The Dark Horse Initative

\ Minutes until end of shift: -42

// Days since Canterlot Incident: 16

|| Fillydelphia

“Hey, Cobalt, have you heard about what happened in Canterlot?”

I sucked in a deep breath, my brows falling as I prepared my standard issue response: "No."

It was, of course, sarcasm in the highest degree. Everypony knew what happened in Canterlot. Ponies in Stalliongrad knew what happened in Canterlot. So did 95 percent of the population of Neighpon. Hell, the Neighponese Head Consulate had ordered an aid armada sent from Horseshima directly to Canterlot. So yes, I knew what happened in Canterlot. What happened in Canterlot hadn’t been news for almost a week, and the media as a whole apparently hadn’t received the message. Neither had Russ.

"You don't know what happened? How have you not heard?"

"I live under a rock. In the ocean.” I paused for a split second.  “At the bottom of the ocean. I know a spell that lets me breathe underwater, and that's where my secret lair is. You didn't know all this?" I replied, glaring only partially in jest at the blithering rust-colored moron I called my friend. More accurately, he was my protégé, destined for the illustrious position I held: Chief Dishwasher at Backburner's Haymarket Grill.

He gave me a look full of nothing but repugnance. “Ok, I get it. You don’t have to be like that. Just keep washing, I don’t want to be here all night.”

I glanced up at the clock on the wall. We were already close enough, it was 12:42. I was supposed to have been done by midnight, but here I was.

Russ levitated another dish from the industrial-sized sink, which was still practically full. This was the third load Backburner had brought in. At this point, I was inclined to believe he was sitting in the kitchen splattering plates with leftover food from tonight’s dinner service and throwing them in the microwave to dry just so we could clean them. I wouldn’t put it past him.

“What is this crap, anyway?” Russ said as he vigorously rubbed the plate, which was coated with a dark purple sauce. The sponge he was using was doing literally nothing but slowly becoming the same shade of purple as the sauce on the plate. He looked at it, sighing. “What, is the main ingredient in this glue?”

Probably, yes. “It’s the plum sauce for the Hoofbiter sandwich. It tastes great, but I think it coats your intestines the same way it does those plates.”

He dropped his sponge and began scratching on the plate with his hoof. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that that wouldn’t work either. Nothing short of a pressure washer was going to get that stuff off.

He set the plate back down into the sink, and began pacing around the tight little washroom looking for anything to get the stain off. As he did so, he tried to start up the conversation again. “So, the changelings are back,” He said, apparently to a bucket that he was rummaging through. He clearly had nothing better to talk about.

I took it like he was actually trying to talk to me. “So I’ve heard.” I said, rolling my eyes as I placed another dish in the slowly growing pile of clean plates.

“You know there hasn’t been a single changeling sighting since the Zebra Uprising almost 200 years ago, don’t you?” He asked, having given up rummaging through the bucket, now trotting back over to the sink. “It’s a serious issue,” he stated emphatically. “And I read that the pack they saw back then was only like fifteen or so. Do you know how many were in Canterlot?”

“Over five-hundred.” We said in unison. Of course, the tone I used was much less excited than his. In fact, you could say my recitation was in a complete monotone. I had heard that figure well over a dozen times this week alone, be it in the newspaper, the radio or in the streets. Russ shot me another dirty look.

He continued giving me the look, standing at the sink, before continuing unfazed. “Plus they say there was a Hive Queen there or something like that. And they managed to sneak in during a royal wedding!” At this point he was almost shouting.

“I imagine it’s not too difficult to sneak into places when you can disguise yourself as literally anypony,” I commented flatly.

Russ ignored me, once again beginning his search for something to clean the dish off with.

I could tell that he had read the Fillydelphia Hoofbeat that morning, as he had been literally quoting it word-for-word.  I had read it that morning as well, which didn't do much to increase my already low interest in the conversation. Still, it was better than washing dishes, so out of a distinct desire to take my mind off of them as much as possible, I let Russ continue uninhibited.

“So, have you seen the pictures that they’ve released of the changelings?” He asked. He had found a pumice stone under the sink.

“Yep, saw ‘em in the Hoofbeat this morning.”

“Hey, so did I!”

What a miracle. “Isn’t that something,” I dug. “Yeah, they’re pretty weird looking.” I had cleaned four plates in the time it had taken Russ to find something to clean one. I had begun making a stack of plates that would require advanced cleaning countermeasures, being sure to put them as far away from Russ’s side of the sink as possible.

“More like freakin’ scary. You see those fangs? Those huge, evil, blue eyes? Horns? Wings like a bug? None of that gets you at all?” He resumed work on the dish, scraping away at it with the pumice stone. The plum sauce was actually lifting, along with large portions of the dish’s clear coat and color. He looked over at me intensely, as if studying my face for any signs of fear. There were none. Then, he looked back at the dish he had been cleaning, wincing at what he had done, and carefully set it aside.

