UNTITLED (Soarin) by Trente-Neuf


                                            [Copied from https://pastebin.com/DLJ8ydgA]


                                            >A loose piece of paper tumbles across the pavement.

                                            >For one second, it is the sole thing you focus on.

                                            >Not the oppressively dense fog.

                                            >Not the line of filthy people, yourself included, waiting for the line to move, if only just a tiny bit.

                                            >Not the heavily-armed, armored police keeping watch of the crowd gathered in front of the ration depot.

                                            >It's cold, being late fall, and your shabby jacket has no chance of keeping out the wind.

                                            >The surgical mask over your face has no chance of keeping out the sickness, either.

                                            >You try to quell a shiver, and burrow your hands a little deeper into your pockets.

                                            >You take a deep breath, and attempt to keep your thoughts away from the fact that they might run out of food before you even reach the entrance.

                                            >They have before.

                                            >You feel a tap on your shoulder.

                                            >"The line is moving ahead, keep going,"

                                            >The guard to your left addresses you in an irritated tone.

                                            >You don't need to see the expression behind his gas mask know that he's losing his patience.

                                            >You begin to take the few steps that mark the advancement of the line.

                                            >Then things start to go fuzzy.

                                            >"Hey!"

                                            >"Come on, wake up!"

                                            >Wait what?

                                            >"Wake up, we're here!"

                                            >Your eyes snap open as your dream of a time long past dissolves around you.

                                            >The plagues are over, and there's enough food that everyone can get by.

                                            >What more concerns you now is getting yourself a slave.

                                            >"Fell asleep on the bus, now did ya?"

                                            >That you did.

                                            "Great. Are we at the auction house already?"

                                            >You rub your eyes and step into the aisle.

                                            >"Yep,"

                                            >The guy sitting next to you hands you your coat, which you left on the seat.

                                            >The bus door squeaks open and you exit the vehicle.

                                            >You enter the local civic center where the auction is taking place.

                                            >Most towns host them like this, they're a decent source of funding.

                                            >With the war over, and so much of the population lost, enslavement of the ponies actually got enough support to pass through congress.

                                            >With a little bit of corporate nudging, mind you.

                                            >The man at the desk approves your papers, and you enter into the correct room.

                                            >You eye the ponies on display.

                                            >They all look kind of scared, but you have to suppress a chuckle at how terrified that yellow one looks.

                                            >Blue, rainbow-hair one looks like a bitch.

                                            >Mint-green unicorn? Maybe...

                                            >The big red earth pony doesn't look like he'd be good for anything other than farmwork.

                                            >Hmm...

                                            >You take a look at the others, too, but can't seem to make up your mind.

                                            >More people file in as the bidding begins.

                                            >First up is some earth pony mare, fetching an alright price.

                                            >You decide not to bid that time, and instead examine the ones in line to be sold.

                                            >Still don't have much of an idea as to which one you want.

                                            >They pull out the yellow pegasus you saw earlier.

                                            >You'd bid, but she seems timid as fuck.

                                            >Not the type of slave that belongs with you.

                                            >"Going once... Going twice... Sold to the man in the back corner!"

                                            >She's dragged away in tears.

                                            >Next up is a purple unicorn.

                                            >You bid twice, but stop after the price gets to be more than $1500.

                                            >It's a shame, telekinesis would have been handy for the job were looking to fill.

                                            >Looking back to the ponies in line, a light blue pegasus stallion with a darker mane catches your attention.

                                            >Might just be who you're looking for.

                                            >You're sure he's strong enough to move equipment around the boat.

                                            >Doesn't look too fucking dense, either.

                                            >You'll go for him.

                                            >He is led up after a couple more purchases, giving a weary look into the crowd with his green eyes.

                                            >You've got just about $3000 in your wallet, and you'll damn well spend it all to get the pone you want.

                                            >Bids start at $500.

                                            >One clueless fuck dooms himself to losing by wanting the same thing that you do.

                                            >"I'll go 500!"

                                            >Some other shitwad raises it to 600.

                                            >The first guy retorts:

                                            >"Six-fifty!"

                                            >You watch as they slowly raise the bid.

                                            >"Seven-eighty-five!"

                                            >"Eight hundred!"

                                            >"830!"

                                            >You decide to butt in.

                                            "One thousand!"

                                            >One of the two guys gives up, probably out of money.

                                            >But this other motherfucker...

                                            >"Fifteen-hundred!"

                                            >Oh no you don't.

