"Another one!" a unicorn wearing bloodied surgical garments calls out. An exhausted zebra stallion shuffles over and pushes the emergency medical table away, its occupant breathing slowly but steadily.
"How are you still on your legs?" another zebra wearing military medic gear arrives with what has to be the hundredth patient with necrotic frostbite today.
"Coffee and guilt..." mutters the unicorn quietly. His features are almost completely covered by a surgical mask and he's wearing glasses, mostly for protection rather than vision.
The military medics in one of the hundreds of hastily set up hospitals along the north coast of Zebrica have grown to know this mysterious unicorn who simply appeared one day around two months ago and started using magic to at first light up the operating areas quickly running out of energy sources and then proceeding to learn how to do surgery. The zebras were happy to have someone with telekinesis on their side as skilled doctors from Equestria were still a rarity at the time.
The unicorn would work for days at a time, helping where he could, and when he was done he would just huddle in some corner, covered from head to hooves in a gray cloak - seemingly his only possession other than a rather strange, thick, silvery sword.
Over time, the medics got him a semi-comfortable bedroll and some fresh clothes but the cloak stayed and the sword remained untouched. Once, a thief tried to steal it, the medics assumed when they discovered a gruff zebra screaming in horror with his unseeing eyes wide open and staring into nowhere with his hoof still on the handle. The otherwise physically healthy zebra thief died with the expressions of pure terror, tied up to a medical bed and thrashing so hard he almost ripped the leather bonds off.
The only thing the unicorn said in response was:
"Whoever tries to make this already painful period even worse deserves eternal torment, not the safety and peace of quick death, but I'm not the one who makes the rules."
However, over the two months of the unicorn's work in this particular field hospital, the other workers have grown to disagree. Wielding his magic both for lighting and fueling failing power generators, the unicorn healed those whom even the best doctors in the field would give up on. It was as if death itself came for them and he said no. No matter the time or the amount of effort, the unicorn stitched wounds, cleaned up dead tissue, used healing magic beyond the scope of any other visiting unicorn from Equestria. Some of them even said he saved those whom not even the alicorns could heal.
Today, though, a griffon wearing a simple grey robe pushes through the infinite lines of wounded or otherwise suffering zebras and waits until the patient the unicorn is working on gets carted off before approaching.
The unicorn gives his surgical mask and clothes away to a young zebra assistant for sterilization and measures the robed griffon.
"A Silver Sun observer," he sighs, "What does Bucket want?"
"A message for you, that's all. You're supposed to play it in private."
The griffon gives the unicorn a steel-grey, hoof-sized square with several buttons on the side.
"If Bucket doesn't send help, he doesn't get to make the rules," growls the unicorn, pressing the 'play' button.
The top of the square lights up and a holographic image of a mechanical unicorn appears.
"Greetings," says Bucket, "It took me a long time to find you and I hope you're going to listen. I know what you're going through, at least part of it. Before you dismiss what I'm saying, I just ask you to consider that I had to watch Corrupted wash over Equestria, absorbing or devouring most of its population. Even with Cromach by my side, the entirety of the Silver Sun, and all the technology we, let's say, received from king Beard I was powerless to stop it. Now you're finding yourself in a similar yet different situation. Never in my existence, however, was I responsible for such events so I can't understand the weight on your shoulders completely."
"You got that right..." the unicorn frowns, ignoring the openly listening griffon as well as several zebras around, eager to gain more information about the mysterious unicorn.
"Now, I studied several books regarding survivor's guilt, stress, and-"
"Aaaand we're skipping," the unicorn holds another button for a while, making Bucket's speech quicken.
"-showing the typical symptoms-"
"Keep going," he rolls his eyes. When he resumes listening to the recording, he realizes he overshot and rewinds back a little.
"I doubt it would lead to redemption in your mind, or that anything would, really but it might do more good than you staying cooped up in one field hospital until someone figures out how to restore sunlight or heat."
