On any other day, Spitfire would have been relishing the wind stinging her muzzle. She’d have delighted in the way the world looked more precise and crisp behind her enhanced goggles. The flightsuit pressed snugly against her aerodynamic frame would fill her with pride, the perfect formation of her wingponies even more so. And no bliss short of orgasmic would compare to the air brushing through the feathers of her wings, every ripple and current making itself known through her honed experience.

But today was not like any other day. Today, she was a Wonderbolt on a mission. Today, there were no stunts to perform, no crowds to please and no races to win.

Today, the Wonderbolts were a military unit again. In the past, that role had included scouting, shock and awe attacks and operations requiring highly skilled specialists. On this particular mission, they were taking on the first of those duties.

Although Spitfire’s face was hard and confident, deep down she fretted. In all her years as a Wonderbolt, she’d only been required to go on military missions five times. Only two had occurred while she was a captain, and she’d failed both times. Why Celestia would trust her with a third, she couldn’t comprehend.

She would do this one right.

Her flight flew in a long, gradual arc around what could only be described as a wall of fog. It was so thick that she couldn’t see anything through it save the very tops of the tallest buildings of Manehattan. Now, after completing a circle around the island, she knew that this mysterious cloud covered the entire city.

But there was something unnatural about this fog. It didn’t move away from the city, didn’t respond to winds, and any attempt to touch it proved futile. Even if the clouds were natural – which they couldn’t be given the air conditions – it should be moving. All their efforts to work with it made them feel like a bunch of earth ponies.

With a hoof signal, Spitfire brought her team to a midair stop. They formed a line and surveyed the strange scene once more.

“Alright, ponies,” Spitfire said in her favorite ‘drill sergeant’ voice, “I want ideas. Anyone got a clue what we’re dealing with?”

Soarin flew a little ahead, neck stretched out as he took in the cloud. “Well, it’s magical.”

“No crap, Mareiarty.” Fast Clip raised her head as she surveyed the area. “I’ve got an aunt working at the magical academy in Manehattan, told me about all sorts of crazy stuff. Maybe it’s an experiment gone wrong?”

“But is it dangerous?” Fleetfoot asked.

Lightning Streak’s voice was low and ominous. “I think it’s some kind of attack. I didn’t see anypony leave the island. Did you, Captain?”

No, she most certainly did not. Spitfire crossed her forehooves as she considered the potential consequences of that revelation.

Fleetfoot spoke up. “If it was an attack, it’s not a very good one. Manehattan may be home to the second busiest port in Equestria, but the harbor is not on the island.” She gestured to a large area of warehouses just visible on the edge of the fog across the river. “You’d think an enemy would take that too.”

“It doesn’t matter if they take the harbor or not,” Lightning Streak countered. “If the city goes, the harbor’s next. It’s not like it would be hard.”

“I don’t buy it,” Soarin said, turning back to Spitfire. “Equestria’s foreign relations are all lukewarm at worst. There’s no nation or organization that would benefit from an attack, not with international relations as they are now.”

Fast Clip flew alongside him. “I agree. And if someone were attacking, where’s their army? We haven’t seen anypony leave, but we haven’t seen anypony go in, either. Are we supposed to believe that an entire invading force is crammed into Manehattan? There has to be something outside of that fog.”

“Not if they used a small, elite force,” Fleetfoot added. “Does anyone here doubt that a handful of powerful mages could pull something like this off? Manehattan doesn’t have a military presence. Heck, I bet somepony like Princess Twilight could do it single-hoofed.”

Soarin appeared dubious. “Nopony leaving? Blocking communications? A fog that pegasi can’t move? With all due respect, you’re going to find a hard time finding a mage of any race that could do something like this alone.”

Lightning Streak’s eyes narrowed. “Discord?”

Soarin cocked his head in consideration, then nodded. “Yeah, I bet he could.”

As her wingponies continued the debate, Spitfire weighed the situation. Celestia would need to be told about these events, but a report of ‘We have no idea what’s going on’ did not sit well with her. They needed more information, but to get it…

Jumping into the fight was always her first reaction. It usually didn’t work out so well, which is why she started asking her fellow Wonderbolts for input since the Tirek fiasco. Even so, she couldn’t see any way around going into the city proper. If there was any other way to get information…

She clapped her hooves once. The conversation died as every pony turned attentively to her.

“There’s no way around it, we need more information. I’m going to fly in there.” Spitfire set her commanding gaze on each of her wingponies in turn. “It’s entirely possible that some sort of magic is keeping ponies from leaving. If so, I won’t be coming out.”

Lightning Streak snickered. “This is the part where she tells us all to stay behind.”

Soarin was the first to raise his hoof, followed almost instantly by Fleetfoot. “We’re going with you, Captain.”

“Hey, don’t think you can leave us out,” Fast Clip declared, raising her hoof. Lightning Streak followed suit.

Spitfire couldn’t resist a smirk as she looked upon the four of them. “Have I ever told you guys how annoying you are?”

Fleetfoot grinned. “Every day on the training grounds, boss.”

“And at lunch,” Soarin admitted.

“If not lunch, then on the road between shows,” Fast Clip added.

Lightning Streak chuckled. “About five hundred times during my rounds at the Academy, and that’s only the ones I kept count of.”

With a groan that was only half-honest, Spitfire threw her hooves up high. “Alright, I get it! But I’m only bringing two of ya. Soarin, Fleetfoot, you called it. Fast, Lightning? Stay.”

Lightning’s legs went limp. Her groan was most certainly honest.

Fast Clip didn’t fold so easily. “Come on, Captain, we—”

“Stay.”

“But I—”

“Stay.”

“You can’t just—”

Spitfire thrust a hoof at her, leaning forward with eyebrows raised. “Stay.”

“You—”

Hoof thrust, raised eyebrows again.

“I only—”

Two hoof thrusts, eyebrows raised a third time.

