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Flying With Damaged Feathers

by hornethead

Chapter 22: Chapter 22: Gun Smoke And Mirrors

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Chapter 22: Gun Smoke And Mirrors

"So," Jackson said as he lowered his drink with a hard crack of glass on wood. "One of your teams found Mr. Tiran here out in the woods."

"Yes, just south of the Unicorn Range." Sparks clarified. "We believe he was headed to the capitol."

"I was," Tiran said, "until I was ambushed and drugged," he added with a hint of anger.

"Correct," Sparks continued, ignoring Tiran's comment. "We brought him back to our Training and Development Center. There we discovered—"

"That he's a relative of an old friend of mine," Jackson finished for him. "Distant, but by blood," he nodded.

Sparks shot a quizzical expression at Jackson, "Yes... how did you know?"

Jackson nodded towards Tiran, "They share some of the same features."

"Yes, I saw that too, after the test." Sparks agreed.

"Son, grandson, great grandson? Genghis was never the one to hold a steady girlfriend, but he did carry on with the ladies when he got the chance."

"No, as far as we can tell, he's a distant nephew."

Jackson nodded, "Hmm, makes sense."

Sparks continued: "We kept him for a few days, but then—"

"You were attacked. Yes, I know." Jackson waved his drink in the air dismissively. "Why do you think I was down in the damn basement when you arrived. Thought you were them," he said in explanation. "One way in, one way out. Would've been a nice little massacre before I went down."

Sparks leaned forward, eyes narrowing to slits, "Right again. How do you know all this already?" he asked with an air of suspicion.

Jackson laughed, "You kidding?" he said, voice booming in the small kitchen. "Just because I'm retired doesn't mean I like to be out of the loop. I got eyes and ears everywhere."

Sparks leaned back with a barely distinguishable roll of his eyes and sipped his drink, "Even so, things are going south, quick. We were hit fast and hard, with barely a few hours notice. It's been quiet for so long, but we think Equestria might be under attack again, but from whom, we don't yet know."

Sparks stopped here, and rightly so, as Jackson once again cut in. "And you want some help or insight from me about this and about Tiran here."

Sparks nodded.

"Well, sorry. I can't exactly help you," he said with a shrug.

Sparks tensed, but kept his reserve, "Why?"

Jackson sighed and took another gulp from his drink, which was rapidly dwindling. "Because, if my sources are right, it's not the country that's under attack. It's you."

At this, Sparks blinked, taken aback, "Me?"

"Well, the RSTG at least."

Tiran held up a hand, "Excuse me..."

"The RSTG?" Sparks said, oblivious to the interruption, "That can't be right. Nopony, and I mean nopony, could have the kind of resources to pull that off! Hell, we barely even exist on paper. Plus, even in the Ops we work, nopony even knows it's us pulling the strings and making the grabs, they all just think it's a special arm of the Royal Guard."

Jackson held up a finger, "Except, it seems that somebody is in the know. We make a lot of enemies in this business, Sparks," he said, knowingly.

Tiran kept his hand up, "Uh, hello?" but was still unnoticed.

"The thing is," Jackson said, leaning in and placing his palms on the table, "some one out there has a grudge, and they're acting on it. Think," he tapped a finger against his shiny bare skull, "who could have the same access to the information your organization possesses? Who's been around long enough, was in high enough circles to know at least a little about you guys? Who has reason to hold a grudge like that?"

Sparks dipped his chin and leaned back in thought, "A few do come to mind," he huffed. "The only thing is, two are already in prison and the other was banished years ago..."

Jackson held his hands up, "I knew crime lords that still ran their gangs from prison and banishment doesn't really mean shit, unless it's to the moon or some impossible shit like that."

Sparks snorted as if in disagreement with part of the statement, but didn't voice it. "But how did they know where to hit us?"

Jackson reached for a bottle and refilled his glass, "As for that, I actually may be able to help you, but you probably won't like what you'll hear."

Sparks moved to question further, but stopped as Tiran pounded a fist on the table, "Hey,guys!" he said with an edge to his voice. "All this speculation is fascinating and all, but I came here to find Ruwa," he declared, swinging his head between an insulted Sparks and an amused Jackson. "Mr. Jackson," Tiran said sternly, turning to the man, "did you happen to meet a pegasus and two unicorns recently?"