The unicorn sighs and lets the recording play:
"We have intercepted an EIS report regarding a strange faction in the south of Zebrica in the ruins of Cloak town. They've already begun observing and identified several pieces of technology they don't understand but which we know are of Silversmith origin. Whoever they are, they've managed to gather survivors left behind by Stein's bloody conquest. EIS are guessing that the faction might be king Beard's changelings but the technology is advanced even for anything they shared with us and the timing doesn't fit. There's only one group with access to original Silversmith tech and the ability to use and repair it. I don't want to name names in case of my courier being waylaid. I would like you to go south, contact her, and help her restore some order and stability. She has the tech to build underground shelters, generate energy, and possibly save everyone who can't get to the Northern Coalition states through the dead zone. She won't share any tech with the zebras, that's clear but I think she's trying to find the same thing as we all are - if not redemption then at least the peace that will allow us to live with ourselves. I wish I could go myself or send someone reliable but we've got our hooves full with helping Nicolai maintain some semblance of stability within the Griffon Empire and replacing the communication drone network for prolonged work in sunless conditions. I must admit we definitely weren't ready for this kind of a situation and the power sources of the drones were based on zebra photovoltaic tech. Anyway, before I start rambling. I wish you good luck, no matter what you choose," the recording ends.
"Bucket, Bucket, Bucket..." the unicorn sighs, "Always thinking about the greater good, the global scale, the long-term plan. Never anything personal, never seeing the faces of those your decisions saved… or doomed," he looks around at the zebras on stretchers. Those and hundreds, possibly thousands, more wouldn't be here anymore if it wasn't for him. Many more won't be here if he decides to listen to Bucket's suggestion.
Still a miniscule fraction of whom restoring order could save in the coming months, though.
Never expecting any gratitude, just doing your job.
The unicorn sighs again.
"And I hate that you're right. We, the simple emotional ponies, can't think like that."
As his assistant arrives with freshly sterilized equipment, the unicorn shakes his head and points to another medic resting nearby.
"I have to leave. Is there a ship crew I can hire around here?"
"-and now it's time for New Rules," the radio chimes in equal mix of cheer and frustration with everything, "First, we all know that Emperor Cassius is a handsome griffon but this 'slutty Emperor costume' for this year's Nightmare Night is a little bit too much. I, myself, won't be able to look at Cassius' face in any official building now without imagining a red beakstick and six pairs of plastic tits underneath. Do you know how difficult it is to renew my passport even without a raging hard-on? It's-" the radio hisses, buzzes, sputters, and goes silent, much to the annoyed moaning of the patrons sitting around the Windy tavern.
"Hey, I was listening to that!" whines Thirteen, hopping off of her barstool and heading behind the counter.
With a grunt, Raymond stops cleaning the glasses and fiddles with the knobs on the radio with no result.
"Alright, show's over, everyone. The radio's shot. We knew this would come eventually," he waves his forelegs in the air to appease the complaining patrons, "Hey, unless any of you peasants can fix burnt circuitry then you can shut up and amuse yourselves for now."
"Awwww..." Thirteen gives Raymond the puppy eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," the griffon faces her with a stern stare, "I used to be a soldier, not an engineer. Go have a chat with some of the patrons if you want more social commentary."
"Ehhh," Thirteen gives the rest of the tavern a nervous look.
"I'm pretty sure that by now they're used to you, so the worst thing you can expect is a firm 'shoo!'," says Raymond in encouragement.
Paralyzed by doubt, Thirteen doesn't move before Three, previously sleeping on the counter, raises his head, woken up by the renewed chatting of the patrons. He lets out a squeaky yawn and looks around.
"What happened to the funny politics guy on the radio?" he asks.
"The radio broke and no one here can fix it..." Thirteen mumbles, rounds the counter, and hops back onto her stool.
"Hmmm," Three scratches his head, "Mind if I have a look?"
"You're an engineer or something?"
