“To share the supreme knowledge;

you, with corporeal eyes,

may see what the vain science

of erring and miserable mortals cannot“

– The Lusiads, Luís Vaz De Camões

“No guns.”

Crane stared at Stalwart as she stood in front of the door to the cold outside, holding his lever-action in her aura - pointed upwards, thankfully.

Alice was by Crane’s side, fiddling with the saddlebags Skewer had prepared while Joanne was trying to help her, to no avail. The slender mare looked uncomfortable, looking every which way with her ears on the fritz, uncertain on burying them in her azure mane. Probably just jitters born from the incoming mission.

Crane was more worried about resisting the urge to snatch his gun from Stalwart’s field, keeping his scowl at a minimum. “We’re going for a convoy raid. I want my gun.”

“Which is classified as a seeding mission, with minimal resistance no less.” Stalwart clearly didn’t care much about hiding her own nasty face. It flew high and proud on her muzzle. “No guns.”

“Seeding mission? Don’t start with your Trailblazer terminology.” Crane locked his arms together, flicking his eyes up to his floating gun and then Alice. “How am I gonna teach the mare without a bloody gun?”

Stalwart scrunched her muzzle up. “Not my problem you took to solving everything with a bullet. Tartarus, this might even teach you a thing or two about our ideals.” She tapped Crane in the stomach.

He didn’t flinch at the jab, opting to stare at her with a raised brow. “How long do you plan on cheesing me off?”

“As long as it takes for you to act like PER.” She floated up another gun, a much thinner one resting by the door, and threw it at him. “Better not think your three month vacation made me forget. Take the bucking air rifle, the car’s already got some vials - it’s in the same clearing we usually leave it at. ‘Ours is to heal and be reborn’, remember?”

Crane pressed his teeth together to refrain from grumbling. How could he not remember? They just added ‘reborn’ to Caitlyn North’s slogan and called it a day.

Joanne had finished helping Alice with her bags, as she now stood in front of the mare. “Don’t let him do anything stupid, Ms. LeBlanc.” She leaned in, hand in the side of her mouth in a mock attempt to quiet her faux-whispered words. “Frank can be really pigheaded. It’s not his fault, it’s the brit in him.”

Crane didn’t look back at them, busying himself with adjusting the strap on the rifle, but a smirk was present as he incarnated the best Londonian he could. “I’ll have you know, you’re off your trolley. That’s pure rubbish.”

A giggling Joanne was worth the momentary pain of dipping back into that accent. “Eww, beurk. No, don’t ever do that, you sound like Bucky.” She turned back to Alice and her conspiratory whispering. “Forget the brit, he’s just pigheaded.”

Alice had a timid grin as she looked back and forth between the man and the girl. “I will… take that into consideration, Joanne.”

This human was a puzzle to Alice. The difference between his behaviour outside, when they first met in the snow, was such a stark contrast to inside the lodge, she had nearly reeled back.

He was yet another question put before Alice - one that reminded her too much of Quick Cure when they first met - and also one that would not have its answer in the end of the textbook.

Such was the nature of her area of expertise, helping mend minds. No true answers, just accurate guesses. It didn’t help that she was feeling rather uncomfortable with going on official business so soon - Crane hadn’t even taught her anything yet!

But he was once again back to few words, fewer humours. Leading her through the almost barren trees and uneven white ground, stopping Alice every so often to go a few paces in front and check if everything was clear.

Sometimes he reminded her of a wounded animal, desperately looking every which way for the predator hiding in the bushes, so it could know where to start running. And other times, especially when he went far enough ahead and thought Alice wasn’t looking, he took the mantle of the hunter. Not watching in caution, but searching with purpose.

Scauper, the gray griffon with the odd accent, had told Alice about the unknown group settled somewhere north of them, and she had the distinct impression Crane wouldn’t mind too much if he encountered them.

Just another thing to add to the list of ‘did not expect, muzzle up and deal with it’, that Alice was mentally keeping track of. The list was longer than she'd have liked, and that too went into the list. Recursion was a wonderful, horrible thing.

Their vehicle came up after a considerable amount of time wading their silent path. It was resting in a clearing close to the main paved road, with some snow mounds clinging to its wheels. Alice wondered if leaving it on the open like that was a wise move, but kept the criticism to herself.

Crane opened it with the keys Stalwart had given them, and quickly motioned for Alice to enter by the passenger side.

The inside wasn’t exactly grand or extravagant. Not like the synergetic Earth checkpoint where she arrived, or the cosy lodge that Stalwart had her group in. But it did stand out on its own.

It was cold machinery with a warm tapestry pulled over it. The entrails of the car weren’t purring yet, but they held power in their every piece. She could feel the cold steel and electrically-conductive materials - hallmarks of humanity - stranded behind the silky cloth of the seats and the rubbery sensation of the carpets. Like a powerful beast whose intestines had been made comforting to those that inhabited it.

Ooh, that was a good one. Alice pulled the notebook that she had sneaked into the saddlebags and noted her musings down, adding a quick sketch of the interior for good measure.

There was a cardboard box in the backseat, filled with glass bottles that clinked as they settled themselves, one large and bulky while the others were small, with feathers tied to the top.

Crane pulled two colorful orbs from his now unslung backpack, added them inside that very box and rested his thin gun smelling of grapes by the side of his seat.

One turn of the keys and a quiet roar of the engine, and they were on their way to this ‘Confederation Bridge’. A trip that shouldn’t take more than one hour, according to Crane. The roads were mostly silent as they ran their course.

Too silent, Alice noted. She might as well take a page from Trotted Path’s book and strike up a friendly chat. She and Crane were going to spend quite some time together, after all, and it’d help clear the air.

She turned towards him, a polite smile on her lips. “So... What does Stalwart want us to do?”

Maybe asking him about it would help ease the pit forming in her stomach. She felt like she was going into a room blindfolded, and was expected to perform perfectly.

He refused the polite gesture and didn’t turn as well, keeping his eyes on the road. “Stalwart would much rather we stay back twiddling our thumbs. Quick Sight and Pochard want us commandeering a lone truck. They are the ones sourcing this.”

Her smile remained through his somewhat cold shoulder, but it was now laced with confusion. “Pochard? I don’t think that name ever came up.” She rubbed her forehooves together, the smile turning sheepish. “Admittedly, my knowledge of the Fixers is not as encompassing as I’d like it to be.”

He twitched his eyes to her, then back to the road, face tinged with some curiosity of his own. “You got through Quick Sight’s absurd standards without knowing who Jones Pochard is?”

Alice’s response was a simple shrug. To be honest, she had never been interviewed by Sir Quick Sight. Only the Loyalty Guard bothered with the personal checks. And it wouldn’t be the first time she had gotten through limiting standards with some cheeky back-and-forth of her own. Politics ran in the blood, whether she liked it or not.

It was the first time she did it without her family’s intervention or the gentry’s support, however. And what a wonderful feeling that had been, as if stretching wings she never really had and just leaping. To glide into a spot in the Sun all her own... even if Earth’s sun wasn’t quite the one she grew up with.

Crane clicked his tongue, mulling over something in his head. “Pochard was the first. He created the Fixers out of his old PER cell, and Quick Sight was his first volunteer - the only pony one for quite some time.”

Alice listed her head to the side, something not quite adding up about Crane’s explanation and what she knew for a fact. “Wait. I thought Sun- Golden Nova was your leader.”

Crane narrowed his eyes, yet kept them forward. “She is. The official head, that is. Stays on the other side of the Barrier playing politics with her equestrian Fixers. Pochard is the acting head, the ideal to hold the rest of us up to. There's a lot of back and forth between them, especially after Pochard disappeared for almost half a year.”

The ideal Fixer… whose practices and standards Alice had absolutely no idea how to fit. Because she didn’t even know he existed in the first place.

Ugh! Could this man just… slow down and do things as a teacher should? Lesson first, aptitude test later. Even Doctor Sinew knew that much, horrid professor that he was.

Alice reigned in her frustration, trying for a diplomatic tone. “I, uh… are you sure we should be going on a mission so soon, then? Clearly there are some... things I wasn’t made aware of, and-”

“This one’s time sensitive, so no going back.” He finally looked away from his precious road and to the mare sitting shotgun. “Relax. This should be pretty quiet anyway.”

The Confederation Bridge was an enormous thin line that disappeared into the horizon. The thing was supposed to connect mainland Canada with Prince Edward Island, using a box girder structure to achieve that task.

Crane didn’t really know all the history behind it. He heard some locals calling it ‘The Fixed Link’, but that was about it.

He had stopped the car in the little road that went under the end of the bridge. Stretching his neck out the window, he could see quite nicely any trucks approaching from the north. He couldn’t, however, read their plates from down there.

He killed the car’s engine and tugged at his gloves. “Alright. I’ll have to go up and wait. You stay in the car.”

Alice opened her mouth, maybe to protest, but decided on saying nothing. One of her ears was attentive, yet the other was folded back.

Crane reached for the box in the back, pushing aside a large gallon of vinegar and picking two orbs that swirled with multicolored paint. With them and the air rifle in hand, he threw open the door and got out. He barely heard Alice uncertainly wishing him good luck.

Crawling up to the little hill the bridge ended on, he found a spot in the tall grass that served well enough to watch all the comers and goers without being seen. With the sun setting soon, the movement was very slow, if not outright non-existent.

The reason was simple enough: the Barrier was coming, and this bridge was the main connection between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. When the time came, it’d be the first thing the Empire would want destroyed, stranding everyone left on the Island to potion bombardment. Most people who recognized the death-trap left it long ago.

Not all, though. One car passed by harmlessly, looking for all the world like it was just going on a slow tour. Five minutes later and a van came, this one with some bags strapped at the top - nothing of note.

