Highlanders

Chapters

Gravel
Tunnels
Diner
Office
District

Gravel

The sound of gravel beneath tyres was one of the few natural sounds available to my ears as my vehicle advanced through the night-time highland road. It was an upward spiral, which to an untrained eye would seem as though my Land Rover camper-van was heading to the top of a hill for a spot of stargazing. Hell, maybe they'd think I was going to jump. Another one of them horrid Bronies couldn't take it, they'd chuckle. Shouldn'tve caused them bleedin' riots over in America and the EU, ya pillocks, they'd jeer. Not that they'd know I was a brony, of course. The only evidence would be the small, custom made figurine of Princess Luna, who (if you didn't know, is best pony) sat on the dashboard, sceptically gazing upon everything I owned that wasn't her. It was really the only solid proof that I'd made it this far and not been found. The only reason I was fleeing at this point was because two others had knocked on the door and kicked it off.

I remember what one said as the other crouched by my van out on the driveway.

"Jack," Duncan said quickly, rucksack hung over his back loosely and hastily zipped shut. "I've been found out. We gotta go now, or never, 'cause those vigilante Anti-Bronies'll get here any minute. Grab your emergency bag and get in the van, you drive, I'll keep an eye on the roadsides, come on, WE'VE GOT NO TIME!"

Those were my last moments...well, at home. Things could get pretty fucked up pretty fast in the UK, especially after the campaign against Bronies began. They shut down Equestria Daily, stormed their offices, and shot them. They posted that footage on the husk of a site that remained. The banner atop the cheerful, innocent site was replaced with a horrifically well-drawn image of Pinkie Pie's throat slit in front of roaring crowds, the blood spattered across sand spelling out 'Beware'. They stormed our game servers, hacked computers and games just for the purpose of killing players who happened to be Bronies.

This didn't happen to those who hid, those who stood silent as American, English, French, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Australian and Brazilian Bronies were hacked, brutalised, attacked in the streets, even executed. I kept it quiet, claiming that I was mirroring the windows on my tired old camper-van to 'hide things from thieves', pretending as though my friends in the street were friends who weren't Bronies, giving a nod, hi-five, or other such action to them just to give the impression we were just good friends, not part of a 'terrorist' group.

But evidently this wasn't enough, as I eventually received an e-mail while I had my last two surviving Brony companions around for a Domino's pizza and a screening of two classic films: Taken and Taken 2. It came bearing an offer of a job;

Jack,

We know your secret. That you're one of us. At the end of this e-mail, print it out and delete it. We can't leave any trace that may leave one of the few surviving Bronies dead where he stands. I'm gonna cut it short: We're gathering the survivors at the -AUTHOR REDACTION- Nuclear Bunker in Scotland. Unusual, yes, but one of us just happened to own it as part of a private collection, shall we say. I can tell you more when you get here about the real story, but we just need...everything. According to your CV, you attended a Rifle club, own several firearms with license and a few without, and also attended the Army Cadet Force. That kind of expertise is what keeps us alive these days, and we'll need it to help protect this place. If you accept, we'll be prepared for when you arrive. Just answer second half of the password with 'India Tango' and carry out the usual sentry drills, and we can welcome you to the family.

Print this e-mail, destroy this e-mail.

-A Watcher

That was the harrowing kind of shit that stays with you for life. Hell, the start of this whole 'Brony Holocaust' as the media calls it got me into coffee. For the first few days, everybody was gonna kill me, in my mind. Gotta have that caffeine to keep yourself awake in case that guy gets behind ya with his knife, y'know? Then, gradually, I calmed down. Enough that I didn't have a weapon in every room of the house, at least. Still, I did pull a Sniper, and I had a rifle on the headboard behind my driver's cabin of the camper-van, and a Colt 1911 in the glove box, just in case those cars behind get nasty against the Brony. Nutshot with my fist and a headshot with the pistol, the ol' one-two.

But the things I was packing didn't compare to what the Americans that snuck on over to get to the Bunker were packing. We'd picked up a few other stragglers along the way, stopping in towns every night, and sending out mass messages on Steam, Facebook, and other sites, speaking in a way that only a Brony would understand to a point. They were sat in the back of the Rover, about 5 at the time. Better than the damn start, when we had about 16 in this one car. The other 11 found new ways to get there, and I could only hope they made it intact.

So anyway, as I put my coffee flask down, we reached a flat portion of the hill. Up ahead, I could see some signs being illuminated by the headlights, shining back like cat eyes as the light bounced back. A wire link fence wrapped around a section of hill as far as I could make out in the night, before coming around again and continuing the endless tail-chase. Linking the two ends, or keeping them apart, was an old iron gate. I slowed the van and audible mumbling could be heard in the back of the van. Finally, once the gate was within a short walk's distance, I stopped the van, and the brakes whined loudly in protest. I looked to Duncan, who sat beside me. The short man looked back, the same casual expression I knew him to have ever since I started that first conversation with him at school. He had slightly long brown hair in need of a trim, a plain, white t-shirt with countless stains on it that aged with the apparel, a sleeveless red puffer jacket, and he was wearing brown cargo trousers with a pair of black boots. I reached down with my right hand and grabbed the hand take, before grunting as I yanked it into the position required and sighed.

"You wanna do it?" I said in a rather tired tone, one I'd used for a while since it all kicked off.

"Nah." Duncan sighed. I rolled my eyes and rapped my index finger knuckle against the glass window linking the cabin to the sleeper compartment. After a second, there was a short rumbling sound as the window slid open. Peering back was the face of Wilson, a guy I knew from a party. He tanned skin, dark hair, and eager eyes, a sure sign he would follow this group to the end.

"Yeah?" replied the East-Londoner.

"Gate up ahead." I said calmly. "One of you chaps care to open it?"

"Alright." he turned away for a moment. "Ollie, you're up." The hatch closed, and a few seconds later the back door could be heard opening. A short crackle, followed by more of the same sound meant Ollie had jumped out and begun to move towards the gate. He trudged past the passenger window, not even looking to Duncan, before reaching the lock to the gate. He pulled at it a bit, and frowned. Next, the glasses-wearing lad looked to me and mouthed 'it's locked' whilst shrugging and shaking his head. I frowned.

"Hmmph, fucking locks." I muttered, before sighing, and undoing my own seatbelt, then beginning to rummage through the toolbox in between the seats. Duncan chuckled.

"Hah," he mirthed, "Best unlock, or Jack'll deal with you using a knife." I squinted, with the lack of light not helping me to find the, ahem, tool for the job. Finally, after much rummaging and cursing, I pulled out what I needed: A lockpicking set. I slipped it in my pocket, before going into the glove box and pulling a torch and the pistol out. I held that in one hand, and the torch in the other, and I opened the door. I jumped out, and looked around. Up above, millions of stars gazed down upon me, whilst the moon watched over them like a motherly figure.

"Vive noctum." I murmured as I jogged to the gate. The gates were rusted on closer inspection, as well as the lock, which ran on the usual 'iron chain holding both parts together, linked with a padlock' basis. It'd be difficult, but pretty easy by lockpicking standards. I looked at Ollie.

