//HOL CRY ADV
//CHECKSUM READ
//CHECKSUM GOOD

// … decoding …

// … decoding …

// … decoding …

Desert Storm

There was a shower in the Roc’s bathroom. It was stylish and opulent, albeit cramped. One of the fancy ones with an enchanted water-cycler. Removed solids were zapped away with magic, and then the water was purified, heated, and then cycled back into the shower head. This meant the entire system only needed a couple gallons or so of actual water to operate, saving on weight. A major consideration for any aircraft.

That was a good thing, too, because I felt like showering for the next several hours.

It wasn’t out of any mere psychological need to feel clean, although that was a factor. Rather, it was the practical matter of removing a kilo of black gunk that was welded to my fucking fur and quickly taking on the consistency of chewed gum.

The tap water back in Dodge was a touch on the hard side. Our old house had a water softener with a brine tank. The inky black shit in my fur smelled exactly like the bacterial sludge from the bottom of that thing. The unmistakable rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfide peeled off of me in waves. It was practically sewage. It was all over me. It was inside me.

I sat in the shower pan, hugging myself and sobbing as I shivered under the water. I had the heat turned up so high, it felt paradoxically cold. The inside of the shower was like a sauna, hot clouds of water vapor surrounding me. The whispers of the Archons had subsided into a faint scratching in the back of my mind.

Through the small viewport installed in the shower wall, I gazed outside at the Crystal Mountains. We passed over the nuke crater below Pur Sang. I could see the skeletons of the Ifrit walkers far below, or what was left of them. They’d been reduced to barely recognizable charred black splinters, sticking up out of the dirt along the rim of a crater a good hundred meters wide or more.

I saw the signs of continued fighting, next. Anywhere from one-fifth to a full third of the attacking Confederate unit had the misfortune not to die from the blast instantaneously. They had been shielded by terrain formations and the hulls of their heavy vehicles. Even doomed to die of radiation poisoning as they were, they’d fought on, attempting to advance closer to Pur Sang. Every single one of those vehicles bore the marks of ATGM fire, the tops of their turrets marred by concentric scorches. The Stormtroopers, heedless of the risk of fallout exposure, had swept down on them from above, armed with Tatzlwurm missiles. It was a slaughter.

As we hooked around south, we linked up with a few other Rocs, assuming formation with them. About half an hour later, after we’d reached a safe distance, the range to the north was lit brilliant white by another, even more tremendous explosion than the one that we’d caused. I closed my eyes and braced for the shockwave, which came three whole minutes later and was muffled by the sheer distance.

The fifty-megaton scuttling charge beneath Pur Sang took the top of the mountain off, leaving behind a jagged hole that practically split the Crystal Mountains in two. The mushroom cloud from the explosion reached well into the stratosphere. I hoped it had obliterated the Vargr scum that had hounded us for days, but deep down, I knew the truth. They were much harder to kill than that.

I felt so fragile. I was in a complete daze. Reality felt unreal. Every few seconds, my heart would hitch and squeeze in my chest. If it gave out now, that was it. My soul was marked as the Archons’ property. I was as good as theirs. All they had to do was come claim me. I had no idea what that would be like. I wasn’t particularly curious, either.

Was it a cliché cavern of fire and brimstone? Was it a black void of nothingness, with those things and their immense souls floating through it? What did the Archons even do with their captives, if we had no bodies left to torment?

After half an hour and a lot of lathering, the inky sludge finally began sloughing off. I went through one bottle of shampoo, and then another. When the third and final one emptied and I was only half-clean, I screamed in frustration and hurled the empty bottle at the bathroom door.

“I can’t believe this!”

Cicatrice opened the door and poked his head inside. I was absolutely furious, dragging the magnet-tipped shower curtain around my body and cocking my foreleg back with a bar of soap in my hoof.

“Get the fuck out!” I shouted.

“I was going to tell you where I keep the rest of the shampoo, but that’s okay,” Cicatrice said. “I guess I’ll leave you be.” He looked over his shoulder, addressing the others. “Oh, and none of the things we discussed are to leave this room. Period. Very security-sensitive! Captain Garrida knows a few things. You can discuss it with her, but no one else.”

When he feigned leaving, I dropped the bar of soap and reached out a hoof to him. “Wait, Cicatrice!”

“Yes?” His tone was patronizing in the extreme.

“Where do you keep the rest of the shampoo?”

“Push on the wall, right behind you.”

I did as instructed and a section of the smooth black metal wall clicked and then slid open with a whine of sealed electric motors. Behind it were another dozen bottles of Rarity’s Touch. I bundled them up in my forelegs. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I literally kissed the bottles.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Cicatrice said. “Don’t take too long. The curse progresses to its next phase after about eight to twelve hours, depending on how hard you resist it. If that happens, well, I’ll have to kill you. Everyone we’ve rescued from the Archons’ clutches, we got to them a few moments after the Kiss happened. Everyone else? They weren’t so lucky. You’re a ticking time bomb. Finish up as quick as you can. The ritual can’t wait.” He nodded, and then turned to leave.

“Cicatrice, wait.”

The Magister looked over his shoulder at me, concern evident on his face. “Yes, Storm?”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. For getting the Dragoons to us in time. The Vargr would’ve killed all of us. Hell, if the Archon wasn’t satisfied with interrogating me, it might’ve gone for Bell or the satyrs, next. Seeing that thing go through a Dragoon’s exosuit like a hot knife through butter, I now realize, you know, that fucker could’ve popped my head off like a bottle top at any time, if it wanted to.”

Cicatrice huffed. “I didn’t do anything. I’m just as useless now as I was during the war. They had me fucking rip souls out of death row convicts and terminal cancer patients that signed waivers, stuff ‘em in great big golems, and send kids like you to go into battle in those coffins, and all for what? We still lost. Never forget that.”

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me to ruminate on his words. I opened another bottle and kept lathering. My face, my neck, my pits. I didn’t stop until I saw orange, and even then, I kept going. That shit had gotten everywhere. Once I’d finished doing my forward half, I moved on to the part I dreaded the most.

I cried the entire time. Everything burned and stung. I was sore inside and out. I rummaged around for a bit, looking for the right products, but Cicatrice didn’t have any mare stuff. I resolved to levitate the shower wand and use it as a substitute. The whole base of the shower was stained black. Through my tears, I burned with rage.

“I’m gonna find that motherfucker,” I said. “We’re all gonna see what that smelly sack of seagull shit looks like when it’s turned inside-out and pasted across the motherfucking countryside. Do you hear me, Seneschal Arka-Povis? I’m going to fucking kill you. What you did to me, what you things have done to ponykind, it ain’t for fucking free. You’re gonna pay. You, your Archon buddies, and all those fucking Vargr monkey fucks are gonna pay. We’ll get our motherfucking pound of flesh out of your hides one way or a-fucking-nother!”

My spiel felt hollow. I was riding high on a wave of righteous indignation that guttered out and gave way to yet more melancholy. I had no idea where the Vargr maintained bases, I had no confirmation from Cicatrice as to whether or not the Archons could even be killed in the first place, and I had absolutely no clue where to even begin when it came to finding a weapon or spell or anything suitable for the monumental task of defeating either of them. This was completely uncharted territory.

The Vargr were an implacable enemy with technology that made both the Empire and the Confederacy’s weapons look like children’s toys, supported by the patronage of vile supernatural forces. The voices in my head seemed to giggle, as if they knew I’d concluded that we faced an impossible task.

I grabbed a washcloth in my fetlock and gave myself a wipe. No matter how many times I folded it and dipped it into myself, it kept coming up black. I let out a sob. Every cell in my body felt contaminated. I wanted to scrub all my fur off, and then, my skin. I wanted to scrub and scrub until I exposed an unsullied version of me on my inside that was a millimeter smaller in all dimensions.

Do it, the voices cooed. Scrape off the fur. Abrade the skin. Reveal the true color of the flesh within. It is the only way you will ever be clean again.

With an angry growl, I threw the wet washcloth at the shower wall and it fell and plopped in the shower pan. I leaned my head back against the shower wall. My eyelids drifted down, and I fell asleep. Practically passed out from exhaustion. I woke up an hour or two later to the rumble and the slam of the Roc touching down. Someone was banging on the door. The whispers were louder. Much louder. There was a beehive inside my head, little legs crawling, wings flicking, mouthparts scratching. I felt like I was sinking in a peat bog, surrounded on all sides by the swarms of decay and the stench of death. I let out a panicked yelp.

“Oh gosh. Cicatrice. Help me. Help me! Fucking help me!”

Cicatrice’s voice was muffled as he spoke through the door. “You gotta get out of there and we’ve got to do the ritual right the fuck now, before you start to turn.”

I grimaced. “Turn? What the fuck does that mean?”

“After eight hours, you start subtly obeying the hive mind’s commands. After about five years, your every movement is controlled by them, but you’re conscious that your body has been completely taken over. After ten years, you grow the tongue and can convert others into obedient ghouls with a lesser form of the Kiss. After twenty, your own thralls bring you a great big pile of dead people to gorge yourself on. Once that’s finished, you cocoon and incubate into a fucking Prime, after which they perform a ritual to summon an actual Archon into what used to be your body. If you must know how we found this out, BASKAF agents used a micro-aerial vehicle to inject a nanite colony into one of the Archons’ victims and our scientists spent decades tracking the whole process from beginning to end.”

“Wh—what?”

“That’s how their life cycle works. They consider it a gift to their followers, because you remain fully conscious even though your body is no longer your own. You can live for millennia like that until the Archon trashes the Prime harder than a student driver behind the wheel of an exotic supercar, gets ejected back into the netherverse, and needs to be summoned into another. That black shit is a retroviral genetic contagion. If you swallow large amounts of it, it changes your chromosomes and your germline. Any foals you have will suffer the same exact fate as the curse manifests in their bodies as well. We’ve interviewed many of their victims. The Archons never fully explain how the Kiss works to their enemies, because they’d rather you not kill yourself before you become a spare body for one of them.”

My eyes widened. “Oh shit. Oh shit!”

“That is the correct reaction, Sergeant,” Cicatrice said. “Well done. Now you realize the gravity of the situation.”

I’d never left a bathroom faster before or since. My eyes scanned the lounge for Bellwether, Mar, and the others, but they had long since departed. Cicatrice nodded and motioned me over to another door on the Roc. “Come on, ritual chamber’s this way.”

We stepped into a darkened room bordered in black and gold. A necromancer’s laboratory, for certain. There was a magic circle drawn on the floor, its points nailed down by black candles. I’d never seen the diagram, before. It made me ill just looking at it and deciphering the lines and angles.

“Cicatrice.” I frowned. “That is some vile fucking magic right there.”

“Can’t be helped. Only way to hold off the curse. Here, take this.”

He gave me a small orange pill bottle the label of which had been partly torn off. I turned it over, inspecting the contents through its transparent exterior. There appeared to be a couple dozen large capsules inside.

“What’s this?” I muttered.

