Frost Forest, Bernese

On the patio of a three story Germanic manor, hidden in snow-covered trees and a gray, foggy canvas, a lone male ibex with a brown coat, bleach-blonde hair and a pathetically small set of horns sits on an old cushion. To shield himself from the nipping wind, the ibex is wearing a dark turtleneck and a light gray jacket that is below average in quality, with some of the threads coming loose or spots suffering from discoloration. Oddly enough, his hooves are covered with expensive brown boots complete with golden laces and the slim, rectangular glasses perched on his nose hold the same color scheme. No doubt pricy as well.

He watches with a pleasant smile as a couple of red jays sing to each other from their respective branches. A puff of grey escapes him when he sighs blissfully from the sight of the two birds flying off together. He watches them fly gracefully through the trees, still serenading each other until they disappear from view. He lightly taps his hooves against the railing, humming lightly to himself for a minute until the door opens behind him. His humming drones to a stop and he turns his head slightly to see another male Ibex twice his age poke his head out. Unlike the one on the patio, the older counterpart’s coat is near black, his tied back mane is brown and his horns are large enough to curl. The dark blue, sharp suit he is wearing is easily worth a small fortune with its high quality cloth and the neck-tie jewel is studded with a ruby, making his appearance to be that of a murderous corporate mogul.

“Rotes, he'll be here any minute,” the older ibex says in their national language, Bernesenese, in a stern, yet fatherly, voice. To most, it sounds like he is speaking Germane, but a skilled linguist would notice a slight variation in the dialect.

The blonde ibex, named Rotes Leinen, fully turns to the older ibex, an old family friend by the name of Zäh Ausstecher. Though, most don’t call him that since he prefers to be called “Cutter”, a nickname he earned when he served in the Republikanische Garde Ranger. Or, as translated, Republican Guard Rangers, the special forces of the Bernese military.

“Will mama be here soon, Cutter?” asks Rotes in the same tongue. Unlike Cutter, his voice is androgynous- it flows over his tongue like a slow river, not lending itself to one or the other gender.

Cutter nods and before he goes back inside he says: “Yes, and if she were here now she would tell you to come inside before you got sick.”

Rotes chuckles and follows Cutter inside the manor. It is spacious and filled with welcoming rustic decor that has a crackling fireplace adding to the love. All that it needs to become a vacation dream house is get rid of all the armed guards populating it.

The guards are all wearing thick coats and have admittedly sub-par battle saddles clipped securely to their persons. Some of them are sitting around a table, talking quietly to themselves with easy smiles and light chuckles while others are stiffly patrolling.

When Rotes steps in, he rubs his hooves against the welcoming rug, grimacing at the mud getting caught in its rough texture. When his boots are cleaned he takes a couple of testing steps inside, beaming with approval when he doesn’t see any mud trailing him.

Cutter walks past him and orders a couple of guards to take the mat and to clean it. The guards look annoyed by this, but they go without question to take the newly dirtied mat to the basement. After the basement door closes, Rotes walks towards a couch decorated with rustic designs and a quilt draped over the back. Rotes lets out another sigh when he lies down on it. The couch is so soft that he feels as though he is melting into its welcoming cushions. Though that moment of peace is quickly ruined when Cutter sits next to him with the hardened expression that demands answers.

“Can we trust him?” asks Cutter.

“Who?” says Rotes, feigning ignorance.

“The Painter. You told me he came to you, promising us a way to win Bernese. But can we trust him?”

“We have no choice but to trust him. With his help, we can make this country better for everyone.”

Cutter frowns. “But he doesn’t even show his face. How could you be so... foolish... as to work with someone who hides his face?”

Rotes adjusts his position so that he can get a better look at Cutter. “Cutter, we must take risks in order for us to see progress. He has offered us a way to bring Bernese to the next level of civilization. That is what you want, right?”

“More than anything, but his plan -what you told me- it is dangerous. It is risky and fragile, and we are doing what he wants, not what is best for Bernese.”

