A shooting game
April 3, 2025 at 3:30 PM
I invited my friends to this festive shooting...
Jeff
There's usually little light in such places. Basements. Less often, attics. Abandoned or soon-to-be-demolished skeletons of buildings on the outskirts. It used to be considered the near Moscow region. Now it's just the outskirts, where they haven't yet managed to get rid of the remains of utility and technical structures. The crunch of glass or the crunch of dirty snow. Occasionally, syringes lying around, some seemingly a decade old. The cars wait far off to the side, sometimes not just unremarkable service vehicles but also old «bobiks». The support group huddles behind the young man. They mustn't interfere. On his kevlar helmet — an action camera and infrared diode lighting. Under the helmet — some kind of goggles, clearly not military issue. A respirator. — Here, — Mumbles the man, exhaling steam from the respirator valve. In the distance, Moscow hums indistinctly. He pulls out a menacing pistol, painted in a garish yellow-and-black pattern. — Ready, — Hisses the earpiece. — I'm coming in. — Great fucking part-time job, — Valentine thought. A soft step-jump into the niche of the basement window. The glass is broken — most likely, the «target group» climbed in here. One by one, of course. Everyone's been through this before: inspect the area, lighting the way with an invisible diode flashlight on the helmet, clear away the glass and other hazardous debris, then slip inside... Belkin stood up. Looked around. Pulled a dispenser box from his shoulder pocket. Inhale, remove the mask, toss a pill into his mouth, put the mask back on, exhale. The ringing in his ears began to fade. Maybe it was the pressure, or maybe just hallucinations. And that nasty feeling, like static was jamming his thoughts. A smell hit him. In the respirator? It's practically a gas mask — through those thick filters, an open bottle of acetone barely smells! No, the smell was in his head. The stench of a dump. A whole sea of waste. And there, in the depths, some kind of life was already stirring, clumsily moving its grotesque bodies... — This is Sterkh. They're close. — Be careful out there. The footsteps are almost inaudible, but... No need to sneak. They can't hear. Somehow, they sense you from almost fifty meters away, through reinforced concrete, soil, and the low-frequency interference from the industrial power grid, but they don't hear. Not until you're right next to them. — Got it, I see them. Six of them. A migrant worker in an orange road vest, some homeless guy, a youthful «fifty-year-old boy» in a denim suit, a gopnik, and two aunts. Good thing he has a respirator. They’re standing in puddles of their own urine. Silently. And... — Holy shit! — Valentine exhales. — Sterkh! Sterkh, what's going on there?! — Contact. Belkin pulled out the second gun. The plastic softened from the impact and the rubber rings. Three steps toward the meat statues that turned in unison. The main thing was not to listen to them, not to listen to that characteristic, itching whisper. He couldn't listen to them. Bam! One of the aunts stumbles and falls. An offended expression appears on an absolutely empty face. Like an ink stain through a napkin. The scream drowns out the whisper. Bam! Bam! Running gopnik and the «denim fellow» receive a feathered tube in the center of the body. The tricky plastic instantly blurs into blots that slowly gather back together. The rings would have led away, but you can't let them near you: both characters were already raising their hands. While running, the upper limbs dangle with ropes, and then suddenly — snap! You'll get away with it. And listen to the whispers up close. As a last resort, Valentine had a taser, but what if he was grabbed by the hands? Bam-bam! And now the rings. Head-on. Bad. He needs to avoid being shot in the head, in the solar plexus, in the neck... fuck, you can avoid it here! A U-turn, a kick in the big ass. The second aunt stops in surprise and starts looking around. Sorry. The ring flies in behind the knee. Now it would not fit the length of their hands. The homeless man wheezes and squints, crouching like a monkey. Bam! This one gets a ring in his face. How the boxer worked out. — Hey! What did you do, shaitan? — Stay where you are! Just stay where you are! — Belkin stops mid-turn. The barrels tremble slightly in sync with his heartbeat. Someone is climbing through that very window, noisily breaking down the door, using an angle «grinder» to cut through the welded seams or hinges. The beams of flashlights flicker chaotically. Belkin is being shoved aside by closet-like camouflaged guys. That's it, he worked it out. Now put the fuse on the guns and stop recording at the exit.***
— Where are they going? In a madhouse? — Most likely, — Petrovich frowns. — Some will be released after treatment, but others... — Those who won't be released even after treatment? — Exactly. Listen, Valentine... — Yes, Sergey Petrovich? — Belkin doesn't like the tone. But... the «sovereign's man» is now, even though the state will disown you and owe you nothing. — Perhaps your Marinka will need to be put in a capsule. Experts are not sure if it will be able to project, but suddenly what. There's an option to see through someone else's eyes, or something. — First of all, what does my opinion have to do with it? — Valentine grimaced too. — And secondly, I still don't want to drag her into this mess. — Us too. But here's the thing... Do you remember our conversation about space madness? — Like that aggressive psychosis on the theme «no going into space»? — Valentine looked around. The driver of the minibus where Belkin was changing clothes was behind a partition. He hadn't heard. — Yes. We've concluded that it might be connected to our business. — I don't see any connection. — Think about it. What does the rejection of space mean? — Well, the confinement of humanity to a single planet? — Exactly. And how is that connected to astronomy, especially applied astronomy? — Alright, I get it. The destruction of critical thinking, mysticism... Is it related to excessive concern for the environment? — Yes. More precisely, with the substitution of concepts. Concern for the environment and its design are being replaced by «naturalness», the rejection of biological research. Only naturalism and eclectic geography. And sprinkle some animalism and «magic» on top. To live happily and for a short time. — Is it just us, or has this started happening elsewhere too? — It's everywhere. At first we thought that all this crap was just a social weapon, but when our overseas «friends» themselves started eating this shit in two spoonfuls... something affects people. And this is something that is not human, but... — What does this have to do with our horses? Are they messing up? — No, you were told that their reality is a reflection of ours. And according to the results of your interrogations, it