"So?" he asked. "What're you thinking?" I frowned.

"I'll probably have to pick the lock. If all else fails, I suppose I can just shoot it, but that'll make it impossible to lock again, and it might ricochet off and injure me. Otherwise, there's a small cabin usually nearby that should contain the keys, and I could try that. Than, if all of that fails, I'll ram the van into the gates." I replied as calmly as possible. I scratched my chin whilst staring the gate up and down. I slipped the pistol into my pocket and gestured backwards with the torch. "You get back to the van and say it'll be about 5-10 minutes. I'll come over if it changes, otherwise you stay with the van. Got it?"

"Yes Hannibal. You're the man with the plan." he mocked, before saluting and marching back to the van. I rolled my eyes, got the lockpicks out, and set to work on the locks, torch held in my mouth. I could only pray it worked first time.

7 minutes later I heard a click. I smiled, pulling the lock open, and pulling the chains off it. The gate opened with a cringe-worthy sound, before clanking against the nearby concrete posts to halt it. I chuckled, and moved back to the van. I opened the door, ignited the engine, and shut the door again as I blasted the heater.

"Got it open?" Duncan asked.

"Aye." I replied. "Let's get moving, we're burning night cover." Slowly, I pressed the accelerator, advanced just beyond the gate, and leapt out to close it. It didn't make the high-pitched squeals as it closed, but still the clang as it slammed shut. Rapidly, I wrapped the chain around, locked the padlock tight, and ran back to the van. I closed the door, and we began again our highland journey, only the sound of gravel and engine to accompany my ears once more.

I turned off the engine. Ahead was a large, concrete arch with an iron shutter garage door encompassing the centre, next to a smaller concrete tunnel entrance with an iron doorway just inside. There were tyremarks leading inside the shutter, and fresh footprints leading to a bush just next to the doorway. I pulled the pistol out, looked at Duncan, and nodded. He nodded back. Finally, I stepped out of the van onto the gravel, the familiar crunch telling me when I'd stepped on gravel. I closed the door, and moved to the doorway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled next to me, and just as I turned, I found myself staring down the barrel of a Kalashnikov assault rifle. I couldn't see the other man's face, but instincts told me to raise both hands with the gun pointed up.

"Halt, stand and identify." snarled an English accented man. "Sierra Hotel."

"India Tango." I said back. The rifle lowered, and a hand extended.

"Good. We've been waiting for you. And you've brought company?" I shook the hand firmly.

"Aye." I replied. "Picked them up on the way, and two of them I started the trip with. Nothing to worry about, they're all good." The presumed Soldier gave a nod, before leaning into his radio and pressing a button.

"Boston, reporting in." he said firmly. "We have new arrivals, over."

"Good." the voice replied. "You know the drill, send the fellas in, we're in Scotland. It's cold and we'd hate to leave fellow Bronies in the cold, yes?"

"Acknowledged, sir." replied the man. He let go of the radio, before reaching into an unseen place at the bottom of the bushes. He seemed to tug at something, before a loud clanking sounded. The massive door to the front of my van was being opened, revealing a long, dark tunnel that led downwards. I gave the man a nod, and just as I turned away, he tapped my shoulder. "Mind if I come down with you lads? It's the end of my shift."

"Sure, hop in the back." I replied, before helping the guard shift his gear into the back. Duncan helped as well, before hopping in as well. Excited chatters came from the back of the van, barely audible through the back wall. I fired up the engine, and looked to the small dashboard Luna. She looked...happier.

"We made it Lulu." I whispered, patting the small figure on the head and driving in. The door began to close behind us, presumably on a timer. "We made it."

Tunnels

The van engine echoed through the tunnel like a cry for help in the silence. The spiral downward was uneventful; the passing scenery being the occasional door, platform, service vent, or pile of scrap. Otherwise, the tunnel was made of concrete, with steel sheets marking every 50 metres downwards with yellow, luminescent light-paint. My watch bleeped as I turned the wheel, and I put it just to the side of my vision so as not to veer into a wall. 1:53 AM was displayed as small glowing pins jabbed up to a thin sheet of glass, lighting up other things like day, month, and year. As far as I could remember, days weren't really that big of a deal. Only how long it'd be until someone found you, or a friend, out, before sending police, or the vigilantes that had been killing us.

Finally, after what felt like 20 minutes, we reached the 1000m mark, and the tunnel levelled out. Ahead, there seemed to be a floodgate or toll, with floodlights from a ledge atop the gate illuminating the road and 2 rather dated mounted machine-guns. Each was manned by a single guard, their gazes never staying on one object, as though everything was blinding. As I drove closer and slowed the engine, there was a yell, and both guns, as well as an unseen Sniper, shifted their aim to the van. I kept as calm as possible, before halting the van just in front of the gates with a squealing of brakes. There was utter silence in the air, the kind you might get if you were a Sheriff facing down a Bandit. I swallowed hard, before winding down the window with the manual crank. An unusual commodity in 2020, but still gave me exercise when I needed to cool down.

Just then, there was a creaking, and a slight beam of light appearing on the road-encompassing barrier. A steel door was opening on the door, and stood in the doorway was a man.

He looked to be in about his late 30's, and as he approached the van, more details became noticeable. For instance, the military uniform he wore donned a rank slide which I recognised from my Cadets as at least a Sergeant, or in English Military name, Serjeant. He was wearing a drill cap, had buffed boots, and in plain view was carrying a .88 Classic Smith & Wesson handgun. From what I'd seen about the rebels in Russia on the news, one of those in the right place can destroy a human head, then tear through concrete and hit another soldier on the other side, before hitting his paperwork and destroying it, rendering everything, quite literally, shot-to-hell, all with one bullet. He kept his eyes narrowed as he approached, laugh lines etched into his face in a steely glare as he finally reached my side of the van. He drew his pistol, and casually leaned into the van, his face not inches from mine. We stared into each other's eyes for a moment, evaluating weaknesses and character, before he moved first.

"Identify yourself." he growled. I straightened up.

"J. Simpson, or Face McShooty II, by internet name." I replied firmly. "I'm here because a few of my friends got found out, so we fled to here. We picked up a few others on the way, but otherwise we're pretty light on gear. India Tango." At the mention of the last two, he nodded, and looked to a man stood on the upper balcony to the ledge. The man nodded, and moved his right arm to a lever on an unseen console and tugging it down firmly. The ground shook as the gate roared into life, slowly grinding into the walls beside it and receding away to an unseen place. When it stopped, the man near my window looked back into my vehicle. His eyes glanced around, before coming to rest on the small Princess Luna figurine.

"So, you part of the Lunar Republic?" he asked in a thick Manchester accent, grinning and gesturing to the tiny Lulu on my dash. I smiled and nodded. "Vive Noctum, lad." he chuckled as he walked away from the car and into the gates. "There's more like you, son. You'll just need to get settled in." I wound my window up again, and began to slowly accelerate to come beside the man. The gates behind began to shut again, and the officer suddenly tapped my window. I halted the van and wound the window down. The officer, now with his weapon holstered, leaned in again. "Mind if I get a lift? I'll need to show you where to park this thing, anyway."

