Skinner watched Pedro recline in his seat, silent after the Captain had finished his little pitch on the WSU and what they were doing in Belem, finding colonies and salvaging specific equipment. A parrot hen had come in as Marcos was translating, and judging by the embrace she gave Pedro, that was his wife, clad in an equally ancient 19^th century dress complete with frills and a lace apron. She was a scarlet macaw like him, but she didn’t address the sailors directly, just opting to leave the room and bring back some wine before she went to look at the eggs in the incubator Skinner could see in a corner of the room.

He had to give it to the eccentric parrot, he’d managed to land himself a pretty statuesque hen as wife, and they’d conceived successfully apparently.

She didn’t stay long however. When Praveen stood up to go and catch a breath of fresh air, the hen followed Skinner’s subordinate outside, to keep the guest company most likely. He couldn’t fault Praveen, the headquarters were pretty stuffy and the feline’s fur was thick.

Pedro didn’t mind, just rubbing beaks with his wife before she sauntered out of the office after Praveen.

“Ah… how lucky I am to have her by my side. This venture would be so much harder without her company, but let’s not distractourselves from the topic at claw. You make a compelling argument Skinner...” Pedro paused politely to let Marcos do the translation, swirling his wine in his glass. The eclectus parrot seemed to have a few difficulties with the accent and properly conveying the right degree of speech. “… and I do believe your organization has the right train of thought. Belem would benefit a lot from trading with the wider world. There is just...” His eyes took a more careful edge. “You do understand that my interests lie with Brazil first and foremost, correct? I’m willing to rely on trade, but you should expect me to implement protectionist measures as soon as civilization is sufficiently implemented that it would benefit my people.”

“I could never blame a leader for having the interests of his people at heart, quite the contrary.” Skinner said diplomatically. “But in all honesty, I do not see the use in thinking that far in the long term just yet, don’t you agree? How long would it be before a single set of colonies – a proto-country really- could have enough industries, enough people, to sustain itself without imports and exports? Five years? Ten years? The whole point of the WSU is to help civilization not regress in the meantime.”

“You are right, I just felt the warning was necessary.”

“And I thank you for telling us ahead of time. Now, as for what we can do in the now, I did tell you we also needed to retrieve equipment in addition to helping locals. Would you have an issue with us doing this?”

That made the Ornithian pause. As regal as ever, he set down his wine glass and looked at the bust of Dom Pedro II decorating his desk, claws drumming against the arm of his chair. Skinner looked on expectantly.

“What kind of salvage are we talking about?”

“Multiple kinds. For one, we need to recycle fuel from the shore tanks at the oil terminal. The technology for oil recycling can be provided to you and any other colonies in the region so that you may be able to use spoiled fuels for power. Additional, clean oil likely will be available through import at an ulterior date.” Pedro threw him a look. “Other ships in the fleet, currently helping repair a refinery. In Mexico.” The parrot nodded in understanding.

“Deal. Take however much oil you want so long that you refuel the tanks of the Solimoes in front of the fort. She’s no good for sailing anymore, but she has her uses. We use her to store fuel for our generators, and the gun battery is worth something as well. I’ll want the blueprints for the oil recycler too. What else?”

“Parts and materials are always useful on a ship where something can break down any instant. Our food stores are in no need of an urgent resupply -though fresh food is always welcome- and my sailors always like to scour the remains of shops and shopping centers for personal knick-knacks...”

“To the point, please?” Pedro waved his talons.

Now how to say they wanted art pieces to sell the HPI without revealing their existence… Skinner’s grip around his broken fingers tightened, the pain making his heart beat faster. This would need a bit more rest and potions to fix.

“We are always on the lookout for pieces of art for the sake of preservation. Many museums have been left derelict and their galleries, left abandoned, could lose decades of human culture which must be protected. In addition, our intel attests to the presence of military installations in the city which we are interested in for the sake of ordnance and heavy weapons.”

“Why, aren’t you merchants?”

“The sea has become a dangerous place. I do not know whether you are aware, but sea monsters roam the depths and pirates backed by demons prowl the waves. Recently, a pirate warship which we now suspect to be in West Africa has attacked and caused serious damage and loss of life to a budding colony in Sao Paulo.”

“They DARE attack Brazil?!” Pedro squawked out loudly. “This affront cannot stand! These ruffians must be sunk and hung to the last soul!!”