was concluded that there is the same ass. No one itches, right? — Nobody. Moreover, their analogue of the Union collapsed not just as a geopolitical competitor, but for trying to embark on a technological path of development. — Exactly! Haven't you encountered it on the internet yourself? — What? — No knowledge except magic! Einstein is a zionist, Newton is a freemason, and Archimedes is generally a reptilian. So, do not listen to the sorcerer-scientists, everyone should dance, sing songs and rejoice at their own mortality against the background of otherworldly immortal rulers, whom no one has seen, but they are there. Like that gopher bitch. — The rulers? Is it in the plural? — I suspect so. The fucking elves are some kind of secret thousand-year-old sages... now there are also restless horses. — Well, so far nothing from the «domestic product». Maybe we should look for long, hairy elven ears sticking out from the «Overseas West»? — Really? And what about all the saints who have appeared to our lunatics throughout the ages? Damn it, it's said that there's «no way back» from the other side, but still! They appear! Not exactly the same kind of berries, huh, Valentine? — You'd know better. My job now is to shoot people in basements. Straight-up «bloody KGB»! — You are going too far. You'd better offer up with a version of what's going on. — What's there to offer? The biomass has increased, it's time for slaughter. And as for space... At first I thought that someone was afraid that we would split up, but now... does looking at the night sky prevent infection? — Maybe. — I wanted to ask you something else. — Ask. — That horse world in a dream, is it really in a dream? It's all too real. The texts are readable, the small details of the setting do not change arbitrarily. The weather, too. If it's just the collective unconscious, then I'm afraid there won't be enough brains for such a picture. — We don't know for sure. There is a theory that that horse world, as you put it, is a trace of our reality in some probability stream. Hence all their magic-crap magic against the backdrop of some sane physics. And, by the way, we still have no idea what determines a person's ability to project there. Every case we've had, somehow it's like yours. And always in the form of a chefango. — Did you like the word? — It's kind of exact.***
— At first, he forced us to choose everything from him. Scope was already sick, and I didn't feel well either. I've eaten too much, may the queen forgive me for being rude... — I allow you to use any expressions in our conversation to accurately convey the essence of what happened, — Chrysalis's half-closed eyes gently shine. — Tell me and don't think about etiquette. — He told us to help him. Pulled out one sack of that poppy hay. Scattered most of it on the road. Threw a couple more bags downstairs and on the stairs. And a couple of gun cases. — Why? — I don't know exactly. We were really scared at the time. We just did what he told us to do. And we weren't thinking straight, — Spirit swallowed hard. — He's just a source of emotions, and bad ones at that. Whether you like it or not, you'll get some. — What's next? — The queen returned Night Spirit to the topic in a businesslike manner. He placed several loaded rifles in various hidden places. He made us fill all our pockets with bullets. And take a spare clip. To change it immediately, if anything. Then we dragged all the junk and some of the «goods» down and built two towers at the door. In the shadows. He sent us upstairs. Scope was on duty at the hatch to the roof, and I was supposed to be waiting on the stairs. — Go on, — Chrysalis encouraged. — Have they come? — Yes, my queen. They came. They saw an empty box and a torn bag in the gate. — Let me guess. Did everyone rush inside? — Not all of them. Some kind of griffin... a griffin... She flew up. We'll do that later... — Okay, don't shake! Look at my ear, — Chrysalis lit the horn, — And think of something good. For example, about ice cream. Uh-huh. Spirit, you're not thinking about that! — I'm sorry... oh! — Easier? — Thanks. Should I tell you more? — Do me a favor. — He told me to bring those piles right down on the door. With magic. And he... I don't know what to call it. I tried to track him in the dark with a spell, even something worked out... — What was there? — It's like a golem carved out of black crystal from fairy tales dancing on the run. Slips and reversals. Noiselessly. It was mesmerizing. I remember forgetting that I had to go upstairs to Scope, and I froze. I only flinched when the shots were fired. And the screams. Heaven, how they screamed! Someone was trying to clear the rubble and didn't have time... He... — Quiet, quiet! That's enough, calm down! — I'm sorry, my queen... It's just that zebra... — What kind of zebra? — She crawled right out to the stairs. The blood is streaked, as it was specially painted. And he... he shot her twice in the head. And he told me not to be... stupid. And she went upstairs. And that you can't stand under a lamp... — What's next? — Chrysalis nodded encouragingly. — There was a unicorn and an earth pony. Another pegasus foolishly flew in. Belkin... He's got them all... a distracted look, reloading these things of his without looking. He grabbed three shell casings with his paw and inserted the cartridges. And he walked into the darkness again. But I still couldn't move. — And then? — Then everything kind of quieted down. I didn't see that Belkin was injured. That pegasus had a gun without a stock and with sawn-off barrels. And, apparently, our dog got hooked. I noticed when he went upstairs where the bags were. He was looking for something. He took the gun for something. He just saw that there was an earth pony and a unicorn. They were outside. And he... It was a long way off, but he hit the edge of the dune. The unicorn screamed. And then the earth pony ran away. And the other pegasus. He probably wanted to go through the window, but he changed his mind. When it started. Belkin told us to... Scope couldn't, he was shaking. Please, Your Majesty! Do something! Don't let me remember! — Calm down. What happened next? — He looked at us. He unbuttoned and took off half of his overalls and began to bandage them. He had some pills with him... — I'm not surprised he had them. He's post-burns, had to treat them with magic, — Chrysalis grimaced. — It's like trying to cure a bag of black sand. Did you help? — No, he did. Then he took Scope with him to find that unicorn. — Scope said the unicorn got sand in its eyes. — I don't know. I heard three more shots. — What about the pegasus? And the earth pony? The pony was running and screaming at the same time. You didn't even try to catch up with pegasus. Uselessly. And the earth pony... You hit him in the spine. From above. And then she screamed at him to shut up. The gun was already clacking metallically. You dropped the clip in