Chapter 1: Bad Tidings In Canterlot

Few things are more terrifying than the sight of an infuriated monarch. As history has proven time and again, when those in power are angered, it is usually their subordinates that must bear the brunt of that fury. So it was no surprise that a certain royal guard by the name of Augustus Trot found himself sweating nervously in his armor, trying very hard to look small and unobtrusive in his little corner of the throne room of Celestia, princess of Equestria, as she paced back and forth reading a letter with an expression of fury, punctuating her thoughts with the occasional snort. Of course, appearing small is a difficult task for a midnight-black stallion on the larger side of huge, while wearing polished plate-mail armor.

Augustus had no idea what could be written on the little parchment scroll that could so infuriate her, and he was somewhat taken aback at her outburst of anger. Normally, the princess was cool and collected, maintaining her regal poise throughout every crisis. Augustus had seen her range from bored to joyful in his three years as a guard. This was the first time he had seen her angry, which made it that much scarier. If I get through this, he thought to himself, I'm requesting a transfer.

Of course, Celestia being Celestia, harming one of her own faithful guards was the one of the very last things she would ever do, and as fearful as her ire was, she was truly benevolent at heart. However, if there was ever a time she might have considered killing another living being, it was while reading that message from Twilight Sparkle. Celestia was willing to tolerate a great deal, but the idea that there was any creature willing to harm one of her ponies was beyond the pale. Her subjects were loving, affable, and generally friendly creatures. Some certainly had their quirks or some minor defect of personality, but they would never deliberately harm any creature unless directly threatened. Once more, she read through the message carefully.

Dear Princess Celestia,

It has been a trying day here in Ponyville. Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash are in the hospital. They were found near Sweet Apple Acres with severe injuries inflicted by an assailant of unknown origin. They will both recover, but if Big Macintosh had not come across them, there is no question their wounds would have been fatal. Neither has yet regained consciousness, and we are hopeful that they might shed some light on the matter when they recover. The mayor has ordered that everypony must travel in groups until the culprit is apprehended. I have placed protective magical barriers on the library, and will have Fluttershy stay there with Spike for the duration of this crisis.

I request that at your earliest convenience, you send somepony with the necessary training to assist us in this matter. Applejack and Big Macintosh are patrolling the streets, and Spike is camping out on the roof with my telescope to keep an eye on things, but we really need a professional. Princess, the way that Pinkie and Dash were hurt . . . it was brutal. Downright vicious. I barely recognized them. They were cut open, deep slashes along their faces and necks, Dash's right wing was almost torn off, and Pinkie might lose her right foreleg. Even with the best medicine and healing magic we have, there are going to be scars. I'm really scared, and I don't know what to do next. Most creatures are content to leave us alone, so long as we don't intrude on their lives. What would do this? What coulddo this?

I don't know much about injuries like this, but when I looked at them, I noticed something odd, which the doctors confirmed. These cuts weren't made by claws. It looked like a cut from a knife. A very big, sharp knife. Also, Applejack told me that, when she looked for hoof-prints, she found some that were strangely shaped, not like anything I've ever heard of. I'm going to go down in the morning and take a mold of one. Applejack also gathered that whatever did this is tall, about six feet, but is surprisingly light-weight for such a large creature, little more than two-hundred pounds. Also, it walks on two legs, the way that Spike generally does. I suppose that might account for its comparatively small weight, although that certainly makes it sound rather awkward. I hope you know what we are dealing with because it sounds unlike anything I have ever heard of.

Your faithful student,

Twilight Sparkle

Princess Celestia glared at the paper. "Augustus!" She spoke more sharply than she intended and winced when the already tightly-wound guard jumped noticeably. She sighed, cooling her head. She had to maintain her composure. It wouldn't do to go scaring everypony. Her sister did enough of that already. "I'm sorry," she said more gently, "I didn't mean to spook you. I need you to go down to the Canterlot merchant's quarter and bring me that investigator, Snoop Softhoof. Go quickly, go quietly, speak to nopony."

Princess Celestia turned back to her writing desk and prepared a quill, ink bottle, and parchment. She paused, considering. What was Twilight thinking about right now? Probably the welfare of her friends. Twilight was like that, after all. So much more outgoing than before. What then, would be the most encouraging message to send? Celestia thought a few moments longer then smiled as she reached a decision. She levitated the quill and moved it gently across the page, writing with neat, clearly legible writing, forgoing her usual, more flowery penmanship.

Twilight,

Help is on the way.

-Celestia

She summoned her magic and the parchment vanished with a crackle of displaced air. The princess often wished she could be there to see one of her messages arrive. She was told that Spike produced them with a tongue of green fire, but it was also somehow hilarious, and nopony ever explained why. The absurdity of her idle curiosity given the situation struck her and she couldn't restrain a chuckle, in spite of herself.

Meanwhile, Augustus Trot tore at breakneck pace down the stairs, desperately putting distance between himself and the princess. She had seemed more like herself at the end there, but he was now aware exactly how forced her calm demeanor was. He wanted to be as far away as possible. And he still wanted that damn transfer.

In the wilderness of the Everfree forest, a small shrub sat near an oak tree. It had been growing quite contentedly for about four years, and it had never been unduly disturbed. All in all, it was happy, to the extent that any plant is capable of being happy, at any rate. It got enough light; the ground was moist and sufficiently fertile. Sadly for that shrub, that was all about to end. Given that it had neither ears nor eyes it never heard footsteps approaching, never saw the blade that severed it from its roots. Its lack of a central nervous system spared it the pain of burning as it was tossed on a small campfire. The moisture in the leaves crackled and popped loudly as it burned.