"Certainly." I replied, patting the seat beside. "Hop in." Once again, I had another passenger. And judging by the sound of a slamming door from the back of the van, the guard from up top had got to where he needed to be. The officer sat beside, shut the door, and extended his gloved hand.

"Serjeant Alfred Stevens." he said politely, I shook it firmly.

"Would I know you from somewhere?"

"Probably not. I was one of the ones who didn't make music, stories, art, or videos. I just watched and enjoyed it." Alfred explained as I drove down the tunnel. It was wider now, and more patches of smoothed rock could be seen. "You'll want to take a left here, and 2nd right after that. Anyway, evidently watching the adventures of the Elements was too much for my regiment to take, and they had me hospitalised for 4 weeks after they attacked. Those soldiers covered it up by saying I'd started it, and their final act of retribution came when I was down in the pub and one knifed my arm with a Bowie Knife. Keep going here until the end."

"Worst place to be attacked." I noted. "Surely the police got involved?"

"They did." he sighed, taking his cap off and brushing his dark hair with his free hand. "They almost got the guys who did it, but then the rumour reached them that we were a terrorist organisation. They asked if I was a Brony, and when I proudly said yes, they dropped the case, kicked me out of the British Military, and put me on their watch list."

"Well, that's a bit of an overreaction." I murmured.

"Yeah. So, when a few other Bronies and I were online in a chat room, evidently they'd had the same kind of things happening to them. Attacks, job losses, marriage failures, you name it. One of them was pretty rich, and bought this place as part of his military collection. We all agreed to go down here, clean it up, and set it out as a last place of hope for Bronies. We'd expected a few million, but...you know what happened to them."

"Mass Holocaust of Bronies." I nodded solemnly. "How many have we got here?"

"At last count, 3,527."

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"Oh my god. We're all done." Alfred began to chuckle at my comment.

"Heh, not...exactly." Just then, there was a sudden light that filled the tunnel as we rounded a corner. I grunted, fumbling my hand about until I successfully lowered the sun visor. It blocked some light, but it didn't compare to modern polarisation technologies available for newer cars. Hell, I was one of the few who still drove manually, and I also attended shows to show modern kids how real men drove before computers took over the driving. Alfred, on the other hand, quite casually pulled a pair of Vintage Raybanns from his pocket, placing them on his eyes as though it were quite easy to avoid blinding. I didn't. But, as we came around the corner, there was a brilliant sight.

In the centre of a large cylindrical shaft, there was a massive H³ power core, emitting a blue light that filled a whole tunnel with light. As we came even closer, more details could be made out, like doors and windows built into concrete walls. It became obvious these were what we'd be calling 'home' for a while. The shaft went down until it was out of sight, with concrete platforms serving as walkways to shops, houses, restaurants, farms, factories, and other utilities. It was a city beneath Highlands, and yet nobody would know it was there unless they'd been invited. I stopped the van next to the small wall between the road and a seemingly endless drop, before leaning out the window and looking up. It went up even further, for another 500m with similarity to that of below.

"Bloody hell..." I murmured.

"You still haven't met the people you're living with, yet." Alfred said calmly. "Well, people and ponies. This tunnel to your right is a parking lot. You'll park there, and meet me over by that statue of Celestia so I can guide you to your home."

On my back was my shotgun, on top of that was a backpack, strapped to my leg was a small pouch with a first aid kit inside, and on the other leg was the 1911. Next to me was Duncan, with his suitcase containing clothes, meds, a few books, and some shoes. The same applied for the guys I was with; they'd arrived the same time as myself, and we were put with another group of 'survivors' to see where we'd be staying. The excited murmurings between us all, young and slightly older, were cut short by a tapping on a microphone. We stopped chatting and looked to the front. Stood before us, about 90-100 of us in total, was something that stunned us all into silence.

Gazing down on us was a tall, white alicorn with a red mane and tail, almost Twilight-like in styling but slightly more bedraggled, and light blue eyes. Either side were two white guards levitating tactical shotguns beside them with stoic stares. Judging by the eyelashes, I assumed it was a 'she'. She cleared her throat. "Good morning, gentlemen." she said in a wonderful voice. "My name is Creative Ink, but as you may know me, Lauren Faust." We all just gawped at the arrival of a pony. We can do that? We can be ponies? "I assume you're all here for the same reason I am, and the several thousand before you; safety. We were disliked from the beginning, yet they'd never find us before we found them. This time, we're not going to look for them. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Canterlot Centre."

We all gazed around, marvelling at the sheer scale of the architecture in the huge tunnel. It was so vast that it looked like it took millenia to build, but what really got me was that I didn't notice the other citizens looking down at us from other balconies. There were humans stood beside ponies that leaned over the wall, checking out the new arrivals, looking for which ones would be approachable, which ones wouldn't. Like the first day of school, where the older kids would look the new entrants down to see if they were food or friend. Pegasi hovered just next to the thick glass of the reactor, and they were getting a good look at us all.

"Now now, settle down." Faust said calmingly. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions, and you shall receive answers. I am able to answer a few now, before I hand you over to the orderly officer. Any questions?" Almost every hand shot up, including mine. Faust giggled, before pointing to a random person I could not see. "Yes, you at the front."

"Ma'am," began an Southern-Accented American, "Why're there ponies everywhere?"

"Ah." Lauren began, raising a hoof and clearing her throat. "It's a process with which you may wish to have performed on you at a later stage, called 'Ponifying'. It's free, but can be incredibly disorienting to some. It is also permanent, and there are other details that can you can ask about at the clinic, on sub-level B." Faust looked down at her wrist at a small watch, before looking slightly surprised. "I do apologize, but it seems I'm late for a meeting. If General Markson would like to lead you to your homes and flats, that would be wonderful." The tall mare spread her wings, and hovered slightly above the crowd, causing a round of 'ooooooh's'. "Toodles!" she said politely as she flew off downwards and out of sight. In her place on the podium, a man in military dress stepped up.

"Alright, people, you heard the mare!" he barked. "Pick those bags up and follow me!" Before anybody could groan, the man ran to a truck, held onto the back rail and jumped onto the back-right side. He smacked the ancient truck twice with two sharp movements, and the vehicle drove all the way to the other side within a few moments. We, meanwhile, were scrambling for our bags and looking over to him. We went silent, before someone made a move.

"Come on, lads!" yelled an American voice, before footsteps were heard sprinting away. "Last one there's buying the first round!" We all laughed, and began to run.

All the way around the 200 metre half-circle, with no stops.

But hey, at least we knew we could be ponies, right?

The house was, to be honest, quite nice. It was on sub-level B, so the noise of the reactor was barely audible, and this was also within walking distance of the Pon-3 Clinic, where we would be able to take that one permanent step and become a tiny pony of our own design. Thankfully, a recurring joke was that a badly designed pony would be buying rounds all the time, and that meant we were immediately told by Bronies who'd been in the bunker for a while that there was a black and red alicorn named Fire Shadow who was buying rounds all the time, so we wouldn't need to pay for drinks.