the sand and inserted the second one. While you were busy, the pony went quiet. The dead have strange glazed eyes, as it turned out. And you, who landed roughly next to him, threw up on a dropped clip. — That's it, Spirit, sweetie, calm down! Did you leave? Were you followed? — Yes. I mean, no. I mean, Belkin said that pegasus is already far away. We're gone. We took the direction of Klugetown and went. There was a wind. The tracks were covered up. And it's cool. We walked for a long time. Then Belkin fell. We tried to pull, but... Scope said he couldn't... Carry? Kill? — I was already on my way. As soon as they told me on the radio that you weren't on the airship... — We didn't know. — Spirit... If I know that my former subjects are in trouble somewhere, I will not leave them. The duty of the changeling queen. — Taking care of all the people is also a duty. Advisor's duty. And don't take unnecessary risks. — I'm also an alicorn, — The queen chuckled, — Accustomed to doing without a locus and not disdaining to use weapons. — Did you find us by magic? And they sent a transport? — Magic is not needed there. I flew in from Irvine. I wasn't in Klugetown, so I'm sorry I misled you. It's just that if you'd been caught... Well, while they're assembling the squad, getting the airship... Especially since the Princesses were about to leave for Canterlot... — I understand, my queen.***
— Are you awake? — I think so. How did they get me there? — I'm the one who dragged you asshole! Belkin, you owe me an incredible amount! In Manehattan, do you know how much a pony taxi costs per mile? And here... — By the way, where are we? Some kind of transport? — Transport. Came out of Klugetown. I was moving toward him with you on my back. You can't be magically taken or teleported.… And you can only carry it on foot. You can't be magically taken or teleported... And you can only carry it on foot. How can you even mess up the magic of flying, huh? — Somehow. By the way, why in the kitchen? — Belkin tried to turn around. — The galley. The only place with a suitable table, so that it is large and washed well. They pulled three pellets out of you. And stitched up. And then the stitches will have to be removed. And... I do not know how they will cook here now... — By the way, I've been meaning to ask... — Don't get up! Ask while lying down! — Are you predators? — You mean the fangs? No. Omnivores. What else? — I need to go to the bathroom... — Oh, I got in touch with you! Don't get up yourself! I'll help you now. — And this... I don't really like going naked. Can I have a jumpsuit? — And bandages don't count as clothes? So go, you won't scare anyone here. — Yeah, but I'll make everyone laugh. But it was useless to argue. No point. They'd give him the clothes, they wouldn't go anywhere. As Chrysalis led the squirrel dog down the narrow corridor to her cabin, he asked again: — Chris, why is it so crowded here? Isn't the car big, as I understand it? — Yeah. Half of the car is an engine. And the other half is fuel. And we just stuck to the side. — Is that the engine humming? — The furnace. Warms part of the engine. I don't really understand how this thing works. — Steam? — No, in hot air under pressure. Economical, but small... — The bunks are empty, — Valentine said, passing by a row of sleeping places. In two tiers, like in a reserved carriage, but with an individual window. Some of the niches were curtained off, where individuals were sleeping or rustling the press. With a fart and a hiss, some jazz was playing softly on the radio. Manehattan? Emergency lighting on strange bulbs. They don't seem to blink when they pass by. Or is witchcraft needed only to form a p-n junction? — Uh-uh. You can't be left unattended. And ordinary changelings won't be able to stay with you for long. So, you're lying around in my cabin. Be proud of the honor. — And you? — I'm an alicorn, — Chrysalis said, as if that explained something to the squirrel dog.***
— Shh! I'll do it! — To the dim glow of the nightlight was added the glow of magic. — It's done? — Yes, thank you. Is it the pill withdrawal that makes me so hooked? — Injuries, poorly applied magic. Should I look for another reason? — Chrysalis conjured something else. — Huh? — Belkin, regaining his senses a little, looked around. — Spirit's gone to sleep in the spare cell. It's not that she feels bad around you, just uncomfortable. — Okay. How are you? — I'm fine. The alicorn has a surplus of magic. Not so much with my missing locus, but still. I keep a black crystal on my nightstand in my bedroom at home. — Listen, I had a bundle of poppy straw in my overalls... — Valentine... I can tell them to make it for you with tea, but let's do it without that kind of manure, okay? — It should smoke there, not brew it... But that's not what I mean. — Well, share it with someone else. — We need to pack the stuff in an envelope and send it from some provincial post office in Canterlot. — Offices? Oh, you mean the post office! And who are you going to send it to? Not the Sisters? — Them. We'll write a letter stating the place and nature of the things stored there, and we'll throw in some straw for an example... +++ — Belkin, princesses get hundreds of letters every day! And even packages! There's a whole special office just for all that! And you're hoping that... — I'm not hoping. — What then? — The letter may or may not get there, it may be ignored. — Well, let's say. What's next? — What then, if this office of yours... — Celestia's. — Okay, if Celestia's office washed out the letter, then someone's not in control of the processes at the palace. Or even all of Equestria. — Uh-huh, — Chrysalis thought about something and smiled slyly. — But if the letter got to the addressee? — One way or another, our adventures will come out. And it's better to choose the place and time of «surfacing» ourselves. Do you think Selka and Lunka will come looking for us, or will they go into that tower? — The second, — Chrysalis said slowly, nodding at the same time. She sat on the bed, but not as animals sit, which Belkin would have expected, but with her hind legs intertwined. It looked floppy and funny, but only for a squirrel dog with a different anatomy of joints. In the dim light of the night-light it was impossible to make out whether the shifter-mares had udders or not. Valentine wasn't really interested. He was much more interested in his own pain. — Unless the drug trafficking is controlled by the Princesses themselves... — Knowing the two of them... I don't think so, — Chrysalis hummed, laying down and turning over. — Why would they do that? — To make a show trial of the lost scion of a noble family and pin the unicorns of Canterlot? — Suggested the squirrel dog. — Belkin, don't mix one speech with another, my horn is knotting, — Chrysalis moved closer and was going to pull the squirrel dog to her. — «Storchavshiysia». — What about yourself? Especially when