Relocation Factor

Chapter Six: True Colours

Bren's eyes shot open, revealing only starry skies above him. A pain had appeared in his back, becoming nearly unbearable, and a weight was burdening his leg. Almost instinctively, he checked his watch: 11:19. He sat up, and the pain in his back immediately disappeared. Turning his head around, he saw that he had been lying on a particularly large and solid looking rock. He glanced down at his lap to see that Rainbow Dash was happily asleep, her stomach slowly expanding and sinking in rhythm with her breath. Realising he must have fallen asleep for a few hours, Bren decided to stealthily make his way back to Twilight Sparkle's house and get himself into a proper bed.

He slowly squeezed his leg from underneath Rainbow Dash's head, before reactivating his headlight and making the trek-now about an hour long due to the darkness-down from the top of the hill. Finally reaching the bottom, he clicked of the headlamp and stuffed it back into his pocket as he began to walk through the orchards towards Twilight's house. Hearing the sound of hooves, he turned his head to see Applejack walking wearily between the trees.

"Evening, Applejack," Bren said softly, not wanting to wake anyone up, if there had been anyone sleeping nearby he didn't see. "Long day?"

"You couldn't reckon the half of it, Bren. Seems that no matter how fast we work, there's just not enough hours in the day to get these apples down." The pony sighed a sigh of exhaustion. "What about you? What're you doing out in these parts this late at night?"

"I climbed that hill again to do a bit of stargazing, and then I got to talking with Rainbow Dash about where I'm from." Bren scratched the back of his head, a nervous tic he had to keep from getting to depressed thinking of his home. "I must've fallen asleep for an hour or two. I'm going to head back to Twilight's place and get some proper rack time. I'll catch you later." He was about to move on, but the orange pony refused to budge.

"Well, that's a bit of a gallop away from here. Now, I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't offer you a place to stay tonight, would I?" That warm, friendly voice bounced its southern lilt around Bren's ears as he smiled an equally warm smile.

"Heh, I guess not. Much appreciated, Applejack." The pony just smiled and led Bren toward a rustic looking farmhouse, like the type he used to see on long drives up through B.C.'s farmlands years ago. Applejack opened the door with a soft creak and led him up a flight of stairs to a near-empty room, where she laid out some sheets and blankets with a few pillows.

"Granny Smith and Big MacIntosh are asleep just down the hall, so y'all best not be a loud snorer." The pony giggled. "Good night, sugar cube." Applejack gave him one last look and warm smile before shutting the door and trotting off to her own bed. Bren smiled to himself. She reminded him of someone. Damned if he could guess who. Either way, with his new bed illuminated from the moonlight streaming through the circular window, Bren decided to get some rest. This time taking the care to remove his drop leg holster-the straps were starting to get annoying on his leg anyway-he laid atop the pile of sheets Applejack had done up for him. While cold air was starting to seep into the room, the blankets still looked incredibly warm, and he didn't want to overheat. Remembering his encounter with Rainbow Dash during his shower at the waterfall, he decided that stripping down before sleeping was a bad idea. He opted instead to just keep his clothes on and lie atop the soft down quilt; he had braved through colder nights. Crossing his legs and arms, he shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep again.

xxxxx

Budapest was tall and handsome. Budapest wasn't his real name though. His real name was Markus Bastiovanski. Everyone just called him Budapest because it was a fairly easy to pronounce nondescript Eastern European city, and far easier than trying to fight your way through pronouncing his last name. Hailing from Moldova, rather than Hungary, Budapest came to Canada at a very young age and enlisted in the Canadian Army, trying out for Special Forces a few years later. He failed selection when he injured his knee the first time, but two years later he attempted it again and passed.

Then a bullet shot through the center of Budapest's forehead, sending him to the ground before his face could even contort to register pain.

Burns was a shorter man built like a refrigerator. A football and rugby player for most of his life, his immense strength and stable build made him the team's pack mule, often stuck carrying any heavy kit no one else felt like taking, such as radios, machine guns or extra ammunition or parts. His nickname originated from an unfortunate explosives incident during a training exercise that left him without eyebrows for a few weeks. A self-styled ladies' man, he could often be found shamelessly flirting with any woman that got within eyesight. Rarely successful, his cheerful disposition even after rejection exemplified the determination that he carried with him.

