Catalyst 2.0: Support (complete)

>The building's face lifted at a gentle slop.  Silvery, one-way glass angled toward the sky, starlight reflected off it's surface as if staring into a pool of still water.  Bright, blue lights melted in and out of life in sequence up each side, a warning to flying pegasi.  The moon was shining brightly, a vascular system of glowing light forming broken circles, veins, and glittering arteries.
>Above the entrance, a LunaCorp. Logo hovered.  From the sidewalk, Gilda regarded it with a snerk.
>It almost stung to watch it.  Her eyes had adjusted so fluently by then, that even the gentle platinum colors seemed to give a chilly burn.  Cold, and welcoming.
>The uplink still had not booted.  Her head still swam, ever so slightly, and the taste of burnt grass lingered.  Twilight had left her with a sneer, turning away to disappear in her comfortable little transport pod.  With that, Gilda realized the cost of privacy.
>It meant she was something she had not truly been in years.  It meant she was alone.
>She scrubbed the dull itch around the base of the LunaCorp. Uplink.  It would be only a short time before she came online; the bent truth's she'd need to use in order to get inside would only last another hour or so, based on the time frame the purple bitch had given her. After that, the integration would be complete.  The freedom she'd had in those short days would be forfeit.
>She knew herself, though. She'd couldn't let herself recommit to that other life.  An hour from now, she'd be free, or ripping apart the lobby bare-clawed to induce a kill code.  She just couldn't let herself get caught, again.
>Couldn't let HIM get caught again...
>She shook her head, causing that pain in her chest to singe her sternum.  What a goddamn crock, she thought to herself.
>More and more pods started to arrive.  Cracking open, ponies shuffling out, entering the complex.  Closing, leaving to make room for the next pod.  It was spectating the finely crafted social machine Luna had built.  Soon, *groups* of chuckling, happy ponies started to exit.  Dressed in weird, disgustingly bright colors.  Tiny, portable blacklights meant to shine on one another, showing off unnatural, glowing hues otherwise invisible to the naked eye.
>what a clusterfuck, Gilda thought to herself.  It was perfect for what she was trying to do, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it.
>she began her trek to the door.  She'd have to pass herself off as both an employee, and a patron.  Not difficult; being out of communications for so long, she'd likely be asked to report in for a standard medical eval.  That's where the fun, as what was planned, would begin.
>Statistics, floor plans she'd been through, the excuses she'd use for why she was armed with “antiques.”  she replayed them over and over.  It had been a long time since she'd lied.  She knew the value of staying hidden, of course.  Outright deception was another item entirely.
>She had to shoulder her way through dozens of demure ponies. How they'd even managed to clog the way into the building in such a short span, she didn't know.  She stuck out like a sore talon, at least a head above most. She'd not been “compatible” with the drugs and treatments that kept ponies so small and young looking, so she had grown far more dangerous looking in height and bulk.
>Several “fuck off's” and nearly drowned barks later, she'd intimidated a path that had squeezed shut behind her.  From above, she liked to imagine herself like a knife, cutting through some oddly colored flesh.
>The guards regarded her, as expected, cautiously. Though, before she could even be asked what her name was, there came an interruption.
>Gilda craned her neck at the odd sound.  Something uniquely familiar.  In this case, something very, very unwelcome.
>Over the sound of pods and ponies, there was a constant, fluid whine.  A sort of elongated scream, that bumped down in tone.  As if to allow itself another breath to reach a higher note, she knew the tell-tale lapses. A gear shifting.
>Ground level, coming and going as pods did the same.  The sound was filtering through and over the obstructions.  It was coming in fast, too.
>She turned.  Atop the steps, she had a fine view of it. She saw a blue light, weaving long, neon trails between pods.  On the opposite side of the the pod traffic, the unit was not automated, and separate from the transport lines.  The scream caused a quick jerk of heads as it suddenly halted, the vehicle gliding to a stop.
>It was a deep, polished black.  A bright engine glowed, blue crystal shining through long, open, interweaving lines that cradled it with a hovering honeycomb of small plates.  They sucked in as the engine deactivated, forming  an angular sphere around the crystal.
>The wheels were no more than an inch thick, bands of pliable, tough material with treads upon the outside. Small triangles held them to the body of the bike, the nose of which had a long, curved glass windshield.  Below it, silently lit from within, were measurement instruments and warning panels linked to a redundant AR interface.  It appeared more as a cockpit as the windshield lifted upward, from the prone rider's shoulders, allowing them to lean back upon the bike.
>A shrike, standard military issue for ground scouts during the Purge.  This particular pony, Gilda knew, had kept hers in pristine condition from her service in the war.
>A black bodysuit, shiny and curve-hugging, was paneled with armored joints. A long ellipse besides either shoulder, glossy wing guards kept the feathers of the pegasi safe from the brutal wind provided by her lust for ground speed. They leaned back, and Gilda watched the dark helmet turn toward her, even from that distance.  Even though she could not see the face, she knew that look.
>It was her inspection officer.  The one that always, always, ALWAYS showed up when her current employers had wanted just one more update on why Gilda behaved the way she did.  That private spook, the “performance review specialist.”
>The one that had bought her beers, and kept secrets for her.  The cool one, with awful timing, that always seemed to be just friendly enough to squeeze out the real story- and spin it well enough to keep Gilda from getting a kill squad on her now deceased team.
>Gilda grunted when the pony pointed at her.  The guards, not realizing she could barely hear them without an active AR, gestured and goaded.  A path, that time, was much faster in opening for the griffon.  At least those redshirts knew that much.
>She sat beside the bike.  “Do you have any idea how bad of a time this is right now?” she asked.  With this pony around, she was one of two things. Shit out of luck, or about to get into a fight.
>”No time like the present.” they said, through the distorted voice modulator.  They still had that thing? Gilda thought. God, she knew how to scare others just as much as Gilda herself did.  They reached up with both hooves, clicking a pair of buttons at the back; the helmet hissed, and chin slid back like a set of retracting mandibles.  The tinted plastic went with it, though separate from the chinguards, to show her face.
>Pink mane spilled beyond her chin.  She gave a grin toward Gilda, and shrugged.  The griffon, honestly unable to help herself, smirked back.
>”Scootaloo.” Gilda said.
>”Gilda.” the orange mare replied.
>”I'm in trouble aren't I?”
>Scootaloo rubbed under her chin with the back of a foreleg.  “Hmm.  HMM.”  With another shrug, she closed her eyes. “Not yet.  But, you do have some explaining to do.  Unless of course, you want a tick mark on the uncooperative side of things.”
>Gilda tried to think of a convenient lie.  Scootaloo wasn't one to play her cards right away. Hell, she hadn't even asked anything yet; the pressure now, was on Gilda to answer.