you swear? — I'm fine. It's just that there's such a reaction to you. — Chris... — What's wrong again? — Please don't touch me so much. — Are you in pain? — Not so much hurt as overly sensitive. After the burns, I guess. — Then how do you wear clothes? — Not with clothes. I don't know how to explain it. And another thing... — What? Should I put a blanket over you? — How did you find us so fast? — Magic and knowing where you didn't get on the airship. I ordered transportation and flew out. Half a hundred miles from Bastion, there's a distinctive mountain or natural tower of stone. Just in the direction of Klugetown. — We were, if I remember, coming up to this thing when I got nailed. You were in Irvine, by the way, weren't you? What about transportation? For some reason I thought you'd gone to Klugetown before we left. And I thought Spirit said... — No. I stayed in that hospital. There were others to meet the airship. I made the arrangements. It's just, if you got caught, you'd better think I really did go to the desert. And I've already apologized to Spirit, though I don't have to. — What did you do? I haven't seen any wires from the roof to the fence. — You mean the transmitter? No, there's another way. But, you've heard and even noticed, I'm an alicorn. For now, this explanation should be enough for you. — Understood. A certain sequence of magical lightning bolts from the horn, and in Klugetown a certain code consisting of short and long bursts of atmospheric noise is received on a regular radio... — Belkin, you can shut up in time, huh? I've already realized that you're quite the combination of smart and stupid. And while you're at it, don't try to ask me why Spirit and Scope didn't shoot you in the desert. — I won't. But how did you figure it out? — They seem to be honest and ready to help, but you're full of shit... Belkin went cold, but then he remembered the hospital conversations. — Don't fidget. I'm aware that you occasionally come here as a mix of squirrel, manticore, and diamond dog. — Have you seen many? — No. I've seen one and hope to see one again, and I've heard of two or three others. That's all, unless you count the legends of some «scoundrels-from-the-pits». — That's funny. Am I a member of a nearly extinct species? — More like gone to some other dimension. Okay, Belkin, I'm sleepy. — Good night, Queen Chrysalis. And that's... — What? — How did you get from Klugetown to Irvine before? You didn't take the train, did you? Jumped off an airship and glided, occasionally breathing oxygen from a balloon? — I'm gonna kill you one of these times. Good night, Belkin. And there was no balloon. Belkin lay there for some time, staring at the ceiling. The light bulb was dim, glowing some kind of lilac. Not magical? Gas-discharge? And inside, thin air with the oxygen stripped away? The sandcar was rocking on the dunes. Six wheels, hardly more. Probably a forward-facing nose, like an APC. The hull is moderately streamlined, so that the winds don't rock it. A pipe like on a steamship, without it... Well, we'll be able to look at it later. But I couldn't get the distance out of my head. It's about 300 kilometers, no less. All right, they gathered ammunition, collected water from the dead and poured it into their flasks. They walk. Valentine was shaky. They walked slowly. In the second half of the day they had just left Bastion and walked until midnight. Then we rested. Belkin could barely stand up. On anger alone. He's also feverish, according to the changelings. It's a miracle that nothing vital was hit. He couldn't eat, so he sucked on the candy the foal had given him. What happened next, he didn't remember. Some shadow, or rather, two shadows. One big one, like from a rock pillar, and the second one circled in the air. Chriska? Then someone was bewitching him diligently and mixing Equestrian swear words with Stalliongrad ones. That's right, Chriska. The aforementioned one stirred and, forgetting Valentine's request, pulled the squirrel dog toward him. Shit.***
The news was not encouraging. Strange lights at the top of Hill Top. At Hayside Swamps, the convicts got into the habit of singing or howling softly. They're weaving some kind of ugly dolls out of under-dried marsh grass. A variety of filth is necessarily stuffed inside: a dead and already rotten snail, a clay ball baked in an oven with insect eggs, a painted beetle shell or something else, from rotten leaves to bird droppings. They call this obscenity "mistresses" and "intercessors." There is also talk that some Elders are about to come, and all the misfortunes will end. There will only be endless animal joy. Fish migrated to Siward Shoals unseasonably, and the sea began to emit native gold in the form of hideous and frightening-looking squiggles. Locals say that it is the Gods of the Deep who help. And they're still asleep, but that's how they'll wake up.… Some unicorn wrote a hysterical letter to Their Highness's Office that there was almost an epidemic of strange mental ailments in Siward Shoals, and then he went all the way to Baltimare, and the last mention of the idiot was a personalized traveler's check that paid for an airship ticket to Trotsylvania with a stopover at Griffonstone. Considering that the griffin "state" was still hostile to Equestria, it was interesting. Across the sea, according to the expedition's report sent by dragon mail, a ghostly creature was seen in the fog near Serpents Creek, consisting of twisted bundles. Three legs with an incomprehensible number of joints, three flexible fishing rods sticking up. There were no more details. The creature left abruptly cut off tracks and disappeared. That's when Celestia felt fear. One time there was a strange commotion in Irvine, where, according to rumors, almost the bastard Chrysalis herself was seen, now this. The incident at Badlands came up. And a long time ago, too. And then, when this misfortune happened to her Luna, because of what... something was coming to Equestria from unimaginable layers of time and other dimensions. Something incomprehensible. Hungry. Unnatural non-life. Something was going on. And it didn't happen by chance, but as if it were a call. Celestia had read about a certain forbidden ritual that allowed her to talk to a wendigo, and it was similar, but not on the same scale. Surely almost half of Equestria couldn't be involved in this? Against this background, especially with arimaspi, the speculation that Stalliongrad residents not only did not lose their airships, but also built new and unprecedented ones seemed like horror stories for school-age foals.***