“What are you saying? You do not trust me?”

“We should not have let a foreigner help us to decide the fate of our nation. That is all.”

Rotes sits up to look at Cutter with a somewhat hurt expression. “Just trust me, Cutter. Bernese will be saved and he will help us save it.”

Cutter looks at Rotes skeptically, and leaves with a disgruntled grumble when a tired, elderly female Ibex wearing thick clothing consisting of brown and green stripes enters with four escorts. She is well into her sixties, each step is a struggle, and only traces of her original blonde coat and brown hair remain in the gray covering her. Her horns are small, too, but upon seeing her, Rotes smiles for joy and is quick to leave the couch to hug her.

“Mama, I’m so happy you made it!” he says as he is gently rocks her in his hug.

She hugs him back and rubs the back of his neck. “Mr. Ausstecher told me that you needed me, and so I came.”

Rotes smiles at Cutter, and he in turn, flashes a small smile before leaving for the kitchen. He looks back at his mother, Ms. Samt “Sam” Liebe Leinen, when she puts her hoof to his cheek and gently turns his head so that he is looking at her. Her eyes search his face as her hoof rubs his cheek, and his smile fades as he looks down, swallowing pooling spit.

“Rotes, what is wrong?” asks Ms. Leinen with worry.

“I cannot say, mama.” he says quietly. He takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to look into hers while puts his hoof on her shoulder. “But with what is to come, you will be safer here. With me.”

“Rotes, I-”

“Please, mama. Just... trust me.”

Ms. Leinen falls silent, searching her son's face darkly once more for clues about his actions. However when he looks back at her, begging with his troubled eyes for her not to push the subject, she nods and looks down.

“Okay, Rotes. I will trust you. But you must promise to tell me why you are doing this,” she says.

Rotes kisses her on her forehead before embracing her again. “I will, but in the meantime, why don't you get a meal? You look tired and I would hate for you to rest on an empty stomach.”

Ms. Leinen nods and is escorted away when Rotes orders her escorts to take her to the kitchen. As soon as she is out of view, he sits down on a cushion in front of a telephone set and props his head against his hoof in waiting. The guards eye him questionably and Cutter cocks a brow when he exits the kitchen, chewing on something.

“Are you expecting a phone call?” asks Cutter.

“No, I am anticipating," answers Rotes.

“Funny. I thought they were the same thing.”

Rotes smiles without taking his eyes off of the set. He knows they hold the same meaning, but he finds himself enjoying simple things like switching similar words around in hopes of confusing those he talks to. Rotes has found that it is hard to confuse Cutter, though, since it is in his nature to observe and study everything he sees or hears. However, even the disciplined ibex is not always on guard and can be surprised by simple things such as a knock on the door.

The knock is casual, but it still makes Cutter and the guards exchange glances while Rotes remains relaxed in his seat. He knows who it is, and he knows why his guards are confused. It is not often one comes knocking on the doorstep of a terrorist safe house like they are selling filly scout cookies. Or, on a more concerned note, how they even got close enough to come knocking without some sort of warning to be made. That part is slightly unsettling to Rotes and he makes a mental note to beef up patrols in his neck of the woods. The next time someone arrives they might not knock.

When the knocking returns, this time as loud bangs that shakes the door, Cutter waves his soldiers forward and they cautiously approach, each risking their necks to give nervous glance to their teammates.

“Don’t be rude,” says Rotes casually as he gets up and trots towards Cutter, coming to a stop behind the older ibex and gently nudging him forward. “Open the door.”

Cutter looks at Rotes just long enough to see his androgynous boss motion him forward again. Cutter looks back at the door when the knocking gets insanely powerful. Powerful enough, in fact, to crack the door.

“For the love of the sun! Open the fucking door!” screams a butch female outside in Equestrian.

To Rotes, it sounds like the visitor is wearing a mask of some kind, and not wanting to keep the visitor waiting any longer, he strolls forward to open the door himself. The guards tense and Cutter swears in his native tongue when the door opens to reveal three griffins in snow covered travel gear. One being scrawny and dirty, another buff and scarred with an eye patch, and a third is a female and a mechanically modified nightmare.