"I'm no Six but learned a thing or two over time," Three shrugs and hops straight down from the counter. He walks over to the big box and hugs it. Thirteen facepalms and Raymond raises an eyebrow. When nothing happens, he shrugs and says, "Was worth a shot."
Ignoring the stares of Raymond and Thirteen, Three turns the pony-sized box around, shapeshifts the tip of his hoof into a screwdriver, unscrews the back of the radio, and shoves his head into the mesh of cables, sniffing around. He quickly retreats and sneezes. After a few more seconds of searching, he unhooks and pulls out a large circuit board and flies with it back onto the counter.
"Too dusty. Does no one ever clean it?" asks Three, faced with two shocked stares. Raymond slowly shakes his head, "That's it then - burnt out capacitors, classic. How old is the radio?"
"Twelve years, give or take?" Raymond scratches his head, "Was here when I bought the tavern after retiring."
"Oof," Three nods his head in amazement, "It lasted that long with no maintenance? Must have been a good piece of work. Anyway, I think I can make a new capacitor if I get the materials and a precision soldering iron. Not the old paper ones like you have here but a proper one like at home."
"I hate to break it to you, Three, but look around you. Do you think there's anything to repair electronics around here?"
"Hmmm..." Three rubs his chin, "You said there was a blacksmith guy in the village, right? Thirteen, let's go ask Harriet if her dad can part with several pure gold pieces for conductors. We're going to need some coal dust too but that shouldn't be a problem."
The buildings of old Bloodstone, both business and residential ones, cast a crimson glow as their reddish mortar reflects dim street lights. Old Redtalon legends say that houses forming the core of Bloodstone had their building materials mixed with blood of fallen enemies of the Redtalons. Even Magpie isn't sure whether that exact part is true, for potential construction problems at least, but the fortress in the distance, looming over even the office complexes with fairly few of its many windows lit up, is rumored to have been rebuilt into its modern form using executed prisoners… both for labor and… dye.
A trio of griffons wearing GIL suits, two openly carrying assault rifles, stop in front of the door of a random residential house in the street. The house doesn't seem to be special in any way and from the outside it could be considered to be a literal copy of any other throughout the old town. The leader of the trio knocks on the door and calls out:
"GIL, open up!"
A terrified griffon opens and visibly chokes when faced with two rifle barrels aimed his way.
"Inspection!" the GIL soldier pushes the griffon inside from where a female yelp can be heard.
"I gave you guys everything last time!" objects the civilian.
"Orders are orders. We're inspecting houses now," says the squad leader and the other two enter the house, switching the rifles for pistols in case of a close-range encounter.
"Don't stare!" Tasheed hisses at Magpie walking next to him with his furry hood drawn.
"What's going on?" asks Magpie, forcing himself to look away as Tasheed leads the way towards Bloodstone fortress. Not that he needs to. Despite being away for years, the city hasn't changed enough since Magpie left to confuse him even a little.
"I told you before - orders of the Irongrip regent. All valuables are being brought to the fortress to be traded on the black market. One of the reasons I moved everything to Windy too," Tasheed shrugs, "Before they'd take all my stuff as well, I mean."
"How are black market traders getting here with any regularity? There's no way someone robbed the folks here and bought supplies for an entire city to last two months."
"You're right," Tasheed nods, noticing that Magpie is slowing down, and so he grabs Magpie's foreleg and gives him a gentle push forward, "There's a cloaked airship on the roof of the fortress. A rather small crew arrives with lasting supplies on a weekly-ish basis."
A warning bell of paranoia rings in Magpie's head.
This is a strange piece of information to know as an old history teacher.
"How do you know that?" he asks.
"Same way I know of one of the escape tunnels from the fortress," Tasheed whispers, smirking at Magpie, "Altberg wouldn't let someone he didn't trust teach his kids. I still had my quarters in the fortress when the Irongrips took over and I enjoy- well, enjoyed stargazing."
Hmmm…
"Why am I here?" Magpie breathes out, "The longer I think about this the dumber it feels. I don't even recall what I wanted to ask Altberg in the first place."