Bold claim, expecting a demonic pirate to have an intact soul. But Skinner decided to remain silent and let the wannabe emperor work out his rage. Eventually, the parrot stopped his monologue on Brazil being beset by enemies within and without and sat back down, still fuming. The hedgefog watched the wannabe Emperor open a drawer on his desk and pull out a thin cigarette.

“Please, excuse my outburst. The matter is… Brazil as a country has so much potential, but has for decades on end proven… imperfect. Since Dom Pedro II was evicted in fact. I do not blame my predecessor, he was a good Emperor, he fought for our cause for decades on end. But he shouldn’t have given up and refused to stand up to the revolutionists when they came knocking.”

“I must admit… I’m not familiar with your country’s history.” Skinner admitted. “Violence and corruption issues, I’m aware of, but not what you’re claiming is the cause.” He shrugged honestly, though curious as to the motives behind the exuberant leader.

Again, Marcos translated for them and Pedro reclined in his seat, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

“Believe it or not, but I am of the opinion date back to my predecessor’s attempts to abolish slavery, because it highlights a key element in this country. The upper class were those who fought Pedro II when he tried to free the slaves, and they’re the same ones who mustered a revolution to evict him in his late years. They, the ex-slaves, created the Republic and wormed their way inside its institutions.” The parrot sneered. “People willing to put fellow human beings in chains for the sake of profit, then turned to corruption to fill their pockets. I understand the Republic had some good in it, and there are many names in the last century to prove that, folks that tried to better our country… but the root of our evil was never removed. Nor curtailed. Without an Imperial family to keep it in check, it opened the doors to agents of violence and poverty, demoralizing our nation and letting their countrymen wallow in filth and grow cynical about ever solving the situation. That is why the Empire is needed, because no matter what happens, these people will come back and we need an Emperor to keep them in check.”

He paused briefly, squashing his cigarette in an ashtray by Pedro II’s bust.

“So believe me, this situation is hard enough to tackle on its own. To hear budding colonies in this country are under attack and that external causes could bring any progress we make back down to zero… is outright enraging. Brazil does not need that.”

“I understand.” Skinner nodded calmly. “Pardon my detachment, but such a threat must be gauged with a calm mind. We will share all the data we have on these pirates and the demons they serve and we’ll even give you the coordinates to call the remains of the colony in Sao Paulo. I read somewhere that Captain Cordeira had relocated inland, away from Santos, they’re fine. Can we get back to the art and weapons?”

“Very well.” Pedro leaned forward. “Hear this: provided you help us retrieve our share, the second pick of art and first pick of weapons shall be yours to claim. I will also require of you that you help us set the means to avoid a Sao Paulo-level incident. By which I mean, defensive positions and – if such can be achieved- a patrol fleet to control the river delta and possibly evacuate in case of assault.”

“That is a deal I can agree with.” Skinner nodded sagely. “Armament for our ships and your colony. By the way, may I learn more about the current situation in Belem?”

In all fairness, the city wasn’t as deserted as its overgrown status would have you believe, at least so Pedro claimed. There were a couple raider gangs he was frequently contending with and were the main reason he had chosen the fort as his base, though the main threat in the city remained monsters and the usual jungle-related troubles.

Either were something the parrot could deal with handily and would bring under his heel soon enough.

Local survivors, according to him, preferred to stick to a nomadic lifestyle of scavenging and foraging for fruits and berries that grew at an impressive pace from the vegetation, which made them generally hard to track down and hard to convince to join his colony. With the difficulties related to farming because the jungle grew so quick, most hardly saw a point in staying in one place and preferred to hop from one safehouse to another to make it harder for raiders to track them down.

With one notable exception.

“I’ll lead you to them. I figure if we can figure out an industry around here, they’re the right folks to ask.”

“Who?”

The Amazon Institute of Botanical Sciences. O Instituto as the locals called it. Academics and researchers that had grouped up in the ruins of the botanical gardens, fortified them with bizarre vegetation and advanced tech and then gone into isolation. Their teams could sometimes be seen exploring the jungle and taking samples, but otherwise they preferred to stick to their compound and trade with the odd scavenger that passed nearby.

Skinner blinked.

“Pedro, were there any airships passing through this summer? Aliens maybe? Ponies that described themselves as relief teams?”

“No such thing. That can happen?”

“It could at one point. I… I haven’t met any personally, but some Captains I know, have. And these aliens passed on seeds and indications to plant what would qualify as ‘bizarre vegetation’, among other things like data on the species we turned into… which if you don’t have it I’ll have to leave you a copy of.”

“What for?”

