The US Navy visits the Equestria Divided universe, spreading Freedom and Democracy across the land.
The USS Long Beach, the first (and only) ship of the ill-fated Flight II Littoral Combat Ship. She was lost with all hands in a massive squall on the night of December the 22nd, 2031. No trace was ever found, and no explanation has been derived in what many call the most mysterious seaborne accident in history. It baffles researchers to this day.
This is their story. A story of Honor, Courage, and Commitment, fulfilling every word of the creed they aspire to. Tossed into a world divided, consumed by friends turned enemies leading massive power blocs, the crew of the Long Beach must work to restore freedom and democracy, all in the name of the mysterious forces of gold and blue that sent them there in the first place.
So buckle your seatbelts and cast off your moorings. Set full sail and load your cannons, and when the vicious foe turns thine way, change not your course: let them steer shy.
Teen for sailor swearing and general grimdark of Equestria Divided, the lovely scenario postulated by Poor Yorick on Deviantart: http://pooryorickda.deviantart.com/
All AU setting credit goes to his brilliant design. I just do the ship part.
I will support and defend the constitution and I will obey the orders of those appointed over me
I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world
I represent my country's navy combat team with Honor, Courage, and Commitment
I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all."
The triangular bulk of the Navy's smallest biter coasted quietly amongst the waves, its wake glowing green in the darkness of the night, the luminescent bacteria irritated and giving a big "I'm Here!" warning to any spotters happening to fly over them at that exact moment. If that was an issue, of course. Sailing outside of shipping lanes in a sailing black hole of stealthiness did that to your chances of remaining undetected. Only the small water creatures would have any clue of their passing, until they disgorged the large load of equipment aboard. But that was a long time coming, in the rough waters of the mid atlantic, taking the long route from their home port to the objective.
It was midnight, the worst of all watches aboard a Navy vessel, and for a ship crewed by merely fourty people it was a ghost town. For Lieutenant Julia Ranas, a Filipino-American, it was her private hell. Three other people on the bridge, with the remaining five interspersed in various maintenance spaces and the engine room, maintaining the meticulously automated vessel with as much effort as one can muster from 0000 to 0600 in the morning. She rubbed her tired eyes, her still rather well-maintained hands nuzzling the red and tired eyes as they bored in on thousands of tiny pixels before them, the high-definition screen showing her course readouts, pitch indicators, and all the other important aspects of conning a ship in the dead of night with zero visibility. The vessel pitched violently, making the Lieutenant whip a hand to her mouth.
Even a salty sea dog like herself could succumb to the perils of high sea states, the current one near six on the scale, aboard a ship where five was the designed survival. But, as with many things, some items worked longer and better than expected, and others not nearly as long. With a grimace, Ranas glanced at the window wipers, already jammed from freezing in the icy Atlantic. They'd need to do some more work when things quieted, that was for sure.
She glanced at the rest of the crew, similarly red-eyed and dog-tired, but chugging coffee all the while to keep up their energy. Nobody would dare leave their shipmates out to dry. "All stations, report." She said, glancing to the Helmsman.
"Steady on course zero seven five, Knots zero three five, pitch rate within boundaries, no noted exceptions, Conn." Said BM1 Robert Kovac, a Boatswain's Mate, Petty Officer 1st Class, and the current helmsman. He'd be up for Chief soon enough, and was raring to do so. Ranas' eyes turned to the hazy image of Fire Controlman Third Class Karen Stember, whose image was bathed in green light from her radar console.
"Very well."
"Contacts bearing 337, 120, and 275. Civilian emitters, Conn." She said.
"Very well." Ranas' eyes turned to ST2 Michael Roberts, who's headphones had one ear on and one off for the report.
"No contacts, sea state too rough to remain on Sonar, Conn." He said. Julia nodded and looked over at her console once more. All crew aboard the LCS vessels, much like the Submarine fleet, were cross-trained to an extent in other watch stations. With only fourty people to go around at all times, your rating was only a guideline.
"Very well, report to comms and keep an ear quirked." She responded after a moment of pondering. The sailor stood and nodded at the same time, walking briskly behind a curtain and into the communications center. The LCS was too small for a proper Combat Information Center, and operated primarily in the bridge. It was another few hours of peaceful, uninterrupted screen-staring.
The waves continually worsened as their hours behind the screens increased, with many more nauseous moments and even a near-vomit by one of the crew in engineering, which was saved mainly by the stabilizers. Had it been any harsher he'd likely have needed a janitor: and if there's anything you learn in the military, it's that you are your own janitor. Eventually, it got bad enough that the bridge crew started to get agitated. And it was around then that Lieutenant Ranas went on the 1MC, the shipwide intercom. "Attention all hands, Attention all hands, be advised we are in weather approaching Sea State 7. Immediate Reville and attention to secure the ship from water hazards. CO to the bridge, repeat, CO to the bridge." She called over it, garnering the attention of many of the already-awakened crew from the massive tossing and turning.
Slowly, but surely, crewmen filed into the many unoccupied stations on the bridge, also making their way to the cargo and hangar bays, to secure craft and mission modules against the elements. Already, crashing could be heard when the ship pitched hard, but her trimiran hull refused to capsize. The sea's heavy swells bit at the Littoral ship's stability, and at her crew's stomachs, but as Commander Lucas Downey, Commanding Officer of the Long Beach arrived in the bridge, things were looking ship-shape. His eyes were red-rimmed to the maximum, his hands clutching a hastily procured coffee cup, which Julia guessed was half in his cup and half spilled on him and the rest of the way up to the bridge. The man took a sip, and strutted on in confidence. He snapped to attention at her. "You're relieved." He said, nodding.
"I stand relieved, sir." She responded, "And I sure as hell am." A chuckle responded to her. "Radar, try a quick cloud map and see what we're up against"
"Aye, sir. We're looking black for the next five klicks at least, perhaps more." She said, grimly. The skipper nodded, the rest of his black coffee disappearing down his gullet. He grimaced at the minimal amount he'd managed to down, and tossed the styrofoam onto the deck. It was already a mess, anyways.
"Alright." Said Commander Downey. "Everyone take a seat or find somewhere with one. LT, tell the rivers guys they need to get tied right the hell down. Everyone else, try and keep us afloat as best you can. Any flooding?" He asked. A few men checked over alternate comms lines, and all came back negative. "Alright. we can only wait now."
Blue flickers as water struck the hull, shaking lights as she stumbled down the ladderwell, falling at the last moment and only just catching herself, a nasty nosebleed now forming where the one part had hit rather unceremoniously. The cargo bay was a mess, with several mission boxes out of place and other gear adrift, men in BDUs and Guacamole camo stumbling about and trying to lash things or brace themselves. She called out commands, but they were deafened by the sea's roar, and a bit of water trickled from the small craft launcher. She felt her stomach heave as a heavy one flushed the ship from below, and for a minute she felt like she was flying, the engines audibly no longer churning the sea. And then they hit, the ship plunging into the water like a fighter jet who forgot to pull up, a massive pulse of sea spray audibly impacting the helo deck above.