At last Fast Clip sagged and nodded. “Fine.”

With a nod, Spitfire turned to the fog-enshrouded island. “Alright. Soarin, Fleetfoot, you’re with me. Fast, Lightning, if we aren’t out of there in an hour, I want you to go back to Canterlot and tell the princesses what we know. Under no circumstances are you to come in after us, are we clear?”

Lightning Streak saluted. “Yes ma’am.”

“Fast?”

Fast Clip grumbled her accent with a far less enthusiastic salute.

Knowing better than to press the issue, Spitfire began her approach. “Remember, one hour and do not go in there!”

The wind whipped into her as she increased speed. Fleetfoot and Soarin were visible out of the corners of her eyes. She was glad they volunteered; if there was some powerful threat inside that fog, she didn’t want to go after it alone.

The cloud loomed as they descended at a shallow angle. Even with her enhanced goggles, she could make nothing out through the wispy yellow substance. She tilted her head back, watching as the vast thing rose higher and higher above her.

“No dives,” she called over the wind. “If there’s something in the city, I want to get a peek at it before it has a chance to come after us.” She glanced at each of her wingponies for nods of confirmation. When she looked forward, the fog filled her vision. Gritting her teeth, she prepared for whatever might be on the other side. She would get this one right. Five seconds…

She’d expected wind or a chill. As she punched through the cloud at a medium speed, she felt neither. Worse, the moisture in the air felt off. Thick. ‘Greasy’ came to mind. It didn’t impede her flight in any way that she could detect, but that didn’t make her any more comfortable about it. She silently thanked her flightsuit for keeping most of her body dry.

She glanced to either side. Despite the thick haze, she could still easily make out her two wingponies. She gestured and they closed in, tightening the formation. Another hoof motion indicated that they should begin a slow descent. As they did, she began to slow their flight speed; they had no idea if the fog ran all the way to the streets below, and she had no intention of flying into the side of a building.

Seconds passed. Spitfire used her pegasus instincts to calculate elevation and suspected they were still far too high for the vast majority of the city. She tilted into a gradual turn, her wings making steady, quiet beats. A glance back revealed swirls in the thick air behind them. At least that looked normal.

Time seemed to stretch on forever. They continued their circling descent, Spitfire refusing to increase their angle. Two massive failures as Captain of the Wonderbolts had taught her the importance of caution. If something was down there, she wanted to see it before it sent some kind of attack her way.

Thoom.

Her ears perked. That sounded like thunder, but there was no flash of light. She glanced back at Fleetfoot, whose head swiveled about in search of the source of the sound. Looking to Soarin earned her a firm nod. He made a gesture, suggesting they level out. She nodded and they did so.

It might have been thunder, but it didn’t sound… right.

Thoom.

She gritted her teeth; that one was closer. It lacked the crackling reverberations of real thunder, and there was still the absence of light. Without checking for confirmation, she gestured the signal to prepare for a fight. Maybe she was being too cautious, but now was no time to—

Thoom!

The world went crazy. Up was green, her sense of elevation was panic, and her balance was splattered in all sorts of crazy tastes. Spitfire cried out as her body flailed, wings flapping without any sense of coordination. For the first time in her life, she had no idea how to fly. She didn’t even know what she was thinking.

Her heart seized up with horrible realization: she’d just been attacked. She’d felt the wind and energy blowing over her just before this chaos started, and now she was falling to her doom! She searched frantically for Fleetfoot and Soarin, but could see neither. Had they been hit as well?

The clouds passed. She was falling sideways beneath the ugly yellow miasma, twirling wildly in a manic stall. At last her sense of direction came back to her, and she looked up in a frantic search for her wingponies.

Just in time to see something long and round coming straight for her. Her pupils shrank and the world seemed to go in slow motion as she took the… creature in. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like an enormous black earthworm, with three long, thin pairs of protrusions along its body. She recognized them as the skeletal structure of wings, but with no feathers or membranes present to keep the thing aloft.

But aloft is what it was, coming at her at a startling speed. Its undulating body crackled with electrical energy as it moved directly for her face.

The world sped up. She still couldn’t control her wings. She couldn’t get away.

“Captain!”

Something hit her, and the ugly thing disappeared from view. Spitfire’s breath caught as a hideous cry suddenly turned into an unfamiliar sound. Choking, or… or perhaps gagging. Both.

Spitfire was spinning and flipping wildly. She tried to move; at last her wings obeyed, but her tumble was so frantic that even an experienced flier such as she had difficulty figuring out what to do.

Another hit, and a pair of legs wrapped around her barrel.

“I’ve got ya, Spitfire!”

Soarin. Thank Celestia! Spitfire let her wings go slack as he carried her through the skies, giving herself a moment to reorient and understand what had happened. After only a second, she spread her wings wide. Soarin took the hint and released, letting her fly on her own power. As he fell alongside her, she looked to discover that, through the blue mask, he was as pale as snow. Fear rising in her gut, she began searching the skies.

“Sh-she’s gone, Captain.”

Spitfire jerked to a stop, her eyes going wide. Keeping to a hover, she turned around and scanned the skies.

There was no sign of Fleetfoot. Or the worm.

Her voice croaked as he came back around to her. “W-what just happened?”

Soarin’s wide eyes were set upon the clouds, his hover erratic. “You were going down. Th-that thing went after you. Fleetfoot, sh-she… she knocked you away and it… Sweet Luna. Spitfire, it went into her mouth! And w-went out the… the…” His ashen cheeks turned green. “There’s no way anypony could have survived that.”

Her heart pounding, Spitifre stared at her wingpony. She struggled to grasp the idea that one of her Wonderbolts – one of her friends had just died. Her brain resisted the idea, scrambling to erect denials and insults at Soarin’s story.

But the look on his face…

“Ponyfeathers, we have incoming!”

