Magical Girl 5: Magical Girl Applejack 2


                                            >Two years ago, you were a Magical Girl.

                                            >And if someone had told you back then what was to come, you’d have laughed at them.

                                            >Maybe belted them one, too, for good measure.

                                            >You’d have scoffed that no universe, not even the one that you swear is quietly laughing behind your back whenever you’re not looking, could possibly be that cruel.

                                            >Then again, you kind of went ahead and dared it to when forming your contract.

                                            >Your name is Applejack, you are your parents’ eldest daughter, and you sometimes try to remember what their faces looked like.

                                            >They appear in your dreams from time to time but you can never recall after waking up.

                                            >Like a feeling of déjà vu you can’t quite pinpoint.

                                            >You don’t even know what the dreams are about, to be honest.

                                            >Given how you find yourself clutching a snoring Rainbow Dash more often than not when coming to, you guess they’re not the happy kind.


                                            >Fortunately, you don’t expect to get much sleep tonight anyway, so the chances of the dead creeping into your subconscious should be pretty low.

                                            >Well, you saw your Granny in the crowd at one point but she doesn’t count, seeing as she’s been watching from the corners of your eyes ever since you ran away.

                                            >You don’t even freak out anymore—most of the time—you just go about your things and let her silently judge you.

                                            >If she wants to go ahead and cry while you follow your client around the most pretentious party you’ve ever had the misfortune of sneaking into then that’s her business.


                                            >Speaking of which, you’ve been obediently sticking to Silver Spoon’s side for the better part of three hours, watching her mingle with what you’ve come to realize is a sizeable portion of Canterlot’s upper class.

                                            >There must be enough net worth in the room to buy a small country.

                                            >Or topple one at least.

                                            >And in the middle of it all is the girl you’re paid to guard with your life: the petite heir to her parents’ arms-dealing business who may or may not be old enough to buy alcohol.

                                            >Not that she doesn’t manage to keep up with the rest of them, but you do notice the shark smiles being thrown her way when they think she isn’t looking.

                                            >You swear they’d be drooling if it their mouths weren’t busy gulping down expensive champagne.

                                            >You don’t like the other guests, is what you’re saying, and you don’t like the way they seem to be able to deduce your account balance from your scent alone.

                                            >Your instincts won’t stop sending chills down your spine.

                                            >Unfortunately, your sledgehammer is still in the trunk of the company car next to Trixie’s chainsaw.


                                            >"I hate these things," Silver sits down on a windowsill.

                                            >After shaking hands for quite a while, she’s finally allowing herself a moment to catch her breath in a quiet corner.

                                            >"These people are jackals."

                                            "You seem to be handling yourself."

                                            >Handing her a bottle of water, you pull out your phone to message Trixie, asking how things are looking on her end.

                                            >"I’ve had some time to practice," your client notes drily.

                                            >'All quiet,' Trixie’s reply comes back almost immediately, followed by another message a few seconds later. 'Mostly drivers and handlers back here. None of them can poker for shit.'

                                            >Looks like your partner has her hands full.


                                            "Did you notice anything?"

                                            >Letting yourself down next to Silver, you scan the crowd, taking care not to make it look like more than a casual glance.

                                            "Anything that makes you think something’s not right?"

                                            >The second-floor banquet hall is filled with about two hundred guests plus a few dozen waiters and stewards.

                                            >The south and west walls are lined with high, ornamented windows, the other two with doors and archways leading deeper into the hotel.

                                            >Expensive tables holding even more expensive food and drinks are set up all around, and a spine of tall, polished marble columns is cutting through the room’s center.

                                            >"You mean like a trained killer giving people sour glances?"

                                            >Silver shakes her head.

                                            >"Just you."

                                            "Let’s hope it stays that way."

                                            >The girl lets out a small chuckle.


                                            "You know, I’ve been meaning to ask. What are you here as?"

                                            >"Hmm?"

                                            "These people," you nod towards the decadent crowd. "Do they know about the things you’re involved in?"

                                            >"Not really. Well, some of them do. Mostly I’m just the spoiled little bitch who managed to inherit Apex Group from her parents. I’ve made some backroom deals in the past though."

                                            "Aren’t they like, wealthy business owners and political figures?"

