Snowflakes touched down on the crisscrossing roads of Manehattan. They dusted the windows of towering skyscrapers, and filled empty carts that lined the streets. Young foals and colts pressed their faces against windows to take in the view of white powder covering the city.
"I hate this time of year." Rusty Hoof shook the snow off of his grizzled muzzle and pulled his tattered jacket tight across his breast.
"I hate this damn country." He raked his hooves through the trashcans in the alleys. "And I hate Hearth's Warming Eve."
He walked along the alleys, searching through the trash cans. He checked the dumpsters behind restaurants, but came up empty hoofed. Rusty paused and took a look at a young stallion walking across the street. He pulled a tin can from the dumpster and held it up to the stallion.
"Can you spare a few bits?" Rusty asked him.
"No, I just had to sell my watch to buy a present," The stallion answered and pointed up the street, "I think I saw a soup kitchen around there. Maybe you could go there?"
"Thank you." Rusty tossed the can back into the dumpster, and walked in the general direction the stallion had gestured.
A line of ponies in tattered garb lined the street leading to a brick building with a single window in it. A mare handed out bowls of soup, smelling strongly of onions, out through the window. The line stretched the length of a few blocks, some ponies blocking doors to various establishments."
"Is this the soup kitchen?" Rusty asked the pony in front of him.
"No," The stallion spoke through a stained scarf, "It's an ice cream parlor... the hell happened to your wing?"
"War wound," Rusty answered.
It was in a minor trading post along the river. The griffons had turned violent when their demands for fishing rights were dismissed by Celestia. Rusty had been stationed there as his first tour of duty.
"Damn, damn, damn," Rusty muttered as the griffons came into view.
"Calm down, Airpony Hoof," Captain Flank ordered, and then turned to the rest of his squadron, "They'll be going for the buildings along the embankment first. Don't any of you dare let them cross this river. Formation!"
The Pegasi took to the sky, some more gracefully than others. The lance strapped over the shoulder had taken many years to adjust to. But many new recruits had not been allowed the years of training their superiors had. A few months was all that had been afforded to them.
Rusty used the broad head of his lance to knock an incoming griffon out of the air. He glimpsed swords, dagger, axes, and spears all carried in sharp claws. He lost feeling in his right wing after another griffon tackled him. His eyes opened wide as the ground came up to meet him.
Rusty looked at the ruined nub that remained of his right wing.
"Hey old timer," A pony behind him yelled, "It's your turn."
Rusty stepped up to the window and let the warm smell of soup waft into his nostrils. He reached out, and felt his hooves smack against a closed sign.
"I'm sorry," The mare at the window said, "But we have to be getting home now. Happy Hearth's Warming!"
"Yeah," Rusty muttered in disbelief, "Happy Hearth's Warming to you too."
Rusty resumed searching trash cans in the alleyways. The dumpsters behind the restaurants had already been cleared out by the younger homeless ponies. He would have to search in other places, wherever there was trash there might be food. He found a spotted apple core in the dumpster behind an office complex. He sighed, nibbled at the thing, and bit it in half.
"Hey!" A guard pony grabbed him, "What do you think you're doing?"
"Nufin." Rusty shoved the rest of the apple core into his mouth.
"All right, then," The guard lifted him by his jacket, "I'm booking you for nothing."
Rusty found himself sitting on a wooden bench anchored to a stone wall. He looked through the iron bars at the city guards. They seemed to have helped themselves to far too much eggnog. Every single one of them was red in the cheeks. Only one guard seemed sober enough to address him.
"You'll be in here at least a couple days," The guard explained, "The mare who would be your attorney is taking time off. Hearth's Warming Eve and all."
"Right," Rusty muttered and looked up, "When's dinner?"
"Hitda Spot is making you a salad right now," The guard told him.
Rusty raised an eyebrow.
"He changed his name after he got his cutie mark," The guard laughed, "I can't say I blame him. It used to be Glitter Swirl."
Rusty chuckled as well.
"Are those medals on you jacket?" The guard asked.
Rusty smiled. "Yes, son. I was hot shit back in the day."
Rusty looked up from the muddy embankment. The griffons had been taken out of the air, but continued the fight on the ground.
"Get up, Airpony," Captain Flank helped him to his hooves, "There's still a battle to win."
"I'm injured," Rusty objected, and pointed to his missing wing.
Captain Flank raised a mutilated hoof, "Who isn't?
Rusty readied his lance and charged. The griffons had held the advantage in the air, but on the ground they were far too slow. He knocked down griffon after griffon, trampling them beneath his hooves. He charged again and again, exhaustion meant nothing. There was only victory.
The guard came back in with a salad and set it down on the desk in the holding room. Rusty looked up expectantly and salivated. The lettuce was a crisp green, the tomato slices a bright red, the sliced onion a deep purple, and it was topped with dark green spinach.
"We got an emergency!" A guard stuck his head through the door frame. "Riot on Mane Street. Get going."
The guards cleared out, leaving Rusty alone. Rusty looked up at the salad. On the table. On the other side of the bars.
He screamed and flung himself against them, bruising his face and forelegs. He rammed himself against the bars over and over, pain meant nothing. There was only hunger.
A coroner was finishing up his paperwork. He had gotten behind due to the holidays, but that was always acceptable. Nopony could possibly blame him for it. This particular autopsy was meaningless anyway. Just an old stallion with no property, family, or friends. It really seemed such a waste of government resources to bother. At least the work itself had been fairly straightforward. He grabbed a quill and scribbled on the death certificate 'starvation/malnutrition'.