She looked up to see one of those black worms slithering through the skies like a snake in water, its bony protrusions moving in a way that reminded her distinctly of actual wingbeats. Another appeared, and another, and a fourth. Soon more than a dozen of the things were making their zigzagging way to the two pegasi.

But what really had Spitfire’s attention was the bodies. Pegasi, and a griffon or two, were wrapped around the worms’ long forms, which ran through their mouths and out from their nethers. It was like looking at a living necklace, only with corpses for jewelry. The sight threatened to break Spitfire’s fragile grip on self control.

One of those bodies wore a blue flightsuit. Was it the slithering motions of the worm, or were her legs kicking feebly?

“C-Captain—”

“Dive!” Spitfire tucked her wings and rolled, falling face-first to the earth. She ground her teeth even as she released smoke in her wake, hoping it would confuse the creatures.

Fleetfoot was dead, and those monsters were blocking their escape. Celestia – Equestria needed to be warned. Spitfire knew that she and Soarin might be able to kill one of those things, but there were far too many for that now. Her only thought was getting away, of finding a path through the cloud in order to get the word out before somepony else thought to investigate.

Her duty in mind, Spitfire shoved the first death under her command aside and focused on her task. The city of Manehattan stood below, but it wasn’t the city she knew. Beneath the all-encompassing cloud, the city looked old, decrepit and frail. She could see ponies and… things… scattered throughout the streets. And a sound brushed her ears, hard to make out against the wind and her pounding heartbeat.

“Captain, they’re turning back!”

She slowed, circled around and stopped, her gaze going high. Sure enough, the worm things were rising back into the clouds. She breathed a sigh of relief… then caught the noise from below.

Screams. The entire city of Manehattan was shrieking, the sound unlike anything she had ever heard before. Her gaze lowered, and with her keen, goggle-enhanced vision she could make out monsters. There could be no better word for them. They chased, crawled, rolled and leapt after the hapless citizens. Even from this height, she could see the panic and the terror and the blood.

“What in the name of all things holy…”

Soarin appeared at her side. His face had yet to regain its color. “Spitfire, w-we have to do something.”

She worked her jaw, trying to give herself time to take in the horrific scene. Everywhere she looked, something hideous and brutal was happening. She wanted to save that colt, fly for that pegasus, rescue that group of old mares… “Th-there’s too many. We can’t help everypony. Soarin, I d-don’t know.”

He shook her by the shoulders. “Captain, come on! We have to—”

She’d been forced to look at him. Her eyes had fallen past his shoulder. It’s the only reason she saw it.

“Look out!” She grabbed his legs and rolled right, corkscrewing around just as the creature flew by with a call like a sick eagle, its voice wet and frail. They flew back as the thing began to turn in a long, slow circle for them. For the third time in only five minutes, Spitfire was rendered dumb.

From a distance, it looked like a giant, purple eagle. But its ‘body’ was actually a gas that rippled and shifted in the wind, making up ethereal wings, tail and breast. Hidden within that vaporous form was a backbone, ribs and talons.

And a skull, but not a skull like any she had seen before. Was it a pony? A griffon? A bird? No, it seemed more like a terrible coagulation or melding of the three, with a long, crooked beak and large, round, empty eye sockets. The thing gave another sickly cry as it leveled out and came for them, purple fumes swirling in its wake.

Soarin let out a curse the likes of which Spitfire had never heard from his lips. “Hundred bits says the gas is poisonous.”

“The buildings!” She grabbed his leg for just long enough to get him moving. “Maybe we can lose it if we fly low and fast.”

They dove once more, quickly finding themselves among the ugly skyscrapers of Manehattan. The eagle-gas-bone thing let out a hoarse cry and pursued, its turn slow and ponderous. As they turned a corner between two buildings, Spitfire had the opportunity to note that her imagination hadn’t been playing tricks on her; the structures really did look dilapidated. Crumbling walls, rusted iron and broken glass surrounded them on all sides. It was like nopony had lived in the city for years.

The ongoing screams below viscerally defied that concept. It took all her willpower not to look down.

“It’s following,” Soarin shouted, “but it’s staying above the buildings. I think you’re right, we can lose it!”

“Good!” Spitfire led him around another corner, swooping a little lower. She spotted the brand new Crystal Building. Of all the structures in the city, it alone appeared unblemished, a lone bastion amongst the withering plague all around it. The sight gave Spitfire hope. Maybe they could use it for—

She heard the scream from above too late. Long, thin fingers latched onto her shoulders, jerking her into a sudden freefall. With a startled cry, she flapped and kicked and twisted in the monster’s clutches. Looking over her shoulder revealed an ugly, bulbous mass of flesh in the shape of a teardrop. The monster had grabbed her with two long, spindly, double-jointed arms.

It had no wings.

Knowing she had only seconds, she bucked at the thin arms grasping her shoulders. The creature wailed with each strike, but its grip seemed to only tighten. Fear and desperation brought a fire into Spitfire’s fight, and she struck with everything she had. The hard ground zoomed up to meet her—

Shing.

Blue filled her vision for the briefest of instants, a sharp slicing sound striking against her ears. Though the arms maintained their grip, Spitfire felt herself break loose. Realizing the arms had been sliced off the monster entirely, she beat her wings and struggled for air.

Her honed pegasus instincts kicked in the moment she realized that she was too close to the ground to save herself by climbing. Her vision scanned the immediate area, taking in every horrible sight, all the blood and every fleeing pony. In half a second, she spotted the runaway carriage. In the next half-second, she shifted her wings to take her into a barrel roll. Asphalt filled her vision, her hoof reached out.

Prayers to Celestia made the rounds in her head as her hoof caught the railing of the carriage. The jerk sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder, but it also redirected her momentum. Pain she could tolerate. Being a smear on the pavement, she could not.