“Potions. Lilian, could you pass me some first-aid grade? Yes, thank you.” He accepted the little glowing vial with a paraffin cover. “This is what you could say is the most common potion my acquaintances make. Healing potion, first-aid grade. There exists another, advanced healthcare variant, but it’s far more costly and time-consuming to make. We only have a short supply. Either type is extremely useful.” He explained, drinking up the whole vial to soothe his wounds from the fight with the cipactli.

“So they could have met a relief team and obtained seeds?” Pedro rubbed a talon against the underside of his beak. “Makes sense. Shall we organize an expedition to go and ask them?”

“In due time. For now, I think we’ve talked long enough. I need to see that my ship is moored around a secure perimeter. May I get your coordinates? Satellite phone number? The services are still working, I’m sure you’d like to visit my ship too.”

And now he needed to report to the rest of the fleet. At least for now it was going better than Dominica. His ribs throbbed, reminding him of his wounds.

Marginally better.

If there was one thing Artyom couldn’t complain about, it was the locals rising up to his challenge and taking their turn to have a go at the Russian that was putting their comrades on their back on after another. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. Most of the victories he’d accrued so far were just laying punks and the odd farm hand on their back, so the wagers were low and his share slim.

But when he took a pause to let some other fighters have a go at it while he himself catched a breather (and a beer), then he noticed the bets pile on. He straightened up his beret with his claw, a grin forming on his maw to reveal glistening fangs.

“You know, now I understand why people think you’re scary when you’re happy.” Roberto joked at the display.

“Their loss.” Artyom chuckled in the hoarse manner dragons usually did, counting his earnings so far, a little pile of gleaming gems. He popped a penny-sized ruby in his mouth, savoring the spicy tang. “You done your business with the head farmer?”

“Yeah we have. It’s all good.” Alejandro confirmed. “Rest of the evening we can stay here if you like the atmosphere.”

“I like? Pal I’m on a roll! Haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

“Eh, no worries with that, we’re here all night if you keep up the fighting.” Roberto smiled as a female abyssinian sauntered over to give him a beer.

He ignored her. He was already taken, and empath as he was the Italian could read between the lines. Nothing he wanted to be involved in.

The beer was good though. Local and on the tap? Sign him up.

Artyom’s little pause soon ended and the fights began anew in earnest. Now that the random punks knew better, he was actually getting to fight the worthwhile combatants, with the first in line being an off-duty militia trooper, an abyssinian with a knack for fighting dirty that he showed by trying to knee the Russian in the balls.

The cheap shot landed. Artyom was unfazed.

“It’s all internals on dragons, dumbass.” He growled, decking the flabbergasted trouble and laying him flat on his back. “Can’t hit a drake in the balls if it's protected behind scales.”

And on that note he pinned the feline and scored another win.

To be fair… it was an unintuitive detail you had to know of and he himself had been rather shocked on the first day of his transformation when the only thing he saw there was a slit spilling the smooth light blue scales that went from his throat to the underside of his tail. Personal inspection and experience, however, revealed that his penis was kept sheathed beneath those scales and that if he wanted he could coax it out by shoving a claw in there.

The testicles? Diagrams from the Equestrian relief teams they met in Copenhagen and further medical scans told they were kept safely protected behind a layer of muscle, with a fat cushion for protection. Draconic anatomy was meant to be durable.

A tried and true technique like the kick in the balls was thus more than useless on dragons. You’d have better luck going for the wings. Those were vulnerable skin, however leathery the texture was.

Too bad for his opponent, and a welcome addition to his earnings this evening.

Next up was the first D-dog bitch of the evening, and not a genderswap either. She entered the ring with a short-sleeved shirt and knee-length khakis, actually looking rather confident as she put the jute wrappings around her paws. Confidence that wasn’t entirely unwarranted because she did pack a wallop and had a decent amount of speed to back up her punches and kicks. As much as he wanted to just dodge instead of weathering the blows, she didn’t let him and pushed his draconic resilience to its limit in her unrelenting assault.

She was strong.

She was fast.

She had good form.

She didn’t manage her stamina, overeager.

Her blows slowed down eventually, much in the same fashion that Artyom knew he could beat Alejandro when they sparred just through sheer endurance. The large canine in front of him had her maw open, tongue hanging out and panting as she struggled to keep up.

“Sorry lass, better luck next time.” The dragon’s red eyes glinted with mirth as he ducked inside her guard for the finishing blow.

A solid boob punch sent her reeling with a loud yelp as she backpedaled, opening her up for a flurry of kicks and punches that pushed her towards the edge of the ring. Still moving to get away from the dragon, her eyes widened, realizing he was aiming for a ring out and she shifted her weight in hopes of bringing herself back towards the center of the ring.