Sparks looked just about ready to lash at the young pilot, but Jackson answered with a smile before he could, "Straight and to the point, just like my old friend. I like that." He took another deep swig of his frothy drink. "Yeah, they stopped by yesterday." Tiran's relief was almost palpable, but short lived. "I sent them off just this morning. In fact, you must've missed them by only an hour or so."

Tiran felt stricken, "What, why?"

"Calm down man. They're safe." Jackson held up a hand in a placating gesture. "Sent them off with a close friend of mine," he explained. "He's one of the more ferocious inhabitants of this world and he fights like a damn hurricane. Trust me, anybody lookin' to get physical with them is gonna end up in two halves before they can lift their weapon. If they can even get close, that is."

Tiran felt a small rush of relief at the man's words, but it barely dented the concern he still felt about his only friend in this world. Actually, if he thought about it, Ruwa was quite possibly the only friend he'd had in the past few years. The thought felt weird and unnatural to him, befriending a strange mare in a strange land and he was surprised to feel himself admit it.

"So, we can go meet them?" Tiran asked with an urgency in his voice.

"Oh sure. I'll give you directions, it's not far."

'Tiran,' Li said, tugging at his mind. He dismissed her with a thought.

On the other side of the table, Sparks suddenly perked and pressed a hoof to his ear piece. He excused himself and trotted to a corner.

"How far?" Tiran asked.

Jackson tilted his head back in thought, "Oh, I don't know . . . about a day's walk, an hour or two in an airship?"

'Tiran.' Li was becoming more insistent in tone.

Tiran smiled apologetically, "Uh, sorry. I need a moment," he said to Jackson, getting up and crossing into the next room.

"Sure, sure."

Once Tiran was in the next room, he focused on Li, "What?"

'Tiran,' Li started with a slightly irritable, but even tone, 'I've picked up some radio chatter. The signal's weak, but it's not on the frequency the operatives surrounding us use.' Tiran cursed and absently checked his pistol again, reassuring himself it was still there. He could guess what she was getting at. 'I'm sure that Commander Sparks is receiving the same report from his soldiers at the moment.'

"How much time?" There were still questions Tiran wanted to ask, and wanted answered.

'Hard to tell, but I would estimate at under an hour based on the rate of growth of the signal's strength.'

Tiran cursed. He'd hoped he would have more time to speak with Jackson and get some answers. The mentally old, yet physically young man definitely seemed to know a thing or two about his current situation. plus, he desperately wanted to know where Ruwa had gone.

Then there was the other issue. The other man he had spoken to.

The mysterious stranger had disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, like some sort of magic trick. Even Li was convinced that he had never been there and was beginning to express her own concerns for Tiran's mental health.

It seemed, though, that there would be nothing for him to do about those questions currently teasing his mind at the moment. Their enemies were fast on the approach. How they had known where to look, Tiran hadn't the faintest clue. But it scared him.

Returning to the kitchen, tiran was surprised to find sparks had left. Only Jackson remained, polishing off the last of his drink and resting languidly in his wheel chair as of he had nothing in the world to care about.

"Where's Sparks?" Tiran asked.

"Taking care of some stuff." Jackson gestured to the chair across from him, "Why don't you have a seat?"

Tiran's eyes flicked around the room as he felt an uneasy feeling come over him. When Jackson's gaze didn't waver, he walked over and sat in the chair across from the man. Jackson seemed to be holding something under the table as Tiran sat, further aggravating his feelings of discomfort.

"Pilot, huh?" Jackson said.

"You can tell?"

"Sparks told me on the way up. Plus, I don't remember getting issued fancy suits like that."

Tiran cocked an eyebrow, "You're military?"

"Was." Jackson corrected. "I was an Operator, worked with who I guess is now your distant relative."

"You're talking about..."

"Yeah," Jackson said, withdrawing his hand from under the table. "Definitely explains this." To Tiran's delight and evident surprise, the old pistol he'd brought with him clunked onto the table, the mag well empty and slide pulled back. "Guess it also means another friend of mine was successful in getting home," he added.

