Starswirl materialized inside his realm with the soft ‘pop’ of teleportation, which was quickly followed by the enchantments he had created around his home asserting themselves on him and shifting him into a decisively non-ghostly, material form. For a second, he relished taking a deep breath, before he made his way inside the Canterlot-esque tower on the floating island. He didn’t pay much heed to the decor as he cantered over to the stairs and made his way towards a very specific floor near the top.

Shelves and alcoves lined the walls of the vast, circular room. Most were already filled with copied grimoires and notes, along with various projects like a mana stone encased in a brass apparatus, some recall stones he was making for Rockhoof’s troops if they ever needed to leave on distant expeditions, and scores of parchments covered in prototype spell constructs and matrices.

Most were attempts at making spells stick on returnees.

Given how overflowing the shelves were, he fully expected he’d need to add another floating island to his little magical realm. This one with a library tower.

Barring the cluttered walls, most of the floorspace was kept clear for a purpose, except maybe for a little desk by the room’s only window. Its heavy purple curtains were drawn shut, the only light inside the room coming from mana lamps hanging from the ceiling.

The reason why it was kept clear?

One large circular slate slab in the middle of the room, about three meters in radius, along with many magical brass gizmos, running gears and enchanter’s lenses hanging off the ceiling. Arrayed in a circle around the slab were dozens of shiny little slots made to receive however many magically-charged gems or mana stones he needed to power up the magical arrays conceived here, in addition to a couple waystones linked to areas of Broceliande he felt could stand a little mana syphon without suffering too much harm.

For emergencies only, obviously. Starswirl liked himself one of the best wizards around, but he’d rather avoid a visit from an irate Cernunnos.

This, this was Starswirl’s pride. A crowning achievement of modern (Equestrian) technology he had learned after his return to Canterlot, combined with human arcane arts, ancient practices lost to time and a lifetime of experience. He knew many a mage would sell body and soul just to get a few hours with his creation… if they knew it even existed. He was always a bit secretive regarding the more advanced aspects of his work. An ingrained habit. Pony or humans, mages were always rather cutthroat when it came to research.

In the past at least. Current experiences with the Canterlot Academy of Magic revealed they had mellowed out considerably and had become rather stringent on patents and plagiarism.

His device was the focal point from which he carried out all his research, launched his more elaborate spells and rituals, whilst it also served as the anchoring point for the several dozen spells that maintained his personal little plane of existence. Understandably, the whole room thrummed with barely contained arcane might. Above him, the brass gizmos would let out little sparks every so often, twitching, awaiting orders.

Best not to keep them waiting then.

Still in unicorn form, Starswirl walked up to the slab, igniting his horn to grab a wooden box off a shelf from which he extracted three gleaming jewels before he inserted them into the slots around the slab. Little brass irises closed up around the jewels, securing them in place as the machine came alive, thrumming with anticipation.

From the ceiling, a heavy arm detached itself, holding a grimoire as big as the unicorn was. His repertory of premade spells. With a mechanical ‘clank’, it locked itself in place in front of him, already open. Still, Starswirl flipped through with his telekinesis, expertly picking the mix of spells he needed today.

That one for scrying, that one for tracking, and for the display…Scorpan’s link-ritual. His old friend always designed the good ones, and that one in particular held up despite its age.

More mechanical arms came to life at once. A rack filled with brass stencils smoothly slid out from a recessed nook in the ceiling to position itself above the slab with the clicking of its inner mechanisms. Then, a latch opened on the rack, releasing the requisite stencils for the preset spells, each picked up by more brass mechanical arms that hung from the ceiling.

Starswirl watched it all with a satisfied smile. The stencils found themselves locked in place on the slate slab, while more mechanical arms fetched the powdered components, salts and chalks needed to fill them out.

They weren’t just brass forms to fill out. Each stencil glowed slightly with arcane sigils. Instructions to guide the mechanical arms.

A simple concept. The spell repertory in the grimoire was for selecting the preset stencils. The actual detailed instructions etched into the stencils were meant to be ‘read’ by the multiple sets of magical lenses hanging off the ceiling that served as coordinators for the mechanical arms.

And at last, once the stencils were filled out with the requisite reagents and components, the artificial foci came down from the ceiling.Protective covers opened up to unveil delicate, carefully-enchanted crystals necessary to give the rituals their potency. The whole system locked itself in place with a series of quick ‘clicks’ and ‘clacks’, immobilizing it save for one arm that held a larger red gem, this one moving next to Starswirl’s grimoire.

In a confident gesture, he brushed a hoof against its polished surface. The thrum of magic heightened, and in a flash the spells activated, summoning a large map of the region and an oval mirror off the nearby shelves.