“Well, not really. I mean, if those six mares from Ponyville can take care of the whole lot without much trouble, I’m not too worried.” I said, trying to recall their names.

“You do know that the whole deal has been censored by the RBI, right? What happened was a lot worse than what we’re hearing on the news.” He glanced up at me from the sink, where he had been sifting through the pile of dishes for one not covered in the practically epoxy-like purple sauce. He knew that he would have piqued almost anyone’s attention by mentioning political intrigue, particularly me.

I looked over at him from the dish I was working on, still trying to feign disinterest. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I commented. The Royal Bureau of Investigation was apt to downplay issues in their public reports, and especially so if the issue in question took place on their home turf.

“Yeah, well—it was actually pretty bad, apparently. I’ve got some relatives up in Canterlot who said casualties were up around two hundred or so ponies, and apparently one of those mares from Ponyville actually got hurt pretty bad.”

I couldn’t hold my guise of disinterest any longer. “Really?” I asked, absentmindedly putting down my plate and washrag.

“Uh-huh. Thing is, the day after all the crap went down, they re-did the wedding and reception and everything. And guess what? The one of the Ponyville Six that got injured, she showed up and played a set with DJ PON-3 after the toasts at the reception like it was no big deal.”

“Damn. Which one was it?”

“The pink one…uhh…Pinkie Pie?” He paused for a moment. “Yeah, that’s it,” He added, nodding to himself. “Apparently she had to get a bunch of stitches, but she just covered them up with her dress.”

“Wow.” I commented. The Ponyville Six were apparently a lot tougher than they looked. Another thought popped into my head. “But you’re saying ponies actually got killed? I thought it was more of just a hostage situation.”

He looked exasperated as he replied. “That’s what all the news has been saying, I know. But no, I remember hearing that out of the total number of casualties, there was about fifty or sixty ponies actually killed, I think mostly Royal Guard and Lunar Guard, maybe ten or fifteen civilians. A bunch more are still in the hospital—there’s no telling how many are critical.” He shook his head, sighing. “They’re bad business, these changelings. And all the reports have been saying that all the changelings are out for is love or something ridiculous like that—I don’t know how all that works, seeing as how they’ve been running around killing ponies in Canterlot.”

“Yeah, you got that right. Me neither.” I stopped. This exchange was dealing more information than I had anticipated. “So, you’re telling me that after a bunch of ponies get killed, they just go on having a wedding the next day? That doesn’t seem right.”

Russ nodded, grimacing. “No, there was a small memorial inside the palace for all of them before the wedding. But the RBI pulled a media blackout on that—there wasn’t a single camera in the room. I don’t understand that, either, though—why not just come out and say what happened?”

“Beats me,” I said. We both stood there silently for a second. “So, how do you know all this? I mean, if there was a media blackout, even your relatives in Canterlot wouldn’t know about all this stuff, right?”

“Yeah. Well, look…” His voice trailed off as he looked shiftily around the room. “Can I trust you?”

“As far as I can throw you,” I growled, only half-joking.

He chuckled. “Ok, ok. Well, a certain one of those relatives of mine works in the RBI. He’s not high-tier or anything, but he hears enough and he tends to get a little loose-lipped when he has a few pints of cider in him.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Well…I guess now that that cat’s out of the bag, I’ll tell you what else he’s heard.” He looked at me very seriously, temporarily dropping all friendly pretenses. “And if I hear a word about this from anyone other than you—I’ll…be very upset.” He warned to the best of his ability.

I nodded. “Gotcha.”

“Well, he’s heard that the REA sent a whole bunch of expeditionary forces down south of Las Pegasus, pretty much the whole area around the San Palomino Desert, and they say they’ve found a lot more signs of changelings down there…he says they’ve found them as far east as the area south of Appaloosa. Basically…they’re massing along the border of the Frontier Line.” He shivered visibly, pausing to take a glance at my reaction, which was registering blank confusion. “It’s got the RBI and REA both pretty spooked—and I can see why. If 500 of those damn things can take Canterlot, I’d hate to see what a thousand times that could do.”

I exhaled sharply. “Me too.”

“That’s not all,” He continued. This conversation had passed from idle conversation into something far more serious all too quickly; my head was already beginning to spin. “There’s word that the REA is going to put a draft into effect pretty soon if the changelings keep coming—I mean, what, we’ve been at peacetime military levels for about fifty years now?”

“Sounds about right,” I said.

“That oughta tell you that this is serious stuff. And the last time there was a draft—well, you know. That was 200 years ago, during the Zebra Uprising.”

I sighed again. “Here I was, thinking that what happened in Canterlot was just a freak event.”