Fighting against the fire in her leg and grateful that it hadn’t been disjointed, she climbed her way to the top of the rampaging wagon. Now if she could just calm the driver down…

Her heart hit her throat as she at last stood up, her eyes set upon the fleshy substance on which she stood. She looked up to find a long rod of bone protruding from the front of the round structure. And on that rod was the torso of a pony, its flesh bonded to the rod. Long chains held the torso over the road, and it bounced as they ran over a pothole. The head, covered in grotesque tumors, turned back to gnash its teeth at her, a lone red eye glaring as its forelegs flailed.

Spitfire could only stand there and take slow, heavy breaths. She rocked as the carriage made a high speed turn, her wings fanning out instinctively to keep her from falling. She couldn’t stop staring at the monstrosity before her.

“By Luna’s little stars!”

Suddenly, the long hands still grasping her shoulders jerked back, pulling her off the carriage. She let out a cry and flapped, trying to stay off the asphalt as something waved her through the air like a ragdoll. Her body spun backwards and a long, pink appendage, like a great tongue, waved about her. She looked back and screamed; two more of the tentacles were wrapped tightly around the detached arms behind her. All three of the slimy things were coming from a gaping maw at the back of the carriage monster, its mouth spread out as three long flaps of teeth-encrusted skin.

Like a tatzlwyrm.

She kicked and screamed, grasping at the long, dead fingers on her shoulders. A moment later she was thrust down, her back impacting heavily against the asphalt. She rose and fell, this time dragged along the ground for what had to have been dozens of feet. Grit and gravel cut into the flesh of her back. Tucking her wings to keep them as safe as possible, she resorted to using her teeth to pull on the fingers of her left shoulder even as she tugged on the other with her hooves.

Up she went, and back down with a smack. Pain whipped across her body, but she didn’t stop fighting. The third tentacle rubbed against her exposed belly, leaving a trail of slime. The streets flew by in a blur as she was dragged ever farther. She bit so hard into the fingers she could taste blood.

Then, as if reacting to the pain, the hands finally released. Spitfire rolled and bounced along the street, grunting with every impact and fighting against her instincts to keep her wings folded tight to her sides.

At last she came to a sliding stop on her barrel. Her entire body ached, her blood pounded in her skull, her vision blurred.

The screams of the city hasn’t ceased.

Spitfire knew she was in danger. She’d seen enough already to know that being on the street in her condition was suicide. Slowly, her legs shaking with effort, she picked herself off the asphalt. Not daring to take the time to assess the damage or her surroundings, she opened her wings and launched, ascending gradually. Every beat of her wings sent a new jolt of pain down her back, but it was mild compared to what she’d just been through.

She flew high enough to reach the top of the nearest building. A quick survey revealed that it was devoid of threats. The moment her hooves touched the ground, she collapsed in a heap of pain and weariness. Her exhaustion was beyond her comprehension. Though she’d only been in Manehattan for a matter of minutes, she felt as if she’d been through a week of basic training.

But this went beyond physical strain. She closed her eyes tightly shut as she thought of Fleetfoot. She’d joined the Academy the year after Spitfire. They’d caught on so quickly, because that was how Fleetfoot did everything. She was such an impatient pony back then. A few years as a Wonderbolt had turned that bumbling eagerness into effective decisiveness.

The same decisiveness that probably made her save Spitfire’s life… and lose her own.

If she was dead. The memory of her little motions on that monster made Spitfire shudder. What if she was still alive, wreathing in agony somewhere in that nasty cloud cover? And they’d ran away, leaving her to that fate.

Spitfire knew it had been the right decision, the only decision.

She still felt like a coward.

Cowardice or no, she was also still the captain of the Wonderbolts. She had a duty, which she couldn’t tend to while wallowing in her failure. Manehattan had gone to Tartarus in ways she’d never imagined. The princesses needed to be told. Whatever was happening here, it was far bigger than one pony, even if that pony was a dear friend.

And she couldn’t fail Celestia again.

The hide along her back burned, but it was a dull pain compared to what it had been. She took a moment to stretch and test out her body, checking for any serious injuries. She could say with certainty that no one job had ever hurt quite so much, but at least the wounds amounted to little more than a few gashes and bruises. Not bad for having been dragged through a city street by the shoulders.

Something appeared out of the corner of her eye. She turned to it, only to jump back with an alarmed cry. It took her a moment to realize that there was no threat before her… probably.

It was a marble statue. It hadn’t been there before, but then again, she hadn’t been firing on all cylinders when she first scanned the roof. The bottom half of the statue was a plinth, the top a shoulders-up bust image of none other than Discord. The pale image of the draconequus stared at her with a pronounced frown and heavy, lidded eyes. He appeared… tired. Bored. Maybe even a little anxious.

Spitfire took a step closer, one leg raised in apprehension. The detail on the statue was remarkable, from the wrinkles produced by his frown to the sharp appearance of that lone fang dangling from his upper lip. Knowing a good deal about his abilities, Spitfire couldn’t help but wonder if the statue wasn’t, in fact, the arbiter of chaos himself in disguise.

But if it was meant to be a joke, it was a poor one, and not in Discord’s tastes. After all, the statue wasn’t doing anything, and she had a hard time believing that he was physically capable of standing still for longer than five seconds.

She pulled away from the statue, but didn’t turn away. She couldn’t help but think that the thing really was Discord. Even when she took her eyes off it, the disturbing sensation that it was watching her wouldn’t go away.

All she could do was push the thought to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to solve this puzzle. Soarin was still out there somewhere and she still had a job to finish. The screams were dying down, but the fact provided no comfort. Rather, it only enhanced her sense of urgency. Ponies were dying. She had to act.

She scanned her surroundings, taking in the sight of numerous flying monsters of different types. They were all far off and apparently not interested in her. A flash of purple caught her eye, and upon following she found the eagle thing. To her alarm, it was still pursuing Soarin, his blue form a mere speck in the distance as he weaved around the buildings.