The female griffin is mid-sized, but she also has scars covering her brown body with the majority being at the base of replaced wings and the shoulder of a fully mechanical right arm that is lined with gems and a stone in the palm of her robotic hand. With her close proximity, Rotes sees that each claw is connected to the palm with wires, gears and pistons, and her wings share a similar story. A lot of scientific care and genius allowed her natural wings to be replaced with a robotic network that has the metal bones lined with gems. Her feathers have all been replaced with razor thin blades and her new wings are wired directly to a battery pack that is bolted to two large air tanks. The air tanks use durable tubes and wires to connect to a semi-clear breathing apparatus that completely covers her lower face and has a strap that goes between her eye and connects to another at the back of her head, keeping the device locked securely in place. Needless to say, the cyborg is getting a lot of attention that she does not seem to be enjoying.

“About time,” sneers the mechanical nightmare, who still carries the name of Gilda Grizelda despite her modifications and the fact that she has a death certificate barely a year old.

The enhanced griffin takes a step forward, but stops and glares at Rotes when Cutter shouts and all the guns in the room point at her and her posse. The scrawny one, named Nasty Hick, yelps and holds his talons up in surrender while the muscular one, Grim, growls and reaches for a small, six barreled pistol clipped to his side.

“What’s their problem?” asks Gilda, her eyes narrowing intently on Rotes.

Rotes steps slightly to the side so he is out of the uptight guards’ lines of fire, studying Gilda’s modified body with great interest.

“Griffins are not well liked in Bernese. But you are not the Painter,” observes Rotes, speaking in Equestrian fluently.

“How do you know?” says Gilda with narrowed eyes.

“Because I met him personally. Where is he?”

“On an errand. I’m here to make sure you play your part in this whole secret operation thing you got going on.”

“And how do you know what secret operation I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Because I met him personally and he told me.”

“Don’t let those griffins in,” says Cutter in his native tongue.

Rotes holds up his hoof, silencing Cutter, and his lips curl to a smile as he motions Gilda and her griffins inside. Nasty Hick nearly bulrushes Rotes to get to a fireplace, and the ibexes all backpedal and keep their weapons trained on him as he places his talons as close as possible to the welcoming flames. Cutter rolls his eyes when the dirty griffin sighs with relief from the joys of thawing out.

“Do they have hot cocoa?” asks Nasty Hick with childlike innocence to Gilda.

“How the hell should I know?” snaps Gilda.

“We do have some,” says Rotes, and after closing the door to keep the cold chill out he speaks to Cutter in their language. “Make our guest some hot chocolate.”

Cutter balks at his long time friend-boss-fellow revolutionary. “Are you serious?” he says sharply.

“Yes I am. It would be rude to not to give a guest a drink if they ask for one,” says Rotes calmly.

Cutter sighs and mumbles about him catering to griffins is not in his job description. Rotes watches the older ibex until he is in the kitchen with Ms. Leinen, probably grumbling to her about giving a griffin hot chocolate. Which, if that is the case, she will more than likely give Cutter a lecture about tolerance and being a good host to travelers. However, Rotes does not keep his thought on the hot chocolate situation. Instead, he turns his focus to Gilda and her other companion, the scarred griffin.

“And who might you be?” asks Rotes to Grim.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” sneers Grim.

Rotes stares at him, already knowing that his experience with him is going to be the exact opposite of pleasant, but rather than making a fuss about it, he smiles thinly and turns to Gilda expectantly.

“That’s Grim. He’s an ass,” she says without Rotes even asking, then she jabs a talon in the dirty griffin’s direction. “And that guy over there is Nasty Hick. He’s an idiot.”

Rotes nods, now knowing that working with her will be an interesting experience, and then he looks at Grim and tells him: “You really should be more polite to your boss.”

Grim snarls. “Gilda’s my boss.”.