It worked in that it killed Artyom’s strategy… but only by handing him an easier solution. Her footing was off, and a tail sweep later her back was hitting the ground with a resounding crash. Exhausted, she tapped out before he could move in for the pin.

“Nice fight.” He commented, offering her his hand.

She took it begrudgingly and stood up, still panting and mumbling under her breath in Spanish as she left the ring and more gems joined Artyom’s earnings.

Two more bitches took their turn and failed as well. Both part of Samuel’s militia, though only the second one was an ex-mil. The first Artyom defeated by exploiting bad footwork to sweep her off her legs every time she tried to stand up.

The other, a German shepherd bitch with a greasy tank top and faded camo pants, was more complicated and gave him quite a few bruises under his scales. She was obviously skilled in melee and knew most of the tricks you’d learn in the military. She did her best to back him into a corner of the ring with a series of elbow punches and knee kicks that kept her guard compact and hard to penetrate.

So he improvised. It was Mexico after all, so why not mimic a luchador?

By that he meant he clambered on top of the nearest ring post, opened his wings halfway and somersaulted above her, wrapping his arms around her neck to put her in a chokehold, tail around her waist and wings doing their best to hamper her sight and keep her arms in check.

It worked and he won, but at a cost. Trying to dislodge him, the bitch had let herself drop to the ground on her back and knocked the wind out of him, in addition to painfully jarring his wing sockets from the impact. But he stayed latched onto her neck, smaller, as she elbowed him to get him off. It didn’t work, and her oxygen reserves depleting, she gave up. That victory actually earned him genuine cheers from the crowd after his little stunt, a larger share of gems than usual joining his pile.

Unfortunately, that fight wore him down a bit too much.

When the next pair of fighters entered the ring, he still hadn’t recovered fully to face that duo of abyssinians. Siblings, both Siamese cats with identical fur patterns clad in matching wrestling shorts. The only difference between the two was the headband the male wore as counterpart to his sis’ sport bra. Abyssinian not varying a lot in size from male to female, both shared the same general stature.

And they were a dynamic duo for sure. Artyom widened his guard and lashed with tail and wings to keep them at bay, but they were fast, swerving and ducking below his blows as they went from hopping forward to backward to dance in and out of his reach. They were cats. If he could have landed a solid blow, it would have been decisive, but they didn’t let him. His punches would brush against their fur but did little more than graze the agile fighters.

At that point he was pretty damn sure the two of them were prescients, the manner in which they dodged was too purposeful, too eerie.

To his credit, they had to keep up their stamina and couldn’t keep up the attack all the time. One had to hop on the backfoot to catch his breath while the other sibling kept him busy. That alone was the main reason why the fight wore on past the ten minutes mark.

But he was already at his limits and his stamina finally failed him. He saw the two nod to each other, tail brushing against the other’s in what he assumed to be a silent communication before they both went for it. The sis came in first and he just about managed to block her, only to discover the diversion when her brother slid between her legs and delivered an upward kick in his stomach. He stumbled back, belching acrid smoke and boiling-hot spittle that sizzled against the ring’s grates.

They weren’t done.

Elegantly, the brother had rolled forward to his knees and allowed his sister to run up his back and use him as a springboard. Front flipping through the air, she planted both legs on Artyom’s chest, muscles coiled. Then she bounced off, and he was catapulted out of the ring while she landed on her brother’s shoulder with a flourish addressed to the crowd.

He stared blankly for a few seconds, taking a few seconds to catch his breath as Roberto and Alejandro rushed over, then he couldn’t help but laugh when they stood him up.

“That was amazing!” He commented, reaching the edge of the ring to shake paws. “You two really are fantastic, that was a fun fight!” He told the two Mexicans.

“You fight good too, Russia man.” The sister of the duo complimented him after a short pause. Her accent was thick, she wasn’t a fluent speaker.

“Artyom. My name is Artyom.” The dragon pointed at himself.

“Anamaria.” She replied. “And my brother, Javier.” She added, pointing a digit at her brother who came to shake hands. Unlike her, he didn’t speak a single word of English, but the tone he used when he spoke to Artyom sounded positive.

“Well Anamaria, I don’t know about you, but if my ship stays in Mexico long enough then I’d be eager to have a rematch.” He said, trying to keep his pronunciation clear. “To fight again.” He added after seeing her furrow her brows, not understanding.