                                            >"All the more reason to look for some discretion in your security needs."

                                            >As far as black-market arms dealers go, she certainly sounds the part.

                                            >"It doesn’t happen that often," Silver amends. "Half of them would probably lock me in their dungeons before having me sell them a firearm."

                                            "So who do you sell to?"

                                            >"Mostly lowlifes, I guess. Clans, Yakuza, I dunno. Your office placed a few orders."

                                            >That makes you turn to look at the girl.

                                            >"How do you think I got wind of how to hire you? Your company is listed as a booking agency but I don’t usually get orders for shotguns and M112 demolition charges from those."

                                            "But you delivered anyway, huh?"

                                            >Silver lets out a laugh.

                                            >"I’ve sold worse stuff to worse people, Miss Applejack. A few gun crates and party poppers are not the things that keep me awake at night. Not by a long shot."

                                            >She tries to sound nonchalant, a seasoned war vet who can’t be fazed by the sight of a little blood and a couple of dead bodies anymore, but she doesn’t quite succeed.

                                            >It’s probably good etiquette for a gun runner, you suppose, acting blasé like that, but you can’t help but like her more for struggling.

                                            >It reminds you of a certain, freshly-contracted Magical Girl who still had to make her bones.

                                            >Who still thought she was fighting to save the world.


                                            >"Hey, can I ask you something?" your client seems to have noticed you were lost in thought for a moment there. "Is it true that Magical Girls get a wish?"

                                            "Yeah," you recover quickly. "They do."

                                            >"Like a real wish?"

                                            "Yep. And it’s too late to take it back by the time you realize it’s a crummy deal."

                                            >"But you can wish for anything, right?"

                                            >You muster Silver before answering this time, and you don’t miss the fact that she’s purposely avoiding to look back at you.

                                            "There are limits. But they say it varies from person to person. Then again, it’s hard to compare something like that."

                                            >"What did you wish for?"

                                            "Ah," you smile at the girl, "that’s not something you’re supposed to ask."


                                            >Silver is about to reply—you swear you could make out the beginning of a pout—but her expression suddenly freezes.

                                            >Her eyes grow wide, staring at something in the crowd.

                                            >It takes you a moment to follow them to a tall, heavyset man in an ill-fitting gray suit.

                                            "Who is it?" you feel your muscles tense up, and you move a step in front of your client on pure instinct. "Silver?"

                                            >The man has already noticed the two of you and is stomping over, a cheap smile on his fat lips.

                                            >His black, shiny hair is bound into a short ponytail.

                                            "Silver?"

                                            >You try not to look like you’re about to start sprinting.

                                            >"It’s…" comes the quiet reply from your back.

                                            >Before you can do anything else, the man is within speaking distance, extending his arms.

                                            >"Miss Spoon!" he greets the girl in a phlegmy voice. "I was hoping to find you here. Won’t you–"

                                            >He stops himself, irritated by you taking another sideward step and blocking him.

                                            >Judging from his expression, he only just noticed you were there to begin with.

                                            >Tilting his head in annoyance to address your client again, he continues.

                                            >"Is she a new maid? Girlfriend?"

                                            >You manage to keep yourself from ending the party early with a clean blow to his nose.

                                            >Barely.


                                            >"I’m sorry," the girl in your back has found her voice again, and its ice-like quality you remember from earlier tonight.

                                            >She sounds a little shakier than before though, despite her best efforts.

                                            >Rising from the windowsill and brushing her braid back over her shoulder, Silver moves past you to face the large creep head-on.

                                            >"Applejack is my escort for tonight," she explains, having to crane her neck quite a bit to be able to make eye contact. "Applejack, this is Mr. Moira, President of Kodi Industries. They’re one of my company’s competitors."

                                            >She gives you a look.

                                            >"I told you about them earlier. In the car, remember?"

                                            >The guy holds out his fat hand for you to shake.

                                            >With an almost invisible movement, Silver nods.

                                            >You oblige, ignoring your instincts to start breaking fingers.

                                            "It’s, uhh… nice to meet you," you manage to gnarl.

                                            >"Uh-huh. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some business to discuss with your… client here."

                                            >He makes a shooing gesture.

                                            >Another glance to Silver, and she gives you the same subtle nod again.