The hull groaned, as did she, her head only just missing a support beam, though her leg was not so lucky. It throbbed painfully as she tried to keep staggering, and a singular Riverine Warfare Chief rushed to her aid, supply pallets sliding around. "Ma'am! We've got to clear the deck, now!" He shouted, wrapping her shoulder and heaving the smaller officer into a standing position. The pair broke into a run as containers flipped and spilled, the crew viewing the mess below a lost cause. Chief Daniel Holland made his way to the bridge with the officer in tow, his sidearm equipped but not much else, only his BDU pants, tactical vest, and a skivvy shirt adorned his frame. Not even some boots to keep his feet dry.
One of the wipers had finally unstuck, it seemed, and the crew's screen-illuminated faces looked out onto the horror before them. The Sea State was perhaps a 8.5 or a 9 now, a truly massive storm that should've been foretold by meteorological elements. But, over the radio, nothing. Static was actually filtering in, and the radar had quickly gone unreliable. But that wasn't the awe incoming. The ship lurched as another utterly massive wave hit them head on, the ship floating on air once more, crew flinging from their seats like a cheap sci fi flick, and it came into focus. The Long Beach was headed straight for a swirling vortex, slipping directly out of the sky itself, swirling blue and gold, one starry and the other bright like the sun, making some avert their eyes.
The skipper had never been really religious, but recalled a line from so long ago in boot camp. "Blue of the Mighty Deep. Gold of God's Great Sun. Let these our colors be. Until all our time be done." He quoted to nobody in particular, as the hull crashed once more, sending men sprawling. "Anchors Aweigh, shipmates. We're on our way." The ship dove with the water, the portal's energy washing over the hull and making all the screens go dark. And then, so too, did the lights in everyone's heads. The Commander fell last, a testament to his resilience. Words whispered into his ears, spoken by two voices. "From afar we callest thou." Said one. "To save the world we've been forced from." Said another. "Some cannot survive without leadership. Others can save the badly led and the unjustly oppressed, and restore harmony. But it cannot be those who represent it any more. No, Commander Dempsey. You will restore freedom and justice, so that we might return to defeat the true evils. This is your charge." They echoed, as his eyes rolled back. "Mind the monsters."
---
The Commander was the first to fall asleep, and the first to awaken, the hull now stable and un-lurching, the mess on the floor making quite clear last night's nearly surreal storm was a reality. He stumbled up onto his feet, eyes quickly having their sleep cleared. He peeked out the forward windows. "Mind the Monsters" He recalled, as several other crew awoke confused. His eyes squinted, and he swore he saw a pair of eyes stare back, quickly claimed by the waves.
"All hands, re-" He almost began, before he looked back on impulse. A singular black head poked from the water, its eyes locked on him in a menacing fashion. And then another came out. And another. His crew was awestruck, as was he. "Mind the Monsters" he repeated in his mind. "That was no dream"
The flash was gone, now, Twilight's eyes slowly adjusting to the room where herself and the five elements stood, betrayed by the traitorous sixth. A madmare, a madmare. That was what she was. Too insane to even be called a traitory, whose head was stuck bucking and not understanding true duty, just as she had when she ran from Ponyville to work for money on a cherry farm. But she'd learn, now that the process was completed... Now that she was able to figure out what had happened to the princess.
Twilight Sparkle slowly focused on the shape in the center of the room, lying motionless without breath. A pink mare, her hair deflated, and body oddly still. She was silent. Twilight absently moved her hooves, slowly pushing past the fog over her senses and approaching, the exertion of the spell evident in her slowness of movement. Pinkie had still not moved.
Twilight's heart beat a little faster, and she reached out a hoof to the mare, slowly shaking it back and forth to make the party pony awaken, the one she'd been forced to substitute for Applejack. It wasn't her first choice, and certainly wouldn't be good, but she had no other option. She shook again, and still Pinkie Pie did not move.
Her heart was pounding, now.
A second hoof, and she pulled hard with both. Pinkie rolled, her legs stiff, and faced in Twilight's direction. Her forehooves were sprawled, and her face contorted in pain rather than a smile: Something Twilight had never seen in all her time with the other pony. But above all, the fact that her arms or legs or oddly glassy eyes hadn't moved told her everything. And she cried, then.
Her body was grayer, less colorful, and her eyes were glassy and sad, almost nothing like the Pinkie she'd known and love. And that smile, that lovely smile, was peeled even further back to show her dead gums, somewhat devoid of color. Her bod-corpse, she corrected herself with her scientist's mind. She had died because she wasn't strong.
Pinkie was dead. All because of the traitor.
The damn traitor.
Traitors. Every Earth Pony a traitor. There was no other option. Twilight's tears slowly dripped onto the floor, and she sat there a long time like that, oblivious to the rest. Her spell had failed, she of all ponies had failed. And it had costed two friends, at this point. Slowly, her eyes turned to observe the rest of them.
---
Long Beach
"Fire at will, dammit!" Commander Downey shouted to the rest of the crew, his loud voice masking his inner fears. The crew moved at lightning speed, the threat directly out the window obvious and confusing for all. One laughed hysterically, but the ringing of a pistol firing from outside a hatch told everyone that it was real - Or, to be specific, GMC Holland did. Only minutes ago, they were bouncing in rough seas and practically puking up half their bodily fluids. Now, the solid waste decided it was time to leave, as the face of a screaming beast met them as they awoke, four of them pressed close to the glass, the sound shaking the very floor. Or, it was, until BM1 Kovac pushed the throttle to flank, making the ship pitch backwards and bite the water, pushing both the beast and the ship to nearly thirty knots. It hollered in greater anger, and crew on the bridge covered their ears. The Commander included himself in this group, but his mind was still processing the situation.
Hostiles everywhere, weapons envelope breached, and only one weapon availiable. He looked to the Fire Controlman, who briefly removed his hands from his ears, and while wincing in horrific audio-related pain, pulled the trigger. It only got worse as a single 57mm round ripped into the thing's neck, sending one of its heads in two pieces. A cheer erupted as the noise died down, only for the other three to grow angry, their oddly human appearances only worse. One swung its head at the turret, making a loud clank, and the other two glared at the crew.