He spent the rest of the evening before they drove back to the refinery drinking with Roberto and Alejandro, counting his hefty earnings as the dynamic duo fought on in the ring below. They sure were entertaining to watch when you weren’t in the ring, jumping and backflipping all over the place in a very theatrical, coordinated manner.

His display in the ring had also attracted some interest as a few cats and dogs dropped by at his table to congratulate him and comment on a particularly good move in rudimentary English for those who didn’t ask Alejandro to do the translation.

Eventually though, they had to make it back to the surface of the hacienda to join the convoy headed to replace the night shift.

As good an evening as they get.

The next day...

Vadim awoke feeling numb and sluggish, still tired. The consequence of griffon sex as he’d come to learn. Sure the whole species wasn’t exactly into rough sex, but the way it fired up every last nerve in your body with small, minute movements still burned through a surprising amount of energy. You didn’t feel sore waking up, but there was this lingering numbness and tingling in all your limbs, the exhaustion. Not a bad feeling, but not one that encouraged you to get out of bed either, much less when considering Vadim had his wings lovingly wrapped around Micha’s still snoozing form.

His beak creased in a soft smile and he nuzzled her neck feathers, soft white pillowy down…

And then his mind rebooted fully and he pieced together what had happened. The smile faded away and he lifted his head.

Their bedroom was a complete mess of discarded clothes – some shredded by needy talons-, stains, bedsheets kicked aside, talon marks and… no, he didn’t see a single condom in there.

Oh no…

He felt his mate’s breathing quicken. She was waking up, those green highlights around her eyes parting to reveal raptor orbs he could lose himself into forever. He was a griffon, mated, he couldn’t not love his mate with his whole being and found himself clutching her tighter, nostrils practically inhaling her scent… forever interlaced with his through their mating.

That in turn woke Micha up fully and she automatically went to wrap his tail around her own… and then she noticed the look on his features. The process was the same, she raised her head, looked around crestfallen at the mess caused by them fucking all night like the proverbial rabbits, and then her eyes widened some more when she saw what was missing.

“Kurwa.” She growled under her breath, a sinking feeling in her gut. Instinctively, she stroked her belly with her talons, letting herself sink in Vadim’s embrace.

She liked when he did that. There wasn’t much of size difference between male and female griffons, they fell in the same weight class, but the mass was split differently. For males like him, the mass that would have gone into making a hen’s rump wider and giving her a larger wingspan, instead bestowed them with a broader chest she liked sinking herself into, with bulkier forelegs that were so comforting to have wrapped around her.

“That about sums it up, right?” He replied quietly in Polish. “How did this happen?”

“Broken condom.” She sulked. “I only realized too late. Tried to call Aleksei but she was...”

“On a mission. And I was working on the ventilation.” He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “That’s some serious bad luck don’t you think? You’re not angry at me I hope?”

“Come on Vad’, I remember this. You had as little control over your urges as I had. We both have a claw in this.” She comforted him.

It takes two to tango, and two to take responsibility.

“Is there some kind of course correction we still have?” She asked… almost rhetorically in fact.

Because no, there wasn’t. Human morning-after pills weren’t tailored for their species. Condom worked off course, they were a mechanical barrier… until they broke.

As for magic and potions… asking for a solution most likely went against Aleksei’s duties as a fertility cleric, and Vadim was damn certain Rhine Forest didn’t have ingredients or potions for that in their hydroponics.

“So… we’re going to be parents.” Vadim concluded his explanation.

She had already pieced together by then, but why did her gut tighten with this sinking feeling when she heard his words? Maybe… maybe she’d hoped since he was the Medical Officer he’d know something she didn’t… In contrast to the sinking feeling, her wilder instincts crowed out in success, for now kept isolated in a corner of her mind.

If anything her instincts’ reaction only solidified the fact that she was indeed fertilized.

“Technically we already are.” She whispered.

Oh God, Andy! Did the kid hear any of their wild fucking or… oh that was so embarassing.

“Reminds me someone’s gonna be happy she’ll have siblings soon… and that we’re due telling her about the birds and bees I’m afraid.” He couldn’t help but wince at the prospect.

“Don’t remind me.” Her beak twisted, mimicking his wince. “How long did we even go at it? I’m starving!”

“All evening and all night I believe. It’s eleven in the morning.” Which also meant they’d better hope someone noticed what was happening and that they were not just skimming on their duties. The verbal lashing would still be there but at least they had an excuse and… okay, that was rather likely actually. Someone had slipped a note under their door. He’d have to read it later, first they needed to do some serious talking. “You want to talk about...”