                                            "Seventeen-fifty!"

                                            >He hesitates for a second.

                                            >"$2000,"

                                            >He looks desperate, $2000 must be close to all he has.

                                            "Twenty-two-fifty,"

                                            >"Going once..."

                                            >You smirk.

                                            >"Going twice..."

                                            >You're getting your pony.

                                            >That's right.

                                            >"$2500, that's all I can offer,"

                                            >Then he isn't getting the goddamn pegasus.

                                            "Three thousand!"

                                            >The auctioneer says his thing, this time uninterrupted.

                                            >"Sold to the guy in the third row, left side, in the black coat!"

                                            >Fuck yes.

                                            >You walk up to the side of the room where a desk is set up.

                                            >You receive his registration, miscellaneous documents you don't care about, and a shock collar.

                                            >One of the guys brings the pony over while the next, the big red guy, is dragged into place.

                                            >The stallion stares at the ground dejectedly as the man hands you his lead.

                                            >"Good choice sir, have a nice day,"

                                            >You look at the pegasus you've just purchased.

                                            >Depressed-looking, but overall not bad for the price you paid.

                                            >You're sure he'll be fine after a while.

                                            "Thank you,"

                                            >You leave the auction house, the pony only lagging slightly behind you.

                                            >He must be just about as tired as you are.

                                            >Stepping onto the curb, you find the bus idling a short distance away.

                                            "So..."

                                            >He slowly raises his head, his eyes dull.

                                            >Damn, he looks sad.

                                            >You forgot what you were going to say.

                                            >Instead, you take a look at one of the sheets of paper the auctioneer gave you.

                                            >It's a basic profile.

                                            >Name: Soarin'

                                            >At least you know his name, now.

                                            >Former Occupation: EUP reservist/show flier

                                            >Interesting...

                                            >Capture: Trottingham, eastern Equestria, by Senegalese Army.

                                            >You never really worked with them, you were on the other front.

                                            >You didn't really get why they put you, partially fluent in French, on the other side of the continent, with a bunch of Brazilians.

                                            >Anyway...

                                            >You continue reading.

                                            >Notes: Slight depression issue.

                                            >Fucking seriously?

                                            >*Slight* depression issue?

                                            >They think they can downplay *that*?

                                            >You look over at Soarin, who is staring sadly at the ground.

                                            >You also realize you've been standing out in the cold for five minutes.

                                            "Hey, you wanna wait on the bus? It's actually got a heater,"

                                            >He glances at you with a weary expression.

                                            >"I guess so,"

                                            >He replies in a gravelly, apathetic voice.

                                            >Yeah, put depression on your list of things you need taken care of.


                                            >Your squad and the Brazilians you are attached with are sitting around a bonfire, getting drunk as fuck.

                                            >Suspended over the fire by a spit is the skinned, sizzling corpse of a royal guard, a unicorn mare.

                                            >You don't care how immoral what you're about to do is, you haven't eaten anything other than meager, heavily processed rations for four years.

                                            >Just the thought of something fresh makes you salivate.

                                            >People saw meat off its body with combat knives in a fashion as orderly as 35 wasted soldiers can muster.

                                            >You get some leg meat and stumble back to the log you were sitting on, taking a bite of the morsel.

                                            >Tastes decent...

                                            >The 20-odd POWs, guarded by a few sober group members, are completely mortified, some crying or retching at what they see.

                                            >The leader of the Brazilian platoon removes the roasted guard's horn with his machete, and gives it to your sergeant.

                                            >A fine souvenir from your time in the Amazon, if you do say so yourself.


                                            >When you open your eyes, you are no longer in the rainforest.

                                            >Nope, you're in bed, at home, and you've put those times behind you.

                                            >People did crazy shit during the war...

                                            >You pull on some decent clothes while thinking about what to make for breakfast.

                                            >Wonder what Soarin would eat?

                                            >You'll just go with cereal.

                                            >Hard to go wrong with that.

                                            >Before you make breakfast, though, you take the tarnished royal guard helmet off your mantle and hide it.

                                            >Don't need Soarin seeing that.

                                            >You also put another picture in front of the one that shows you and your buddies dancing on the ashes of Canterlot.

                                            >You go over to the guest room, now occupied by your pony.

                                            >You locked the door last night, but in his state, you don't think he'll try anything.

                                            >Still, just to be safe, you unlock it as silently as possible, stand to the side of the door, and quickly pry it open.

                                            >He's just sitting there, casually flipping through a magazine.

