G.I. Rain

Prologue

     Rainbow Dash lay in a prone position on the dusty third floor observation deck of what used to be Canterlot Castle, hugging the ground in a desperate attempt to stay as low as possible. Wiping away the sweat that beaded on her forehead she steadied herself and put her eye back up to the scope, pivoting her rifle slightly on its tripod. Surges of adrenaline sharpened her senses and motor skills, allowing her to draw a bead on the small, cracked window pane of a storefront door she was aiming for. She couldn’t see the enemy shooter, but he was almost certainly nearby the window, and she hoped to flush him out with a close call.

     “About six hundred yards…” she whispered to herself estimating the distance to her target. “Three mils to the left…no, one mil back…good, now two up…” she continued, making the fine scope adjustments required to compensate for wind speed, direction, and distance. Dash had never sniped alone and it was, as she was quickly discovering, damned difficult. Normally Corkscrew, her spotter, would be looking down range and calling the shots, but Corkscrew was unavailable at the moment due mostly to the gaping exit wound in the back of his skull. They had been pinned down for hours, and the enemy marksman had them dialed in, dead on. The two ponies had discovered this the hard way when Corkscrew had peeked over the edge of the railing to try and get a fix on their adversary. No sooner had he raised his binoculars than the sharp report of a high-powered rifle tore through the air and a hollow point round drilled right through the left lens and subsequently his eye socket, making its way out the back of his head and imbedding itself somewhere in the wall behind. Dash, too terrified to move more than an inch and preoccupied with the possibility of her own impending death, had failed to notice that the warmth she felt under her belly was a steadily growing pool of her friend’s still warm blood.

     The pressure was getting to her. She had the high ground advantage, but below all along Canterlot’s Mane Street were hundreds of places in which her enemy could be holed up. Corkscrew’s sacrifice had helped narrow down the options, but Dash still couldn’t pinpoint the exact location the shot had come from. She was running out of rounds and running out of time as she methodically scoped out each spot, hoping to see some sign of her invisible opponent. As the sun slowly descended behind her, she knew it was only a matter of time before the darkness came and left her without hope. She’d be unable to see anything, and the other sniper, knowing her exact location, could easily call in backup to hunt her down.

  Just when all seemed lost, the setting sun flashed for an instant across something metallic in a heap of rubble not five yards from the storefront window she had in her sights. Her adrenaline surged and instinct took over as Rainbow Dash redirected her aim, and fired. Almost simultaneously she saw a muzzle flash from the street below and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. Then everything was silent – no more return fire, just the faint echo of the two shots bouncing off far away mountains. The other sniper had grazed her left shoulder, but the wound was superficial. Dash folded up her tripod, picked up her gear bags, and with rifle at the ready she glided cautiously from the deck down to street level, keeping her weapon trained on the enemy’s position, slowly making her way down the road to check her kill.

     As she drew near she heard a series of gurgling noises that sounded like a partially clogged sink, punctuated by sporadic coughing and spitting. Dash found the enemy gunner hidden under an old tarp in a pile of trash and debris on the corner of a small alleyway. Her round had caught the yellow-maned earth pony in her throat, and now she lay dying, drowning in her own ichor, deep crimson blotches staining her coat.

     “Let her suffer,” Rainbow Dash thought to herself, “she killed Corkscrew, and almost killed me…let her die in pain and fear.” But despite all the horrors that war had thrust upon her, she held still in her heart the voices of her friends, telling her to be kind, or at least merciful. With a grim sense of duty, Dash pulled from a holster on her back a 12 gauge pump shotgun and pointed it at the dying pony. The weapon had been made into a good sidearm by the previous owner, who had sawed off the stock and most of the barrel to make it more portable. Dash briefly remembered the day she’d been given the gun – the day before she left for hoof camp. “I like to keep this handy,” Applejack had said, “for close encounters, but I want you to have it. See you on the battlefield Dashie.” Tears had welled in both ponies’ eyes, each hoping against hope as they said their goodbyes that one day they would see each other again.

    This moment of reminiscence was cut short by a choking cough as the yellow pony reached up feebly and grabbed at Dash’s shotgun. At first it looked like a desperate attempt to fight back, but the earth pony pulled the barrel down, pointing it at her

own forehead, her eyes pleading and streaming with tears as she gazed up at the Pegasus. As the adrenaline faded and the terrible gravity of the situation began to sink in, Dash fought back tears of her own, and looking down, spoke with the greatest sincerity. “I’m so sorry,” she said, vision blurring as her eyes grew watery.

     Rainbow Dash closed her eyes, sighed deeply, and pulled the trigger.