Fire and Iron

It is the Fifth Millennium. For more than fifty centuries the Alicorn-Emperor has ruled Equestria. He is the master of Ponykind, and master of a million lands by the might of his inexhaustible armies. His psychic power watches over all of Equestria from his throne in Canterlot.

Yet even in His eternal vigilance not all is within His sight. Mighty battlefleets of airships roam the sky, vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted war fronts. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Divina Militibus Imperatoris, the Emperor's Holy Knights, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless Provincial Defence Forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a pony in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the wonder and awe of magic, it has been twisted and warped beyond recognition. Forget the promise of understanding and progress with Friendship, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace in Equestria, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Chapter One: The Ore Is Mined

Just yesterday, Firebrand had been told that in a hostile world, for a colt to reach his age was a victory in itself. The day you turned fifteen you could count yourself lucky to have gotten that far knowing that so many children of Equestria would never make it to such an age, having fallen to disease or accidents or acts of violence.

Fifteen years, they said. He should feel proud. It was an achievement.

Happy birthday, you're one step closer to becoming a man.

A day later, those fifteen years seemed relatively easy, reaching fifteen years and one day - that felt like it was going to be the real achievement.

Firebrand ran down a corridor, much like the corridors he had crawled, walked, and ran around his entire life. It echoed with the sounds of shouts and swearing behind him, his pursuers' voices reaching him when their physical grasp couldn't. Firebrand ran harder, faster. It was a long corridor, and he didn't know where he was running to, other than away from his pursuers. This wasn't his complex, the lev where he had been born and raised, old 42B. Straying from his complex in the first place was the cause of all of his current problems. Firebrand had decided to celebrate his passing from the fundamental education system of Manehattan and his few weeks of a vacation until his induction into a specialized education and a possible part time job or even an apprenticeship. In his celebrating, he had strayed from his home in 42B and into complex 44C.

42B and 44C. The tensions between the two complexes ran deep and old, so deep that no one quite knew where they had started. None of the many complexes, levs, and floors between the two complexes had anything like the same rivalry.

42B and 44C. Just numbers. Even by the standards of Manehattan gang culture, it was arbitrary warfare. Now Firebrand was going to die for it, for walking into a drinking den in the wrong complex of his own damn hive.

Trust his luck to get recognized by the handful of 44Cers he'd ever met in his entire schooling. Round and Dicer, who had been in the same compulsive weapons test as him a month before. The two 44Cers had been arrogant, cocky, and sure that their gang savvy would make them masters of a slandered rifle. Firebrand had scored higher than ether Round or Dicer, who had barely been able to hit the outer rim of the target. The Inspector, a stocky mare in a grey uniform, had noted Firebrand's marks but not given any indication his shots were remarkable. He had forgotten the experience the moment he had left the range – just another bureaucratic ritual you had to go through as a Manehattan youth coming of age.

It seemed that Round and Dicer remembered what had happened, and were determined to get payback for their humiliation.

The corridor was drab and grey with only one in three of the lumens working. To Firebrand it was a dingy blur as he ran, motes of grit coughed out by ancient air processors causing his eyes to tear up. The main guidelines he had to follow as he ran were the markings on either side of him, thick stripes of rich blue paint, edged with thinner lines of red, that ran across every level of the hab.

Where everything else was poorly maintained, these lines of blue paint were fresh and unchipped, regularly painted. It was a matter of respect that this blue line be marked for every citizen to see, proud and perfect.

It was Manehattan blue. A deep, warm shade, an ideal of a dark, open sky that the Manehattaners themselves could only imagine, growing up within the lightless habs. They prized colour and flair like no other society in Equestria, a reaction to the dark, enclosed lives they led and who their city was patron to. Manehattan blue was the most prestigious colour of all, trumped only by one other colour scheme.

Firebrand had never seen the surface of Manehattan. He'd lived his whole life deep within, his family was minor nobility at best. His father was the overseer for complex 42B. Even with his father's comparative wealth, they had never been rich enough to even visit the surface where the tall towers that the higher nobility lived stretched into the sky for kilometers. Firebrand had seen pictures but he knew it wasn't the same.

Firebrand had held some hope of getting a transfer out of the hab, of being work-assigned to the Administratum, or even being sent out-hive. Great Emperor, even one of the upper and outer manufactorums would have been preferable to slaving away in the depths of the hab. His results from his last test were good and were currently chewing their way through a series of cogitators. Within the week his role would be assigned and he would know how the rest of his adult life would be spent.

Of course, for that to happen he had to survive the day. Reaching the end of the corridor, Firebrand dropped to his knees almost fumbling headfirst with his own momentum. He was relying on the layout of each complex being the same and that knowledge didn't let him down – to his right was a busted-up maintenance hatch, and as on every floor of the hab it wasn't just unlocked, it was barely fastened.

There were few foals in the hab so timid that they hadn't crawled through one of these hatches a hundred times before, to climb the pipes of the atrium.

Ignoring the screams of abuse from the juves on his heels, not even daring to look back, Firebrand lifted the hatch and slithered through the hole beneath.

