees to be closer to her. “We’ll start tomorrow. You’ll want your strength for it.”

He didn’t order her. Didn’t force feed her like Stalwart had suggested - as if she was the expert on this matter. 

No. This wasn’t an HLF grunt too defiant to even speak. Wasn’t a true Betrayer selling information to the PHL. He knew that very well. She was just a scared filly, easily abused, easily manipulated...

Crane gazed down at the apple in his hand. The red delicious gazed back, the shiny skin reflecting a warped visage. His visage. 

He quickly shifted his eyes away, putting the fruit back on its place and leaving the tray close to Skies, just in reach of her good leg. 

With the chair folded and back on its place, he switched off the lights and made his way back up the stairs. The door closed, and the penumbra took hold of the cellar once again.

The only sounds left were the shifting of the wood and a metal tray being slowly, tentatively dragged.


***


In the greenish hues of a nearby sandstone quarry, a gleaming silver sword sliced through the flying sack of gravel. The contents spilled out, the larger pieces pattering the woman that had attacked it’s silky confines. She barely blinked as the sweat on her brow collected the dust falling all around her.

She was standing right in the middle of an open area in the quarry. The ground was dusty, with a distinct olive color of the stone beneath. It had been repurposed and cleared on her orders, while a big wooden house with multiple floors - probably used as storage - was made into her group’s living quarters.

“Come the fuck on, Bronte!” The woman shouted, pulling back a strand of auburn hair out of her face with her pale hand. “You’re throwing them way too slow.”

Bronte - a muscled, dark-skinned man with a sleeveless shirt and combat pants - was breathing hard as he answered. “Trying... my best, passerotta. We’ve been at this... for hours now. Also... language!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just throw another one.” She readied her sword in front of her once again. “You’re lucky I didn’t ask for the sandstone instead of the gravel.”

“Ahem… boss? Eliza?” a timid voice pierced through the shouting.

Eliza flicked her eyes to the arrival. A short pony unicorn, barely out of childhood, stood by the edge of the makeshift training arena in the quarry. He was frail-looking, almost wobbling in his own hooves, with a cool blue coat and darker blue mane.

“Yes, Nimble?” she said, with a lot more kindness than she ever gave Bronte. The big bastard could take it, but the little guy didn’t deserve it.

Nimble recomposed himself somewhat, lifting up a blocky object in his magical grip. “Y-you’ve got a call. It’s one of the burner phones your… friend… gave us.”

Ah. Of course he would call them now. Or she. Eliza could never quite tell. They had a throaty voice, almost but not quite high-pitch. Higher than her own voice, but that wasn’t really hard to get. She had always been on the low end.

He, or she… ah damn it all, Bishop - the bullshit name they gave Eliza - was probably following her group all the way into Cumberland County. Bronte didn’t like it one bit, but their intel was damn useful and always on point.

“Alright. Bring it over.” Eliza wagged her sword in a come-forth gesture.

Nimble gently floated the phone over to her. There was a constant buzzing noise coming through, like an industrial-grade circular saw being used. Were they in the middle of a construction site?

“Ms. Wryneck,” the voice on the phone said.

“Keep ‘em coming, Bronte. I ain’t done yet!” Eliza yelled at her friend, then rearranged the phone on the crook of her neck, speaking more hushedly. “Off to a bad start, asshat. Only my granny knows that name, and you ain’t her.”

“She gave me permission to use it.”

Eliza grit her teeth, but tried to keep the edge out of her voice. No need to give Bishop the satisfaction of riling her up. That’s what Bronte always said: whoever’s the calmest gains the upper hand. 

“My granny’s ponified... you cunt.” Eh, close enough.

Unfortunately, she could almost taste the grin on the other side of the line. “I am well aware of that.”

This motherfucker... “What do you want? I don’t like your games, Bishop. And I’m busy.”

“How long do you plan on fighting gravel?”

Bronte heaved another sack. Alice saw where it would land the moment it left his hands. “Hah! Spying on me? Then you should know -” Eliza hit the cloth with an upwards cut “- we got a lot of gravel.”

“And I am left to wonder whether you are sharpening your blade… or dulling it. I have a target for you, if you would like to put that wonder to rest.”

“Oooh, finally found that ex-Trailblazer bitch?” Another bag flew up. This one, despite it being exactly as lumpy as every other bag, looked distinctly pony-shaped to Eliza. One-very-specific-pony-shaped. 

She stabbed it in the air, then ripped her sword up. Maybe with a bit too much force.

“Leave Sergeant Stasis out of your sight for now. I need you to visit Port Elgin.”

Eliza couldn’t resist a roll of her eyes. “Everytime you send me somewhere, there’s a distinct lack of Imperials to fight. I already missed all the fun in Montreal, and I really wanted a shot at Shieldwall’s ass.” She smirked, remembering what Bronte told her about the mess further East. “Shit, get me one of his freaky Newfoals. I heard they’re always fun.”

“Anomalies… parade them if you wish, silence them when you must. No, I need you to retrieve a mark. Civilian truck, plate ‘Y29 693’, filled with medical documents and supplies. A PER cell has it stocked - they specialize on small-town conversions, so I’d suggest being careful.”

“I don’t want a PER cell, I want Stalwart.” Eliza gripped her sword tighter, frowning at the pommel and the faded picture glued there. “How ‘bout you just find out where she is? I know it’s in these woods somewhere.”

“Do not impose your goals on mine, Wryneck. You will be sorely disappointed. Information in exchange for work. A simple deal... And if you want to hit Stalwart’s cell, you will have to handle their Fixer first, as I have repeated many times before.”

“And as I’ve said many times before: I’m not scared of… what, PER handymen?” Eliza scoffed as she sidestepped the next bag, slashing the thing as it flew by her. “Fuck it, I’ll fight him and the rest of his group.”

“Handymen?” Eliza didn’t like the low, throaty chuckle she heard, not one bit. It was the sound of a bastard who knew something she didn’t. “The Fixer will not fight fair, Eliza. Digging for their rabbit hole while he still lives will turn it into a death trap. But... I can help you get a chance... soon.”

She held her hand up, signaling for Bronte to stop. “How soon?”

“Soon enough that I’d count it in days. But only if you return that truck to me.”

Eliza smiled. A predatory grin that salivated at the prospect of killing those traitors of humanity, speaking of a giddiness unmatched by even the most starstruck children having their hair ruffled by their idol and told to just run free.

“Heads up, Bronte!” She heaved her sword to rest on her shoulder. “We’re going hunting.”