Tiran reached toward it, then stopped, "You mind if I...?"

Jackson shrugged, "Go ahead. It's your inheritance."

Tiran reached across the table and brought the weapon close to his chest, examining it in the dull light. He was glad to find that it was still in good condition, it even seemed it had been oiled recently.

"Took that off of Q when she passed through here, before I sent her off again," Jackson continued. "Really threw me for a loop, wondering how it got here, but I guess I have my answer now." He ended with a light chuckle.

"Thanks, I—"

Jackson held up a hand, "Nah, don't worry about it. Just take good care of it, you hear?" Tiran looked at him and nodded vigorously. "Oh yeah!" Jackson dug around in a pocket on the side of his chair and tossed four magazines packed with large bullets onto the table, along with a small holster. "Might wanna take those as well, in case you want to actually put some one on the ground. That little pea shooter on your leg there don't look like it gonna help much."

Happily, Tiran slid the ammo laden magazines into some of the empty slots along his waist, shoving the last one home into the pstol's mag well. He hit the slid with a satisfying clack and chambered a round before hitting the safety and sliding it into the holster, slinging the whole thing around his shoulder so the gun rested under his armpit between his left side and arm.

"Now you're talkin' !" Jackson chuckled again.

Feeling a little more complete with the antique returned to his side, Tiran again focused his attention on the man across from him. "So Ruwa and the others...they're safe, right?"

"Safe as they can be at a time like this. Ruwa..." Jackson worked the name around in his mouth, "special friend of yours?"

Tiran felt uncomfortable at Jackson's choice of words, "Kind of..."

Jackson nodded knowingly, "I get it. Your uncle was the same way about a particularly fiery piece of work he met here himself before he went missing for real, rest his angry soul."

Tiran blanched, he could feel his face start to flush, "No, n-not like that!" Then something about Jackson's comment snagged in his mind, "Wait a minute—"

"Tiran, it's time to go," Sparks said from the kitchen door, interrupting Tiran's question mid-sentence. "You too, Jackson. Grab what you can."

"Aw, shit." Jackson frowned, rocking his head. "Party's over then, huh? You got room to load me in that Clipper out there?"

Sparks shook his head, "They have a sizable squadron of pegasi with them and we don't have the firepower to hold them off in the air. We'll try to lose them on the ground and link up with Flyway later."

Jackson sighed like an old man weary with age, despite his appearance, "That's a no-go then."

"It's not a no-go," Sparks argued, "I'm not leaving you behind here for them."

Jackson laughed, his rough peals mirthless, "Look at me, I'm in a damn wheelchair!" he exclaimed, pushing away from the table and flourishing with one of his hands. With the other, he pulled out his deathly intimidating revolver and gave the cylinder a spin, "I'd just slow you guys down and get you caught. No...I think I'll just stay here and yell at them to get off my lawn."

Sparks frowned, "Didn't Quick make you a motorized one?"

"Yeah, but the damn thing didn't fit in my house, so why bother?"

Sparks didn't look ready to back down, "Then I'll put you on a sled, I'll have one of—"

Jackson shook his head, "Nope. You guys get on out of here, I'll stall the bastards."

"You sure?"

"Dead sure. Got more than this little thing to make a bad day for them." he added with savage delight.

Sparks seemed to fight with Jackson's decision for a moment. Then he said; "Fine. Try to keep them here as long as you can. Tiran, outside now, link up with Sylver."

"But—" Tiran began to protest.

"No buts," Sparks ordered. "Out. Now."

Tiran lingered for a moment, then reluctantly rose and stomped outside, pulling his gauntleted gloves on as he went, but paused just outside the back door.

Once he was out, Sparks turned back to the man in the wheelchair, "I won't forget this."

Jackson smiled as only a man resigned to his fate could, "No, you won't."

Sparks lingered for a moment, meeting Jackson's withering gaze. Then without another word, nodded, then turned and exited the man's home.

Tiran spun and strode away before Sparks had cleared the door, jogging out into the home's back yard. Sylver and his spotter were already there waiting for him, as well as the rest of the team's operators along the fringe of the scant brush. Sparks nodded to them all and gestured towards the dense line of woods that darkened the north western view.