She took a moment to analyze the situation from a distance, her aching wings opened wide in preparation. It was clear that the thing couldn’t keep up with Soarin in any way, but it was also doggedly persistent. He couldn’t fly too high without coming under attack from the worm-things, and if he flew too low the monsters below would swarm him. Thus was he stuck weaving around buildings and playing a game of “keep away,” pausing occasionally to rest.

But he could never rest long before the vaporous eagle would be upon him again, and his breaks were growing more frequent. Every now and again, he would turn on the creature and attack, but he never seemed to do any damage.

Spitfire had seen enough; she launched and released smoke, flying directly towards the combatants. Dull pain throbbed down her back, but the only thing on her mind was the need for haste.

Soarin, hovering in midair and visibly weary, noted her approach and came at her, the creature hot on his tail. The ponies arched to Spitfire’s left, coming alongside one another. She wasn’t surprised to see him breathing heavily and struggling to keep up. His suit had a number of light scratches in it, but they looked shallow. Most had already stopped bleeding.

“Captain, am I glad to see you!” He offered a weak salute. “I thought you bit it back there.”

“Almost, but not quite.” She glanced back at the gaseous monster behind them, its hideous skull of a head seemingly turned directly at Soarin. “I think she likes you.”

“Tell me about it!” He took a few sharp breaths as they sped through a few turns. If it weren’t for the cloud walls surrounding the entire city and a fear of the giant fog worms, they might have just kept going in one direction. “I’ve tried everything I can think of. It’s determined!”

“You think of anything we can do to stop it?” She cast another look back; the monster had lost a lot of ground thanks to their turn. They came to a sharp stop.

“Y-yeah.” He paused to catch his breath. “That thing has a heart. A big one. If we can hit that… b-but it’s claws are fast. I couldn’t get through.”

Spitfire turned to watch the approaching monster, peering at the things massive set of ribs. “I don’t see it.”

“Trust me, it’s there,” he hissed, one hoof clutching his chest. “You have to fly real close to identify it. Also, watch out for the gas. I don’t think it’s poisonous, but you can’t breathe in it at all.”

The fog eagle was getting close. It let out another of those ghastly, sick calls, its toothy jaw opening wide and more purple vapors billowing from somewhere within. Spitfire only needed a second or two to come up with a plan.

She pressed a hoof to Soarin’s shoulder. “It likes you. Distract it. Keep its eyes up.”

He was off before she finished talking. “Got it!”

Sure enough, the monster averted its flight to chase after Soarin. Spitfire flew low and moved to get beneath and ahead of the monster. She paid as much attention to her altitude as she did to the beast, not wanting to catch the attention of any of the creatures below. She gestured her intentions to Soarin, and he promptly turned for the edge of the city.

Spitfire waited and watched, hovering at as low an altitude as felt safe. Soarin kept his flight slow enough for the monster to keep up, but not gain ground, and turned in a slow circle. Soon he was heading for her, swooping low as the eagle maneuvered to follow. Spitfire braced; it was going to pass right over her.

She took one last look around. No sign of any other attackers. When she looked forward, Soarin was climbing fast. The monster struggled to keep up, angling back and craning its head to follow his flight path.

Wings beating, Spitfire darted forward with all the speed she could muster. She aimed right for the gaseous chest of the monster, and in no time she was on it!

There it was, the heart. She spotted it a second before impact, a massive purple thing that thumped and throbbed within the creature’s ugly ribs. She tried to offer a battle cry, only to be choked by the fumes that poured from the beast. Her surprise almost made her lose focus as she slammed into the bones with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs.

Her hoof reached through the ribcage at the same time, sinking deep into the monster’s heart.

The beast gave out a choking, feeble cry. She could feel it falling, twisting in the sky. She knew she had to get away, but her lungs failed her and the momentum of the fall had her pinned. Her legs shook as she struggled to push away from the ribcage that now threatened to crush her against the hard city streets below.

Another gasp, a desperate push. Her chest burned, her heart pounded. She tried not to think about her uncontrolled descent, or the thought of what the weight of this thing’s skeleton would do to her small body. Her focus went to the fight, the sheer effort of trying to drag herself out by crawling along the bones. Her body fought her every motion.

She knew she’d never make it. If only she could breathe!

Something wrapped around her, grabbing hold just under her shoulders. Another monster! Desperation and fighting instincts kicked in, prompting her to thrash and beat her wings against the assailant. Before she knew what was happening, she was jerked away from the corpse of the fog eagle and sailing through the air, held aloft by whatever had hold of her. Gravel and broken up asphalt passed in a blur near her face amidst the sound of a deafening crunch, making it clear just how close she’d come to being roadkill.

As her lungs sucked in fresh air, a voice rang in her ears. “I’ve got you, Captain!”

Soarin. Not a monster, but Soarin! Her attempt to thank him was overruled by her desperate need to for more air.

He set her down on one of the building roofs and let her lean on him. Even as she took in long, heavy gasps, she found herself scanning the area for threats. Whatever was happening to Manehattan, it left her with little room to trust in relaxation.

Soarin bumped his cheek to hers, a quick motion to catch her attention. His brow furrowed as he examined her. “You look pretty beat up, and that was a close call. We’re—” He closed his eyes, going stock still. After a moment he swallowed and sucked down a deep breath. “And we’re down a pony. Captain, I’m starting to think we should abort.”

If only he knew how eager she was to agree with him. After all, this was meant to be a reconnaissance mission, and that aspect had been completed well beyond the measure of their orders. If only she could say “yes” and be done with it.

But she couldn’t, not yet. Though the screams that reverberated throughout the city had died down, they were still there. Then there was that great dome of yellow miasma surrounding the place; who knew what terrors existed within that fog? The flying worms were just the threats they knew about.

Another long, slow look at the city. Her eye caught movement in the corner of the roof. She focused on it, saw something small. It was stationary, but it still shifted. A monster?