A loud crack against the hull told them all that needed to be said, the ringing reverberating all up the hull, and especially in the bridge which bore the attack's brunt. These creatures were obviously too weak to breach the hull, but the windows were another story. One of them shattered, and a tongue grabbed around inside, trying to nab someone. Holland leaned back inside, his pistol smoking in the cold air, and pulled the trigger again. The creature's loud roar was louder with it's mouth lip-locking the window, and the crew grabbed hard for their ears. Another two rounds, and the creature's blood repainted the puke and coffee-stained deck.
The heads withdrew, and the creature screamed again. Another few puffs from the Mark 110 Mod 4 cannon reduced that, momentarily, as blood and bone spilled onto the deck, a severed neck and head collapsing in a pile, and another growing from the same point, screaming all the while. Downey stared momentarily, and looked over at Kovac. "Back water. Emergency." He said, and the crewman looked puzzled. A second later, in realization, he nodded. The entire ship lurched, the engines screeched, and the ship suddenly slowed, the monster losing its balance and disappearing over the front, as the ship slowed to a halt. Everyone breathed easy for a moment, and Julia Ranas voiced the entire crew's concerns:
"What the hell just happened?"
---
Her eyes turned as a blue shape shifted and fidgeted, slowly rising from the ground. Her rainbow mane was different, somehow, and her face seemed a bit different on the side laying on the ground. And then she faced toward Twilight. She looked with her one good eye at Pinkie's dead body, and then at Twilight. Her eyes narrowed, and eyebrows wrinkled, lost in a moment of clear thought before the inevitable next step came. Then those eyes widened in surprise and understanding, and quickly turned to a face of anger and hatred.
"You killed her." She said, with plain, even malice. Her eyes flicked between the body, though only one saw it. The other was an echo, a mirror shattered. Covered in red scarring the likes of which she'd never seen in her life. Not even on Guard combat veterans who had been wounded protecting Celestia had she ever seen much scarring. All her fault. All Twilight Sparkle's fault, and Rainbow Dash blamed her now.
"No, the traitor killed her." Said Twilight, crying once more. Rainbow just scoffed.
"At least she had dignity!" She said, her face contorting with anger before she cried out in pain, a hoof to her face. "What the buck have you done to me, Twilight?!" She screamed, her voice carrying across the royal chamber. Her head twisted, her face grimacing at the motion, and observed herself in the grand mirror intended to let the Alicorn see herself. Instead, all Rainbow Dash saw was a monster. A half-normal half-mess Pegasus, like some sort of demon-pony hybrid doomed to Tartarus.
"I've only failed because she failed us in loyalty, Rainbow Dash!" Twilight yelled back, trying to regain her composure. Dash only snorted and got angrier. "Fine! Come kill me then, traitor! Join her, if you want!" Said Twilight, her horn glowing once more.
"No, I don't think so!" Dash screamed back. "Maybe you've gone too far, Twi. Too much pressure trying to run the country. You've driven one of us out. When does it end?"
"We must have princesses! We MUST!" Twilight retorted, a hoof stuck to the air. "We must find the old ones, and the only way is with new blood!"
"You can't go testing spells on ponies! You've..." Rainbow suddenly turned sullen and approached the Pink mare. "...by Celestia, Twi. You've killed the only innocent mare in all of Equestria. How do you MURDER the Element of Laughter?"
"By betraying your friends by feeling lied to." The Element of Magic retorted. "She's a threat to the realm, Rainbow. What're you going to do about it?"
"Deal with you, first!" She said, flashing a mottled red hoof at Twilight, connecting hard. Blood seeped quickly from her nose. "We were never friends! Not ever!" Rainbow's wings flapped hard, and she was airborne. "I don't know who you think you were, but all I ever saw was somepony trying too hard to make magic fix all of her problems. All that seems to have done is created more, and go BUCK yourself. I'm going to Cloudsdale, and when I'm done the princesses will have an Equestria WORTHY of their ruling!" She screamed down at the purple pony, and disappeared in a motion blur of technicolor. Twilight's already ruffled personality broke once more, and she shuffled slowly to the mirror, a change to her appearance noted as well: a wavy tattoo of white arcane marks adorning most of her face.
Star-Swirl the Bearded had said that the greatest of mages developed such marks, a symbol of their unmatched spellcasting during an especially trying spell. She'd developed hers like a second Cutie Mark. And it had meant the spell portion wasn't the problem. Or so she thought, until her eyes drifted to an unconscious white mare.
--- It had been an hour. An hour of nervous waiting, of sonar searches, and of arming up. The 2030s Navy was very much a multiaspect force, supplementing its original role as ship crew with the additional olden-days role of combat infantry. Never to the extent of a standard infantryman, of course, but enough to get by. To put on the vest and the pads and load the rifle and shoot it, mostly, plus some basic tactics.
Which was all that was applicable when facing huge monsters, really. The beauty of the LCS design, and especially the LCS2, is its capacity to carry large amounts of cargo for high distances. In this case, it happened to be a platoon of Navy Riverine personnel, who were currently buzzing around the ship, their heavily armed Small Unit Riverine Craft bristling with miniguns and heavy machine guns, everyone awaiting the great monster's return.
Chief Holland and his CO were sailing about, each leading three of the six craft to provide 360 degree coverage of Long Beach while she sailed to war. For the rest of the crew, snapping on the spare equipment and gear from the ship's locker took up most of their time, black and tan vests quickly snapping over their blue and grey camouflage, and helmets quickly joining them on their heads. Rifles and handguns quickly snapped into place and were slung, the bridge crew not needing the larger weapons and opting for a lighter sidearm.
But that was only a secondary backdrop to the conversation going on in the wardroom. The conversation that ultimately overshadowed all the other hushed rumors and not-so-hushed freaking out all across the small boat. 13 Officers sat in the wardroom, 7 from the Long Beach and 6 from the embarked Helo, which was deemed too critical to risk on the flight deck against the creature.
"...I'm just saying, Sir." Said one of the Co-Pilots from the Helo unit. "It's a little far fetched to go off of a dream you got when we went through a storm that knocked everybody else out. I had weird dreams too, does that make them real?"
"I understand you." Said Commander Holland. His rather youthful face for his ripe age of thirty seven, and his now-armored blue camouflage was strapped with a rifle and magazines. He'd be the first commander in perhaps a century to repel boarders. "But it seemed about as legitimate as flinging through a portal in an ungodly and nearly flash storm we ran into in the mid atlantic. Stuff like that just doesn't happen. Portals don't happen. Krakens, Lieutenant, do not happen."
"Fair enough, sir."
"So where are we, then?" Asked Lieutenant Ranas, her eyes drifting across the rest of the wardroom. That was, again, the question on all their minds. Where the hell were they?
"They weren't specific. Just that it was their world, that we needed to restore harmony, and that there were unjustly oppressed people here. And I believe we all recall the last line of the Sailor's Creed?" He said, looking about. Most of them nodded, except for a few who were just too shellshocked to pay attention.