                                            >No, not *that* kind of magazine, Anons.

                                            >You guys really do have dirty minds.

                                            "Good morning, Soarin,"

                                            >He looks like he's wondering how you know his name, but he rolls with it.

                                            >"Uh, good morning?"

                                            >Yes, he actually says it like there's a question mark at the end of the sentence.

                                            "Feel free to make yourself at home or something. What'd you like for breakfast?"

                                            >He looks at you unsurely and scratches his unkempt mane idly with a hoof.

                                            >"Uh... Well, I guess- uh... What do you have?"

                                            >What do you have?

                                            >Hmm...

                                            >"Let's see... Oatmeal, cereal, toast, maybe some fruit, yogurt, or bagels, if you want,"

                                            >His eyes brighten up slightly at the prospect of real, good-quality food.

                                            >"Toast sounds fine,"

                                            >He does a bad job hiding the slight smile forming on his face.

                                            "Alright, find something to keep yourself occupied, I'll go make breakfast,"

                                            >"Thank you, uh..."

                                            "Anon. My name's Anon,"

                                            >"Yeah, well thanks,"

                                            >He's genuinely happy.

                                            >You walk into your small kitchen.

                                            >It is time for master chef Anon to shine.

                                            >There's a loaf of bread in that drawer... Or so you thought.

                                            >You spend a solid minute searching for the goddamned bread, finally finding it behind the microwave.

                                            >How the fuck it got there, you haven't the slightest clue.

                                            >With your culinary prowess, you burn the toast like it's Ponyville after the firebombings, then manage to completely mangle it while trying to scrape off the burnt parts.

                                            >Comme un artiste.

                                            >While putting it on a plate, you realize you forgot to ask Soarin what he wanted on his toast.

                                            >Ah, fuck it. You're too lazy to ask, so you just go with butter.

                                            >Who doesn't like butter on toast?

                                            >You find Soarin in the living room.

                                            >He doesn't notice you, he's just kind of standing around, looking at the photos on the far wall.

                                            >There are a few ones with family that he glances at, but what catches his attention is one of you in a dress uniform, walking off the ramp of a C-130.

                                            >You still remember that day, finally returning home was nice.

                                            >He turns back to look at you.

                                            "Well, I've got breakfast. Go ahead, take a seat,"

                                            >"Alright,"

                                            >Good to distract him from that subject, you're sure he has bad memories of the war.

                                            >You can talk to him about those later.

                                            >Soarin complies and plops himself down in an armchair.

                                            >You hand him the plate, and he wastes no time digging in.

                                            >Shit, was this pony starved or something?

                                            >Yep, probably.

                                            >He finishes the first piece, and attacks the second one with zeal.

                                            >When he's done, he still looks hungry.

                                            "Yeesh, want something more? I've got more food,"

                                            >He looks up at you, eyes wide.

                                            >"I can have more food?"

                                            >Yep, those slavers sure do a shit job of feeding their ponies.

                                            >You nod.

                                            "Yeah. Want more toast, or something else?"

                                            >He takes a second, absorbing what he's hearing.

                                            >"M-more toast... Would be nice,"

                                            >The way he's tearing up about the prospect of getting a third piece of toast reminds you of when you first were drafted into the army:

                                            >After almost dying of starvation, your mind was fucking blown when you realized the military had enough MREs to provide *two* meals a day, not just one.

                                            >Shit, you felt guilty for being a damn glutton because of those two measly packs of shit-tier food you received daily.

                                            >Same thing is happening with Soarin here.

                                            >He looks like everything he's ever known was blown away just because you said he could have a second serving.

                                            >Tears well in his eyes as he embraces you with his forehooves.

                                            >"Thank you, Anon. Thank you,"

                                            >Even though the pegasus is weak with starvation, his hug still forces air out of you.

                                            >You have some understanding of where he's coming from, but you still can't help but pity him.

                                            >Those papers said he was, what? 19 years old?

                                            >You were only a bit older than that when you were drafted, but, I mean, you did win the war (and get a decent therapist afterwards).

                                            >And even though awful shit happened, you were the one doing it, not having it happen to you.

                                            >Soarin here has seen his entire adult life ruined by a conflict he probably never knew would start.

                                            >Sucks for him.

                                            >Either way, you should probably go make more food, Soarin wanted some and you haven't eaten yet.

                                            >And this whole hug thing is getting awkward, fast.