He could see Alice’s muzzle frowning by the windshield, her ears folding ever more backwards. Don’t like sitting still, Ms. LeBlanc?

It was only in the eleventh minute that Crane spotted a truck, coming through the lonely bridge with no other vehicles accompanying it. The number of the plate tugged his lips up: ‘Y29 693’. It was going faster than the speed limit would demand, betraying the hurry of the driver to reach his destination.

Not fast enough to throw Crane’s aim off, however. He was PER after all - hurling things with force and precision was kind of in the job description.

The grenade hit the mark, right on the grill of the vehicle. In the same instant, color exploded and engulfed the whole front, solidifying a second later. The tires locked in their position, and the brakes weren’t fast enough.

The truck left the lane, then the pavement, and crashed down the hill.

The impact on the tree by the side road - just in front of the abandoned Cape Jourimain Nature Centre - almost made Crane wince. The tree was tilted by the force of the hit, but its roots held it in place.

He threw an okay signal back to the car and Alice nodded slowly, her deep blue eyes quivering as she chewed on her cheek.

Huh, he wasn’t really expecting her to recognize the gesture. He’d done it on instinct.

‘Always communicate. Keep the intel flowing. Fail that, and those fecking bastards will have you by the balls.’

Crane shook his head as he looked back at the Confederation Bridge’s length, seeing far into the other end. Nobody was coming. He was clear to run to the ‘accident’.

He slowed down once he approached the scene, one hand on the air rifle strapped to his back. The truck, surprisingly enough, held strong. The glass wasn’t broken, the fuselage was only slightly dented, no smoke was coming off the motor. The glue grenade had done the trick, the hard crust taking the brunt of the damage.

The front door, slightly ajar, was thrown open as a chubby man dropped from it. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, his head bleeding from an unseen injury hidden by the thinning brown hair.

Crane kneeled next to him to check if he was still breathing… he was. Knocked out cold and barely alive, but alive nonetheless. They could probably just tie him and-

Something fell from the back of the truck, a heavy thump marking their presence.

Crane snapped his eyes up, seeing armored boots from under the truck’s carriage. Someone in the back had opened the doors and dropped to the road.

He’d seen those types of boots with mint-green highlights before. Better yet, he saw bastards wearing that thing survive frontal spell hits and .308 gut shots at less than a hundred meters. PHL ceremonial armor. Wholly potion-proof.

The air rifle strapped to his back felt pretty useless right about now.

“What the fuck was that, Rusty?” the soldier yelled in a high-pitched voice. Female, probably late twenties. She sounded disoriented.

Being low to the ground already, Crane saw the opportunity and quickly crawled in the underside of the truck, keeping her feet in sight the whole time. The asphalt pebbles scattered by the crash prickled his forearms through his clothing, but none perforated it.

There was no way he was going to take this woman down without some advantage. Her armor would absorb any kind of punch he could throw. And, if he remembered right, the neck covering would leave enough room that choking her out would take far too long.

‘No resistance’ his ass. Stalwart might as well have crippled him for this.

The soldier stomped her way to the left of the truck - Crane’s right - intending to check on the driver, probably. She stopped in her tracks, though, gasping at seeing him laying on the ground, bleeding.

“Ah, shit. Rusty!”

That moment of shock-and-stop was all Crane needed. He grasped the metal curtain in the side of the truck, curled his leg in and heaved. His foot shot out right into the back of her knee.

The armored leg didn’t just buckle, as Crane thought it would. It flew up, like a kite with a strong gust of wind. Her body fell in tandem, momentum snapping her head on the ground with a plastic-sounding thud.

Crane couldn’t lose the pressure now, lest she recompose herself. Pulling himself out from under the truck, he threw his own body at her, pinning her legs with both his knees.

She had a rifle - M16, modern handguard with a vertical foregrip, a sucker for the old reliable. There was a strap keeping it tight on her torso, so no chance of taking it away.

Her right hand went for the gun. She managed to fold her fingers on the grip, but that was as far as she got. Crane’s left hand seized her wrist and kept it away from aiming at him.

She still managed to squeeze the trigger. A hail of explosions called off and metal plinks, rocky splinters and a meaty thud replied in kind. The barrel soared erratically with the recoil.

Crane couldn’t risk another burst. Even with the clean bridge, somebody might check on the sound, a bullet might ricochet on him… he had to take her out. There had to be a weakness.

Both their muscles burned, teeth bared as they tried to overpower one another. Crane was taking the edge, forcing her down ever so slowly. Her free left arm was thrashing about, hitting him on the shoulder pad harmlessly. She didn’t have the reach to hit his face.

What he recognized between the flailing limb, was that her gas-mask was of old design. From before the PHL R&D came up with a better version. Nearly impossible to forcibly remove... but at the cost of having a brittle unified visor.

Jackpot.

Crane hammered his fist into the transparent cover, the solid knuckles of his gloves bouncing with a resounding whump.

Instead of the energy being redirected, as it would’ve been by the newer equipment, the visor absorbed it all. He could see the woman’s green eyes wince in an unconscious reaction as she grunted from the impact.

A little white crack slithered on the side, by one of the many pins.

Crane didn’t stop, abusing her confusion from the first blow. Another hit, and the cracks engorged. One more, and he felt the air hissing from the fissures, the pressure pushing it out. He hoisted a fourth, and brought it down mercilessly.

Her face flew to the side with the power behind the punch, shards of the protective casing flying alongside it like droplets of rain reflecting the sun. The visor lay broken.

He reared his fist for a final blow, this one to be a knockout.

Except her left arm was reaching to her waist. Crane saw the round device strapped there, and the two knobs ready to be tapped. A shield-generator, fully charged but switched off.

If that thing went on...

He changed the target of his reared fist, going instead for her left elbow. Not enough to crack her forearm - though a weak-spot, his punch was no bullet - but enough to pin her arm to the ground, away from the generator.

Unfortunately, with both hands being held like a clumsy couple in the middle of a dance, Crane was open for the perfect headbutt.

Her forehead impacted his nose - the goddamned nose again - and some of the pieces of the visor scraped his skin. Darkness exploded in the corners of his vision.

The woman had put so much desperate force in the headbutt, Crane fell backwards with a groan of pain. And she didn’t let up.

Maybe in the heat of the moment, she forgot about her gun. She looked young, after all. Little training. Probably got in the PHL through a pony friend of hers. Or maybe she thought his own reinforced kevlar would hinder her bullets. In any case, she chose to fall on top of Crane, hands grasping his throat.

The position of her arms didn’t let him abuse the opening in her visor. He tried hitting her elbows again, but they held strong.

She squeezed his neck harder, eyes squinted in anger. It was obvious she didn’t have the strength to break Crane’s neck, but she could still restrict his airflow.

He tried punching her abdomen… no luck. The ceramic piece protected it too well. He might as well be lightly shoving her there.

His fingers were becoming numb. His lungs burned, begging to receive the oxygen that never came. He had to come up with something in the next minute or he was done for.

Think, don’t panic. Where is the opening?

Her arms were locked in. Her torso was protected. She had him down to rights... but her stance was unstable. If he could prop himself on his forearm, he would have enough leverage to turn her over. Her gun was also awfully loose now...

A bottle hit the woman in the face, breaking apart in a dozen shards as her head snapped backwards. Some purple liquid sprayed back alongside spittle and blood. She yelped in pain.

And then she screamed.

Alice had heaved the bottle as hard as she could with her magic. Maybe too hard, considering she felt something give as she hit the human on top of Crane.

But she didn’t know what else to do! That soldier, a woman maybe? She was attacking Crane, and then she heard the same explosions from before - gunshots! - and… and she was supposed to sit back and watch? Hope whatever was left could be healed?

She was trembling slightly, magic still holding the broken bottle with the feather tied to it, but the situation seemed to have calmed down. Crane had gotten to his knees, massaging his throat, while the woman…

Oh, dear Celestia, the woman.

Her armor highlighted in mint-green had ripped in certain parts as her limbs bulged. Little pores littered her skin like maggots in their nests, crawling all over and leaving their trails in the color of purple fur. Snapping and warping bone, deciphering how best to serve the new chrysalid.

Her eyes scuttering about, independent of each other, slowly but surely glazing over. Their irises bleached clean of their green, growing in size to their new blue pools of color. Her ears were climbing on her skull, leaving spots of discolored flesh as they accommodated themselves on the top of the head.

Then were the wails that gripped Alice’s stomach and cinched her mind. Cries of terror and the gurgles of someone being drowned. No matter how deep she buried her ears, the sounds kept ringing. They had come knocking, and it was her turn to answer.

A hand reached out to her. Maybe in anger, maybe in desperation, maybe just sinews stretching rigidly. Alice couldn’t know. The fingers in it didn’t last long enough to convey any message. They snapped back, rolling onto themselves as a snail would when flayed by salt.

Then they disappeared, the whole hand pulling back into the sleeve, leaving a flacid piece of protection to clunk listlessly in the asphalt.

There was a golden logo printed on the piece: a lyre. The lyre. Scuffed, discolored, and with a drop of viscous purple liquid slowly dancing its way down, to the soundless tune of the strings, until it dripped on the ground. A lonely plip.

Finally, silence. The mass of armor and cloth carefully covering whatever lay inside, unmoving, like the wrappings of a newborn... no, not a newborn. A Newfoal.

A gloved hand suddenly reached over Alice’s face, and she almost shrieked. As it were, the sound caught on her throat, choking itself in a pitiful mewl.

“Hey... hey!” It was Crane’s gruffy voice. “Don’t go frolicking on your thoughts, now. Breathe.”

He had pulled Alice’s sight away from the… that. His eyes bore into her, brows pulled down. Was it concern? Contempt? She couldn’t decipher anything right now.