Anyway, the home, or barracks, more accurately, was built into a smooth stone wall, and had 3 floors with a balcony on each save the ground. The windows were clean with small trees visible inside the window, and next to the door was a sign.

PLEASE SIGN IN WITH RECEPTION

-SENIOR BRONY MANAGEMENT TEAM

I chuckled, and gave a nudge to Duncan. "We have a reception?" I said as we walked into a lavish foyer. "Nice." Suddenly, a pair of hands fell on both of our inside shoulders.

"Like a bloody hotel, this!" Ollie laughed loudly from inbetween the two of us. The three of us chuckled in agreement, as well as a few other guys around us. The group of us, around 10 in total, approached the front desk. Of course, I stayed relatively close to the front, but another guy was going to do the talking. He looked similar to me, with a few weapons of melee variety and a Desert Eagle. He had a chiselled face, a hard and bony nose with consistently narrowed eyes, and tanned skin. On his head was a black fedora covered in soot and congealed blood stains, and his black jacket over a Twilight Sparkle shirt fared no better. His black jeans, and deep blue converse shoes made him a stark contrast to the light grey surroundings of the foyer, with its statues of famed Bronies and the small pond with Koi Fish swimming in amongst the lilies.

A set of blue lights were in the water, and a small fountain poured water from some scales into a stone bucket. The cycle continued endlessly. However, the guy next to me began to speak with the receptionists, who, I might add, were a pair of young mares with headsets and bows. One was pink with a blue mane, and the other grey with a brown mane. They both had freckles, so I assumed they had the same idea when designing their permanent bodies. "10." the man next to me said. The first receptionist smiled.

"Yes sir." She tapped her little hooves away on what looked like a modified keyboard, then looked back at the man. "Any wishing to share?" Our spokesman turned.

"Any of you guys want to share rooms?" he asked in a hint of a Korean accent. There was a simultaneous no.

"Well," I laughed and pointed at Ollie and Duncan, "These two MAYBE..." There was a fresh round of laughs. Once we had finished, our spokesman was given a slip of holo-paper.

"These are your rooms," the mare smiled, "Enjoy your new life, and I hope to see you with good lives here in Equestria Bunker." Our Korean friend nodded, and gathered us in a huddle. Slip of holo-paper unfolded, it hummed quietly, before a pop noise sounded as a floating, 3D image of this building appeared in the middle of us.

It was bigger than I had anticipated. The hologram had a small red sphere where we were located, and several other key notes like elevators, stairs, toilets, and utilities. The structure spanned a great length backwards, and considering it was only three floors, I was amazed at how few rooms were filled. Must be new. Over 100 rooms were flashing orange, with another amount glowing blue. Next to the hologram were small hovering initials, each being our names and ready to be moved to a room. When that room was picked it would turn green, and a mechanical voice would announce which room was chosen by who. I was amazed humans had developed the technology to make holographic paper, but not the thoughts to NOT kill a group of innocent fandom members.

I remember the room I got. 117. It was on the second floor, middle of the building, next to an elevator and stairwell, and had a nearby meeting area in the form of some tables, carpet, chairs, rails, the lot. It was next to Duncan's room, and Alex's as well, so I wasn't alone. As I went along, I passed multiple groups of ponies and humans going down the corridors, all talking excitedly over 'new arrivals'. Not one of them recognised me as a new guy, but seemed more interested in the fact I was armed. When I reached the room, I opened the door, slipped inside, and closed my door for the evening.

Donning my casual clothes and throwing my battered clothes in the wash, I headed out of my room with my key, and left the hotel. My watch said it was about 8:30 AM, and I was ready to explore my new home. Wishing the receptionists a good morning, I left the foyer and headed outside. It was no brighter than the night before, and there were very few humans outside; I could easily make out human silhouettes moving behind curtains, and the only things outside were lots of ponies with baskets, buying things from a market over the reactor hole and down a tunnel into the rock. There were some people walking around, mostly in military dress, but I had no quarrel or conversations to be had with them. The night before, when the officer was leading us to our hotel, a man in a suit asked for me and a few others to go and meet him at a breakfast café so we might learn our new duties. I was pleased.

Normally, a job hunt in the UK would take fucking months, years even. And I arrive somewhere and get given a job within two hours. Lovely jubbly.

Diner

As I went down the main 'street', I noticed that the building and architectural style differed greatly from the almost industrial style of the hotels and buildings near the massive downwards tunnel. In the distance there was another spire of energy, but that failed to draw my eyes from the buildings lining the sides. It seemed they had been designed with something reminiscent of 1950's America in mind, with cafés, corner shops, alleyways, and a retro-styled cinema. It was likely that some of us were chosen to go here and not to one of the bars on the lower levels, since that was, as someone said, 'where the bad OCs go'. Up here, though, it was frankly glorious. I felt like some kind of stranger to the American style, and the few humans I saw in the crowds of ponies seemed to fit in better with their suits, shapeless worker's caps, fedoras, and briefcases.

As I admired, I didn't forget where I was going; "Rattle 'n' Roll Bar". It became visible ahead, and I could clearly see that it was DEFINITELY a 50's themed diner. It had the metal framework, neon lights, and curved structure of any other bar. It was situated on a street corner, and that's when I truly felt we were the most accomplished internet group. 'bronies are ghey', they'd jeer. 'bronies live with there parents in there basements and will never amount 2 anything', they'd think. But look at us; we have literally rebuilt 1950's America, and have a military bunker that was probably designed to hide massive amounts of Scottish people from nuclear blasts. And what might you have accomplished, my dear 8 year old that does Minecraft 'Let's Play' videos on YouTube?

I smirked at the thought, and waited for a nearby tram to pass before I began to cross the road. Modern cars that were parked nearby seemed hopelessly lost, but that didn't bother me: I entered the bar with my head held high, and realised that the only person there who seemed to have been called for the same purpose as myself was the Korean guy I had entered the hotel with. He was sat in a window cubicle with a coffee, newspaper, and fresh clothes. Lying on the table in front was his Desert Eagle, placed near his coffee in an almost disturbingly casual way, as though it were but a pen or phone of some description. He didn't seem to notice my entrance, so I went over to the bar. Then, I realised; what was the currency?

I pulled my wallet out and looked at the contents. Loose change, at least 30 quid of it judging by my wallet weighing so much, my cards, an image of my old dog called Shrimpleshteen (Don't ask), and, of course, a few notes and bills put in the back pocket. Then I looked at the pricelist and was relieved to see that they took a fair few currencies; Chinese Yen, US Dollars, English Pounds, European Euros, and a few more written in obscure languages.

So, I smiled, and rang the small bell on the desk. It caused the Korean nearby to flick his eyes up, then back at his paper, and a mare to come out of the kitchen. She was wearing a ponified version of a waitress' dress, a slightly cheerful expression, and reading glasses. "Mornin', sugar." she said politely. "What can I get ya?"