                                            >You hesitate, and it takes one of the girl’s icy stares to actually get you going.

                                            >She’s still your principal.

                                            >You’re still being paid to not make a fuss and blow your cover.


                                            'There’s a guy here. He’s with that group Silver mentioned.'

                                            >You text Trixie while loitering around one of the buffet tables, about twenty meters from your client.

                                            >It’s as far as you dare to move away, just within sprinting distance for you to react should you see something you don’t like.

                                            >You haven’t taken your eyes off her since you left, watching her discreetly argue with the man named Moira.

                                            >'Fuck him up.'

                                            'They’re talking. They’re both here as legit business owners.'

                                            >'Want me to come?'

                                            'I got it. He’s alone anyway.'

                                            >Another quick look around reveals nothing suspicious.

                                            >Nobody seems to be giving the pair near the window a second glance, even though the guy is starting to wave his hands rather heatedly in the girl’s face.

                                            >So why is your heart racing?


                                            >It happens fast.

                                            >Faster than you were prepared for.

                                            >Silver opens her mouth to say something, but she’s interrupted by a window to her left shattering in an explosive fireball, sending shards of glass flying into the room.

                                            >She stares at the torrent of glittering shrapnel before her sight snaps to the man in front of her, then to you.

                                            >You have just enough time to start running before two more detonations drown out the screams of the panicking crowd.

                                            >The first blows out a window at the other end of the room, the second that behind the girl you’re supposed to be protecting.

                                            >Silver vanishes in an embrace of fire and glass.


                                            >The next thing you register is the hot explosion slamming into your chest like a sledgehammer, throwing you backward as you try to shield your face.

                                            >You barely feel the sharp pricks along your arms, but the impact of your back smashing into one of the ornate columns drives the air out of your lungs for good.

                                            >For a moment, your vision goes black.

                                            >For a moment, you just lie there, slumped against the marble, struggling for breath.

                                            >It takes a few painful seconds and a couple of wet, bloody coughs to succeed.

                                            >Your ears are ringing; your vision is blurry.

                                            "Silver…"

                                            >Your voice sounds quiet and far away.

                                            >Your arms are covered in scrapes and lacerations.

                                            >Wiping filth from your mouth, you try to take in your surroundings.

                                            >The banquet hall has deteriorated to chaos, with guests clawing and tumbling over each other in a frantic fight to get to the exits.

                                            >The heartwood tables that were once holding scores of fancy buffet trays are strewn across the room in burnt bits and pieces, and the expensive marble floor tiles have collected deep scratches from the explosions.

                                            >The ground is littered with shrapnel and broken glass.

                                            >A few motionless bodies are lying close to the windows.

                                            >You can’t see whether Silver is one of them.


                                            >Forcing your body to get up and your legs to stay below it, you try to find your phone in the mess of dirty fabric that is your slutty cocktail dress.

                                            >You can’t muster the coordination.

                                            >Clenching your hands, you try and keep them from shaking, just as the clatter of several dozen smoke grenades skidding over the polished floor draws your attention back to the windows.

                                            >Thick white smoke gushes into the room, and the first figure—only visible as an opaque shadow against the mist—rappels through the blast hole.

                                            >You quickly stumble around to the other side of the column to hide, continuing to fumble for your phone.

                                            >More shapes are starting to move in the fog, and they slowly start to become more defined as they come closer.

                                            >Pressing your back against the cool stone, you dare to keep watching.

                                            >Black tactical vests without visible markings, plates of body armor, automatic rifles, customized gas masks.

                                            >High-tech visors, their eye windows shining with muddy red light from inside.

                                            >You can make out the characteristic clicks of private radio channels being engaged.

                                            >Your hands finally come across your phone, and you duck back behind the pillar, hitting Trixie’s name.

                                            >You hope to God she’s already on her way.


                                            >Your partner picks up before the first ring, and by the sound of her panting, she hasn’t missed her cue.

                                            "At least two dozen targets," you groan into the microphone. "Trained. Rifles, body armor, grenades, tactical gear."

                                            >"Fuck!"

                                            >Hazarding another look, you can see more men rappelling, the glow of their visors sparkling in the fog like predators' eyes.

                                            "They’re still coming in."