On the map were several icons. Landmarks, places of power, but not the stuff Starswirl was interested in at the moment, nor what the spell was showing in. Moving rapidly towards Broceliande, coming in from the north, was a little red arrow with a few figures next to it. Speed, course, altitude. It was flying high, and fast.

The oval mirror shimmered. Ah, there was the scrying. Yup, it was an airship alright.

Starswirl blinked.

Humans didn’t use airships… and the relief teams from Equus should have long ended their expeditions. Yet… he could see it right there, flying towards the center of the forest. It certainly looked Equestrian: any other species would have gone for a more utilitarian look without all the frills and bells, except for Ornithians but they never used as much gold and brass in their decorations as he was currently seeing. And the purple-and-white balloon?

Definitely Equestrian, Canterlotian even, which was further confirmed when the scrying spell rotated the view around, showing off the several equine shapes standing on its deck, along with the name in stylized letters on its bow: ‘Canterlot Courier’.

Starswirl frowned. What the buck were they still doing here? They were long past the point where ponies could casually make the trek back and forth between both worlds, so why were they lingering?

Were they stuck? Stragglers that overstayed their welcome?

Whichever the answer was, he didn’t get to think about it for long, because the feed was cut off abruptly.

“What in Tartarus...” He grumbled, going to smack the mirror with his hoof before he caught a glimpse of the airship’s last position on the chart.

They were near Comper Castle. Vivian’s territory. They had strayed inside her wards… which obviously included anti-scrying.

He swore again, stroking his bread in frustration. A flash of his horn later, a soapy and visibly annoyed Rockhoof was standing in front of him.

“I was giving Meadowbrook a massage in the bath!” He complained loudly.

“Sorry to burst your retirement, friend. Again.” The mage apologized, making a point of ignoring the thing dangling between Rockhoof’s hind legs telling him exactly what kind of massage he was talking about. Whatever the pony did in private with his pregnant wife, Starswirl was nopony to judge kinks. “But we have an emergency. An Equestrian airship has entered Vivian’s territory and we must get there. Quick.”

There was a moment of silence. Starswirl stared at his friend, expecting a reply from the Earth Pony whose soapy wet fur was leaving a growing puddle on the carpet.

Rockhoof exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry, it seems a significant portion of the blood that would normally ensure my head functions properly is otherwise occupied. Can’t figure where.” He drawled sarcastically in his usual rough accent. “Care to run that by me again?”

Consciousness came back to Skinner, not in the instantaneous way movies would have you believe, but slowly, as though his mind was wading through molasse. His sight was hazy, the world shook and he felt nauseous, a drawn-out groan escaping his muzzle as he stirred. His head throbbed, no doubt thanks to being knocked out with a club in the temple. His tail was bunched up under him, uncomfortably, with the tassel lying in a puddle.

When he boozed up, Skinner wasn’t one to stop at the halfway mark, and even then he’d rather take a hundred hangovers over this.

The room he was in felt damp, and cold, with a chilly breeze that pierced through his fur in the dim darkness that at least had the advantage of not making his throbbing headache worse. One paw reaching for the side of his head that had been struck, Skinner tried to pull himself into a sitting position, only to almost fall back down immediately before a pinkish blob came into his vision, talking nonsensical gibberish.

Nah, that was him. His ears were still buzzing like crazy. He groaned again. Something was thrust into his paws. A canteen. He drank it up eagerly, feeling a light tingle as the fresh liquid ran down his throat. Immediately, it felt as if a veil had been taken off his eyes and his mind rebooted properly, the pain in his head lessening to a more tolerable threshold. In front of him, the pink blob cleared up, revealing itself as Lilian, the medic dragoness inspecting her superior with careful eyes.

“Better, sir?” She asked.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He handed her back the canteen. “What was that?”

“Diluted health potion. First-aid grade.” She replied curtly. “Not perfect, but it’s the best I could do against the concussion and it won’t waste our reserves. We’ll still need a proper examination once we’re back on the ship.

We? Ah right, she’d been struck with a club as well, as testified by the bandages she wore around her head, hiding a set of cracked scales oozing blood. He brushed a paw against the side of his head. Yep, she’d done the same to him. The blood would be a bitch to clean off his quills.

Easier to shrug it off when you’re a dragon though.

The tingle of the health potion’s magic faded away, leaving him oddly refreshed despite the head wound, mind clear enough to survey his surroundings as he pulled himself into a sitting position, one paw reaching to massage his sore tail. He still had his combat vest on, along with most of his gear, but their captors had taken his radio, the flare gun, and all his ammo and weapons. Boot knife included. He liked his clichés.