“You and me both,” He replied. “And everypony else in Equestria, too. Well, it’s better to be informed than not—”

He froze as the sound of hooves quickly drawing closer made its way into the room from the double doors that led into the kitchen. Just as we both looked over at them, they flew open, both slamming against their separate walls, a thick, white stallion throwing himself through them, sweating profusely. He wore a heavily stained apron bearing the logo of the restaurant he owned, the Haymarket Grill, and he looked distinctly pissed. He was gritting his exposed teeth, eyes bulging slightly and a single vein extremely visible on his neck from strain. In tow, he had a cart piled high with dishes, easily double the number we had done thus far. He glared at us for several seconds, clearly seeing that neither of us was even holding a dish.

“Oh, crap…” Russ whispered softly.

“Cobalt Dusk and Russet-freaking-Furlong, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?! Are you two cobs over here playing hoovsies again? Did you forget how to wash dishes and need me to remind you?” He shouted. “Sweet Celestia, you two must really love washing dishes, ‘cause at the rate you’re going, you’re going to be here all night cleaning this crap up! I’ve got two more carts lined up for you outside, and you’re both getting docked an hour’s pay since I just got docked an hour’s worth of dish-washing.” He leered at us both in turn. “What? You think I can’t hear you two loudmouths in here jabbering like a pair of hens?”

I piped up. “But sir, we were discussing how to get this plum sauce off of these plates—Ru—I mean, I already ruined one of them trying to get it off,” I said, levitating the plate that Russ had ruined so Backburner could see.  As I glanced over at the dish, Russ gave me a worried sidelong look. The dark purple stain was still visible on the green dish where gigantic scratches deep into the porcelain were not.

“Well, guess who’ll be paying for that dish, then, Cobalt? You know, you’re lucky I know your father so well, otherwise you’d be sitting outside on your plot right about now.” He paused, giving me a sardonic grin. “First of all, I know you’re lying about dishwashing techniques seeing as how all the ones I know don’t involve changelings or the RBI, and, secondly, you’re supposed to be the grand-high-dishwasher around here, I’ll bet you can figure out how to get plum sauce off a freaking plate. This ain’t yearling school anymore.” He glared at Russ for a second, who practically tried to climb into the sink to hide. “Oh, and Russ, please don’t ruin any more of my dishes. I know for a fact that Cobalt knows better than to use a pumice stone on porcelain.” He looked back at me. “Now, both of you get your sad crap together and get washing. The quicker you go, the less I have to pay you.”

A brief silence ensued, Backburner standing menacingly in front of us. He was either expecting us to start apologizing profusely or start working, or, knowing him, probably both simultaneously.

“Yes sir, sorry about the plate, sir, I didn’t know.” Russ quailed. I took up the other end of the bargain and picked up a washrag and began furiously scrubbing a plate.

Appeased, Backburner snorted, head shaking, and turned and loudly traipsed out of the room.

“Well, I tried,” I said to Russ, grimacing as the double doors into our dingy little back room swung freely.

He let out a short laugh, nodding his head softly and smiling. “Thanks for trying, it was worth a shot, right?”

“Guess so,” I replied. “Looks like we get wash dishes all night just like you said.”

“Whoohoo.”

***

\ Hours since sunrise: 3

// Days since Canterlot Incident:  47

Sweet Celestia, I don’t want to go to school today. That was my first thought of the morning, as usual. And then I remembered: I didn’t have school. It was summer. Better yet, it was the summer of my senior year of high school; I had graduated the fairly prestigious private school, The Haute École, only a week or so prior. My newfound freedom from education had clearly not set in yet—although my hours of business had certainly changed—the effects of which were all too apparent. Once again, I had forgotten to close the blinds of my bedroom’s bay window, otherwise I would have almost certainly slept until noon, since my alarm clock lay in pieces five stories below, in the alley between my apartment building and the one next door—my first action after being freed from high school was to chuck the wretched thing out the window.

I slowly raised my head from the crevice between two pillows, staring bleary-eyed and still technically asleep, out the window. It hurt. I flopped back down, horn stabbing one of the pillows. That hurt, too. It was becoming apparent that I hurt all over—all thanks to my downright pathetic job as an after-dinner-service dishwasher and its downright pathetic hours. While having the whole day to myself was certainly nice, going to work at 8 and coming home usually after midnight had begun to take its toll, and the night before had been even worse: not only had I been forced to stay about an hour late to clean a particularly hefty load of dishes again, I had also promised one of the waitstaff (a particularly cute pegasus mare) I’d go with her for coffee after my shift, and she had been interested enough to still want to go even after I told her my stupid shift was going to end at about 2. So, I figured I was lucky to have got about 5 hours of sleep, seeing as how I remembered getting home by about 4. It had been worth it, though, not only had she agreed to a second date, she also was positive that I was one of the most entertaining unicorns she had ever met.