"You can't tell me what you just saw didn't make your blood boil," Tasheed's tone turns more urgent, "Those GIL soldiers are doing this all the time, harassing the citizens so that the regent can have things flown here from the heartland."
"No, it didn't. Maybe..." Magpie admits, "But the longer I'm here the less it matters. What can I do? I'm just a griffon who hasn't been here for how long… a decade? I don't even know myself."
"You are a Redtalon. With Veronica dead or simply gone and Altberg imprisoned by the Irongrips, you might be the Redtalon. No matter how this looks, griffons will rally around you if you call. There are what, a thousand GIL soldiers for a two-million griffon city? Redtalon isn't just a family name, it's a state of mind. Griffons who fought everyone until their forelegs were stained with their blood forever. You could show Irongrips that their grip isn't as strong as their name claims."
"So… do I just start screaming that I'm here to incite a rebellion, which I actually am not?"
"Well," Tasheed smirks in the way of a poker player showing his winning cards, "It's not as if Irongrip takeover happened without anyone saying a word. Unfortunately, many of the voices were silenced by the original task force sent to suppress dissent after Veronica's disappearance. That force isn't here anymore. Many of the GIL soldiers here are griffons who grew up here just like you. The bulk of the Irongrip force is stationed inside the fortress and, as we already established, I can get you and anyone else you choose in."
"You do know an awful lot..." Magpie narrows his eyes.
"No one suspects an old, harmless, history teacher," Tasheed smiles, "So, what do we do? Do you want to visit Altberg on your own and ask a question that's a mystery even to you or do you want to visit several griffons who might share our opinion on the current state of events?"
I'm getting dragged into things I really don't want to get into. On the other talon, that sums up the entirety of my recent life pretty accurately.
"Fine," Magpie sighs, "Where can we meet those dissatisfied griffons of yours?"
Public transport is obviously heavily limited during time when all energy is needed for heating but thankfully the place where Tasheed leads Magpie isn't too far from the fortress itself. At the first glance, rebels against the current regime having a meeting place so close to the seat of power itself sounds dumb but on deeper thought - doesn't thay always say that the darkest shadow is right under the candlestick or something?
Tasheed leads the way through the locked back door of a butcher's shop, the front of which is heavily barricaded, and into its deactivated walk-in freezer, empty meat hooks bringing back memories of the minotaur fighting ring to Magpie.
"What now?" asks Magpie.
"Now we wait," replies Tasheed calmly.
"You haven't contacted anyone on the way here."
"Correct. There are silent alarms at the entrance to the cellar. The griffons who know that no one should be here right now are coming. There's a short-range radio in the tools closet, if I recall correctly, but let's not alert everyone yet. I want to introduce you first."
Without a word, Magpie walks out of the freezer and returns with a wooden chair taken from the cellar itself. Tasheed gives him a questioning glance.
"I got chewed up by a Corrupted into a state in which no one should survive, I got better within a few days, and then I walked here with fairly scarce supplies. I'm exhausted, as little as I want to admit it. If you want one too, go and grab it yourself."
"No respect for your elders these days, seriously," Tasheed smirks and just sits down.
"Respect is earned, age has nothing to do with it, Tasheed," Magpie frowns at him.
Several minutes later, Magpie hears multiple sets of pawsteps approach the freezer and finds himself faced with five griffons aiming pistols at him and Tasheed, two females and three males.
"What are you doing here?" asks the leading griffon who looks like he's in his early twenties. He's well-built in the gym jock way but in reality about as threatening as a barking puppy, aside from the pistol.
Magpie looks at Tasheed who stands up, seemingly unbothered by the guns aiming his way.
"We were looking for griffons who would like to change the current situation in Bloodstone."
"So are GIL soldiers on a daily basis," growls a scarred griffon female in the back who could be in her forties.