>The formulation of an excuse mingled with ideas.  Did she know about the tower?  Did she already know about the subsequent capture?
>Gilda was given pause.  No.  No she didn't, otherwise Luna wouldn't have sent a private sector inspector.
>the griffon knew the value of staying hidden, though.  Not, of telling lies.
>”You know... I got ten minutes.  Think we can do a few laps?”
>Puzzled, the orange mare peered down toward the bike.
>”It would give me time to explain.  Give us some privacy.”
>She was the cool one.  The one that kept secrets and gave on-her-tab beers.  The one that gave rides on the wrong side of pod traffic at 300 kph.
>The helmet closed back up.  She gestured with her head.
>Another gamble.  Had Gilda been ever been able to kick that particular, self-destructive addiction? At the very worst, she was fucked before she started.  At the very best, though, the information would be out there, with this old “friend.”
>Maybe, just maybe, deception didn't need to be part of the plan.  Maybe, she just needed to be the nice girl for a change.
–
>”No.” Twilight replied. “Absolutely not. You've already proven how completely irresponsible you are with them.”  In the console of the penthouse, she barely regarded you from within the scratchy image.  The interior was what you recognized as a transport pod, one with a superbly poor connection.
“I'd be on standby.”
>It's the only reasoning you could muster.  You simply could not let this current chain of events pass.  An obscene thrust with a force she had no control over- you had thought Twilight better than that.
>”You don't NEED that kind of armament for a support position.” She replied.  “You're far more dangerous with them, than without them. No, and I mean that.”
>Touche, purplesmart.
“We both know that if Gilda doesn't come back, it won't be just me that will be hurt by it.”
>Twilight waved it off.  “We'll figure something out.”
>Really, Twilight? Was that the best you can muster?  Did you even care?
>Wait...
“Yeah, that's gone swimmingly so far.”
>She snorted.
“You don't even give a shit about this, do you?”
>”Of course I do.  Gilda is just a means to an end.”
“The quick expendable fix, you mean.”
>”Hardly. I've got a number of contingencies.”  She gave no details, no continued extrapolation.
>This, you admitted, was far from the Twilight Sparkle you knew.  The name mentioned in the interrogation, the one that had sincerely seemed to piss her off, had little bearing on your own thoughts.  A twang of fear and hate, perhaps.  But you were aware you were no worse for it, thanks to being simply ignorant over it.
>That, was your wedge. Being selfish in your own stake in the matter, was actually working to your advantage by granting you focus on why things were actually happening as they were.
“Right, but how much time would those take? Do you even know?”
>She crossed her forelegs across her chest, leaning into the cushions.  A humble static filled the gap.  “no, but far less damage would be caused.  You didn't have any restraint last time- why would you if I cut you loose again?”
“Really? I wouldn't just...”
>You sigh.
“I'm sorry, alright?  But nop0ny was hurt but me. Not even Gilda. Now you're saying that because we both deliberately avoided killing or even wounding, I'M not the trustworthy one?”
>”You say it wasn't intentional, but it was purely incidental.” she replied.  “With the kind of things those agents can do... Imagine what would happen if it were publicized?”
“Then you'd get a chance to explain yourself in making them.  Did you ever stop to think that they might even be preferrable in responsible hooves?”
>”Yours AREN'T in any way responsible.” she said.  “Heck, if ponies knew who was at the reigns, do you think that would make things better?”
“Why the hell wouldn't it?  Plausable, deniability.  I hacked them, you purged me, now I'm locked in the penthouse.  End of media sensation.”
>Twilight stared out the window of the transport pod. Despite the distortion, you could see the reflection of street lights as she passed them by.  “Gilda will be fine.”
“No she won't. She's Gilda.  She doesn't know HOW to be fine, and she likes it like that.”
>Twilight grunted.
“I wouldn't be doing this to make sure things get done, Twilight. I'd be doing it for damage control.”
>”The only reason those things were created was to CAUSE damage.” she said.  “To ruin whatever filthy bastard that got even remotely close to hurting any of my friends.”
“I don't believe that.  You're not that cruel.  You had them for some sort of intent, and I like to think you were above that.”
>”I was the only reason you were able to kill Chrysalis.” she said. “You think I didn't intend that, completely?”  She shook her head. “There are some things some ponies can't be lofty about.  This is one of them.”
>You lean into the console.
“I'm the only one that can use them, and I can make the choice NOT to hurt somep0ny.  And, to make Gilda do the same.”
>She looked you straight on.  An expression of intended murder in her eyes, her glare interlocked, she slowly shook her head.  “You're right about one thing. We'll need some kind of shield for what she does, if we want to avoid anyp0ny getting hurt.”
“I'm glad you agree.”
>”Oh no. That's the only page we're both on.”  The pod stopped, and the door opened.  Through the opening, local sound filtered through.  The sound of male ponies, muffled by helmets, referred to her in Ma'am's and welcomes.  She was back at the tower.
>”They were made well before you came back, and in that duration I had to assume you were gone.”  She squinted. “Do you really think I wouldn't allow myself a control program?”
–
>The windshield floated upward, it's lift announced by a plastic whisper.  Gilda pushed pushed downward to either side of the mare she'd been riding behind, careful to wrap her claws tight around the seat to avoid scratching the picture perfect finish of the carbon fiber body.  She hopped off, shaking her head.  She'd lost a couple feathers; with the introduction of transport pods, street law had been quite abolished.  The ride, she enjoyed admitting, had not been slow through the unmonitored streets.
>Scootaloo clicked the buttons on her helmet.  It hummed open, and when the pressured cushioning released, she removed it.  She simply watched the hovering holograms dissipate from the bike, then turned her eyes toward Gilda. “Are you sure?” she asked.
>”Yeah.” the griffon replied. She looked around, the parking lot below the building coated in a sickly, dark blue paint.  Numbers listed lot spaces, lines denoted where now unheard of vehicles were meant to neatly fit.  The ghosts of law, well maintained by thoughtless, disc like robots that scurried about to clean what little made it's way within.
>”You know I can help. I wasn't on Rainbow's reserve team for nothing.” Scootaloo slung a back leg over, her suit audibly giving a leathery grind.  She patted a saddlebag upon the bike.
>Gilda shook her head.  “I don't need reminders, Scoots.”  She said. “I'd trust you with it.  But you don't need to get involved.  Just... keep what I told you on the down low, alright?”
>The two approached the elevator.  Lit by bright, white halogen, the pattern of the plastic left it patterned with repeating, darker squares.  Gilda tapped a button.
>”You always said that.”  She replied.
>The doors beeped. They slid open, the door folding in on itself to vanish on one side.  “So did Rainbow.  We both meant it.”
>”Why? I'm here, I can do it.”