"Look, I'm not saying let's just go ahead and charge in blindly. But we're not going to get back if a diety of some sort-"
"Hold on." Said the XO. "Are we really suggesting that gods are no-"
"We're suggesting alot of things that don't make any fucking sense, sir." Said the one enlisted man in the room, Senior Chief Will Costanza, the ship's highest ranking enlisted man.
"Damn straight, Chief." Said Ranas. "We just need a plan of action besides letting big monster stalk us."
"I agree. We're going to use the radar and start mapping for terrain." He said, looking to the sensors officer.
"It's doable, Sir." He said. "I'm not a fan of what it does to regular detection capabilities, but in a world with Hydras that may not necessarily be a concern."
"Make it fast." Said the Commander. "We need to lose this bastard in a nice harbor."
"What if the world is empty?" Asked one of the pilots, a shellshocked one. "What if we're alone?"
"Like the deities said, Ell-Tee," Said the Senior Chief, "We've got people to oppress. We don't just go through a magic megastorm portal for no damn reason. There's a purpose."
"Right." Said the Commander. "In the mean time, get your divisions ready, have the gun stocked, man the fifties, and keep the boat ready for emergency SURC recovery. Have one RHIB team ready to rescue anyone knocked overboard if it comes again. I miss anything?" The Skipper asked, turning to the Senior.
"Not that I see, sir." He retorted. The Skipper nodded and stood.
"Dismissed."
---
Sometime later, Chief Holland was on patrol still. His hydrogen-electric motor was negligibly auditory, and the calm seas were all that met his ears as the motorboat made another lazy 3km circle around the Long Beach, hunting for whatever it was that had attacked them earlier.
The sea began to pitch some, like a great mass was displacing it from below, and he looked from the minigun to the driver, and his fellow gunners. His head bobbed, and they bobbed theirs as well. Weapons were cocked, radios used, and sights aligned. And then an orange shape breached the waves. An orange flash echoed from his gun, and red filled the water and his vision.
It was the voice that cracked her eyes open, the shake that made her rise to her hooves, the glint of the mirror in the ongoing sun's light that called her attention. But it was the mirror's white occupant that truly made Rarity awaken, the half-normal, half-disgusting visage that grimaced painfully at her. Until she realized it was her own.
Her once luscious fur, covered in opaque crystal, her mane's roots half submerged beneath them, and her hooves now gem shards. All she could manage was a painful whimper as she sank to her haunches, sobbing all the while. All she could feel was one part of her face damp, the other only glistening in the mirror's seeing eye.
"I'm so sorry." Said a half-sobbing voice, barely recognizable as one of Rarity's friends', as she came into view. Her face was glowing with a monstrously beautiful tattoo, shining in the same light her horn did when magic was in use, and for a brief moment Rarity ignored her state. Brief. Twilight hung her head with her ears flat, her eyes obviously having been red for awhile, the tears no longer coming with the sobs.
"I...I trust you have a spell to fix this,darling?" Asked Rarity, her mind already chastising her for the utterly selfish behavior. Twilight's glowing skin shook slightly, her skull moving side to side, and for a brief moment Rarity's heart skipped. "How..." She began, "How did this happen, Twilight! How did you do such a thing to me, an-" She broke off as her eyes whirled around the room, and the still figure of a pink mare met her eyes. "No!"
"Rarity, I can ex-"
"No you can't!" She screamed back. "You've been nothing but a madmare since the Princesses disappeared, and this is the end of the line!" Her crystal hoof hit the ground with a crack that echoed across the room. "Pinkie..." Her voice softened, and the tears for herself turned to cries for the party pony, Twilight's eyes merely shifting into space, the shock of her failure too much, it seemed.
"Crystalitis is a physically disfiguring disease with no ill effects and no known cure beyond preventing its onset." Twilight said monotonously, looking at Rarity. The latter's crying eyes met her, confused, but slowly turning to even deeper sadness.
"All Unicorns can protect themselves with sufficient magical energy, but those that solely focus on the telekinetic arts will often be horribly afflicted by high-powered spells."
Rarity's eyes welled further, and she rose to her hooves. "Twilight, why didn-"
"Psychological trauma often far outweighs any real physical issues." She finished, her dark eyes turning to Rarity. "Perhaps you should go lie down." Rarity's eyes locked with Twilight's the pure malice within scaring the element of generosity.
"You're in trouble, Twilight." She said, deliberately censoring her more colorful initial plan. "You need help. Killing Pinkie an-" Her eyes scanned the room, distraught. "-Where is Rainbow Dash?"
"She-"
"WHERE IS RAINBOW DASH?"
"She left, Rarity." She said, pointing to the broken skylight that allowed Rarity to see herself. Her body shuddered as Rarity briefly glanced at her disturbing crystalline appearance. Her throat caught for a minute. "She was a traitor just like AJ."
"You and your traitors, Twilight! You're like a mad Unicorn Quee-" An unlit candle flew at Rarity, hitting her crystals and impaling. Twilight's tattoos glowed brighter, as did her horn.
"Call me mad again." She said. Rarity stomped a hoof. "You'll join them both in Tartarus." The tailor's mind was racing. Her best friends, each and everyone going mad. Her, the most beautiful of ponies turned a brutal monster? A disgusting hodge podge of beautiful gem and distraught pony, in some mixture that made Pinkie's slowly rotting body seem more appealing, as disgusting as her final appearance was. Slowly, her hooves backpedaled, the form of twilight shrinking in her eyes.
"So this is how it shall be, Twilight?" She asked. "War? Because you're too busy with searching to actually solve the world's issues?" A plate hit her full frontal, but the spiking crystals shattered it before it reached her, bouncing off harmlessly. A blink. "Fine, then." An ancient shield detatched itself from the wall, Rarity's horn glowing. It flung at Twilight, who wrenched it from Rarity's control. "Defend yourself. For you've far more enemies than friends, it seems." The Star-and-Moon emblem turned around to face Twilight, and the unicorn's face wrenched in puzzlement.
Rarity didn't look back. The doors slammed forcefully. And then she nabbed her cloak from the doorway and slid it slowly over her face, the shame of her appearance too great. Giving had been her passion before, to help others on the house. But now, all she'd gotten for her troubles was a destroyed image, her only beloved thing, and for nothing but a corpse.
Her clopping hooves echoed down the hall, as Twilight's eyes slowly transfixed on the ancient shield's logo.
