When he was a child, little Kay hadn’t been a good or nice child. A right terror, and with a total lack of empathy, he was the sort of child that kicked dogs and pulled the tails of cats for no good reason.

“That boy’s trouble,” the doctors, teachers and social workers had said. “He’s going to grow up and become the next Hannibal Lecter if we don’t do something.”

Unfortunately, Kay Oss had also been a very good liar, and clutching a clean bill of mental health, he’d set out into the world to find his place; preferably one where he could slice and dice to his heart’s content.

When he’d shown up at a HLF base dragging a sack that contained some four and three quarters of pony, he’d been let in without a second question, and given a place to hang his axe all of his own.

It was to be expected, then, that at the end of the world, he’d be one of the last humans left, laughing and roaring as he swung his trusty axe with reckless abandon. Accompanied by Walter, they were putting the boot to a doppelganger that looked just like themselves, who was firing at a squad of Guardsponies with suspicious lack of success.

“Identify yourself!” Walter yelled, interrupting the fight between the guardsponies and the white-armored humanoid.

“Uh,” the armored human said, hesitantly. “Robert Dorn.”

Kay swung his axe, and the Guardsponies backed off quickly when one of their number was slow to move, and his jawbone went flying across the square, to land in a fountain, rapidly turning the water a shade of claret.

“Where are you from, Dorn?” Walter asked.

“Um,” Dorn said, “Manehattan.”

Kay turned his head, slowly, and the opacity circuit shut off to reveal a madly grinning face, as Kay spun the axe in his hands, reversing the head for a backswing. “Manehattan?” he giggled, swinging with vicious speed.

“Dorn” didn’t have a chance, and amber blood spattered the ground as his head was half torn off, a ragged stump exposed as the true consistency of the armor was revealed; fleshy, organic. Not real.

The changeling gurgled weakly as Kay pounced on it, and began hacking. Blood spattered everywhere wetly as Kay roared with laughter, his red axe-head gaining a solid coat of golden yellow as he went about his work. Walter watched, and reached out a hand to Kay.

“Leave off, Specialist,” Walter said.

“Can’t!” Kay shouted. “I heard that if you don’t completely dismember it, a changeling will just enter regenerative stasis and get back up again!”

Walter shook his head. “Don’t be silly. It’s dead, you made quite sure of that. Let’s just move onto the next-”

Walter staggered sideways and fell over, visor clear and revealing an expression of surprise at the axe embedded in the side of his helmet, the metal, pick-shaped poll firmly jammed so hard through the metal of his helmet, he didn’t even feel the thaumic radiation begin to burn him.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?!” Kay screamed. “A trickster! A changeling! Trying to make a fool of me, Kay Oss! Well, I’ve got news for you sunshine - it won’t work!” He ripped his axe free, and went to town on his former comrade, metal screaming as he hacked gouges through it, purple flames licking at the blade and wounds greedily. “Bleed red all you want, motherfucker, you won’t fool me!”

A quiet whimper reached Kay’s ears, and he straightened, clicking his back as he looked around. He spotted a small orange tail poking from over the fountain’s edge, and grinned as he abandoned the lump of melted flesh and metal that had been Walter.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called softly, purple flames flickering over his armor as the red blood of Walter slowly burned. “Come to Uncle Kay... I won’t hurt you.” Kay chuckled. “Much.”

The little squeak turned into a fully-fledged squeal, and a cream-colored little filly ran for it, orange mane flapping in the wind as she beat her little wings for what speed she could get.. There was a roar of engines, and a slamming of metal on stone as Kay landed right in front of her, crouched down, arms open and inviting.

“That’s it,” he said, snatching the little filly by a hind leg as she tried to turn a one-eighty and run away. He straightened, holding her aloft by the leg. “Thaat’s it. Wow, you’ve got a big head.” He held her at arm’s length as she began to scream and thrash. “A really big head. I wonder how far I can hit you?”