“I’m not sure.” Micha looked off to the side, still a bit shocked at the amount of chaos two rutting griffons could unleash upon a single bedroom. “We already agreed that we wanted more kids in the future but I was hoping we would be in a more stable situation before it happened. You know, we wanted to have a headquarters, some ashore before it happened.”

Books said griffons conceived in clutches of two, much like Tanya had when she laid her eggs. Raising and homeschooling one cub was already enough of a challenge… this was going to require some serious thinking.

“So we need to bump up our plans and figure out, well… something.” Vadim mused. “Either way, which way do you want it? Pregnancy or eggs?”

She wasn’t sure. She had seen Tanya and talked to the fellow hen about her experience and… well, both were former males. She was genuinely curious as to what she should expect on this side of the equation.

“I’m not sure.”

“You want to talk to Tanya.”

Both types of reproduction had their own appeal. She had a bit of time before she needed to decide whether to crank up the heating or the A/C. She hugged closer to Vadim.

Minutes later they were going at it again, for stress relief. Eh, if the outcome was already decided anyway they both might use the opportunity for unprotected sex. After all, they may have bucket loads of condoms available on board, but nobody was making them anymore and they had an expiration date.

Now if the sailors on Rhine Forest figured out a universal contraception potion, they’d be guaranteed to make a killing out of their onboard hydroponics.

Meanwhile, outside, events far less intimate were taking place all across the refinery complex. Engineering sailors had been dispatched in teams to assist the oil workers in reactivating the facility and ridding it of whatever damage had been caused since the Event, including what had been damaged during Los Lobos’ assault on the refinery. Along with that, and Amandine’s engineering department having to spare some manpower to repair the damage inflicted on their Piranhas APC’s and to the CV90’s armor, extra measures had been taken to further fortify the whole facility.

Now, Coatzacoalcos was far from badly set when it came to military installations, owing a significant naval presence and the installations that came with it to its strategic importance and the need to protect the oil wells off the shore. Multiple installations could thus be found in the area.

A naval hospital, the same one Vadim’s team had salvaged for equipment to reactivate the clinic within the refinery.

A station for Marines, next to said reactivated clinic that Samuel was now using as the HQ for his militia, it being also within the security perimeter of the refinery. It wasn’t big, but the few edifices were positioned just on the northern edge of the refinery in a quasi peninsula positioned perfectly to keep an eye on the river, the nearest bridge, the port’s entrance, and the channel that branched off towards the refinery.

Plus it came with a lot of spare room the militia’s commander was all too happy to use to create stores and workshops for the plethora of military equipment he felt was necessary to defend the installations, which beyond the obvious guns, body armor and imported humvees Marines needed; also included speedboats, armored cars mounted with MILAN ATGM’s, a mortar battery and a host of howitzers they still weren’t entirely sure where to install. No aircraft though. They could have found some, but pilots were a rarity the colony was unfortunately not gifted with.

Lastly was a naval base on the opposite side of the river from the Marines station. The position made it inadequate to settle (not to mention uncomfortable to live in, Samuel’s militia avoided the barracks and slept at the hacienda for a reason), but it hosting a repair yard meant the sailors found plenty of parts and tools to retrieve which Carmelita didn’t object to, since the oil workers had little to no need for the equipment. Intel suggested the base had held a floating drydock at some point, unfortunately it seemed that its status as technically mobile meant it was whisked away as any ship would with the Event.

However, the warehouse next to it held enough metal plating and spare girders to start turning the refinery’s outer perimeter into a steel rampart. Combined with the extra weapons and guns found on base, along with shoreside radars, it promised to give a nasty surprise to any former cartel, sea monster or pirate that tried to take the refinery, be it by sea or by land.

Paired with the hacienda’s highly defensive position, adding a gun truck to the daily commute between there and the refinery to complement its usual humvees, and they were pretty much set so long that they kept to defensive tactics.

The problem was that they would have to sally out at some point to get rid of Los Lobos, particularly given their recent victory and the presence of the sailors putting them at an advantage… though they were still licking their wounds. The issue wasn’t without its arguing and random shouting of expletives as neither Carmelita, Samuel, the foreman Enrique or even any of the Captains agreed on how to go about it.