“T-that…” Alice drew a shaky breath, some part of her mind trying to follow his advice. “That was…”

“Yeah. Battle variants are that way.” Something about his frown… Alice felt there was a lot more he wanted to say, yet he didn’t. “She’ll be... fine.”

Alice sure hoped so. There were the weak reminders in her mind: this was for the better. It was everypony’s duty. Not only to Equestria, not only as a doctor, not only to the Queen… but to Harmony itself.

But those reminders were feeling pretty weak at the moment, pushed aside by the bloated feelings that spewed from that scene and stitched themselves into her soul. Alice’s shuddering, almost hiccuping breaths spoke well enough of it.

She was shocked out of her brooding by two purple legs clutching her neck and a warm face caressing hers in an affectionate nuzzle.

“Oh, thank you so much!” chirped a voice. A familiar voice.

Alice snapped her neck around, horn glowing and ready to… to something. The two large blue eyes that met her stopped any action, however. Those blue pools, that voice...

It was the woman- the mare. She had a smooth, almost glistening purple coat and deep blue eyes that weren’t entirely focused, lost on whatever thoughts were going through her own mind, probably. The short gray mane on the top of her head, in a mohawk, stood in contrast to her dark coat like a beacon streaking by the middle of a rainy night.

Alice noted the two wings resting on her back, with firm muscles and lean feathering - a rather dashing pegasus. She was… smiling. No, not just smiling, beaming from ear to ear.

It spoke of joy, but stood with such contrast to what achieving that joy entailed... Alice couldn’t help but feel the needles pricking her spine, all the way down to her tailbone.

“Y-you…?” Alice stuttered. Words were floating around her head, yet she could not catch a single one.

The Newfoal left the hug that Alice didn’t reciprocate, holding her wing out in a greeting. “Glass Breaker, ma’am. At your service!”

Alice saw Crane giving a pointed look at Breaker’s greeting, eyes way too narrowed at those last words. He turned back with a resigned grumble and went to kneel by the other human man, lying on the road motionless.

Usually, Alice would have joined him. In a better state of mind, she would have noticed the pool of blood by the unknown man’s body and jumped to help him however she could. Humans couldn’t support healing spells without serious risks, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use good old fashioned Earth pony techniques.

However, right now, the state of her mind was far from the best it could be. The Newfoal in front of her robbed the little she could manage to think. She was a siphon for her worries, tunneling them all to herself.

Alice held a shaky foreleg over her breast. “I’m L-LeBlanc. You... you thanked me?”

Breaker nodded enthusiastically, with obvious restraint as to not actually jump in place, her short gray mane bobbing with her motions. “Of course, Ms. LeBlanc! You did save me, after all.”

Saved her…

Some worm in the back of Alice’s mind dared feel… elated at the reassurance. It was the familiar, comfy whisper of fond memories. Of her time signing release forms and being lavished with gratitude by the patient and praised by their family. Truly, the part of her job that made all the rest worth it.

But she had never needed to cause pain to achieve it, not back then. Hard decisions? Sure. Lost patients? Every doctor had one. Harsh critique? Always, and usually by her own nagging self-doubt. Yet to make a patient writhe in pain, contorting on the asphalt? That one was new.

Did she desire the title of a saviour? The images flashing by her mind and ripping through the tranquil facade didn’t make her feel like one.

“I... I didn’t-” Alice tried, but was interrupted.

Breaker had put a firm hoof on her shoulder and drooped her wings in an affectionate sign, showing how easily the Newfoal had already adapted to her new body.

“No need to be modest, ma’am. I was probably going to get shot by that… eugh, gun.” The Newfoal scrunched up her muzzle, but quickly warmed back up. “If you hadn’t helped, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I… suppose so? But… forget about me. Are you okay?” Alice started looking at Breaker's body all over with the precision of a practiced professional, grasping limbs in her telekinetic grip to check for bruises or other worrying signs. “Pain? Any injuries? I heard bone snapping!”

Breaker had a sheepish expression on her face, yet her smile looked none too crooked. Always present, always reassuring Alice she had done a good thing. “Well… nopony ever said being reborn was easy, right? But I’m here, and better than ever. Honest!”

Crane had come back, eyeing the Newfoal and muttering under his breath - something about ‘another damn pegasus’. Alice didn’t quite get it, nor did she appreciate his use of swears in such times.

“Driver’s dead… stray bullet caught him in the neck,” he said, his mouth in an infuriating neutral downturn that Alice was fast associating with the man’s resting face.

He picked up the gun that was laying in the ground, pulling some kind of metal bolt back and looking inside. Satisfied, he turned to Alice, his face not exactly pleasant. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

She had to quietly shake her head to make sure what she heard wasn’t just a fly buzzing around her mind in the after-effects of shock. Alice mirrored his expression and let her own mouth twist down. “I... was just trying to help.”

He stared at her, his eyes wrinkled in what she could only guess was displeasure. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“You also told me it was going to be quiet.” She couldn’t quite keep her vexation in check this time, for it had been burbling inside and Breaker’s conversion only served to finally boil it. “Would you rather I clap my hooves as you were choked?”

Crane’s expression was steely, keeping steady as a rock in the ocean. Yet something simmered behind his face, promising to turn ablaze at any moment. “I was handling it. You, however, almost splashed me with potion.”

Curiously, Alice wasn’t sure his frown was entirely directed at her. His eyes were too distant, even as they drilled into her own. But the intensity was undeniable. Whatever he was thinking, it was not a pleasant thought.

“What you did was thoughtless,” he continued as his voice steadily rose up, but never quite reached a shouting level. “Now we’ll have to cart around a damned Newfoal!”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” This man was unbelievable. She snapped her hoof to point at the discarded armor in the pavement. “Not the horrific display just now?”

Crane looked like he was going to enter a tirade. His eyes were narrowed and his stance was hard. But something passed by him, like a shadow winding through his frame, widening his eyes to those of a man who was just visited by an unpleasant reminder.

He was quick to recompose, closing his mouth with a tight jaw. His sigh robbed him of the pressure, shoulders relaxing and leaving whatever he wanted to say behind. “Forget it. This is a waste of time.”

And just like that, he turned around and left Alice to stare at his back.

She was brought back to her thoughts on the man, earlier in the day. This... would be quite the two-month endeavour, she could already guess.

But so had been Quick Cure, when she first arrived at Canterlot General. Alice could still feel the bump that the medical textbook made against her forehead, thrown at her at an alarming speed on Cure’s first psych evaluation.

And now she might as well have shaped Alice’s life.

Crane, oblivious to her musings, pointed to Breaker then turned his thumb back at the body on the ground. “You, dump the body in the water and clean away the potion.”

Breaker snapped a crisp salute of her wing to Crane, then sauntered up to the cadaver and hoisted it onto her back with ease. She barely strained with the chubby man’s weight, using her wings expertly to keep the balance of the body.

Alice wanted to protest the treatment of the cadaver - obviously not up to par with how they treated the deceased back in Canterlot - but wisely decided on not riling anypony up any further. Maybe some other time, when cooler heads were prevailing, she could ask that they be more respectful with the recently departed.

Or better yet, that they be more careful not to have any recently departed to begin with.

“LeBlanc.“ Crane was looking at her, his face a void of expression. “Just... get the vinegar in the car. It’s the large jug. Spray it around the front of the truck and the paint should melt. You can do that, yeah?”

Alice pressed her lips together and nodded without another word. She trotted back to the car, leaving the truck - and the lifeless bundle of armor that Breaker had been wearing - behind.

All the way, she caressed the area where Breaker had nuzzled her, mind whizzing back and forth, up and down, with no signs of being able to make sense out of the waves crashing onto her body, thrashing her all around the place.

Crane left both mares behind, going instead to confirm the cargo.

The walls of the truck were looking quite inviting for his head to bang upon them until the dent was visible. It would do as much good as his latest brilliant behaviour.

First he exposed himself to get an opening to shoot Skies, then he brought Alice out here, then he hoped she wouldn’t interfere while he got everything done, and now he admonished the mare on the predictably imperfect job...

That last one hit Crane the worst, like a bucket of cold water once he realized he was doing it. And it had sneaked up on him, too; that petty diatribe of ‘if it’s not perfect then it’s not good enough’, it reminded him too much of...

It stung having that applied to himself, but applying it to others? It wasn’t like him. Couldn’t be. What he wanted... needed was to just ease back into the mind-numbing commonality, or it would cost them dearly. Even Alice, who doesn’t even know what she got shafted into.

His mind went to the M16 now strapped to his back. Maybe if he hadn’t been denied a gun, then none of it would’ve happened. One shot in the woman’s leg, another to the visor, and they wouldn’t have a Newfoal to contend with...

Except that lie was so thin, even Crane didn’t believe it. He had done without guns before. All of the PER had, and a lot of them still did - the ‘true believers’ that scoffed or sneered at Crane’s preference of lethality over conversion. That wasn’t what was new about this.

Deep down he knew the real reason for his hasty behaviour. It was shrouded in the glint of moonlight on the shattered windows and the dew on rotting wood walls, the marks of boots left on the snow, the metal jaws that caught his leg unaware...

And there he went, breaking his own self-suggestion of not wallowing in the past.

Just forget. Forget about before - for good this time. Forget those three months away and alone. Forget about…

What’s done is done, and Crane made sure it was done for good. Case closed, eyes forward, next in line.

Besides, his nose wouldn’t survive the imprinting on the solid metal walls.

He shook his head, focusing on the truck in front of him. It had the back doors already open, where the - former - woman had dropped from. A short leap, and he was inside of the stuffy metal coffin.

It was filled with wooden crates with a red cross marked on them, four pink hearts on each nook. Further in the back, there was a little alcove with a steel chair, some magazines and papers - probably where the soldier was staying at. A nice little refuge from the cold metal, keeping the darkness at bay with a little light bulb strapped to the wall with tape, powered by a tiny battery on the ground.