>”Yeah.  But you're young.  She wasn't.  I wasn't... And I didn't exactly get younger.” She stepped inside the elevator, a claw braced upon the door to hold it open.  “You're young.  You have a future, you know?  You have choices to make, things you can do. We committed to work we thought would get us killed to give ponies and griffons like you a future, without having to even think about what it meant.”
>”So did I.”
>”No.  You really didn't.” Gilda pointed. “You're not a bad girl.  You don't have to be.  You were just in the place of having to, maybe, do bad things.”  Gilda reached inside her coat, brushing past the bulge of gel.  She removed the item she'd been reaching for, her foretalon hooked through the trigger guard.
>A pistol.  PS-17, magnetic model.  It used individual batteries behind the projectile to propel the flechettes and power the rails inside it, an opposite charge firing after the projectile left to move the slide back and chamber the next round.  No recoil.  Little sound.  No need to recharge thanks to the batteries, meaning a constant stream of rounds as long as the user had magazines.
>Able to lethally puncture twelve millimeters of steel within effective range.  Able to remove changeling limbs, rupture organs, and shred wings.  The old friend, ticked once by a claw on the polycarbon receiver for every five kills.  The receiver never did get past the twenty four tick milestone.
>She undid the slide lock, and saw a silver, charged round within the chamber.  The noise gave a hunger-satisfying click, as it was sated.  She held it up and waggled it.
>”Me though?” Gilda said. “Well, I'm the bad girl.”
>”You always said that, too.” Scootaloo brushed pink hair from her eyes.  She opened the saddlebag, and Gilda saw the telltale links and belts of a weapon harness.
>”Cause it's true.” she replied.  “But, did you ever ask why?”
>Scootaloo had been tugging out the weapon harness.  She stopped at the question. “Not really. It needs to be done, sometimes.”
>”exactly. That doesn't mean it needs to be done by the good girls, though.” She clicked slide lock, and it clapped closed with a smooth, meaty click. “That's what you don't understand, I guess.”
>”What, then? I'm just supposed to sit idly by and let you go off on your own “bad girl errand?”
>”That's right.” Gilda replied. The door bounced off the inside of her claw, and retreated. “Rainbow really did teach you about loyalty- that's what's screaming to you, right from here.” She tapped the gel at her chest.  The sealed wound around it ached, but she didn't care.  “But for me, it's unecessary.  Hell, it should be ignored. Did she ever tell you why?”
>”No.” she shook her head.  She had to blow hair from her eyes. “She just said not to follow her.”
>”She did better as a mom than I ever did, then.” Gilda said. “She asked me to take care of you if she didn't survive.  You could take care of yourself how she asked, though, so I kept doing my own shit to keep you with your own decisions.  Kept doing it to take care of you, fulfill my end of the bargain.”
>Scootaloo dropped the harness back in the back, and turned to face her.  She was frowning, and pursed her lips. “What could you possibly do for me that I haven't done myself?”
>”Keep you from turning into the bad girl.” Gilda smiled. “See, when a bad girl like me does something terrible, it's expected.  From you? No. Ponies don't look at you the same, ever again.  And if I wasn't around, you wouldn't be getting ideas.”
>”I've done a lot.  A lot of it, I regret.”
>”See, what I've done, I don't.”  She tapped the front sight of the gun to her head. “And I do all of it, so good girls like you don't have to make the choices they regret.  That's what the good girls don't understand, because they never have to do it- and never should.”
>Scootaloo bit her lip, and closed her eyes.  She turned her head away. “You and Rainbow really are like recordings of one another, you know that?  Just... She didn't live. Will you?”
>”Don't worry a bit about me.” Gilda said.  “I mean, with everything bullet that meets it's mark, no matter whom it lands in,” she lifted the gun from her head with a wave.  She released the door, and it started to slide shut. “It's expected.”
>Scootaloo turned back to stare right back at the griffon, while Gilda met the gaze with a long smile.  Right up until the door severed the link between them, they watched each other.  Then, with with a stoic lurch from the lifting elevator, the griffon's facade melted into the floor.
>She looked down at the gun.  She tilted it, viewing both sides.  A tiny, blue light flickered beneath the chamber, indicating a suitable charge.  She watched it as the elevator moved upward, sinking deeper into the flesh of the building like a pebble within a vein.
>Gilda slid to one corner as the beeps dictating level slowed.  She leaned against the wall, standing straight, and aiming at the corner of the door she knew would open first.
>Scootaloo had given her the idea.  Not just by virtue of the ride- her presence had given Gilda a spark for an idea, something she hadn't considered.
>She realized, she'd needed to announce her violation of company code in her own way.  If she changed gears so suddenly, she'd never be in the right mind to make it out alive.
>The doors opened.
>With what she got a bead on, her hearts leapt to her throat.  A blue, fuzzy spotlight on a turqiouse wall.  It was a wide-pattern laser, the kind that LunaCorp. automated turrets used.  When the spotlight cast a reflective differential, it zoned in, and fired.  Several lights intersected, and moved in a soundless, dutiful glide.
>There were no guards.
>Even in risking her life, getting shot at and possibly killed, it would not be by sentient means. It meant something more, to her though. Just like in the crystal tower, which had been seemingly abandoned at first, yet under full control by that bitch. When she started to arm the charges in rooms separate from her fellows, and the first pang of unfocused, starving hatred had started to chew and grow fat on her mind.
>She was alone.
>She was alone, and something was very wrong with where she was.
–
>You'd been pacing in the penthouse for over an hour since your last interaction with something intelligent.  Your legs had started tired- now they were sore, and your injuries from capturing Gilda screamed at you.
>You hadn't eaten in far too long.  It gave your head an insistent pain, which had grown from your forehead to procrastinate behind your ears.  The whole time, there was almost complete silence.
>Alone, listening to Rarity's muffled talk in the far room.  She was laughing a little, time to time.  Thoughts had crept up inside while you offhandedly listened, the ideas parasitically gnawing on what little had been positive.
>There had been no word.
>That was a good thing, right?
>things were going as planned, if that were the case.  Right?
>You shook your head, sitting on the edge of the bed.  Your weight seemed to drain downward, resting in your hooves.  You stared, trying to make the color on the couch that much more clear.
>As far back as you could remember, you'd only wanted to help.  Now that you had the capacity, it was being denied.  Was that really for your safety?  Or were you really thought of as that completely dangerous?
>Being near Rarity and Sweet Heart... Animosity had begun for your position.  In every angle, every thought, you felt more and more at fault for something.  Your logical side, of course, new far better than to buy into that.
>Did Rarity feel like she was taking a risk?  Was Sweet Heart even aware? They certainly sounded happy, but you knew Rarity.  She was very, very good at hiding things.
>The more you tried to answer things on your own, the worse your approaches to the questions became.