After several minutes and several more failed attempts to get out of bed, I finally managed to launch myself into a semi-upright position, resting my front hooves on my back legs. I slowly and creakily turned my head towards my mirror in the corner, and realized what a mess I was. It looked as though a very quiet and very efficient team of parasprites (thankfully, the majority of those little freaks had been wiped from the city) had decided to take every single strand of hair in my mane and make sure they all either stood on end or were clumped in an awkward and nigh-on-unreachable part of my head. After about five minutes of untangling and smoothing my mane with my magic while trying not to fall back asleep, my light-blue mane was back to normal, the one random streak of dark blue back in its usual position of being parted and curled up in the front. I was aware that I needed a manecut, as the hair below my ears was beginning to curl back around my neck. My eyes were most decidedly sticking on “half-open”, my pupils almost creepily small and my cyan irises huge as my poor, abused eyes still tried to adjust to the light. Going along with my still-freaking-out eyes were the fairly impressive dark circles under them, seeing them at all was impressive in its own right, as my mane was already a dark shade of charcoal. To make the package complete, I had succeeded in growing at least a week’s worth of stubble on my face without having taken the time to shave. I finally threw myself off of the bed, and back onto all fours, lifting one hoof to straighten my ruffled coat. At that point, I noticed I needed a fetlock trimming, too. How the pegasus the night before had ever accepted my invitation to go out was beyond me.

To make matters worse, my room was in just as bad of shape as I was. I hadn’t vacuumed the large rug that dominated the center of the room, much less swept the wood floor under it, in at least a month. Every article of clothing I owned was draped over whatever wasn’t my bed, and empty junk food wrappers littered the dusty floor. Empty cans of soda were just as common, and in order to insure that I could still walk, I had moved the majority of them into stacks in three out of the four corners of the room (the bed being caddy-cornered in the fourth.) My desk, along the far wall, looked less like a location to neatly place things, and was more identifiable as a dumping ground for at least a dozen fully disheveled stacks of paper that I “just hadn’t gotten to yet,” each about three hooves high, as well as ground zero for the piles of random books from school, all with the possibility of something wooden beneath it holding all of it up. And of course, my Wonderbolts poster was once again down a tack, one corner of my beloved shrine to awesomeness (and Spitfire, the perpetually hot Wonderbolts Acrobatic Squadron Leader we all know and (I) love) hanging awkwardly, covering her (perfect) midair “come hither” stare. Unfortunately, I just didn’t have the willpower to find the tack and straighten the poster, even though I could have done it within seconds using my magic. After a minute of deliberation on that topic, I stiff-leggedly trotted out of the room, trying (but failing) to not knock over any empty cans of soda on the way out.

If the light in my room was bad, the light was even worse in the hall, as all the windows were open. The noise of the city was amplified as well. I could distinctly hear hacks down at the market two blocks away shouting to be heard as they tried to sell their wares.

"Morning, Cobie," my mom greeted as I ambled into the kitchen, where she was placing another batch of apple fritters into the oven. She kicked the oven door closed, and a brief flash of orange magic twisted the temperature dial. The sunlight reflecting off her almost white coat wasn’t exactly helping my poor, abused eyes, and neither was her bright orange and yellow mane, but she was in her element, after all, her name was Sunrise. While on the subject of nomenclature, I still had no idea how she had agreed to get hitched to my father at all on the basic principle that, upon marriage to my dad, her name would be Sunrise Dusk. But if that hadn't happened, I suppose I wouldn't be here, so there really was no cause for complaint.

"Mornin', mom. You making breakfast?" I replied, still trying to blink my eyes into a semi-permanent state of focus.

"Yes I am, hon. Sorry, but I’m making apple fritters again; I really shouldn't have taken that pony down at the market for her word to sell me 5 bushels of apples for 15 bits," she noted. She had me haul all five bushels up the stairs the Friday previous. Needless to say, apples had been worked into the menu at every meal since in a ceaseless stream of new and exciting ways, and that morning was no exception.

"Doesn't bother me," I stated, throwing myself into a chair at the table and flopping my face onto its cool surface.

"Just how late were you out last night? I think I heard you come in, but I didn't see what time," she asked, glancing up from a bowl of applesauce.

"'Bout 4."

"Cobie, does Backburner have you working that late again?"

"No...'till about two. Then I got coffee with one of the waitresses who stayed to help clean the place." My face was still flat on the table.

"Well, that's fine, but couldn't you have just scheduled a date for this afternoon? It's not smart to stay up that late, even if it is summer."

"Yeah, prob'ly." I was leaving a condensation mark on the table's wooden surface.

"Speaking of time, what happened to the alarm clock in your room?" she asked, walking over to my spot at the table with a bowl of freshly made applesauce.