The day passed to the afternoon, lengthening shadows and heralding light's end. As Tiran glanced back throughout their flight, he could just make out a flock of what seemed like over-grown birds low in the sky, a trail of dust grasping towards them like wispy fingers, alluding to the host they covered from above.

Tiran and his escort had nearly made it to the safety of the forest when he heard a startling sound that made him stop and squint towards Jackson's abode. A dull, yet frightening, boom echoed over the land, followed by several smaller detonations. These were then drowned out by a ferocious staccato of exchanged firepower, causing Tiran's breath to seize in his chest.

Sylver paused, noticing Tiran's halt, and tugged at one of his arms, "C'mon, nothing we can do for him." His ears picked and swiveled towards the sounds of the battle as they went abruptly still. Finally, three lone shots rolled sullenly across the land. Sylver dipped his head, "The Old Man went out the way he wanted. More than any of us could ask for," and trotted off.

Tiran remained for a moment longer, swallowing the large lump that had formed in his throat. There went the last link he knew of to his own home and possibly the last chance he had of figuring out how to get back.

With heavy limbs that now felt as if they were encased in lead, Tiran turned and jogged after the rest of his company.

* * *

Jackson watched breathlessly from his living room window as about thirty stallions approached, twenty by land and ten by air. They stopped just shy of forty feet from his house, fanning out and restlessly glancing from side to side as they scanned the area with their weapons. They were armed heavily, as if they expected a trying battle.

Jackson was going to give it to them.

He nervously fingered a small metallic box that sat in his lap, wondering how he should time the fireworks. He smiled and decided he should at least greet his guests, seeing as they had come all this way.

Sliding the window open a few inches, he called out to them, "Don't know what you're sellin', but I'm not interested."

Several of them swung their barrels towards him, but the rest remained fixated on their own fields of fire. Jackson frowned. They were well trained, not what he had been expecting. He also didn't expect a gap to appear within their ranks, revealing a slim unicorn mare in lighter combat gear. Her mane and tail were mostly white, covering the smattering of of the dark brown hide she sported, but had an unnatural streak of sanguine dye shot through her tresses.

"Hold on, boys," she said with obvious authority, "I'll deal with the cripple."

Jackson grimaced at her slur. He wasn't exactly going to let that one go, "You might have a new appreciation for that word if you take one more step further." he yelled to her.

She paused mid step and stared at him, "Oh yeah? And why's that?" She smiled, but not in a friendly way. Jackson could almost see the malice hidden behind it.

"I got mines planted all around in the dirt there. One wrong step and...well, I don't have to tell you. Why don't you find out for yourself?"

Her smile faltered for a moment, but then her horn glowed a ruddy green. Jackson didn't know what she was doing, but it must have worked because her deceiving smile soon regained its original strength.

"Uh-huh. Not likely," she said in a condescending tone. she flicked her head back towards her entourage and resumed her course, the rest advancing behind her now.

Jackson muttered a curse under his breath. She had called his bluff. He fingered the small box in his lap again and slid a cover forward with his thumb, exposing a row of buttons.

"Ok, so I don't have mines, but you can't say I didn't warn you." He said loudly in a chiding tone.

The mare, now only yards from his porch, let out a sickly sweet giggle, "Oh? About what? The broken coward hiding in his house?"

Now it was Jackson's turn to smile, his genuine and knowing. He eyed the group of fighters that were following the mare's tracks, just about in the right spot. "No. About the shaped charges I did install under my porch."

The mare stopped again, inches from his front steps. The corners of her mouth went flat and her horn began to glow. Jackson held the box—a detonator—up for her to see, fingers hovering over the buttons. Her lips, now a flat line, shot to a frown. Face going pale, she opened her mouth to speak again. He pushed the buttons.

The front of the house roared with a blast of heat and splinters as the front deck disintegrated, sending loose nails and floorboards out as deadly projectiles. The concussion also blew out the living room window, but Jackson shielded his face with an up-thrown arm, saving himself from being blinded by the shower of glass.