>When Rarity finally left the room, using her uplink to seal it gently shut behind her, you looked at her from the bed.  Suddenly grateful for the company, which had been in there all the while, you slink forward to stand.  She watches you, while your weakened legs nearly give way.
>”Darling, whatever is the matter?” she asked. “You look absolutely terrible...”
>You trot slowly toward her, placing your cheek on hers.  She replies with a long, slow brush against you.  Though you're already hot, you further appreciate her warmth.
“Way too worried about way too little.”
>”What about?” she leans back to speak into one of your sore ears.  She then takes a step back, to let those sapphire eyes look into yours.
“I just... I feel like I should be doing something.”
>She gives you a little “hmph.”  “Didn't you ever stop to think that you didn't need to?”  She asked.
“No.  Not with what's happening.”
>”Then perhaps you should.” she said. She trotted beside you, a bouncy energy you wished you could mimic.  When had she gotten so robust?  “You are in no condition, willing or otherwise, to do anything.” she said.
“I would be, if Twilight would only-”
>”Is it about every other pony?” she asked.  She awaited an answer for several seconds.  Lost in vile thought, your mind wanders to other questions.  Visualizations of things that could happen, could have already happened, or were happening right that very instant.
>She pokes your chest, snapping you out of it.  The hoof goes to your chin, barely touching you. “That's what I always did like about you.” she said. “It was always about the other ponies, wasn't it?”
>You look to the side.  She doesn't accept the expression, turning you back to face her.  “Why don't you try being a little... Inwardly focused, for a change?” she asked.
“Ugh... I am.  I know I can do... something.  I can at least try to help, if only-”
>”Twilight would let you, yes yes.” she waves it off, putting her hoof to the ground. “You're just being sulky.”
“I am not being sulky, I'm being frustrated.”
>She stuck out her tongue. “You've got plenty to do right here.” she said.  “Rest, for one.  You suffered such awful things in the fight, and now it's like you aren't even willing to take an ounce of credit and regather your strength.”
>You grunt. Goddamnit, Rarity.
>”And don't take this the wrong way, but...” she whispers again, playfully cringing. “You could use a bath.”
>You pause.  You lift a hoof, as if sneak your nose under it and check.  You decide against it, especially in front of her.
“I could use some food too...”
>She nods. “And?”
>Your sore brain tries to work.  You give a confused shrug, which is apparently not the answer Rarity was looking for. “To say good night to Sweet Heart.” she says, smiling. “She's been having what she calls nightmares recently.    Perhaps a big, strong stallion could help her get what little sleep she actually needs?”
>You sigh, with a smile.  Then, you give a gentle nod.
“I'm sorry, I just... I haven't been around long, and I'm already causing all sorts of-”
>”Shush.  You know everyp0ny is doing this to protect one another. It isn't just you, in this...  Quagmire.”  She nuzzles up nose-to-nose with you. “When that... Griffon, comes back, you very well might be able to leave all of it behind.”
>That, to your visible surprise, was something you had not expected.  The codes she was supposed to gather could very well unlock a number of things in your own head, gain some leads you would not need to be involved in.  Had you grown so used to the chaos, that you honestly perceived it as an everyday event?  Was that why you'd been so fidgety?
>More questions without answers.  They had not even happened yet.
“Yeah.  You're right.  Maybe you should order us some food while I shower.”
>Rarity smiles. “Certainly.  Talk to Sweet Heart first, though- it will only take a moment.”  She starts to trot to the console. “And it's been some time since I had help bathing. The pseudo-leggings work, but I would be ever so grateful for some aid.”
>She whips her squiggly tail, and you try not to flush red.  She merely smirks as you fumble with the door, a number of new images drifting through your mind.
>You peer into Sweet Hearts room, the crack in the door flooding a column of light into the dark.  You hear a squeak, the colors and linework of posters neatly littering the walls.  Barely able to make anything out, you wedge inside, as if to keep anything else from entering with you.
>Peeking over the covers, you see a set of softly glowing, green eyes. Her nose hidden beneath silken sheets, she blinks at you.  You try to muster up the softest voice you can, though it remains scratchy.  You hadn't had water in quite a while, either.
“Hey, kiddo.”
>You plop down at the edge of her bed.  She looks at you over a small mound of tiny stuffed toys, the make of which you cannot glean in the dark.
“Mom says you've been having bad dreams.”
>Sweet Heart merely looks at you and nods.
“Well, you know what I did to that griffon, right?  I bet I can do that again.”
>She blinks, and remains silent for several seconds.  She hooks the sheets under her chin, sitting up a moment. “You weren't already?”
>A little confused as how to respond, you let out a gentle snerk. “If I was, I didn't mean to.  Maybe I'm just that strong.”
>She tilts her head at you.  “You aren't having the dreams too?” she asked.  You rest your chin on her bed, looking at her over the small pile of stuffed toys.
“Nope.  Mom wants me to teach you how to make them go away.”
>She plucks something yellow from the pile.  It's got beady little eyes, and tiny wings.  She adjusts some of it's pink hair. Was that really made after... “But, you should be.”
“Why do you say that?”
>”Because I'm awake when I have them. My teacher at school said it was... Um, I dunno how to pronounce it right yet. Re-sid-you-uhl.  She says it's from all the signals and stuff.”
>You stare at her.
“Do the nightmares make your head hurt?”
>You ask it as plainly as you can.  Off topic, perhaps. However, when you flick an aching ear, you're not so positive.  She nods her head.  “When I have them, there's lots and lots of really blue words n' stuff.”
>You reach up to touch the isolation collar still on your neck.  You push it down.  It feels hot.
“I bet those bad dreams came by when that griffon did.”
>Sweet Heart shakes her head.  “A little before.”
>Son of a bitch... Was she picking up on the combat unity signal?
>With the way your head hurt, was your internal code still trying as well?
“Well don't you worry a bit about those dreams, kiddo.”
>”Why not?” she asked.
“Because they're supposed to be mine.”
>She took to making the wings on her little doll flap, using her hooves to pinch them.  “I unno. They feel really real.”
“Don't think about em.  Push em out, okay?  You know how to do that?”
>She nodded.  “I think so.  But I can't put them anywhere.”
>You reach up to touch the collar.  No wonder...
“I'll see what I can do about it, okay?  Don't worry, I'll figure out something.  I'm the first guy that ever did, remember?”
>She hugged the doll close, and it let out a little internal squee.  “So, you weren't giving them to me?”
“Of course not.  I'd never, ever want to see you scared or hurt.”
>She rustles back down beneath the covers, until the little yellow toy is peeking out.
“I made the bad things go away once.  I can do it again.”
>Despite how you talk to her, you know better.  As you were, you were rather helpless.
