Cigarettes & Gunmetal

Chapters

Brain Cancer District (Act One)
Brain Cancer District (Act Two)
On the Subject of Hedonism (Act One)
On the Subject of Hedonism (Act Two)
All is Fair (Act One)
All is Fair (Act Two)
First Contact Dermatitis (Act One)
First Contact Dermatitis (Act Two)
Beggars and Choosers (Act One)
Beggars and Choosers (Act Two)
Nox Aeterna (Act One)
Nox Aeterna (Act Two)
Nox Aeterna (Act Three)
Intermission
Nox Aeterna (Act Four)
Nox Aeterna (Exeunt)
A Dinner Date with the Matriarch (Epilogue)
Introduction, Table of Contents and Miscellanea

Brain Cancer District (Act One)

Eleven o’clock at night. Mr. Levin exits the large, foreign restaurant that his ‘family’ owns, taking a few seconds to secure the featherstahl-reinforced doors behind him with an appropriately state-of-the-art DNA-encoded lock. As he looks east, he sees the empty street, windows painted silver in the moonlight. Turning west, he sees a lone figure approaching. He reaches into his saddlebag with a levitation spell, firmly grasping something unseen. The approaching stallion (for it is a stallion’s voice Levin hears) breaks out into song.

“Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine/
Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine…”

Swaying slightly and still singing like a backing vocalist in some amateur musical, the stallion passes and continues on his way. Mr. Levin relaxes and releases his grip inside his saddlebag.

Just some damned transient, drunk off his ass. I swear there are more and more of them every day.

Turning on his heel, Mr. Levin begins his trek back home. He is what some might knowingly refer to as a ‘legitimate businessman’, and today’s biz was particularly exhausting; he is weary, ready to turn in. Meanwhile, although the shadowy stallion is gone, his tune refuses to leave Mr. Levin’s head. A few notes of it escape under his breath, though he’s not familiar with the lyrics. As seconds wear on, the tune grows more and more insistent in his head and it’s not long until it completely envelops his thoughts. Were his mind not otherwise preoccupied, he would suspect that something was terribly wrong. And then, as violently as it invaded, the tune fades away, leaving nothing.

When a ‘colleague’ finds Mr. Levin lying on the pavement the next morning, the stricken stallion is unable to recount his experience, unable to move or to speak.

There is a quiet bustle inside the facility as the transporters move her through the halls. Doctors and nurses scamper out of the way of the incoming stretcher and she cranes her neck to look at them as they pass. They appear thoroughly disinterested. The stretcher is moving uncomfortably fast; it’s suspended on an air cushion rather than conventional wheels. A few windows blur past. Something’s tapping on the other side.

“What’s that sound?” Twilight asks dreamily.

“Sound? That’s rain, honey,” her father answers.

“Rain,” she echoes.

“Incompetence from Cloudsdale is what it is. Their orders are to keep our air space clear. They’ll surely hear from me about this one.” The third voice is irate but businesslike. It belongs to the Princess, who is presumably following some paces behind the stretcher.

“I want to see it,” says Twilight, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. Her parents exchange anxious looks.

“We’ll accompany you outside after the operation,” her father promises.

“Mmm. We’ll see about that,” says the Princess. “I suspect the doctors won’t much like that idea.”

The lusca plates mounted on the ceiling are harsh, almost blinding. Twilight scrunches her eyes shut, but she can still see the flashes behind her eyelids as they fly by, one by one. A half minute is spent in the merciful gloom of the elevator, and then she’s speeding through the halls once more. At last the caravan arrives to the operating room. Sinister silver-plated instruments are set in orderly cases surrounding the table while the large bulk of the autosurgeon hangs overhead, stainless steel arms folded and withdrawn, like the legs of a massive deceased insect. There’s one arm for every instrument, be it laser scalpel, cauter or buzz saw. Its photoreceptor regards her stoically. Knives of horror pierce through the drug-induced haze that clouds Twilight’s mind.

“M-mom?” Her mother looks over, trying ineffectually to hide her worry. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Oh, sweetie…”

“Yes, it will probably hurt,” the Princess cuts in. “The doctors need you to be at least semi-conscious during the procedure, otherwise your mind will reject the prosthetic and you’ll never be able to cast another spell.”

Tears well up in Twilight’s eyes. “Do I… Do I have to…?”

“We will be unable to make any real progress in your schooling until your horn is upgraded. Yes, you have to, provided that you want to continue your studies with me.” Her voice softens fractionally. “Not to worry: they’ve administered the strongest anesthetic legally available. The pain should be comparably dull, and if it isn’t, you may elect to have your memories of the procedure erased with amnesiacs afterwards. So. Would you like to proceed?”

Her memory begins to collapse amidst visions of gleaming steel arms and the high-pitched whine of the saw. She can’t say if she ever did see the rain that day.

She awoke with a start. The last shreds of the nightmare flashed behind her eyes and began to recede into her subconscious. She sighed, wiping the cold sweat from her brow, and as she did so her foreleg brushed against the cool mithril base of the magical amplifier that was installed into her horn that night.

Memories I don’t need. First one of these nightmares in, what, two years? Why today?

She glanced at the window. Falling angel tears rapped ceaselessly on the glass.

Ah. Yeah. That would do it.

A glitch in the recently-established SkySystems weather net had brought rain to Canterlot once more.

Fucking unreliable pegasus engineers.

She struggled out of bed and trudged to the door into the living room. The room was wide and covered in an elaborate carpet patterned with lions pouncing at fleeing gazelle whose horns were twisted into stylistic spirals. Twilight despised the carpet but the portly landlord was unreceptive to the idea of getting it changed. Barring any carpet-related modification to her living space, she was free to do as she pleased. She resided on the top floor of an ivory skyscraper called Hotel Anderson, in the designated royal suite: no expense was spared for Princess Celestia’s most faithful student. The outside wall of the living room was set in acrylic glass, lending a striking view of the city below. The buildings resembled teeth in the gargantuan maw of some prodigious horror.

“Morning, Twilight!”