They were in a small cave, hardly tall enough for Skinner to stand up to his full height without hitting his head against the ceiling of dark, sharp volcanic stone. The only light came in through the gaps in the door, a little round thing made up of bark and palm leaves and held together with twine. It looked so flimsy too. A rough carved effigy was hanging just above the latch, its goofy grin almost taunting him.

According to his watch, it was already late afternoon. He’d been out a couple hours. Absently, Skinner got up in a crouch and reached for the door.

“With all due respect Captain, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Praveen spoke up, the cat sitting in a corner of the cave with her legs tucked against her chest, fiddling with the tip of her tail. “It’s enchanted. Painful too.” She winced, ears folding against her head.

Skinner sat back down, back against one of the cave walls. So the tribals had access to magic. Great. Now the four of them were stuck… Four…

Hold on…

“Where’s Marcos?” He blurted out. The burly eclectus parrot of a Chief Cook was absent from the cave.

“They took him.” Lilian said sullenly. “I was the first one to wake up, but as soon as I woke him up with a health potion a tribal barged in and dragged him away.”

“But why?”

“Beats me.” She glared at the door. “Could be that he’s a parrot like some of them. Maybe they’re more comfortable interrogating him rather than us. Maybe that’s because he was the first to fall so they’re not afraid of him.”

“How long?”

Lilian checked her watch. At least they still had most of their gear. That was a good sign. Probably.

“A little under two hours now.”

“I was out for that long?” Skinner jerked his head towards her.

“You’ve been hit in the temple with a club.” Lilian pointed out dryly.

“So were you.”

“I’m a dragon.” She stared at him flatly.

“Riight...” Skinner drawled before returning his eyes to the door.

His mind was still a bit hazy, but the gears were turning trying to make sense of their situation.

Satellite intel and ruins found in Roseau implied the locals had been normal months prior, before the hurricanes and the floods.

But then they’d been driven further inland… and proceeded to seed effigies and primitive craftwork along the way.

And now they’d gone tribal and turned hostile towards foreigners.

But why?

More worryingly, they were stuck in a cave without their radios. The rest of the crew must have sensed something was wrong when they didn’t come back and stopped reporting over the radio… but there was little they could do about it.

For one they didn’t have many decent fighters or veterans, and for seconds there weren’t that many of them to begin with. There should be… sixteen sailors left in Roseau and on the ship. Not exactly what you’d call an army.

Skinner sighed.

“I fear we’re going to have to escape on our own. Somehow.” He scowled at the door.

So fragile looking… yet he could feel the magic it was laced with. How ridiculous was it that something so flimsy and primitive could prevent their escape?

It wasn’t until a whole hour later that something happened. There was a commotion outside, some shuffling and flashes of colored feathers visible through the gaps in the door before a pair of burly parrots yanked it open. Skinner raised his arm to shield himself from the sudden brightness.

Unceremoniously, Marcos was thrown back inside their cell.The Chief Cook tumbled inside with a muted squawk. He had a worried look on his beak, though Skinner didn’t get to ask him a single question before the two parrots grabbed him by the arms and dragged him outside. He was still blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden change in sunlight when they twisted his arms behind his back and tied his paws together with a thick vine.

But now he got a look at the tribals’ settlement.

He had been right in assuming the islanders would seek refuge by the water reservoirs near the summits, because it was exactly where he had been taken. Nestled just below cloud level between a couple calderas was a lake, and on its banks, where the usually steep slopes evened out in a little grassy plateau, a village had been erected.

Not a modern one mind, though… there were some signs. Something that at some point must have been built to help tourists and hikers, maybe a bar, with some parking next to it.

It had been demolished now. The asphalt had been removed. The infrastructure pushed aside to replace asphalt and concrete with muddy paths and thatch huts raised on stilts. Of the touristic infrastructure, only a single ruin remained, stuffed to the brim with effigies and tribal symbols as though they were warding off evil.

For whatever reason, people here had decided to shun modernity and go back to a primitive lifestyle, without even a hint of metal.

One of his two wardens urged Skinner forward, and they proceeded to lead him away from the little cliff that held the cave/cell, through the village, and towards a larger, more elaborate, heavily-decorated hut with a raised platform in front of it.

In passing he did his best to take note of his surroundings. The village, as it was, consisted of roughly two dozen huts of varying shapes and sizes. Some were simple conical thatch huts. Others were more elaborate. Longhouses with wicker walls and little yards where they grew vegetables. Most had chimneys, some even had little kilns set up next to their porches, but nowhere did Skinner see anything actually advanced.