"It...broke."

At that point, my father turned his head from his newspaper as he sat on the couch. I hadn’t noticed him at all in my paraconscious state. He rustled his newspaper absentmindedly as he spoke. “You know, I thought I saw a strange little pile of parts outside your window the other day. Was that your clock?” I directed my eyes away from the table, finding it difficult to peer through the top of my mane at my father. He was wearing a sly smile.

“Mighta’ been,” I replied, knowing he was on to me. Also, my cheek was going numb.

“Uh-huh. Well, you can pay for a new one.”

“Did you throw your alarm clock out the window?” My mom interjected, laughing.

“Mmmph,” I replied. A rather energetic little headache was quickly brewing in my general brainstem area.

“So, how was your date last night?” My dad asked in a low voice, sly smile turning into a broad grin, with one eyebrow raised. He paused momentarily, likely hoping for a response which I was not prepared to give. “Was she another pegasus?” He paused again, still waiting for anything. He was clearly getting a kick out of digging into my personal life. He laughed slightly before continuing. “Was she cute?”

I had had enough. “Uhhhggghhh,” I exhaled as I slammed my head on the table. It definitely didn’t help my headache.

The oven timer went off, stabbing the little invisible needles further into the back of my brain. Mom quickly turned it off and levitated the steaming baking sheet of fritters from the oven and onto a cooling rack by the kitchen window. I pulled my face from the table and let my head roll back and rest on the back of the chair. My dad hopped up, newspaper flying, eager to grab some apple fritters. He was an apple fanatic, and that fact had led to her purchasing the inordinate amount of apples from the salespony at the market. As far as my father was concerned, the last several days had been practically heaven as far as the menu went. It didn’t help that my mom was an excellent cook, either, although both her and I had considered it apple overload. Within seconds, he had filled a plate with the pastries and was snarfing them with vigor, ignoring his likely burning tongue.

Through a mouthful, he said, “Your mom and I are going down to the market again today, probably right after breakfast. Right hon?” My mom nodded, smiling. “You’re welcome to come, if you want.” He looked over at me from his spot at the table. My eye was twitching. “We could help you pick out a new alarm clock,” He noted, chuckling.

Taking my condition into consideration, I replied with an eloquent “’Stooearly. And my head hurts. Mebbe next time.”

“Your decision, Cobie,” My mom kindly said.

After my parents ate breakfast which was, as my father put it, “The best apple fritters I’ve ever eaten,” they set off to the market.  On the way out, dad was sure to comment that “We really need to have apple fritters more often,” To which I let out a very audible groan. Now I was home alone on a Tuesday morning with literally nothing to do, and I was dead tired and had become an incubation chamber for Equestria’s most mobile and pulsating headache. I could tell the day was going to be productive. Yeah, right.

Once I had become bored with finding patterns in the texturing on the ceiling, I decided to move my veritable circus of activity to the couch, which I did with the vigor of a pregnant Ursa Major. The Fillydelphia Hoofbeat that my father had been reading blared in gigantic font: “DRAFT PLANNED” beneath which it read: “600,000 to be sent to the Frontier Line by August.”

Old news, at least for me, thanks to Russ’s family connections. I had actually heard about the draft coming to fruition about a week before, of course, the numbers of the draft hadn’t been revealed yet. The ones that had been revealed were, to say the least, startlingly high, especially since I had been signed up for the draft right after graduating, landing me directly in its path. What made me even more likely to be drafted was my lineage—my father, like myself, had an abnormally dark coat, pointing towards my father’s relations to the Lunar Guard. His grandfather had been an actual member of the Guard, making me only a 4th generation descendant, something the REA would be very excited to see, especially since I was a unicorn rather than a pegasus like most other descendants. This situation had turned my lineage from a blessing into a curse. While anypony would typically be envious of my heightened sense of night vision from the Guard’s selective breeding for nighttime movement and ability to blend in better at night thanks to my dark coat, this also made me a much better soldier in the eyes of the REA.