                                            >"Gimme forty seconds," Trixie barks over her hurried footsteps. "You got the little bitch?"

                                            "We got separated. She’s got to be close but there’s..."

                                            >All around you, you can see nothing but destruction and disarray.

                                            "There’s smoke everywhere, Trixie."

                                            >"I’m at the car. I’m hanging–"

                                            "Trixie!"

                                            >Another figure suddenly emerges from the mist, and your blood runs cold at the sight of it.

                                            "They have a Magical Girl!"


                                            >Stepping forward, flanked by two more grunts scanning for targets through the holo-sights of their rifles, is a girl in a dark blue uniform of a costume and a pair of gold-rimmed, neon-bright aviator shades.

                                            >Her hair is spiked up, its color giving it the impression that someone had set fire to her scalp.

                                            >A scowling frown sits on her face, and a riot shotgun in her hands.

                                            >Looking over the chaos, she makes a single gesture with her hand.

                                            >Her entire squad reacts immediately, straightening up to await orders, even the ones—you’d probably be creeped out if you had the mental capacity to spare—who had turned their backs on her.

                                            >She isn’t wearing a visor or microphone, as far as you can tell, but every single one of the insurgents swarms out at her next gesture.

                                            >Gunfire picks up a moment later, together with more panicked shrieks echoing through the fog.

                                            >The Magical Girl starts shooting after another glance around, picking off figures running through the mist with powerful shotgun blasts.

                                            >She vanishes into the direction away from you a few shells later.

                                            >With the rest of the men slaughtering the civilians, you’re left with five enemies advancing towards your position, scanning for targets.

                                            >You only just manage to duck before the first salvos of automatic fire start peppering into your makeshift cover.


                                            "Shit!"

                                            >You were sure they couldn’t make you from the angle they were coming from.

                                            >Tapping on your phone again, your fingers stumbling over each other, you call headquarters.

                                            "Shit, shit, shit!"

                                            >The call connects with a click, almost lost under the sounds of carnage.

                                            "This is Applejack"—you don’t have time to waste on the game of code words and clearances right now—"we’ve been engaged by a platoon-sized force of highly-equipped insurgents with MG support. We need assistance immediately."

                                            >There’s silence on the other end for a few seconds before a women answers.

                                            >"QRF has been alerted," she explains calmly. "Can you hold your current position?"

                                            "Negative."

                                            >"Can you guarantee the safety of your mission objective?"

                                            "Negative."

                                            >You shout your answers over the chaos, with more shots cracking the marble in your back.

                                            >Another moment of silence later, the woman’s voice comes back.

                                            >"Understood, Miss Applejack. Expect friendlies inbound from the south-side of the compound no later than twenty minutes."

                                            "Twenty fucking–"

                                            >You don’t get to finish, being interrupted by part of the column splintering away under the gunfire next to your face.

                                            >Just as you’re about to risk running for it, a sound that you’ve heard many times before reaches your ears.

                                            >Although you’re familiar with it, you’ve never been quite as glad to hear the powerful, thundering roar of Trixie’s chainsaw.


                                            >The first insurgent coming into your partner’s range doesn’t even have time to train his gun on her after she jumps out of the smoke.

                                            >She simply cuts into him mid-sprint, letting Gorefather tear him open from groin to neck.

                                            >He goes down screaming, the sound muffled by his gas mask, clutching at his belly to frantically try and stuff his intestines back into his torso.

                                            >Trixie is already on the way to her next victim.

                                            >This one actually manages to get his rifle up in time, which she quickly fixes with a high kick to the weapon's side.

                                            >It flies out of the man’s hand, shooting around to his back on its reinforced sling.

                                            >He has just enough time to instinctively try and get it under control again before the shrieking chainsaw eats through his jaw.

                                            >Carrying the motion of her kick, Trixie spins and cycles Gorefather back around in a grand arc, leaving a ring of spatters in its wake.

                                            >She’s transformed at some point, replacing the maid uniform from before with her ice-blue Magical-Girl costume.

                                            >If it wasn’t so stomach-turning to watch, you’d probably be captivated by the sheer dexterity going into her Danse Macabre.


                                            >The enemy that was just relieved of his head sacks to the floor behind Trixie, but the rest of his squad has taken cover by now.