Two bullets ripped underneath the hard plate of Burns' armour, his face grimacing in agony as he fell face first onto the dusty rocks.

Bren saw everyone, from Budapest and Burns to Craig get killed before his eyes. The entire sky was a grenadine red again, slowly darkening to deep crimson. He screamed their names but their bodies lay motionless. Rage built inside him again. The same rage he had used in that alley years ago. He reached for his weapons but had nothing; just the clothes on his back. He turned around to see Joson standing behind him, smiling like a serpent. It was Bren's chance. Before he could react, the colonel reared his arm back and punched Bren in the side of the head. But Bren felt almost nothing; the punch felt like only a small prod. The colonel threw a kick, this one hitting Bren in the leg, but this too held no weight. Bren had become invincible; truly unable to be stopped in his quest to set things right. He lunged at the colonel, still frantically punching and kicking in defence, when his vision became blurry. Bren shut his eyes tightly and then reopened them.

Joson had somehow circled behind him, as he could feel his ineffectual prodding coming from behind. Eyes still not yet fully focused, he felt Joson's presence directly at his back. His hand unsheathed his boot knife, a two inch blade with a ring at the hilt designed to slip a finger through and use in a punching fashion. The blade was small, but enough to punch a human throat or muscle group. Spinning around, he blindly reached out with his other arm, felt it wrap around something, and used all of the strength he had to wrestle it to the ground with a mighty battle cry. Scrambling atop it, he reared his knife hand back, ready to strike.

It was then that Bren's eyes focused and he saw who his target really was. Applejack was on the ground, her neck in his hand, her eyes filled with fear and her mouth clenched tight, bracing for a strike. Suddenly all of the strength seeped from Bren's limbs. His rage-filled eyes opened wide in disbelief and his snarling, foaming mouth dropped open as wide as his jaw would permit and began to quiver. His hands went limp and the knife slid off of his finger and landed on the ground with a clank. Bren drunkenly staggered to his feet and stepped away from the frightened pony, whose piercing eyes continued to stare at him with unrestrained fear. As he stepped back, his own face contorting sheer disgust, regret, and sorrow of his own actions, Applejack's eyes changed from terror to concern. "Applejack…I…" before the orange pony could say a word, Bren took off.

He sprinted through the house and outside into the apple orchards. He swore he heard Applejack call his name, but even if he did he ignored it. He had to protect her from himself. Once he was satisfied that he was far enough away-he was somewhere in the hills now-he dropped to one knee and vomited. He was disgusted with himself. He knew he had finally lost a battle that he had been fighting since nearly day one: PTSD, known formally as post-traumatic stress disorder. From the first day he set foot in Afghanistan as a buck private with Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, seeing men torn apart and gunfire whiz over his head, to his subsequent tours, all of the horrible things he'd seen in his time with special forces, everything that happened…before, to the recent incident with Joson. That had been it…the final push off the edge of the cliff. He had finally snapped, but without a wife or children to snap on and strike, or a bottle to bury himself in, he snapped on poor Applejack when she disturbed him at the wrong time.

"Oh dear…hi Bren! Are you not feeling well?" The soft voice of Fluttershy tickled Bren's ears. The soft tone did little to soothe Bren's racing mind.

"Stay the fuck back, Fluttershy," said Bren, echoing the words he first said to her when they met. "I don't want to hurt you too." His gaze was still fixated on the ground…and it had rapidly become the thousand yard stare of a weary soldier.

"Bren? I already know you don't want to hurt me. I thought we finally cleared all that up at Twilight's slumber party." She placed a hoof on his shoulder. "Bren, what's wrong?"

Bren spat in a vain attempt to remove the taste of bile from his mouth. "Applejack…I was having a dream about Joson. She started jabbing me before I was really awake and I…snapped. I thought she was the enemy." He spat another gob of saliva onto the grassy ground. "I almost killed her. If I hadn't stopped myself when I did I might have…" he stopped himself immediately, as he felt his voice beginning to crack with emotion. "I'm so fucked up." He let his head sag, defeated, to his chest. Feeling another tap on his shoulder, he turned around to see Fluttershy's large eyes piercing his.