====
Holland had once tried out for the SEALs. The idea of being only a few men against the world had appealed to him then, when he was youthful and less wise. Now, he realized just how clueless he'd been back at BUD/S, the SEAL training school. His ears roared with engine revs and monstrous roars, round two already having started only moments before. He was at the wheel, now, his hands ripping side to side, trying to outmaneuver the less-than-small heads as they crashed down, rocking the ship with each strike against the surface. "KEEP UP THE PRESSURE!" He screamed, and the minigunner quickly swivelled and put a burst into a swinging neck, making the Hydra abort his attack.
He spun the wheel, and the careening neck passed precariously overhead, its owner wailing all the way. The Chief chuckled, his handgun clacking twice at a smaller head that was just regrowing. The beast screamed in anger, and another head lashed at the boat, tossing a huge wave into the air that splattered down all over the boat. Holland slipped a bit on his boots, but kept his footing despite the chaos. His three guns rattled away, their crewman slicing hard into the Hydra, but it just kept on growing.
Killing it would take a bit more than they had. His hand reached for his radio ."Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo, this is Romeo Three. How Copy, over?" He called into it, the spray nearly making him flub up.
"Solid Copy, Romeo Three. Send it, over." Said the Radioman aboard the Long Beach, which was closing with the Hydra faster than the small craft could. Its hull bounced hard, riding light waves at fifty miles an hour did that to you. Nothing like the perfect storm they'd experienced, of course, but it was still visible as its wake curved violently to meet the new threat, its forward cannon slowly tracking.
"Need fires now, Romeo is going to get mission killed, over." Responded Holland, ripping the wheel right as a head smashed his way. It skirted side-by-side off the port side, and the gunner there racked the slide on his machine gun and pulled the trigger down. The seawashed deck specked red a bit.
"Wait one, Romeo Three." Said the Radioman. Several other SURCs were approaching now, their guns creating a deadly mass of steel that sawed off every head that grew above water. There was more than one way to defeat a Hydra, after all.
"All, I say again, All Romeo elements are to immediately clear the target. Flank speed, over." Said the Radioman, relaying some new orders. Holland looked at it puzzled, but held his tongue, instead affirming the order.
"Romeo three copies all, out." His unspoken questions were answered when the loud chopping noise of a four-bladed rotor echoed out from behind the Long Beach, which had swerved right and gone parallel with the target. The strange form of the MH-60S Knighthawk slowly lifted off, turning a hard right and revealing the big green toy sitting on one of its mountings. Holland was no expert, but the golden propeller at the back told him pretty much everything. He gunned the engine and cleared the way as the helo slowly lowered itself to launch altitude.
=
Aboard, Lieutenant Robert Mills grinned slightly behind his white and black helmet, the facemask a grinning visage not unlike the Joker, echoing his similar call-sign: "Joker". His hands danced around the cockpit, one snapping on the engine-powerers that made the engine start, the other hitting the ignition and flipping the fuel mixes, the engine's quiet bulk whirring ever slightly, the hull quaking as fuel dumps into the engine compartment, and the black talons of the white bird claw and find purchase amongst the skies, a slow and persistent whirr meeting his ears through the sound dampened cockpit.
His hands settled on the collective and stick, the engine slowly reaching maximum RPM. His eyes shifted to his right, where the Co-Pilot was doing much the same as him, just finishing his checks. He made the A-Ok signal, and Mills turned back to the Crew Chief, a man in a flight suit that manned the guns and weapons console. He was currently seated with his goggles up, and gave his A-OK as well. Clear for launch. Mills turned his eyes over the gauges inside the small, cramped cockpit, and, satisfied, turned himself to face the small port side control tower, the single man inside looking at him with interest. He tapped the radio button and spoke. "Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo, this is Bravo One. Requesting permission for takeoff, over." the Lieutenant said, loud and clear.
The man inside nodded and snapped a salute. "Bravo one has takeoff clearance. You are first in line, no major air threats, remain a distance of 1 kilometer and run active torpedos. You have launch authority. Lima Bravo out."
Mills' hand snapped to his helmet, his other hand pulling the collective just slightly, the helicopter slowly pulling itself off the ground. His hand dropped and nabbed the stick, the MFDs lighting up and showering him with information as he slowly left the deck, rotating left and pitching forward, the cockpit's noises quickly droned out by the noise of the engines, which brought him high into the air. The in-cockpit intercom would have to do all the work from here on out.
"Pitching left to waypoint one." He said in a clear voice, glancing back at the Crew Chief who gave the A-OK.
"Master Arm on." Said the Crew Chief, flipping the big switch that primed every weapon aboard. "Torpedo arm on. Sonar warmed. Depth set shallow. High drop. Recommend five knots maximum."
"Affirm." Mills returned. His stick shifted, the hull pitched, and it slowly turned horizontal. The craft ducked low, the crew ready and raring. Through the forward windshield, the thrashing beast was a klick and a half distant, chasing the loud and annoying helo rather than the large warship and her slowly-recovering SURCs. It closed slower and slower, the Co-Pilot occasionally glancing nervously up from the controls. Mills stood steadfast, and then turned to the Crew Chief. "Drop."
"Three. Two. One. Dropping." The craft shook a bit, and suddenly jolted upwards with less weight. Mills jammed the collective and twisted right, strafing the craft sideways as a white line of wake slowly closed with the target, seemingly transfixed by the wake before them. It closed... the heads were inquisitive, and one bended low to the water. It opened its mouth, and Mills cringed in a bit of horror as the torpedo ran straight in.
He turned to the Crew Chief. "Report."
"I can detonate if need be, sir. I still have it." He said, reporting that the torpedo was still able to be detonated. The beast was swallowing now, laughing heartily.
"Do it." He said, and the crewman pressed a red button. It was appropriately colored, they decided, as the helicopter twisted through the air and writhed its way back onto Long Beach's deck, where a horde of green and brown and blue and gray camouflage met the "Heroes" while the captain and crew looked on, smiling.
For Mills, though, he had only one real thought: what came next?
===
The Wardroom
Twelve officers were gathered once more, piled into the pitifully small room with tons of coffee and similarly khaki unforms. They crowded around a single screen, where one of the watch officers stood with Commander Downey, their eyes riveted on a screen capture from the radar, attempting to terrain map.
It was a big green blob of green boxes, along with a single green line running in a jagged, almost fractal pattern on a northeast-southwest axis. The uninitiated may have been clueless as to what it meant, but for any Naval Officer it was rather clear what this was an image of: a city. A rather large one, by the looks, and coastally located. Perfect for figuring out just what was going on. "We all know what we're looking at, I assume?" Asked the skipper. Everyone nodded. "Good. Plan of action time, gentlemen. We've got the assets, now we need to do some reconaissance." He said. "We'll go down the line. XO?"
