Genetic Superiority

"Rebuilding the future, piece by piece."

That was the motto of the Equestria Genetic Research Center. And indeed they have rebuilt the future of Equestria; they have made multiple advances in medical technology, and now was the biggest medical organization in the country, taking part of the government's eugenics program.

Their headquarters was a different case, appearing less remarkable than the organization's achievements. It was a squat, white, and lifeless building, with evenly placed windows on every one of its four floors. Their logo – a gray circle with a silhouette of a DNA inside it – was the only object that broke the symmetry of the building.

On the fourth floor of the headquarters was the President's office. Inside was no more than the President himself, leaning on his swivel chair, staring at the world in from his window. The earth pony's face, a bit wrinkly, held little expression. Though his appearance surely gave the fact that the President was old, he had never revealed his age. Fifty? Sixty? Sixty-five?

His age, though, had no effect on the charisma of a revolutionary figure. He was the one that founded the organization, and their medical wonders have increased the life expectancy of ponies and eliminated a number of diseases. Most of all, he suggested to the government to create a program that would ultimately lead to the improved pony race. It was unanimously approved, and that event was so influential that ponies have decided to create a new calender named the "Second Era", or "S.E." for short. The goals he has achieved in his lifetime were countless.

The President sat silently in his chair for some time, until he slowly but steadily stood up and proceeded toward a gramophone on a nearby small table near the corner. He replaced the record on the gramophone, walking back and forth to return the record to it's intended place on the shelf and taking another one. Placing the new record on the gramophone, he moved the pin onto the record, careful not to accidentally scratch it, and flipped the switch on the side of the gramophone's wooden box.

The rest came like magic. The record immediately spun, creating music. After a few seconds of static, the gramophone played a song familiar to almost everypony: Equestria's national anthem. It was majestic. It was glorious. It was...symbolic. Perhaps someday he will become symbolic too.

********

"We came here to relax and, you know, interact," Foresail said, "and you bring your diary-"

"Writer's notebook," Ballad corrected, not bothering to look up.

It was a normal day in Canterlot. Not a single cloud was in the sky, and the marketplace was busy and bustling with ponies. Despite the fact that it was June, the temperature was a cold fifty-one degrees (which adds the question on what the weather ponies were doing). Canterlot lived up to it's reputation; the idyllic city remained a place for the higher classed for several decades, and was filled with fancy and aesthetically pleasing buildings.

"Writer's notebook, whatever. You're letting it take over your life. Really, it's not healthy and I think you should really be socializing with other ponies." Foresail continued. Her voice was soft, but Ballad knew better to not trust Foresail's emotions. She knew that behind those false feelings, Foresail was actually criticizing her.

Foresail was a unicorn mare in her late twenties, having a pale yellow coat and a light blue mane. Her eyes were purple, though it wasn't her natural eye color. She was a slave to fashion–always purchasing the newest "color lens" or the newest clothes the second it was in style.

Ballad, however, was not interested in fashion, and kept her eyes in the color she was born with. Amber. Her coat was a reddish brown, and her mane was tan; the color of sand. She recently turned thirty-three about a month ago. Ballad worked as a poet and an author; after all, her cutie mark was a flute (which had the close appearance to a fountain pen) on a piece of paper, which signified her talent with poetry.

She was unable to understand why her friend was treating her like this. Foresail didn't control her life, she did. Why does she have to care what other people thought about her? As Foresail continued complaining about Ballad's anti-social behavior, Ballad hid her face behind her notebook, gritting her teeth and straining her hooves, while attempting to ignore her words. She felt like at any time she will burst out in annoyance and anger.

When Foresail finally finished speaking, Ballad calmed the flame inside of her and loosened her muscles. Settle down, Ballad. You're of a higher class then her, Ballad thought. Act civilized. She probably doesn't understand as much as you do.

It was true; Ballad was of a higher social class than her in the genetic social stratum. In the system, there were seven divided "strata", or classes, which measured traits such as intellect, stamina, and physical power. Numbered from one to seven, the highest class (Class One) was composed of the "best of the population", while the lowest class (Class Seven) was composed of "defects" such as the feeble-minded, insane, and criminals. Equestrian citizens were tested at age sixteen to determine their class.

Ballad herself was born in a Class Two environment, but after her examination, a test taken at the age of sixteen to determine a pony's class, she was able to move into Class One. It was seen to most ponies as a honorable event, as the chances of moving into the highest class was rare. Foresail, unlike Ballad, did not meet the standards to enter Class One, and was retained in Class Two.

Though ponies were able to retake the "caste test" ten years after the previous one, Foresail refused to retake it. To Foresail, her occupation and home mattered more than the test–an action Ballad saw as forfeiting acceptance. However, Ballad also respected her actions, and after an unexpected meeting, both ponies soon recognized the other, and they became friends.

The two of them were again in an argument with one another; it was happening more and more often. After minutes of silence, Foresail finally speaks. "I think you're being affected. Ever since you entered Class One, you've changed."

These few words restored the anger inside Ballad. "You know what? I think it's affecting you," Ballad retorted. "If you really understood me, you should be happy that I entered Class One. But no, you keep making a fuss of everything I do! Ballad, stop being so reclusive! Ballad, put down that notebook and make friends for once! Ballad–"

She paused abruptly, taking a deep breath. Ballad, avoiding eye contact with Foresail, picked up her leather purse beneath her seat, opening it up. After a short search for her wallet, Ballad placed ten bits on the table without a word and stood up, leaving the restaurant afterwards.

Outside, Ballad was met with multiple ponies walking to and fro, every one of them going to some destination. Ballad was very much aware what her destination was, and that was home, where she could comfort herself by writing some poems or read a classic or whatever that can occupy her. Ballad swerved through the crowd, proceeding down an alleyway. A shortcut. She knew all the primary roads and a number of minor routes in Canterlot; finding the shortest path back home posed little difficulty to Ballad. She didn't like being in the open public, anyway.

It was quiet. Ballad loved quiet places. They at least didn't damage her ears from the noise outside, and made her feel at peace. If only places like these appeared more often...

Ballad, sadly, had little time to think. In a matter of a few seconds, she was restrained by the hooves and her mouth was covered by an unknown pony's hoof. Ballad made a futile attempt to break free, but was stopped by a sharp, sudden pain in the forehoof, and the world around her went spinning into a drain of darkness.

"Is this one a Class One?"

"Yeah, I believe so. Strange. I had expected the mare to put up a decent fight."

"Heh. Guess not all ponies are so strong after all."