There were also some cabinets tied down to the sides. They looked like they were carefully removed from an office and stuffed inside this truck, judging by some of the dust still atop them and the paint flakes on the bottom. File cabinets, locked with sturdy padlocks that sparkled in the hue of the setting sun.

Crane brought up his left arm, rolling up his sleeve and unveiling the PDA there. The lack of the pony nurse still stung a little, if only to remind him that somehow things weren’t the same anymore. That his comfort zone, sweet little lie that it was, was teasing him by staying just long enough to create a craving, then running away like a chuckling seductress.

The PDA connected to Vigil’s contact quickly enough. “Yes? Who is it?”

Crane couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Vigil… I’m the only one with this frequency.”

“Oh… y-yes, of course you are. Sorry, Crane.”

“No worries. Truck’s ours, by the way.” Crane cautiously approached one of the crates, pushing the lid open. It wasn’t nailed down. “There are used medical supplies here, along with some file cabinets.”

“That was… quick. Were there any issues?”

“The driver’s dead, and we got a Newfoal. Some PHL woman that was guarding the cargo.” Crane bit back a remark about a heavy trooper with shields classifying as ‘minimal resistance’. Vigil wasn’t responsible for this intel, after all. He just relayed the information. “What should I be looking for?”

“A guard? That’s… oh dear. L-let me get in contact with Quick Sight. He didn’t exactly tell me what… yeah.”

Case in point, Sight was being shady with the intel. Because why would an Imperial handling human resources ever care about sharing information?

With nothing better to do as he waited for confirmation of the cargo, Crane decided to check the place his assailant - now calling herself Glass Breaker, irony be damned - had occupied.

The light bulb had survived the crash unscathed, with some old magazines from before the War all disarrayed on the floor. The woman was probably relishing in the nostalgia… or just plain didn’t have anything better to read.

Guard duty was hellish, and Crane knew it well. The opportunities to help the Imperial Army guard something were few - usually just to help their understaffed sections - but one was already too many, the sheer bore that it was.

Whenever they weren’t ambushed like this truck, that is.

There were also what looked like bland pages of paper with neat writing resting by the side of the chair. Letters penned with blotchy ink, dried by candlelight. Someone was a sucker for the old days… or an equestrian.

Crane picked one up, if for nothing else then to check if it had anything he should be worried about. Breaker wouldn’t mind... Newfoals never minded.

‘Hey, Diane. Yes, I am writing you a letter in ink. I did it with one of my own feathers, too. I thought it’d be, I don’t know, romantic? Sue me.

How is the North treating you? I know they have some interesting side projects in Canada.

Take up some initiative, offer to help them. Trust me, PHL loves that, especially if you have an earth pony officer. Industriousness is their whole jam, or so the stereotype goes. Kind of like us pegasi and flying.

I’m looking after Marco, just like you asked. He’s doing fine, but sometimes he disappears out of nowhere and his ‘friends’ refuse to tell me where he goes. I think he’s still hung up on that attack on Venice... even though it’s been years.

You should really talk to him, y’know? Get him off this path of his. It won’t lead anywhere good.

In any case, be safe, enjoy your time there. And get a better mask! I know you’re keeping that old thing with you still. Just because it saved you once doesn’t mean it’ll save you always. I didn’t call in those favours to get you that nice suit of armor for nothing!

I miss you already,

Top Shelf’

Diane then. Poor girl. Wrong place at the wrong time, or so Crane comforted himself with. Not that it mattered anymore. That name was dead.

But this Marco guy… an attack on Venice? Crane had been there, and the last attack he remembered was the one he participated, in conjunction with Imperial forces. The city was wiped clean, the canals running purple as his group hovered above on their stolen helicopter, raining conversion below.

The PDA crackled to life again, robbing Crane’s attention. “Sight confirmed the medical supplies, but he said Pochard wants you to check the cabinets.”

So Pochard was keeping tabs on this as well. That was... interesting. Normally he’s way too busy, and that couldn’t have changed much after he returned. Being away for six months couldn’t have made his assignments any easier. Well... not that Crane was one to talk. He was missing for his own three months as well.

No wonder the Trailblazers dissed on Fixers so much. Disappearing doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“One second,” Crane said, approaching the cabinets. There were some plaques denoting what exactly was inside of them, but the locks stopped his attempts at opening any one.

Now that Crane had a closer look, he saw that the sparkle on the padlocks wasn’t just the glint of the sun. It was the distinct equestrian magical glow, much like the aura of an unicorn. Except this one was more than one layer, with three coronas of darkening mauve hues encompassing the padlocks.

“They’re magically locked, looks like heavy-duty spells... but I think I can make out the labels.” He squinted slightly in the darkness, the sun now almost completely gone. There were three sections with fading letters as their titles. “It’s just a bunch of medical gibberish to me. Prognosis, Diagnosis and... Anamnesis, I think? They’re a bit faded.”

“O...kay. Let me relay that to them.”

This was a curious one, indeed. You put a guard in the back of a truck if you want protection, but also discretion. PHL didn't want anyone thinking this was their cargo... and as far as Crane saw, it really wasn’t all that much - even with the few crates of medicine. Yet Sight and Pochard got wind of it regardless.

“Well, they sound satisfied… I think. Sight’s instructed you to divert the delivery to the cell in Port Elgin. Good work, Crane.”

With one last look around to make sure he didn’t miss anything, Crane dropped outside and closed the doors. Breaker was flying back from the ocean and Alice had finished cleaning the front tires, the large vinegar jug floating half-used by her side.

Now to hope it would still drive well.

“Alright. Come on, you two,” Crane said with a nod. “We’re taking the truck.”

Alice looked back at the underside of the bridge, still looking discomforted. “Are we just going to leave the car there?” she asked.

Crane waved his hand, keeping to his walk towards the cabin of the truck. “It’s rewaned. Don’t worry.”

Breaker strolled up to his side, that anemic smile still present, and still without target. Just existing, like a druggie with no reason to be happy, yet happy nonetheless.

Alice passed by him as well, but she wasn’t so forthcoming, as her frown attested to her confusion. “Re… waned?”

“Acronym. Reverse Want-it Need-it - as long as it stays still, nobody finds it. Shieldwall came up with it, I think.” Crane allowed the mares to hop into the cabin before he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Now settle yourselves. This thing will take a lot longer to get to Port Elgin than the car.”

“Extend your right wing for me, please… does this hurt?”

A blue aura pinched the side of the limb, eliciting no reaction from the Newfoal. “I feel absolutely fantastic, Ms. LeBlanc.”

Breaker was sitting in the middle of the unified seat like an obedient dog, and Alice was toddling over her like a concerned parent. Crane was holding his head up with his elbow propped on the dashboard, steering the vehicle with his other hand.

He rolled his eyes. “The Newfoal said she’s fine, Alice.”

“Now the left one. Extend and hold,” the good doctor said, ignoring his protest.

A feathery appendage smacked Crane in the face. He spluttered, pushing the wing back to Breaker’s side as his other hand tried keeping the truck steady. “Fucking hell, can’t this wait? I’m driving here.”

“Well, excuse me for being a little concerned.” Alice continued with her inspection, spreading the feathers to check Breaker’s primaries. “That conversion could have hurt Breaker in any number of ways, so I’d like to be thorough. Maybe I should ask Seeker about this...”

Crane slowly put his elbow back in the dashboard, then propped his head once again with a quiet grumble. “Wasn’t the conversion designed following your Archmage’s standards?”

Alice’s gaze was hard as it stared at him. “With all due respect, Lady Sparkle’s standards are not mine. Are you telling me you’re completely okay with that… scene?”

Crane flexed his knuckles as they gripped the wheel tighter.

His seat was feeling uncomfortable, gripping at his legs too much - which made no sense since it had felt just fine for the past half-hour drive. He tried to ignore it.

“... Newfoals can take it,” he finally offered.

“Does that mean they should?”

Crane furrowed his brows, not answering the question.

That didn’t deter Alice from continuing, as he hoped it would. It only encouraged her further. “Wouldn’t you like somepony to help you once you convert, Mr. Crane? ‘Do unto others as you would have them do to yourself’.”

“This war’s gonna kill me before I get to prancing around on grassy fields with glassy-” Crane stopped his words, almost biting his own tongue. That had come out with too much force. “Nevermind... And better not quote that to me. I’ve already done some pretty nasty things to myself...”

He looked down to his left wrist, the smooth crystal device still hidden by his sleeve, always quietly pulsing against his own heartbeat in an arrhythmic fashion.

“Don’t say things like that,” Alice said, a concerned frown ebbing its way into her muzzle.

“Look, better not-”

Crane never finished, instead noticing something coming up on the road.

Something that looked distinctly like an armored car and some police barriers in the middle of the road. There were some plastic road signs passing them by, signaling all vehicles to slow down for inspection.

He perked up, putting both hands on the wheel. “Ah, shit. Checkpoint.”

Alice noticed it as well, looking back and forth between the road and him. She had her horn alight, but was withholding whatever spell was built up. “I… should I put a shield around us?”

Well, at least she asked before doing something this time.

Crane shook his head. “Not yet. It’d give us away and they could have something that’d pop it. Hold on.”

He slowed the truck down, just enough not to raise suspicion, and put the M16 down in the nook with the worn-out carpet. No need to disquiet whomever this was with a big rifle on his lap. Or with a Newfoal by his side...

“Breaker, lose the smile and put Alice’s bags on your flanks. They’ll spot you a mile away the way you are now.”

The smile wasn’t lost, but it dimmed slightly. “I can’t help that I’m happy, Mr. Crane.”

Yeah, yeah. Crane knew well enough how much of a pain it was to ask Newfoals to just tone it down a little. You know, so people won’t immediately shoot them. They didn’t like it, but if you made it an order they usually complied. Usually.