“Anti-Archon gene snipper pills. Selectively reverses the edits the black sludge makes and installs a nanomachine colony that prevents further unwanted changes along those lines. Very rare. Our stocks of those are low. Don’t lose that bottle, or you’re fucking fucked. Take the entire course. One pill, once a day, for the next few weeks. Do not miss a dose, period. If everything goes right, you will never actually mutate into a Prime, and you won’t need to take any more of those ever again.”

“Wow, that’s very reassuring.” I chuckled.

“Don’t be a snide ass. This is serious shit. Do you realize that the actual curse cannot be undone and that you will hear the voice of the Archons in your head for the rest of your life unless you perform the ritual to suppress it at least once a month? Do you know that there were—well, I’d hesitate to call them ponies—some colleagues of mine who thought it would be a good idea to summon the Archons on purpose and intentionally taint dark magic users to increase their dark spectral attunement, and then use this medication and the ritual to suppress the negative effects while keeping the enhanced magic power? I refused to sign off on that, because the moment we start doing shit like that to ourselves, we’ve already fucking lost. Do you understand me?”

I slowly nodded, my lips trembling with fear and disgust. “Yeah. I get it. Let’s just get this shit over with.”

Cicatrice hoofed over a glass of water. “Take one of those. Immediately.”

I popped open the pill bottle, lifting one of the capsules in my magic and examining it closely. If I eyed it close enough, I could almost see the cloud of active nanomachines swirling around in the gel. I popped it into my mouth, took a swig of water, and swallowed, letting out a relieved sigh.

“Lie down in the circle. I need to find the stigma.”

I did as directed, lying flat on my back in the middle of the diagram, even when every instinct told me to do the opposite.

Cicatrice lit his horn, his eyes glowing a hellish green, purple flames wreathing his head. “Vingt Sanctu, morreamardi, sutaye, gellig vos angit tur rosk ingfel hjeire.”

It was no language I had ever heard before, but I recognized the first two words. The Archon had spoken them. It must have been their tongue that he was performing the spell with. It made sense, in a sickening sort of way. To undo what they’d done, one needed a working knowledge of their principles of magic. A wave of pure void energy washed over me. I gasped, my entire chest spasming, my back arching, my whole body gripped with agony.

“Neave mest vos iricas!” Cicatrice shouted.

There was a searing pain just below my navel. I stifled my screams through gritted teeth.

“Ahh, there it is,” Cicatrice said. “Wow, that’s a shitty spot.”

I looked down at the bleeding mark beneath my belly button. There was a red sigil there, permanently etched into my body. It was the shape of a four-pointed star within a broken circle.

“Every stigma means something different depending on its location. Neck, fear of death. Chest, over the heart? Fear of abandonment. Near a fetlock, fear that one’s deeds will never amount to anything. If it’s on your lower abdomen, that means a lack of sexual fulfillment, or fear of dying and leaving no issue. This, right here? This means that you want to be a mother, but you’re afraid that you’ll never get the chance. How pitiful. The soul never lies about what it wants. The brain does, but never the soul.”

“What the fuck is that thing? What the fuck?”

“That, my dear, is the hole through which the Archons will draw your soul when you die. That’s going to happen regardless of anything I do. I was a little dishonest when in earshot of your friends, back there. I didn’t want them looking over their shoulder at you for the rest of your natural life.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean by that?”

Cicatrice sighed. “The curse can only be suppressed, Sergeant. It can’t be undone completely, to our knowledge. Not without binding your soul to something else, like an Anima, to keep it anchored to the physical universe and prevent it from slipping over to the other side. The problem with that is that you lose all your memories. Old soul, new brain. Well, the soul does retain some echoes of one’s memories, but nothing like a complete connectome map. We had some—experiments that we were working on, to take care of that little problem. If our prototypes had worked as intended, they would have granted our species immortality. Sadly, it never quite panned out. Now, hold still.” Cicatrice applied a strange oil to the mark. It was a fairly sensitive spot, and he used his hoof. Next, he gave me the jar. “Put this on your lips, under your forelegs, and in your—well, uh—your genitals. Do not swallow any of it. It’s very poisonous in the GI tract and you’ll get sick. Let it pass through the skin.”

I frowned. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, I’d say so. The skin’s thinner down there. It absorbs faster and you’ll get really fucking high really quick. We’re in too deep, now. If we stop at this point, you’re turbo-fucked.”

I did as directed. When I got to the last part, I turned my head away from him, my eyes welling up as I worked my hoof over myself. I could see in my peripheral vision that the old codger was kind enough to turn his back, at the very least.

I sighed, stifling my tears. “Now what?”

“We wait.”

A short while later, I began to feel the effects. I closed my eyes. My legs felt light. I felt like I was floating, or flying, like a pegasus. My ego dissipated. I was one with my environs. I felt flushed and feverish, my forehead beading with sweat. When I opened my eyes, I screeched in horror. Dark tendrils were crawling out of glowing holes in the walls.

“Cicatrice!” I shouted, my chest gripped with fright.

“You see them?” he said.

“Yes!”

“Good, that means it’s time for the last part.” Cicatrice struck his hoof out over my abdomen, his horn flashing bright green. “Rewarso!” Cicatrice stood back. “That’s it. We’re done. You can stand up, now.”

With a burst of nausea and disorientation, the whispers stopped instantly and the hallucinations disappeared. I slowly rolled upright and stood, taking a deep breath. “Wow. Okay. That felt weird.”

“Let me explain how the ritual works,” Cicatrice said. “First phase, you bid that the Holy King focus his attention on you, but also, that he must stay his hand from you. He is bound by the laws of the spirits to obey the ritualist’s commands if the request is spoken properly, but if you mess this part up, he’ll jackhammer-fuck his way right into your mind and then you’re screwed. Don’t mess it up! Second phase, you ask to see the stigma, the mark. Finally, for the third phase, you apply an oil made with henbane directly to the mark and to the mucous membranes, and then, once you’re intoxicated by the alkaloids and have successfully cleaved your soul from your body, you draw the will of the Archons away from your brain and towards the mark.”

“Eww, is that what that shit in that jar was? Does it have to be henbane?”

“Datura, dimethyltryptamine, and scopolamine also work, but you usually get too high to perform the last part solo, which is why we use henbane. The last part of the ritual makes you sober up almost instantly because when the Archons flee from your mind, it temporarily alters the balance of the cholinergic activity in your brain. Well, long enough for the henbane to wear off before you get high again, anyway. Feel that itch? That’s them. Bound up in your guts. When they’re not in your guts? When you let them back in your brain? They cause micro-seizures. That’s how they talk to you. Perform the ritual at least once a month, keep them in the mark, and they can’t influence you at all. Only cause mild discomfort.”

If I focused ever-so-slightly, I could feel a strange tickle in my abdomen, right where the mark was. I took a few shuddering breaths, trying not to break down crying in front of him. “Oh, Celestia. Thank you, Your Excellency. Thank you!”

I wrapped my forelegs around the old-timer and he patted me on the back. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry this happened to you, Sergeant. On the other hoof, this would be a perfect opportunity to teach you more about dark magic. The stuff I wasn’t allowed to teach my students when I worked in an official capacity. The real dangerous stuff. You interested?”

“Of course. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I could just mind-fuck a satyr and make him blow his own head off.”

Cicatrice glared at me. “See, that attitude is precisely why I wasn’t allowed to teach my students how to do it. You have to be very fucking careful with that shit, or you’ll turn into a drooling maniac. All dark magic deals in souls, one way or another. To control the mind, your soul must dominate the soul of another being. The process is addictive. The thirst for more power, insatiable. The more unreasonable your commands, the more pleasure you get out of it, but also, more blowback. You know why I’m still sane? It’s because I don’t mind-control people into killing themselves or others.”

“Oh. Really?”

Cicatrice shrugged. “Why bother, when it’s much simpler and less damaging to make someone obsess over something to the exclusion of everything else, including bathing or eating? That’s the trick to keeping your mind intact as a dark magic practitioner. If you want to kill someone, make them focus on some irrelevant object forever. Then, let nature take its course. Their friends will leave them. Their family will leave them. Their doctor will unplug their life support in the hospital, and that’s all she wrote. Cruel, but effective. You can kill people with mind control, yes, but don’t do it directly. Cheat. If you command a guy to just walk out into traffic, you’ll fuck your mind with the blowback. Instead, get him immensely interested in some shiny bauble on the other side of the road, and he’ll do the rest to himself. A few days ago, I could’ve rolled my self-rolling stone off the cliff and down into the valley below Pur Sang, and you would’ve followed, plummeted to the bottom, and broken your fucking neck. Still wouldn’t count as killing you directly with mind control.”

“Oh. Well, damn. Thanks for not doing that, I guess.”

“Distracting a former student of mine and murdering them are two entirely different things. That’s another thing, right there. You were totally fucking helpless. You didn’t cast a ward. You didn’t do anything. You just let it happen. I expected no less, miss naps-in-class. The time for your remedial education is now. I don’t really have that many other students, nowadays. Hardly anyone around with any dark magic aptitude, anyway. You’re a reasonably good Illusionist, but I know for a fact you waste most of that talent doing nothing but invisibility cloaks. High-quality and rather complete cloaks, yes, but still, you don’t wanna be a one-trick pony forever, do you? It’ll be interesting, if nothing else. You’ll be my little experiment.”

“Experiment?” I frowned.

“I want to see what a pony touched by the Archons can do with a Charger and its locus. Never seen an infected pilot before. This is totally new to us. I’ll give you all the documentation for the Invocation of the King and walk you through the steps. You’re going to need to do it on your own, on a regular basis, from now until the day you die. Also, take the damn pills, until that bottle is empty. After you’ve received care for your injuries and had some time off to recover, we’ll begin work on your studies. You should be honored. It’s not every day a Magister takes on a personal student.” Cicatrice grinned evilly.

“Does the ritual always hurt like that?”

“It hurts less each time. In fact, you lose the ability to feel any kind of pain. Permanently. That can be a bad thing. Pain is important. Lets you know when and where you’re injured so you can react accordingly. For a soldier, I guess it might be a blessing, until you finally notice your blood loss when you collapse and die from it.”

“Cicatrice,” I muttered, deep in thought.

“Yeah?”

“Who or what is Thuax?”

I felt my heart clench in my chest. It was entirely involuntary and it took my breath away. It felt like an alien hand had reached under my breastbone and squeezed with all its might. I felt a great pressure, as if from an unfathomable distance, bearing down on my very being and rendering me utterly incapacitated. I let out a ragged exhalation and nearly collapsed face-first into the deck of the Roc before Cicatrice caught me and helped me to my hooves.

The Magister stared at me, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Do not say that name, ever. Do not think about it, ever. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” I coughed, my breath hitching in my throat. “Of course.”

“Definitely avoid saying it so soon after the damn ritual, anyway. Sergeant, listen to me, and listen well. I have spent decades of my life pondering the existence and the nature of these beings. I have carried out in-depth research, archeological and thaumatological. I have even presided over ceremonies the whole purpose of which was to gain more knowledge about the Archons. Do you want to know something? I wish I knew less than I do now. Much, much less. As a scientist, as a magician, and as a researcher, professing a desire for ignorance is the very antithesis of everything that I am.” Cicatrice gripped my shoulders. “Every piece of knowledge that I gained constituted a fresh, new horror. Moreover, it brought with it tremendous risks, both personal and professional. Use epithets and euphemisms for evil spirits. Do not use their actual names, especially not when you’re joined at the fucking hip with them. Do not let them tempt you with promises of power. Unless they are threatening you directly in the physical realm, you are to pretend that they don’t exist. Please, please tell me you understand. Please!”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I understand.”