"Could I get a coffee, please?" I asked, passing money forward, roughly the right amount and a little bit over. She checked it was the right amount, before smiling.

"Dark?" she asked as she levitated the money into the register.

"I don't mind, I'm used to all of them." I replied. She nodded, then trotted back into the kitchen. Yes, I was used to all types of coffee. I'd drank so much of it during the first few days of the Brony holocaust that I had even started mixing two types together to see if it would keep me awake for longer. Of course, it didn't, but it still tasted pretty good, and eventually it got me used to black, ground, fine, smooth, and all other types of the stuff. I was partial to a cup of tea every now and then, but as wars broke out in places like Africa and India, it became harder to import, and we British couldn't have our national drink. I looked back at the Korean, still reading the paper, and then I looked outside. There were more humans on the streets, and the artificial lighting at the top of the tunnel was brightening up and giving a more day-like image to the streets. Ponies had started going inside for a few moments with their shopping, then leaving with no shopping and smiles as they went about daily business. The humans looked a lot more severe, walking around in long coats, wide brimmed fedoras, and usually black in coloration, the humans stuck out in the crowds of colourful ponies like an American Patriot in the middle of London. The people looked pretty grim in their business, and looked as though they had been told several bad things and left to think about it.

"Order up!" the mare called, before trotting back with a pot of coffee and a mug on a tray. She placed it down in front of me. "There ya go, hon; dark coffee...it's the best we could do since our usual cook ain't in today. Enjoy!" I smiled back, and picked up the tray. Then, I moved over to the cubicle with the Korean inside. He flicked his eyes up at me, and sipped his coffee.

"Morning." he said.

"Morning." I replied. "Sleep well?"

"Yes. You?"

"Yeah. Did you get called down here by a guy in a suit?" He thought for a moment, lowering his paper.

"No, I was told by some soldier-type. Is it about work?"

"That's what I was told it was about." I looked out the window. "Can't see any of them coming, though, and I can't be convinced by anybody but the suit-guy that it's just us two."

"I suppose you have a point there." he replied, sipping his coffee again, before extending a hand. "My name's Lo Pan Kim, but everybody calls me Kim." I shook his hand firmly.

"Jack Simpson." I smiled. "Good to meet you."

About ten minutes later, the door opened as the bell rung. A small group of humans and ponies came in, with some I recognised and others I didn't. At the head was a dark green pegasus stallion with a smoothed back mane, a slightly idle expression, and blue eyes. His cutie mark looked like a megaphone. Then, he stopped the group, looked around, and his eyes rested on Kim and myself. He turned, said something to his group, and then began approaching. "This looks like trouble." I murmured to Kim, who nodded. The group approached the table, causing Kim and I to shift up to the window. And then, without seemingly any care about whether we wanted them there or not, they calmly sat down.

"You must be Kim and Jack." said one pony. We both nodded, Kim still holding his newspaper. She was a purple unicorn with a flowing blue mane, a few freckles, and a bird for a Cutie Mark. "And you got called down here too?" We nodded.

"How do you know our names?" Kim asked.

"A little bird told me." she replied smartly. We stared blankly, and so did everybody else in the group. It seemed that this was the first time we'd met each other. "I asked the guy."

"What guy?" asked another guy at the table. He was a human, with a hint of German in his accent, blue eyes and brown hair. He was wearing a wide-brimmed fedora and black suit, giving him the appearance of an almost Scatman-John style man. "I was told by some pony in an army uniform."

"I got told by somebody in a suit." I added. "Maybe we were all asked by different people?"

"Maybe." said a blue stallion with electric gold and wild hair. "But then they might all work for the same person, who wanted us all here to talk about work." We all considered for a moment.

"That's a pretty good point." Kim said. "But who do they work for, if that's the case?"

"Well, if they organised for us to meet them somewhere, rather than having them come to us, they must be pretty important. I mean, it might just be me, but I got an E-mail saying that my 'skills would be valued', and it also went on about how many guns I owned, that I'd been in Cadets, and other disturbingly accurate information. So I'm assuming this would have something to do with security of some kind." I explained.

"I just arrived with weapons, the guy looked me over, then told me to go here." Kim added.

"I did kind of have to fight to steal a boat." the mare said. "I was on holiday in Somalia, when the 'Holocaust' began, and they were REALLY fanatical over there about finding Bronies and turning them in to get a reward we all know didn't exist. So, when two thugs grabbed my phone from me and read through my messages, they found the e-mail similar to his." She pointed a hoof at me, whilst I poured myself another coffee. "So...I ran. I got shot at when I went to the wrong dock, grabbed a gun from inside a desk, and it went kind of Far Cry 3 for a bit...you guys remember that? Tourist gone warrior?" A few of us nodded.

"That game was tank." I chuckled. "But you fought Somalian pirates? I'm sorry, but I find that hard to believe." Suddenly, there was a feminine cough at the end of the table. We all looked, to see Faust herself standing there. Immediately, we all stood up as a symbol of respect.

"Please be seated; this is an informal meeting after all." she smiled. We immediately sat down, and the waitress from earlier brought a chair out as fast as she could. Faust sat down, and looked at all of us. "Now, I can only assume you're all wondering why I have called you here?" Simultaneously, we nodded.

"Does it have anything to do with multiple different people, usually in military uniform or suits, asking us to be here?" I asked her. She beamed.

"So you've been talking to each other? That's good! Yes, it does have something to do with those men and ponies. You see, they work on my Secret Service; they defend this bunker no matter the cost, kind of like the President's Secret Sefvice and the FBI put together. And I assume you already have the gist of what I'm implying?" Some of us nodded, some of us shook our heads. "Did all of you, at some point, receive an E-Mail linking to your past achievements, activities, and weapon ownership?"

"Some of us got texts." Replied the mare that fought pirates. Faust giggled, placing a white hoof to her snout almost carefully.

"I like people with a sense of humour. Anyway, that E-Mail was written by me personally, after we hunted through the internet to find surviving Bronies. For instance, Mr...Lo Pan?" The Korean raised a hand.

"Call me Kim."

"Very well. Mr. Kim, we found your Skype account. It had an image of Twilight Sparkle as an avatar, and said you were online. So, we found your details via a 5-day hacking into the South Korean database, and found most of your details. That meant your E-Mail, weapon ownership, and past activities. We did the same for all of you, and it seems you all have been in some description of Army Cadets or Scouting group?"

"Be prepared." I sighed, raising my right hand and lowering my small finger into the Boy Scout salute. Needless to say, it raised a few chuckles.

"Good. That means that you'll be more likely to be accepted into the SS, or Secret Stallions." Faust said. The German at the table shifted uncomfortably, causing everybody to look at him.

"Oh, nothing. Just that my great grandfather was a...minor part in the Nazis during World War 2." All of us shifted awkwardly.

"I'm...sorry to hear that, Herr Himmler." Faust said unhappily. I nearly spat out all of my coffee, and that was the least bad reaction to finding out that you were sat next to the descendant of Heinrich Himmler. The Kim raised his fedora and dropped his paper to the table, hand uneasily resting near his gun. "All of you calm down, please." Faust glared, and we all did, because she was kind of terrifying in an adorable way.

