Relocation Factor

Chapter Two: Elsewhere

A throbbing pain, like a painful, pounding heartbeat resonated through Bren's head. His stream of consciousness thinking, a word salad of vague concepts and partially finished ideas jogged through his head like a broken down steam engine approaching the last tunnel of its journey; his thoughts became progressively louder and clearer. Until everything clicked into place.

Bren's eyes shot open as he remembered, at least for the most part in sheer black and white objective terms, what had happened to him. Joson…Joson had sold him and the unit out. He had activated that weird box…Starfire or Sunlight or something. He remembered seeing Craig violently thrown against the wall…he remembered hearing the panicked radio transmission from the cutoff teams about the private contractors that had engaged them. Then…light and that…place. It felt like forever he fell down there. Then he remembered the field. He tried to re-establish radio contact with…anyone…and then he had passed out. Last thing he remembered was the voice of some unseen individual grabbing him and dragging him away.

He stopped focusing on recalling the events of recent and started focusing on his surroundings, his skill in observation honed by his years in special forces proving valuable in this situation. A featureless wooden roof, looking as though it was carved directly from a mighty tree itself, covered him. No light fixtures. The room was bright with sunlight streaming in through porthole-like windows scattered around the room. A single wooden door proved to be the gateway to this room. Sitting up, Bren saw that he was in some kind of library; oak shelved packed to the brim with books wallpapered the room.

Something was off. It was easier to sit up than it should have…his gear! A glance downward revealed that he had been stripped of everything but his camouflage fatigues; his chest rig, body armour, his pack, even his drop-leg holster for his sidearm were all missing. However, a glance to his right revealed that they weren't. They had all been neatly laid out on a nightstand next to him. Strangely, it looked as if the only touching done to his kit had been its removal from his body. His sidearm was still in the holster, his ammunition still in the pouches, even his back-up pistol, strapped to the front of his rig, was still securely in its place. A further check revealed that his boot knife and his main knife, clipped to his belt and dangling freely via a carabiner, were both still on him. Hell, even his kneepad was still buckled to his right knee. Whoever took him here clearly wasn't a professional.

He stood up to better survey his surroundings. Immediately drawing his sidearm, a SIG P226 9mm pistol from its holster, he checked the chamber and magazine. To his continued surprise, both were loaded and armed, ready for firing. Keeping the pistol at low ready, he shifted his weight forward onto his feet to conduct a further inspection of the room. The headache was back…something fierce. It was hard to focus. He suspected a concussion; he had had one before, and this felt awfully familiar. He willed himself through the pain, although every step became harder than the last. He saw that his rifle had been leaning against the table he was on, the barrel pointing dangerously close to where his head had been. Bren saw a mirror fixed to another nightstand in the corner of the room. He would check himself out, see the extent of his injuries, and then make his escape. His main priority would be to try and re-establish radio contact with someone, and try to warn them about Joson.

Shambling to the mirror, he laid the SIG on the table and examined himself. Sure enough, there was a decent sized lump on the back of his head. Apart from another few miscellaneous cuts and bruises across his tall, lean and athletic frame, everything seemed normal…except this bloody headache. It was borderline unbearable now. Maybe contacting someone to let them know about Joson's betrayal could wait until he found some asprin or something…

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the wooden door slowly creaking open. He snatched the pistol off the table and spun to face the door, dropping to a knee and bringing the pistol sights up to his eyes. His vision was blurry now. He was having trouble focusing on the front sight post. Focus, Bren, focus. He applied all the effort he had to remain conscious and focused. The door finally eased open more, and in walked something that contorted his face into a mask of equal parts horror, surprise and complete bewilderment.

A horse. A Goddamned yellow horse with purple hair, about five feet tall at the top of her head and with eyes the size of baseballs poked its head through the door. Bren simply lowered the weapon in disbelief and tried to focus on it while simultaneously making sounds of disbelief. And then it spoke.

"Oh…hello. I didn't know you were awake just yet." For reasons known only to God, this statement snapped Bren's mind back into focus, and he managed to bring the pistol back to the ready, although he now had to strain and keep one eye closed to keep his focus on the sights. The horse looked unfazed by his aggressive stance, and continued to advance toward him, smiling softly.

"Back!" snarled Bren. "Get back!" The horse stopped with a look of confusion on its unusually human like face. A thump came from upstairs, as did another voice, this one sounding much younger, almost prepubescent.

"Hey! Did he finally wake up?"

"Yes," said the yellow horse softly. "he's just gotten up from his…"

"I said get the fuck back!" barked Bren once more. This time the horse looked afraid of him and started to move away. He darted his pistol between it and the stairs. Should have checked the stairs, he scolded himself. Stupid. Rookie mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The yellow horse continued to look at him with a mix of startled surprise and sadness. "Back…" he said again as he felt his focus and consciousness drifting away. "All of you…get…" and once again he tasted the cold embrace of the ground and blackness.

"It's been asleep for a long time. Almost a whole day. Is it dead?" rang out another voice, this one sounding more energetic and raspy. The rhythmic pounding in his head had been reduced to a dull roar. Not 100%, but at least now Bren could hear himself think.

"No…it's not dead." He croaked. "And since you haven't killed me yet, I'm not going to bother with drawing on you again."

Yet another voice chimed in, this one sounding childlike and high pitched. "Ooh, drawing? I love drawing! I can get some crayons, and markers, and oil pastels, and…" This voice was silenced by multiple others hushing in unison. Bren forced his eyes open and turned his head towards the source of the voices. Recoiling slightly in surprise, he saw that more of these horse things were lined up to the left side of him. There was a bright pink one, a white and purple one, with the yellow one from earlier standing sheepishly behind it, an orange one with what appeared to be a cowboy hat, and a blue one with rainbow coloured streaks in its hair. Then next to it was a tiny, purple and green…dragon…thing, that looked like someone had stuffed Barney the Dinosaur into a magical shrinking device. Throwing his legs over the side of the table he was rested on, he rubbed his eyes groggily and sat up to face his bedside guests. Taking in another look, he dropped his head into his hands.

"Oh. Now it makes sense. I get it." The horses looked at each other in confusion and then at him. "I remember that table full of drugs in the compound. I must have slipped and inhaled all of it or something. I'm passed out in the middle of Afghanistan and this is all a hallucination to keep my mind off of the fact that the rest of the guys are drawing mustaches and penises on me."

The orange horse spoke up. "Well now, I don't reckon I know much of a place called 'Afghanistan', but I can assure you you ain't there, darlin'." This one spoke with an all-too-familiar drawl.

Bren scratched his head in disbelief. "Are you…are you from Texas?"

The rainbow coloured one stepped forward. " 'Afghanistan', 'Texas', you must be real confused. You're in neither. You're in Ponyville, in the Kingdom of Equestria!"

Bren blinked twice. "I'm where now?"