Now, getting them to curse was downright impossible. Crane remembered Scauper trying to get a Newfoal to say ‘fuck’, long ago, and all he got was a stern scolding by an angry Seeker.

“Lose. The. Smile.” Crane punctuated his words with wags of a threatening finger in front of Breaker’s muzzle. She had gone cross-eyed to observe the movement. “HLF doesn’t do checkpoints this far north anymore, so it’s probably just UNAC or some local police. And I can always fool those bastards, even with you here.”

“But they’re still humans!”

Crane lifted an eyebrow at Breaker’s protest, the pegasus squirming under his gaze.

“Erm… the bad ones, I mean,” she quickly amended.

“That was an order.” His expression was serrated, not brokering room for any further argument. “Act natural and I’ll make them let us through. If they don’t, Alice can throw a shield up and we run.”

Crane fully stopped the truck once he got close to the lightly armored car parked by the side of the road. He could only see two officers, a really thin one in the middle of the road holding his palm up for the truck to stop, and a bald one by the car’s door with a submachine gun strapped to his side - a H&K MP5, single-fire, from the looks of it.

And not just police officers. They had the UNAC logo on their car and clothing, with very light kevlar coverings. About what Crane expected from a checkpoint duo. This shouldn’t be much of a problem.

The soldier approached the driver’s side as the thin man stood further back, watching the scene with the military-patented scowling face.

“Bonsoir... monsieur,” the bald man started, struggling with the words like a kid reading a sentence for the first time. Clearly a non-native.

“We can do this in english, if you want,” Crane said, adopting a strong Canadian accent. Might as well run with the man’s assumption as his mind raced to come up with a cover story.

“Ah, many thanks. I’m Corporal Mallory and that’s Specialist Campbell. We’re with United Nations Allied Command, as you can see.”

The bald man, Mallory, stretched a hand up with his badge. There was an old photo there, from when he still had long hair, along with his full name and ID. It was legitimate, as far as Crane could remember from the document.

He pulled the badge back and continued, “We’re running a simple search, so if you don’t mind coming down and opening the back of the truck, so we can clear you through...”

Crane checked his shoulder pad - just in case he had forgotten about sticking his PER patch there - and opened his door, hitting his boots on the ground. “Is this gonna take too long? Montreal’s been on my ass for this shipment of meds.”

“Not long at all, sir.” Campbell, the thin one, said with a very thick scottish accent. “The mares have to step off, though. Regulation, you know?”

“Yeah, no worries. Hop off, Glass.” Crane offered the Newfoal his left hand, and she quickly jumped off the cabin. She hit the ground with a wince, rubbing her forehead after. Did the pegasus forget she had wings? Whatever.

Campbell stood next to Breaker, rifle on his hand but not aimed anywhere, finger off the trigger. This was looking good. Just let them check the container, write them off as just another supply run, and keep moving.

Crane motioned for Mallory to follow him as he walked. “C’mon. I’ll open the back for you.”

Mallory was observing him, like he was appraising a piece at an auction. “Osprey armor… that’s some enviable equipment you got,” he said, nodding to Crane’s chest, “Mister…?”

Crane forced a disarming chuckle, waving his hand at the soldier. “A trucker can never be too careful hauling cargo around, eh? Name’s Adam Whittaker.”

“I can relate, Mr. Whittaker. My father used to take me along trips on his tanker,” Mallory said, patting his own vest. Then he turned with a smirk. “We usually didn’t have two mares by our side, though.”

Crane replied with a smirk of his own. “Nothing like that, monsieur. Just came from up north and those two keeners paid me a hefty sum to ride them south.”

“Fair enough.” Mallory glanced over his shoulder, closing in with Crane for a whisper. “That unicorn doctor’s a looker, though. She’s former gentry, for sure.”

Their conversation was interrupted before Crane could respond, however. The moment they got close to the back doors, an animalistic screech stopped both cold.

“Breaker, don’t!” Alice shouted from inside the truck, probably still fiddling with the seatbelt.

Breaker had jumped at Campbell, socking him in the throat and pommeling him with her wings, looking like a mother hen attacking a predator threatening her children.

The thin man went down, his rifle knocked away, yet Breaker didn’t relent. She jumped atop the man and continuously tried to smear him on the ground. The saddlebags had become askew, leaving her markless flank clear for the world to see.

“Fucking- that’s a Newfoal!”

That had been Mallory, deftly spinning around and shouldering his MP5. He looked horrified for a moment, but anger overtook his features. He was looking at Crane with murder in his eyes.

“You...” the soldier breathed the word out more than said it. The gun was pointing at him now.

“I didn’t fucking know!” Crane yelled, forcing the sound to be surprised. “Shit, I was just giving them a lift!” He kept his arms clear from his hips, palms out to placate the man and a horrified face of his own. Time to improvise and wait for the right time.

The soldier didn’t say anything, but Crane noted he pulled his finger off the trigger.

Campbell was still trashing about, trying to reach for his gun and failing. “Ack! Corporal, get this mangled fud offa-!” he managed to yell before Breaker hit him square in the teeth.

“What are you waiting for?” Crane shouted at the soldier frozen in front of him, pressuring the man even more. “Go shoot that thing and help him!”

Mallory looked conflicted, his eyes turning towards his partner at every scream and grunt that rang out. Crane had the whole day to wait, but the Corporal didn’t know that. His clock was ticking faster and faster.

The MP5 finally lowered, its owner's face set in a hard press. “Stay the fuck still. Move and I’ll fucking shoot you too.”

At the responding nod, Mallory turned around, aiming at the obvious threat at his partner’s throat. He reached to unlock the safety, but the mess of limbs on the ground and the distance would make for a very risky shot.

That had also left Crane out of his eyesight and free to step ever more closer, inching his way forward. The Magnum revolver on the soldier’s hip was a very tantalizing sight.

That could pass through their bulletproof vests, the MP5 might not.

The desperate visage Crane had put on fell from his face, a scowl taking over. He shot forward, reaching for the holster. There was no time to fiddle with the safety strap and pull the gun out. The barrel was already touching the corporal’s leg, anyway.

With the plastic grip in a firm grasp, a single flex of his finger pulled the metal trigger.

The bullet exploded out, passing clear through Mallory’s bent knee and splattering blood on the road. He faltered with a pained scream, the leg immediately going limp and destabilizing his stance.

Crane finally snapped the strap open and pulled the revolver out, but he wasn’t fast enough to beat Mallory’s reaction. The man had pivoted on his good leg and aimed the MP5 at his chest.

A shot rang out, much quieter than the revolver. It struck Crane like a truck nonetheless. Didn’t feel like it had perforated the armor, but damn did it hurt.

Crane took advantage of the kinetic impact to help turn his torso with a grunt, giving Mallory his profile. It worked to make him a smaller target, the Corporal’s second bullet whizzing by with a crack of air where his shoulder used to be.

Pushing the momentum of his move, Crane abused Mallory’s half-kneel position with a kick to the side of the head. His boot impacted like a hammer and the man’s neck bent like a nail, forcing his center-mass on the destroyed knee.

Mallory yelled, too dazed to react in time and with pain lacing through his body by pressing on an already horrible injury. Crane pulled the revolver up and aimed at the vulnerable man.

Without a helmet, a .44 bullet was final. The head snapped with the bang and the body slumped backwards, splayed on the cold asphalt. The MP5 clattered to the ground, indifferent to the damage it had done.

Dead. Now for the other...

Nursing his ribs and pocketing the revolver, Crane saw that Breaker was still atop the man on the ground and Alice was at the edge of the door, teeth gritted as she tried to pry the Newfoal off with her telekinesis. She wasn’t making much progress, though Crane did notice the truck was now with a blue sheen cast over it - a kinetic shield.

That wouldn’t do. They were now a lot closer to civilization, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect more traffic on the roads. Any scene of conflict was a scene Fixers were better off not being associated with, lest they risk their goals. They needed to get out of there, now.

“Breaker, get in the fucking truck!” Crane shouted among his pained breaths.

“I’ll save him as well!” she yelled back, not relenting her attacks even for a second. Bash, bash, bash. The man under wasn’t even moving anymore. There was no talking her out of it.

With his boots thundering on the road, Crane hooked his arms under Breaker’s flailing form and pulled her away. Keeping his speed, he threw her inside the cabin. The move stung like hell, his chest burning from his injury.

Alice, who was about to jump out, yelped at having a whole body smacking her backwards, but Crane paid it no mind.

He hopped up, hooking his arm on the door, and looked back on the scene. Mallory was done for, laying on the ground as blood pooled around his head in a facsimile of a halo. Campbell looked fine, if you ignored the swollen face, but a closer inspection revealed his throat had caved in, the Adam’s Apple just not existing anymore. He had died drowning in his own false breaths.

With no witnesses, Crane reasoned this could be mistaken by a simple bandit attack, or some encounter with the HLF. The only guns used were Mallory’s, and anybody could cave a throat in with the right angle and force. It should do.

In fact, anything that ended with UNAC with less of their bloated power would always do.

He nodded to himself and entered the truck, slamming the door closed and turning the keys. Crane hit the pedal and the truck surged forward, blowing smoke out the pipes with a rumbling groan.

“Breaker… you shouldn’t have attacked that man,” Alice had said eventually, hunching her neck to be closer to the Newfoal’s face.

“I’m sorry.” Breaker almost whispered as she hugged herself with her wings. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. He just… and I...”

It was rare to see a Newfoal without a smile or at least a positive twist to their expression. Some could frown while they fought, sure, but even then it looked like a happy-frown - if that was even a thing. Crane wasn’t certain if this was better or worse than those glassy looks.

What was up with Newfoals today? First Skewer, now Breaker… was the whole world turning upside down?

Well, that was a meaningless question. The answer had become obvious the moment CERN spit out a pony.