Soarin spotted it. He tried to pull back, but Spitfire instead moved forward.

“Captain?”

She had to see it. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was her need to know as much about her surroundings as she could. Whatever her reasons, she hobbled toward the squirming object. “Fight or flight.”

Soarin’s tone came out dry. “It’s a little late for the old ‘prepare for battle’ order, don’t you think?” His hoofsteps followed behind, a direct violation of her command; ‘Fight or flight’ told squadron members to keep their distance, watch and wait. She made no attempt to correct him. The idea of facing anything in this foul place alone didn’t sit well with her.

At last, Spitfire was close enough to get a good look at the thing, and when she did she took a startled step back.

It was a monster, but not like the others. It was… a drake? But if so, it could only be an infant. It had thick scales that appeared black, but had a faint violet sheen to them if looked at from the right angles. It lay on its back, squirming and hissing and growling. Its behavior wasn’t what had her so fearful, however.

An iron mask wrapped around its head, with no holes for the eyes. Its short muzzle was barely visible through a breather held firm by thick metal bars, but she could see its bared, gritted fangs within. Its arms were held over and behind its head by chains and wraps, but most prominent were the twin ball-and-chains shackled to its wrists. The balls – white and smooth, but cracked in several places – were as big as the creature itself.

The bindings didn’t end there. Its wings, undersized perhaps due to age, were held closed around its barrel by rings set on the metacarpals, running right through the thin leather membranes and connected to one ball-and-chain apiece. A set of chains and wraps not unlike what held the arms completed the binding. Another ball-and-chain held its tail similarly taught, piercing into the appendage roughly a fourth of the distance from the tip by what looked like a thick, rusted screw. One last orb lay by the little thing’s side, connected to it via a chain seemingly welded to its chest.

“Sweet Celestia,” Soarin whispered. “Who would do something like this? To an infant?”

Spitfire swallowed her uncertainty down and bent over the pathetic creature. It growled and jerked its head at her, but otherwise offered no threat. Even so, she felt threatened. This thing might be an infant, but she had the distinct impression that it was little more than another monster, just like any other. Even so, she reached down to touch one of those rusty chains. It was rough against her hoof.

“Spitfire.”

She turned to see Soarin staring at one of the white balls. It looked like unpolished marble. She saw his wide eyes and stepped closer; he pressed his hooves to the object and struggled to shift it her way. It didn’t so much as budge. After a few seconds of grunting and cursing, he relented and stepped back, giving her room to view what he had seen.

Her jaw dropped upon seeing an etching on the surface of the stone. The etching consisted of three balloons.

“Is that what I think it is?” Soarin asked hesitantly.

Spitfire closed her eyes, opened them, looked again. “Y-yeah, that’s the cutie mark of… I can’t remember her name. But she was the Bearer of Laughter before the elements were sent back to the Tree of Harmony.”

The two shared a confused look, then hurried to examine all six of the ball-and-chains holding the wretched creature down. Sure enough, they found what Spitfire had anticipated. “They’re the Elements of Harmony,” she muttered, stepping back to gawk at the site. “Or at least, they’re what the Elements used to look like before Nightmare Moon came back.”

She took a moment to examine the positioning: Honestly and Loyalty held the arms in place, Generosity and Laughter held the wings, Kindness pinned the tail and Magic was connected to its chest.

Soarin took a few steps back. “That’s creepy.”

Spitfire wanted to turn away, but not yet. She touched the cracked, rough surface of the Orb of Kindness and felt a distinct, unfathomable revulsion.

With it came a new understanding. This thing was helpless, but she could feel its malice. Hatred and anger and ferocity radiated from it. Now that she really examined the situation, menace seemed to be the only thing left in Manehattan. This monster, the carriage thing, the eagle creature they'd killed, the worms, even the very clouds seeped violence and animosity.

And she had wanted to leave.

She retreated, not wanting anything to do with the wriggling, growling creature. “I think we should keep well away, and nopony better even think of freeing it.”

They turned away, quickly making for the opposite corner of the roof. Spitfire’s focus returned to the task at hand, even though the vile aura radiating from the bound creature still lingered in her mind. A lesser pony might have considered killing it outright, despite its apparent helplessness. “Alright, breaktime’s over.”

Soarin’s ears folded as he studied her. “You’re not planning on staying… are you?”

She leveled him with a hard frown. “We can’t abort, Soarin.”

With a groan, he thrust his hoof to the side, pointing at the vast overcast. “We lost Fleetfoot! The princesses need to be told what’s going on here. We’ve completed our mission, Captain!”

With a growl, she raised her hoof to her perked ear. “Listen.”

They did, taking in the screams that still echoed up and down the streets. Soarin’s face paled through his mask.

“There are still civilians out there in need of our help. The very first part of the Wonderbolts’ oath is to protect. Our first priority needs to be the rescue of as many ponies as we can get to.”

Soarin wilted, his head going so low it nearly touched the ground. With a sigh, Spitfire stepped closer and bumped his shoulder with her own. “Don’t worry. Streak and Clip are out there. They’re good soldiers. They’ll follow their orders and head for Canterlot to spread the warning. If we try to leave now, we’ll be abandoning the citizens of this city to… whatever the hay this is.”

He nodded glumly. “You’re right, of course. But Spitfire, you look like you went five rounds with a minotaur – losing rounds – and we don’t know how strong the enemy is. We’re no good to anypony dead.”

The image of Fleetfoot hanging on one of those worms thrust itself to the fore of Spitfire’s mind, eliciting a shudder. It took effort not to stutter. “We’ll just have to be cautious. But we can’t stand around arguing about it, ponies need our help now. Starting with—”

“That!” Soarin leapt into the air and dove. In less than a second, Spitfire was in the air. Thinking that he’d been avoiding an attack, her first act was to look around for potential threats. She could see none nearby or interested in her. In the next second, she’d turned her attention to his flight path. She was just in time to see him deliver a passing blow to what had to be the ugliest creature she’d yet to see.