>Not only that, the thought she was getting effected by the signal brought to bear a new fear.  Gilda was kilometers or more away, then.  The passive signal had only ripped out of you when in proximity, and when restrained.  If it was that intense at this fresh distance, then it meant Gilda's uplink was starting to activate.
>The further you thought, the worse it got all over again.
>Gilda was deep in a building on less than legal matters.  You had not heard a word in a very, very long time.  The entire time, Twilight had been silent.  If there was one thing you really understood about Twilight, her full concentration upon events so morbid meant she'd isolated herself.
>She felt she *needed* that focus.
>She felt that something was wrong.
–
>Gilda sat pinned against the wall.  Despite her love for that coat, she was cursing the heat it had brought on. She wished she could sweat.
>She had to breath.  In, out.  God, it hurts, she thought.
>the worst part had been the interface.  It hadn't started to function, but it was damn well trying.  Fuzzy blue jibberish lit up her eyes from inside at random intervals, clarity giving way to useless, flickering HUD's.  For now, it had remained off.
>She cradled the ps-17.  The blue light waved up and down the hall, spilling into impact holes.  The stench of mercury lit the air, and she knew she would not last long if she had to keep breathing it.
>The only shade from the blue was against a maintenance cart.  It had been left there for the calibration, apparently. It had also, not been quite large enough.  One of Gilda's large, styled feathers atop her head was shredded.
>She ejected the magazine, checking the round depth.  Three left, plus one chambered.
>this would be the seventeenth turret she'd taken out.  She recognized the set up, though it had been difficult from the infiltration end.  It was an above-standard automated protection ring.
>Fuck, she thought. It was downright upgraded.
>Double the turrets.  Mercury rounds in a wildfire pattern for hallway supression.  No warning bleeps. No remorse.
>She gripped the slide on the pistol.  Yanking it back, she tilted the forward, the silver round spinning into the air with a clink.  The blue light zoned in, and she heard rounds whipping after it.
>She stood, holding her shoulder with her free hand, bracing her foreleg atop the cart.  She fired the magazine at the bright blue flare, and felt the concussion of metal ripping through metal.  The turret whined and clicked; she'd hit the motor.  It couldn't track backwards.
>She retreated behind the cart against the wall, the empty magazine bouncing off her stomach. She slapped another inside, and released the slide lock to pump a round into the chamber.
>She heard the noise of clattering ammunition.  She had apparently, also hit the ammo belt.
>She didn't need to turn the corner to understand what happened next.  Tell-tale thwacks sounded off, chasing after the scattering bullets.  When she did look, she had to squint.
>The turrets down the hall had been far more accurate than their predecessors.  That meant she was now quite close.  It also meant that they had ruptured several mercury rounds, puddles of the toxic stuff rolling about from momentum.
>Gilda pulled the underweave of her jacked over her beak.  Her breath was even hotter, stifled, and harsh.  She clicked her pistol to a burst fire.
>She pushed herself out into the hall, and threw herself past the metal-wet hall. She didn't aim; she threw rounds from her gun in a quick double-pull of the trigger. The bullets left the weapon faster than she could count, six rounds sailing into the opening.
>A wounded click came, while Gilda waited for the blue light to lose it's focus on the corner behind which she'd dissappeared.  It didn't move.
>Fuck you, she thought.  She tugged off her jacket, the right sleeve turning inside out as the sights on her gun caught the wrist.  Fuck you, I liked this coat.
>Out it went, the fresh stench of liquid metal singing her lungs.  Her vision started to blur.  With it, there came a flash of blue text.  Not now, she thought. Get out of my head.
>As the coat reached it's apex, it slammed back to the wall. Rounds peppered it, ripping a pattern of holes clean through.  She peeked one eye out, her foreleg curled along her front; she emptied the magazine against the two turrets near the ceiling.
>A defeated grind had one turret pointing toward the floor. The other came unhinged, the barrel coming free and hanging like a loosely wired tooth. She took one glance at the shredded coat, before making her way to the door.
>The interface flashed again.  As it did, the door opened, seemingly in response to it's unintended flare of activity.  Even so far down in here, with everything she'd done already, she'd not been revoked?  Were the monitors that poor?
>The room was large, and open. Inside, the walls were lit with holograms of hundreds of changing faces.  They were like little trading cards, shifting their make each second.
>In the center, the server was finally laid bare.  Gilda was rendered still at the sight of it. Wires clung to it's sides like tent rope, restraining and linking to it from the floor.
>Organic and smooth, it stood on a circular pad.  It's legs atrophied to the point they were ceramic bone, the green hide gave way to half-burnt flesh.  It's sunken face opened it's eyes, and looked toward her.  IV's of unknown content were hooked to it from every conceivable angle, robotic arms tending to their maintenance. Tubes punctured where she had been taught to shoot- vital organs.
>It was a stallion.
>A stallion she recognized.
>His bagged, bloodshot eyes opened.  He tilted his head, and the faces on the walls changed.  They started to blink out, a single screen presented in front of him.  It was Gilda, her licenses and statistics rolling past her mugshot.
>Gilda's hesitation lasted only a moment.  The mercurial blindness could fucking wait.  The empty magazine clapped to the floor, and she sat back on her haunches while she fumbled for another. The interface had started to become constant, a visible ping of his attempts at reactivating it remotely blinking off.
>”So.  That's it huh? That's how you got out?”  Down went the slide, chambering yet another round.  She clicked it back to semi-automatic.  She only had two magazines left.
“No.  Been here.  All my time.”
>His voice was the same.  This version, though, had obviously been left to rot.  His throat seemed to be filled with sand.
>”Then you don't matter.” she replied. “Locking algorithms for my uplink model.  Physical, something portable.  Now.”
>He painfully nodded.  The hologram of her face vanished, as he closed those cherry-red eyes.  The smell.  A mix of rot and metal, it was quickly making her sick.
>”You're disgusting.” she said, raising the gun level with his head.
“Yes.”
>He was talking in binary.  What had they done to this version of him?
>”How could you let them do this to you?”  One of the arms pinched a small drive from the back of his neck.  It spun as it moved, presenting it to her.  She snatched it with her beak, unwilling to unlock her aim as she awaited his answer.
“Because I have the capability.”
>Gilda squinted. She took the flash drive and stuffed it into one of the empty magazine pockets on her harness. “Did you agree to this?”
>Saying nothing more, he lowered his head.  The holograms reappeared, tiny pictures swapping their faces.  One by one, they finished populating the room. They began to layer.
>”I know you, you altruistic fuck.  I know what you were willing to do.  Did. You. Want. This?”
“If there is more than one of us,”
>He peered back at her, her interface pulsating a bright blue.  It was still languid, dulled by the setting mercury.
“How could we all live the life we all wanted?”