He sighed. "It's not my fault, my friends. My family has tried to bury that into the past, but don't let it distract you; I can make a delicious Victoria Sponge Cake." We all laughed at the comment, and I knew that even after 15 or so years of being in the Brony Community, I realised we were still the same loveable people we were before we joined.

I snuck to the parking garage at 11 o'clock that night. Nobody was allowed to see me entering my van, since it was required for special operations outside the bunker. The huge, multi-story parking lot went out of sight into the distance, and very few lights were on, not to mention very few vehicles. I sprinted, stooped low past the security booth, and slipped behind a pillar. My target, my beloved camper-van, was not even a few feet away. All I had to do was get in, put my mask on, and then get out as fast as I could. Then, I'd drive it down to the Office of Faustian Intelligence, and then hand it over to them. Then I could have my job. I wasn't sure what the others were doing for their 'equipment gathering', but I'm fairly certain it had nothing to do with stealing their own cars.

Waiting 30 seconds to ensure that the guy in the booth didn't know I was there, I got on my stomach, and crawled low across the floor. It kept me less likely to be seen when I went under the car, and I immediately put my mask on. It was a black wool balaclava, with no mouth hole; instead, it was a rebreather. Then, I put on my baseball cap, and rolled out from under the car. Quickly, I then used my keys to open and get inside, slammed them in the ignition, and then put the car into drive. The man in the office looked quizical, then ignored me as I drove out of the parking garage at 60 or so Miles an Hour.

"That was too easy." I chuckled as I entered the main street. The engine roared loudly as I advanced down the road, causing lights to go on and heads to peep out of windows. With my window open, I listened carefully to the abuse yelled at me.

"Get a better car, grandad!" yelled one American stallion. "Some of us are tryin' to sleep!"

"Yeah!" called a woman. "I have work in the morning!" More abuse was yelled in a slurry of words, and all I did was stick my middle finger out the window and give it a twirl as I headed to the office.

"Already hated for my van." I laughed. "Unbelievable social skills."

Office

I slowed the vehicle as I reached the gates. Either side of the entrance, men exited booths, hands placed on holsters nearly invisible to me in the lower light. The man to the right, a relatively middle-aged man in a blue security uniform, raised his hand to halt me, so I applied the brakes and stopped. I rolled the window down.

"Good day to you." I said through my mask. The man was unimpressed.

"Lemme see your ID, pal." he grunted firmly. As requested, I reached into the glove-box, and pulled out the sheet of paper I was issued earlier in the day. He took it, looked over it for a moment, before nodding. Then, he moved away from the window of my van, and went back to his booth. I saw him press a button, and then the gate in front slid open almost silently. I raised a gloved hand in thanks to the security guard, before slowly beginning to enter the parking lot. It was moderately empty; I could only see about 7 or 8 cars when I went in, and any of the other few were parked near the back underneath flickering lights. Careful not to leave tyre-marks, since that looks hideous on such nice floors, I slowed my van, then selected a spot near the entrance to the offices. The engine sputtered quietly as I removed the key, dying like a disease-ridden man with no life-support. I unclipped my seatbelt, removed my mask and hat, and placed them in the glove-box. Then, I retrieved my 1911 from said glove-box, slipped it into its holster, opened the door and stepped out into the empty parking garage.

Wind from the generators carried the distant hum of the H³ energy spires, with their blue glow barely visible in a distant outside tunnel. Turning for the door, I saw it had a flickering bulb above it, illuminating chipped paint and aging wood, as well as a few cracks in the double-glazing. I cautiously pulled the handle open, releasing an ear-decimating screech of an un-oiled door. I stepped inside, and began to ascend several sets of stairs.

I reached the floor I needed to. The lift, as lavish and oak-decorated as it was, took about 2 minutes to ascend all the way up, but the glass window displaying the outside bunker as I went up was truly an amazing sight. The lift made a quiet ding sound as it arrived, and both doors slid open with a nearly whisper-like sound. I looked terribly out of place; my black shirt and coat, as well as my brown cargo trousers clashed sharply against the penthouse-like wooden walls. Mirrors, plants, pictures and carpets decorated the hall ahead, leading up to a small...waiting room, I'll say. Around the room sat a fair few people, all likely here for the same reason I was. They looked slightly nervous over this; effectively this was a job interview, and it was, to our exceedingly small community, like applying to protect the Queen, President, or other official: very important.

I received narrow-eyed glares as I approached the secretary's desk. Behind the desk sat a blue stallion with glasses, filing through some paperwork with a less-than excited look on his face. If anything, he looked incredibly bored. I rang the bell. "Hey man, do I need to sign in here, or something?" I said out to him. He looked over to me with a beady look, and nodded.

"Take a seat, and She'll be with you in a minute." He narrowed his eyes. "Man." I rolled my eyes, turned, and moved to an empty chair. It was practically in the corner of the room, meaning I'd get a few scrutinizing eyes directed at me, but I didn't generally care. I did GCSE Drama, I had a whole room full of my classmates and other morons gawping at people on stage, then afterwards whispering to me "what the hell was the point in doing -insert improvised acting piece here-?", to which I would reply "I dunno." So I was used to being stared at. In fact, I was comfortable enough that I nonchalantly pulled out my 1911 and checked it was safe with no magazine. This sharpened many glares, including one mare across the room.

She was a black unicorn, with a silver mane and white highlights. Her almost consistently angry blue eyes stared at me all the while as she levitated a hi-tech looking handgun, and checked hers was loaded. All eyes were on us now.

The mare smirked victoriously as she slipped her modern looking pistol away and reclined. In reply, I smirked, leaned forward, rested it on my lap, and tapped the side of the weapon. Since I got it pre-owned from a collector of Vietnamese-US weapons, it was obviously bound to be bearing some kind of markings. This one had 13 little notches engraved into the side, as a count of...you know. The mare looked at this, and swallowed hard. Then she refused to look at me, instead looking nervously at the wall. I looked to the guy next to me as I slipped the 1911 away. "Pre-owned." I whispered. "From the Vietnam war." The man smirked.

"Gotta love them cocky US troops, eh?" he replied quietly. He had a northern accent. "Always counting kills."

The amount of people in the room began to lessen as they were called in and sent out. Those who got the job came out with a smile, those who didn't trudged out without a word or a job. It was about 10 o'clock when I was called in. So, I received a pat on the back from my neighbour, who I found out was named Simon, and I went in with my head held high. The door was already open, revealing what one might call 'the boss' office'. It had a blue carpet with wooden edging, a large window near the back displaying a LOT of the bunker below, a TV bearing the My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic logo, and that was set above a fireplace. In the middle of the room was a chair sat in front of a highly decorative wooden desk, and behind it sat Faust. Today, she was wearing a pair of red reading glasses, and a bored expression. She seemed to brighten up slightly when I entered the room, mostly because my group had kept her entertained for a while in that diner. "Ah, Mr Simpson." she greeted warmly. "Please, sit."