It had the body of an unusually long pony, its skin a patchwork of flesh sewn taught about its musculature. It’s legs were as a centipede’s, its short arms were made of cotton threads, its claws of blades akin to scissors. In its grasp was the ugly remains of a pony whose skin had been partially stripped off by the monster with long, wicked blades coming from somewhere underneath its reared frame. The mare’s body jerked in spasms thanks partially to the blades puncturing her throat.

The monster was sewing her removed skin to its own flesh.

At Soarin’s hit, the creature rocked sideways and flailed its arms, the poor mare flying silently through the air to crash against the nearest wall. It turned to face its attacker, but Soarin had moved well out of reach of its short arms. The longer blades retracted inside of it as it fell to its barrel, just in time for Spitfire to deliver a hit to the back of its head. It offered no sounds of pain.

Spitfire’s heart leapt into her throat; she’d gotten a glance into the alley the monster had been standing near. As she banked and began circling, she called out to Soarin. “Civilian, in the alley, possibly injured!”

Without a word, Soarin swept down for the monster. At last recovering from the first two hits, it turned to him and reared back. He performed a tight barrel roll just as the thing’s slicing appendages burst from a pocket in its belly, missing him by what had to have been inches. His maneuver timed perfectly, Soarin disappeared from sight into the alley.

The monster saw Spitfire’s approach at the last moment and lashed out. She dodged, grunting as one of the blades nicked her flank. Once out of range, she glanced back to see the tiny cut through her suit. Not worth worrying about. She shifted her wings and turned back, focused on keeping the thing’s attention on herself. Another pass, another near-miss.

She began analyzing the situation. The small arms were slow and lacked range, but those big blades easily made up for both. The monster could only use the fast, long-range blades while reared up, and its mobility was hampered a lot in that stance.

She tried approaching the monster from the side and was rewarded with a cut on the cheek. A strap snapped and her goggles flew off, a chilling reminder of how close she’d come to losing her head entirely.

Soarin appeared at her side. “Civilian is safe,” he barked.

She nodded as they flew another circle. The monster, apparently not too bright, followed them into the middle of the street. “Those blades can reach you from the front and both sides. We need to hit it from the rear.”

“It’s hurting itself,” he shouted back. To her confused look, he tapped his cheek. Realizing he was indicating her own wound, she followed his gesture and saw, to her surprise, that the taught skin of the monster’s cheek bore the same wound.

Spitfire considered the revelation. It was hardly proof of what he was suggesting, but if it was true?

She shook her head. “We can’t kill it by letting it hurt us, that’s crazy. Double-team it; one distracts, the other attacks. Alternate, keep it on its toes.”

Soarin grunted and broke formation. “Sonic wings?”

“Sonic wings!”

Spitfire made the first move, flying at the monster’s side as Soarin lined himself up for a pass. She changed course just before getting within range, and the blades swung uselessly in the air. She climbed, not bothering to glance back when the metallic shing filled the air. With a quick Immelmare turn, she was back in the action. The monster had turned to focus on a retreating Soarin, one of its long blades lying useless and bleeding in the street.

She focused on her innate pegasus magic, channeling it into her right wing. Heat began to build in it as she honed in on a target. Blades were erratically whipping around the creature’s head, so she aimed lower. By now there was an intense pressure on her wing, and she had no doubt it was covered in an orange, fiery glow of energy. She came at the monster from the side, hoping its attention on Soarin would keep the blades away.

Just as she reached it, she twisted her body so that her wings were vertical and held them stiff. With a loud shing, the energy about her wing sheared through flesh.

She screamed as one of the short arms whipped out in reaction to the attack, stabbing into her side. Her momentum was too much to get the blade out properly, and it ripped right out of her barrel as she flew past. A pain like fire tore through her and just the act of flapping her wings brought tears to her eyes.

“Captain!”

“Finish it, Soarin!”

She came to a hover, one leg pressed to her side as she surveyed the results of her work. The monster now sported a long, deep gash along its backside, and seemed incapable of rearing up again. With only its two short arms to defend itself, Soarin was already making short work of it. She’d never asked him to kill anything before, and this would be the second life they’d been forced to take in under an hour, but he didn’t hesitate for a second.

As he worked to deal with the thing, she took a look at her throbbing side. It bled profusely, but the wound wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The blade had pierced only the very edge of her body, well outside of any vital areas and below the ribcage. It looked ugly, and she would absolutely need stitches, but it wouldn’t kill her.

But she would want bandages, and soon.

A scream filled the air. Though her side burned in protest, Spitfire spun for the source, which she noted was not the monster they currently faced. She cursed as one of those demonic wagons raced by the nearest intersection, a brown teenager clutched in its tentacles. Reacting on instinct, she flew for the creature, already charging her sonic wing.

It took a lot of maneuvering to get lined up properly. The poor filly bounced against the ground several times, Spitfire’s heart jumping with every visible impact. The filly shrieked and pleaded, kicking wildly against the lone tentacle that held her by a hind leg. At last, Spitfire was in position and able to swoop in, intercepting just behind the creature and slicing her wing across all three tentacles right where they left the gaping maw at its back.

Spitfire ascended, panting and clutching at her side. She turned in time to see Soarin swoop down to lift the teenager off the streets. He gestured, and Spitfire followed. A few seconds later, she landed on the same ceiling they’d been on a moment ago. Soarin deposited the weeping teen beside the cream-colored mare they’d just saved, who still lay on her side. He went straight to Spitfire, concern lining his expression.

“I’m okay,” she said before he could get a word in.

“You sure as buck don’t look okay!”

She tried to keep him away with a raised hoof, but he pushed it back with surprising ease and inspected her wound. “Sweet Celestia, Spitfire, that is not okay. We need to bind it. You shouldn’t have gone chasing after that filly in this condition.”