“Good. We’re here, outside Crazy Horse. Go see Argent. Get fixed up. Bell said you were in a bad way. How are you feeling?”

“Better than last night. I was at death’s door until—until that thing—oh, no.”

“It’s the Kiss. The ooze has a nourishing and healing effect on the body, restoring it to balance, but we can only speculate as to the purpose. I conjecture that it helps their freshly sired victims recover, escape, and isolate themselves so that the decades-long process of producing a Prime may begin. Over time, the infected become unnaturally resilient and hard to kill. I’ve seen them take dozens of beamcaster hits center-mass and not die. If it were easy for them to perish to violence, disease, or old age, it would interrupt the process. Therefore, the curse preserves them alive until the seeds planted by the archon can bear their terrible fruit. Rest assured, you aren’t gaining superpowers. The drugs will prevent that. They’ll also prevent you from turning into a three-meter-tall tentacled monstrosity possessed by the spirit of a dark god, so keep taking them as directed.”

“Why would the Archons do this to an enemy if it makes them stronger?”

“Simple. The Archon planned to kill you right away once it used the curse to extract what it needed from your mind. Instead, you got away. Either you’re one of their worshipers and you’re blessed with a very long life trapped inside a Prime, or you’re one of their enemies and you’re cursed with a very long life trapped inside a Prime. Either way, the Kiss serves their purposes. The Archons are beings of the darkest Void magic. Their knowledge of souls and their exact nature is unsurpassed. The conversion process is both magical and viral in nature. The genetic changes brought about by the Kiss create a sort of vicious cycle, allowing the hive mind more control over the basic physical structures of your body, which accelerates the changes, which increases their grip, and so on. Your soul energy is what feeds the transformation. They don’t need to actively cast on you, only guide the process while the stigma siphons your soul like a junkie sticking a garden hose in a gas tank.”

“Fuck me,” I whispered.

“Exactly. Run along now, Sergeant. I have some very important business to attend to. We’ll meet up a fortnight from now, and if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll begin your lessons.”

“Thanks again, Your Excellency.” I offered him a curt bow.

“Oh, please. None of that. Remember, the suffering makes dark magic stronger, and where would I be if I didn’t have to suffer you half-wits and your lack of decorum?”

“Fuck you too, you old fart.” I grinned.

Cicatrice smiled. “That’s more like it. Now, off with you.”

When I stepped outside, down the ramp to the Roc’s cargo bay and onto the hard-packed dirt that made up the floor of Ghastly Gorge, I was still completely disoriented. Every shadow in the corner of my eye felt hostile, like there might be something lurking in it, eager to jump out and devour me whole. That was why when Lieutenant Armagais—who was leaning against the outside of the dropship and having a smoke—decided to call my name, I nearly leapt out of my hooves.

“Hey, Sergeant Storm.”

“Whoa, fuck!” I startled so hard I practically fell over. I held my hoof to my chest, trying to catch my breath. “What the hell is it? Don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me like that!”

“Nice dropship.” Ket flicked the ashes off his cig before taking another puff. “Seen Rocs before. Never been in one, though. Everything’s a little short on the inside, but nice.”

The Lieutenant was accompanied by a pair of Stormtroopers who never left his side. They were very quiet and did not respond to my presence, or our conversation.

I looked the transport up and down. “Well, not all Rocs are this nice. This one belongs to the Conclave. Most of ‘em have pretty basic interiors.”

“Nah, not all that luxury shit. I mean they ride smooth and solid. They don’t rattle or shake your brains out like a Vulture does. This bird right here? Over-engineered. Probably costs a fortune.”

“Imperial Army,” I said. “Everything costs a fortune.”

“Quantity is a quality all its own, you know. If you can only bring ten transports to the fight, and your enemy’s bringing twenty, that means he’s got the edge, rough ride or not.”

I threw my head back and howled with derisive laughter. “Dude, I’ve blown up a good hundred Conquerors before in a single fucking sortie. Quantity doesn’t mean shit when your tanks and gyrodynes are popcorn and my Charger is the fuckin’ kettle.”

Ketros decided to ignore that comment and change the subject entirely. “So, what does the Magister mean? All this Vargr this and Vargr that?”

“That’s what they’re called, as far as I know.”

“Bullshit. I saw that guy what gave you a beating. I don’t care what they call themselves now. Those were the Makers out there, Sergeant. Like in the old legends. They’ve returned.”

My blood ran cold, but I laughed his little comment right off. “I don’t care what they are. If they choose to make an enemy of us, then I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em. We know they’re not unstoppable. It takes gobs of firepower to bring them and their toys down, but their shielding isn’t limitless, and the hulls underneath can be broken. We can bloody their noses if we go all-out. I don’t give a fuck about your old legends. Only the present. Only the now.”

“But that’s what they looked like! Like us cleomanni, but different. Who else but the Makers would have such terrifying weapons? Such terrible prowess in battle?”

“Right. Half a dozen of those pricks came at me while I was injured, naked, and unarmed. Then, when the Drags brought the hammer down on them, they hid behind a squad-level energy shield, and then, they up and ran. Teleported right off the field and left their tanks unsupported and vulnerable. I didn’t see any prowess last night. You know what I saw? I saw a bunch of fucking psychopaths with fancy equipment. That’s not even getting into that immensely fucked up thing that they brought with them. That disgusting piece of shit that they kneel to like it’s their fucking god! They must be fucked in the fucking head!”

“How you holding up?” Ket said.

The meaning was clear to me, right off. Still, I demurred. “You mean how am I handling the knowledge that my kind is being targeted for complete annihilation by immensely powerful supernatural beings that can’t be killed by conventional means and that my nation has been engaged in a shadow war with them for decades or even centuries without the public’s knowledge? Great. I’m feeling just great about it. Thanks for asking.”

“No, I mean, well—you know.”

I scowled at him, making it clear that I wanted the subject dropped. “As far as I’m concerned, that didn’t happen. I’m not gonna think about it. I don’t wanna talk about it. With all due respect to your rank, Lieutenant, by which I mean none, I don’t want any of you morons spreading it around, either. I am not going to be placed on a fucking pedestal. I am not going to walk around everywhere with everyone giving me those commiserative looks and gossiping about me like I’m some poor little piece of fucking meat! I can’t fucking live like that! I’m gonna do what I’ve always done. I’m gonna walk it off.”

Ket put his hand on my shoulder. “Sergeant, you don’t just walk off shit like that. You’re hurting, I can tell. Can see it right in your eyes. If I can see it, that means everyone can.”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” I said. “Go to the therapist, they say. Go get your pills, they’ll all say. Well guess what? I—”

“—want to make a fool of yourself by letting your wounds fester where everyone can see it? Because that’s what you’re planning to do. Mental wounds are the same as physical ones. The brain is an organ, too. Don’t wait. Don’t put it off. Listen to your big boss. Go to the fucking head-shrinker at the earliest opportunity. You need to manage it before it becomes a problem.”

I stood there, shaking. Shaking and crying. “Don’t you touch me, asshole!” I was completely livid as I shrugged off his contact. “I’ve gone twenty-seven years of my fucking life perfectly fine without taking advice from a fucking imp. I’m not about to start, now.”

“Oh, cut the crap. I care about you, too. You know why? It’s because the first time I’ve ever seen the Captain truly happy is when she’s around you. That means something to me.”

“I spent all my formative years watching my people go nearly extinct, because of what you and your kind did to us.” I seethed. “I am not Mardissa’s moral support. I am not here to make her feel better about herself and all the ponies she’s killed. I am interested in only one fucking thing, and that’s the preservation of ponykind in the face of alien aggression. If she wants to get in the trenches and help us with that, she’s more than welcome to, so long as you two aren’t planning on double-crossing us.”

“Yeah. That’s fine. Saving my people from destruction is exactly what I’d be interested in if I was in your shoes. Having goals is a good thing. Didn’t say it wasn’t. Now, how are you gonna achieve them when your brain ain’t in the game, Sergeant? You’ve got to preserve yourself, first. Otherwise, anything else you can do won’t be nearly as effective. Do what the Magister said. Go see the shrink once you’re healthy enough. If they’re anything like ours, they’ll take good care of you. Furthermore, Captain Granthis has already promised you her aid, and she means it. Don’t you ever doubt the lady’s word in front of me ever again, or I’ll bust your fuckin’ lip.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Lieutenant, walk with me. I have some things I want to show you. Some ponies I want you to see.”

We left the empty motor pool where the Roc had landed and approached Camp Crazy Horse’s massive doors recessed in the cliff face, walking through the gap and into the cavernous hangar beyond. The Stormtroopers tagged along, moving in lockstep.

“Whoa,” Ketros said. “How did you keep all this a secret for so long?”

“I have no fucking idea. It’s definitely not the smallest base we have. I think Bell might’ve told me once about how we avoid being scanned, but I don’t know. You’d have to ask him, if he feels like telling you about it.”

“So, this is one of the fabled Charger labs?” The Lieutenant keenly eyed the heavy equipment that was used to produce spare components for our mechs.

“Yeah, it is. The whole gorge was used as a proving ground for Chargers, years ago. This was where my machine was assembled and tested.”

As we kept walking, past the dormant duostrand loom and its huge drum rollers, we made our way into the base facilities proper and their drab halls of concrete. We walked through the infirmary, past Cloverleaf’s door. I doubled back and we peered into the room through the narrow fire door window.

“Who’s she?” Ket said.

“Cloverleaf. Militia mare. When we conducted that raid on Dodge over a month ago, the dingoes got to her.”

“Dingoes? Oh, you mean the fucking damarkinds. Creepy fellows at the best of times.”

“Mmm-hm. You know why she’s lying in that bed? Well, that’s because of them. Because of what they did to her. I shouldn’t even have to say it. The fact that one of her legs is metal should tell the whole story.”

Ketros winced. “Gods, that’s terrible.”

I nodded. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Come on.”

We kept walking, past the windows to the repurposed office space that was being used as an extension to the infirmary. The place was packed with moaning, squirming casualties. Hunks of tattered flesh, writhing on their cots. For some of them, these would be their deathbeds. They were missing so much of their bodies, and yet, they clung to life. That was one of the downsides to being a pony. We were too stubborn for our own good. We didn’t know when to die.

One mare had three of her legs amputated and one eye clawed out by the Vurvalfn attack. Her body was wrapped in bandages like a mummy, many of them soaked with ooze from her nearly week-old wounds. Her lone exposed eye was wide and bloodshot, her head shaking side to side in steadfast denial of her body’s ruined state. Her last remaining leg—her right foreleg—was slamming into her cot over and over as she struggled to breathe with a punctured lung, her diaphragm straining to draw in air. Her pain wasn’t being managed properly. Probably the opiate shortage we were struggling through. Without a miracle, she was as good as dead.