— Tia... — Yes, Lulu? Sunsets, if you watch them from Canterlot Castle, are beautiful. And so are winter sunsets. Especially if you add a little magic to them, so that the sun seems to hover above the horizon for a while. And then the magic disappears, but the extravaganza of colors when the apparent position of the sun changes in a minute or two... Celestia felt that sense of familiar wonder in many ponies. Perhaps that too was the source of the strange magic. Magic not of the alicorn, but of the Princess. Sister did not prostrate herself to the effects this time. The night luminary was in its place in the sky, it was just that the ponies looking up at the moon had anxious thoughts extinguished. All was well. No smoke from the barely finished sluggish winter wildfires in the Arimaspi Territories, no bad rumors about cultists on either coast. All is well. — My Guards together with yours, — Luna looked at her own failed locus anchor in the sky, the Night Princess's face expressionless, — Tried to clarify the death lists. — Worthwhile? The old Hunters is gone. And the new town won't remind us of the old one, except for the name. — Uh-huh. It's a controversial decision. — Ponies aren't ready for this. — Still not ready for a thousand years? Or are they not ready anymore? — Luna turned to Celestia. — However, I'm talking about something else. Do you know how the Hunters died? — They turned into something ugly. — Yes. But they were still alive, even if they weren't ponies anymore. And they died from falling shells. From the sunlight raining down on them. From the bullets of the Legion. — Could we have done otherwise?! — Maybe. Or maybe not. There was no time to indulge in harrowing thoughts. But here's the question: how did one of the «samples» end up in Irvind? — What? Did someone miss it in Irvind?! — The Solar Princess was horrified. — The body was found in the mortuary department of the city hospital. Ordinary, not for the mentally ill. The initial stage. Can't tell for sure, head's been blown off. Gunpowder residue. Marked by a candlemark. And the other day, the depot in Fogaledo reported a typist missing. Her shift claims the pony died tragically on the job. Bosses are, of course, flip-flopping and panicking. Guess what kind of cutiemark that pony had. — Could she have made eye contact with arimaspi? — Yeah. But the paperwork says the body was on the cold shelf before the Legion went to Hunters. — Even if it was done by ordinary ponies, and not by the Guard, Guards or Legion, it's hard for me to condemn them. But the case is egregious. Luna, I have to ask you to see which pony is having bad dreams about this topic. And we need to send a Night Guard to Foaledo. Will you choose from my Guard yourself who you need, and let them too... Luna? Will you do it? — And you say it's hard to judge... Okay, I'll take a look. I hope you won't do anything nasty to that pony in the unicorn tradition. — No. My little ponies... — Not a pony? What if it was a minotaur or a griffin? — I will not execute him. — But there will be a trial? — Not just a trial, I think, but a trial. From fines and banishment to the moose to the quarries in the Crystal Mountains. Or a cart at the Stratusburg ore mill. — Because the criminal isn't a pony? — Because he raised a gun on a pony. And for owning a gun. — Many do. — Let those many think about whether it's worth owning such a dangerous thing. — But ponies have magic that can also become weapons... — They do. But ponies have it. And don't argue about it. My ponies have suffered too much from other species. Besides, the old you would have dealt with the problem much more harshly and drastically. — The old me? Yes. As it already was. But aren't you afraid, like me, of being possessed by some entity? — I'm not afraid, — Celestia lied, not even to her sister, but to herself.***
— I told you... Don't touch, — The squirrel dog was shaking. — Where are you going? — Chrysalis looked perplexed at the strange creature she had put to her bed for some reason. Has the stallion been away for a long time? So she didn't seem to be going with it... In general, there were no thoughts about «this case». — I'm going for a walk. — Where are you going for a walk? In the engine room? Aren't you getting enough burns? — In the corridor, if I'm not allowed in the control room. — You can come with me. Belkin! Where is Discord taking you? — I'm going to the bathroom! — Over there, behind the door. — Toilet in the closet? Feel like a naughty cat? — Valentine pushed back the door of the “closet,” behind which was actually a small toilet and shower room for an alicorn. It was cool because of the well-functioning ventilation. The boxy toilet bowl was amusing. There was sand inside. — Where is it going? — Into the waste bin or directly outside. Do you see the pedal? — Yeah. Should I wash my paws with sand too? — No, there's water there. Just don't drink it. Chrysalis waited for the squirrel dog to do his business and come out. She held out her jumpsuit. Sewn up and with barely noticeable color changes, where the blood was washed. It was really lucky that it was casual and only with three pellets. Come to think of it, he was dying anyway. — Help me fasten it, — Chrysalis said, putting on a cross between a double blanket, a poncho, and a coat. Belkin helped. — You should tell them to change that button. — Then I'll start hitting on her. She's been there before. — Yeah. Are we going outside? Is there a planned stop? — We'll go on deck.***
The moon was shining, eclipsing the impossible sky. The sand truck rocked. It was exactly pitching, since the diameter of the wheels excluded minor bouncing on bumps. Dust motes and rare flying seeds swirled in the headlights (where did they come from?) and even rarer insects. Winter is in full swing, it's cold, like in early November, and some bullshit is flying! I asked Chris. — Ephemerals, — This horse replies. — They are more magical than material. I look at the sky, the layers of reality part a little, but, alas, Valik, the inscription does not glow there. You'd have to be a utter fool and a psycho to get in that way. Fuck knows where. Heat is drawn from the pipe through the streamlined casing. — Why am I so important? — I feel immune to you. — To magic? — I sit down on the deck, leaning against the pipe casing. I can even lean back. Chrysalis sits down next to me and hums. — Well, am I inferior from a pony's perspective? No magic, weak, not very fast, — I turn my head slightly. The alicorn's completely non-equine profile is gracefully black against the sky. Like velvet-black paper. — And you don't have a Mark, — Chrysalis says. — I have a lot of Marks now, — I grin back, — Even though it's healing like a squirrel dog. Chrysalis playfully puts her front hoof on my tail. And when I twitch, she says dreamily: — You know, with your reaction, I'm looking forward with some apprehension and gloating to the day when some cute pony will lay eyes on you. It promises to be much better than the performances of seedy comedians in Canterlot. — I will do everything to prevent this from happening. It was not enough to senselessly offend a lonely, desperate fool. Chrysalis is silent. — So what am I needed for? What kind of immunity? — Immune to a special kind of