“And Gilda works for the Painter, who obviously wants you to assist me in whatever seems fit, therefore you work for me as well. So, please, show me some respect and I will return the favor. And Cutter, too.”

It is at that moment Cutter walks into the room balancing a cup of hot chocolate on a tray held in his mouth. His eyes heat the air with hatred as Nasty Hick thanks him and takes the cup, and when Cutter sets the tray down on a nightstand Rotes is about ready to correct his mistake, but the ringing phone interrupts him.

With the rapid dinging of metal bells from the phone, all activity stops and everyone looks at the set up. Ms. Leinen pokes her head out of the kitchen, the guards and griffins exchange looks, with the ibexes wondering who is calling -or how they got their number for that matter- and the griffins looking relieved that someone is reaching out to them. Cutter looks at Rotes expectantly when it rings again, but the blonde ibex stares at the phone as if he is unsure what to do.

“Aren’t you anticipating a call?” asks Cutter, still refusing to show off his skills in Equestrian.

Cutter’s attitude annoys Rotes, but he brushes it aside and takes a seat in front of the communications setup and answers it before it finishes the next cycle of rings.

Rotes takes a breath. “Hallo?”

“Mr. Leinen, I’m sorry I could not visit personally, but some matters came up and I had no choice but to send my associates instead,” says a cold, calculating voice on the other end. The voice of the Painter.

Rotes glances at the griffins. “I understand. Am I right to guess that we will not be seeing each other face to face for some time?”

“You are. But we will meet again in a hopefully timely matter. You can trust Gilda and her companions. They are loyal to the cause.”

“I think they are more loyal to their paycheck.”

“Think what you want, but I need to know if you are ready for the next phase of this operation.”

Rotes nods and rubs his brow. “We are. But some of us are anxious about this whole operation and are wondering if you are going to uphold your end. We cannot do this alone, after all.”

“Phase One for Storm Cloud will be completed soon enough, Leinen. You need to let me do what is necessary, just as I need you to be prepared and willing to do the same.”

“But I need to know if this plan will work?”

“I assure you, everything will go well, but only if you do as I say.”

“But-”

“This conversation is over.”

There is a click on the other end, and once the dial tone echoes in his ears, Rotes sighs and hangs up the headset before looking at Cutter with his eyes slightly lowered. The whole room is silent, and all eyes fall on Rotes as the anticipation for what he is about to say grips them. Taking another moment to collect his thoughts, Rotes exhales, wipes his hair back and straightens himself before looking at Gilda.

“Make yourself at home, Ms. Grizelda,” says Rotes.

At first Gilda eyes him suspiciously, but her suspicion is soon hidden by a wide grin spreading from underneath her breathing mask.

“I never thought you’d ask,” she says.

Gilda doesn’t waste any time sitting on the couch with her talons folded behind her head and her paws kicked out on the coffee table. Even with that breathing apparatus on, Rotes can barely see the smile on her face. He knows she is enjoying the terrified looks she is getting from her mechanical enhancements, and Rotes cannot blame her. If he had steel claws he would like to show them off, too. He finds himself pitying the griffin, though, because of the breathing equipment she is forced to wear, and through her smile he sees a cringe of pain, which leads to him wondering how much she suffes from the objects attached to her.

When Gilda sees Rotes staring at her, she raises her brow and places her talons in front of her, with her natural one massaging the stone the embedded into her mechanical palm.

“Like what you see?” asks Gilda in a cruel, playful tone, prompting Grim to give her a strange look.

“No. I pity what I see,” says Rotes, then he turns to Cutter, puts his hoof on his shoulder and escorts him away from the griffins. He speaks to him in Bernesenese when they are on the other side of the room. “Are you ready for the mission?”

“I am, but I do not feel comfortable leaving you here with these griffins,” says Cutter.

Both ibexes look over their shoulders at the three griffins. Grim is eyeing them with suspicion that rivals Cutter, Nasty Hick is warming his rump against the fireplace, and Gilda is still picking at the stone in her palm with a forlorn expression.