If she was a cleomanni, she would have died that night. She would have succumbed almost immediately. A quick, merciful death. Instead, she had the poor sense to be born as one of us. A tonnanen. Indestructible, until we weren’t.

“Oh dear gods,” Ket said. “What happened?”

“The Vargr happened. Those pricks did this to us. More dingoes, but fucking chromed up hard, until they’d completely lost themselves, living out their brief existences from that point on as disposable weapons. Some sort of experimental combat platform the Linvargr were testing. The survivors holed up at Pur Sang couldn’t even fight back. They got torn to ribbons. These are the casualties we evacuated, right where I expected to find them.” I watched, shaking my head as the overworked staff played whack-a-mole with more than ten times their number in patients. “These were the ponies we were trying to save when you bastards started raining mortars on us.”

Ket stood there in shock, staring into the room full of dying and maimed ponies, his expression discomfited as he took a shaky puff from another cig. “I always knew that something didn’t feel right about all this. I had buddies I used to go clubbing with back home. They told me not to do it, y’know. Not to enlist. Years ago. No choice. My wife died. My daughter, you know, she’s just a little tiny thing, and she’s sick. Needs lots of meds to stay alive. They ain’t cheap. My sister’s taking care of her while I’m on deployment, but I haven’t seen her in too long. She misses her daddy. She used to write me, but her messages have been getting farther apart. I think she’s getting sicker.” Ket let out a puff of smoke. “Point is, I needed the money, and flying is all I know. The private courier business ain’t what it used to be.”

“What’s your point, Ket?” My voice was so low, it was almost a whisper.

“I have never seen anything like the bullshit I’ve seen in the past few days in my whole life. Between, y’know, the Archons and all the rest of this shit, I’m starting to feel like Mar. I’m wondering what the hell I was doing with my time. There’s something out here that’s bigger than both of us. Bigger than this war. Something that threatens to drain the whole fucking galaxy of life. And it’s right on our doorstep. What kind of future do any of us have, if we don’t fight back? Gods, what a nightmare that would be.”

“Ket, do you see, now?” I said. “Do you see why I don’t want any sympathy from anyone? I am still intact. I still have all my fucking legs. My wounds are nothing by comparison.”

Ket turned towards me, shaking his head. “First off, that’s fucking grotesque, that you would use these people and their pain as a vehicle for your argument. If you want people to respect you, then don’t spout narcissistic, self-serving drivel like that in front of them. Secondly, your wounds aren’t nothing. In fact, you’re centimeters from breaking and you don’t even know it. It’s worse than I fucking thought.” The Zinsar poked his finger in my chest, hard, making me stumble and fall flat on my sore ass. “You get some fucking sense through that thick skull of yours, Storm, and you go get healthy.”

“Nuke?” We heard her long before we saw her, her voice echoing down the halls. “Nuke?! Nuke! Nuuuuuuke!”

Captain Garrida stamped down the hall, making a beeline right at me, looking no worse for wear after what she’d just lived through. She latched her claws around my throat and began to literally throttle me on the floor. “Nuke, nuke, nuke, nuke, nuke!”

“Bl—glrk—Bellweth—hrk.”

The Captain’s eyes were wild and threatening. “I am going to take a big steaming shit over all three of you. They will need hydraulic excavators to unearth you three little hooligans from my shit! After that, I’m gonna shit on you again, and then they’re gonna dig you out again, and that cycle is gonna continue until you resign yourselves to your fate, give up on life, and subsequently drown in my shit!”

“And I thought my boss was tetchy,” Ket said. “Geez, Storm. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Garrida gave Ket the side-eye for a moment before returning her full, baleful attention to me. “You lunatics nuked a fucking Confederate formation without authorization. And to top it off, as if paying a fucking dummykin for info wasn’t bad enough, now, you’ve brought actual imps into my base, you numbskull! Weee-ooo, here comes the shit truck with a great big smelly load of my shit! The gear lever is in reverse, the back-up lights are blinking, the bed is being raised, and the shit is sloshing, sloshing over your head! Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bury you!”

“Why—does it have sirens?” I coughed out.

“Because anyone with any sense will get out of its fucking way or get shit on, that’s why!” Garrida let go of me. “Do you realize how much heat you, Bell, and Sierra just brought down on our heads? Do you? Because the entire fucking Fifth Fleet is rolling in, and they’re bringing Behemoths! Big fucking erect Behemoths, Storm! You’re gonna go out there in your little tiny scout Charger, barely the size of one of their toes, and they’re gonna fuckin’ fuck you so hard you’ll be begging to have your pussy stapled shut just to escape the pain of being constantly fucked!”

Ket’s eyes widened. “Oh hell.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take Garrida’s abuse. Not after what happened to me. I snapped. “Captain, I’m a sick mare. My implant’s failed. I had a fucking heart attack from being nearly fucking electrocuted. My legs are all swollen up from electrolyte imbalance. I had a big fucking chunk of shrapnel take out my ribs, I took a tumble when the Skimmer crashed and was knocked out, I dislocated one of my forelegs, I was beaten and choked, and then, I was ‘fucking fucked’, by something out of your worst nightmares, sir! On top of all that, I had the pleasure of finding myself caught in the blast radius of a thermonuclear fucking warhead. I have had a bad fucking week!”

Ket grunted with disapproval at the scene. “This is another reason why you guys lost. Ya treat your bloody finest heroes like fuckin’ criminals. You hate war. We fuckin’ love it. We’re always itchin’ for a fight. If Storm had the sense to be born a cleomanni, she’d make fuckin’ Colonel fast enough to make your head spin. Instead, she got assaulted for her trouble, trying to keep us all from getting caught and killed by the Vargr.”

The Captain glanced over at him, the gears turning in her head. “You don’t mean—did they actually—”

Ket nodded. “Yes, I do, and yes, they did.”

Garrida stood up, her brow knitting as she gazed down at me with those sad, apologetic eyes that I couldn’t bear to see. “I—oh. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Are you okay, Sergeant?”

I was crying. It was messy. Snot was involved. “No, sir. No, I’m not. I’m not okay. Nothing is okay!” I began having a panic attack. I tried holding it off. Tried keeping it together. It was no use. The shot of adrenaline made my hooves shake. I hyperventilated, reaching out and hugging Garrida’s leg tightly. “Oh Celestia, I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die! Don’t let them take my fucking soul! Help me! Help me! Help!” I screamed. I screamed my lungs out. I screamed like I was being killed. Over, and over, and over again. Then, just as quick, like a rubber band snapping in my head and releasing all the tension all at once, the adrenaline left, and in its place came a mixture of embarrassment and shame at having openly lost control in front of the Captain. “Oh no. Oh no. You—you didn’t see that, sir. Please tell me you didn’t just see that.”

“I did,” Captain Garrida said. “Storm, you’re in the right place. Report yourself to medical immediately. That is a direct order. If you want to serve your country, you will do as I say.” Garrida hunkered down and rested her talons on my shoulder. “We’re under a lot of pressure. All of us. There is no shame in admitting you’re broken, because damn if this war isn’t breaking us left and right. You need help to piece yourself back together again, Sergeant, and you need it not tomorrow, or a week from now, but right this instant.”

“I need—I need to fight,” I said. “It’s all I have left!”

“No, Sergeant. Your fight is over, for the time being. I am removing you from the active roster until you’re declared fit for duty. After that, I will evaluate you personally, and if your condition is not to my satisfaction, you’re going back to medical. As many times as it takes.”

“Don’t,” I whimpered. “Don’t take my battlefield from me. It’s the only place where I’m whole. It’s the only place in my life where I have any power at all. I couldn’t keep my family from falling apart. I couldn’t hold down a job in civilian life that was worth a shit. I need this. I need to fight. I’m a fucking mutant, sir! I’m a fucking carnivore! I love the smell! I love the smell of cooked flesh! I love the way they smell when I fucking cook them alive in their machines! I was never a fucking pony, and that’s why my daddy hated me! He could see it! He could see I had sharp teeth! He could see my claws dripping red! I’m a killer! I send people to fucking hell, and I love it! I love it!”

As I writhed on the floor and cackled like a maniac, the Stormtroopers shared some uneasy looks, their expressions only half-readable under their reflective visors. Captain Garrida pinched the bridge of her beak. “Aw, crap. Not another one.” She looked up at Ketros. “This inevitably happens when a pony fights long enough. ECAD. It happens quick. They’re good fighters, at first. But then, it starts to sink in, how everything that they’re doing is against their fundamental nature as herbivores. Then, they crack. They crack way more frequently than us predators. Statistically speaking, they’re over three hundred percent more likely to just up and lose it. I thought the Sergeant here was one of the stronger ones, but it seems she’s reached her limit.”

“I love it!” I screamed and thrashed as the medics rushed in and held me down. One of them was already bleeding air from a syringe. “I’m not a fucking grass-chomper! I’m a meat-eater like you! I fucking love it! I love killing! I’m gonna kill you, too, seneschal! You have no idea what you signed up for, Seneschal Arka-Povis! I’m gonna turn you into a wet stain on the pavement! I’m gonna—I—”

The needle pierced my skin. The sedative poured inside.

// … // … // … // … // … //

My eyelids were heavy as they opened, my eyes a pair of lead spheres rotating in my head like gun turrets. I was lying on my back, wearing a hospital gown. I tried raising a limb, only to find it bound to the bed by heavy straps. I was catheterized. Again. My blood was flowing out of me and into a monolithic machine in the corner, and then right back in.

Instead of using a central line, they ran the tubes right into the access ports in my back. The implant had my blood supply plumbed into it, like an actual pair of kidneys. That meant that it could be used to tap off my blood either into sample vials or an external dialysis machine, in case the one inside me failed. Various kinds of IV drugs could also be introduced directly into the ports, if necessary.

The heart monitors emitted a steady beep. Proof I was still alive. I hated it. I hated how medicalized my life had become.

I smirked, smug as hell. They knew I was right. They knew what I was. I was nothing more and nothing less than what they’d made me into. A monster. All I had to do to make them scared of me was to shamelessly admit it.

Gauze Patch was the first to speak, sighing as she flipped through the sheets on the clipboard. “Patient is female, age twenty-seven. Multiple injuries. Contusion to the orbit of the eye, with mild swelling. Minor contusions all over. Two fractured ribs with major penetrating trauma as the apparent cause. Notable edema in the legs secondary to kidney failure. Toxicology report came back with traces of opioids, but they were apparently taken hours and hours ago and haven’t cleared out due to poor renal function. Subject has prosthetic kidneys, of course, but the implant has failed and will need repacking. Her blood pressure, O2, and heart rhythm all look good. She’s stable, but the swelling is very concerning. We have her on dialysis right now.”

I heard Argent’s voice, next. “Why the fuck has the Sergeant been restrained?”

“We have reports back from debrief that she suffered some unspecified sexual trauma. She had a severe mental episode when confronted by a superior, and we had to sedate her. The restraints are there because we think she’s at risk of self-harm, but she hasn’t been evaluated, yet. She has so many injuries, there’s no way to tell which one precipitated the mental breakdown, but her acute renal failure is the most likely candidate.”