With a flick of his wrist, he cast the filly into the air, who beat her wings in a futile attempt to fly away. Kay snorted, and axe resting on his shoulder, walked after her as she struggled to make any sort of speed and stay aloft. Eventually, she got so exhausted she could barely stay aloft, and Kay readied the axe like a baseball bat.

“Batter up,” he giggled, as the filly finally gave into exhaustion and fell. She fell into optimal swinging range, and-

CLANG

A purple-tinted metal breastplate flew past, and hit Kay’s axe. The new momentum imparted to the axe caused it to fly high, and a few bits of orange mane flew into the air as the filly landed hard on the ground, unmolested by the axe aside from the mane-trimming, and bounced onto her hooves, screaming.

Kay, for his part, spun wildly, and his axe embedded itself in a nearby statue, stuck deep in the fetlock of a stone Princess Luna. He snarled, and yanked the axe free of the statue, searching for his would-be victim.

She was already halfway across the courtyard. Kay growled, and turned to see who had interrupted him. He was just in time to see Walter’s helmet flying towards him, and in a reflexive motion, swung his axe skywards. With a shearing of steel, the helmet split and the two rough, bloodstained halves bounced off his own helmet, falling to the ground.

Standing not far away was an elderly stallion, dressed in a tidy black waistcoat, one hoof resting on the top of a smart, black cane with gold trim.

“I’m half blind,” the stallion stated. “But even I can see that was a little unfair. Why not pick on somepony a little closer to your own size?”

Kay snorted. “What are you supposed to be? Some sorta butler?”

“Retainer, actually,” the stallion bowed. “Iron Horseshoes, assistant to Lord Quickbeam.”

“So,” Kay said, tossing his axe into the air and catching it by the handle again. “What’s your trick? Where’s your magic?”

“I’ve not got any magic,” Iron confessed, indicating his forehead. “As you can see, I’m no unicorn. Nor am I a pegasus.”

“Oh good,” Kay said. “You know how hard it is to kill a pony that keeps teleporting, or flying everywhere? It’s a real pain, that’s what. Stand still.”

Kay darted forward with speed that was greatly in excess of what you’d expect, given the armor’s bulk, and cut loose with a vicious swing of his axe.

There was a screeching of steel and a sharp clack, and he blinked as Iron remained still, unflinching save for the cane, which had flicked up and caught the axe cleanly on the tip, stopping it with pinpoint precision.

“Not bad,” Iron said, regarding the axe with interest. “Quality manufacture, that. Hasn’t dented or chipped, and I’m guessing you don’t exactly treat it well.”

“Why, yes,” Kay said, surprised. “It is a quality axe. I’ve always stood by the Johnny Family brand. I didn’t know I was talking to such a connoisseur of axes.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Iron shrugged, batting the axe head upwards with a firm tap from his cane. “I just know a robust tool when I see one.”

Iron reared up, and lunging forward, jabbed Kay hard in the chest with the cane. With a metallic impact, Kay staggered backwards, sporting a sizable dent in his chestplate.

“Like that,” Iron said, returning the still unmarked cane to the ground and leaning on it with both forehooves. “That is not robust. And if that’s not robust, neither are you, technically - after all, that’s all that stands between you and a painful, slow death, am I right?”

“Might be,” Kay grumbled, feeling the depth of the dent in his armor, and gently tapping his own axe against his chest to hear a reassuring thunk. “That was pretty amazing. You must be really, really strong.”

“Oh, shucks,” Iron said. “It’s Lord Quickbeam. Always has me carrying this or that. Golf clubs. Crates of oranges. I lift. You wanna keep doing this, or run away?”

“Run away?” Kay giggled. “You suggesting I just... run away?” Kay straightened, and slammed his axe into the cobblestones angrily. “I am a man! Real men don’t run away, fucker, we go forward! Not back!” Kay pulled his axe back up, and twirled it. “And I’ll advance when I’m wearing your fucking colon as an anklet.”

Kay stepped forward, and swung downwards, a classic woodcutter’s chop. Iron acted as predicted, and made to stop the strike with the end of the cane... only to blink in surprise as the axe flew right to the side of it, headed straight for the ground.