magic, you're right. To the magic of political unscrupulousness and, conversely, to the magic of principled cruelty of rulers. To the magic of newspaper lies and the magic of skeptical self-deception of residents, when the newspaper suddenly wrote the truth, but no one believes... And more... — Yes? — Your occupation… You said you weren't a warrior, but after the Bastion, I doubt it. — The programmer. I explain to the thinking machine exactly what it needs to think about. You don't need that. — Let me decide what the Swarm and even the whole of Stalliongrad needs, — The changeling queen's voice is not even cold, but just the condescension of the ruler. — Moreover, there were some developments. Before the Fall. — Are you afraid of repeating that trick performed by Celestia? — Yes. And repeating your mistakes too. And... we realized that there is a way to resist the evil power and sophisticated experience of the alicorns. It takes your kind to do that. — I don't really understand it yet. — For a long time, ponies have believed that the power of the state is determined by the number of... creatures with the highest level of magic. For ponies, these are alicorns, since they at least look like ponies, and even in life... Over the centuries, the memory is erased by the new, but not to the end. Is there something you want to ask? — The alicorns aren't quite alive? — Yes. We are magically enhanced copies of our former selves. Copies that magic brings to a certain absurdity and perfection. The original is dying. I don't know about the others, but I'm grieving for the naive changeling mare Chrysalis, — Chriska's voice is muffled and filled with a mixture of anger and bitterness. — And I haven't forgiven any of those who... — Okay, you can tell me later. What about the quantity? — I had to distract Chris somehow, because her horn is starting to glow. And the eyes. — The more alicorns there are in a country, the stronger it is. Obviously. But, as it turns out, there is another way. This is when the technical level becomes akin to magic, and this magic, for all the strangeness of this approach, is available to many. You know, a earth pony in an oiled jumpsuit behind the levers of a digging machine is somewhat similar to an alicorn. It's a pity that Celestia realized this a little early. The country just didn't have enough time. — The mass nature of technology and the availability of results? Yes, it can work, — I remember the difference in the equipment of the train cars. Kerosene lamps and beautiful benches or the cold «empty» functionality of the compartment, where even the conductor can be called with a button. And then I get a chill. — Chrysalis. — Yes? Valentine, are you feeling sick? — When I was in the common car, the ponies were talking about all sorts of things. Well, they can't just stare at me all the time, can they? Besides, I needed to get my mind off of arimaspi. Anyway, someone said that Cadence has a... — Cadenza. — Excuse me? — Her name is Mi Amore Cadenza. Cadence is in the traditional language of names and magic. She doesn't take offense, but it's best not to make her hubby nervous. — They've had a foal recently? — It's been a long time. From the pictures, it's an adorable little alicorn. — You said the alicorns were somewhat dead, — I turn around. Bitch, this is where Chrysalis is already breaking through. She freezes, unable to bring herself to think. I'm finishing off: — Turned a newborn? Or killed by this rite right in the womb? At what term? — Shut up! For God's sake! Shut up, you bastard! — Chrysalis clutches at me convulsively, hugging me to her, since she can't hug herself because of her height. The alicorn is shaking with «dry» sobs. — Calm down. Sometimes I don't even think about what I'm saying. Well, a rare event happened, an alicorn baby was born... — He couldn't have been born, Belkin! Couldn't have been born! — Chrysalis shouts from behind me. This mare is bursting through, and I can feel the jumpsuit getting wet on my back. Taking into account the «heating» on one side of the pipe and the cold on the other, the warm salty moisture leads almost to sensory saturation. Painfully. Alicorns are practically sterile. Just because they're almost alive, but not quite. Magical immunity to everything, including aging as an essential property of life, at the same time prevents new life from settling in. No, not quite ordinary pegasi and unicorns can have a foal with a horn and wings, but... It won't be an alicorn, but an unviable magic-dripping freak with an unformed nervous system. The pony's resource is not enough to get all the «attachments» of the ancestors, some kind of dragon-like hoofed creatures that have not received a full-fledged mind. Chrysalis tells it all somewhere along the casing of the pipe... — Chris... Chris, listen, — I lightly touch the back and wing of the black alicorn, noting that now the strange double cut of the «blanket» with hidden slits for the wings is understandable, and expecting a nervous reaction to the «obscenity» if the Internet guessed it again, — Maybe one fool blurted out, and you made up everything? What if there's another way a pony can get a horn and wings? — There is, — The «obscenity» in the pegasi way didn't work, and Chrysalis covers me with her weird wings made of living mica. — But to the horn and wings be ready to have almost insect eyes, limbs corroded by unknown force and something else, like collective behavior and incomplete nervous system, which must be regularly ignited by other emotions. Too bad that horny gelding died a long time ago. — I thought you were talking about sensitivity to compounds of weak organic acids with alcohols and phosphorus or sulfur... This sickness opens its wings slightly and abruptly closes them again, trying to slap my ass with them. But I'm sitting on my ass, and a sensitive but safe blow falls on my back and lower back. Like a piece of polycarbonate, even the sound is similar. If it weren't for the burns... — Sit in silence! And when we have tea, keep your mouth shut except for the cup! — Uh-huh, — I mumble with my mouth closed. — Mm-hmm... — What? — Tea... That's good, but I'd like to wash up. I must stink... Or is the water limited? — You were cleaned with a sponge and wiped with napkins while they stitched and bandaged you. You're clean. They just couldn't wash your tongue. The sandboat is rocking, sparks sometimes fly out of the pipe. That's how they don't exist, everything burns down in a rotating furnace, but something flies out on the bumps. It's a desert, there are no roads. He also has to move not in a straight line, but to get through. The night is shining. The sky is brightening directly ahead and to the left, and the impossible Equestrian stars seem to be drowning in fog.***