Needless to say, all this had me very worried—and the news of it getting to the paper even more so. I wasn’t a soldier—the closest I had ever come to combat was a number of fights in grade school (which, firstly, were practically all about teasing me over my coat color in that being the one pony in the whole school that wasn’t a bright pastel color had a tendency to single me out, and, secondly, all of these fights were solved quite quickly by my telekinesis—after all, most ponies don’t respond well to being thrown into lockers or shoved through the ceiling from fifteen hooves away.) Nonetheless, the thought of being thrown into a war without any control over what would happen to me was nothing less than terrifying, but yet, somewhere down inside it was almost exciting. Even though every time I was privy to a rumor about it or heard somepony talking about it down on the street it sent a shiver down my spine, I thought of it less as a potential death sentence and more as some sort of an uncalled for opportunity. I had long ago realized how sheltered and easy my life truly was—I had been born into an affluent family in an affluent region of Fillydelphia, and had never faced any real adversity beyond a few bullies and bad grades. In a perverse way, becoming a soldier could be an adventure, an escape from my boring, albeit safe and comfortable life. Beyond the standard and extremely unexciting plans of going to college once the summer was out (I had already been accepted to Canterlot Hold University) and majoring in something along the lines of law or business, I really didn’t have much else planned. I mean, ultimately, work for me was less of a fact of life and more of an option, considering my family’s financial situation. Sure, if I felt like it I could work with my father to continue the family business of doubling the family funds through the stock markets or I could ask him for a loan of startup bits for whatever harebrained project I could come up with, but where was the adventure, much less the risk, in any of that? But then again, the point would come up—I was no soldier. Going south to the Frontier Line, facing the changelings, what would the point be if I were to come home in a box?

My feelings on the subject could be defined as nothing less than internal conflict, no doubt—but in recent days, after coming to the conclusion that I couldn’t come to a conclusion—the topic had been shuffled to the back of my mind, having been replaced by much more important content, namely dating and my job at the Haymarket Grill. The thought of both my date coming up in less than a week and the reminder of my constantly looming job was enough to make my head pulse even more, at which I did the most sensible thing possible: attempted to stop thinking altogether. The next logical step was to flop over on the couch, which I did promptly, albeit somewhat painfully.

I was awakened to the sound of the apartment’s buzzer, my consciousness greeting me with the horrible stabbing pain the annoyingly high-pitched, loud noise created in my poor, abused brain. My headache had not subsided in the least—in fact, I was almost certain it had somehow managed to get worse. The ceiling tiles above me were once again out of focus. And what’s more, Luna had once again forgotten to visit me in my dream. I was sure to eke out a chuckle to that one. Celestia knows I could have used her guidance. In any case, whatever genius was standing outside wasn’t even beginning to think about letting up on the buzzer, so it looked like ignoring the intruder was entirely out of the question. In a feeble attempt to throw myself off the couch, I rolled over, hoping to land on my hooves. Of course, rather than actually succeeding in this attempt, I wound up over-rotating and landing squarely on my flank, fortunately landing in the space between the couch and the coffee table without whacking anything important on the bizarrely out of place modern glass-and-steel table itself. However, I did manage to make an impact with the wood floor that would both assure that the neighbors downstairs would poke their ceiling a few times with a broom as their passive-aggressive method of annoying me back, as well as likely leave a bruise on my rump.

I quickly righted myself and launched into a standing position, the blood draining from my head causing me to lose vision for several seconds. After the rainbow-colored haze that had replaced the living room faded, I stumbled over to the door, wincing at the pain in my flank and the ever increasing rate at which my head was pulsating. After awkwardly stumbling towards the door for what felt like about five minutes, I reached it, the sound of the buzzer still relentlessly buzzing growing with each step. I hoisted myself up to eye level with the peephole on the door and was nothing if not taken aback to find a massive, smiling face peering back through the peephole, belonging to a gently floating pegasus who, through the fisheye lens, was holding her hoof on the buzzer button as she hovered. She was toting a bulging duffel bag, which was hanging over her shoulder—she was having to counterbalance for the bag’s immense weight by literally rolling her entire weight until it’s mass was somewhat centered. The image was somewhat hilarious—a pegasus in mid-barrel roll, one hoof pressing a buzzer while still somehow managing to continue practically beaming. All the same, however, it was confusing, what exactly was a mailmare doing at the apartment door? Even packages of any size less than five by five hooves was delivered to the apartment building’s mail room, and considering that she had both wings and about half the stature required to hide a box of any real size, I was willing to bet she was either woefully lost or simply in the wrong place.

I thought to myself, maybe dad’s ordered me a new alarm clock. Chances were slim that he knew that I had thrown mine out in enough time to buy me a new one. Oh well, there was a chance. Not like I really wanted a new one, anyway. In any case, opening the door meant killing the evil beast that was the droning sound of the buzzer. Using what little magic I had, I unbolted all three of the locks on the door simultaneously and hopefully with enough force to make the mailmare realize I had got the hint. Apparently, it worked, as just when I began to inch the door open, she relented on the buzzer, leaving a dull, hollow and empty ringing where the buzzer once was, somehow not ameliorating the pain in the frontal region of my brain one bit.

I attempted to give off an air that I was in no mood or condition to be trifled with, but based on the mailmare’s continuing bucktoothed grin, I got the feeling she saw it more as me just being sleepy. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t look mean if I had tried. I dropped any guise of rudeness with a surprisingly non-painful yawn.