“Shh… it’s alright. You’re fine. You’re safe.” Alice cooed while she rubbed the pegasus’ back. Breaker seemed to be calming down, as her thankful close-lipped smile could attest to.

Alice turned to Crane. More specifically, she was staring at the crater on his vest, still smelling of gunpowder and burned metal.

“Are you alright? I… I heard gunshots.”

He had been listing to his side, one hand still at the spot the bullet had hit him. His breath was labored and his expression was laced with pain. He hoped that impact hadn’t broken a rib.

“I’ll live,” he grunted, not managing to reach the dismissive tone he was going for.

Some chimes started jingling in response, and the pain in his chest got weaker, little by little. In fact, all his body felt just a little number, as if he had been dosed with a very light anaesthetic. Some aches he didn’t even realize he had been feeling just up and fading into the background.

Almost like magic.

Crane turned to Alice. Her closed eyes didn’t witness the blue glow that bathed the cabin and the windows sparkling with its reflection. Spreading around like a warm blanket, the aura even made the lapels of her medical coat flutter slightly in an unseen breeze.

He kept his eyes on her horn at all times, as if it could turn into a snake, ready to pounce on his neck.

“I thought healing magic was bad for humans,” he finally uttered.

“It can be devastating,” Alice nodded, letting the glow subsidize and opening her eyes. “But this isn’t healing. I’m just lessening your perception of pain.”

Crane felt tense, in a perpetual state of light discomfort, yet no pain was found. He knew it was there, but his body told him it was barely anything of note. The power of a bullet, being reduced to a very strong punch.

He allowed the astonishment in his tone to fly freely. “You can do that?”

“I did tell you my specialty, did I not?” A note of pride was intertwined with Alice’s words, an unsure smile on her muzzle. “Cognitive remodelling is par for the course in mnemology. Enforced Sensitive Dissonance is the proper term.”

Mnemology… she had mentioned it. Wasn’t it where the ponies ripped memories out of their heads? Or was that just more PHL propaganda he heard about? Crane didn’t quite remember.

“... Thanks.”

Her unsure smile grew more confident. “Don’t mention it.”

The silence that ensued was nice. Crane wasn’t bothered with the quiet, and the white noise of the truck’s wheels rolling away on the asphalt were just as numbing as whatever Alice had done.

The mare didn’t agree with his mental assessment, however, judging by her face still tensing with so many unasked questions.

Sure enough, not a minute later, Alice sprung with another one once again. “Was that… had that been the Opposers?”

Crane didn’t sigh so much as he just breathed hard. “Opposer is just a broad term. We got the lyre-loving PHL wearing that damned instrument almost religiously.”

Then his tone darkened, his expression falling even further. “And then there’s UNAC. The not-so-loving bastards. That checkpoint was them, the truck was PHL.”

“They both seemed… a lot more prepared than I was led to think.” She readjusted herself on her seat, squirming around with her legs. “Wasn’t the PHL supposed to be civilian in nature? Or am I mistaking them for another?”

“No, you got it.” His gaze wandered to his gloved hand cozily sheltering his fingers, and the ring that there lay. “That’s just what happens when you let the military into your charity drive. And UNAC’s about as militaristic as they come, setting checkpoints and fashioning themselves the king of the world.”

“... Will those two men be alright?”

That had come across quieter than the other questions. Crane looked at Alice, and all he could see was innocence gazing at him, her trembling eyes in want of an answer. She hadn’t seen Mallory or Campbell’s bodies up close.

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” was his final response.

“They’re waiting for you in the Port Elgin Raceway. T-they will stash the truck until a squad of Trailblazers can take it back to Equestria.”

Crane tapped the PDA and it faded to black once again. “And we can drop off Breaker here as well.”

Alice lifted her head off the cold glass, where Crane knew she was slightly dozing off. The bags under her eyes were prominent on her pristine white fur and her blue mane was getting messy. “Whu… we’re not taking her with us?”

“Newfoals can’t help with supplies - it’s too risky.” He buttoned his sleeve back, hiding the PDA. “And right now, growing the group is the most conspicuous thing we can do. I just hope Cross will take her in.”

Breaker put a hoof on Alice’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ms. LeBlanc. I’m sure that I’ll do fine here... if they will have me.”

Alice was chewing the inside of her cheek, but eventually managed to return the smile. Hers was much more organic, quieted and unsure - at least when compared to the one Breaker had on her lips.

The truck came to a stop right before a big red barn in front of the race track and Crane descended. The ground was muddy, with little grass dotting the brown mush. There were some white picket fences surrounding the property, and the race track itself was fairly distant from the hub of houses and lights further south.

The night hid them well, and the truck’s lights were turned off, but there were already a couple of people at the front of the giant doors to the main barn.

Crane had brought the M16 out this time, keeping it slung on his shoulder, as well as the Magnum revolver shoved in the back of his pants. He wasn’t going to be caught unarmed for a third time today.

There were four men in makeshift motocross armor, with pairing helmets hiding their faces. They stood in a line, with a much more imposing man standing in their front, arms wide open in an inviting gesture.

“Brother Crane! It’s been quite a while,” the soft, elderly voice of Elijah Cross said. He was clad in the same clothes Crane saw him last with, so long ago: the long black overcoat with a brown scarf, almost in a parody of a priest’s robes.

Nobody knew if the old man had really been a priest, nor if he had any religion - he certainly seemed well versed on all the major ones that Crane knew, even if his spoofed dressings indicated a tinge of catholicism.

His long white hair - covering his back like a waterfall - could attest to years of experience, but his attitude was usually much more jovial than one would expect. For one, would an elderly priest carry two repeater-crossbows tied to his back and a bandolier of potion strapped across his chest?

“Elijah…” Crane narrowed his eyes at the man, not returning his grand gesture. The extravaganza was theatrical but, in the end, useless. “I'm not your brother.”

Cross clasped his hands in front of him, in what one would assume is a humble gesture. “Brothers in arms, if not in faith nor blood.”

Crane let his eyes roll the annoyance away. “We’re not exactly fighting on the frontlines here.”

The old man gave a crooked smile - the right side of his face tugging much higher than the left - quite satisfied with continuing the verbal spar. “Yet we fight together, nonetheless.”

Crane sighed, not bothering with the unending replies. Instead, he nodded at the four men keeping them in silent company. “Quite the welcome committee. Have you been briefed about this?”

“One of yours - Quick Sight, I believe it was - contacted me. Keep the truck stashed, deliver it to the Trailblazers that come. Somewhat lacking in information, but I am not one to question the Queen’s will.” He put an arm in front of his chest and bowed his neck. “Unfortunately, I shall be away to cleanse another town in the meantime. But rest assured, my best will stay behind with half my Newfoals and protect this with their lives.”

The four men standing in silence behind Cross reacted at that. A weak wave, a stiff salute, a small cough and a calm peace-symbol. Each with their own gesture.

Four agents and half however many Newfoals Cross had… should be plenty. Crane didn’t think he had been tailed, or that he left a trail for anyone to follow - maybe an exceptional operative could guess he was heading south, but other than that, not much else. Holding the truck should be a breeze.

“Good enough.” Crane waved back at the cabin, motioning for the two mares inside to come out. “We’re going to need a ride to the Confederation Bridge.”

“The Sun provides, Brother Crane. One of my men shall drive you there.”

Alice gingerly stepped away from the truck, looking around with a curious eye. She pulled off that notebook of hers again and started scribbling. Breaker just hopped off, this time using her wings to flap once and landing with a simple thud.

Crane cleared his throat, catching Cross’ attention. “We also got a Newfoal out of this. Can’t take her in right now, so I wondered if you-”

“We will shelter her.” Cross interrupted, putting his palm up in a halting gesture. “I am not one to turn away a Newfoal, Crane.”

Breaker trotted closer to them, somehow noticing her turn had come up. She was looking expectantly at Cross, especially the bandolier on his chest. Crane could swear her pupils had even dilated a bit at the sight of the purple bottles.

Focusing on the pegasus in front of him, Cross knelt down, a fatherly smile on his face. “And who might you be, little one?”

She snapped her wing to attention, much like she had at the Bridge. Crane noted the smile was still the same, still just as bland. “Name’s Glass Breaker, sir!”

Cross’ fuzzy brows knitted together, his mouth twitching down. “Sir? Ah... you’re a warrior, then. Pity... though it is no fault of your own.” He got up with nary a grunt, the creaking one would expect to come from his old knees not present. “Follow Knight Guerra. He shall introduce you to your fellow warriors.”

One of the four men - the one who saluted - marched over and respectfully shook Breaker’s hoof. He pointed back at the barn, not saying a word but still conveying his meaning. Crane wondered if he was mute.

Come to think of it, none of his ‘buddies’ said anything, either.

Nevertheless, the Newfoal went after him and into the barn, trotting like a giddy filly downhill a snowy knoll. If one looked just then, they wouldn’t even guess she had caved a man’s throat just over an hour ago.

That reminded Crane...

“Careful with that one,” he lowered his tone as he spoke to Cross. “She went to town on a UNAC guy. Usually, I wouldn’t look twice over that, except I had ordered her to keep quiet.”

Cross kept watching the Newfoal pegasus enter the barn, a dismissive smile on his face. “An instinctual reaction, most certainly. She doesn’t look a day old, after all… Worry not, Brother. We shall help her acclimatize.”

Alice hadn’t paid much attention to what Crane and this other man, Elijah, had talked about. Sha had been busy drawing the human race track - which looked surprisingly similar to the race tracks back in Canterlot, if less grandiose or refined - and before she knew it, they had to enter another vehicle.

Of course, she didn’t leave before running inside the barn and catching Breaker before she disappeared, intent on bidding the pegasus a proper goodbye... and sneaking another sketch or two of the inside, just for good measure.