Rotes looks back at Cutter. “I will be fine, but you must hurry. Storm Cloud is time sensitive and our friend is nearing the completion of the first task.”

Cutter is hesitant, but still he nods and waves for a small group of four to come with him, and when they get to the door, he does one last look around before leaving into the brutal cold. Once the door closes, Rotes sighs heavily and sits on the couch, then he grabs a napkin and carefully wipes the bottom of his boot before rubbing his temple with his head bowed and eyes closed. Moments later, he feels the couch shift slightly and a hoof wrap around his shoulder to pulls him in for a hug.

“Rotes, are you okay?” asks Ms. Leinen.

Without opening his eyes, Rotes nods. “I'm fine, mama,” he says quietly.

“Would you like anything?”

Rotes shakes his head, and opens his eyes when his mother leaves his side. He watches her walk towards the kitchen, and when she is in the doorway, he calls after her. Ms. Leinen stops and looks at him, and he sighs nervously and looks down again.

“Do you believe I have a good heart?” he asks.

“I know you have a good heart,” she says with a reassuring smile. Then she approaches him and guides his head so she can look into his eyes and strokes his cheek softly. “And you have your father’s eyes.”

Then she kisses him lightly on the forehead and walks towards the kitchen, leaving Rotes alone in the room with Gilda, her griffins, and his guards. The heavy silence makes the seconds seem longer as they tick by, and when it feels like many minutes have passed, Rotes looks up at an oil picture above the fireplace. It is of him as a child, no older than five, his considerably younger mother with all the beauty of her blonde and brown colors, and a strong male ibex with a chopped red mane, big horns and a sandy brown coat, wearing a crisp, midnight blue military uniform decorated with dozens of medals. Underneath is a folded flag in a glass case with framed medals on either side. He swallows and leaves the warm room to stand out in the cold once more.

Bergstadt, Bernese

“Do you want to save her?” asks the calculating voice of a stallion with a heart as dark and cold as the depths of the ocean.

“Yes! Please, I’ll do what you want, just don’t hurt her!” begs another stallion.

“Then do what I say.”

Those three lines have been tormenting Slick for weeks. Every day after the strange pony in the painter suit approached him and told him that his wife has been marked for death by his orders, he has checked up on her as often as he could. Every time she has replied to him and it makes him feel better. That is until he closes his eyes and thinks about the stallion in the painter suit standing over her limp body.

Slick looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, noting the bags under his eyes and how unkempt his sandy mane has become. Even his wings haven’t been preened properly in the past few weeks, leaving them a mess just like his auburn coat. His whole shaggy appearance is something that he knows his team finds completely unprofessional, but he can’t bring himself to do a decent cleaning with the worry of his wife’s safety crushing him.

Slick turns on the faucets and splashes his face with the ice cold water, trying to get himself to wake up. The splash of the piercing cold water does the trick. No longer are his eyes droopy, they are wide open and his body is snapped to focus. No matter how tired he is from his restless nights he knows he cannot falter on his assignment. He has specific instructions and deterring would mean the death of the mare he loves.

After splashing himself one more time for another boost, Slick is as awake as equinely possible and he shakes the loose water from his face, dotting the mirror in the tiny watery specks. After taking one last look at his pathetic reflection he quickly steps out into the livingroom of the apartment he is staying in.

He and his team are living in a simple abode, and since it is so small they are crowded like carrots in a can. The furniture is light with just a couch, a couple of small chairs, and a table that has a dial radio perched on it, and there are just a couple of rooms, one for the stallions and one for the mares. Placed at a strategic spot away from the window is a telescope manned by an older, chubby yellow colored stallion unicorn taking notes on a zeppelin that is gliding blissfully above the city skyline. He doesn’t even look up to know that Slick left the bathroom.

“Slick, alert the embassy. Tell them the generals are moving,” orders the chubby stallion.