"Bren, maybe you should go and talk with someone. Twilight Sparkle is very knowledgeable about a lot of things, and she has a big library with lots of books. Maybe she can help you with what's going on?"

"No Fluttershy…I…I think I should stay away from people, er, ponies. I…I doubt she can help me anyway."

"Bren." He looked her in the eyes again. This time her gaze was much sterner, as though she was tearing through Bren's mind with her very line of sight. "You really need to go and talk with Twilight Sparkle."

Bren stood up and began walking to Twilight Sparkle's house, Fluttershy close behind him. He still wasn't sure how she did that; that stare was something of legend. She could pull of an Army face better than half of the instructors he'd had over his career. One look and he didn't want to argue. Hell, if he ever found a way out of this place, the Canadian Forces would probably be happy to give her a job when they saw the staredown she could administer. He walked with Fluttershy tight on his heels until he reached the tree that Twilight Sparkle lived in. He knocked on the door, which soon swung open by itself thanks to Twilight's use of magic. As he stepped into the library, Bren saw that Twilight was milling over an old leather-bound book. She initially looked pleased to see him, but her expression rapidly changed to concern when she saw the dishevelled and stressed look on Bren's weary face.

"Bren, you look awful. What in the name of Celestia happened to you?"

Bren couldn't make eye contact; he merely stared at the floor. However, an assertive nudge from Fluttershy drove him to speak. "I…I almost really hurt Applejack. Real bad. I was having a nightmare about Joson," Bren said as he saw the purple pony's face sink as she recalled the hate and bloodlust associated with the name. "Applejack was prodding me, trying to wake me up and I…I thought she was Joson. I snapped, I was confused. If I hadn't stopped myself when I did…" he paused to choose his words, and decided not to euphemize the truth. "If I hadn't stopped when I did I would have killed her." There was a cold silence in the room as Twilight Sparkle, and now Fluttershy, who now more clearly understood the situation, looked on flabbergasted. Bren simply stared straight ahead, unblinking. A convicted man, admitting to his guilt, telling his story to a judge. "And better yet, I know why I did it."

Twilight Sparkle, ever the more courageous than her companion, spoke first. "Bren…why would you…"

The soldier cut her off before she could finish. "PTSD, that's why. Post fucking traumatic fucking stress fucking disorder. Long story short, all the horrible shit I've seen has come to a head, and this last incident with Joson was the straw that broke the camel's back. I guess it was only a matter of time until I snapped on someone, and that time was today and that someone was Applejack." He stopped. The tough, invincible, mentally strong soldier persona began to melt away as the restrained emotion began to break through Bren's voice. "I've always had nightmares, but now they're becoming real. All the shit…the dead friends, the bodies, the brushes with death, I had nightmares of them all. But this time it was real. The bottle's foamed over, the strap broke, and the balloon popped. I've finally gone over the edge." Seeing the mixed horror and confusion on the ponies' faces, Bren's last remaining emotional restraint shattered as he barked out the true meaning of his words in the only way he knew how. "Long story short, I'm fucked up! There, I said it. Cat's out of the bag, you two. Good job, your detective skills have cracked the mighty soldier. I'm fucked up ten ways from fucking Saturday. I have been for a long time, and now it's finally out in the fucking open. I am fucked up." With this, Bren could take no more and dropped to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. But not sobbing like he sobbed when he looked up at the foreign stars and wept for those he'd left behind. This time he was a crying child, unleashing his emotions to the world because he didn't know any other way to react.

"Bren, I may not know what you're going through, but I know that you definetly need help." Twilight's concern in her voice was unhidden.

"Who's going to fucking help me?" sobbed Bren, still unable to control the wavering of his voice. "All the damned shrinks that maybe could are back home. Do you have a book on psychology in there? If not I think I'm out of bloody luck."

The door creaked open, and Bren's head swivelled around to see a familiar orange pony gingerly lay his drop-leg holster and discarded boot knife on the floor,