“Right. Kidney failure and toxin buildup is associated with the onset of severe depression, anxiety, mental confusion, and so on. Not to mention the recent history of sexual assault. Oh, Celestia. Sergeant, you poor thing.”

Ketros was sitting across from me, reading a magazine. “Can’t you two see she’s awake and looking right at us? Crack easily, my ass. That griff was wrong. What ponies lack in the head, they more than make up for in the body. Look at her. She’s like a fuckin’ cartoon character. Any cleomanni I know would be fuckin’ dead three times over from all that. She’s not even in shock. She has good fucking vitals and looks like she’s ready to get right up and go. Geez, you ponies are some scary fuckers.”

“What the fuck is that asshole doing in my infirmary?” Argent swore. “Get the fuck out, imp freak!” After Ketros tossed the magazine on the end table and stormed out, Argent continued her spiel. “My wife was a photojournalist. She didn’t let the war get her down. She said there were so many beautiful places in the galaxy, and she wanted to see them all. She lived out in a prefab colony of nine hundred ponies, way out on the frontier. They found her body mowed down in a fucking trench! I don’t have to suffer the presence of one of those monsters! Not in the only place where I feel safe!”

Oh great, I wondered. Is my doc cracking, too? I kinda need her.

“He’s good,” I said, my voice thin and raspy. “He’s one of the good ones.”

Argent Tincture shook her head. “There is no such thing as a good cleomanni, Sergeant. They all deserve to be shot.”

“Not all of them,” I said. “Some of them are good. I want some of them to be good. If they weren’t, I’d have to kill ‘em all. I don’t want to have to do that, Argent.”

“Did he rape you?”

I winced. “No! No, not him.”

“Then who? Nopony will cough up with even a vague description of the attacker! I want to know that me and my other patients are safe in here. I have a responsibility to them, too!”

“None of us are safe.” I looked both of them in the eye. “None of us ever were.”

Argent and Gauze shared a look of unease.

“What is in this?” Argent Tincture lifted the pill bottle that Cicatrice had given me.

“I need that.” I said. “The Magister gave me those and I am taking them with his permission. Go see him if you don’t believe me.”

“Are these opioids? Have you been abusing them?”

“No. They’re not. It’s a gene snipper and nanomachine colony pill in one.”

Argent’s eyes widened. “What for?”

I let out a low chuckle that sounded crazy even to my ears. “To keep me from turning into a vessel for a demon.”

“O—kay,” Gauze Patch said. “I think I’m going to call it a fucking night.”

Gauze grabbed her long, white coat, threw it over her withers, and stepped out of the lab, slamming the door behind her.

Argent was obsessed. She didn’t stop prying. She practically demanded to take a sample of my blood and swab my nethers. At first, I protested, but she was so insistent that after a while, I relented. She was obsessed. Driven to uncover the truth. I had never seen her like this before. I watched as the vials went through the centrifuge, the machine humming away as each part of my blood was separated. After spending a few more hours with slides of my tissues under a microscope, the good doctor came to her conclusions, and they weren’t particularly rosy ones.

The increasingly paranoid Argent Tincture came up to my bedside, staring down at me, her eyes wide with fear. “What in the hell are you?”

“Come on, Doc. That’s no way to do me. You know what I am. I’m a fighter. I’ll get through this. I need to get through this.”

“Sergeant, your nanomachine colony is of no design that I recognize. I’ve identified various kinds of large, unknown structures that float freely through every drop of your blood. Are you a fucking Con-fed mole? Are these some kind of transmitter? That’s not even getting into your genome. When I sequenced it, I found evidence of non-pony genetic material. So, I’ll say it again. What the fuck are you?”

“I’m a pony,” I said, my brow knitted. “Just a pony, ma’am. It’s all I ever was.”

“What is this?” Argent held up a vial with a tiny quantity of black ooze in it. “I put it under all our instruments, and you know what? This is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen in all my years in the medical profession! It’s like something a mad scientist would make. Nothing like this could have evolved by accident. It has to be a product of synthetic biology. This was inside you, Sergeant. What—what in the hell is going on, here? Why can’t I get a straight answer from anyone?”

I slowly shook my head, grimacing, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know! I don’t know anything! I was hurt, Argent. I was hurt real bad. And now, you’re hurting me, too. Why—does everyone—” I let out a sob. “Just—just talk to Cicatrice. He’ll explain everything. I’m sick, and I need to follow certain complicated procedures that he specifically prescribed for me, okay? Now, can you get me out of these damned restraints? I’m not going anywhere. I’m not gonna hurt myself. I’m not crazy. I’m just sad. I’m very fucking sad, okay?”

“Sergeant, I—”

“I’ve tried keeping it together for so long, and for what? I keep getting fucking hurt, and it’s my own stupid fault! I’m a fucking idiot!”

“No, Sergeant, you’re not an id—”

“Why didn’t I run?” I interrupted her. “I should’ve fucking run. I should’ve kept running until I ran out of land. Then, I should’ve swam. I should’ve—I shoulda—” I started hyperventilating. The faux-leather cuffs encircling my legs and my barrel started feeling like the iron grip of the Archon’s tentacles wrapping around my body. Touching me. Too close. Too much. I couldn’t. I couldn’t take it. “Get—get these fucking things off of me!”

Argent slowly undid the straps, her eyes watery and her lips trembling. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. It was for your own protection. We had no idea what you were going to do, or if you were a suicide risk or what.”

After I was freed, I leaned up and worked my hooves over the sore spots where the tight bands dug into my flesh. “Argent, what’s it going to take to repair my auto-dialysis implant so I can get this fucking hose unhooked from my back and get back to the fight?”

“Well, we’re going to have to cut a flap of your skin, swap out the components in-situ, and then stitch it back. I’ve never actually done this before, so I don’t know exactly what it will entail, only that there might be some unsightly tissue damage from it. The skin might end up being unsalvageable, in which case, we’re going to have to put in the big external titanium cover plate.”

“What will that look like?”

“Your back will have a metal rectangle on it above where your kidneys are, in the loin area, about twenty centimeters across, roughly where the fluid access ports are located.”

I shrugged. “Do it. If this happens again, I’d rather you have easy access instead of having to go through skin.”

“Okay. I’m gonna have to give you a few shots for this one. You good?” Argent put a reassuring hoof on my shoulder.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Gonna need your back for this one, Sergeant.”

I nodded and lay face-down in the bed, wincing as the needle went in and lidocaine was injected around the perimeter of the surgical site. I could hear the cutting. The peeling. The whine of an electric screwdriver. I could feel the shuffling of the components in my back as Argent carefully extracted the core of the unit. The bloody hunk of titanium was set aside on a tray, and another core, freshly unpacked, was inserted in its place.

After that was done, she installed the hinged cover plate, tossing the scraps of my flesh in the medical waste bin. The unicorn gave me a mirror with her silvery levitation magic, and I took it in my own orange-hued glow. Just as described, there was a slightly curved rectangular cover plate in my back, right in the lumbar region. I flipped it open. The access ports were right underneath, ready to be hooked into a next-generation Charger’s waste evacuation system. I shook my head, sighing and flicking it shut.

“Okay,” Argent said. “Time for the function test. Hold still for a minute.”

Argent ran a data cable to the port in the back of my neck, checking the diagnostic readouts as she initialized the replacement core. I felt a whirring sensation in my lower back. The silver unicorn smiled.

“It works. Perfect. Okay, now, about this great big hole in your barrel. What the hell caused that?”

“Chunk of shrapnel,” I said. “Fuckin’ Con-fed motherfuckers blew up a Roc right next to me.”

“You guys used Hemogel to close it up? Yeah, that’s going to have to come out and it’s going to need stitches. Lots of stitches.”

I hissed in pain as Argent applied the dissolving agent to the Hemogel patch and it liquefied and ran out into a drip tray she’d propped under my side.

“Fuck,” Argent said. “This has been in way, way too long. It’s gonna take ages to heal up right. For future reference, if you have to plug a wound like this, for fuck’s sake, get it stitched the same day, if you can.”

Out came the lidocaine needle again, around the perimeter of the area she was about to suture shut. She carefully debrided the dead tissues in the wound and cleaned it out, making it weep blood. A suture needle like a fishhook went under my skin, and then crisscrossed to the other side, the wound slowly pulling shut. I needed fourteen fucking stitches to close it up completely.

“Fracture wasn’t so bad.” Argent waved a terahertz wand over the injury to inspect the bones. “Barely even cracked. Bed rest, six weeks. No strenuous activity. No falling on them and re-injuring them. It should heal on its own.”

Six weeks. I slowly shook my head. “Fuck. Things have been going to shit lately. Do we even have six weeks to burn?”

“In all honesty, Sergeant, no. We don’t. I hear things are pretty bad out there.”

“How many ponies came back from Pur Sang? Did the recovery teams make it out alright?”

“I don’t know very much about it,” Argent said. “I heard they made it out okay. In the debrief meeting, they said something about a nuclear explosion?”

“Actually, two nukes,” I said. “One was because of Bellwether, Sierra and I, and an even bigger one scuttled the whole damn base. Lots of fireworks.”

“That’s no good. That’ll draw more Confederate attention.”

“Yeah, Captain Garrida was kind of upset about our nuke. We took out a big Confederate force with it. Probably the only reason why the Captain and the recovery teams are still alive. You know, did I—did I ever tell you about what I saw in Dodge?”

“No, Sergeant, I don’t think you did.”

“They were selling ponies, Argent. They were selling ponies into slavery. I was afraid that was going to happen to me. I think that was part of why I went along with Bell’s plan so easily without trying to talk him out of it.”

Argent sneered. “Those mangy mongrels. They weren’t—they weren’t selling mares to fuck us, were they?”

I took in a deep breath, unsure of how to break it to her. “That’s exactly what they were doing. And worse. Much worse.”

“This galaxy doesn’t know how to treat mares,” Argent said. “Between that stupid heat suppressor bullshit that I was forced to give to my patients and the things our enemies do to us in captivity, it’s enough to make me so mad, I could scream. Fucking altrenogest. Who the fuck came up with that idea? I bet you a hundred bits they didn’t have a uterus.”

I giggled a bit. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind it. Better than being horny all the time.”

“You know, Storm, some days, just looking at stallions makes me sick. If they bring one in, sometimes, I’ll have Gauze take over for me, because I just can’t handle it. I know my patients aren’t exactly complicit in any of this other shit, but for fuck’s sake. I see so many mares coming through my office who’ve been hurt the way you have, it’s disgusting. I’m sick of feeling like this. I’m sick of feeling like my gender is painting a great big bullseye on my ass, you know? I don’t want to be preyed upon because of that. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah.” I sniffled softly. “I do.”

Argent nodded. “It’s not normal. Mares are supposed to lead. We’re supposed to be treated with honor and respect. Whenever you let males rule, it always leads to problems. If the Confederacy let their women take a turn at the wheel, this war would’ve been over long ago, and we could’ve had time to heal, together. Instead, it’s just, attack, attack, attack. Psychotic male aggression everywhere. Girls being treated as something to be abused and consumed. It’s repulsive!”

“It totally is. I agree.”

