Author's Notes:

before you start: A shemagh is a Arabic scarf/hat/mask/what the fuck isn't this thing. You see a lot of operators wearing them. I own a desert tan one and can assure you of the magic it is.

Speaking of magic: Yes, Cloud Dasher has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from lots of incidents. Next time he sleeps expect more Yaks.

it's official: these scarfs are fuckin awsome

We drove for 15 miles, slowly. It took us nearly an hour because we needed to slow down in the area. We peeled off of the road and onto the sidewalk a few times in order to keep from hitting both lane traffic. I could feel the weight of the knife against my chest, it was just in the jacket pocket.

There was a large sign approaching in front of us. 'Metro system- 15 miles on right'. The metro system was a halfway mark out of the city, if we can make it past there then we would have nothing to worry about. That was when the car broke down. The accelerator gave out, but the brakes didn't. I steered the vehicle off to the sidewalk and slowly applied to breaks in order to avoid a spin out or a roll.

Once the vehicle was safely stopped we exited and were out on hoof. We did flip the hood but it was no use, the radiator was blown to hell and leaking fluids all over the engine. There was no way we'd get it working. We followed north through an ally. It was a dark, dank, and disgusting alleyway. That didn't change as of now.

Now it was filled with white body bags.

Most of the body bags were now brown and red from blood and rotting flesh.

As we passed I stubbed my hoof on something. Looking down I found a dead child. She was a small filly, only about three years old. Her head was cracked and bleeding, she was long dead. Out the other side of the head revealed the true extent of the damage, a 7.62 had penetrated the entire right side of her skull.

She probably got the cut on her head when she fell.

I picked her up and rested her gently on what I could only assume was her parents. May she rest in peace and may the Lord have mercy on her soul.

As we left I swore to myself that anypony that brings harm to the innocent is a enemy. All enemies will be killed. As we exited the alleyway I saw why they were there.

It was a makeshift hospital. The nurses were overwhelmed with war casualties. That wasn't the worst of it, they had no trained surgeons. Anypony with the money to leave did so long ago. I recounted the past 12 hours, so much had happened. In twelve hours my entire life had been turned upside down. That was how it was going to be.

The nurses were currently working on a amputation of a pony's front left hoof. He had been severely injured by shrapnel, to the extent that his hoof was only connected by the bone. The tool of the trade they used was a bloodstained hacksaw.

He was awake, screaming and kicking. They had leather restraints to hold the limb still. Each time they sawed he screamed louder, we could hear the bone snap when they finally got through the bone and stitched it together. He would still be in pain for a long time, worse off he'd soon die from infection.

There's no way they cleaned that saw, so he couldn't have lived. We stayed the night there, sleeping through the screaming. It all reminded me too much of Yakyakistan.

It was cold, I was dressed in a summer type uniform, and my canteen froze shut. That's a pretty good summary of what happened there. That wasn't the highlights of my memories though, what I remembered clear as day was the medical hall. The medical hall was on the far eastern end of the Forward Operation Base, it also was the only heated area of all the area.

Entering it would bring what, compared to the outside temperature, was a tropical vacation. Your little 'vacation' would consist of seeing the wounded, dying, and dead, ponies you think of as brothers. It really was a fair trade considering the fucking weather there. I wore a Yakyaki shemagh scarf, wrapped around my neck and pulled up over my mouth. The smell was still evident.

Rotting flesh.

It isn't a pretty smell, never really was meant to be. I walked towards the medic, who was operating on a patient. It was yet another nasty maiming by Yakyaki traps. The pony in question was impaled in two legs by lead pipes. It fractured at the knee for one, as for the other it went through the bottom of his hoof and exited out the knee. He probably stepped on one and fell on the other.

"Be honest doc, will he live?"

"Shh, he's awake."

I looked at his eyes to see he wasn't lying. He was frantically darting his eyes around the room, all his hoofs were in leather restraints. As for the mouth? The mouth was gagged with a shemagh.

"Why? Why is he awake?"

"It's hard to get supplies up here. In short it's the same reason nopony has any ammunition here."

He was right, the mountains were easy ambush points for the Yaks to get to our convoys.

"So what are you going to do with him?"