It was as though they had gone back a thousand years in time. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Closer to the shores of the reservoir, some little fields had been prepared, and a few poles emerging from the water implied they were also fishing.

One glance towards the higher side of the village, the part away from the lake that hugged the mountainous slopes, revealed that some of the inhabitants had chosen to nest there, digging little crevices buffed up with thatch roofs, along with some terraces for their fields.

And the islanders… he could see several dozen. Way more than should be present according to their intel, an even mix of hippogriffs and parrots, with the usual vivid mix of colors it involved as clusters of them gathered to look at the intruder as he was being dragged through the village, exchanging words in a language he couldn’t recognize.

Their attire matched the locale… or the lack thereof rather. Save for a few who wore loincloths, the vast majority of them had come to the realization that neither Ornithians nor hippogriffs had breasts, and that fur and feathers were enough to hide the ‘goods’. What remained then were satchels to hold their belongings, and accessories to parade around the village: belts, bracelets, beads intertwined in their crest feathers and other paraphernalia to stand out from the rest.

Another nudge in his back. The two parrots guiding him didn’t appreciate the staring. Skinner lowered his head and moved on.

Their tools weren’t advanced either, he noted. He couldn’t spot a single glint of metal in the whole village, steel having been replaced in their tools with carved obsidian. A bit more subtly this time, he carried on with his observations as he and his wardens drew closer to what he assumed to be the chieftain’s hut.

Despite their lack of anything advanced, there was also this arcane undertone permeating the whole area. Inscribings, effigies which he now noticed had some kind of magic to them, the biggest of which came from the sole display of modern technology in the whole village: a monument of sort, close to the chief’s hut, decorated with many effigies, flowers and stray feathers collected from the islanders to enshrine photos. Of humans. A monument for friends and relatives that had yet to return.

But the magic it carried? There was some kind of divine fuckery about, that at least Skinner was certain of.

A belief which was further reinforced when he took note of a pen, right next to where they kept their chickens. A pen currently occupied by a bunch of timberwolves, lazily lounging in the sun, watching passer-bys come and go. One of them raised its head when it spotted him, letting Skinner note the little harness it wore. Its attention didn’t stay on him. A caretaker dropped by and emptied a bushel of leaves in its trough.

“Ya fookin’ tamed these monstas?!” Skinner exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at the creatures.

The only response that got him was a not-so-subtle punch in the kidney. Right, he had a meeting with the chieftain… or whatever filled the role up here in crazytown. The hut was the biggest in the village, raised on a set of stilts that protruded slightly over the reservoir. It was tall enough to display its intricate decorations and painted roof for the whole village to see. Two wings made up its structure, each with its own entrance masked by a bead curtain, leading to a raised platform that overlooked the little town square Skinner was dragged in the middle of.

One swift kick brought him down to his knees. The warden on his left flashed his obsidian club. A clear message. Don’t try anything, or else…

Skinner caught the sound of hooves and claws shuffling inside the hut as he waited, some hushed words in a language he still couldn’t recognize. Seriously, weren’t they supposed to speak English in Dominica? Or some kind of Creole at least? After a short minute, a pair of creatures emerged, an Ornithian and an hippogriff.

The former he recognized as the timberwolf rider from earlier, a bright-feathered scarlet macaw wearing nothing but white warpaint and accessories in the way of belts, bracelets and necklaces that denoted his status, in addition to the same obsidian club he’d used to knock Skinner out. The Scot’s gaze must have lingered on the weapon a second too long because the parrot drummed his talons against it and smirked haughtily at him.

Prick.

Behind him was a hippogriff mare with a stern look on her beak. Much like the parrot, she wasn’t wearing much: green body paint that formed linear patterns on her pastel blue coat, beads in her crest feathers, flowery bracelets, and a headband that kept her light gray crest feathers out of her face. She didn’t have a weapon, just a small pouch whose herbal scent Skinner could sniff from where he was standing.

At first she didn’t address him. She fished a carved idol from her pouch and handed it to one of his warden, squawking a sharp order at the parrot who made a hasty retreat towards the valley.

Skinner didn’t say a thing.

After a minute, she finally spoke up.

“So this heathen has a bit of patience at least.” She scoffed. “Beats the last one.”

Marcos he assumed.

“I don’t think we’ve been acquainted yet.” Skinner said in as calm a tone as he could manage. “The name’s Captain Skinner, of Fugro Symphony. World Seafarer Union. I’m glad someone here is willing to speak English.”

Okay, maybe he could have said the last sentence without dripping sarcasm, but he was a sailor, not a diplomat.