The second the blast subsided, he pulled a few concussion grenades from a pouch and tossed them out the remnants of the window and wheeled himself further into the house. He was just in time, as the remaining soldiers outside that had escaped the worst of the detonation began to riddle the windows with deadly projectiles as soon as they regained their composure. A second later, the grenades went off, causing a brief lull in the hail storm of lead.

Jackson used the momentary pause to go into the kitchen and position himself behind the make-shift barricade he had made with the table. On it was mounted his pride and joy, his old Mk 48. A great feeling of warmth overcame him as he locked his breaks, slipped his finger into the trigger guard and settled the butt against his shoulder.

He waited.

The dust settling in his house created twisting patterns in the sunlight slanting through the blown out windows. Outside, the firefight went silent. Jackson glanced towards the locked backdoor, reassuring himself that the tripwire trap he'd laid was still there.

Jackson jerked his head back to his cracked, yet still intact, front door. His heart hammered as hooves clonked and cracked against the rubble and debris that was once his front porch. Shadows drifted across the shattered windows as they neared the door.

The sounds stopped at the door. Something metallic lightly struck it and it slowly began to creak open. Jackson didn't wait for his front door to reveal the prize behind it, he squeezed the trigger down and drilled round after round into the wood of the door, the walls and through the open windows, the ammo belt jumping and jiggling as it fed its deadly cartridges into the weapon.

Jackson kept the rate of fire up for almost a minute, the long belt of ammunition he had constructed getting chewed up by the high cyclic rate of fire. Then, finally, he released his finger. Smoke rose and wafted from the barrel, the metal crackling as it began to cool.

Jackson examined the destruction he had wrought. He had not heard any thumps or screams, but a large pool of blood began to spread out from under what was left of the door. He waited a tense moment and smiled when all remained silent.

Checking the revolver in its holster at his side, he wheeled back around the table and cautiously advanced into the living room to get a better look at what might still await him.

What he glimpsed through the windows and the new holes in his walls was horrific. Three bodies were slumped on the remains of his porch, their flesh pulped and ground into fresh hamburger. From them drifted the faint, putrid odor of insides turned out. Past them lay about six more, eyes jellied and ears bleeding, having caught the worst of the initial blast. Between them lay the mare, surprisingly intact. As Jackson looked closer, he could see she was still breathing, having shielded herself somehow.

That sill left eleven others, not counting the pegasi. Jackson tried to spot them, exposing himself as much as he dared, but for the life of him he could not see where they'd gone. Then a cold knot twisted in his stomach as his mind caught up.

He spun around just in time for his back door to explode. The blast stunned him for a moment, but he quickly recovered, having the luck to be in another room.

Jackson wiped the dust from his face as a dark shape charged into the kitchen. He drew the revolver and squeezed the trigger in one swift motion, the recoil rolling his chair back a bit. The shape fell to the ground like a sack of rice. Jackson smiled, he still had it.

The next intruder wasn't so easy. He immediately dove for cover behind the up-turned kitchen table and began firing blindly around its sides. Jackson reacted without thinking, throwing himself from his chair and crawling with his arms behind the couch. Rounds zipped and snapped over his head, tearing through the cushions and scattering their stuffing like snow.

Jackson crawled to the far side and waited, counting the gunshots in his head. Just as he reached what he thought was a full mag, he was elated to hear the sound of an empty one ejecting and clattering to the hard floor. He risked a peak around the corner and stretched his arm out around a leg of the couch, sighting down his own weapon and waiting.

He heard a magazine click home, the click-clack of the charging lever and watched as a barrel cautiously peeked over the edge of the table, a head following a second later.

Jackson adjusted his aim and squeezed.

The revolver rocked back almost the same time as the stallion's head, spraying the wall behind with blood and brain matter.

"Whoo! That's how I repaint, motherfucker!" Jackson whooped. "Who's next, I think I missed a spot!"

There was a long silence where no one answered him. Not even a responding gunshot or trample of hooves. Jackson used the lull to crawl back over to his chair. He had just grasped the left wheel when a retort finally found its way in.

"That's a pretty shitty paint job if'n ya ask me." Came a low southern drawl from the back of the house.

