The Conversion Bureau: Stormriders

By Silvertie

Part 1 of 3

“Who are we?!” A mare demanded loudly.

“STALLIONGRAD STORMRIDERS!” a chorus of voices responded loudly, on reflex. “HOO HAH!”

“Thank you,” the slight mare said, sitting back down. The trick had worked, and her teammates had stopped their chattering to respond to the time-old team shout. “All yours, Hailstone.”

A stallion got to his hooves; a shade of off-white, the pegasus had patches of light grey across his coat that made him a challenge to spot in a snowy environment -- natural camouflage. “Thank you, Snowflake,” he nodded to the mare, who smiled. The rest of the Stormriders, finally paying attention, stayed silent.

Seven pegasi sat around a round table in a restaurant-slash-bar; around them, tables were filled with all sorts of folk, from Gryphons to other ponies, to the native humans. The other patrons were, by contrast, quiet and reserved. But on the other hand, none of them had a tall, obsidian statuette sitting in the middle of their table, a golden pegasus posing on the top of the relic. The base read, simply: “Equestrian Weather Team Of The Year”. On the sides, the names of past winning teams covered the obsidian, almost covering it entirely.

They could have saved space if they’d just put one plaque reading “Stalliongrad Stormriders” and marked a tally on it; if they had, this year would be the one where the Stormiders’ plaque got it’s twentieth notch in a row.

“Right,” Hailstone said. “I’ll start with the obvious - you all done good out there. Two decades of weather-working, and you’re all still proving that Stalliongrad’s weather team is the best weather team in all of Equestria and beyond.”

“Hey,” one of the pegasi, a calm blue stallion by the name of Frostbite chuckled. “To be fair, that Ponyville team came damned close this year; that rainbow one could wrangle a cloud with the best of us. Just a shame that wall-eyed one couldn’t wrangle her way out of a paper bag. If she had, they might have placed second, not sixth.”

“Rainbow Dash,” muttered another Stormrider, a pale green stallion named Icicle. “Holds the title of “Best Junior Flyer”, and can rightly claim the title of “Fastest Pegasus Alive”, thanks to her breaking the sound barrier three times.”

“What I wouldn’t give to get a mare like that...” sighed a yellow pegasus named Wind Chill. He coughed when he realized he’d left the sentence hanging, and finished it. “I mean on the team, on the team!”

The Stormriders laughed, and an ice-blue Blizzard wiped his eye, chortling. “Yeah, sure, on the team, Chill.”

“She wouldn’t go for it,” dismissed Sleet, a rich-blue pegasus that, along with Snowflake, could lay claim to being one of the few voices of reason in the otherwise male-dominated team. “Rainbow’s also the Element of Loyalty, if you’ve forgotten. She’d never ditch Ponyville to ride with us.”

“Pity,” Frostbite shook his head. “Chill’s bedroom fantasies aside -- it’s okay, bro, there’s no shame in clopping to that -- she would make an excellent addition to the team.”

“Alright, alright,” Hailstone said, grinning. “Shelve the mare talk, and save it for your hotel room, you two. You can swap material later.”

The ‘riders all had a good laugh at that, to the mock horror of Wind Chill and Frostbite.

“Alright, chief,” Blizzard broke first. “We did good. But we did good for the last twenty years running, ten if you don’t count the years when Twister rode with us. What’s the deal?” Blizzard waved a hoof at the restaurant. “All expenses paid trip to Earth? Luxury suites?” Blizzard poked his plate, which had all but been licked clean. “Tiny meals that cost a fortune? Since when did we have this much money in the team kitty?”

“Chill’s clop jar,” muttered Icicle, completely failing to keep it at a low enough volume that the table couldn’t hear it, and they broke into laughter again.

“Venue’s real classy, too,” Frostbite pointed out. “All polished wood and warm lights, not a greased firepony’s pole anywhere. A few steps up from the usual dress clubs, no?”

“Dressclub?” Sleet hissed. “You... muffins, you said you went bowling!”

“No, no,” wheezed Hailstone, blushing momentarily at the mention of the dress club visits, making a mental note to exclude Frostbite from future sojourns. “This one is on me. Or should I say, me and Snowflake.”

The bit dropped for the rest of the team.

“You dog,” Sleet muttered, before turning to Snowflake. “When did he pop the question?”

“Right after the finals,” she giggled. “It was so adorable. Should have seen him. He had this big icicle hanging off his nose and everything, I couldn’t take him seriously.”

“Went down on one knee and everything, too,” Hailstone muttered good-naturedly. “Shows how much old-world class gets you these days...”