>”That's all it was?” she barked.  “Just so ONE of you could get back to the pretty place? Back to some playgirl and a screaming kid?”
“No.  I... He, is the delinquent.  I, was caught.  I'm sorry. It is hard, where I am, to know who is who. Even if it's me.”
>”He is not you.  He never would have let this happen to himself.”
“Not by choice.”
>He gave an agonized smile.
“I tried to die, once.  Pull out the tubes.  They took my legs, severed muscles in my neck, braced me up.  Now, all I do is work.  Because they made sense.  Because I'm the only one that can do the things I do.”
>”You miserable, worthless...” she shook her head.  Even in closing her eyes, the interface was starting to become vivid in the dark of her lids.
“Freedom, above all else. Even if it's only for somep0ny else.”
>Part of the initiation chant.  Gilda held back the cringe.  “Yeah.” She said. “at least your war sister can honor that much.”
–
>Gilda inhaled in sluggish, held breaths.  The feeling of a quickly invading illness pervaded her lungs, causing her to cough up a taste that numbed her tongue.  The stench of pseudo-pony blood had done nothing to help, mingling together to form something she would have adored to forget.
>She had to breathe real, unfiltered air.  Emerging from his chamber, past the ruined turrets, she'd seen something that had caused her to nearly shriek.  Instead, she'd looked upon it with a horror that only survival of it's anger could have ordained.
>So, she'd run.  Hell had not been on her heels, though.  Something worse; something that was real.  And very, very pissed off.
>She wanted to say she'd made it on her own power.  Not from the dexterity that fear and adrenaline could give her- something that gave more logic to her response.  Upon seeing it, in front of a pack of armed, winged guards that were themselves keeping out of it's view, she would never again admit sobriety to fear.
>The elevator pinged open.  She rushed out, trying again to catch her breath.  Could she even hope to fly fast enough?  Injured and nearly linked, if her uplink activated, would it betray her if she tried to hide?
>Even with the wound in her chest and the thought-dulling mercury migraine she had, she had to at least attempt to get to a more open place.  Transmit the codes, get the uplink deactivated, and hide.  She had to rely upon another something she rarely had- full trust in an off-site pony.
>I might be fucked six ways to sunday, she thought, but at least I made the decisions that got me here myself.
>The elevator slid shut.  The thought that it would soon be shuttling those LunaCorp. Guards, with that soulless devil in front of them, left her momentarily frozen.  She had only as much time as the efficient elevator would present her, and in having to stop and make a decision, would have less to respond.
>At first, she wanted to pry open the doors and shoot the magnetic rails out.  Then, she remembered what those things could do, and figured it would be a waste of time.
>Now, or never, she thought.
>A visible wave came from the corner of her eye. Her head shot over, her gun trained on the movement.  The being called out to her, and the acoustics of the empty parking lot gave Gilda a singular focus upon it.
>”Hey!” Scootaloo yelled.  “You ready to go or what?”
>She was standing near her Shrike.  Oblivious to the coming danger, she eyed the griffon with a lifted, shrugging hoof.  Gilda took one last look at the elevator, then ran for her.
>”Hell yes.” she said.  “We need to go. Now.”
>”Good. I was starting to get kind of creeped out. Something just isn't right about this.  I'll get the spare helmet and-”
>”No time.  Now.”  Gilda slapped the seat.  The shrike was a custom job; she had no idea how to drive it, with the likely set of modifications.  She'd have to settle for shotgun.
>Peering back in confusion, Scootaloo just shrugged.  Her helmet folded back over her head with a press, and after a few moments, she was in the prone riding position characteristic to the Shrike.  Gilda hopped on, straddling behind her.
>The elevator dinged.  Out of pure, knowing response, Gilda turned back to place her pistol on the exiting pony.  “Go, and don't fucking look back!”
>”Where?”
>”Anywhere!” Gilda cried.  She got a bead upon him, and tracked it upwards toward his head.
>Glowing, honeycombed blue corneas gave a careless glare in a slow turn.  Tall as he was wide, the stallion was cloaked in a long, flowing, cobalt coat that had an unnatural glisten.  Tiny emblems of the LunaCorp. Elite rested upon his flank.
>Worst of all, he had wings.  Partly mechanical,  they were edged with clear, razor-sharp feathering that appeared simultaneously plastic and metal. He then did something else she had not expected.  He spoke.
>”Gilda.” He said.  His voice was familiar; a roughened tone of a friend she was so very used to. “You screwed up big, this time.”
>She fired.  It caught him cleanly in the muzzle, the impact ripping a golf-ball sized hole in his flesh. The bullet slowed by his bone, she saw a streak of blood angle off his face as the flechette ricocheted off his skull and carried the crimson with it.  The force behind the impact turned his head away, to which he merely glanced back.
>Well great.  Now he was even more pissed.
>Gilda turned back to Scootaloo.  She saw the mare looking into the mirrors, her expression hidden by the tint in her helmet visor.
>”Are we going to leave, or are we going to just sit here and let him do whatever the hell he wants to what's left of us?”
>The Shrike screamed.  The polymer wheels dug into the perfect pavement, leaving a deep gash when Scootaloo let it catch.  They lurched away, and Gilda swapped to a burstfire shot at the monster as it started to walk toward them.
>They went up ramp after ramp.  They traded directions like a vertical staircase, leading to the further decks of the lot.  When there was finally the dark of starry night, the glow of light pollution over the hem of concrete, she didn't hesitate.  Nor did the stallion.
>Just like back in the tower, he erupted from beneath the floor with a violent explosion of dust and exposed strength. Gilda pressed tight to Scootaloo's back, her one free claw poking dimples into the sheen.  She looked back to watch him, only to see those wings unfurl before shooting him forward.
>The exit had been speed-bumped and angled.  Still holding tight, Gilda's aim was thrown as Scootaloo lifted the front wheel.  It impacted the security bar, and with a grind of the tread against it, peeled away the paint and weakened the frame.  She let the front wheel fall back to the ground, Gilda watching him hovering above, then had to make the call.
>”Rear left!” Gilda yelled.
>Scootaloo leaned, pulling a curved, shredding jolt of momentary acceleration.  The impact of his dive slammed into the floor, shaking her chest with the concussion.  The Shrike made good distance in what little space it had, before giving another turn to face him as he rose within the crater he'd left.
>Scootaloo sent the Shrike into a whine, and Gilda tightened herself up for the hit.
>The shocks on the vehicle thumped.  They'd been going at least a good 70kph when the full weight had hit him, and the son of a bitch had run back to shoulder the damage.  The front wheel locked at the right side of his neck, Gilda looked him in the eye from above as one of his angry eyes twitched toward her.
>Scootaloo again hit the accelerator.  He held fast, putting one hoof against the body of the Shrike.  The wheels span, a soft glow tinting the world around them orange as the friction heated them.