She drew a clipboard from somewhere deep within the duffel bag, slowly searching through the crumpled and bent sheets of lists it held, flipping pages at random until she apparently found her target, then shoving it carelessly deep back into the bag. At this point, she stopped flapping her wings, falling the 4 hooves she was hovering to the carpet below, misjudging her landing and having to take several crab steps to the side to make sure her heavy bag didn’t make her flop over onto her side. She looked up at me after fully regaining her balance, smiling once more, but this time as a sort of apology. She once again began to dig through her bag, this time coming out with a thick manila envelope. Perhaps it was for one of my parents.

She looked quickly down at the address on the letter, and then back up at me, before she began lisping excitedly. “'Thcuthe me for the delay, thir, today'th actually my firtht day on the job," she said, smiling and glancing at me embarrassedly. "Are you Mithter Cobalt Duthk?"

"Uh, yeah, Cobalt Dusk." I said, instantly regretting having repeated my name, as if to correct her lisp.

“Well, mithter Duthk, I do believe you’ve got yourthelf a letter!”

My head low, I glanced up at her, rather than trying wholeheartedly to pop my neck in a clearly vain effort to relieve the pressure in my head. “I’m sorry, but was our mailbox locked or something? We usually get our letters there. I mean, sometimes the landlord can be a pain and not hand out the master key to anypony, you’ve just got to be insistent with him…” I said, letting my voice trail off awkwardly.

“Oh, no thir. I was ethpethially athined to to deliver the contenths of thith bag perthonally to the each letter's rethipient." She checked the large envelope again, insuring it was indeed for one Cobalt Dusk. “Here you go, thir—I’ll tell you, I’ve been delivering letterth like theeth all morning long. Thith bag here’th full of them.” She grasped the letter in the wrist joint of her forehoof, outstretching it to me.

I levitated it from her, gently floating it over to me so I could take a better look at it. It was quite heavy, actually, much more so than I had expected. There was no return address, no markings on it whatsoever apart from my address. It was, however, specifically addressed to me. I glanced up from the envelope at the cream-colored, freckled mailmare, “So, do you have any idea who this is from?”

She looked up from her clipboard, which she had once again withdrawn from the bag, and shook her head. “No, thir. No idea. All I know ith I’ve got about a hundred of theeth thingths left to deliver.” She looked up at me, clearly exasperated. I couldn’t help but empathize with the poor little mare. Hoof-delivering that many letters on somepony’s first day couldn’t exactly be an easy task.

“I’m sorry—you know, I bet everypony you’ve delivered these to have asked that, haven’t they?”

She sighed and nodded, grin becoming a temporary grimace before spreading back to its original position. “ Yetthir, they have, and I’m real thorry I can’t be of more help to you about who itht’s from, but you have a nith day today, ok?”

I smiled in return, ignoring the pain in my head. “You too. And tell your boss you got at least one commendation on your first day—you’re doing great.”

It took her a second, but she started beaming even brighter than before. “Thankth, thir! I’ll be thure to tell her, I really apprethiate it.” She unwrapped her wing from the duffel bag and readjusted it so it sat more comfortably in the small of her back, tipping her cap with her hoof. She smiled my way one more time before gently taking flight and hovering off down the hall.

Sure, the little mailmare was adorable, but the letter she had delivered was of more concern. There were two options as to what it could be: A letter from Canterlot Hold University (possibly scholarship money?) or a very elaborate sales pitch from a particularly well-funded corporation. The lack of advertising on the package made the latter somewhat less likely. Perhaps it wasn’t addressed correctly? That made three options. After a moment of deliberation, I determined that standing in the hallway staring at the envelope wasn’t going to tell me much about its contents. I turned on my hoof and trotted back inside, hooves clopping on the worn wood floor.

I briefly considered waiting for my parents to come home before I opened the letter. Of course, I struck that one fairly quickly. I moved my poor body—head still pounding, I’d most certainly have to find some medicine after I opened the letter—over to the kitchen, walking by it and telekinetically drawing a blade out of the knife block on the counter on my way back to the couch. Once I made it there, I flopped over on the couch once again. I turned to face my magical task, carefully slipping the knife under the envelope’s sealed flap and popping it open easily. Whatever was in the envelope had shifted completely to one side, and when I tilted the envelope over to dump it out, it fell to the surface of the coffee table with a thick slap. It was another envelope—regularly sized albeit stuffed full, and a light blue. It had fallen onto its front, addressed to one Cobalt Dusk in Apartment 395 of the North Hoof Cliffs Building, Fillydelphia. All of that was correct— however, my confusion ended abruptly when I saw the addressee. In the upper left of that innocuous blue envelope was stamped a single line in all caps: ROYAL EQUESTRIAN ARMED FORCES RECRUITMENT CENTER 231, PALOMINO’S FERRY, FILLYDELPHIA.