                                            "Okay, Soarin, uh, I get this 'undying gratitude' stuff, but if you want more food, I kinda have to go make it,"

                                            >He lets go finally, a sheepish grin on his face.

                                            >"Y-yeah, sorry..."

                                            >He sucks at hiding the flush on his cheeks.

                                            >You laugh it off and enter the kitchen.

                                            >This time, the toast isn't half as badly butchered, and you make some for yourself, too.

                                            >You head back into the living room with two heaping plates of toast.

                                            >Courtesy of Master Chef Anon.

                                            >You both begin to eat your food.

                                            >Neither of you talk, consumed by eating.

                                            >You look up at the photo on the wall, chastising yourself for not hiding it.

                                            >You don't care if he finds out you were in the army.

                                            >So many people served, it's only natural that there was a chance you fought in the war.

                                            >What you really cared about was little filly that was in your backpack at the time.

                                            >You wanted to make sure he'd never hear about her.


                                            >You are private first class Anon Y. Mous.

                                            >And you've found what was making the noises.

                                            >A small white filly, sprawled on the ground, a shattered horn poking through her pink-and-purple hair.

                                            >Where one of her back legs should be, there is only a ragged, gory stump that ends before the first joint.

                                            >Blood and ash are spattered all over her coat.

                                            >In between sobs, she cries, with labored breaths, for help.

                                            >She looks up to you, her tear-moistened green eyes desperate, almost pleading.

                                            >"P-please... It hurts, h-help,"

                                            >She begs in a voice laden with pain.

                                            >"I-it hurts s-so much,"

                                            >Does she care that you're the enemy?

                                            >"P-please,"

                                            >Of course not, she's a scared, hurt child who just wants comfort.

                                            >A corporal from your squad, who is going by, nudges you on the shoulder.

                                            >"She's yours, 'Mous, get it done and get moving,"

                                            >You sigh.

                                            "Yes, sir,"

                                            >Two conflicted, staccato words.

                                            >He runs off to catch the rest of the group.

                                            >You know very well what a "She's yours" means.

                                            >You ask for forgiveness.

                                            >You remove your pistol from the holster on your vest.

                                            >And pause.

                                            >Distant screams can be heard over the thunder of artillery and the pops of rifle fire.

                                            >The burning buildings can be seen, even through the thick cloud of smoke forming over the village.

                                            >And at your feet lies a terrified, broken filly, now fervently begging for her life at the sight of your weapon.

                                            >What a night.

                                            >You line up the sights on her head.

                                            >At least you'll make it quick.

                                            >You switch off the safety.

                                            >She's only a child...

                                            >The child of an enemy.

                                            >You move your finger to the trigger...


                                            >The hoof shaking your back brings you back to awareness.

                                            >You're breathing raggedly, cold sweat stinging your skin.

                                            >Your eyes begin to refocus, bringing the living room back into view.

                                            >Fuck...

                                            >Reminiscing a little too vividly on the old war days, now were you?

                                            >You look down to your right, where you're pretty sure Soarin must be.

                                            >The concerned look wipes off his face as he shrinks back from your gaze.

                                            >Does he really think you're enough of a dick to hit a pony because they were concerned about you?

                                            >Are you?

                                            >Dick enough to mess with the poor guy, that's for sure.

                                            "DID I ASK YOU TO CHECK ON ME?!"

                                            >You yell with unnecessary volume.

                                            >Soarin looks fucking mortified. He quickly tries to stutter out a response:

                                            >"Uh, well, n-no... B-but you w-weren't responding, I wanted to-"

                                            "BUT DID I ASK?! HUH?!"

                                            >He's looking like he's regretting his life choices at this point.

                                            >He shrinks away even further, clenching his eyes shut.

                                            >"Please! I j-just wanted to help!"

                                            >Too far, Anon, too far.

                                            >The joke is over.

                                            "Shit, man, calm down! I was just fuckin' with you!"

                                            >Soarin whimpers from the corner he's backed into.

                                            >"Huh?"

                                            >You sigh.

                                            "It was supposed to be a joke,"

                                            >He looks up at you and visibly calms down.

                                            >"A joke?"

                                            >Mmhm.

                                            "Yeah. I will say I was glad to see you were actually concerned for my wellbeing,"

                                            >The look of confusion still evident on his face, he responds.

                                            >"Uh, thanks,"

                                            >While you were spaced out, he could have easily left you there, broken a window, and made a run for it.

                                            >Hell, he could have even killed you.

                                            >But he didn't.

                                            >This pony is actually starting to gain your respect.