It was a noncommittal response. I wasn’t exactly down with her dislike of dudes, but her whole thesis wasn’t far off the mark. What we were experiencing was systemic. It wasn’t just a few isolated incidents. It was a concerted campaign of deliberate demoralization. Our enemies’ blatant sexism was a weapon they wielded against mare and stallion alike; towards our males, for not being able to protect us from grievous harm, and towards us, for not being able to protect ourselves.

The bastards couldn’t fight us when we were at our best. They were too cowardly. They had to soften us up by assaulting our collective psyche, first. Attack a people’s values, break their cohesion, sow confusion and hopelessness, and any military campaign against them would be certain to succeed.

In ponies, the mind was the weak link. Breaking our bodies when we were hearty and hale and ready for the fight was a tall order. Forcing us to wallow in despair and then crushing us when our spirits had already been broken was much, much easier. This wasn’t just a war with strictly material consequences. This was a war for our actual souls. Sanity was just another front. Another battlefield.

I felt sorry for Mar and Ket. They had no idea how cruel their species had been to us. They weren’t actively malicious. They were oblivious. One does not normally endeavor to know the names and desires of every ant they ever stepped on, and until recently, that was what we were to them. Insects. It was only when they noticed our personhood that the full extent of their misdeeds stood out to them in sharp relief.

I had discovered Equestria’s ultimate weapon against the Confederacy. Cognitive dissonance.

Argent Tincture let out a heavy, wearied sigh. “Well, Sergeant. Looks like Corporal Shooting Star and her partners in crime have another checkmark to add to the Rape Wall.”

I blinked a few times, my perturbation evident on my face. “The fucking what?”

// … // … // … // … // … //

I stood before the chalk graffiti in complete shock. In the hall to Weathervane’s office, Corporal Shooting Star had elected to write down the names of every mare on the base who was involved in a direct combat role, in various different colors of sidewalk chalk. Cloverleaf’s name was on there. So was mine. So were dozens of others. Each checkmark next to a name indicated the number of times that particular individual had suffered some form of sexual assault at the enemy’s grubby mitts.

My jaw hung agape. There were an alarming number of marks. Dozens of them. There was one right next to my name, too. Word was already spreading. If I didn’t strangle these rumors in the crib, soon, everyone on the fucking base would know.

I glanced over at where Shooting Star sat in a circle with a few other mares. They had piles of bits on the floor. “I bet a hundred bits Cherry Sundae is the next one to see Weathervane,” one mare said. “She’s completely losing her grip on reality. Forgetting basic stuff. I saw her ask for her glasses once when they were right on her fucking head.”

I was completely speechless. A fucking betting pool? Are you fucking kidding me? This was sickening. One way or another, it had to stop.

“You pieces of shit.” I marched right up to Shooting Star and put my hoof on the fiery-looking unicorn’s chest. “You especially, you dumb motherfucker. Do you have a walnut between your fucking ears? Do you think this is funny? You think you have a right to profit off of other ponies’ misery, is that it?”

The four of them stood at attention immediately. “Ma’am!”

I waved my hoof at them. “At ease. I want an explanation, and right the fuck now.”

One of the grunts sighed, shaking her head. “Looks like the pilot here doesn’t know how all this works.”

Shooting Star nodded. “Number one, it’s not for personal gain, it’s to raise awareness about a major problem. Namely, the mental health issues on base and the shit that keeps happening to us on patrols and raids. Number two, the winner of the pool has to buy a great big care package for the last one who got a checkmark. And by care package, I mean liquor and sweets and other good, expensive shit. You’re next in line, Sarge. We were going to surprise you. Three, you don’t actually have to make a bet. You can always just make a donation instead. We just like distracting ourselves with this shit. It’s how we cope. Notice something? My name’s on there, too. So are these other fine ladies.”

I looked over at the chalk graffiti. Sure enough. Shooting Star’s name was there and had a check next to it. Two out of the three others who were present did, as well; Holly Thorn did, Raspberry Punch did, but Periwinkle didn’t. The whole thing was bookended with two messages of protest that I hadn’t noticed before. How many will it take? and When will our suffering be enough?

Some joker had done a chalk drawing of a damarkind with a huge erection, leaning his head back and howling, with a caption underneath. I have a problem only mares can help me with. I get hard, all the time, and then, I get extremely entitled.

I was gripped by remorse. I’d misunderstood their intent and been a little harsh on them. What they were doing still didn’t sit right with me, however.

“You?” I said, raising an eyebrow at Shooting Star. “But you’re one of the toughest mares I know!”

Shooting Star grinned, but her eyes weren’t smiling along with her. “It was a couple years ago. My whole fucking squad, KIA. One little mare pissing herself, covered in her friends’ blood and fumbling with her caster, surrounded by bodies. What do you think the dummykins did? All that meat, lying right there. Soft, warm, tasty meat. Good to fuck, good to eat. Shit, they were thorough. I don’t think they left a single part of me un-fucked. That’s the thing with those horny bastards. If they run out of holes, they’ll start fucking the pits of your elbows and your stifles, too. Some mares call it the Crush, because it feels like you’re in a trash compactor. Why do you think I like cuttin’ their fucking heads off so much?”

“How are you still alive?” I said.

“The Captain and Thumper, how else?” Raspberry laughed. “That’s why they call it the Dork Destroyer, you know. Some call it the Dinner Bell because it’s interrupted a bunch of damarkinds’ dinners. I think she’s stopped like five actual EFKs so far with that Grover of hers. Geez, poor Garrida. She’s seen a lot of shit through her scope.”

“So, was it dingoes for you, too, Sarge?” Holly said. “It usually is. That’s why the Confederacy keeps ‘em around like living minefields, you know. It’s because they know we’re too scared of ‘em to just rush their positions. Damarkinds don’t give a fuck if they’re still under fire. They’ll just grab you, whip their dick out, and fuck you on the spot. They’re fuckin’ crazy. I think like a good four-fifths of the marks on the wall are because of dimbulbs. The remaining one-fifth is an even split between mares who got turned into brood sacs for Karks and ones who got dicked by a bored imp with a key to their holding cell. So, which was it? Well, obviously you didn’t get an IVF wand in the puss, or you would’ve been gone longer. So, you’re not a Karkbelly. Imps or dingoes?”

This was beyond messed up. I wasn’t in the mood for their flippant attitude. Not when I was a patchwork of skin and bone being held together with cellophane tape. I didn’t even know what to say to them. I never had to deal with anything like this before. I had no idea how one could hold a meaningful conversation with a group of ponies so deeply damaged that they’d deliberately put our shared pain on display for all to see, wearing it as a gruesome trophy.

This just wasn’t right. Being victimized in such a fundamental way was surreal enough without everypony around me going nuts and acting out like this. It was as if everything in my environment had been transformed by some powerful and profoundly evil magic.

The familiar had become uncanny. The innocuous, hostile. The private, public.

“I—” I briefly held my tongue. What should I tell them? A three-meter-high octopus? They’d think I was fucking with them. “It was neither. I’m not at liberty to say what it was, either.”

“Ooo!” the four of them rang out in a chorus.

“Spooky classified rapist,” Holly Thorn said. “Jackpot!”

Raspberry held her hooves up as if framing a picture. “If you look closely at this grainy photo, you will see that what appears to be a twenty-dicked alien fuck machine is actually a mylar weather balloon.”

Periwinkle laughed. “You will be visited by the tuxedo-wearing BASKAF agent of good fortune, but only if you repost this meme on the datasphere.”

Shooting Star pantomimed some weird alien creature with eyestalks sprouting from the top of its head, making a wah-wah-wah-wah sound.

“This is one hell of a weird fucking way to cope,” I said. “You gals aren’t right in the head.”

“No! You don’t say?” Shooting Star was merciless with the bitter sarcasm. “We drew this shit outside Weathervane’s office to remind her daily of how fucking useless she is. You’re gonna go in for therapy, too, aren’t you? That’s because you’re like me. You’re a predator. A raw, cold-blooded killer. A cut above the rest of the herd. That shit scares them, so that’s why they’re gonna force you to go in and get evaluated and treated, when there’s nothing fucking wrong with you except for the fact that you’ve pierced the fucking veil and realized that you have to be one tough cookie if you wanna live in hell’s flaming, hemorrhoidal asshole.”

“Since when have we not?” I said.

“I know what you’re thinking, ma’am,” Thorn said. “What mare in her right mind would do this? Well, nopony here has been in their right mind for years. We’ve all basically been on endless deployment for-fucking-ever, with our only downtime being when we’re in recovery from our injuries.”

I pointed my hoof at the wall with the chalk marks. “That’s irrelevant. This is fucking unacceptable! If this is what passes for normal behavior around here, then we are so far from the mainstream of society at this point, the average civvie would find all of us terminally fucking deranged!”

“Right, so, here’s what’s gonna happen,” Shooting Star muttered. “Weathervane is gonna give you a bottle full of SSRIs and send you on your merry way, just like she did for all the rest of us. That doesn’t get to the root of the problem. The problem is, we’re being sent in with no fucking armor and no air support and we’re getting overrun. You know the rest, Sarge.”

“So, you’re bullying our base’s only therapist into doing her job marginally better, when she isn’t even the cause of the problem?” I said.

“She doesn’t fucking care!” Shooting Star yelled. “She’s not the one who has to go out there and fight those fucking assholes! She gets to sit around here all day, behind several feet of concrete, safe and un-fucked! You’re a pilot, Sarge. You don’t experience the same shit that we do. You think we’re fucked in the head? You have no idea, ma’am. Did you know, I once had to rip an imp’s neck out with my teeth? He hit the power supply on my caster and I couldn’t get a shot off ‘cause the damn thing malfunctioned and refused to fire. I tackled him, I latched my chompers around his fucking throat, I bit down, and then I ripped his fucking carotid artery right out of his fucking neck.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I was green as shit and I thought he was gonna die quick from that. He kept bleeding all over the place and struggling and screaming and shit, so then, I did a side choke on him while both my forelegs were getting splashed with rivers of fucking blood. I kept squeezing harder and harder like a fucking anaconda until he passed the fuck out and never got back up. Every single one of us has had to do fucked up shit like that, just to survive. With all due respect, ma’am, what have you done that compares?”

“Firstly, when I said seriously, I didn’t mean your stupid little anecdote, Corporal,” I said. “I was asking you if you seriously just acted all bitter and resentful that Weathervane isn’t in the shit with us, getting hurt the way we have, because that’s fucking scummy as fuck. Second, I had to pull a knife out of my dead sister’s chest and use it to kill five fucking damarkinds. Well, actually, that’s embellished a bit. I killed the first one with the knife, the next three with levitation, and the last one technically survived, but after I beat his eye out of its socket and broke all his fingers, he probably wishes he was dead.”

The four mares got a little quiet after that, sharing looks of unease.

“You loved your sis very much, didn’t ya’?” Shooting Star said.

“Yeah. I did. Still do.”

“Damn, Sarge. Damn.”

“How long has this chalk been up?”

“About a week. We had a little booklet we used to use, before that.”

“And why hasn’t the Captain had it taken down?”

“Because she wasn’t on base.”