                                            >Their attention has shifted from you to her.

                                            "Lulamoon!"

                                            >The girl notices you shouting just before two fragmentation grenades clatter on the floor, lazily coming to a halt at her feet.

                                            >With a slew of expletives, she dives for your cover.

                                            >The moment she presses herself against the column next to you is the moment two quick shockwaves explode onto your senses.


                                            >"Fucking shit…"

                                            >For the second time in the span in only a few of minutes, you feel like you’ve taken a punch to the sternum at full force.

                                            >"Where…" Trixie spits out a glob of pink saliva. "Where’s the girl? These cunts are here for her, aren’t they? What the fuck are they killing everybody for?"

                                            "It doesn’t make sense."

                                            >The suppressive fire is picking up again from the other side of the column.

                                            "Three more targets," you point. "Two at the next pillar and another at the overturned table."

                                            >"You take that one."

                                            >Unclipping it from her back, Trixie sets a large, double-headed metal sledgehammer onto the ground with a dull thud—your weapon.

                                            >It’s painted in murky bronze; its head is littered with scrapes and scratches from you putting it to work.

                                            >It’s called Angron, a name you’ve never really come to terms with, but it was dubbed so by Rainbow and you just kind of stuck with it.

                                            >The Magical Girl next to you smiles.

                                            >While your right hand finds Angron’s handle, your left curls around what is your most precious possession by design.

                                            >The shiny bauble every single Magical Girl receives as a consolation prize for actually being dumb enough to give away her soul.

                                            >It’s warm to touch, pulsing with your heartbeat, and it jumps up with a spark of burning light to dig its way into your chest a second later.


                                            >Your costume manifests around your body with a single thought, fresh and crisp.

                                            >It hugs your flesh like a second skin, replacing the uncomfortable cocktail dress and leaving the ozone-stink of spent magical energy in your nose.

                                            >A wide-rimmed cowboy hat perches itself onto your head, a silver star with the word 'SHERIFF' glinting on its side.

                                            >An airy skirt falls around your hips, and a set of lime-green stockings crawls its way up your thighs.

                                            >Angron buzzes in your hands, excited at the prospect of being used.

                                            >Finally, after what feels like a lifetime of being constricted by your own clothes, you can breathe again.

                                            >"Now we’re talking about killing some motherfuckers!" Trixie grins.


                                            "You’re sure you can get 'em both?"

                                            >Your partner answers by gunning Gorefather’s engine and jumping out of cover, and you’ve mirrored her action before you even realize.

                                            >Once again, you’re amazed at the sheer speed Trixie can pack into her sprint.

                                            >By the time the two enemies at the next column have realized what’s happening, she’s already covered half the distance.

                                            >Raising Angron over your head with both arms, you hurl it in the direction of the third guy.

                                            >You can almost hear the hammer shovel the air out of its way, clawing itself towards its target.

                                            >The sound of the solid steel slab that is its head shattering the insurgent’s ribcage is drowned out by the screams of his comrades getting dismembered by your cackling partner.


                                            >"They didn’t fuck you up, did they?" Trixie cleans her saw’s tracks from leftover bits with an engine rev.

                                            "Come on."

                                            >Waving her over to the hole that used to be the window you last saw Silver at, you start to move away pieces of rubble.

                                            >"I still don’t get what the fuck is going on though. Look at these motherfuckers."

                                            >Your partner kicks one of the mutilated corpses like she was checking whether he was playing possum.

                                            >As if the gory furrow where his spine should be didn’t answer the question glaringly enough already.

                                            >"That’s some serious shock and awe for a little business assassination, isn’t it?"

                                            "The guy from before," you pant, continuing to throw debris to the side. "I don’t think he knew."

                                            >"What then? This is just a random purge run by some asshole splinter group? Just because our luck’s that good?"

                                            >Trixie narrows her eyes, trying to see through the thinning fog.

                                            >The remaining enemies must have swarmed into the other rooms together with the Magical Girl.

                                            >The smoke is clearing out of the banquet hall, and if you want any chance at using it as cover to get your client out of here, you’ll have to be quick.

                                            >Assuming she’s actually still alive, that is.


                                            >"Over here," Trixie shoves an overthrown table out of the way. "Still breathing. Doesn’t look like she’s broken anything important."