Unlike that, the waterborne side of things was smooth sailing. Rhine Forest had set to deploy her fleet of auxiliaries. A torpedo escort would usually remain on standby in the middle of the fairway to keep a radar and sonar coverage while the oil workers installed their own defenses and sensors. The trawlers would frequently leave in groups accompanied by the remaining torpedo escort to buff up their food supply, and they also sent one out with a group of hippogriff so that they could switch to seapony form and go inspect the subsea templates attached to the wells that provided the refinery with gas and oil.

That part went well. Offshore engineering was as sturdy as it got.

Rhine Forest had even enough time to spare to let one of her tugs maneuver around the cove with the cadets at the helm under the watchful eye of Josselin, their supervising Officer. Ensuring that the Officers-to-be got enough practical training and opportunities to get a feel of how to maneuver might as well be as important if not more than keeping the actual Officers sharp.

And amidst all that, Aleksei’s team had left on ever more recce missions.

The main goal of the recce mission wasn’t even to retrieve farming equipment just yet. In fact, it was something Dilip wasn’t too eager to announce out loud as he only told Aleksei quietly what it was all about.

Of the tourists they had helped repatriate from Cuba, some had joined the oil workers and settled into a routine, but an equally large group had expressed their desire to return to the capital city back when they reached Coatzacoalcos, which was fine. They’d been given a vehicle, a fuel tank of gasoline and enough supplies to last them until Mexico City.

The issue?

Their disappearance. There was a teenage girl in the group when they left with a souped up bus. Talkative on the radio, and she’d frequently reported the status of their voyage. Of course they’d notice when her calls stopped entirely. Something had happened.

And so the whole recce team packed their gear and, as per usual, piled up in a Defender 130 before leaving, set to trace the vanished party’s tracks.

In essence it was rather simple. The road from Coatzacoalcos to Mexico City was straightforward: just follow the highway, and the only hurdle you should face is toll gates. Hydras and chupacabras, the monsters typically found in the region, both were the kind a bus should have been to outrun.

And the fact a bus had needed to get past toll gates and thus find a way to wrench them open meant there was a track to follow. Scarface took the wheel and they drove on after confirming that fact at the first waypoint, near Minatitlan.

More were found as they headed north-west, slightly deeper inland along a highway that passed through a countryside where jungle was less present and abandoned farmland had turned into grassland with the odd dense copse of trees and abandoned ranch. Odd blotches dotted the rippled relief, fields that farmers never got the opportunity to harvest and which had grown wild, feeding both the now free cattle and vast flocks of birds. The region of inland Vera Cruz was still relatively flat. Mexico didn’t become truly mountainous until about a hundred kilometers inland.

Overtime, the former farmland might grow into as much of a jungle as the lusher, more fertile areas near the refinery, but for the next few years grassland would border the cracked highways that their Defender sped along as they went from one toll to another.

And they found their lost bus eventually. Somewhere at a highway exchange near a little isolated town where the six-lane road would have veered west to dive into the hinterland proper, towards Mexico City. The bright red volvo coach was just stopped in a turn, immobile, pristine. It was as though the driver had stopped it to look at the billboard on the side of the road, one that showed an ancient Aztec city. ‘Visit El Tajin’ or something along those lines.

Aleksei frowned, the hippogriff riding shotgun already opening her door and grabbing her rifle.

“Thanasis, you take overwatch with the MAG. Radiant, take to the sky and see what you can find. Scar...”

The gargoyle turned off the engine and grabbed his own weapon, a SCAR-L, unlike Aleksei’s heavily-modified FNC/Ak-5 hybrid.

“With you. Got it.” He nodded curtly.

It was… odd. Monsters would have made far bigger a mess than that. The cartels too, and they didn’t find a single spent casing or bullet hole. The bus just looked empty from a distance, its trunks still shut and untouched.

“You seeing this too?” She asked Scarface as both approached the derelict coach from opposing sides.

The clues were making themselves clearer the closer they got. The windshield had been pulverized, but there wasn't any sign of blood anywhere. Aleksei found some skid marks near the wheels, meaning the bus had stopped abruptly but… she did a double take.

What was that next to the skid marks? Just where they started, she found a thin line burned into the asphalt that connected to a spell circle on the edge of the road. And its sigils… Demonic magic. Which had been used to stop the bus. Monsters couldn’t pull off stunts like that, and they were too far from the coast for Charybdis’ pirates, which left…

Scylla’s ilk. The Four Horses.

“Shit.” She swore. They didn’t need that. They didn’t need that at all.

“Found something.” Scarface paused his own inspection of the bus, having found no sign of confrontation yet.

“Yeah. Spell circle. Four Horses, definitely.” She hissed, inspecting the ground and curb around the circle, looking much like a bloodhound searching for tracks.