I obliged, approaching the chair and taking a seat. After a few seconds where she flicked through some files on her computer, she looked at me. "Soooo..." she began, pulling up a file on the screen above the fireplace. "Jack Simpson. Attended the British Army Cadets, but was denied military access due to your...back, correct?"

"That is correct, ma'am." I nodded. "Scoliosis." She winced.

"Ohh, sorry." Faust coughed. "Anyway, let's see what else...your brother is in the police?"

"That he is, ma'am. Attended, reluctantly I might add, the Police Cadets from the age of 15, then went on to join the Thames Valley police when he was 21. I believe he's a Sergeant at this time." I replied formally.

"Hmm..." Faust noted something down on her paper using magic. "Right...let's continue. No criminal record, not on a watch list of any kind, that's good. What else do we have...?" She flicked through something else, then brought that up on the screen. "Face McShooty II was your Steam name, it says here. Is this correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not a cheater, I might ask?"

"Not at all." I replied. "Almost a clean slate. If I did anything of the sort, my parents would come out of their graves and yell at me."

"Did you have trouble with your parents?"

"Well, they could be strict at times, ma'am, but they were still my parents. They raised me, sheltered me, and never knew I was a Brony."

"Right now that's a good thing; over half of the people and ponies I've met so far were being watched by the police as 'terror suspects', they like to call us." Faust sighed. "I never wanted anything like this to happen."

"It isn't your fault." I said calmly. "If they choose to go one step too far against us, we have the right to sprint away in the other direction and hide in the bushes. These vigilantes don't really have much support; they're like the SA. But the thing is," I leaned forward. "They can't arrest what they can't find." She smiled.

"I suppose you're right." She looked at me. "Thank you. Right. Shall we continue?"

"By all means."

"Now then...it states here that you joined a rifle club at 14?"

"Yes I did. Once I had a decent rifle, I was quite the deadshot, if I may say so myself."

"And I assume you did well with your shooting at the Cadets?"

"Of course. First shoot, top score."

"Impressive. It says you also attended a sporting club?"

"What? No, that's an error. Never attended a sporting club. Couldn't get into it."

"I understand you on that one. Hmm..." she narrowed her eyes at me. "...did your back stop you from doing sports?"

"Kind of. If I went too fast, the steel rods would bend or grate against my bones. A very, very unpleasant experience."

"In summary then, you're not one for moving around a lot on foot, not exactly a soldier, but more of a shooter?"

"If you put it like that, yes."

"Right...is there anything you can bring to defending this community?"

"Discreet outside contact."

"Explain, please."

"I know some Bronies haven't made it out here yet, and I know people who know how to contact these people. And if they're the type that has deactivated all online messaging accounts, then we may be able to get hundreds more to safety. I can also go out and do the shopping in my van."

"Ha, I suppose you could. One final question."

"I'm ready, ma'am."

"Good. Now then; Why would you want to join the Secret Stallions?"

"Well, I don't really think I have a specific reason. Just the fact that I'd be giving up free time to help others is enough, plus this is the closest thing to a life I'll have now that our world is ending. My life used to consist of playing games, and serving no purpose. Since I got here, I've realised I can do much more than sit in front of a screen all day and speaking to people I barely know. Plus, I always wanted to defend something worth defending: The survival of a people." I stopped. "That's all, ma'am." She looked at me, and ran a hoof through her mane as she thought. Finally, she cleared her throat, and stood up.

"Well, Mr Simpson, welcome to the Secret Stallions." Faust extended a hoof, which I firmly shook.

"Thank you, ma'am." I smiled.

"Oh, you can drop the 'ma'am' buisness, it makes me sound like a queen. And I'm no queen; just a woman who had an idea."

After going back to my room to get changed, I headed down to the bar on Sublevel-G. According to a few guys I'd met, it was 'the place to go to celebrate'. I'd arranged to meet Duncan, Kim, Ollie, Alex, and a few other guys down there that night, job or none. I told Simon he could come as well, and he said he would consider the offer. So I had a fair few new friends here, and I was starting to like it. I stepped out of my room wearing a pair of new jeans, my blue converse shoes, my favourite white wool jacket, and a black shirt. I brought nothing with me other than black shirts and clothes that matched, besides a few other things, so I did receive some confused looks when I seemed to wear the same shirt every day. However, the jacket helped conceal a new inner-jacket holster issued to the Secret Stallions. I had the 1911 inside, loaded this time, just in case anything happened.

Satisfied I was ready to go, I headed down to what I now call the 'Red Light District'. I'll explain why later.

District

I met my friends at the corner of the district, a shabby little corner shop with shutters and graffiti. Likely, this was a testament to the fact this used to be a 'Vault' kind of thing, and will be: Millions were supposed to live down here, keeping society going until fallout cleared. But...we only had a few thousand. It was depressing, to say the least. Plus, a small proportion of us weren't even with us: Spies, vigilantes, hookers, thieves, murderers, and psychopaths, the beginning of the Brony holocaust driving them to those endings. It was very depressing to know that our once proud fan-base was so unaccepted by society, we became no less than vermin, and apparently that some people hated us enough that they were willing to take up arms against a simple fan-following of a TV show.

I cleared my head of these thoughts, smiling and getting congratulatory hi-fives from the others as we crowded under the small doorway. I'm certain they were aware that I had the grip of the M1911 peeking out from inside my jacket, but they were used to the sight of armed men; the vigilantes that stopped us on the way there multiple times were often carrying assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, and in one tense instance, a mounted minigun on the back of a jeep. It still stood as a creepy moment when I found out that people were being sold these things. In England.

Anyway, once we'd finished talking, we prepared to head down what many up above called 'the red light district'. I already knew it was a reference to the legendary city of Amsterdam, where prostitution was legal. I went on holiday there a few years before, and was no doubt tempted by the tight skirts, low-cut skirts, and augmented assets, but I needed the money to get home, and regrettably left the city of sex behind. I turned to Alex. "Right, Alex, listen," I began, "Mares will ask if you want to pay them for sexy time. If you agree, and pay, you'll be buying rounds for a month after, and every time you do it again we'll double that time, so no pony ass for you. OK?" I said sternly. The others laughed.

"Fine..." he sighed. "What if it's a hot woman?"

"Raise the shields, you can go in hot." I snorted. This raised more laughs. "And as a note to all of us: no trying drugs, no getting into fights, and DEFINITELY no gang involvements. Seriously, if this place is more like Chinatown than it seems, we might end up getting attacked by a triad."

"Unlikely." Ollie laughed. "I doubt China's most influential organisation would be bothered to come down into a bunker full of Bronies. Anyway, if they did attack us, we'd hopefully be dead before they caught us."

"I hope." Kim muttered. "Back in Korea we did not have a mafia of any sort; resistance was crushed." We all cocked our heads at the statement as we all began walking down the streets of Hybrid-China-Amsterdam.

"I thought South Korea wasn't that Communist?" Duncan asked.

"No, we were not Communist." Kim explained. "It is like any other system of justice: Uprising was not reccomended unless you wanted the SKPD booting your front door down and shooting your cat with a tazer."