My heart jumped into my throat, pounding furiously. Any pain in my head had been forgotten entirely, and I could almost immediately feel myself begin to sweat, despite the balmy indoor temperature. I closed my eyes for a second, entirely unsure what to feel, much less what to think. It had finally arrived—I had every notion to believe it would come, why was it so difficult to sort out what to do when it came? I took a deep breath, letting it out shakily. A shiver passed through my whole body. Everything had just changed.

I must have sat, staring at the unopened letter for nearly five minutes. Once I realized what I had been doing, I snapped to action, grabbing the letter with my magic and flipping it over. The letter was sealed with a red wax seal, imprinted in which was the REA seal—a quartered shield displaying a horseshoe, a bundle of arrows, a pair of wings, and several magical stars in front of the Celestial Mark with a background of a pair of crossed olive branches. I popped it open hastily despite already knowing the contents. Of the thick stack of neatly folded papers inside the envelope, the first one was the only one strictly addressed me.

NOTICE OF DRAFT, ROYAL DECREE #7261

Dear Recipient,

On behalf of the Royal Equestrian Army, I, Princess Celestia, wish to inform you that, after careful examination, you have been deemed worthy of service in defense of your nation against a clear and present threat to our nation’s safety: the changeling horde. As you may know, after recent events in Canterlot, significant Changeling activity along the Frontier Line has arisen, necessitating an immediate response by the REA. Unfortunately, reconnaissance conducted by the Royal Bureau of Intelligence has estimated that the current number of armed forces may not be enough to successfully repel the enemy in the event of an attack, and as such, a preliminary draft, effective immediately, has been issued to approximately 80,000 hoof-selected ponies.

This fact is directly correlated to our examination of your file, and means that you have been deemed particularly capable in your ability to serve. As a result, special parameters may have been put in place for your future position within the Forces. More information on this subject has been made available, if the situation permits, within the summary sheet enclosed in this letter (PAGE 7).

Please note that this letter is acting as sufficient notice that your help has been requested for service in the Royal Equestrian Army, also included is an official document which is to be presented to the REA Military Police Activation Officers on the date selected for your activation as an acting defender of our nation. As your princess, I sincerely wish you the best of luck, and a speedy victory to all of our armed forces.

With warmest regards,

Princess Celestia

NOTICE: FAILURE TO RESPOND TO THIS CALL OF DUTY ON THE DATE LISTED WILL BE PENALIZED BY FINES EXCEEDING 200,000 BITS AND UP TO TEN YEARS IN PRISON UNLESS SIGNIFICANT EVIDENCE CLAIMING INELIGIBILITY IS PRESENTED UP TO TWO (2) WEEKS AFTER THE DATE LISTED FOR ACTIVATION.

The next six pages were instructions: from proper procedure on the day I shipped out (including directions and a map to the docks, where apparently I was to board a ship) to a suggestion sheet on getting ready for basic training, including even a mental and physical exercise sheet. Page 7, as mentioned in the first letter, was placed in the bundle of papers right before a section that had been sealed, on which was printed, once again in block letters: NOTICE: THIS SECTION IS TO REMAIN SEALED UNDER EQUESTRIAN LAW, AND IS FOR THE EYES OF REA OFFICIALS ONLY. IF THIS SECTION’S SEAL IS FOUND TO BE BREACHED UPON DELIVERY TO YOUR ACTIVATION OFFICER, PENALTIES INCLUDING DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE AND FINES UP TO 500,000 BITS SHALL BE INCURRED. I tossed it aside, instead focusing on page 7.

SUMMARY SHEET FOR DRAFTEE #45219

NAME: Cobalt Dusk

SPECIES: Equine (Unicorn)

GENDER: Stallion

FEATURES:

EYES: Blue

COAT/MANE: Charcoal/Blue

BUILD: Draft Horse

HEIGHT: 9h 6in

WEIGHT: 110lb

CUTIE MARK: Light blue sun, black rays

AGE: 18 (Birthday: November 14)

BLOOD TYPE: AB+

EDUCATION: High School Graduate (Haute École High, Fillydelphia)

COMMENTS: Cobalt Dusk is a very capable pony, graduating well within the top 20% of his class and having telekinetical skills far surpassing those of his peers. Placed in the 86th percentile among participants in the Equus International Common Knowledge and Reasoning Test. Coat color (underlined above) shows signs of Lunar Guard ancestry (NOTE TO ACTIVATION OFFICER: Possible eligibility for Sec. 41 Program, Detailed on Pg. 14, Sealed Section).

I paused for a moment. Section 41 Program? I shook my head. While I had no idea what that meant, it definitely sounded important. I wanted to read on about it, but I wasn’t about to risk opening the sealed section. I withdrew myself from the documents, realizing what I had been reading. I had been drafted. I was going to war. There I was, the old mental argument surfacing again: was this a blessing or a curse?