Kay spun, and the axe’s vertical journey turned into a horizontal one, the axehead orbiting Kay at high speed. Iron only had just enough time to get the side of his staff in the way, before the axe found the side of his head.

The force of the hit sent Iron skidding across the tiles, to fetch up against the side of the fountain, his cane skidding to a halt not far away.

“I got you!” Kay crowed. “I got you, I got you~!” Kay danced a small dance in a circle, before skipping over to the rattled Iron. “How’s that for a hit?”

Iron felt the side of his head, and drew his hoof away, red coating it liberally. “Ah, still pretty weak. I’ve had worse.”

Kay frowned. “Now that ain’t right. You should be like that guy, over there,” he pointed at a dead pony, who was missing approximately the entire upper half of his head. “But you’ve still got a head. Barely cut, too.” Kay glared at his axe. “I was promised a lifetime of razor sharpness! Oh well.” Kay hefted the axe, and balanced it on his shoulder. “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing twice, as they say.”

Axe fell, Iron reached for his cane and swung, ducking his head. There was a chunk of metal landing in stone, and Iron opened his eyes.

Right next to his head, embedded in the stone that made the side of the fountain’s pool, the axehead sat. The wood that held it to the handle was intact, but the handle itself wasn’t, a clean cut having separated handle and axehead, the stump blackened and smoking.

Kay regarded the outstretched thin blade with interest, seeing the vibrant, yellow flames licking the length of it, and then looked at what was left of his axe.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not too pleased with that. You broke my axe.” He nodded at the weapon Iron held, which was clearly a sword-cane. “Although, I’ve always wanted a flaming sword. Fair trade. Now, hand it over.”

Kay felt a sharp tapping sensation on his shoulder, and he turned around, to see an eagle-headed creature with yellow-trimmed feathers, standing on hind legs that looked like they belonged on a lion.

“Hey, you,” Ambassador Feather Sanguinello Quickbeam said, placing a claw on the front of Kay’s chest and finding purchase, “Stop roughin’ up my retainer.”

With a grunt, Feather tightened his grip, and threw. Kay went flying through the air, bouncing and rolling as he slid to a halt on his back.

He made to get up, only to slam back down as the gryphon landed on his chest, pinning his arms to the ground at the elbows, lion paws doing a similar thing to his legs.

“You’re new,” Kay grunted. “Ain’t never seen a pony like you.”

“I thought that once,” Feather admitted. “I’m actually a gryphon, though. Who’d have thought it?”

“I wonder how you carve up... do you taste like chicken? Pegasi do.”

With a swift motion, Feather headbutted Kay in the faceplate, and regarded his handiwork, frowning as he felt the backlash in his own forehead. Kay’s face was indistinguishable behind the fractured visor on his face, and for a moment, there was no sign of anything wrong.

Then, a small tongue of purple flame escaped one of the cracks, and Feather smiled, pressing down harder, keeping the human still.

It was a cruel, cruel thing to do, Feather mused, as Kay screamed, dying a slow death. But, on the other claw...

The butchered and mangled corpses around the courtyard were excellent and compelling arguments against mercy. The screaming eventually stopped, and Feather relented, sitting up. Iron was at his side, as usual, resting a hoof on the cane once more as he fished a handkerchief out of a pocket.

“Hold still, Feather. You’ve gotten your forehead dirty,” Iron said, briskly polishing the gryphon’s forehead. “That thing is filthy, you don’t know where it’s been.” Feather snorted, and let Iron finish, before getting off the corpse.

“Right, so,” Feather cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m late, very unlordly of me, I know. I had to stop off to bring reinforcements.”

Iron laughed. “I hope you brought enough for everypony.”

Feather pointed a claw skywards, and Iron saw fuzzy black dots in the sky. Quite a lot of them.

“Well, alright, then,” Iron muttered. “Would Sir like the broadsword or the rapier today?”

Feather kicked the armored corpse. “Armor like this? Broadsword.”