And she found some, and they were strange enough to give her pause. Some of the marks in the dirt she recognized as hoofsteps from ponies, the vast majority of a group they estimated to number half a dozen souls with traces of a few flyers in addition to that. Most likely griffons.

The last set of tracks however…

“Eh Scar...” She looked up from a spot of mud she’d found where the tracks were clearer, along with a pair of lines she suspected to either be a cart or a trailer. “Don’t these remind you of something?”

The gargoyle knelt down next to them. Unlike hoofsteps, these were paw prints, with one large pad and four toes with visible claws. Where had he seen that… Oh right. He grabbed his radio.

“Oi Thanasis, you mind coming over real quick? I need to compare something. Out.” He barked.

He heard the sound of wings flapping before he saw the tan-furred sphinx with the red mane appear over the top of the bushes behind which they had found the tracks.

“Eh, what’s the problem? You guys found something?” The Greek asked upon landing hind legs first in the mud nearby. He was rather surprised when both Scar and Aleksei rushed over and the gargoyle used his telekinesis to lift one of his paws. “Hey, the hell’s that for?”

“Confirmation buddy, and you just helped us heaps.” Scar dropped his telekinetic grip with a curt apology. “So the big guy is a sphinx.”

“Big’s a kind way to put it.” Aleksei said. Comparing Thanasis’ paw prints to those of that sphinx was like comparing a kid’s feet to those of an adult man. “That one must be...”

“The size of a minotaur.” Radiant landed behind her.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said we’re talking about a sphinx that’s as tall as a minotaur. And not when standing on his hind legs, mind. I meant at the withers.” The pegasus grimly said.

“And how would you know that?” Scarface crossed his arms, eyeing the shorter pony dubiously, tail swaying behind him.

“Because that’s his reputation. Enigma that is. That’s the only sphinx it can possibly be. He’s… was an infamous slaver in Sphigypt, back on Equus. You know, barring a few extremely rare exceptions, sphinxes are known as rather law-abiding, which is why he stands out so much and why it has to be him. Makes sense that he would have joined up with the Four Horses, the Sphigyptian authorities had a bounty on him ranging in the order of millions of bits. Or equivalent currency, it’s always a bit foggy with that.”

“How powerful are we talking then?” Thanasis inquired, a bit uneasy after comparing his prints to those of that Enigma.

He knew he was like dragons and would keep growing for his entire life… seeing his own smaller print inside those larger? Enigma must have weighed several tons!

“Think of him like a bogeyman except he actually exists? As the story goes, Sphigypt’s ban on slavery was only relatively recent, compared to a sphinx’s normal lifespan at least. He must have been about as tall as Thanasis – sorry friend, I know you’re middle-aged but you’re a teen by sphinx standards- when the law was passed, and apparently he’d taken to the job already because he spent the next two centuries between now and then supplying black markets the world over with slaves.” He frowned. “Young slaves. Lots of ponies too. Rumor has it he’s behind the Night of Empty Beds in Maretonia, the year that followed the Celestial Princesses’ abdication.”

“Did you follow the tracks?”

The pegasus’ green eyes hardened uncharacteristically for a pony. His wings fluffed up.

“For a few kilometers, and it keeps going. Not a single sign of teleportation, by magic circle or by spell.”

“Which means...” Aleksei trailed off with a sinking feeling in her gut.

“The Four Horses have a base nearby.” Radiant nodded glumly.

She gulped, finding herself looking at the vegetation around her with newfound dread.

“We’re leaving. Now. Thanasis, I want you to get on the radio and tell the fleet.”

The repatriated Mexicans, the ex-tourists she’d seen smile in the cafeteria when they were on their passage to Coatzacoalcos… had been captured. What fate they met, she could only pray to Epona had been painless.

It hadn’t.

Author's Notes:

And here we got a situation where the really bad guys turn out to be much closer than anticipated. Lucky Skinner, being thousands of miles away from that mess... or is he?

On a side note, among the things I thought about when writing about Enigma was... Equestria (or Equus rather, since I'd rather refer to the planet as a whole) really doesn't seem to have that much in the way of war going on.

Most of the problems in the series, movies and comics stem from isolated criminals, mages and dark lords (depending what you define the Storm King as) which often find it easy to grow into their power in the vast wilderness that exists outside of established nations' spheres of influence.

That's the thing I assume at least. Equus really doesn't seem that developed, or having a particularly large population. Leaves a lot of room outside of reach where the dregs of society can exile themselves and form their own communities.