After tea, Chrysalis sent Belkin to his quarters to sleep. She went to the bridge. Or to the wheelhouse, Valentin didn't know what it was called. He lay there, thinking about what Chris had said about someone in Equestria selling anonymous replicas of Stalliongrad's civilian weapons. It was funny that the blueprints and technological documentation were secret, but the guns themselves were not. And that's when the squirrel dog started to get it. Someone had organized a real mischief, almost on the verge of sabotage. The gun turned out to be lighter, more technological and more convenient than the revolver Equestrian analog. It could be reloaded either by replacing the heavy clip or by manually loading cartridges. And there was a possibility to reload the gun or to change the cartridge from bullet to buckshot and vice versa. Also, this strange weapon was moderately safe, almost omnivorous in terms of powder in cartridges, and absolutely impossible to modernize or use as a basis for something new. Increase the capacity of the clip? Get a heavy, unbalanced poker. Make it an automatic? Get an ugly scheme with chattering mechanics and heavy recoil. Change to a more powerful cartridge? That's a powder gas burst between the clip and the barrel. Some unknown someone did a great job making a successful compilation of gun-engineering crap. The Equestrian and possibly the griffin gunsmiths had a lot of fun discoveries to make on the way to modernization. Belkin grinned. The faint odor of alicorn-changeling, machine, and toothpaste mingled a bit ticklishly in his nose. Yes, Belkin's fetish. By the way, Chris had a tube here. Not plastic, metal. Thick, barely squirming painted foil. Tin? Even lead, as long as the coating inside is done properly. Or are ponies not sensitive to heavy metals? «Why does she need a programmer? — Valentine thought. — She doesn't understand the meaning of the word». And certainly Chrysalis didn't understand what it meant to Valentine. To the anarchist. After all, it was no secret that one could successfully «practice anarchism» for a long time in a fairly stable, though somewhat inert, «good» state, where at least some rights and norms of behavior were observed. Otherwise, you'd be stuck in a perpetual «blood feud» in a tribal system or left to rot under the shadow of a feudal castle's walls. And from those walls you will be spit on and urinated on by cackling bandits, who for some reason should be called vigilantes and warriors. So, in the pursuit of anarchy, one should keep a measure. And programming for Belkin was the training of that measure. A translator of any language is like a collar. But what is the length of the leash at any given time, how many spikes are on the collar, and where they stick out, it is up to you to decide on your own. And here? Who is he?***
He dreamed he was home, his cell phone was ringing, and he had to wake up. He woke up. «Woke the fuck up!» — said to himself, the strange squirrel dog. He stared at the metal ceiling, feeling nothing from the hatred and bitterness. — Belkin! — Stomping down the hallway, Chrysalis bolted into the cabin. — What? — I was dreaming of home. The shifter queen said nothing at first. Then she sighed: — Wash up and let's go to the control room. She waited in the corridor along the car. She led him past a strange door somewhere deep inside the technical monster. — Remember that? — I think so. What's there? — The armory. Your farts are there too. Now go upstairs. At that moment, the sand walker swayed especially hard, and Chrysalis cursed. — Chris. — Well? — We'll do it as soon as we get there... — We're almost there. — Even more so. Can you contact your friends in different cities? — I can. Why would you? — I shot a pony on the train. Don't look like that, it's at her request. She looked at arimaspi. — Is it true? — What do ponies turn into? — Most likely. Why was she changing, really? Anyway, that pony... Melting Candle... She has a daughter somewhere in Foaledo. Tsvetochnaya Street, or something. The house is either sixteen or eighteen. Someone needs to look after the child. — What's her name? — I don't remember exactly. There's something about the candle, too. It's also some kind of Candle. — OK. Let's try to do something. But you know, we won't take her away from her relatives. — Just to keep an eye on her. — I'll think it over and arrange it. All right, let's go. Belkin stomped after the alicorn and thought that Chrysalis was mad at him because of that pony. Anyway, Chrysalis was really angry. The reports were confirmed, and what happened to Hunters fit into the general scheme. And these dreams. If only Belkin knew about these dreams! Ponies disfigured by mutations, doing abominations and sadly saying that it could be worse, but nothing else. But it couldn't be worse, just no one understands. In the gambling establishments of Las Pegasus, autumn leaves are falling from the ceiling, the golden light of the forked sun penetrates the emptiness of the halls. No one, everyone is at the sacrifice. The lucky ones will die right away. Young fillies carry huge jars of murky seawater in strollers. There's something splashing around. This is something that needs to be fed with blood every day, mothers can see cyanotic circles around their eyes through their fur. And strange wounds on his legs and neck. It was as if something had been scratched deeply in a circle. There is no winter in the city anymore, only endless warm autumn. Tentacles reach up to the sky from the sea somewhere on the horizon in the evenings. The evening schedule should be taken from the mayor's office. It hasn't been rebuilt yet. The indoor swimming pool is not ready for drowning. — Belkin! — At the door to the bridge, Chrysalis turns sharply, rearing up on her hind legs. Evil looks. — Yes? — If anything... Do you remember what I asked you to do? — I remember. Is everything bad again? — Belkin... Valentine... You'll make up your mind, I know. Simply... If you really can... can you do it for me? How's that pony?***
— Name? — Wind Stream, — The yellow pegasus with the light brown mane had not yet regained consciousness. Need to press on, and the interrogation has just begun. — Place of residence? — New Haven, Second Street. — House number? — The festral stared piercingly with yellow eyes, wondering what the detailed scribbling on the mark might mean. — There it is... There is no number. The penultimate one, if from the square. — What were you doing at Defenders? — Well... I'm here for work. — What kind of job? — The pencil rustles on the paper. — I'm... I'm the courier! — So where were you going, courier? And what did you throw into the sand? — N-nothing! — Is this not yours? — The festral placed on the table an unloaded double-barreled griffin pistol, modified to look like a hoof pony. — No! First time I've seen it! — He's had his ammo confiscated. «Otl», — The pegasus from the Guard's air patrol cut in, nodding at the gun. Festral wrinkled, but said nothing. The guardsman got in almost correctly and on time. Although... — So where were you flying to? — Well, I... I'm heading