"Meow meow, mother fucker." Simon chuckled. We all laughed, until we realised what he had picked up to look at near a market stall. Literally, Meow Meow; kind of like Ecstasy and Rohypnol put together, and was made using ingredients not banned by the Ingredients Act of 2017. Technically, it was legal...

No.

I snatched it from his hands and chucked it back onto the stand. "Remember what I said, Simon," I said sternly, the small stallion vending the market taking a sudden interest in our conversation. "Nobody here can be trusted, pony or not. Hell, some might be working for a big-time crime organisation, and you'd be funding them! Do you want that? You want to be funding the Yakuza?"

"They're called Triads." cut in the stallion at the cart. I quickly turned to him.

"Yeah, that, cheers. Anyway," I turned back to Simon, "We don't want to be funding a Triad."

"Why not?" Simon asked. "They'd like that, we wouldn't be at risk." I was tempted to slap him for not 'getting it', but I'd begun noticing some ponies and humans beginning to start walking a slight closer to us.

"You just don't understand it, Simon," I said quickly. "Funding the Triads, then stopping, means they'll easily be able to find you. There's only a few thousand people in the bunker. All it takes is a walk upstairs." I suddenly felt somebody pressing their shoulder against mine from behind.

"Is there a problem here?" snarled the guy behind me. Simon suddenly seemed more nervous.

"Uh! N-No!" he stammered, as my friends began backing away. "No problem here! S-See, Simpson? He's n-not a problem!" I didn't want to turn around, since I knew he'd probably be huge, so I instead sighed.

"What he said." I said calmly, before beginning to walk away. I was half expecting to feel him tugging on me and saying 'no', before dragging me off somewhere, but thankfully he didn't. "I can't believe you guys would ditch me over the Triads!" I said angrily. After a bit of brief jogging, we left the street end, and just as we were rounding the corner, I stopped to check my phone. "Oh my god, I still can't believe that you guys would let me di-" A loud pistol shot rang out, pinging off the stonework not even a few inches from my head. "-OH, SON OF A BITCH!" I yelled loudly, as all of us scampered away.

It took a few minutes of running, but we finally got back to the elevator leading to the floor our rooms were on. None of us wanted to speak, but I had a funny picture in my head of the Triad gang member who shot at me, throwing his weapon on the floor and loudly exclaiming the equivalent of 'God Damnit' in Chinese or whatever his accent was. Finally, Duncan coughed, finally getting his breath back.

"J-Jesus," he panted, then looking at me. "Why didn't you shoot back?" All the others looked up at me now, less than amused expressions on their faces. "You can shoot people now, you're basically Secret Service!"

"And?" I shot back (Not literally), "You know the story of the Hydra? Cut off one head, two more grow back?"

"Like Captain America's Hydra?" Ollie asked. "Like, Nazi Hydra?" I facepalmed.

"No, Jesus Christ..." I sighed. "Like...it was basically a tall dragon thing, with two heads. If you went for the neck and cut it off, it'd lose that head, then where the stump was it'd grow two more and it'd be REALLY pissed. Triads are like that: Kill one guy, or injure him, and then two other guys'll come and kill you." I explained. The others gave me the 'are you sure you didn't take something?' look. "Guys, it's simple mythology, how can you not know that?"

"We're not sad, like you." Alex replied. We laughed briefly, then looked at the time. Two hours had passed.

"Well, see that?" I said casually. "Time flies when you anger Chinese people enough that they shoot at you. C'mon, let's go up and see who's hanging around the sane levels."

The excitement for the night was pretty much done. I'd had enough excitement for my liking: I was also thankful that Chinese bloke had crap aim. But, it certainly did make quite the story to tell some of the mares and women at the regular pub. Kim, Simon, Alex, Ollie, Duncan and I had all sat in 'The Shady Oaks Public House', named after Twilight Sparkle's famous library, and just across the room there was a group of women and mares, all looking over briefly at us and giggling like schoolgirls. The bar had a strange 'Irish/1950's American' feel to it, with polished counters and wood in most places. The strong smell of spirits made it smell like a bar more than anything. After about a half hour, even though it was about one o' clock in the morning, we were all just as lively as we were a couple of hours before. "So, just ignoring the fact that I've got work tomorrow," I started, "I guess this is a good evening?"

"Yeah, I guess." Simon sighed, swirling his beer in its glass. "And what're we even doing tomorrow at work? Do we turn up at a certain time?"

"It's a Secret Service," I replied flatly. "We'd need to be following Faust all the time she needs us, except into the toilet. Otherwise, I was just told we need to be in work by 3 in the afternoon. That's apparently when Faust does her daily clippity-clop around the bunker."

"Clippity-clop?" Duncan asked. "The hell's that?"

"Walking, I think," I shrugged, "But knowing how important she is and what we managed to accomplish under her rule, she's probably got an armoured car or something."

"C'mon, Jack, just stop thinking about it," Kim replied casually. "We have to be there at three, just think of that. Otherwise, we might as well call those girls over that've been winky-facing at us." Then, without getting our input, Kim stood up and walked over to their table. The girls over there nodded at what he said, and as he turned back towards us, the giggling intensified.

The SS office was a lot more spacious than expected. I was expecting for Police station clutter from generic cop films, but all there really was consisted of desks, a few gun racks in another room, and a dark interior. Even though we were underground, 3 o'clock was certainly an interesting time to lower the lights. As a small touch, a tiny radio connected to a small antennae on the surface over a mile above streamed live music from the local smooth jazz stations of Scotland. We, being part of the Secret Stallions, were stood around a whiteboard listening to the Chief. He was a rather buff stallion named Commanding Copper, with brown fur and a black mane, grey hairs peeping through making him seem like a true Police chief. He was wearing a mix of casual clothing and protective; beneath his white shirt and tie I could see the black silhouette of a bullet-proof vest, and by his trousers there was the obvious holster for a small revolver. He didn't smile as he explained our duties.

"So at oh-three-fifteen hours, Faust is stopping at the Conversion Labs for a visit. Generally, she'll shake hooves with some scientists, look at the device itself, ask a few questions, then leave. All you fellas need to do is stay inconspicuous. That means no heavy armaments, so no rifles, shotguns, machine guns, nothing. The only person who'll be using a rifle is the Squad's Designated Markstallion." Copper then drew out the simple route on the wipe-clean map, and after a moment of awkward board squeaking, he turned back. "Any questions?" Immediately I raised a hand.

"Who's the Designated Markstallion?" I asked.

"You are, Simpson." he replied sharply. "You won a few shooting tournaments back in the day, and apparently you're better at longer ranges when you don't move, so when everyone else is getting their pistols, mention to Golden Badge that you're the SDM. He'll know what to give you." I paused, then finally nodded. I at least had some responsibility. I was sweating in the warm layers I'd picked, not expecting the office to be warm, but I was wrong as usual. Getting outside would be a blessing.

But as we were leaving, I couldn't help but feel like someone, somepony, something, somewhere was watching me.