“Not out of goodwill.” She sneered. “One among us must bear the dishonor of this ancestor-accursed tongue, and as Bohiqua the burden falls upon me. You may call me by my title and nothing else. The Cacique and I will be questioning you.” She said, pointing a talon at the warrior-macaw beside her.

Great way of starting off sparking more questions in his mind than it provided answers,he thought sardonically. Up on the platform, the ‘Cacique’ said something, in their weird tongue and the ‘Bohiqua’ leveled a glare at him.

“You’d best answer truthfully. Much of the answers we wanted, we already obtained from your companion. The Goddess-Mother may look more favorably upon him given his species… but you… You shall not get such lenience.”

“Gee, glad to know someone’s getting off lightly at least.” He snarked.

Bad idea. There was still a warden behind him, and he was keen to remind the hedgefog of his presence by painfully twisting his tail. Skinner gritted his teeth.

“I will not tolerate cheek from intruders.” The Bohiqua raised her voice, crest and tail feathers rising slightly as an ethereal aura appeared around her.

Great. A cleric. Or something along those lines. Just what he needed.

“For the record, the Goddess-Mother has uses for all she brings under her fold, and in her leniency she might decide your companion is worth integrating in the flock. We currently have an imbalance and could use more hens, I do know. Atabey would change his mind and body so he may fit the role.”

“May I at least be informed as to how we have wronged your people?” Skinner inquired, deciding to ignore the fact she’d just threatened to turn his Chief Cook into… some kind of broodmother.

The Bohiqua smirked.

“Invasion of our territory, trespassing upon sacred grounds, tampering with holy effigies and heresy.”

“Heresy?!” He cried out. “Bull! We came to this island to help your people and that’s what we get?!”

The warden behind him kicked him in the back and slammed him muzzle-down in the mud. The Ornithian then lifted a leg and planted it against the back of Skinner’s neck. Ornithians had prehensile feet, and Skinner could feel the agile talons wrap around his throat and squeeze.

With a flutter of her wings, the Bohiqua jumped off the platform and sat down on her haunches on the edge of his vision, lazily inspecting her talons.

“The people of Dominica have no need for assistance and the thinly-veiled treachery outlanders always slip with it. You’d pretend to be saviors only to keep us at the mercy of continental elites later on. We have enough problems dealing with those bloodthirsty Kalinagos as is...” She sneered at nothing in particular, eyes looking towards the north of the island. “Our people are past dealing with the outside world. We no longer need the hubris of technology and a crooked society that doomed us in the first place. The Goddess-Mother’s embrace shall see us through everything. Any new returnee that joins our flock, we purify through Atabey’s touch. No more English unless needed, a new name, a new life...”

Gal may not be asking many questions, but she sure was doing a good job of filling the blanks for him.

“Bold claim seeing how that turned out last time. The world catches up to isolationists. Always.” He grunted.

The Bohiqua lowered her head to his level.

“Magic is on our side. All our gods and ancestors stand behind us, they help us raise wards around our island, they warp the monsters that would threaten us into servants, they’ve reunited families separated by the cataclysm, they’ve helped us learn how to live past the chimeras of consumerism. We are reborn for a greater purpose. Soon our power will be such that Guabancex will raise her heavenly wrath against any intrusions such as yours. No ship shall sully our shores unless the divines will it.”

“Good for you...” Skinner drawled. “So I guess you’re going to let us go so we can tell everyone not to bother you people? I mean, you said you had questions but I’ve mostly heard gloating so far.”

The Bohiqua’s beak parted in a smirk and she chuckled.

“Fool. Such is not my decision to take, and you’ve yielded all the answers I need already.”

What.

She raised her talons to her beak, Skinner only then noticing the slight shimmer around them as she flicked them this way and that. A faint aura he had failed to notice faded from his vision.

“Convenient isn’t it? Atabey is generous in handing out powers to her servants.” She laughed. “I must say, I wouldn’t be able to pull it off were it not for all the wards we’ve raised around the village, but it makes it incredibly easy to learn the truth. Figures a Captain such as you would know more than a cook...” She tapped a talon against the side of her beak. “Come to think of it, a cook isn’t that bad an addition to the tribe. Atabey knows he will improve the cuisine. Or she, rather. We need hens.”

Skinner glared. For a brief second, he felt his electric powers flare up in his quills, but it was brought short when the warden with the talons around his neck put more weight on him and squashed his muzzle in the mud.

“Yer maw mus’ be fookin’ proud ye wankstain!” He insulted the warden, the Scot in him rising up. “Dampot like ye, bein’ a cocksleeve fur a piece o’ shite witch!”