The black jacket Firebrand was wearing, an expensive leather garment that he saved for special occasions and lovingly hand-made and cleaned with a Manehattaner's pride in appearance, snagged on the rim of the hatch, briefly pulling him backwards.

Firebrand didn't stop to unhook it, instead forcing himself onwards letting the hand-sewn leather tear, pulling himself free and out through the hatch.

On the other side of the wall, Firebrand dropped a short distance onto a pipe that crossed the great atrium, grabbing one of the thick braces that held the sections of the pipe together. It was easy enough to stabilize himself – the pipe was far wider than he was, the curve so gentle as to be almost flat. He began to scurry on all fours trying not to look down.

The atria were supposed to be inaccessible to residents of the hab, airwells sunk through the middle of the hab, crisscrossed with pipes, girders, and splintered power cables. However, as some of the few open spaces in the habs, their lure had proven irresistible, access hatches constantly being broken open so that Manehattaners could crawl along the pipes and cables enjoying the relative space and free flow of air.

In earlier days people had fallen, their screams echoing through every airway in the hab as they plummeted to their demise, occasionally punctuated by a metallic clang as they bounced off an obstruction in mid-descent.

At some point the Tetrarchy, a government not known for yielding to the public will, had consented to the placement of atrium-wide grills every ten floors which had become unofficial, but sanctioned, meeting places. People still climbed the pipes, still fell, still died – but at least now they wouldn't fall as far, and the screams were relatively brief.

All this was hab history, as well drilled into Firebrand as any formal lesson.

Halfway across the pipe, he leaned over. One floor down another pipe crossed the atrium at ninety degrees to the one he was crossing. It was a long drop, but not impossible. If he landed properly, he should be able to avoid falling off while preventing himself from dropping all the way to the grille six floors below him.

Six floors to the grille, then out through the big hatch on the other side. Firebrand would then be enough turns and distance ahead of Round and Dicer to get himself lost in the intersection, then find his way back to his own lev.

All he had to do was find a safe, quick way down through six floors' worth of criss-crossing pipes, cables and gantries without falling to his death.

A metallic tap rang out behind Firebrand. He turned around to see Round squatting on the same pipe as him, knocking his knuckles against the metal. Having got Firebrand's attention, Round stood up straight and began to walk across the pipe, slowly but with perfect balance. He was showing off, a smug grimace across his wide, black face.

Round held his arms level at his sides, hands slightly spread. Firebrand could see the dark weight of a folded knife in Round's right hand, sharply contrasting with his light grey jacket, his 44C colours.

No way back. Firebrand rolled off one pipe, falling towards the one below.

Firebrand fell straight down hitting the pipe below shoulder first, rolling with his momentum as he made contact with the hard surface. The shock jolted through his upper body, but he managed to roll over onto his front and get a handhold before he slid off the pipe.

Ignoring the ache from his arm, Firebrand pulled himself to his feet and ran across the second pipe, hands dangling forwards just in case he slipped and needed to grab anything. It was only a dozen paces before he was level with a thick cable rig, only a slightly bigger drop away than Firebrand's own height relatively level with his position on the pipe. Hundreds of cables were bundled together in the rig, braced with plasteel splints that kept them rigid.

Firebrand shimmied sideways off the edge of the pipe, until he was hanging by his fingertips, then dropped the rest of the way. He landed well, quickly balancing himself as he found his footing on the rig.

There was a heavy smack above as Round dropped onto the second pipe, following Firebrand's example. Firebrand heard a laugh from across the atrium and saw Dicer shimmying down a series of vertical pipes on the atrium wall, moving faster than Firebrand could.

He needed to move quickly, or be trapped by their pincer movement. The next few steps down were easy enough: a series of relatively short drops from rig to pipe to rig, with small shuffles back and forth to line up with the next level. Landing on the top of a creaking, thin waste pipe, Firebrand was halfway there – only three levels to go and he would be at the grille.

His next jump was a difficult one, an awkward leap across a wide gap to a narrow maintenance gantry a level below. With a run-up, it would have been easy but the narrowness of the pipe, and its angle compared to the gantry, made it more difficult.

Firebrand froze, intimidated by the jump he had to make, his eyes fixed between where he was and the gantry he needed to reach. Halfway there, but it would still be a long way down.

Something very small and very fast hit Firebrand in the forehead snapping him out of his haze of indecision and nearly causing him to lose his balance. It was a missile from Dicer. He looked across to see Dicer, hanging from a pipe on the wall, laughing at him. The laughter was echoed from above by Round.

Retreat wasn't an option. Firebrand steadied himself, ran a few paces along the pipe, then with all his strength jumped forwards and to the right, pushing himself away with his heel. He twisted through the air in an ungainly fashion falling towards the gantry.

For a second, it seemed like he wouldn't make it, that he would fall short, and far. He stretched out his fingers as if it would make a difference.

Firebrand hit the railing of the gantry with another bruising thump, the lateral bar catching under his armpits, his legs kicking thin air. He felt something give in his ribcage but scrambled to grip the railing tightly between his arms and body, rather than slip off.