The ship's executive officer wheeled in his chair to face the rest of the group. "We've got a bunch of bodies, two helicopters, a crapton of near-silent boats, and we're trying to piece together a plan? This is one of the stealthiest ships imaginable. I say we fly a team to a nearby empty terrain feature: remaining at distance, of course, and deploy an observation team to watch the city. Once we've ascertained the occupants, we'll recover them and make our next plan of attack."
One of the pilots raised his hand, and the exec pointed at him. "Sir, fuel isn't exactly where it needs to be right now." He said, raising his coffee mug and sipping. "I seriously doubt we can waste the gear on frivolous hide missions. What if we send a nine man team ashore with a single boat, and have a small crew return it while the rest observe?" He asked.
"Doable. I'm not sure if I like the idea if they have coast watchers, though. The wake is more visible than the helicopter." Said the exec, idly playing with a pen as he spoke.
"The helicopter's going to be way too obvious, commander. We need something more." responded the pilot, his fingers tapping slowly on the desk. "The boats will work. Or we could simply observe by floating on the horizon and watching. What's the worst that could happen?"
"We get hit by a missile and sink." Said the Captain. "I want other input-" He said, watching a few hands go up. "Ranas."
The Filipino perked up a bit, and she began: "Why don't we just go straight in? We're out of contact with satcom and everything else, and if we're in a world where they can't kill hydras they obviously don't have the technology to deal with humans either. Why don't we sail directly in with a few boats flanking and the helicopter ready with rocket pods, and if things go bad we start shooting our way out?" She asked. Most of the table was silent on that note.
"She's right." Said the Chief, from his corner. He was sipping a huge mug, and knowing him it was only his fifth. "The Chiefs have been talking, skipper," he said to the CO. "We're looking at men who've lost their families, crewmen who have nearly been killed by sea monsters, and we're going to play the whole sneaky-sneaky game? They're already hurting, and some shore time might be exactly what we need, for both intel and morale."
Downey stood pondering that a moment, before nabbing a smartboard marker and doodling a line, steaming straight in. He pulled up the shoreline's terrain mapping, a rather accurate depiction of what they'd see coming in. Wasn't the future great? With a few taps, he began drawing lines and shapes. "We're going to sail to here." He pointed to a diamond where several lines diverged. One was colored differently than the others. "A single SURC will buzz in, hit the docks, and secure them. If the locals are peaceful, we find a good one and land."
"If we're fired on immediately, this turns into a smash job. We have multiple surface contacts and lots of bad guys if that's a danger zone. We're going to hit all the ships with fourty mikes and charges, then ditch. That's the second colored line set. Should all go well, the SURC will return and guide us into port, possibly with a harbor pilot if they've got one." He doodled a few circular lines, roughly coinciding with the street entrance and halfway down the pier. "Two defensive lines if we visit port, and go in groups of 4-6 ashore. 24/7 watches, and mount some guns from the SURCs while we're in port. Any opposed?"
The whirring engine and pitching platform told Lieutenant Ranas she was aboard a small boat, bouncing along the sea's surface, skimming and spraying water out its sides like a scalpel running along skin. The ocean's life blood trickled behind, coalescing into a fine white line of foam that rippled and turned as it mirrored the craft's past motions. A bounce told her the surf was less than calm, but her leaded belly stayed strong, the wave a mere raindrop in an ocean of experience with the waves and their heavy bucks and sloshes. Her eyes drifted down to the craft, its hull slashed in one place where a Hydra's tooth had managed to gouge a nice slash along the upper hull. It wasn't leaking, but looked rather horrific. To the boat's crew, it was a sign of pride.
Holland stood next to her, his unshaven face a symbol of the chaos of the past few days. His green, brown, and black uniform was already a mess, that of it that wasn't covered in copious amounts of body armor, storage devices, and ammuntion pouches. His rifle was slung tight, his green eyes shifting from side to side, his body perched like it was about to be hit by a freight train, and with a glance Ranas' eyes flitted to her sidearm. "Keep your eyes open." She said to herself more than anyone else, although Holland nodded. The others kept their weapons trained and scanning, the black machine guns slowly maneuvering.
It was quiet in the town ahead, the architecture strange and foreign: almost like a short type of victorian house, but... off, somehow. Ranas couldn't place it, she was no architect. The prevalence of bright, pink colors was somewhat offputting, however. In the distance, she could hear a distinctly human noise coming, but she couldn't tell if it was screams, laughter, or conversation over the engine's din. It slowly began to die as they approached the pier, their guns at the ready, and she peered onto it.
"Holy shit." She murmured, her eyes darting to and fro at the assortment of creatures walking - no, trotting - across the landscape, a few of which stood eyeballing them as their craft approached, its sleek and sail-less nature likely confusing them, considering the assortment of wooden sailing ships and galleys located along other piers. They, however, approached the largest and most easily accessable for Long Beach.
"Contacts, make it...fifteen?" Said the forward gunner. "Fifteen little horses, fuckin' pastels. Does that one have wings?" He asked, the camera on his MG clearly recording for posterity. If there would be posterity, but Ranas quickly tucked that question away. Too much baggage.
"Keep it clean, Petty Officer." She retorted. "Don't want the eggheads to start crying." Holland chuckled at that, turning the craft closer to the pier, a few of the small horses leaning over the side, one or two even waving. Ranas waved back, her blue and gray camouflage contrasting nicely with one of them on the deck, who seemed to be smiling just a tad more than the others. She turned back to the crew. "Put them on safe, now." She said, and guns swivelled up to the air and away. "Have 'em at the ready, but keep it peaceful until otherwise stated."
The Lieutenant grabbed the radio and called in to the Long Beach. "Lima Bravo, Lima Bravo, this is Romeo One, over."
"Lima Bravo is Lima Charlie. Send it, over."
"Contact with locals established, over." She responded. A few of the horses looked curiously as they slowly but surely approached.
"Interrogative, appearance and disposition, over?"
"Sapient-looking horses, count is fifty or sixty dockside. Vessels are primarily wooden sail or oar, over."
"That's affirmative, Romeo One. Continue with mission, squawk if necessary. Eagle One is on the pad and ready inside five mikes. Lima Bravo and Romeo remains on station for emergency evac inside fifteen."
"Rodger, Lima Bravo, Rome One out." She finished, the unspoken understanding that five minutes or fifteen, they'd be coming in to collect corpses in most scenarios. Slowly, the engine puttered out as Holland let the boat coast the last few feet, the crew already grabbing a ladder and holding it up. One of the ponies - small horses were ponies, right? Anyways, one of the ponies grabbed the ladder's top, hauling it into place with a hoof and his teeth.
"Since when could horses move their legs like that?" Asked Holland.
"Since they could build buildings, have altruism, and be colored like some children's show?" She asked, the ship finally halting and a pair of lines roping them onto several supports. Slowly, a small clearing grew around the ladder, and she pulled back the hammer on her pistol and unstrapped the holster. The next minute would be do or die.