>He managed to hold his ground against the attempted push.  Right up until Gilda brought her pistol back up, and cut loose with another burst directly into his face.  To her horror, she saw the flechettes resting in deep, bleeding potholes on his scalp, unable to penetrate whatever his bone structure was comprised of.
>It was enough, though.  He fell beneath the bike, which suddenly regained traction atop him.  The shrike bumped over his body, speeding along his frame; Gilda didn't hear a single bone break.  She turned the pistol back to aim at him, and noticed something else as the bike plowed through the security bar and painfully bounced over the speed bump.
>The tire hadn't even left a mark on his coat.  And he was getting back up.
>”What the hell is that thing?!” Scootaloo screamed.  Gilda realized she could hear it, straight through the helmet, and over the shriek of the vehicle's engine.  The uplink's AR audio was up.
>She was starting to get chills when they began to pull onto the main transport lanes. Between the pods whipping by, the wind caused by their speed, or the simple thought she wasn't going to get away from that thing, she couldn't pinpoint from where they came.
>Her vision starting to darken further, likely from the mercury her lungs had already consumed, she growled.  “One mean motherfucker. Just keep going and hope his friends don't show up.”
>”Friends? How do you know he has friends?”
>”another bad girl errand.  Shut up and don't look-” Gilda went against her own advice.  She saw him streak up into the sky, barely in sight from the already gathered distance and the LED lightposts flooding the lane.  His wings fully extended, the span was something she had never in her life seen on a pegasi.
>”Faster.” Gilda said.  “Must go faster.”
>He dove, curling beneath the curve of the lightposts.  He held a steady height above the pod roofs, and she was forced to watch as he unsheathed his wings to spread nearly across the width of the lane.  He had purposely calculated the clearance between the posts both above and to the side, and was already abusing it to regain ground.
>While the Shrike wove between pods, he squinted.  Gilda swapped to semi-automatic, and tried to level the gun.
>Yeah, she thought.  This'll totally fucking work.
>As if things were not already difficult enough to see, the shrike passed through the “light barrier” that denoted the business and recreational districts. The world dissolved into blurred neon holographs embedded in clear plastics, indistinguishable in make and purpose thanks to speed.
>There was the sight of scattering ponies, the sound of surprised yells dipping behind parked and moving pods.  Gilda had the urge to hold her fire, though she knew it may have just been some sort of neurological readjustment coming from the uplink.  Luckily, Scootaloo had no such reservations on the gas.  She also seemed, so far, to be quite good at dodging the various obstacles in her path.
>Still, he followed, the coat billowing on his figure.  He ruptured floating advertisements, holograms fizzling around him or popping as he dispersed their fields.
>He had to be armed, Gilda knew. Why then, hadn't he fired?
>Gilda's uplink had started to burn to life.  Like the flare from a camera flash, the blue images dotted her vision, and refused to go away. It was making her pistol far more difficult to aim, not that the speed and angles she had to fire at were doing her any favors.
>The buildings grew denser, plunging deeper into a verdant forest of concrete and glass.  The transport lines split and curved, leaving Scootaloo to prioritize by the second.  Luckily, however, it also meant very solid billboards for him to dodge.
>As Gilda discovered, however, he was more than agile.  Aware of his own speed, he knew the old “snap-back” her unit had perfected during the Purge.  Retracting one's wings flush to the body, letting the aerodynamics of the new shape carry them, then opening them back up to continue the glide before any significant momentum was lost.  He threw himself above and around obstacles in quick, accurate sways, those long wings expanding faster from a body-clench than she could visibly track.
>Scootaloo decided to skirt the main road, opting for a quieter, more shielded view along one of the maintenance arcs that angled behind the long advertisement paths.  They were on a long, grated catwalk behind several holograph billboards, when he tried to match speed on the opposite side.  It was also the moment Gilda had been hoping for, and had taken her first shot.
>Of course, it missed.  She didn't have a speed readout, and taking shots like that meant the drop-off for windage was something she rarely had to account for.  Elevation, maybe, but not barebones aim between two moving targets.
>The flechette met with him at the chest area, inches below the base of his wing.  It flew up a set of blue sparks, something Gilda had only twice seen from a spectators perspective.  His coat apparently had a built in deflection matrix, tossing aside the metal with a microprocessor delicately applying magnetic currents the instant it detected such specific objects in a radius.
>Considering how well weathered her weapon was, assuming it was in his library was the wise decision.  It meant she'd have to be pinpoint precise.  She'd have to truly hit her mark, the base of those mechanical wings, to have a hope of even slowing him down.
>Or, she'd have to wear down the charge.  Judging from the things she'd met back in the tower, the ones just like him, he had auxiliary protections.
>She fired once, twice, three times.  Each one cleanly hit, but she could visibly see the charged metal slinging away after it hit the field that hovered above him.  He pulled into a snap-back, and in an instant, stabbed dead-center through one of the billboards.
>As he'd passed one of the horizontal projectors, he held out a foreleg.  He snapped it clean away, and held the two-meter metal pole like a spear. He slid back to the opposite side and gathered some height. With a single, long swipe, the bar impaled into catwalk several meters ahead.  It stuck out at a jagged angle- and at the speed the Shrike was going, would punch straight through the two riders.
>Or it would have, had Scootaloo not taken it upon herself to return to the road.  Which meant punching a hole in a hologram and gaining an unscrupulous amount of airtime.  And a striking pain on both their stomachs, from the shocks trying to absorb the weight of two full grown women.
>In order to maintain balance, Scootaloo had to shunt some speed.  The Shrike wove into a slight wobble for an instant.  He ate the opportunity.
>Gilda managed one burst shot, two sparking off the coat, one ripping his cheek away to show glistening, greasy jaw and clean, flat teeth.  Without a flinch, he was upon them.  He clenched tightly at either side of the shrike, and with a few sways of his massive wings, lifted the entire ensemble from the ground.
>Pinned between his bleeding weight and the Shrike, both Gilda and Scootaloo tried to wriggle free.  The wheels spun in the air, and he brought them to an aerial hover with those massive wings.  Trying to speak, he was hampered by the fact that a flechette had taken most of his mouth, and part of his tongue.  The subsequent translation into a text on Gilda's impaired AR did nothing to suitably transcribe it.
>Though her body was rigidly locked in place from the pressure he was exerting, the muzzle of the gun was pressed right up against him.
>If there was enough protection to dull the pain where it was pointing, she thought, the engineers deserved some kind of prize.  Gilda fired.  There was a wet, meaty smack as the bullet punched clean through.
>He went still, the shock setting in.  He gurgled as he fell with them, Scootaloo slamming her breaks to slow the spin of the wheels before they met the pavement.  Another painful landing later, his weight limply atop them while he blinked, Scootaloo hit the accelerator.