back already! — From where? The pegasus was silent with a running gaze. — Stallion, you'd better speak up. Or you'll be forced to stay silent until your first encounter with the unicorn. And after that, you won't be able to shut up. — I... I don't know anything! I was drunk! And I was coming back from a mare's place! And she has a husband... Festral called for a convoy. — Take him away. When the pegasus, who had not yet realized that he had unknowingly gained familiarity with mental magic forbidden to ordinary ponies, was taken away, the night pony turned to his reluctant partner: — We should show this freak to the princesses. They're a little more gentle. They're expecting a longer sentence, though. Or they'll think of something worse. — They're already in Canterlot, — The pegasus in flight uniform sniggered at the mention of the chalk-colored term. — By the way, shouldn't we check out the neighborhood of Defenders? — Haven't you guys already? — Not all of them. — Look into it. Get my team on it, too. And... check out the Bastion ruins. Do you know where that is? — I do. Right after Princess Luna was exorcised... — Don't give me any details. Because I've heard the story a little differently. You're not gonna like it. — Okay, okay... There was another interesting thing here. — Well, surprise me. — An airship was spotted on the horizon a couple of days ago. He was walking east in the early morning. — And? There's a route through Klugetown. — Did you see this thing last night? — They didn't tell me. — Then where did he come from? Irvind is closed. There was nothing scheduled for New Haven, and they would have been notified by now. Have you fluttered through the Nightmare Cliffs? How do I know where he's from? — The festral dropped the paper into a cardboard folder and turned to the «camp» safe nailed to the floor with huge nail. — He could only go to Klugetown, there's nowhere else. But from where? And Discord be with him. Send a patrol to the Bastion.***
Klugetown struck by the eclecticism of the post-apocalypse. Tower city. A ziggurat city. Except that all this Babylonishness was diluted by the drab awnings, pennants, flags of the gryphon lands, and drying overalls and pants hanging here and there. The pants belonged to mechanics, judging by the dense fabric and stubborn oil stains. The odd cut hinted that unbuttoning the “horse pants” in one way or another would not only make it possible to take a quick piss, but also to shit over the side of the airship. The central tower was an ugly mushroom rising a hundred meters high. Smaller towers surrounded the city. How many of them there were, Belkin didn't ask. He simply followed Chrysalis. Then on the cement tiles of the hangar, where they rolled the sandboat for maintenance and away from prying eyes, then on the «sand docks». In reality, the walkways were wooden bridges elevated above the sand. Some places had not been blown away by thrown debris observed through gaps in the boardwalk that had dried to a tinkle. The wood is brown with dust embedded in it. Changelings from the crew of a desert steamer stomp ahead and behind, flitting over the sides with the plastic crackle of huge dragonflies. The buildings are partly stone, usually on the basement and first floors, then comes all sorts of stuff, from sandstone and coquina masonry to assorted planks and various non-photoshopped adobe. There are some iron sheets. All in all, a version of high-rises for desert wanderers. — Here, — Chrysalis paused at the old and ornate heavy wooden doors after wandering over the bridges with all the passages through the strange arches and courtyards. The bronze of hefty handles, hinges, and overlays. There is no sign, but there is a bronze plaque with an inscription. It is unlikely to be engraved, rather, the inscription was acid-etched in several passes: «Guest House No. 2». The number sign is almost human. Here it's griffin or borrowed from a «magical» language. — What's here? — Belkin, with his ears up, is waiting for the limping Mad Max himself, or some other shit. — We'll stay here until I figure out a way to get you home. — Home, Belkin, — Chrysalis gave him a strange look and pushed open the door, which jingled with a bell, — Home. In the hall, the shifters loudly stamped the hard support cushions of hoofs on the polished stone floor. A female minotaur in bib overalls (just two in one according to the local fashion), who almost scared Valentine, appeared at the counter and asked in a drawl how she could be useful. Then she saw Chrysalis come in, frowned, and said: — Ah, it's you again... And who is with you? — A guest. No additional apartments are required. However, I'm willing to pay for a guest. — The payment has already been made, there is no need to pay extra, — This cow boomed. — Is he intelligent? — I suppose so, — Belkin nodded seriously. A silent scene in golden colors. The light from the stained glass windows, the glare on the dark wood, the dancing dust beneath the high arched ceilings. That cow who decided to practice skepticism at the wrong time. And, as luck would have it, the light bulb burns out. — Electricity from wind turbines? — Naturally, — Chris squints at Valentine. — Need a voltage stabilizer. Chrysalis silently signs for the new guest. It is clear that she is unhappy. She gets the keys, habitually hangs them in the air with magic and drops them on the floor. — Uh-huh, — The squirrel dog takes a step back. Now the keys don't fall off. Silently they climb the wide, sickle-shaped staircase and walk down the corridor. Every now and then the locks on the doors click as the changelings go to their rooms. «Did she rent the whole floor?» — Valentine thought. Chrysalis, Belkin, and Knight Spirit remain in the multi-room suite. The latter drops her bags, rummages around, and places both pistols, a «Mako», and a pack of ammunition on the table. Without a word, she disappears behind the interior door. The room is simple in interior design, but with pretensions. The huge window alone is worth it. Well and various trifles, like new pencils on the table, a small old rounded refrigerator... There is no chandelier, horn lights on the beige walls. The shifter queen walks in like she's been here before. Maybe. Spirit has been here before, she's familiar with the place, she didn't even look around. Alicorn turns to Valentine. — Show me with the unloaded ones, — Chrysalis begs-demands. — Targets? — The male dog squirrel's upper legs flinch and his voice changes. — Window, closet door, bathroom. Shefango hesitates, snapping off the barrel blocks and checking that there's no ammo. Then turns around a little incongruously. Six metallic clicks, and somehow the creature ended up next to the black alicorn. — Like a dance, — Chrysalis says in surprise. — Or some kind of strange game. — Yeah, — Belkin steps back and puts one gun on the table, picks up a cardboard box of ammunition, — A game. A shooting game.