She looked over to see her drake assistant, Spike, coming out of the kitchenette. He was young; his shiny purple scales had not yet lost their luster. He was mostly unenhanced save for a single metallic Grapevine port protruding from his skull, but unlike Twilight’s, his was surplus hardware, needing to be connected to a power outlet to function.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up in time. You remember we’re supposed to have a guest today, don’t you?”

She grunted, not really listening. Before Spike could ask again, she was in the bathroom, the door sliding smoothly shut behind her. In the mirror her reflection glared at her as though she had personally insulted it. A half hour was spent standing passively beneath the antibacterial spray coming from the showerhead.

“You have a visitor,” the hotel AI told her as the dryer blasted her with hot air.

“Yeah, got it, thanks.”

She activated her neuro-optical interface on a whim and connected to the Grapevine. As she did so, several windows and prompts flashed in her vision.

World News: Border Dispute between Saddle Arabia and Gryphon Kingdoms Escalates into Full-Scale War
Business News: Destek Lmtd. Files for Bankruptcy
Science News: Terraforming Efforts Begin on Artemis II
Science News: Lunar Colonization Proposal Rejected Again
Local News: Preparations for the Celestial Festival Underway

She flicked her eyes to the right and the screen shifted to the forum page obligingly. She groaned when the general section came into view.

New Thread: wat if equestria started the sa/gk war by Eu4ia
New Thread: will code 4 food by Eu4ia
New Thread: Experienced Hazmat Workers Wanted by Serypth
New Thread: any1 know y celestia doesnt want moon citys by Eu4ia
New Thread…

Following the introduction of the neuro-optical interface to the general public, physical typing quickly became obsolete. Upgrading to the NOI meant that ponies would no longer need to carry around computers and keyboards, and would be able to enter words into the Grapevine by concentrated thought alone, which tended to be faster and eliminated spelling mistakes and shortcuts almost completely. But not everybody accepted the technology with open forelegs. Certain fringe groups maintained that keyboards were much more responsive than the NOI in some contexts, such as programming and navigating text-based command prompts. Furthermore, keyboards were far less expensive than the interface and did not require a cranial operation for installation. Twilight had never taken much of an interest in these arguments.

Eu4ia was a well-known keyboard purist and would periodically flood the message boards with indecipherable posts. Another user by the name of Commander_Giblet once jokingly petitioned with a number of others for her to get a neuro-optical interface or leave the forums forever. When the administrators finally got around to deleting the topic, there were some five hundred signatures.

Twilight disconnected from the Grapevine and shut her interface off with a practiced flourish.

Nothing of interest.

Shining Armor was waiting for her at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee to his mouth. Whereas Twilight may have lacked any sense of proper hospitality when it came to her older brother’s visits, Spike often got him settled in her stead.

“Good morning, Twily.”

She cringed.

“Come on, Shining. When are you going to stop calling me that?”

“I thought you liked that name,” he said, grinning.

“When I was six, maybe.” She dug around in the refrigerator for a few silent seconds and produced a lemon. The UniChef vibroknife she was holding cut through the flesh of the citrus in an instant.

Shining Armor chuckled to himself.

“You haven’t changed all that much, you know.”

“Careful what you say. I’ve got a knife.”

He looked at the instrument and yawned theatrically.

“What kind of Royal Guard would I be if I couldn’t disarm some pampered damsel barely out of her teens?”

Twilight smiled, stowing the knife in its magnetic holder.

“Well fuck you too, guy.”

She poured herself a cup of boiling water and added a tea bag with a lemon slice as the toaster spit out two crispy slices of bread. Breakfast as usual.

Her eyes darted across the table as she chewed on the toast. Shining Armor looked uncharacteristically disheveled; his mane wasn’t combed, his eyes were glazed over and there were traces of a five o’clock shadow on his chin.

“Sheesh. No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend. What’s up, Shining, tough night?”

“Not particularly.” He took a sip of coffee and exhaled wearily through his nostrils. “I was out drinking with Heartland.”

“Heartland?”

“You don’t remember him? The chief of police.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Twilight vaguely recalled the middle-aged, whiskered stallion from the celebration her brother held when he got promoted to captain of the Royal Guard. “How is he?” she asked, feigning interest.

“He’s a damn mess. Something happened two nights ago. High-stakes case. A lot of eyes on the CPD right now from high up, but the investigation’s at a stand-still.”

“Really? What’s going on?” Twilight asked, now marginally more invested.

“It seems that the head of the local mafia was found brain-dead a couple of blocks east. Normally the police would be able to read the victim’s memory to experience the crime first-hand, but as I’m sure you can imagine, that’s not an option this time.”

He gestured at the window listlessly. “All they’ve got to go on is a few spotty Street Eye pictures. There’s no apparent physical interaction with anyone out of the ordinary, and the facial recognition software won’t identify the one possible witness.”

“Curious.”

“Isn’t it.” Shining glanced back to the living room where Spike was seated on a context-mold futon, tuned in to his interface. “I trust you’ll keep this under wraps. The police department has kept it off the feeds for now, but they’re due to make a press release pretty soon.”

“Hmm.” She grabbed a pale, plastic cylinder from the table and shook it absentmindedly, hearing the rustle of the tablets within. “I don’t suppose you could convince Heartland to let me have a look at the evidence and the crime scene, could you?”

Shining Armor paused with the cup half-way to his lip, and then set it down again. “Maybe, but of what interest is any of that to you? You’re not a criminology major; you’re a civilian. I don't think you'll be of much help.”

“Granted, but I’ve had extensive intuition-driven spellcraft training and I’ve read my share of dossiers on various past criminals in Canterlot and elsewhere. I have a dedicated folder for these things at least two hundred files thick. Come on, Shining, I’m bored out of my skull up here.”

His eyes rotated to the upper-left corner of his vision, consulting his digital calendar. “Aren’t your Magical Aptitude Exams less than a week away?”

“I’ve been over the material. I can do most of it in my sleep.”

He massaged his forehead with one of his fetlocks.

“Fine. Fine. I guess we can have a quick look if you’re so eager, but I doubt it'll amount to anything.”