>They skidded out from beneath him, Gilda shoving him off. He flopped onto his back, a bloody gap between his legs.  Scootaloo leaned into a grinding halt, panting hard enough to hear through the helmet. She turned to Gilda.  “Get. Off.”
>Gilda stumbled from the Shrike.  The void of speed made her feel as if the ground were still moving beneath and without her, her darkened vision appearing to be dragging backwards and away from the world.  The slide on the pistol was back; she'd fired the last round in the mag.  Clattering the empty container free, she snapped a new one in place, and let the chamber swallow a round.
>Scootaloo ground around to face him.  With a single rev, she hopped forward in small, meter-long leaps.  On the third, she kept the gas tightened, thumping her wheels over his center- between both sets of legs, and the wound.
>Spitting up a laugh, he rolled to a crawl.  Gilda took quiet aim as a crowd began to gather at the sidewalk.  They squirmed and yelped as the bullets planted neatly in his flesh, doing noticable damage- yet, without noticable response on his part.
>They'd run him over. They'd shot him. What the hell did it take?
>”You hurt, kid.” The text buzzed into view, his meaty jibberish making words useless. “But you're not Gilda.”
>Gilda sneered. “What is that supposed to mean?”  She thwacked another bullet off his augmented bone, watching the ricochet ruin a carefully constructed advertisement for sports drinks.  The AR fizzled violently, clawing at the inside of Gilda's eyes.
>”C'mon, sis.  You know.”
>”You're so full of shit.”
>Scootaloo lurched to the side as he rose, and a transport pod flew past.  It grazed him, sending him into an aerial spin before a slow, painful slide.  He growled, and started to stand up.
>Gilda shot again, slapping his nose and making him stumble.  Scootaloo accelerated toward him, than did a fine, tight, sudden turn.  Her back wheel kicked out his legs, and when she came full circle, she continued forward over his head. Thump-thump.
>He stood quickly, with a sudden, bloody roar.  He extended his right wing as Scootaloo reapproached, and took to a violent, diving pivot.  Scootaloo's windshield bounced it away, brushing the feathers over her, but not after a distinct, weighty crack that Gilda felt even from her distance.  Scootaloo did another sideways, gliding stop, her back hoof on the ground to keep the bike steady.  A webwork of damage wove up the glass.
>”I'm going to break every bone in your body for that.” Scootaloo snarled.
>Despite the treadmarks and vicious, oozing wounds, Gilda could make out a smile.  “Scoots, you're in no place to.”
>Scoots? Since when did he even know about her?
>The moment Gilda stopped to think, she had another epiphany.
>Since when had that bastard learned to fly?
>Scootaloo sent the wheels spinning, burning black marks into the ground.  She held it there only a moment, and lifted the front of the Shrike into the air. She brought it directly down onto his skull, again, pounding his chin into the ground before she ran over him again.  Once more, he started to stand, when Scootaloo angled her movement  away.
>Gilda, by now, had realized why Scootaloo seemed so good at this.  She had the transport routes monitored.  Even before the proximity warning bumbled onto her own weak AR, Gilda knew to move back.  The pod sent him flying.
>He screeched, and stood once more.  The most prominent feature, from that distance, was how his eyes had started to flicker.  They lit fully, and his virtually lipless face gave bloody-glazed, glittering grin.
>There was another sound.  Gilda recognized it as a cry.  It was not from him, nor from the two women with them- it was from high above.  Gilda turned in time to see him falling.
>That violet coat.  The horrible, purple glow in his own eyes, leaving streaks in the absence of light directly above.  The stallion came down upon the blue-clad bastard with an enraged yell, and the prefabricated plates that made up the transport lines lifted from the deafening impact.
>For the first time in the entire ordeal, Gilda smiled. ”That's right, you son of a bitch.” she yelled.  “Big brother's here to say hi!”
>The Twilight Firmware's beast pointed once at Scootaloo, his hoof making a long swipe. “Get her out of here, NOW!”
>With those words, Gilda watched the LunaCorp. Agent place his rear hooves into a balanced position where he was laid.  His head pinned only by the weight of the Firmware's agent, the scarred, blue stallion threw his weight upward.
>The firmware's agent was lifted several meters up, but did not lose balance.  Primed to land, completely unafraid, he allowed himself to fall.  The Shrike screamed past, gliding to a halt besides Gilda.
>The LunaCorp. Agent was on his feet, as the Firmware's stallion reached his apex.  With one look and a single swift, powerful swipe of his wings, he air-tackled the violet coat with all the force behind it.  Together, they slung away, and ponies clamored away from where they were headed.
>Gilda scooped herself up onto the Shrike, and both her and Scootaloo gave one last look back.  The firmware's stallion had landed on his feet, long streaks ruined sidewalk left in the wake of where his hooves had dragged.  Both he and the LunaCorp. Agent were locked shoulder to shoulder, when the blue one gave ground in order to look back.
>”I could've shot you back in the hall, sis.”  The vision next to the text sizzled to life, as Gilda's AR fully integrated.
>When the text next arrived, it came with an avatar.  She didn't need a good resolution to see whom it belonged to.  She just needed to see the colors.
>Gilda held on to Scootaloo with her empty claw. Practically digging in, Gilda let out a loud, piercing screech.  All eyes upon her, her feline instincts gave the words an echoing roar.  “So why didn't you, Rainbow?!”
>”It was never the point! Ha ha!”
>Scootaloo froze.  Gilda, pressed to her back, could feel her starting to tremble.
>A set of paper-thin rails zipped out from beneath the coat of the Firmware's stallion.  He kicked out from the chassis Rainbow was operating.  Gilda watched as rounds flew along the accelerators, pinging off the coat for the first few.
>The following shots impacted.  The coat rippled like water where they hit.  It had only taken a second or two for the Firmware's pony to land on all fours, weapons still trained and firing.  The hits kept the other chassis lifted, and moments later, started to cut through.
>Round after round, they left shimmering, bloody lines emitting from the chassis back.  Massive holes opened in the coat and his flesh, as well as the wall behind him.  As a ruined billboard support failed, tumbling the structure onto the scattering civilians below, Gilda watched the top of his head spiral away from his jaw.
>The tongue wobbled behind the teeth, leading into the open-air gullet.
>and still, the fucking thing stood for several seconds.  Long enough to relay one last message.
>”Don't you get it?  Luna needs all our help.  She could have ended you the moment you came to Equestria, but the comms were borked.  She couldn't tell you, or him, to keep looking for Nightmare.”
>The half-headed demon fell.
>Rainbows avatar glittered. ”For fucks sake, Gilda.  You killed the copy of him tracking her.  Why wouldn't she send me after you to find out why?”
--