“She needed help,” she countered through gritted teeth. “What was I supposed to do, ignore her?”

“You could have called on me to do it!” He pushed down on her rump, forcing her to sit. “We need to bandage this right away.”

“Here, use th-this.”

They both jumped at the new voice. Turning as one, they found the red-maned filly offering them a piece of white cloth. Spitfire glanced over her shoulder, confirming that she’d ripped the material directly from the white mare’s clothes. Though the teen’s cheeks shone with fresh tears, her expression was firm and determined.

“Good. That’s good.” Soarin took the fabric and began to wrap it around Spitfire’s barrel. “Can you get me one more? I think that’ll be enough to do the job for now.”

The filly nodded and hurried back to the silent, wide-eyed mare.

Watching as she worked, Spitfire leaned towards Soarin. “The monster?”

“I took its head off.”

She sucked in a long, slow breath, wincing at the pain the act produced. “You okay?”

“Says the mare whose flightsuit is covered in blood.”

“You know what I meant,” she hissed.

His hooves slowed, but only for a moment. “I’m okay. Those things we killed? They had it coming.”

“True.” She raised her head as the filly came running back. She was an earth pony, just like the mare whose clothes were being repurposed. A heavy build, just like most earth ponies, with a score of freckles on her cheeks. If Spitfire had to guess, she’s say the filly was almost at that point where she couldn’t be referred to as such much longer. Fifteen, maybe sixteen?

“H-here.” She offered a fresh strip of cloth to Soarin, who took it quickly, then looked to Spitfire. “Will you be alright?”

Spitfire chuckled, only to hiss in pain. “Don’t worry, kid, it’ll take a lot more than this to take me out of the game.”

“Permanently,” Soarin corrected, his eyes on his work. “Temporarily, I’d say you are most definitely out of the game.”

She grimaced. "Have I ever told you how annoying you are?" Despite said annoyance, there could be no denying that the best course for her now was to hold off, even if that wasn’t a step she could take. The screams were still carrying over the rooftops.

Spitfire pushed the thought aside for now and focused on the not-quite-mare they’d saved. “Nice thinking with the clothes, kid. What’s your name?”

The filly’s determination returned. “Babs. Babs Seed. I saw you fly in from the park and followed. Figured there’s no place safer than with Wonderbolts, right?” She looked around, lips pursed. “I saw three of you.”

Soarin’s hooves stopped working. Spitfire tensed, her eyes going to the clouds.

“There’s only two of us now,” Soarin whispered before tying a knot on the wrapping, making sure it was tight around Spitfire’s waist. “Captain, we need to figure out what’s next, and don’t you dare say we need to keep looking for civilians.”

She considered the question, noting how he was watching her with a critical eye. She tested her wing, gritting her teeth with the pain. Her eye turned to Babs, who stared at the ground with wide eyes and tiny pupils. Apparently the idea that a Wonderbolt could die had never occurred to her. She couldn’t blame the filly; they hadn’t considered the possibility, either.

As much as she wanted to help, she had to acknowledge Soarin’s point. She wouldn’t be much help at all in her condition, and she couldn’t ask Soarin to go out there without proper backup. Gradually, taking the movement in small steps, she lay on her barrel, noting Soarin’s long sigh once she was all the way down.

“We’ll rest here for a moment. Check on that other civilian.”

He nodded, relief plain on his features. “Alright. You made the right call, Spitfire.”

That endless sense of danger strongly suggested otherwise, but she merely waved him off. As he went to check on the other pony, she turned her attention back to Babs. “I take it you live around here?”

Babs jerked from her stupor, blinking at Spitfire several times. The question had to be repeated. “I’m from Manehattan, if that’s what you mean.”

Spitfire nodded. “I think we should head for a hospital.”

The reply came quick and easy. “Manehattan Memorial, should be north of here. My mother works there as a nurse.”

Ah, that might explain how she so quickly came up with an idea for the makeshift bandage. “Can you guide us to it?”

Babs nodded, confidence ringing in her voice. “I can.”

“Good, then that’s our next stop.”

Babs considered her with a grim frown. “If we can get there safely, and if the place isn’t already overrun with freaks. But at least we can get you healed up, right?”

“Right.” Spitfire didn’t bother to mention that she hoped to make the hospital into a defensive position and base camp for future rescue operations. One step at a time.

Hoofsteps caught their attention. They turned as Soarin approached, the cream-colored mare leaning against him and trembling like a leaf. Her soft face shined with moisture and she looked about ready to collapse once more, but she still managed to look Spitfire in the eye.

Soarin gave her a brief nuzzle for encouragement before looking to Spitfire. “Her name’s Coco. She’s pretty shaken up, Captain, but otherwise okay.”

Coco opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed. “W-w-why is… is this happening?”

Spitfire wished she could offer a strong answer. She forced her shoulders up and kept her chin high, but inside she felt her stomach twisting. “I don’t know, but the princesses will be on the case soon.”

She offered the best smile she could under the circumstances.

“I’m sure they’ll have this all sorted out in no time.”

Author's Notes:

From my observations, survival horror games can be separated into two broad types: 'everyman' and 'military.' Silent Hill involves the 'everyman,' which is my favorite type of horror. Basically, your characters are either unskilled, underarmed, physically weak, or in some other way fairly defenseless. This accentuates the horror to me; being unable to defend yourself is a good motivation for terror.

This chapter is aimed to be akin to the 'military' type of horror, in which your character is a well-armed, highly trained powerhouse but faces tons and tons of enemies. The more recent Resident Evils or Left for Dead are good examples. I don't like these as much – they just aren't as scary – but I still felt the desire to put down a chapter in that light. Wonderbolts, as far as we know, are the elite of the elite, and so making one of them the star of this chapter only made sense.