Twilight shook out a single diminutive tablet and dry swallowed it, chasing it with a swig of lemon tea; a brief bitterness in the back of her throat drowned out by the tart, watered down juice. Quiesenathine: A multi-purpose mood stabilizer used to treat a spectrum of mental disorders ranging from mild anxiety to depression and mania to full-blown schizophrenia.

“Fantastic, thanks. So, when are you available to accompany me there?”

“Finish your breakfast. We might as well get this over with quickly.”

Shining Armor cleared his throat and spoke.

“How’s the feed look to you? Any visual artifacts or other issues?”

Several miles away, in the technical office of the police station, Twilight shook her head mutely, before remembering that the stream was one-way. She had split functionality between the neuro-optical interface and her actual visual input. The end result was that one of her eyes was receiving Shining’s feed while the other remained free to view whatever it was directed at as normal. It was extremely disorienting.

“Crystal-clear,” she replied. “Proceed.”

The investigation had yielded two major factors for their scrutiny: the crime scene and the Street Eye images. The images were isolated on a closed network in the police station, preventing any would-be hackers from accessing them remotely. Shining Armor had seen fit to examine the crime scene personally, while Twilight was more interested in the images. For efficiency’s sake, Shining Armor had set his NOI to record, and was simultaneously sending the video to Twilight, back at the office.

“Figures that it’s gotta be me standing out here in the rain,” he said.

“And of course you had to drag me out here with you,” said Heartland, standing some feet away. “I’m starting to regret mentioning all this last night.”

“You didn’t have to humor us, you know,” Twilight pointed out. “You’re the commissioner of the CPD. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to grow a little backbone.”

Shining Armor was the only one that heard the comment. He didn’t relay it.

He looked down at the pavement inside the police perimeter. There was no outline of where the body had been but there were several telling stains that the rain was busily washing away.

“So Duke Levin was found here? What are these stains? I thought you said he was physically uninjured.”

Heartland looked up at him, face blank.

“That’s not blood. The poor bastard shat himself.”

Twilight wrinkled her nose reflexively.

“I see.” Shining Armor sounded unruffled. “Tell us how you found him.”

“We didn’t. This crime was reported by Mr. Levin’s acquaintance, one Fancy Pants. He found the victim lying on his side in the middle of the street at approximately 8:30 in the morning and he claims not to have touched the body. We found a fully-charged Æther-brand firearm in Levin’s saddlebag along with an untouched wallet.”

“The battery’s full? So he didn’t fire on anyone?”

“No. You’ll see as much from the images.”

Twilight rubbed her chin thoughtfully, a gesture lost over the audio-only line. The mafia don was equipped with a top-of-the-line beam weapon, but did not use it. Was the attack too quick for him to react? Too quick for the Street Eye cameras to pick up? Or was he simply unaware that something was amiss until it was too late? Something about this whole scenario seemed familiar…

“Do you have any suspects?” asked Shining Armor.

Heartland shrugged.

“Fancy Pants himself seemed like a viable suspect for a while; he was the one who found the body and he has his own connections to the mob. Our undercover agents tell us that he was supposed to take Levin’s seat after he passed, so there’s your motive.”

“But?”

“But he was home that night. His fiancé, Fleur De Lis, has confirmed his alibi.”

Shining Armor looked at the stains again.

“You shouldn’t rule out hired help,” he said.

“Aye. Our brief interrogation didn’t get much out of him but, to his credit, he didn’t ask for a lawyer.”

“What do you think, Heartland?”

The other stallion sighed.

“I don’t know. We might find Pants dead in a gutter next if the folks in charge think that he staged a coup d’etat. If this is the doing of a vigilante or, Celestia help us, another gang, Duke Levin won’t be the last. Either way, my money says that we’ll see more bodies before the week is through.”

Twilight turned her attention to the hologram display in front of her; the first scene was suspended there, stationary but obscenely high-res. The general public was not aware that Street Eye only took a snapshot every ten seconds. The images were fully three-dimensional and took up a significant chunk of digital memory so full-motion video was currently impossible. Theoretically someone with a select few speed upgrades could murder a pony without being seen but such a scenario seemed so overwhelmingly unlikely that Twilight could not bring herself to consider it seriously.

The victim’s emptied mind, the lack of physical contact or any sign that he knew that something was wrong… The conclusion came easily for a mage of Twilight’s caliber.

“It’s a memetic kill spell,” she muttered to herself.

Shining Armor’s voice floated back to her over the stream.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The unknown subject used a memetic kill spell to slay Levin."

“Care to explain what that is?” Shining asked. Twilight heard Heartland demanding to know what she was saying and saw Shining gesture for silence.

“A memetic kill spell is a lethal curse. They are not widely recognized for reasons twofold: firstly, the government mandate regarding such information is that it should not be readily available to Joe Everyman and family. Secondly, memetic kill spells are very finicky and difficult to pull off successfully. Mortality rates of the users themselves are almost half as high as their would-be targets, so even training academies for the military and the police scarcely ever mention them.

“Execution goes something like this: The user implants a specific idea in the target’s mind. The material can be anything; a picture, an answer to a simple question, auditory input and so on. Once he is certain that his mark is entertaining the thought, he’ll activate the spell using the idea as a parameter. It becomes cancerous, spreading through the victim’s psyche and leaving them in a permanent vegetative state. I imagine that a successful completion of the maneuver requires a significant bit of mental discipline; the spell could easily backfire if the attacker slips up and considers the idea himself.”

“Alright. So what does this tell us about our killer?”

Twilight looked at the holographic stills again.

“Well, the killer is a unicorn. Before you say anything, yes, I am aware that so is nearly seventy percent of Canterlot’s population.” She manipulated the dial to zoom in on the second figure. “He is likely to be well-educated, though it’s possible that he’s a talented hobbyist. He used a risky mind-wiping spell instead of more conventional means. Even when his objective is avoiding leaving evidence in the victim’s brain, there are simpler means to erase memory post-mortem. The method of killing was intentionally impersonal which leads me to believe that the subject is socially stunted or otherwise afraid of getting his hooves dirty.”

“You two would probably get along well,” Shining Armor said, smirking.