“She didn’t say anything when she got back?”

“She’s been too busy. I don’t think she even noticed.”

“Well then, wipe that fucking crap off before she sees it and takes a great big shit on all of us, Corporal,” I said, pointing at the wall. “It’s not a good idea to have something like this in a public location on base. It’s not respectful to your sisters-in-arms, either. If you wanna give somepony some booze and sugar to drown their sorrows and stress-eat the pain away, keep it on the down-low. If you want our tactics and doctrine to change to try and prevent shit like this from happening in the future, bring it to your squad’s NCO and have him or her pass it on to the Captain. I know we could use another therapist on base, but trying to shame Weathervane into doing her job? With as overworked as she is? Totally unacceptable.”

Holly stood, her body tense and angry. “But, ma’am, we all agreed to do this. We’re all hurting, and we’re not gonna take this shit anymore! We’re trying to be your advocates, too! You deserved better. I deserved better. We all deserved better than this!”

I walked up and got in her face. “You fucking what, Private?”

The Corporal rose to her hooves. “No, Thorn. The Sergeant’s right. This was a waste of our fucking time.” It was clear she was displeased, but she nodded and did as ordered anyway. “We’ll get it cleaned up right away, ma’am.”

While I supervised them, the four of them dismantled their little art installation with the help of some spray bottles and scrub brushes, gathered up their money, and made their way back to the barracks. Shooting Star cast a glance over her shoulder at me, her gaze hollow. When she and the others rounded the end of the hall and disappeared from sight, I pounded my hoof on the chalk-smeared wall in anger.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “We’re all going fucking nuts in here. Fuck!”

I needed her. I needed the Corporal’s skills, her glaring character flaws notwithstanding. What I didn’t need was to make an enemy out of a prospective candidate for my recon squad.

// … // … // … // … // … //

I slowly shook my head as I looked over the materials the recovery teams had brought back. After I’d given Garrida my full report on what had occurred during the mission, she told me to go have a look in the hangar for a little surprise.

Laid out in one corner, on a blue tarp, was all of my gear. My saddlebags and armor. My Orbit, Lucky. Even the medal-beacons that Wraithwood had given us. Also present were Mardissa’s Eliminator, which was inexplicably damaged beyond recognition, the ruined and tattered remnants of her muscle suit, and the various Confederate weapons, rations, and first aid supplies we’d gathered. The flechette guns and their ammo were laid out flat in neat rows, unlike the pile we’d tossed together in the wreck of the Vulture.

While the Dragoons and Stormtroopers lured the enemy away, the recovery teams had gone back and swept the Vulture crash site before the scuttling charge took out Pur Sang, even when there were confirmed Vargr contacts in the area. There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from this; those ponies had some great big brass balls.

I sighed and began gathering up my stuff, but I was interrupted by one of the actual recovery team members. “Hold on, there, Sergeant!”

The light pink pegasus stallion strode up to me and grabbed my saddlebags right off of my back and set them back down. “That stuff is part of the investigation. It’s all slightly radioactive and needs to be decontaminated.”

I couldn’t exactly meet his eyes. I was ashamed I’d left my equipment behind and they’d had to risk their lives to retrieve it, but if we’d stayed around a second longer, we would’ve all died.

“Sergeant Major Flamingo Flair.” We shook hooves. “We spoke, a few days back. Me, Bo, and Cross were goofing off on comms, remember? Salvage jobs can get boring as fuck, but the work is absolutely necessary, as I’m sure you can appreciate.” The stallion’s brow knitted. “I heard about you, Storm. I’m sorry that happened to you. You’re a good fighter. Shit sucks around here. You ladies have it rough, and I mean that. Honestly.”

“See, this is what I was afraid of,” I said. “This is exactly what I was dreading before I even got back to base, sir. Everyone feeling sorry for me. Everyone being nice. I can’t fucking handle it. I’d rather we just picked on each other as usual. Routine is nice. This shit? This sympathy shit? It’s just too fucking weird.”

“I hear you. Back to business, eh? I like that attitude. You know, we got a really nice haul this time. The techs are telling me they almost have enough shit to fix your Mirage outright. Just need a few more components. They also had some other ideas you might find interesting. We keep finding partial overhaul kits for full-size Chargers, but for some missions, even a Courser is too conspicuous. I’m not sure about all the details. You’d have to ask Crookneck Squa—”

The canary-yellow, elderly engineer popped his severely caffeinated head over the top of a tool board, fixing his bloodshot eyes on us. “You rang?”

Both of us jumped nearly a meter straight up.

“Fuck!” Flamingo shouted.

“What have I told people about fucking startling me like that?” I said.

“Palfreys!” Crookneck leaped over the top of the tool board and landed on the workbench, rolling off onto the floor with surprising grace for his age. He presented a big printout to us, waving his hoof over the plans to a new type of Charger. “Hybrid biped-quadruped units. About the size of a Confederate Battlesuit, like a Rak. They’ve been in the planning phases for years, but we never got around to actually producing any functioning prototypes. They’re simpler and easier to maintain than a full-size Charger. We can build them from scratch if we’ve got the right stuff.”

I glanced over the plans, my lips slowly drawing into a smile. It was like a Battlesuit. No more than about three or four meters in height. Compact and deadly, fitted with medium beamcasters and Tatzlwurm missile launchers, with the ability to mount additional weapons like thirty-millimeter autocannons and light mortars on the shoulders for fire support purposes.

One drawing showed off a type of rotary weapons carriage that allowed it to swap shoulder weapons on the go. Another one featured salvaged contragrav harnesses and pyrojets for vertical hops. It could both run on all four legs like a pony and rear up on its hind legs like a biped to fire its weapons over obstacles and vault over buildings.

“This is fantastic!” I said. “I mean, for urban combat, in tight quarters, this would really give the dingoes something to think about.”

“That was exactly what I was thinking when I came up with the idea,” Crookneck said. “Those mercenaries think neuterized armor will protect them? Let’s see how they like a few automatic cannon rounds to the chest!”

I hoofbumped the old stallion. “Build it, dude!”

As Crookneck and Flamingo Flair ambled off and started chatting, my smile melted from my face. The whole affair seemed so superficial. At one time, it would’ve brought me joy to think of our latest and greatest armaments and their combat potential, but now, my jubilation felt hollow. There was a little voice in my head. Not the Archons, thank goodness, but my own subconscious. That voice was mocking me.

Yeah, that’s it. Pick the right metal penis. Fuck the enemy back with it. That’s what makes the world go ‘round. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been damaged. Now, the only thing that can make you feel better and regain confidence in yourself is to damage someone else in their turn.

I looked over my shoulder at the mountain of wooden crates. Automatic cannons. Heavy beamcasters. Nerve gas missiles. This little penis ejaculates HE shells, and this bigger penis, over here, spits a big purple column of death, and that last penis is filled with poison. A great big poison dick for your enemies to suck. Does it even matter which one you pick? They’re all ready. Ready to fuck.

You’re not a pony. You’re a predator. Predators don’t just whine and lie back and get fucked like prey. Predators do the fucking.

I walked it off, electing not to think too hard on the matter. I stopped by the paint booth for a little custom job, pushing the white tarpaulin aside and explaining to the boys what I wanted. The material was roughed up to accept a coat of paint. Several of the Charger techs stood in a circle around me, hooting and cheering as one of our best painters stenciled out and airbrushed the letters in big block print on my titanium ass-hatch.

I grinned as I held up the mirror to see over my shoulder. “Acuat ia Ridislaet.”

Piss & Vinegar.

// … // … // … // … // … //

I sat in Weathervane’s dimly lit and homey little office, my hooves shaking as I recounted the events of the week before. I couldn’t tell her everything. Much of it was highly classified and involved the Vargr activity in and around Pur Sang Peak. I had to be vague. Weathervane idly twirled a pen in her wingtips and nodded, listening with rapt attention as I unloaded on her.

“Shortly after we made contact with Tiamat, the base’s Anima, everything went to shit,” I said. “Things had been looking good up until that point. We popped two enemy gunships on the way in. We bypassed the turrets without dying messily. It looked like we were doing fine. That was when the hostiles showed up.”

“The Confederacy?”

“No, not the Confederacy.” I shook my head, sighing with disappointment. “I’m not allowed to talk about who or what they were. Magister’s orders.”

“Can you share any general characteristics of this new enemy?”

“In a word, terrifying. When I was in contact with them, I feared for my life like I never had before. It wasn’t a fight. It was a struggle for survival. We were the prey caught in the spider’s web. All we had left was to squirm and beg.”

Weathervane sighed. “That sounds very traumatic.”

“That’s because it was. You see all those ponies torn to pieces out in the infirmary a couple weeks ago? That was all because of this new enemy and their gruesome weapons.”

Weathervane’s face warped into a mask of despair. “Celestia preserve us.”

“Anyway, after we secured the base, the Confederacy started rolling in with a sizable force, bigger than could be repelled by conventional means. Bellwether decided to use one of the salvaged nukes against them. The EMP knocked out the Skimmer’s control electronics and we crashed.”

“Good grief. You used a nuclear weapon?”

“Three hundred kilotons, yes. Wiped out thousands of Confederate troops in one go. Took out all their mechs and most of their tanks, with very few exceptions. Our guys mopped up the rest.”

“Do you feel responsible for this in any way?”

“Yes, of course. I helped cloak the damn thing so we could emplace it.”

“Well, there’s another thing that’s highly damaging to the psyche. What happened after that?”

“We went down. Lost the Skimmer. We were being pursued by a Vulture piloted by Lieutenant Armagais. Mardissa Granthis, the daughter of President Granthis, was onboard as well. They came in hard, too. Those two were the only survivors. Mardissa found us shortly after the crash. We fought, hoof-on-fist. It was some kind of honor thing for her, I guess. I beat her silly, twice. After that, we made up. It was fucking hilarious. She thought I looked like a nice body pillow, for fuck’s sake.”

“Oh wow. So that’s who that woman is? The president’s daughter is here? Now?”

“Yep, that’s her. The Demon-Breaker walks among us.” I waved my hooves in a circle like I was describing something spooky. “Weird, I know, right? Anyway, our little peace wasn’t to last. Because that’s when we were attacked. Again.”

“That new enemy?”

“Yeah. Them.”

“What did they do?”

“They found us. We hid in the wreck of the Vulture and they found us right away, right through my damn cloak!”

Weathervane leaned back. “So, that’s when you were—”

“No. It wasn’t the one who dragged me out. Ugly bastard he was. You see, they brought something with them. Something I am not allowed to talk about or describe in any detail. A monster.”

“Like something out of the old Everfree Forest back in ancient times, before the whole thing got bulldozed?”

I laughed derisively, more a snort than anything else. “If only it were so cute and cuddly. No, not like one of those.”

“Like something from Tartarus?”

“Something far, far more vile.” My legs were trembling with fear as I gripped the armrests of the easy chair with my fetlocks. “A creature of absolute darkness.”

“Oh. Oh dear.”

“I had never felt like that before. I had nothing to contextualize it with and no way to meaningfully resist what was happening to me. My mind and body were completely plundered. I was just a spectator to the violence that was done to me. I couldn’t do anything.”