“Don’t bother. They don’t understand English anymore.” The Bohiqua drew closer and tapped a talon against his snout. “Or read it for that matter. Ensures we don’t stray from Atabey’s path. Neat, right?”

“Yer’ off kilter.”

“And you’re deluded. Look where all that fancy technology got us. Wiped a whole species. Destroyed millenia of advancement because we strayed… and yet you chose to go down the same road. I won’t let that happen to my island. I was like you once, but then the hurricane happened, and I searched the mountains for shelter, safety for my people. Goddess-Mother Atabey showed me the way.”

“Quit yer ramblin’ and be done with it!” He yelled at her.

“So be it...” The Bohiqua stood up and fanned her wings. “Tomorrow you’ll be brought to Atabey for your judgment. No mortal shall bypass her authority.”

She barked an order in that language he had yet to identify, and the warden forcefully hoisted him up on his feet. He tried to spit in her face, but beyond missing by a country mile the only thing it earned him was to be punched in the gut by none other than an irate Cacique.

Fucking zealots…

As he was being dragged back to the cave, Skinner took note of where the Bohiqua was looking pointedly. The summit that overlooked the village, from which a thick vapor column rose above the caldera.

Oh for fuck’s sake, can’t you be any more cliché?

Meanwhile in Mexico, the first day had come and gone rather quietly, if dully. With the locals still debating among themselves, there wasn’t much to be done except for routine work and maintenance, as was always the case on a ship. The only exception to that came when the militia’s leader (Samuel if memory served) turned up to hammer down some details regarding security and how they could guard the ships.

Lightly that is. A matter of being diplomatic and not upsetting the locals. Samuel asked them not to deploy any of their APC’s (God forbid they pulled out the CV90) and to please limit the amount of machineguns they set up to guard Amandine’s ramp. The refinery already had a security perimeter after all.

So an armed gangway watch was what they settled for. A couple sentries to keep an eye out for unwanted visitors, and ready to raise the alarm for the rest if the refinery was actually breached. It soothed Dilip’s concerns. If anything bad happened, he could rely on the sailors on sentry duty to rouse the whole ship.

After that… well… not much else happened. A couple sailors including Angelo loaded up a Unimog with their own loot to go barter with the locals at their warehouses. They had plenty of excess cigars, liquor and DVD’s to trade after all.

Dilip also got the opportunity of seeing the veterans gather up groups for sport. The ex-mil folks from both ships gathered the crews in groups of various fitness and species, loudly barking orders before they set off on a jog around the refinery.

Fitness was important after all. Peeps may come back in good shape thanks to their transformation, but you had to maintain that level of fitness afterwards. Cardio’s important. Moreso after the apocalypse. There ought to be a rule about that somewhere. From up on the bridge where he was standing, sorting through nautical publications, Dilip saw one of the jogging groups stop by the barracks and start a football match with the local militia.

Good on them. Some stuff like that managed to transcend language barriers.

His attention didn’t linger on them for long, paperwork called.He needed to sort through some new intel files. Roberto was off-duty at the moment, apparently eager to meet a significant other he’d met on Rhine Forest. A gal by the name of… Lekan was it? The lass Miss Jensen liked to bring on her radio broadcasts.

Either way, his Intel Officer deserved the time off for his date… which left him to process the new data.

In front of his eyes were copies of weather charts, each taken at intervals of one day.

Not for the weather forecast actually. Those were elsewhere on the bridge. That one was their log on the location of those demonic pirates. He eyed the charts critically. Each tracked the weather formations that followed the pirate vessels, little dots progressing around the world map with several lines of notes written next to them. Speculations about their targets, range, firepower.

All of them had grouped up above ten days prior near Cape Horn, where a constant storm implied the position of one of the two demons. Charybdis or Scylla, Dilip didn’t know, but they had split up shortly after that. Two of them prowled around the Pacific, one of which was fast enough to be an airship, whereas the other just lingered around the Australian coastline.

In the Atlantic, a single blotch hovered near the Gulf of Guinea. By measuring its speed and comparing it to prior data, Dilip was near certain it was the warship that had attacked Sao Paulo. Right then, its general direction implied it would make a hit of another metropolis. Lagos.

Good. If it was busy that meant Skinner and Fugro would have plenty of time to react if it crossed over to Brazil.

He would have happily kept going through all this paperwork, were it not for him being interrupted by the ringing of the interphone.

“Good evening Captain. Gangway watch here. There’s a… Diamond Dog here. The foreman. Says he’s here to pick you up for your meeting with Miss Carmelita.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.” Dilip said resignedly, hanging up with a loud sigh.