It had been surprisingly empty, with nopony in sight except Breaker and the man leading her, but Alice assumed the rest were probably further in, or on another floor altogether. The place was big enough to support two, after all.

With that done, a reserved woman that never introduced herself had taken them both back to the Confederation Bridge in a rather sleek car, driving faster than Alice would’ve thought possible. Once there, it didn’t take them as long to return to Wallace with their own vehicle, though Crane made sure not to ride on any of the main roads.

He left the car in the same clearing it had been before and again they weaved their way through the forest, with Crane taking the lead once more. Almost a perfect rewind of the earlier moment.

The inside of the lodge was a comforting sight for her sore hooves and drooping head. It was late - later than when she’d usually be asleep by now - and that change in the timeframe was affecting her already.

Crane seemed to agree with her unspoken thoughts, pointing to her bedroom with a curt gesture. “Go get some rest. We’re done for today.”

Alice nodded, her eyes already feeling heavy. “Of course. Have a good-” Crane walked away without another word. “... night.”

Well… that was rude. Maybe he was still sore about her mistake earlier. Or maybe he was just as tired as she was. Ugh, maybe it would be better if they just started all over...

Anyway, that was a problem for tomorrow-Alice to work on. Today-Alice just wanted to shove her head on a pillow and pass out.

She let out a dejected breath and approached the couch next to the fireplace. It was closer than her bedroom and she needed a breather just then.

The events of the day were finally hitting her, all at once: spending the whole morning waiting to be cleared, teleporting to Canada, almost being shot, the... conversion, being reprimanded, seeing Breaker jump on that man with such ferocity, and all the little things inbetween… it was a wonder she had witnessed no deaths today.

Her saddlebags slid by the side of the couch and she plopped her back onto it with an unladylike groan. She didn’t much care about being ladylike at the moment - her mother and her tutors of proper behaviour could burn in Tartarus.

“Bit for your thoughts?” a bright voice asked her.

She turned her head. Felicia was sitting next to the now unlit fireplace, with one of the Newfoals laying in front of her - the unicorn twin… Dice, wasn’t it? The woman was brushing Dice’s red mane, the mare with eyes closed and a content smile on her face.

Alice couldn’t help but recognize that smile, even if it was on a different face. Reassuring her the whole trip to Port Elgin: that she was fine, that nothing hurt anymore, that what she did was good.

It also brought back the sounds of the conversion, the sight of the body distorting, that hand reaching out to her...

Alice shifted away, softly rubbing her eyes. “It’s just… been a long day.”

“You saw your first conversion, right?”

She pointed her wide eyes at Felicia, who was looking at her with a sad smile.

“How… how did you know?”

Felicia nodded down to the mare on her lap. “The way you’re looking at Dice.”

Oh. Was it that noticeable? Alice caressed one foreleg, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stare.”

Dice gave a quiet whinny, waving a lazy hoof to Alice and leaning even more into the brush on Felicia’s hand. She was almost sliding off the woman’s lap, her body turned into putty.

Felicia chuckled, booping the Newfoal’s muzzle with the brush. “Heh, Dice says ‘don’t worry about it’.”

The sight brought a small smile to Alice’s lips. It was short-lived. “It’s just…” She wasn’t sure what it was, not entirely at least. There were too many things. So Alice settled on the most pronounced one. “It looked so violent.”

“Ah, that... Yeah, these days we don’t have much of the slow potion.” Felicia’s brush got enrolled in a knot in Dice’s mane. “Got to use a hardened version - it’s all we can get, really.” The woman pried it off, some red hairs stuck in it, yet the Newfoal had no reaction. “They can seem… harsh, at first.”

“They seemed painful.” Alice sweeped her hooves over her eyes, clearing the humidity gathering there at the sting of the memory. “I didn’t come here to cause pain - Celestia knows how much I stressed over healing it. I just wanted to… I don’t know… stop it before it could even happen.”

“And you did. Trust me. There’s... no human on this Earth that’s not hurting, one way or another. It’s why I admire you ponies so much. I can really believe a pony could go about their life with a smile on their face.” Her brushing slowed down somewhat, hovering over another knot in Dice’s mane. “I’m… I’m not so sure about us.”

“I saw Crane smiling with Joanne.” Alice pointed out. She looked over to the kitchen, where the man had disappeared into. “And… well, he doesn't strike me as one who smiles a lot, yet there it was.”

Felicia couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Yeah, Jo will do that to you.” Her hand waved in a dismissive motion. “Of course we can smile, even if Crane’s just barely a smirk - I call him Cranky for a reason. But… it’s not the norm. Nowhere near how it is for ponies. I mean… you understand, right?”

Alice gave Felicia a sad smile. The woman had such a high opinion of ponies… an opinion Alice wasn’t sure she deserved. “Felicia… we’re not perfect, either.”

Felicia shook both hands, even with the brush still in one of them. “Oh, no. It's not about being perfect… well, not to me. Despite what Crane might think, I’m not some starry-eyed naive girl. Trust me, I know not everything can be unblemished.” Her scarred cheek twitched, head turning to gaze outside the large glass panels near the fireplace as strands of her spiky, pink-tipped hair fell across her face. “But I do want everyone to be the best they can be.”

Alice also looked to the snowy hills, the fine details of the landscape lost in the dark of the night. She could feel her own ears raised and attentive as her mind rumbled about, thinking of Felicia’s perspective on the matter.

‘Remember, Alice. No matter what horrors you see - and you will - please remember: death is incurable. As a doctor, Conversion will always be the better alternative.’

Felicia held her chin, a pensive expression of her own. Then she snapped her fingers, her face lighting up. It reminded Alice of how she’d look, whenever an answer to a difficult test came to her in the very last minute.

“I think I got another way you can look at this.” Felicia said, looking directly at her with cheeks tugged up with a small smile. “You said you changed your name, right? Still can’t believe you did that… but it couldn’t have been an easy thing, yeah?”

That took a long moment to think about. Not because the answer was hard or conflicted, no. Rather, the memories just decided to abuse this opening to flood in and be processed.

Her parents had yelled in synchrony when they found out, each complaint as predictable as the other. Alice never quite figured out if they had a script planned for each and every possible grievance that might come by, with how well they spewed forth their criticism of all her actions, complementing each other’s words as if they were one single entity.

Then there was her older sister by their side, always with her pressed white suit and stylized mane. She never uttered a word. Standing as the contrast to the hollers and clamours of her parents and the nods of every butler in the estate, as a statue in the hurricane of sounds, as a monument to the proper standards Alice never quite met.

Not a word.

Alice gathered herself with a quiet lungful of air. Then she exhaled. “No. No it wasn’t.”

At least Felicia’s features looked sympathetic. Her tone was careful, tiptoeing its own words. “But you’d say the change was worth it?”

Change… it always came down to change. And the costs that were tied to it.

During all the hard-working years at university, Alice’s professors would constantly barrage the students with the same jargon, straight from the books: inflicting momentary pain for long-term gain. Sometimes you didn’t have anesthesia, and the patient’s leg was gangrening. Soon, the infection would kill them.

Do you cut it off, despite them begging you not to?

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Death is incurable, after all.

Felicia nodded. “Then there you have it. Newfoals… they are a change, kinda like all others. And everybody should want to change to be the best they can be. Some people understand that...” Her once bright, livid eyes went away just then. They were on a trip all their own, far away into lands unknown.

Felicia reached up to her burned cheek, her nimble fingers brushing over the coarse skin and rough patch, caressing them as a loving couple who wasn’t entirely sure of where their relationship stood.

“... some people don’t.”

Dice stretched up to nuzzle Felicia’s hand in silence.

There were still quite a bit of objections on Alice’s mind. They stood stubbornly over the river of calming reassurances and warm words. But the doubt had been... assuaged. Lessened and pushed back to a quiet corner. Soothed, so they could be properly dealt with by time - to be healed and forgotten.

Sometimes just forgotten, as all mnemologists eventually had to accept.

Alice decided to join in the comforting gesture, putting her own hoof on the woman’s shoulder, a reassuring smile on her muzzle. “Thank you, Felicia. I think… I think I really needed that.”

“Heh, don’t mention it. It’s what I’m here for.” Felicia’s face lit up, a grin so wide her eyes were almost closed and the dimples on her cheeks were ever more noticeable. Now was clearly her time to let happier thoughts reing free. “So long as we end the day smiling… everything will be just fine.”

The door to the cellar creaked open. The stairs down into the darkness were short, just a couple of steps made of old wood that complained at the weight put on them. The place had been used before to store aging wine and more wood for the fireplace. Now, all it had was a lone occupant.

Crane descended into the dusty basement carrying a small metal tray with mostly fruits. He noted some cobwebs in the corners where the shadows weren’t all that encompassing. There were many pillars of somewhat-rotting wood reaching for the low ceiling, made to stabilize the floor above. This was an old part of the lodge that barely saw any use nor was kept in good shape.

He flicked the switch by the wall, the light blinking as the bulb swayed ever so slowly in the string keeping it tied and feeding it energy.

A weak beam of light shone down on the pegasus laying in a rag, both hindlegs tied to one of the wooden posts with a thick rope that glowed green whenever the light caught it just right. Stalwart wasn’t skimping out on the cuffs.

Skies looked horrible. Her coat was mussed and dirty, some of her brown mane sticking together in clumps. Her right hoof was lying motionless on the rag. The bandage on her chest, weaving all the way to her back, was old and stained - Seeker was doing the best with what little gauze she had.

The fact that Crane had seen a bunch of brand new bandages a couple of hours ago in that truck, yet couldn’t take a single one of them, bothered him somewhat. But orders are orders, and the truck was to be delivered whole.

Coffee had mentioned the mare was refusing to eat. It showed. Even through her usual thin build, her ribs had never bulged this badly, her bones were never that defined through the skin. Too much of this, and they’d have one less mouth to worry about.