Twilight rolled her eyes. “Well, unlike me, the subject is probably male.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“Besides statistical likelihood? The image of the so-called ‘witness’ you mentioned.”

“You’re suggesting that’s the guy?”

“That seems likely. The memetic kill spell is exponentially more difficult to cast over long distances. Facial recognition software can’t identify him because he’s probably wearing a mask. He seems to be wearing an overcoat, making it impossible to identify his color or brand.”

“Of course he is.”

“Well, go ahead and tell the chief. I suppose I’ll keep digging. To be honest with you though, I don’t think we can catch him with just this. Tell Heartland to call us when there are more dead mobsters or whatever.”

Shining Armor winced.

“Star Swirl’s beard. That’s cold, Twily.”

She had shut off the display and was already making her way to the exit.

“Sorry, but I’m not about to lose any sleep over the death of a criminal or two.”

Shining Armor had driven her to the Canterlot Archives on her request. She watched the Royal Guard-owned transport retract its landing gear, hover in midair for a split second, and take off smoothly into the sky. The doors to the lobby slid open for her with a sigh and the dry, air-conditioned air enveloped her as she stepped inside. As she had suspected, information regarding this type of psychological attack was scarce on the Grapevine, forcing her to peruse the ancient paper books stored in the Archives.

Self-serve terminals stood at regular intervals throughout the labyrinthine innards of the facility, but restricted material did not have a barcode and had to be processed by a flesh-and-blood librarian. It took her an hour and a half to find a book that touched on the spell. She lugged it to the front desk, cursing the unintuitive organizational system and analog libraries in general, swearing that were it up to her, all this information would be stored on a remote database somewhere and libraries themselves would be demolished.

“A hundred years’ progress since the advent of online data storage and we still dedicate valuable real estate to this. Unbelievable.”

She realized she was talking to herself. The only clerk on duty was sleeping at his post. She couldn’t really blame him.

“Thank the Princess that I won’t ever have to work in a place like this.” She knocked on the wood of the table impatiently. The clerk stirred slightly, severing the strand of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. The modicum of empathy Twilight felt for him was swiftly evaporating. “The Sun damn your eyes! Rise and shine, you lout!”

The shout echoed through the deserted wing of the Archives. The startled librarian nearly fell over backwards in his chair, but by some miracle managed to retain his balance. He adjusted a pair of antique prescription glasses on his snout and cleared his throat before speaking. All told, he recovered from the shock remarkably quickly. She guessed he was used to similar treatment.

“Yes miss, how can I help you,” he said impassively. Twilight might have mistaken him for an incredibly realistic automaton had she not seen him sleeping moments ago.

She slammed the aging book irreverently on the polished oak table.

“I’m borrowing this.”

He gave the tome a cursory examination.

“Terrors of the Twelfth Hour compiled by Jesse Weatherwick and Ebon Tusk…” he recited quietly. “This is a restricted volume.”

No shit.

“Yes. You will process it for me.”

He sniffed. “Can I see a form of written authorization for this checkout?”

She fished her spellcraft license out of her saddlebag and flashed it at the librarian.

“I’m Twilight Sparkle, student to your monarch, Princess Celestia. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

“Oh…” Twilight could see something approaching genuine emotion cloud the young unicorn’s face. “My apologies.” He entered the appropriate information into the library’s digital borrower ledger with a speed and accuracy that suggested he was desperate to end this encounter.

She stepped outside to wait for Shining Armor to return with the transport and take her home. The rain showed no sign of ceasing any time soon.

The book was damaged; withered pages were missing throughout the tome. The section on memetic kill spells, while present in the contents, was notably absent from the tome proper.

Twilight pushed away from her desk.

Just my luck, I guess.

The sun was setting outside, red and orange bleeding into the surrounding skyline, setting the dark cotton clouds ablaze and bathing the suite in gold. The water-logged capital shimmered, drowning out the lights of the various cars and freighters that dotted the roads below and the skies above.

While Canterlot was very technologically advanced in certain ways, Twilight always felt that it was woefully antiquated in others. The ground traffic had become much less congested with the popularization of aerial vehicles, yet the government saw fit to maintain the subway system. Where some buildings were adequately climate-proofed, with windows of adjustable transparency and state-of-the-art temp-control walls, others had to make do with old-fashioned heating and air conditioning. These tended to be the same houses that did not have a proprietary AI and were left with isolated electronics, which were admittedly hack-proof and, therefore, safer…

“Anderson.”

“Yes, Miss Sparkle?” asked the hotel.

“Coffee,” she demanded, stifling a yawn. “No milk.”

“Yes, Miss Sparkle.”

There was a low hum in the kitchen as the autobrewer came to life.

…Isolated electronics were certainly safer. But they also tended to make life more arduous.

She heard a soft crackling as the static broom passed over the carpet. Spike was giving the suite its customary once-over.

“So, Twilight,” he started when the distant autobrewer began to fizzle out. “Where did you and Shining go? I can’t remember the last time you were away from the apartment for so long.”

She shot him a look.

“That is, uh,” he stumbled. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

Twilight unhooked her steaming mug from the appliance and took a shallow sip. The bitter liquid set her teeth on edge. Its taste and aroma were exquisite by machine standards, though still not quite a match for the brew of any half-decent barista.

She turned her attention back to Spike.

“Nothing too interesting. Getting reacquainted with some of his friends. I took a book from the Archives on the way back to study but, wouldn’t you know it, the entire section I was looking for had been torn out.” She clicked her tongue in recalled irritation. “Sundamned analog. This certainly wouldn’t have happened if the info was anywhere on the feeds.”

“Oh man. Was it the only book containing what you were looking for?” asked Spike.

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Maybe you should let the librarians know?”

“No, what good would that—” she stopped. The killer had to have learned the spell somewhere, and it might have been the very book that now lay on her desk. Chances were slim, of course, but it wouldn’t do to dismiss a potential lead offhand. She would need to return to the archives and question management about previous borrowers. She took another measured gulp of her coffee, suppressing the grimace this time. “Thanks Spike, I think I’ll do that. You should get some sleep.”