That was promising to be awkward… yet he did need to meet her. If only to know what were the threats to be found in the region. Closing the folder he’d been working on, he made his way down the stairs and towards the awaiting gangway, stopping briefly in his cabin to change into a clean set of clothes and to grab a tie he was just finishing tying up when he reached Amandine’s stern ramp.

Barely any words were exchanged with the D-Dog that had come to pick him up as he drove him to their HQ just as the sun started its descent towards the horizon. The former office building still stood near the refinery’s entrance, its tinted windows having gained a rosy sheen in the fading sunlight. Dilip was led inside and through a lobby that showed off the extent of the modifications done to the whole structure. Now less like a place of business and paperwork, it had gained more vivid colors, with a homey touch and the pleasant smell of spices drafting from the kitchens as its inhabitants gathered inside the refectory for their evening meal.

Dilip didn’t join them. Instead someone pointed him to a set of elevators in the back of the marble-floored lobby. He didn’t understand much of what the locals said – not too many English-speakers this far south in Mexico-, but the gist of it was that he was expected on the top floor. Carmelita’s dwellings, as she had mentioned earlier that day.

The elevator’s doors slid aside, opening up to a dull yellow carpet that led visitors to the secretary’s desk, currently unstaffed. Two doors on either side might have led to the former exec’s office and maybe a meeting room, but they remained shut, inviting Dilip to carry on through a third one just ahead behind the desk, from which drafted the scent of grilled meat.

A penthouse, of sorts. Opulent, it boasted dark gray flagstonespolished to a fine sheen that squeaked under his boots as he made his way inside. The room was narrow, arrayed with a long dining table in its center, the walls being decorated with a mix of plastic ferns and rough volcanic rocks that gave it a savage atmosphere made all the more eerie by the pinkish light that passed through the tinted windows overhead in the ceiling. Subtly hidden doors on the sides likely led to a kitchenette or some such, but the centerpoint of the whole room was behind the dining table. A small set of stairs as dark as the tiles that led up to the bedroom with fountains on either side of it, little waterfalls that added to the wild ambiance.

The table was set for two, with the whole nine yards of candles, wines and plates awaiting under stainless steel domes.

“Impressive isn’t it? Exec was making off like a bandit with all that stuff, and that asshole was still trying to dismantle unions.” Carmelita appeared atop the stairs, her footsteps near-silent despite her size. “At least he had taste, I have to concede him that much.”

Dilip’s muzzle was unreadable as he looked at the border collie. Gone was her utilitarian attire from earlier. She had shed it in favor of a simple white silk bathrobe loosely kept shut around her waist, its fabric arranged just so that it revealed more cleavage than would be considered decent in a less private setting.

“It looks rather nice indeed.” The Indian said carefully as he watched her pad down the stairs, one paw trailing over the banister. “May I?” He inquired, waving a paw towards the dining table.

“Of course, of course!” She smiled widely, though the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind beef? I heard your name was...”

“Prateek. From Mumbai, but call me Dilip.” He said, quickly raising a paw to placate her. “But it’s no trouble. I never was a good Hindu.”

“And I, a catholic.” She sat down at her own end of the table, pouring herself a glass of wine before she offered him the carafe. “I wasn’t aware Indians could turn into dogs.”

“It’s a mix of Diamond Dogs and Abyssinians – cats that is-, though I’m under the impression the latter are more likely to come from the eastern side of the subcontinent. It’s...” He trailed off. “… not an exact science. Merchant crews tend to be so mixed they’re a poor representation of what species a country might turn into.” He told as he began digging into his meal.

Not a bad one mind. It was… refreshing to enjoy something that wasn’t Rahul’s overspiced meals. The beef was fresh, rare. He liked the taste of blood mixing with the juice after every bite. You wouldn’t be able to cook that too often around herbivores. Most herbivores on Amandine were desensitized, but they had their limits still.

“Interesting. I’m surprised. Cats and dogs are among the most common around here too… but we have parrots from the Yucatan. I didn’t expect we’d have so much in common with India.” She commented between two bites of her own meal.

Still, Dilip noted how she was leaning forward, trying to subtly (not really) expose more cleavage. A nipple slipped out before she quickly caught the edge of her robe.

“There are close to two hundred countries, and our books only list about two dozen species that humans might turn into upon returning. Similarities are bound to occur, no?” He stated, matter-of-factly. “That aside, may I express my concerns as to what may be threatening your colony? Me and my fleet are well-traveled, we’ve faced multiple threats in the past, so I’m curious. My Chief Officer reported you said something about… a god I believe?”

Carmelita’s smile disappeared.