"Miss 'Crimson'," Tasheed smirks when the chick narrows her eyes at the name, "Yes, I know about you and about the mess you caused in Bloodstone a month ago. Your group of rebels have been a thorn in Irongrip paw since the takeover but so far you've managed to only make things worse for common griffons."
"Says you!" the leading griffon in the front scowls.
"I do, indeed," Tasheed looks him in the eyes, "I've lived in Bloodstone for decades, young griffon. I spent most of the time studying and then teaching history in public schools and I know how rebellions work. I also know that rebels need a symbol, and most of all I know what the citizens of Redtalon lands value. Magpie?" Tasheed looks at Magpie and taps on his own foreleg.
Magpie takes his glove off and rolls up the sleeve of his winter coat. All griffons other than Crimson gasp.
"That's not dye, is it?" the leader walks over, grabs Magpie's foreleg, and rubs it hard.
"It isn't," Tasheed proclaims, "This is Magpie Redtalon. I know him, I taught him history on Altberg's dime a long time ago. He survived Veronica's purge of the Redtalon heirs and now he can be the leader you need for your rebellion to work."
"Yeah yeah," Magpie stands up, rolling his eyes, "Look, I'm a Redtalon, yes. No, I don't want to be in charge of anything. I'm here just because Tasheed told me what the Irongrips are doing to you and I saw the GIL soldiers barging into griffons' homes with my own eyes. Supposedly, my father is still alive despite rumors of poisoning," he glances at Tasheed who nods, "Altberg was an ass but a traditional noble ass who understood that a ruler can't stand without his subjects. At worst, he wasn't a thief like whoever the Irongrip stooge is."
"Don't listen to him, Warren," says Crimson, looking at the griffon leader, "Altberg is dead."
"That doesn't matter," Warren glares back but his voice fills with hope, "If we could prove lord Altberg is alive, we can rally the griffons. The Legion will stand with us. The few remaining Irongrip bandits who are staining Bloodstone fortress with their presence won't be able to stop us!"
"If we can prove anything," Crimson rolls her eyes, "Let's say old Altberg is alive, so what? How do you intend to get to him?"
"I've worked in the fortress for years. I know a way into the dungeons," says Tasheed, which makes Warren smile and conjures more hopeful expressions on the faces of everyone with the exception of Crimson. Magpie allows himself an appreciative smirk, "I'm not sure where exactly Altberg is kept but when I left he definitely wasn't under house arrest so he must be down there."
"Count me out!" says Crimson, "We haven't been slowly building our support to lose it all on a roll of a dice."
I like Crimson. She's too practical to fall for this sudden bullshit.
"No, you haven't been building support at all," objects Tasheed, "Your actions leading to the harsh treatment by the GIL only lost you the wider support you had in the first place. Yes, you might have a few hardcore fanatics now but to free Bloodstone you will need numbers."
Crimson narrows her eyes at Tasheed and says:
"Don't do something as stupid as infiltrating the castle for a video."
"This isn't just for a video, this is for our future and honor!" Warren looks at the others, "We have a Redtalon with us, we can prove lord Altberg is alive, and we can rally the city against the invaders. We won't get a chance like this again! Even if Crimson isn't with me, are you?"
"Yes!" the others cheer, much to Crimson's visible irritation.
"Can you find five others willing to come with us, armed?"
"YES!"
"Sorry, Crimson," Warren looks at the older mare, "You can start spreading the news. We'll need word of mouth to go around the whole Bloodstone."
Crimson grits her beak and with a frustrated yell of 'IDIOTS!' storms out of the freezer.
Warren frowns a little but perks up immediately, saying:
"Let's go get the volunteers and meet back here in an hour. Tasheed, is the secret entrance far away? We don't want ten griffons walking through the streets as a group. The soldiers are bound to notice."
"Good idea," Tasheed nods.
Magpie sits down on his chair again.
Why do I get the insistent feeling that Crimson was the smartest one of us? On the other talon, Redtalons are historically the kind to not overthink things and just start hacking around until they're the only ones left standing.
Heh, probably why I was near the end of the inheritance queue.