“You shyster,” Snowflake punched her fiancee in the shoulder with a hoof. “You collapsed onto one knee because of the cold, darn it. Told you to wrap up warm, didn’t I?”

“Congrats,” Wind Chill brought his hooves together. “Can’t tell you how long we’ve waited for this to happen.”

“I can,” Icicle said, thinking for a moment. “And no, Chill, you don’t win the pot. I believe that goes to... Blizzard. He was closest, he said “finals”.”

“But I picked “after the finals”!” protested Chill, turning to Icicle. “Come on, don’t cheat me, bro.”

“Technically,” Blizzard pointed out, “The finals were still going - we were just the first team finished.”

Hailstone coughed, clearing his throat. “If you’re all done arguing who makes money off my declarations of love, I’ve got a toast to make.”

Chairs squeaked as the team all rose as one, grabbing their drinks; Hailstone raised his mug of cider, looking around at the faces he’d known for most of his life; you couldn’t ask for a better or closer-knit group of friends.

“To the best darn team manager we’re ever going to have, and the love of my life,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on the small, white pegasus mare at his side. “To Snowflake!”

“To Snowflake!” the Stormriders chorused, and tankards of cider all extended to meet in the centre of the table as one.

======

For the Stalliongrad Stormriders, the premier weather team as proven by contest and time, the night was a big one, filled with carousing and good times. Numerous toasts had been made, and a party of sorts had grown into being, drawing in other ponies, a good few humans curious about the weather-working contest and how such things could be judged, as well as a pair of Gryphons celebrating an event of their own, a fledgling’s First Hunt.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. And the Stormriders’ evening came to an abrupt halt as another well-known team crashed their party.

The Human Liberation Front. Dedicated to keeping humans human by any means necessary, from persistent, peaceful protest to full-scale armed assaults on bureaus and other prominent equine gatherings. Sometimes both in the same day, by the same people.

Today, the instruments of protest were not placards, but compact SMGs, nine-millimetre affairs more designed to fill the air with lead than put a single bullet through any sort of cranium at sixty paces.

As the doors swung to a gentle halt, the leader strode in, cradling a shotgun. He raised it, addressing the restaurant's patrons. “We are the Human Liberation Front! By us, humanity will survive! Death to ponies!”

Chairs squeaked rapidly as people made to rise up from their seats. The Stormriders moved as one; they were a little sloshed from the one or two drinks harder than cider that they’d ingested over the evening, but even so, they were undivided.

The five stallions of the team stepped forward, moving to protect the mares, despite protests from said mares.

Next to them, the gryphons were also rising. While the HLF had no problem with gryphons, gryphons had beliefs regarding codes of honor and how battle should be waged, and it was rare to find any gryphon who would sit idle as ponies they had recently drunk toasts with and to were slaughtered. These particular gryphons were bereft of weapons, having apparently acquiesced to human culture and it’s intolerance for swords being worn in public, and they looked like they were a little upset about that. On the other hand, it just meant the gryphons would have to do things the traditional way -- beak and claw.

All over the restaurant, ponies, humans and gryphons were rising and making their stand. Many humans retreated from the scene, having no desire to get caught in crossfire or be witness to slaughter. One or two sat frozen, unable to decide what to do.

Things got messy, fast. Bullets began to fly, magic flared up as unicorns did what they could to defend themselves, and bullets found homes in bodies, equine or otherwise.

Suddenly, the fight was over as quickly as it had begun; of the Stormriders, only two had contrived to escape unhurt -- Snowflake and Sleet. The stallions were all down for the count, groaning in pain as they nursed assorted bullet wounds, acquired in the course of assaulting the shooters, blocking lines of fire with their own bodies. The two gryphons lay nearby, sporting their own wounds from similar tactics, although the blood coating their foreclaws and beaks, along with the eviscerated corpses not far away told a tale of “you should see the other guy”.

“Grab those two,” the leader wheezed, nursing his own arm as he pointed a gun at the larger gryphon; luck had been on his side, giving him a chance to put the elder gryphon in a tactical corner with a gun to his head, the gryphon’s junior not willing to risk his mentor’s life.

HLF thugs moved forward, and without hesitating, grabbed Snowflake and Sleet. Hailstone grunted in pain, crawling towards them as they were dragged out the door, screaming, and the leader motioned for a thug to check Hailstone with the butt of his gun.

“It’s nothing personal,” the human said, breezily. “Just gotta make an example of ‘em. Put the word out.”

The HLF leader chuckled at that, and motioned towards the exit. Like a well-oiled machine, the terrorists retreated, and soon, the restaurant was empty once more, the double doors of the entrance swinging shut behind them.

The last thing Hailstone saw was the smug grin of the leader.