“That would be Xolotl. Of all the problems we have, he’s probably the biggest.” She told, voice low. “Because somehow, cartels and ancient death gods couldn’t just stay separate.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Damn indeed. Xolotl is… I’m no expert in the Aztec pantheon, but he is sort-of the guard dog of the underworld. Literally I mean: he’s a dog god.”

“So how did the two combine?” Dilip calmly asked, taking a sip of his wine, his plate now finished.

“At first we had the situation under control. The refinery’s easy to defend, and we have a good stash of guns to help with that thanks to the naval artillery station and the marines battalion Samuel’s from, so we had the advantage. The cartels… Some were from Los Zetas, others came from further inland, Beltran-Leyva, Juarez… the mix worked in our favor. There was a lot of infighting and with Samuel we managed to play our cards right to keep them at bay. That was good because there’s also a trickle of monsters coming from the north. Chupacabras mostly, but we had to blow a MILAN to kill a hydra once. The cartels are still worse.”

“Let me guess, they found a temple or a shrine and everything changed.” Dilip deadpanned, now more comfortable with the discussion underway.

“Correct.” She pushed her empty plate aside and held her head in her paws. “That united them somehow. High-priestess Atzi leads them now and… their rites… they’ve changed. More than just brainwashing, though there is a bit of that at play too. They’ve mutated.”

“Come again?”

“They call themselves Los Lobos now, and there’s a reason for that. The High-Priestess just couldn’t stand to have regular dogs at her service, so she had Xolotl change them. D-Dogs aren’t supposed to have subspecies, yet now we have wolf-dogs, and the cats they had, she turned them into legit jaguar warriors.”

Dilip leaned back in his chair, blank-faced.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Carmelita’s laugh was empty.

“Wish I was. Wolf-dogs… we’ve managed to nail one once. They’re… about fifty percent larger than you and I are, a lot stronger, faster, more aggressive… and they’re fucking zealots of course. Most don’t even speak Spanish anymore, except for the High-Priestess, probably to ensure loyalty.”

“On the bright side they’re tribals, right? Savages. Gives you the tech advantage.”

She remained silent.

“I mean… Aztec right?” Dilip laughed. “They just come at you with clubs wearing feathers and war paint. Shouldn’t be much trouble, you give them the conquistadooo…” He noticed her look and trailed off. “Xolotl is being pragmatic isn’t he?”

Carmelita nodded.

“Cartels used to have a lot of traitors in them. Former spec-ops, army, marines, swayed by big money. Most sicarios don’t fight that way, thankfully, but they’ll use guns and modern tactics alright. Cost us the lives of three militia members last month, with twice that injured. They have guns, mutants, and magic. We have guns, naval cannons, and a good set of fortifications. The monsters popping here and there or coming from the north we can keep at bay… Los Lobos? That’s a bit harder.”

“Shit… that’s worse than the convicts we crossed path with in the US.” Dilip trailed off.

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back and out of the corner of his eye he saw Carmelita sashay her way around to his side of the table, still with that exaggerated motion in her hips.

“I love my country you know. Mexico is a beautiful country through and through… but it has its issues. It’s rough, now more dangerous than ever, but when you look past the criminals profiting off a flawed system, we're hard working people.” She whispered, coming behind Dilip and putting her paws on his shoulders, leaning to whisper in his ears.

He could smell her perfume. Flowery, fresh, subtle enough that it didn’t hide her natural scent, itself laced with an aftertaste of oils and chemicals from her work at the refinery. With the size difference, she easily loomed over him. Her grip on his shoulders tightened slightly.

“I won’t stand to see Mexico fall to the same pitfalls that hindered it before the Event changed everything. I may only be able to influence this region, but I’ll do anything to set it on the right path.” She whispered in his ear, putting emphasis on anything.

Author's Notes:

Welp, if that wasn't obvious there will be a sex scene next chapter. Don't worry if that's not your stuff, I'll mark it out so you can avoid it. Same as the previous one... which was over 40 chapters back probably.

Yeah, it's a mature story with a sex tag but that's more 'cause I can't be arsed to censor myself.

Otherwise, we now get a glimpse of what can occur with distinctly less benevolent divinities. I figure brainwashing followers and turning them into mutant warriors is a step above what other gods do to their clerics (like Aleksei).

On a meta level, Alden is currently unable to help me proofread the story and likely won't be for a good while. I usually do two runs of editing on chapters before I publish them so it's not that jarring a change, but I could always use a proofreader to prevent me from writing nonsense, if anyone's up for volunteering.

Oh and lastly: when I port over from my .odt file to Fimfic, it seems to remove spaces between words a lot. And horizontal lines. No idea why, but I try to correct it whenever it happens.