"Oh that's simple, we pull."

"Wait, what do you pull?"

"What do you think? We pull the polls outta his legs. Not like he'll be using them anymore but we have a hope that they didn't fuck up the nerves that lead to the brain. If that happened we'd just amputate them."

"Well, how will you pull them out? They're pretty far in there..."

"And that's why I'm glad you're here..."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"You see, I'm not exactly the workhorse you are. Would you kindly grab the poll facing vertically, yes the one in his knee, and pull on it while I hold the leg more secure."

The pony on the bench shook his head frantically, he couldn't imagine that this was happening.

"Will this save his life?"

"Will it do any good to leave the polls in his legs?"

"Point well taken."

I grabbed the poll and waited for the doc to give me the word. Once instructed to pull I made a hard yank upwards, the poll didn't budge. The pony restrained made a sound that would scare the devil himself. Not even in tartarous would there be pain like this. I gave it another pull, this time he screamed.

We both looked at the patient in unison, he had broken through the mouth restraint.

"Don't do anything to him Dasher! Knocking him out would not be good for keeping bloo-"

I didn't let him finish. I slammed my E-Tool shovel down into his face. I didn't use the edge so he wasn't dead, just unconscious.

"I don't care if that kills him, at least he won't be awake through this."

I grabbed the poll and positioned my hoof against his chest. Pulling upwards with all my might I could hear a tearing sound coming from the knee. The pull flew out from the joint and clattered against the floor. I put it to the side and got to work on the foot. Halfway through pulling that out I was interrupted.

"He's gone Dasher."

"You mean he's-"

"Take what you want, none of it can go to waste."

"What do you mean take what you want?"

"Well, per say" The doctor removed the dead ponies watch "I really did need a new watch."

"You..."

"Me? I'm what?"

"You're a monster!"

"Monster? Oh hardly! I'm just resourceful. Something you clearly know nothing about."

"Of course I know nothing about robbing dead bodies! Who do you think I am?"

"I think you're a old church boy that ran away because daddy hit him one too many times. Does that sum it up?"

I punched him across the face. He was knocked unconscious instantly. At first they tried to apprehend me and I let them. I had nothing to answer for. I had attacked a murderer and I feel no remorse for his kind. He would also be brought in, seeing as I had brought quite a bit of attention to him. He was discharged under unsaid terms. I was let off.

I woke up with a headache. It isn't uncommon for me to have that happen once I dream. I hate dreams like that. I never want to be reminded of Yakyakistan. As I got up I found a pillbox of painkillers next to me. I took four and downed them one at a time with no water. The pills were small, so there was no real need for any liquid. Once on my hoofs, I noticed something. Sitting just across from me was a set of gear. Something I hadn't seen in years.

A set of new gloves, a plate carrier OD green pattern vest with the word 'Merc' inscribed on the front in stenciled letters, a set of coyote colored boots, a Cz75, and a black baseball cap. There was a note next to it.

"Dear Associate,

You haven't seen it, but the world has it's eyes on you. What you did to the enemy's morale is devastating. You were caught by the press many times during your fights and the Equestrian society looks at you as the masked hero. They never got a look at your face.

You may wonder who I am, but an introduction is something I am unable to do right now. I have supplied you with the gear to get you out of that leather jacket and into something more protective.

By the way: You always did look pretty decent in one of those scarfs. Take one on me.

Seeing you soon,

Your guardian angel.'

I looked up and noticed the same pattern shemagh that I wore in Yakyakistan laying on top of the vest. I first emptied the contents of the jacket, which was my knife, a folded picture of starlight, and a few notes that I picked up along the way. They fit nice and snug in the inside of the vest. All but the knife.

The knife had a clip, and an unknown potential was to be able to use this with MOLLE straps. So I clipped it on my right side. I put the hat on, it fit well. Then I wrapped the shemagh around my neck. it looked nice, but now for the new gloves. Once those were on it was far more comfortable to fire.

Speaking of firing, now it was for the Cz75. I picked that up and checked the chamber, fully loaded with hollow points. I put it in a holster that was on the side of the vest. Then it was for the boots.

The boots were just the right size, I put them on and got to waking up the rest of the team