As the drake shuffled to his room, Twilight returned to her desk with the coffee hovering steadily in front of her. The sun had nearly set outside, and the star-dotted darkness crept methodically across the heavens like ink spreading through watercolor.

She’d managed to work through two thirds of the steaming mug when the prompt flashed in her peripheral vision.

>Invitation to join private conversation received from Lady_Gaea.
>Accept?

Shit. What does she want now?

Twilight took another sip from her mug and then stared fixedly into it.

Fine.

She begrudgingly accepted the invitation. A grid of bright turquoise hexagons briefly obscured her vision before fading from the center outwards. It was a tastelessly flashy loading screen for nothing more than a basic chat room. Twilight tried to blink the lights away ineffectually.

(19:09) Star-Struck joined the conversation.
(19:09) Star-Struck: What is it?
(19:09) Lady_Gaea: Sorry. They talked me into it.
(19:09) Star-Struck: Excuse me?
(19:10) Commander_Giblet: A little bird told us that you were helping the CPD with a murder investigation. That right? You some kinda shitty Sherlock Hooves now?
(19:11) Star-Struck: What in Tartarus… I thought I took you off of my contacts list. Gaea, what the fuck is he doing here?
(19:11) Eu4ia: o hai im here too
(19:11) Star-Struck: Fantastic, I knew this day was missing something. I woke up with a distinct lack of a migraine. Glad you’re here to remedy the situation.
(19:11) Eu4ia: <3
(19:12) Lady_Gaea: I’m really sorry. I told them you were busy, but, you know…
(19:12) Star-Struck: This is supposed to be confidential information, damn you. Who spilled?
(19:12) Commander_Giblet: Wouldn’t you like to know.
(19:12) Star-Struck: Gaea. Who tipped you off about all this?
(19:13) Lady_Gaea: I’m not sure. The username lookup function couldn’t return their online handle or location.
(19:13) Star-Struck: What? Why?
(19:13) Lady_Gaea: Eu4ia, you’re pretty tech-savvy, right? Do you know any reason why Grapevine username lookup would fail?
(19:13) Eu4ia: i rly have no idea
(19:14) Star-Struck: Oh, come on. You’ve had to have done stuff like this yourself, right? Connection encryption and so on?
(19:14) Eu4ia: nope i got nothin
(19:14) Star-Struck: Bullshit.
(19:14) Lady_Gaea: Star, please calm down.
(19:15) Star-Struck: Oh, what. You barge in and start shoving your noses in my business, and expect me to just passively sit by? Seriously, fuck you guys.
(19:15) Commander_Giblet: Oh my Sun, would you just stop bitching. Tell us about this fucking case already!
(19:15) Eu4ia: maybe we should leave her alone giblet
(19:15) Eu4ia: she seems upset
(19:15) Commander_Giblet: You got somewhere you need to be or what?
(19:16) Eu4ia: well yea i got this thing tonight
(19:16) Eu4ia: but also you know if she doesnt wanna talk about it
(19:16) TheSunAlsoRises joined the conversation.

Twilight felt an involuntary jolt go through her.

Oh boy.

(19:16) Eu4ia: eh
(19:16) Eu4ia: whos this
(19:16) TheSunAlsoRises: I’d like to talk to Star-Struck.
(19:16) Lady_Gaea left the conversation.
(19:16) Commander_Giblet left the conversation.
(19:17) Eu4ia: whered every1 go
(19:17) Star-Struck: Eu4ia, please leave.
(19:17) TheSunAlsoRises: …
(19:17) Eu4ia: o.o
(19:17) Eu4ia left the conversation.
(19:18) TheSunAlsoRises: Good evening, Twilight.

Twilight focused on her cup again. The remainder of the coffee was lukewarm. She downed it.

(19:18) Star-Struck: Your Ladyship! It’s a pleasure to hear from you. Though, with all due respect, I’m perplexed as to why you would deign to enter a conversation I was having with these commoners instead of calling or e-mailing me directly…
(19:18) TheSunAlsoRises: Life in the palace is extraordinarily dull, you know. Mountains of paperwork and red tape, arrogant foreign ambassadors, mindlessly accommodating servants. Exercising my power in any way I can helps alleviate some of my ceaseless ennui, petty though it may seem.

Twilight snorted.

Petty is right.

(19:19) Star-Struck: Not at all, I’m sorry for questioning you. May I inquire as to why you’re contacting me?
(19:19) TheSunAlsoRises: You may, though that is also a question, so I bid you watch your tongue.

Twilight winced despite herself. In much the same way that one couldn’t predict exactly when a drunk has shouted his fill and might get violent, it was often difficult to tell when the Princess’s threats and indignation were intended facetiously and when they were genuine. Her subjects found it best to hemorrhage apologies now, lest they hemorrhage actual blood at a public execution later.

(19:19) TheSunAlsoRises: Shining has informed me that you are attempting to assist the local police with a criminal investigation. Is this true?
(19:20) Star-Struck: Yes, milady.
(19:20) TheSunAlsoRises: You recall that it’s testing season. Shouldn’t you occupy yourself with your studies rather than chase phantoms in the streets?
(19:20) Star-Struck: I apologize. I’m just trying to do my part for the city. I feel confident with the material you’ve assigned me and I’m sure I’ll be able to surpass expectations as always.
(19:20) TheSunAlsoRises: Arrogance doesn’t become you, Twilight. Very well, if this is the extracurricular activity you choose to pursue then it’s not my place to try and stop you. But be aware that police-work isn’t without its occupational hazards. I leave you to your own devices for now. Do not make me regret this decision.
(19:20) Star-Struck: Of course not, milady.
(19:20) TheSunAlsoRises left the conversation.

Twilight stared at the chat log for a time, thinking. She’d expected the Princess to hear about all this, and evidently Shining Armor had told her. She still couldn’t say how her online acquaintances caught wind of the investigation though, since Shining had no reason to reveal anything to them. Indeed, she would deem such action out-of-character for the no-nonsense, by-the-book Royal Guard Captain.