Firebrand took a second to manage the pain, to take a deep breath then attempted to swing himself onto the gantry. His first attempt failed, his foot failing to gain purchase on the base of the gantry but the second time around he managed it. Firebrand pulled himself upright, rolled over the railing and onto the gantry proper.

Another missile hit him, bouncing off his chest and landing in the gantry. It was a small coin, virtually valueless. Firebrand felt a brief surge of rage. He wasn't going to take having coins thrown at him like some beggar – He wasn't going to take it from 44Cer's! He was going to shake them off, come back with his own gang from his level, and show them!

With a brief glance over the edge, and ignoring the growing number of bruises that smarted all over his body, Firebrand leapt off the gantry dropping to another immediately below. He landed on his feet, drooping to one knee to cushion the impact. He ran across the gantry to where it met the wall, climbed on the left railing, and leapt across to grab a vertical pipe that ran nearly all the way down to the grille.

His grip failed him. Hands slipping off the well-oiled pipe he fell straight down, landing on the grille with an agonizing crunch. Pain seared up his right leg as it crumpled under him and his right arm twisted out of his shoulder socket. He rolled over onto his front, his face pressing against the cold metal mesh of the grille.

Firebrand must have passed out because the next thing he was aware of was being struck across the back of the head, hard. He tried to push himself up with his bad arm and cried out in agony. Pain caused him to instinctively let himself go, dropping back onto the floor, but a kick to the ribs brought him back up again.

As another blow struck him in the back, Firebrand forced himself away from the source of the blows. Through watered eyes, he could see that Round was raising a length of thin metal, presumably pulled from the wall of the atrium or torn from one of the gantries ready to bring it crashing down on Firebrand. Dicer was standing back, maybe preparing for another kick. Firebrand weakly shuffled backwards across the grille, feebly raising his broken arm in his own defence. There was little else he could do.

Happy birthday, you're one step closer to becoming a man.

"Manehattaners, attention!"

The voice was deep and loud, the order bouncing back off the walls of the atrium like the screams of falling Manehattaners all those centuries ago.

Those two words hit both Firebrand and his assailants and triggered an instant reaction, one so deeply instilled through their short lives that it was barely conscious.

Round dropped his weapon and spun in his heels, Dicer also turning and stepping next to his friend so that the 44Cers were in perfect line. Firebrand used his unbroken arm to pull himself onto the knee of his unbroken leg then, gripping the grille with his good hand, managed to pull himself onto one foot.

While his assailants stood stiffly next to him Firebrand unfolded himself, centimetre by agonising centimetre, until he was standing next to them. He was shaky on one leg but stood at attention none the less, tear-stung eyes staring forwards.

The stallion who had given the order walked briskly across the grille to inspect them. He wore a Sergeant's uniform, as well-pressed and cleaned as would be expected but a little worn around the edges. The white and purple of his coat slightly faded, the brass of his epaulettes dented from combat. The front of his coat had the rigidity that indicated he was wearing armour underneath and displayed a proud Iron Aquila.

Firebrand gasped as he realized just who, or rather, what he was looking at.

The sergeant took off his peaked hat, better to inspect the three young colts before him. He was, to Firebrand's eyes, middle-aged with a weathered coat and close-cropped hair. A thin scar ran across his left cheek, from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear.

The sergeant looked each of them up and down, his golden eyes passive and expressionless. When he came to Firebrand his glance flickered downwards briefly to the crippled leg Firebrand was keeping off the ground. When his glance met Firebrand's, there was an odd expression, something Firebrand couldn't quite read.

"I am sergeant Bastion of the Raritas Generositas Regiment," the sergeant said, producing a small, aged device and raising it to Round's right eye. The device flashed, causing Round to flinch. "You may have heard of us."

Bastion looked at Round witheringly then repeated the process with Dicer and Firebrand. Firebrand tried not to react, but found the light left his vision even more blurred than before, coloured spots swimming before him.

"You boys clearly have some youthful energy to work off," said Bastion. "And this is your lucky day citizens…" Bastion examined his device, reading off a small pict-screen. "…citizens Concussive Round, Bayonet Dicer, and Firebrand. None of you are assigned reserved occupations, all of you are of fighting age, and today the steadfast and vigilant Manehattan Home Guard is recruiting."

Bastion looked all three of them straight in the eye, one after another.

"Congratulations, you've just been conscripted. I had some doors to knock on but you've saved me three of those."

"Report to station 32R in two cycles' time," Bastion shouted back to them as he marched away. Halfway across the atrium, he turned around.

"Oh, and Round, Dicer – get Firebrand to the nearest infirmary and make sure he's fixed up. Any of you three turn up dead or missing before you report for duty, the ones who survive will be on sweeping duty."

Bastion's words barely registered with Firebrand. A cramp had crawled up his good leg, and he was beginning to shake. His broken limbs were numb. As Round and Dicer, muttering and swearing to each other, moved to grab him by the shoulders and carry him away darkness crept into Firebrand's peripheral vision, and his leg finally gave way beneath him.

Firebrand, newest recruit to the Manehattan PDF, fell.


The OC's of Firebrand and Ink Rose are used with permission.