“But—surely, you had some magic you could use to repel it?”

“I tried that. It only pissed it off. That was when—it—it—” I took a deep breath and let it out as a sob.

Weathervane reached out with her forelegs and gave me a reassuring hug, rubbing circles into my back. “You don’t have to say it, Sergeant.”

I didn’t have any verbal response to that. I was trying to take deep breaths and steady myself.

“What happened after?” Weathervane said.

“The Dragoons showed up and saved our asses, as usual. They drove those bastards off and evacuated us. One of them died in the rescue attempt. That thing killed her right in front of me. Ripped her in half.”

“It—ripped—” Weathervane was shaking in fright.

“Oh, right. It’s not every day we get a visit from something that casually rips Dragoons and their exosuits in half, do we?”

“No, it isn’t.” Weathervane shook her head. “That’s not normal. You were a hair’s breadth from death if that thing had you in its clutches.”

“I know.”

“What happened when you got back to base?”

“I gave Ket a little tour. Captain Garrida got on my ass over the nuke. I completely lost it. Started screaming weird shit about being a killer. A predator.”

“Ah, there it is,” Weathervane said.

“There’s what?”

“Sergeant, based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like you have a severe case of ECAD.”

“ECAD? The fuck is that?”

“Equestrian Combat Anxiety Disorder. It’s a form of species-specific social anxiety. Happens when ponies are in battle for too long. They start developing the delusion, or irrational fear, that they have become a predator and no longer have any place in society.”

“How is that a delusion?” I frowned. “I mean, isn’t it true? We’re not like the other successful species out there in the galaxy. We aren’t hunter-gatherers. We simply aren’t meant to kill, unless there’s something wrong with us. It’s not natural. If we do kill, doesn’t that make us hunters, like our enemies?”

“When was the last time you ate meat?” Weathervane smirked.

“Well, to my knowledge, basically never.”

“See?” Weathervane held out a hoof. “Herbivores can and do kill in self-defense. It’s perfectly normal. You’re not a carnivore, or an omnivore. You have nothing to worry about. You do have a place in society. A very important one, in fact.”

“Oh, great.” I scratched the back of my head idly with my hoof. “Well, what else should I know about it?”

“ECAD is often secondary to—or even a direct cause of—post-traumatic stress disorder, general anxiety disorder, and major depression, and in your case, it seems like you also have all of the above, in spades. This is not unique. It’s actually very, very common, sad to say. There are several other ponies on this base who have it, too.”

I suddenly had an image pop into my head of a mare growling as she sawed a damarkind’s head clean off his shoulders and then cast it at his compatriots just to intimidate them.

Why do you think I like cuttin’ their fucking heads off so much?

“Like Corporal Shooting Star?” I said.

“I can’t comment on my other patients, so I will neither confirm nor deny that. You have eyes, Sergeant. I’m sure you’ve seen some strange things around here. They don’t call it Crazy Horse for nothing.”

“So, is that all this is?” I said. “I’m sick? Well, what do I do to get well?”

“None of these conditions can be cured. They can only be managed. I’m gonna put you on a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. Sertraline. A hundred milligrams, once a day. All it does is make sure you have more happy chemicals in your brain. Should sort these problems right out. Medication on its own isn’t very useful. You need cognitive behavioral therapy, as well. I know that if I give you a clean bill of health, then Captain Garrida is going to send you right back out into the fray, so you won’t always have access to me, and that’s a problem. I strongly suggest that you make regular visits to my office while you can.”

“You know, Garrida and the rest would be dead if it weren’t for what we did,” I said. “I feel like I’m being blamed for something that wasn’t even my fault. Bellwether ran the whole show and I just followed his lead, like I thought I was supposed to do. Sierra got hurt. I got hurt. And then, we come back, and we’re berated just for doing what was necessary. I’m sick of this shit.”

“That’s just how it is. The lower rungs see lots of things being done wrong that you can’t do or say anything about, except when you’re venting to a counselor. I can imagine how frustrating that must be.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m not used to this. Any of this. In the Army, there were procedures. There were rules. Almost everything seems to have been thrown out the window. Every rule that wasn’t tossed out is being applied inconsistently. It’s not fair. Even my own discipline has suffered greatly.”

“That’s a fairly popular sentiment around here, believe it or not. The thing is, this isn’t the military. We are not in the employ of any state. We are a rebel militia composed of a mixture of civilians and former military personnel. As such, we play it fast and loose with the rules. However, that does not extend to the careless use of WMDs. Bellwether should have known this. There are dire consequences for this sort of thing.”

“We did what we had to do,” I said. “Fuck, we got Salzaon’s own fucking daughter to defect to our side, at least. That has to count for something. I bet if he knew, he’d be shitting bricks.”

“If she went back to her own people, she’d be quarantined,” Weathervane said. “The standard protocol in the Confederacy is to assume that any defectors have been mind-controlled and to treat it as a medical issue. They lose all their rights and freedoms and are sectioned indefinitely. She has no negotiating power. She’s just another one of us, now. She’s not the only cleomanni to express an interest in helping the resistance, you know. I heard some of the Janissaries applied to join the ELF, about a year back. Never heard about how that went. The gang frowns heavily on supporters of loyalists on both sides. They’re not just Confederate deserters, you know. Many of them are ponies who think the Empire brought all this on ourselves, because we didn’t sue for peace hard enough.”

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“Well, that’s all the time we have for today. I need to see my next patient. Oh, and Sergeant?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For giving Shooting Star a good talking to. I don’t really care if they don’t like me, but my other patients don’t need to be reminded of their trauma on the way to my office. They were way out of line. They wouldn’t listen to reason. You straightened them right out. Congratulations.”

I smiled. “Just doing my job. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About the first time we met. I was a little hard on you, too.”

Weathervane grinned. “I have literally had a brawl with a patient in my office. Lamps and coffee mugs getting thrown around and stuff. That wasn’t anything. Anger is completely normal, especially when ponies have lived through the things you soldiers have. I’m just here to help you all manage a bit better.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Have a nice rest of your day, Weathervane.”

“You as well, Sergeant.”

When I stepped out into the hall, there was a long line of ponies waiting to get in to see the therapist. Gauze Patch was there, too. Dealing with the wounded coming in from Pur Sang couldn’t have been easy.

I made my way to the infirmary. I had a pony to see. One who’d just woken up and was extremely pissed off that she didn’t get to nap the rest of the year away.

// … // … // … // … // … //

Sierra thrashed on the bed like she was possessed. “You cunt-sucking cockmonger shitfuck cunt, cunt, cunt! Ow, my head! My fuckin’ head!”

“The hell’s wrong with her?” I said.

“Patient confidenti—”

I grabbed Argent’s collar. “I was there when I saw her crack her fuckin’ skull! You’re gonna tell me what the hell’s wrong with Sierra, dammit!”

I let go of Argent and she straightened the collar of her white coat. “Sergeant Sierra seems to have sustained some brain damage from her little accident,” Argent said. “After she awoke from her coma, it became immediately clear that she has some diminished faculties. Her motor control isn’t all there. She’s reported some very concerning numbness in her extremities. My diagnosis? Severe concussion secondary to skull fracture. Probably some frontal lobe damage, judging by her unrestrained manner and general aggression.”

“How bad is it, Doc?”

“We were able to control the swelling, but we don’t have the equipment or the training for the proper regenerative therapies to reverse brain damage. There’s only a small window of time before even those would have limited effectiveness. Once it starts to heal naturally, magic healing techniques aren’t as potent. It could be years, if ever, before she regains normal function. That means no piloting Chargers! Brain damage is cumulative. It could become chronic if she gets repeatedly concussed riding a mech.”

“Shit!” Sierra screamed. “Motherfucker! You can’t keep me outta the fuckin’ cockpit! I’ll fuck your mother! I’ll hoof your fuckin’ mother you santorum-suckin’ cockbite!”

That poor, writhing figure on the bed wasn’t the Sierra I knew. That was her alter ego speaking.

Sierra had gone into a deep, deep sleep.

Hissy Fit had awoken.

// … // … // … // … // … //

I stayed in the infirmary with my fellow Charger pilot for hours, watching over her as the drugs they gave her started to calm her down. We dimmed the lights, because she complained they were bothering her eyes.

“You doin’ better, Sierra?” I said.

“They gave me something for the headaches. I’m comfortably fuckin’ numb. This is a rare moment of luce—uhh—luci—um.”

“Lucidity?”

“Yeah. That.”

“How’re you feeling?”

Sierra smiled, giggling madly to herself. “I’m scared.”

I took hold of her hoof. Held it close. “Of what? Come on, Sier. You can tell ol’ Stormy anything.”

“Losing myself. I’m not afraid of death, Storm. Never have been. Before all this, I used to snowboard down dub—duh—dammit—double black diamond slopes. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I’ve broken damn near every single fucking bone in my body, and I still come back strong. It’s just, you know. Never hit my head so hard before.”

“You’ll be okay.” I smiled. “You’ll be back to your normal self in no time and cleared for Charger duty.”

Sierra shook her head. “I forgot my fucking name earlier, Storm. My fucking name. We all die someday. It’s just that some of us have the luxury of not dying while we’re still alive.”

My lip trembled. My eyes misted with tears. I reached down and embraced my comrade, my sister. Felt her shiver and shake. The way she moved was uncoordinated. It was hard to believe this was the same mare who managed to bullseye the cockpit of a helo with a thrown mortar.

“I know, Sier,” I said. “I know.”

“I don’t want this to be the rest of my life,” Sierra sobbed out. “I wanna win this. I wanna win this fucking shit and go home. I wanna go home, Storm!”

“We are home,” I said. “This is our home. This is Equestria. And we’re going to take it back, no matter what it takes, no matter what price must be paid.”

“But we have paid! We’ve paid a hundred times over, and nothing ever gets any better! I’m going to die in this hell. I’m going to die having accomplished fucking nothing. I’m staring into the eye of the black hole that used to be my life. All my buddies are gone. Sunny. Barrage and Barricade. Comet. All gone. There’s fucking nothing.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I elected to simply hold Sierra tightly in my legs as I gently rocked her back to sleep, my cheeks damp with tears, my heart filled with regret that there was nothing I could do for her.

Deep down, beneath the surface of my skin, I could feel them. All of them. Laughing. At me. At us. Our pain fed them. Our misery empowered them. Our joy, however fleeting, was their fine cuisine. They had done this to us. This nightmare in which we lived was all according to their design.

They had been doing it, unchallenged and undefeated, for millions and millions of years. The universe was nothing more and nothing less than their buffet table. There was no telling how many great civilizations had opposed them, nor how many had perished in the attempt. All there were, from the dawn of time until now, were fields of bleached bones, eroded monuments, and broken dreams. The Archons stood above it all. Unreachable. Invincible. Laughing and dining on us at their leisure.

“Sierra, I’m gonna show you something beautiful,” I said. She was already asleep and didn’t hear it. I tucked her in, kissed her bandaged forehead, and then gently nudged aside the door to the infirmary.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m gonna show you how to hunt, kill, clean and butcher a god.”

// … end transmission …

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