She moved to close the chat client when—

(19:22) [user irretrievable] joined the conversation.
(19:22) [user irretrievable]: Beg your humblest pardon. I saw you were online and couldn’t help myself.

Who’s this joker? Hmm… Is he the one who…

(19:23) Star-Struck: I presume you’re the one who tipped off Gaea, Eu4ia and Giblet.
(19:23) [user irretrievable]: Yes, that’s correct.
(19:23) Star-Struck: What the fuck was that for? And how did you know about it? Who are you, exactly?
(19:23) [user irretrievable]: I’m afraid that revealing my identity to you would be… counter-productive.

Twilight sat up.

(19:24) Star-Struck: Are you claiming that you’re the killer? You expect me to believe that?
(19:24) [user irretrievable]: You can believe what you wish. Meanwhile, I’d like to talk.
(19:24) [user irretrievable]: Canterlot is mostly an administrative city. These lofty streets are home to the main offices of countless banks, supermarket chains, government branches, et cetera. There are clean lines dividing the bourgeois, the privileged upper-class and the migrant workers. Transients typically migrate to the city biannually to cultivate the orchards of mountain olive that grow on the outskirts of the city. This city, the capital, is very well-to-do despite its comparably low working-class population. It saddens me to see that much of the local business owners are presently beneath the callous hoof of the Bratva.
(19:25) [user irretrievable]: The Stalliongradzkaya Bratva—or the Stalliongrad Brotherhood if you prefer—fled to these lands following the collapse of their infrastructure in Stalliongrad due to the interference of Czar Medved II. They extort local businesses under the guise of selling insurance, and as far as organized crime goes, they are not overly noteworthy. Smuggling, drug trade, prostitution rings. Hardly breaking new ground.

Twilight tried to resist the urge to tell the newcomer to shut up.

(19:25) Star-Struck: What’s the point of this lecture, please? I already know most of this. Are you trying to say that this murder is justified?
(19:25) [user irretrievable]: Who am I to say whether a murder is justified? That job clearly falls to the jury, or, in some cases, the Princess.
(19:25) Star-Struck: Would you just shut up. Your pseudo-intellectual bullshit is dribbling all over your floor, I’ll bet. If you’ve come to try and convince me to drop the case, tough luck; this is way too interesting for me to pass up. If you’ve come to gloat… Fine. Get that out of the way. But don’t expect me to sit and listen while you recite some tourist brochures and the like. I’ve got better things to do.
(19:25) [user irretrievable]: Hum. I see. In that case, I’ll leave you for now. Though… Perhaps you’d prefer to talk face-to-face?
(19:26) [user irretrievable]: 118 Redlex Avenue. 42nd floor. If you hurry, you may find me there. Then again, you may not. It might not be wise to trust the word of a soon-to-be serial murderer but I’m sure you’ll follow your instincts. Otherwise, what sort of detective are you? I hope to talk to you again soon. Until then, I’ll take my leave.
(19:26) [user irretrievable] left the conversation.

Twilight blinked once and shut the chat client off.

Well. It’s time to make some phone calls, I think.

Author's Note

Well, here we are. After several months of irregular progress, the first episode of my cyberpunk-flavored reimagining of My Little Pony is available for reading. My followers will have to forgive me for the delay as I am lazy and a bit of a perfectionist in regards to writing. This story is heavily inspired by Richard K. Morgan's cyberpunk novels. If you want to read something kinda like this except exponentially better and without ponies, I heartily recommend his Takeshi Kovacs trilogy (Altered Carbon, Broken Angels and Woken Furies) or Thirteen (Black Man in the UK). Lesser influences include Neuromancer (because everything cyberpunk is obviously influenced by Neuromancer), Shadowrun, and Deus Ex. The second half of this episode is going up tomorrow as it's already finished, but don't expect the next installment for a while after that. Given the fact that these things take time, I will try and avoid leaving huge cliffhangers between episodes. Thanks kindly for reading.

Brain Cancer District (Act Two)

The city streets are as cold as a morgue, but not quite as sanitary. The police cruiser lands atop one of the skyscraper’s touch-down points, spread out about halfway up the structure. The rear gate swings open with a creak and a strike team composed of ten officers trots briskly out into the rain. They are followed by two more ponies; a white-coated youth in traditional Royal Guard garb and a gray, middle-aged stallion wearing a well-used tactical vest and a mustache.

Shining Armor looked over the edge of the platform. Several police-owned land cars were sitting conspicuously around the building, lights alternating red and blue. Twilight was down there somewhere, waiting. To Twilight’s chagrin, Heartland and Shining alike firmly opposed putting the young consultant with no combat training into the field. Doubtlessly paraphrasing some strict parent or teacher of yore, Heartland told her she was lucky to be even this close to the scene. Presently, snipers were getting into positions in the surrounding buildings, trying to cover the windows. They all understood that this tip could very well lead nowhere: if the mysterious individual that contacted Twilight was truly the killer, he could easily be trying to divert police attention from his real target. If they were particularly unfortunate, the whole setup could also have been a trap.

According to city records, this building was just another over-priced hotel, though, unfortunately, the proprietary AI could not be reached for a guest list. This lack of communication was echoed later as the pilot tried to get the all-clear to land. Evidently the sprite in charge of the hotel was unavailable. Something was amiss.

The strike team assembled near the entrance. A single operative cut through the rest, turned, and bucked the ornate double door with a single economic kick. There was a loud crunch as the doors gave and the steel locking mechanism splintered through the side. The hinges squeaked in protest and the portal swung inwards. The strike team entered the landing platform lobby with conditioned finesse, sweeping the corners with the sights of their Levitus assault rifles. Heartland nodded to Shining, and the two entered, following on the heels of the team.

Shining noted that there was no alarm raised over the forced entry but couldn’t imagine that a modern hotel such as this did not have one installed. As he’d come to expect, the elevators were not working.

Gunshots echoed down the stairway.

Heartland activated the team’s broadcast channel on his NOI.

“Graphite! We heard shots fired. Have you encountered hostiles?”

Shining heard the team leader’s response clear in his ear, as though the team leader was addressing him personally.

“Negative. They’re coming from higher up.”