The tired man that watched as the shrub was consumed, given that the shrub lacked these capacities and presumably therefore a soul, felt no guilt about burning the unlucky plant. He did feel a great deal of remorse as he looked down at the knife in his hand. It was still covered in blood. "That was a true-blue fuckup," he muttered to himself. He could practically hear a drill instructor screaming in his ear, "What the fuck were you thinking, shithead? You don't know the difference between a hostile and a civilian? Let me clue you in: the ones that aren't trying to kill you are civilians!" Once more, he played back those moments in his head.

He had awoken to find himself leaning against a fence. His knife and gear were there but his rifle was gone. His Kevlar vest was tight and rigid, indicating he'd been hit. After a few moments of numb shock, the pain hit, confirming he had at least two broken ribs. This was not a pleasant realization, especially in a war zone . . . except that he was obviously nowhere near the little mountain village in southern Afghanistan. It didn't even look like the right continent.

There were no gunshots, no screaming villagers, only a couple of small horses, approaching him cautiously along the fence line to his right. Naturally, it struck him as incongruous with his admittedly limited knowledge of horses that one of them was pink, but in the grand scheme of things, that was a minor enough detail. They had jumped back as he sat up, hissing in pain as the motion made his broken ribs shift in his flesh. He shook off a wave of nausea. In the absence of medical treatment, (or any kind of help for that matter,) he would have to fight through it.

He tried to take in his surroundings properly now, in an attempt to get his bearings. Before him, in neat rows that disappeared beyond his vision, was a massive apple orchard. He tried to reconcile this with his memory prior to losing conscious. Nothing clicked. He had turned his gaze again to the horses. His field of vision was filled by a pink face with impossibly large eyes. He heard a fast-paced jumble of words he couldn't understand in a frightening, high pitch.

He was taken completely off guard, and in his confused state, his training kicked in before his brain could work out what was happening. He drew his knife and struck out at the pink face. A line or red appeared across the horse's muzzle. It drew back with a high squeal. Not wanting to be trampled, he lashed out again, catching the animal at the knee joint. His knife bit deep.

The blue one caught up to its friend. If the man hadn't known better, he would have sworn it had a concerned expression on its face. "Pinkie, what hap-" in the time the horse said this, the man processed several things: one, that horse is talking; two, I understand the words; three, it isn't going to like that I hurt its friend; four, kill them both before they do something else weird. He acted. The second horse was faster and saw the knife coming. It escaped a fatal blow, but he opened a shallow cut along its neck. The next five or six seconds were a blur of stomping, narrow misses, and frantic slashing. Somewhere along the line, he tried to flank his blue opponent as the pink one collapsed, and noticed that his knife bit into a wing, apparently growing from the light-blue animal's side. He spun and brought the knife handle down on the back of its head, rather than contemplate this oddity. As it collapsed, unconscious or dead, he didn't know, he heard the beating of more hooves approaching. He quickly decided that it was time to move on.

As he was turning to go, something grabbed his pant-leg. He looked down to find the mutilated pink pony holding the fabric with its hoof, as though it possessed invisible fingers. He looked into its eyes, impossibly wide, on a face covered in cuts. The blood pooled around its head as it returned his gaze, and its eyes had no hatred, held no blame. They were concerned, scared, and pained, but they were not the eyes of an enemy. No enemies he had ever known held so much sympathy for their killers. The mouth moved to speak a single word that shook him to his core. "Sorry."

He returned to himself after reliving the confusing, guilt-ridden memories. He had run as far as he was able after that. He had made it into what was, according to a conveniently placed sign, the "Everfree Forest." He had struggled out of the vest, which was restricting his breathing, and ditched it well inside the tree line. His camouflage pattern was designed for rocky deserts of the middle east, not dense forest, but it was all he had. His pack was gone along with his rifle, and with it his rations. He had a few bland nutrient bars in his pocket, and he ate one slowly. After binding his chest as best he could, he proceeded deeper into the forest. At last, he could go no further. He built a small fire as the night came on and the air grew colder.

That inner drill instructor just kept on berating him. It didn't matter that his shoot-first instinct had been honed by the last couple of years spent fighting for his life ever since he had hired on with a small PMC, tackling work across the middle-east. He looked at the USMC-issued dog tags hanging from his neck for the hundredth time that night. Silas Tracey. He missed his days in the Marines. Back then, he could at least feel like a proper hero about his work.

Of course, he didn't hurt innocent people, no matter what the news media said about mercenaries. It wasn't part of the job description. He fought armed and hostile enemies. The only real difference between his days as a Jar Head and his current career was that he did it for serious pay. Maybe some of the jobs were a little dirty, politically motivated maybe, but so what? He drew the line at hurting civilians; he was still a Marine at heart.

He couldn't argue that the horses weren't people. They had talked. They were intelligent. That made them some kind of people, didn't it? Hell, even if they were just dumb animals he probably would have felt bad about the whole thing. Sure he was hurt and scared but that didn't excuse his lapse in judgment or his actions. Fear and pain were things he had trained long and hard to control, and he had failed miserably.

That thought brought up the issue of his condition. He was wounded, in unfamiliar territory, and the only intelligent inhabitants were no doubt hunting him by this point. He had, in his confusion and fear, cut himself off from any hope of medical help, and made himself a hunted fugitive with a potentially serious injury. "Great fuckin' job, dumbass," he said to himself grimly as he lay down to get what rest he could. The shrub in the fire gave a final crackle as the flames died down to embers.