The squeaking of her boots was all she heard, that and the pounding of her heart, as she mounted the ladder, Holland directly behind. Three and two was the split, with three sailors on the dock and two holding the boat until things were cleared. She climbed over the top, rising to her full height, and looking...over the crowd of ponies. They were a bit smaller than she'd expected: in fact, pretty much everything was smaller than she'd expected. Almost as if her mind had involuntarily scaled everything. A few gasps and wide eyes met her ears as she extended to full height, one or two backing involuntarily. The blue furred and gray maned one calmed two of them, her black, white, and red cloak covering her somewhat, a jester's hat embroidered on the flank. A group parted, and she approached.
"Greetings, stranger." She said, in an elderly woman's voice. Her face was somewhat wrinkled, and Ranas could tell she was getting there in her years. "I, on behalf of the church and government of Baltimare, welcome you to the same. We ask only for peace and reverence, and a small tithe of whatever you consider valuable for permission to dock here." She said with a smile, her hoof extending into the air. Ranas approached in a handshake, only for the hoof to hit her hand.
As she shook it, Ranas responded in kind: "I greet you as well, ma'am. I am Lieutenant Julia Ranas, of the United States Navy and the United States Ship Long Beach. We're but an advanced force, here to ascertain condition of the port for her to come in and weigh anchor, as it were." She said smoothly, the other two of her crew mounting the ladder, and impressing the ponies even more. Where most were three foot four, Ranas was five foot two, and Holland and the other Sailor stood at six one and five nine, respectively. One cried out from the audience,
"They look like minatours!" The old woman turned with some grace and composure, and her steely gaze made the offender hide.
"You've got Hydras and Minatours? Ma'am, I'm not exactly one for monster hunting." Said Chief Holland. Ranas chuckled.
"We're sea people, Chief. I think we'll be alright."
"Yes, well..." Said the lady. "I'm Mayor Sea Strider." She said, motioning to her flank. The image of a small boat was startlingly well-done. "and this is Baltimare, as you may have already gathered. I must ask, from whence do you all hail? I've never met ones of your species before." She said, motioning to them.
"We're humans." Said the sailor with them. Smith, Ranas believed his name was. "Homo Sapiens Sapiens, if you'd like to get technical."
"Well, we're ponies." She responded, motioning to herself and the group. "Though we have three subspecies. Unicorns, Pegasi, and Earth Ponies. You'll really only find the latter in baltimare, although we do have some minority groups here. I believe I even saw a Zebra once."
"All sapient?" Asked Holland.
"Oh, yes. What species our size have you met that aren't?" She asked questioningly. Many awkward faces were to be had.
"Uh..." Said Holland. "All of them, until a week or so ago?"
"Really? You must come from such a dull place." She said. "Anyhow. I suppose I'll have to clear the dock so we can chat. Do tell your "Long Beach" or wherever you're from to come in. I'll have one of the pilots fly in and show them the way." Before Ranas could get in another word, she turned and shouted. "Everypony! Meet the Humans, travellers from far lands! Leave them be for this day, so that they might become settled in Baltimare. Go in her name now, so that we might attend to business..."
===
Somewhere Else, A Day Later
"Are you sure?" Asked the hooded figure. They were in a dark and secluded room, the pink turning blood red in the light of the torches. Only a singular painted wood object lay in the room, its shell preserved with many different spells and incantations, frozen in time. Carved immaculately by Unicorn and Pegasi alike, before the dark times came, it was her ultimate symbol of power.
A pink face, wreathed in a great smile, with the word "Smile" engraved in large great print on its end. Both of them had prostrated before it before the meeting had begun.
"Any new tool for her use is worthy." She said, motioning to the coffin. "Anything for Priestess Seeking Answer to use is necessary, I think. And, in the short term, the people will have something other than war come to the shores of Baltimare. New friends, to teach true Cult hospitality."
"And when we steal their friend and use her?" Asked the High Priest, his hood slowly lowering. Parts of his skin were missing, covered in patches of other fur, in many colors. "What happens to our sanctuary then, Strider?"
"Isn't that mine to worry over?"
"No, it isn't, and you know it. What if they burn it out of us? What if they find her in the wreckage: what we've tried to do, what we've done? The Cult will be slaughtered, and then the only smiles will be in Tartarus. Is that what you want?"
"No. I want to see the Mare rise again. That's what I want, Cranky, and maybe you're too assed to care." She chuckled.
"You're treading a dangerous line. One that differentiates between a smile with muscle and a smile made of muscle. I'd expect some more respect from someone so old and wise."
"Age can make us crazy, Cranky Doodle. Perhaps you've prolonged yours far too much." She said, stepping towards the doorway, a gray and technicolor hoof slapping it closed.
"You say too much, and too callously." He sneered. "When she rises, it will be you that dies first."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you'll just die of old age before we get there." She turned, and then cried in pain as a hoof connected with her face. And then another, and another.
"How would you like to die now, Miss Mayor? Think anyone will notice? Anyone will care?" He asked. "The second I let it slip in sermon you betrayed us, and the only thing left of you in the books is a footnote filled with cries of treason and sodomy. You'd do well to remember that."
With a hee-haw, and another smack, the donkey exited, his flesh cape trailing behind. Sea Strider sat shivering for a minute, before rising. She had meetings to attend.
===
"Cut to two knots. Back water on my mark." Said Commander Downey, his stern face covered in haggard beard and his eyes bloodshot from two sleepless nights at sea. His coffee cup practically looked like water, with how little was left in his personal stockpile after these few days. Despite his haggard appearance, though, his mind remained sharp. It was nearly time to rest.
"Cut to two knots, aye." Answered the helmsman, twisting the joystick controller backwards. The pair were sitting in tandem, Downey in his command chair and the helmsman to his front-left in a two console arrangement. When first desgined, the LCS was essentially a Star Trek bridge, as far as design goes. Long Beach and Block II didn't change any of that. She was still a overly science fiction filled joke. But it was their science fiction filled joke, and they made the best of it.
Long Beach coasted gently along the pier, barely moving as she eased into place, crewmen on the helipad and on the pier waving and calling on the radio in order to more effectively ascertain the situation on the ground, and make sure they helmed into the right area rather than the wrong. The pier, after all, was hard to consider as "stable".
A few ponies chatted with the ground team, their rifles slung on their backs and mouths moving in what appeared to be a rather calm and collected conversation, for meeting intelligent pastel ponies and all. When they'd passed the word on the radio, Downey had spat out some of his (non-watered) coffee and had practically decided to give them all psych evals. Then he'd gotten some photos and promptly shut up. Now he'd have to play diplomat in addition to being practically hungover on sleeplessness.