“Any word from our snipers?” he asked.

A nasally voice rang over the line. “Support unit leader Hawk Eye here. We’re seeing what appear to be muzzle flashes four floors above your current position, strike team. Proceed with caution.”

“Acknowledged.”

As Shining and Heartland approached the point of conflict, the building seemed to shudder with every shot fired. The sharp cracks echoed around the narrow confines of the staircase and picked up momentum on their way down. Shining caught eyes tracking their progress behind not-quite-closed doors, and heard worried muttering from the few tenants that were still in the area.

The strike team had piled in front of the doorway on that fourth floor in much the same way as they did before.

“Your orders, sir?” asked Graphite. His tone betrayed nothing. He could have been waiting on a customer at a local restaurant.

“I’d like to avoid any team casualties if at all possible,” said Heartland. “Incapacitator ammo only.”

There was a chorus of dry clicking as the autoloaders chambered the ammunition. Incapacitator brand ammunition was standard issue for the Canterlot police force; a brass hollow-point bullet coated in diluted cockatrice paralytic. When it came to raw stopping power, there was no besting it. A far cry from the old, allegedly non-lethal rubber bullet, this one was about as deadly as any standard round, though still preferable to—

A single low-dispersal beam of white cut through the door like a blowtorch through butter. The beam burned through Graphite’s neck, vaporizing some of the blood and spraying the rest on the adjacent wall. He slumped. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The remaining members of the team leapt for what sparse cover the hallway presented. The walls exploded in a hail of machine gun fire.

Shining Armor dimly registered bits of shouted Stalliongrad dialect coming from the other side of the wall.

Far below, Twilight was startled by a sudden influx of voices on the neuro-vocal line.

“Strike leader is down, I repeat, Graphite is down!”

“We have hostiles! Hawk, thin their numbers!”

“Copy. Support team, fire at will.”

There was a distinct hiss of a smoke grenade being detonated, though Shining could not pinpoint who threw it. The deafening chatter of the team’s rifles echoed through the building and the bitter scent of cockatrice venom wafted through the air. As he scanned the clouded room, he saw a dazed member of the Bratva rushing towards him through the smoke. Combat instinct took over. He pivoted around the attacking unicorn, locking the crook of his knee around the mobster’s neck and crushing his larynx.

“You’re under arrest,” he said superfluously.

The unicorn managed to choke out several syllables before losing consciousness. “You’re… with… police?”

Voices sounded from the smoke, voices he recognized as belonging to members of the team.

“West landing, clear!”

“Entrance is clear!”

“Bedroom’s clear!”

Something stirred on the floor above; something heavy. Its lumbering gait shook the foundations of the ceiling, dislodging clouds of dust. Shining Armor tracked the footfalls as they gained momentum, racing forward. The team felt, rather than heard, the propulsion drives powering up. A window shattered.

Hawk Eye’s voice came to him over the broadcast channel, awash with disbelief.

“I-it’s an alicorn! An alicorn just broke through the balcony on the forty-second floor!”

“Say again?” Heartland’s voice, strained.

As Twilight looked up from the land car, she saw the figure silhouetted in what little moonlight got through the cloud cover. Even at this distance, its enormous wings were unmistakable. In the next instant, the wings seemed to fold and crumple, and the figure started to drop.

Hawk Eye’s voice came over the line again. “The unknown alicorn is falling, repeat, falling to street level.”

Shining Armor snapped back to Heartland.

“Shit. Do we have any combat-ready units down there?”

“Fifteen armed officers, all jacked into the team broadcasting channel.”

Shining activated an audio link with his sister.

“Twilight, stand ba—”

But it was already too late. The alicorn landed hard, crushing the hood of Twilight’s car like abused tinfoil. Various collision alerts lit up the console, bathing her in a neon glow. Her panicked voice raced back over the audio link.

“Holy shit, holy fucking shit, he’s right here, he’s right in front of me.”

The steel flesh of the behemoth alicorn glinted in the ambient red and blue police lights. She heard its joints give off a mechanical whine as it stood straight. A voice erupted from its microphone, heavily modulated.

“Good evening, Twilight. I figured you’d prefer to chat outside beneath the starlit skies, rather than in that stuffy building with the rest of Canterlot’s finest.”

“It’s not a real alicorn,” she said into the audio link. “It’s an armored exoskeleton.”

“Pilot!” one of the officers shouted somewhere. “Stand down and exit the combat suit immediately, or we will open fire!”

The armor lifted its right leg and violently brought it down again on the scarred hood of the car. Heartland’s voice sounded on the broadcast channel.

“Hawk Eye, take the shot.”

The sniper rifle’s retort blasted through the night like an amplified fire cracker. Something almost imperceptible whizzed by and punctured the head of Twilight’s seat.

“Hey, watch where you’re firing! You damn near killed me!” she exploded.

“I-I wouldn’t miss a stationary target!”

Gunfire erupted in the street as the grounded police officers tried to disable the exoskeleton. Twilight watched as bullets seemed to curve around their foe and bury themselves in their surroundings. Several officers were injured nigh instantaneously without any apparent attack from the armor. She ducked out of the car mere seconds before the windshield and the seats behind it were riddled with stray lead.

“Stop shooting, you numbskulls!” she shouted, taking cover behind one of the other vehicles. “It’s an anti-ballistic field!”

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire, damn it!” Shining’s voice over the broadcast channel.

The deafening cacophony of gunfire ceased, partially due to Shining’s orders, mostly due to the fact that the attacking officers were dead or in the process of bleeding out. The armor stepped off the wreckage of the police car and casually began to search the barricades for its target.

“Twilight,” it sang. The heavy distortion turned the call into a bloodcurdling screech. “Where are you, dear? And here I was so looking forward to our talk.”

Twilight tumbled clumsily from cover to cover in the wake of the machine, trying to stay out of sight. She turned her attention to the audio link as she came to rest behind one of the cars.

“Shining, please tell me you guys have brought a beam weapon or two.”

There were a few moments of radio silence while her brother consulted with the commissioner.