Slick barely hesitates before he walks towards the bedroom for the stallions, fighting to ignore the whispers he knows are about him and the ballooning dread suffocating him. When he is in the room, he quietly closes the door and slumps to his chair placed in front of a desk covered with the necessary equipment for their mission. He stares at the communications equipment in front of him for minute long seconds, then he turns towards a picture resting on the table next to it. He feels himself breaking down as he slides the photo towards him with a shaky hoof and holds it up to his face.

Slick wipes his bloodshot eyes with his free hoof, sniffling, and blinks tears away as he looks at the picture of him and a unicorn mare of red color with a white arrowhead pattern on her muzzle and a streaked brown mane. He has his hoof over her shoulder and an older mare that looks almost like red mare, just that her colors are inverted with a brown coat and a streaked red mane. All three of them are smiling and in the background is a banner congratulating the newly weds.

Slick takes a deep breath and gently sets the picture down so that she is looking away from him, and he looks at the floor shamefully as his body sulks from knowing of what is to come.

He turns to his radio set and exhales before adjusting the dial and preparing the Morse Code tool. He gulps down his tears and stares out the window at the gliding zeppelin, regretting what he has to do. Then his hoof starts tapping the device and a series of dots and dashes sound out to make: -.. . - --- -. .- - .

Seconds after the final dot is typed in, there is a distant thud and Slick's eyes snap to the window to see a plume of fiery smoke billowing out from one of the engines of the zeppelin. There is another thud and flash of light and another engine pops into flaming shards, and within seconds, a string of fireballs roll out of the side of the ship with explosive thuds, flinging burning parts all over. The airship is consumed by the inferno as it dips and breaks apart, and it disappears from view, marking its final landing with a cloud of debris and screams over screeching metal and crumbling buildings.

“What the hell just happened!” exclaims an agent.

“Everypony pack up now!” barks the chubby stallion.

Slick pulls away from the communications set, and mopes towards the doorway, watching his team talk over each other and pack up as quickly as they can in a state of panic. He walks back towards his window and watches a small army of heavily armed local guards pour out of a group of armored mini-trains and storm their building. When a good majority of the guards are inside, leaving the rest outside to block their exit, Slick looks at the picture of him and the mare one last time before grabbing his pistol and sitting on his bed, stroking it with his hoof as fresh tears wet his face.

“We've been compromised!” yells one of the agents.

Slick puts the pistol in his mouth and starts towards the door, trembling and whimpering, regretting everything that he had done and has yet to do.

Once Slick enters the living room, the door is knocked off of its hinges by an ibex in full black tactical gear, and Slick immediately unloads his entire pistol payload into the guard, dropping him with blood splattered on the door. The other agents levitate or grab their weapons with their mouths as a swarm of guards rush inside, guns blazing. Bullets, shouts, and screams echo in the motel halls, and the furniture and walls are painted in sprays of red or ripped apart as the agents are brutally gunned down by the guards. It takes less than twenty seconds for the local guards to wipe out the team, with Slick being the last to expire.

Slick watches, crying and struggling to breathe as he bleeds all over the carpet, suffering every second his pierced lungs try to take in oxygen. He barely hears the guards speaking past his labored heartbeats, and when one of the Ibexes leans down next to him, he turns his head to look at his dead team lying in pools of blood in the shot up apartment. Then he closes his eyes and stops breathing.

In the distance, watching through a sniper scope all of the agents getting gunned down in a quick, relentless barrage of gunfire, is a stallion in a full body painter suit. When the last of the agents drops, he turns his scope to Slick and keeps his crosshairs on him until he stops moving, then he does another sweep and pauses when he sees the guards go into the room. A quick search leads to one of the guards pulling out rolls of blueprints and he points at the radio equipment while an obvious superior walks in.

Seeing this, the Painter skillfully packs up his sniper rifle with fluid motions into a faded duffel bag covered in old streaks of paint, fully satisfied with his accomplishment. When all of that is done, he leaves the rundown room without looking back and steps into a hallway elevator that is far from any window. The elevator closes with a ding and a flash of light appears through the cracks as it slides down.