                                            >Silver is lying on her back, covered in dust.

                                            >Her braid has become partially undone and blood is trickling from one of her ears.

                                            >Her face has caught some pretty nasty scratches.

                                            >You give her a gentle shake.

                                            >"Think they’ll bill us for damaging her? Cloudchaser said her whole squad was assigned for cleanup duty at one point because their principals kept getting snuffed."

                                            >The look you give her makes the scoffing girl shut up.

                                            "Help me out here."

                                            >Leaning Silver against the remainder of the wall, you softly touch her face.

                                            >"It’s too high to jump," Trixie leans out. "Doesn’t look like we can climb it either. Not with her out of it."

                                            "Silver," you shake the girl again, and she quietly groans in response.

                                            >"Alright, she’s alive. We gotta go if we want to keep it that way."

                                            >The smoke is getting lighter by the second.

                                            >You can already see halfway across the room.

                                            >There aren’t any of the intruders around but you still wouldn’t want to get caught in open space like this.

                                            "I’ll carry her. You take point and get us to the garage. If we run into the Magical Girl…"

                                            >You load the arms dealer onto your back with Trixie’s help.

                                            >"I get it. Always wanted to have a proper fight to the death with another Sparkly anyway."


                                            >You cross the room as quickly as you dare while balancing Silver on your back.

                                            >With the smoke now fully clearing, the damage is becoming apparent.

                                            >Several dozen corpses are lying between the debris, making an unsightly mess of the once pristine floor tiles.

                                            >"Why?" Trixie shakes her head. "They didn’t even check the bodies to see if they got her."

                                            "This is something else," you pant. "It doesn’t add up."

                                            >When you reach the door to the back rooms on the far side of the hall, Silver suddenly jerks away from your shoulders with a yelp, nearly making you fall over.

                                            "Hey!"

                                            >The girl has come to, and she’s panicking hard, pulling at your neck.

                                            "It’s alright! It’s us!"

                                            >Trixie drags her off of you as soon as you’re out of the main hall, and she stops her thrashing with a well-placed slap a moment later.

                                            >"It’s us," she repeats your words. "The two cunts who were dumb enough to think protecting a single grade-schooler at a party full of rich fucks would be a chill gig."

                                            >Silver holds her cheek, staring daggers at your partner.

                                            >She’s calmed down though, for what it’s worth.

                                            "Lulamoon…"

                                            >"Now look at us! You said that rival gang was mobbed up, you didn’t tell us to expect downtown fucking Baghdad."


                                            >"Hey! You!"

                                            >A voice coming from the banquet hall makes all three of you jerk to attention, and you quickly sneak back to the doorframe with Trixie at your side, peeking around.

                                            >"What’s going on?"

                                            "It’s Moira. The guy from earlier."

                                            >You point Trixie over to another exit, where the heavyset sleazeball has found one of the enemies doubling back into the hall.

                                            >Looks like he made it through the explosion, too, although—judging from his shredded clothes and the good amount of blood on his face—not by much.

                                            >He’s pretty upset, angrily yelling at the insurgent.

                                            >"That’s right, motherfucker," Trixie snickers. "Should’ve hired better goons if you wanted to kill the kid. I don’t even–"

                                            >A gunshot interrupts her, followed by a scream that is quickly stifled by another blast.

                                            >Where Moira was arguing a moment ago, a corpse with a golf-ball-sized hole in its forehead is falling over, squirting blood like a punctured juice box.

                                            >You didn’t even see the Magical Girl with the shotgun coming up behind him.


                                            "Shit!"

                                            >Ripping Trixie away from the door, you push her and Silver forward, away from the banquet hall.

                                            >"What happened?" your client cranes her neck to muster the two of you in turn. "What’s going on?"

                                            >Trixie has traded her grin for a look of genuine unease—something that’s not at all common for her.

                                            >"What happened, Miss Applejack?"

                                            "They’re definitely not here for you."

                                            >"They’re… wait," Silver tries to turn around and take a look herself only for Trixie to shove her on again. "What does that mean?"

                                            >"It means this isn’t some run-of-the-mill smash and grab."

                                            >"But what else would it be?"

                                            >"Something worse," Trixie answers while shooting you a glance.