Downey supposed he'd had worse nights in his career.
"Back water." He announced, and the forward water jet began pumping out water, slowing their speed to nil. "Station keeping, Helm." His voice echoed. He sat down as the ship shuddered to a halt, lines snapping to her fore and aft, tossed by seamen and seacolts alike upon the deck of the Long Beach, her hardy crew quickly rushing to tie it ashore. Downey sipped another bit of coffee down, and looked to the rest of the bridge crew. He cleared his throat.
Downey's hands raised the 1MC to his hand, and he looked out on the city before him, the crowds of pastel onlookers stomping their hooves, a few raising in the air and kicking their hooves in greeting. He smiled momentarily, although his thoughts were less happy. "All hands, this is the Commander. Secure the watch. All hands rig for shore activities. Force protection level is high, there will be a 24/7 security watch on the fore, quarterdeck, and helipad. Pending local meetings, there will be no shoreside activity save as Navy business. Please understand that this is for their benefit, not ours. We represent an entire species and the United States, conduct yourselves as such. Out."
His voice echoed through the chambers, and crewmen began wrapping up headphones and turning off consoles, the ship's bridge slowly shutting down as the crew prepared for portside activities, including maintenance, maintenance, and, well, maintenance. That was all you could do without a naval base or proscribed shoreleave, which was doubtful in a land of pastel ponies. Downey frowned and rose. "XO, you have the conn."
"Aye sir." Said the less-haggard but still tired Executive Officer, who promptly took Downey's chair as he exited. Downey ducked through a watertight hatch and into the belly of the beast, the tight corridors and crawlways leading straight into the hangar bay, where work was very much underway. He stepped out into it, a CONEX cargo container on the elevator being sifted through by aviation maintenance crewmen and the two helos and four other aircraft tossed in their respective corners, their hulls crammed together to make room.
During a normal maintenance cycle, most other craft were moved on to the ultra-spacious deck, capable of fitting any size helicopter from an Osprey to multiple Littlebirds, depending on mission configuration. But, in a port cycle, they were broken down, with folded wings and bodies pressed up together like two cuddling lovers. And then the four... other pieces of equipment sat motionless, their small size and shaping requiring less cramming. Four MQ-8E Fire Scout UAVs, built to be far more autonomous and effective at combat than their predecessors. They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse, as far as Downey was concerned.
He passed through, getting polite nods and snaps to attention as he exited the bay, answering each in turn. The smell of the sea, and of the city below him was a far cry from the stale air of the Long Beach's bridge, and Downey sniffed in a whiff of the spray, smiling at the familiar feeling. Shouts across the hangar deck told him the crew was still hard at work down below securing to shore, and he quickly made his way below to the mission bay, the assortment of crewmen down there surprising him, most simply gaggling around the door to watch the occurences beyond.
"Make a hole!" He cried through the crowd, and they parted as he stepped out onto the roll-on/roll-off door, effectively a makeshift gangplank. Below stood Lieutenant Ranas and a squad of sailors, along with a gaggle of ponies, obviously ones of authority. He nodded to Ranas as she snapped a salute, and he returned it crisply. "Report."
"This is Mayor Sea Strider. Sea Strider? This is the ship's captain, Commander Downey."
"Hello there." She said, extending a hoof. Downey moved to shake, and she slapped at his hand with it, and lowered it satisfied. "I suppose I'll tell you the same story I told Ranas, here. We welcome you to the city of Baltimare." Ranas rolled her eyes at the Commander, being out of eyeshot. He glanced at her sternly. Sea Strider continued unabated.
"We require that all visiting vessels provide us some sort of tithe. What kind is up to you, but it must be of sufficient value. Something we can use, not just a random gift." The Commander stroked his chin momentarily, and reached into his chest pocket, tossing her a big golden coin,
"How much is that worth?" He asked. She pondered it.
"This is sufficient." She decided, observing the strange etchings on it, of eagles and boats. "How much is it worth in your homeland?"
"Oh, quite alot." He lied. Ranas and Chief Holland were silently chuckling in the back. Anyone who's anyone in the military knew Command Coins were a dime a dozen. But they certainly looked legitimate. Downey's was from a crappy supply ship he'd been aboard a few months before, a waste unless you were the 'extremely' sentimental type.
"Indeed." She said, pondering the coin as she used her mouth to stow it away. "So, have you any questions for me?" She asked.
"Rules and regulations? We're not going to stay cooped aboard, so we'd just like to know some basic details on what's okay and what isn't."
"Well..."
---
The two bumped forward appendages, and nodded to one another. "I do hope your stay in Baltimare is good, Commander. I also invite a few of your crew: five or six, to visit the theatre sometime in the next few days. As you may or may not have noticed, our religion is extremely strong here, and the play going on there may be of some informative nature, should you have people willing to listen."
"Understood, Ma'am." Said the Commander, nodding and smiling. The two parted amiably, the blue-furred earth pony departing through a quartet of guards on the dockside, their red armor and steely eyes the only things visible, behind a smiling facemask and pauldrons with engraved smiles. Downey almost cringed, but wasn't about to show that weakness as he climbed aboard. A good three-quarters of the crew stared back at him, in the huge cargo bay.
"Alright, sailors. This place gives me the fucking creeps." He said, a few nodding with him. "They seem nice enough, sure, but too much so to just want us here for peaceable reasons. If you go ashore, go in groups of ten or more. Stay for only a few hours, and bring a tac radio and check in every fifteen minutes except as noted." He paced his way through the crowd, the metal doorway behind slowly raising like a drawbridge, until they were back inside the behemoth.
"I need six to ten sailors for a shore party in the next few days. The mayor of this place wants us to see a play. Not sure how good it is, but if you're a cultured sort, make it happen. Take notes, if you're nerdy like that." He chuckled. A few answered him. "I don't know what it is, but these smiles, engraved everywhere, it just weirds me out. Keep yourselves together, and arm yourselves. Keep it discreet. I'm not losing crew."
"We're representatives of not just the navy, not just the United States, we're representatives of Earth and all of humanity. Act like it. We'll have standby teams and a seahawk on deck for emergency rescue if you need it, but don't count on it. If you're in trouble, if shit's getting bad, start running. I don't think little ponies can chase down a US Navy sailor in an urban environment. Get on some rooves. That's all I have."
Many of the crewmen nodded, and they slowly dispersed down ladderwells and into mission pods, a congregation of Riverine guys slowly dissolving to just a half-dozen, two of which made their way to the overwatch area above the drawbridge, taking charge of the two machine guns there.
Downey disappeared as well, finding way to his quarters, where he threw off his aquaflage cover and collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. Too much for him to deal with, he drifted to sleep...