Crane didn’t say anything as he pulled the folding chair from it’s spot leaning on the wall. He dexterously flicked it open and set it right in front of the weak pegasus, sitting on it and leaning back, one leg resting on top of the other, the tray on his lap.

“Skies,” he tried, voiding his voice of any emotion.

There was no response. All he heard were shaky breaths from lungs that had worked overtime to provide the body with surplus oxygen.

As if the lines on her cheek’s fur weren’t enough proof that she’d been crying.

“I’ve got your food. You didn’t eat anything Coffee brought... Again.”

Silence once more. She wasn’t even looking at him, the few locks of her long brown mane that weren’t stuck together falling in front of her face. Hiding her downcast eyes.

“Skies.”

No luck. She stubbornly refused to react. Her ears were buried, her face was down, her tail was pretty much a blanket over her splayed hindquarters. She wasn’t going to answer. Time to try something different.

“Does your wing hurt?”

That got a reaction. Not as much as Crane hoped, just a little twitch of her back. But it was a start. She was listening.

He knew Skies loved flying. All the times she hooked her forelegs under Joanne’s arms and floated her all over the place, the unnecessary glides she’d do to get from her bedroom to the kitchen, the near obsessive care she took with preening. Everytime, she had a smile on her face, a special glint in her eyes.

Most pegasi held their wings to a very high standard and Crane didn’t blame them. If he had the freedom of being able to go anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted… he wouldn’t like it being taken away from him either.

Funny how that turned out.

Crane picked up an apple that was in the tray, rolling it over on his hand. “I know quite a bit about pegasi wing recovery... comes with the job.” He readjusted himself on the chair. “They’re hardy things. As long as the tendons are fine and you’ve got enough energy, enough strength… they heal like a wonder.”

One of her ears, maybe despite her best protests, was up. Attentive.

“Seeker checked you. None of your tendons got severed, bullet went straight through your back. Muscle injury only. Your right hoof is the only thing with... permanent damage. However…”

Crane unfolded his leg, leaning forward. A meaningless act to a ghost audience, if it weren’t for the gray eye he spotted between the little openings in the curtain of brown mane. Watching him.

“Your health is horrible. Anemic, even. Too severe for just three days rejecting food...”

Skies squirmed, folding into herself, her left wing twitching while her right wing remained motionless. Yet no sound came, and Crane was still in a lonely monologue.

He sighed, putting his elbows on his knees to be closer to her. “We’ll start tomorrow. You’ll want your strength for it.”

He didn’t order her. Didn’t force feed her like Stalwart had suggested - as if she was the expert on this matter.

No. This wasn’t an HLF grunt too defiant to even speak. Wasn’t a true Betrayer selling information to the PHL. He knew that very well. She was just a scared filly, easily abused, easily manipulated...

Crane gazed down at the apple in his hand. The red delicious gazed back, the shiny skin reflecting a warped visage. His visage.

He quickly shifted his eyes away, putting the fruit back on its place and leaving the tray close to Skies, just in reach of her good leg.

With the chair folded and back on its place, he switched off the lights and made his way back up the stairs. The door closed, and the penumbra took hold of the cellar once again.

The only sounds left were the shifting of the wood and a metal tray being slowly, tentatively dragged.

In the greenish hues of a nearby sandstone quarry, a gleaming silver sword sliced through the flying sack of gravel. The contents spilled out, the larger pieces pattering the woman that had attacked it’s silky confines. She barely blinked as the sweat on her brow collected the dust falling all around her.

She was standing right in the middle of an open area in the quarry. The ground was dusty, with a distinct olive color of the stone beneath. It had been repurposed and cleared on her orders, while a big wooden house with multiple floors - probably used as storage - was made into her group’s living quarters.

“Come the fuck on, Bronte!” The woman shouted, pulling back a strand of auburn hair out of her face with her pale hand. “You’re throwing them way too slow.”

Bronte - a muscled, dark-skinned man with a sleeveless shirt and combat pants - was breathing hard as he answered. “Trying... my best, passerotta. We’ve been at this... for hours now. Also... language!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just throw another one.” She readied her sword in front of her once again. “You’re lucky I didn’t ask for the sandstone instead of the gravel.”

“Ahem… boss? Eliza?” a timid voice pierced through the shouting.

Eliza flicked her eyes to the arrival. A short pony unicorn, barely out of childhood, stood by the edge of the makeshift training arena in the quarry. He was frail-looking, almost wobbling in his own hooves, with a cool blue coat and darker blue mane.

“Yes, Nimble?” she said, with a lot more kindness than she ever gave Bronte. The big bastard could take it, but the little guy didn’t deserve it.

Nimble recomposed himself somewhat, lifting up a blocky object in his magical grip. “Y-you’ve got a call. It’s one of the burner phones your… friend… gave us.”

Ah. Of course he would call them now. Or she. Eliza could never quite tell. They had a throaty voice, almost but not quite high-pitch. Higher than her own voice, but that wasn’t really hard to get. She had always been on the low end.

He, or she… ah damn it all, Bishop - the bullshit name they gave Eliza - was probably following her group all the way into Cumberland County. Bronte didn’t like it one bit, but their intel was damn useful and always on point.

“Alright. Bring it over.” Eliza wagged her sword in a come-forth gesture.

Nimble gently floated the phone over to her. There was a constant buzzing noise coming through, like an industrial-grade circular saw being used. Were they in the middle of a construction site?

“Ms. Wryneck,” the voice on the phone said.

“Keep ‘em coming, Bronte. I ain’t done yet!” Eliza yelled at her friend, then rearranged the phone on the crook of her neck, speaking more hushedly. “Off to a bad start, asshat. Only my granny knows that name, and you ain’t her.”

“She gave me permission to use it.”

Eliza grit her teeth, but tried to keep the edge out of her voice. No need to give Bishop the satisfaction of riling her up. That’s what Bronte always said: whoever’s the calmest gains the upper hand.

“My granny’s ponified... you cunt.” Eh, close enough.

Unfortunately, she could almost taste the grin on the other side of the line. “I am well aware of that.”

This motherfucker... “What do you want? I don’t like your games, Bishop. And I’m busy.”

“How long do you plan on fighting gravel?”

Bronte heaved another sack. Alice saw where it would land the moment it left his hands. “Hah! Spying on me? Then you should know -” Eliza hit the cloth with an upwards cut “- we got a lot of gravel.”

“And I am left to wonder whether you are sharpening your blade… or dulling it. I have a target for you, if you would like to put that wonder to rest.”

“Oooh, finally found that ex-Trailblazer bitch?” Another bag flew up. This one, despite it being exactly as lumpy as every other bag, looked distinctly pony-shaped to Eliza. One-very-specific-pony-shaped.

She stabbed it in the air, then ripped her sword up. Maybe with a bit too much force.

“Leave Sergeant Stasis out of your sight for now. I need you to visit Port Elgin.”

Eliza couldn’t resist a roll of her eyes. “Everytime you send me somewhere, there’s a distinct lack of Imperials to fight. I already missed all the fun in Montreal, and I really wanted a shot at Shieldwall’s ass.” She smirked, remembering what Bronte told her about the mess further East. “Shit, get me one of his freaky Newfoals. I heard they’re always fun.”

“Anomalies… parade them if you wish, silence them when you must. No, I need you to retrieve a mark. Civilian truck, plate ‘Y29 693’, filled with medical documents and supplies. A PER cell has it stocked - they specialize on small-town conversions, so I’d suggest being careful.”

“I don’t want a PER cell, I want Stalwart.” Eliza gripped her sword tighter, frowning at the pommel and the faded picture glued there. “How ‘bout you just find out where she is? I know it’s in these woods somewhere.”

“Do not impose your goals on mine, Wryneck. You will be sorely disappointed. Information in exchange for work. A simple deal... And if you want to hit Stalwart’s cell, you will have to handle their Fixer first, as I have repeated many times before.”

“And as I’ve said many times before: I’m not scared of… what, PER handymen?” Eliza scoffed as she sidestepped the next bag, slashing the thing as it flew by her. “Fuck it, I’ll fight him and the rest of his group.”

“Handymen?” Eliza didn’t like the low, throaty chuckle she heard, not one bit. It was the sound of a bastard who knew something she didn’t. “The Fixer will not fight fair, Eliza. Digging for their rabbit hole while he still lives will turn it into a death trap. But... I can help you get a chance... soon.”

She held her hand up, signaling for Bronte to stop. “How soon?”

“Soon enough that I’d count it in days. But only if you return that truck to me.”

Eliza smiled. A predatory grin that salivated at the prospect of killing those traitors of humanity, speaking of a giddiness unmatched by even the most starstruck children having their hair ruffled by their idol and told to just run free.

“Heads up, Bronte!” She heaved her sword to rest on her shoulder. “We’re going hunting.”

Author's Notes:

Alas, a conversion in the PER side-story. Only took me… 24k words. Well, darn.

You might have noted the introspections are more prevalent. On one hand I think this is good because I'm connecting to my main characters' thoughts better... on the other, it makes for these beasts of 16k words and paragraphs of thoughts rather than actions. This is a character driven story with military intrigue as the plot, but maybe I should fine tune how much the characters are driving it.

Is it too much? I don't know.

Also, big applause to VoxAdam, who took pity on my fumblings and offered to be an editor/proofreader. He’s already helped quite a bit with some wonderings of mine, and some technical questions I had.

However, he’s quite busy with SPECTRUM (who just blasted out another 40k word behemoth) and the mad lad is finally having a break at this end of August, so if you spot any mistakes on the writing, they’re entirely on me. Vox hasn’t had the chance to clean anything up just yet, heh.

I’ll also post a blog about the story because I just have to. I’ll put it here once it’s up.