Jackson froze, still grasping the frame of his chair in an iron like grip. He recognized that voice. It was one he hadn't heard in such a long time, he almost couldn't place it. But then, the cobwebs scattered from his mind as the owner walked into his kitchen and turned into the living room with a cocky grin that seemed permanently attached.

At first, Jackson felt a small jump of elation in his chest at seeing an old friend, then they sank into a cold congealed lump of disappointment as he realized the implications of his presence.

"Well well well," Jackson said with a tired sigh as he pulled himself up into his chair. "Of all the people and whatnot I had expected to see, you were least among them. How have things been with you lately, Blackjack? Still smuggling weapons and explosives?"

Blackjack shook his head and removed his dusty old hat, brushing his mane back with a hoof before replacing the cap. As he did, Jackson noticed the device strapped to his leg, a barrel with a slide at one end with a curved magazine wrapping around the foreleg. Jackson gripped his pistol tighter, but didn't move to aim it.

"Nah, moved on to more...serious things now. Pay's good, but it can be a bit tiring," Blackjack replied, advancing further into the room. Behind him, another stallion entered, rifle ready and pacing around anxiously. "But, I don't feel quite as bad as these fools," he said, nudging one of the corpses with a leg. "How do you keep from getting rusty after all this time?"

"Practice." Jackson almost spat the word.

Blackjack chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe you humans are just real good at what you do. I'm guessin' that young'in already passed and gone from here, huh?" he said, popping the magazine on his foreleg free and setting it aside. Jackson watched carefully as he pulled another from his pack, this one with a stripe of blue paint sprayed haphazardly on.

"You better watch out for that one. He doesn't come like the rest of us. Kid's like walking tank." He said, trying to intimidate the friend turned apparent foe.

"Yeah, I saw." Blackjack responded. "Got some fancy equipment, but I don't think he's as experienced as you or I in wet work." He inserted the mag and cocked a lever on the side of the mechanism. "I'm sure you know how this has to end," he said with a heavy voice.

Jackson cocked the hammer on his revolver, "Yeah...I'm sure this'll hurt you more than it does me!"

He threw his arm up and started pumping the trigger. Blackjack leaped to the side and to the ground, rolling and popping back to his hooves. by the time Jackson readjusted his sight picture, the revolver clicked on an empty chamber. Before he could grab for his back-up, Blackjack raised his firearm and shot Jackson in the chest three times.

Jackson collapsed in his chair, limp as it slowly rolled backwards from the force of the impacts.

"What a shame," Blackjack muttered, ejecting the mag and replacing it with the original.

"He dead, boss?" the other soldier asked, eyeing the new corpse.

"Yeah," Blackjack sighed. "We'll leave him here, safe at home."

The soldier didn't look convinced, "You sure? I heard these guys can take a lot before they actually go down. Plus, he's not bleeding as much as he should. How 'bout I pop one in his head, just to be sure?" The unicorn raised his weapon and pointed it at the bald man's head.

Indeed, the red blotches that had bloomed on Jackson's chest hadn't spread more than and inch in either direction. "No," Blackjack said rather harshly. "Leave the body. In fact, get out there and check on Del!"

"You sure? I don't know..." He started to creep closer to the body.

Blackjack sighed. He just couldn't find good help these days. With a single movement, he raised his own weapon and shot the soldier in the back of the head. The stallion fell over and hit the wall nearby, leaving a red streak on the aged wood.

"You were a dumbass any way." Blackjack muttered.

With weary steps, he maneuvered around behind Jackson and rolled him towards a door. Blackjack opened it—revealing a small closet—and rolled Jackson's body inside.

"There, you should be safe in there."

With a flourish, he slammed the door shut and trotted out of the house. He had other things to take care of, now that that particular loose end had been tied. Like smacking Del around until she woke up. The blasted mare had nearly gotten herself killed by underestimating the old man, almost ruining all of Blackjack's carefully laid out plan. Fortunately, she was quite adept at defensive magics, a splash of water or injection of stimulant would have her up and about again.

Then they could concentrate on tracking down the last human.

Next Chapter: Chapter 23: Lost In The Dark Estimated time remaining: 1 Hour, 36 Minutes
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