“Listen very carefully, Twilight. There is a munitions truck parked on the eastern edge of the police cordon. Heartland’s entered your DNA sequence into the permissions, so you should be able to open the back without issue. Look for—”

A cool breeze brushed the back of her neck as the car behind her was thrown aside almost effortlessly. She heard the vehicle land back to the ground nose-first, some fifty yards away. The armor’s altered tones keened in her ears.

“This suit is equipped with thermographic cameras. You can’t hide from me.”

She turned to look back at the steel alicorn, dumbstruck. Its three electronic eyes whirred as they adjusted focus. It wound up for a swing, oddly slow, deliberate.

“Twilight, move!” Shining shouted.

And then she was sprinting, the concrete cracking some feet behind her. The ground began to shudder beneath her hooves as the armor unhurriedly pursued. She didn’t dare look back. As she leapt and weaved through the barricade she could hear the damage behind her, cars being crushed, hurled with abequine force. Her lungs began to ache, unaccustomed to the exertion and her weak heart beat until she feared it would burst.

She collided ungracefully with the munitions truck, panting, weak in the knees. She quickly wet her hoof with her tongue and swiped it over the DNA reader on the back door. The door slid open, revealing racks of smooth gunmetal within. Her panicked eyes scanned the walls, desperately searching. The heavy steps of the mechanical behemoth drew closer, pounding like detonations in a warzone. At last she made out the sleek, almost iconic profile of a beam gun. A Solaris pistol; small for ease of concealment, short battery life when compared to more expensive models like, say, anything from Æther, and a smooth, waxy design that was more reminiscent of a sex toy than a firearm.

She levitated it from its clasp and gingerly leveled it on the approaching exoskeleton. Or tried to. She’d never had reason to use a weapon before so aiming proved to be a challenge, and death’s steady approach did nothing to calm her nerves. Visibly trembling, she attempted to discharge the weapon.

“Shit! The fucking trigger won’t fucking budge! The gun’s jammed or something!”

“Beam weapons don’t jam," said Shining, patient as always. "Just breathe a little. You have to remove the safety.”

Under normal circumstances she’d feel stupid, but the adrenaline rushing through her system prioritized other functions. She aimed again, lifted the safety latch and pulled the trigger.

There was no recoil, nor any deafening retort. Some combat veterans described beam weapons as ‘unsatisfying to use’ for this exact reason; firing one was as easy as flicking a light switch and the effect was similar in appearance.

The first shot went wide, but that was the result of her incompetence rather than that of the field that surrounded the armor. She realigned it with her sights, aiming for center mass, and fired again. She heard a sizzle as one of the exoskeleton’s shoulder plates was superheated and began to melt.

The pilot screamed in surprise or pain or both, and the sound was amplified by the distorting microphone. The resulting shriek sent razors straight through her ears and into her brain. She clutched at her head, stumbled, but remained standing. The pilot of the exoskeleton shouted something indistinct—a threat or a curse she was sure—but the ringing in her ears had not subsided and she couldn’t catch it.

She watched, still dazed from the auditory shock, as the armor unfolded its wings and swiftly took off into the night sky. One moment it was a hint of reflected light, the next it was gone, swallowed by the nebulous darkness.

And the night was still and silent once more.

The chairs in the police station badly needed replacing; the worn context mold seat had settled to a flat cushion. She fidgeted in the chair, fruitlessly trying to find a comfortable position.

“Come on, Heartland. Let me go home. I need sleep.”

The police commissioner gave her a hard look.

“Not until I hear your side of the story. We’ve lost nine stallions tonight. Nine. And there’s another four in critical condition. And for what? Why did the killer contact you?”

Twilight gestured vaguely, shifted in her seat.

“I don’t know, he found out that I was helping the investigation somehow.”

“You understand that there are a number of other detectives and consultants working this case,” said Heartland. He didn’t look tired at all. Twilight suspected he’d keep her here all night if he had to.

“I don’t know, really. I gave you the chat log, what more do you want?”

Shining Armor entered the room, levitating a steaming cup of coffee. He handed it to Twilight and turned to the commissioner.

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” he asked. “She’s not in any condition to be answering questions. She could very well be in shock.”

“She’s not in shock,” Heartland said without looking at the other stallion. “How did the guy get an exoskeleton with an anti-ballistic field generator? That’s very high budget experimental tech.”

Twilight gave him a weary smile. “Well. Evidently he is either very rich, or has corporate connections. I’d wager the latter. You remember how the hotel sprite was completely disconnected? Gave him the opportunity to interrupt a Bratva meeting without tripping an alarm. Pretty convenient, don’t you think?”

“So? He deactivated the AI so that it wouldn’t alert the police.”

The mare grinned.

“I doubt that very much, commissioner.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” she began, sounding as though she was explaining something to a foal. “Skilled mages seldom make good hackers. Casting complex spells and decking require radically different thought processes. Most magicians are psychologically vested in rational or scientific matters and the physical realm. Deckers, by contrast, are pathologically impulsive and reckless, often content to let their physical bodies atrophy as they lose themselves in the Expanse.

“So,” she concluded brightly. “Our perp is not without support. While it’s possible that he has friends, I find it much more realistic that he has corporate backing, due to his probable anti-social tendencies and low self-esteem.”

Heartland sighed. “Maybe we could have a real criminal profiler evaluate your theories.”

“Did you read the chat log? That masturbatory pretention, the way he hid behind some trivial historic lecture?”

“He seemed pretty confident in the street,” Heartland pointed out.

“Wouldn’t you be, if you were packing what he was? And as soon as he got a little singed, he fled. Doesn’t reek of confidence to me.”

The conversation continued in this fashion for a while. Queries from the commissioner. Irate answers from the mare. It was four in the morning when Shining Armor came in for the second time. His face was set, resolute.

“What is it now, Armor?” asked Heartland.

“It’s the Princess,” said the captain. “She would like to speak with Twilight. Immediately.”

Two Royal Guards dressed in traditional armor stood watch over the main palace entrance. They were identical in appearance, stance and demeanor, but that’s to be expected from two members of a force that was composed almost entirely of bioengineered clone soldiers. Twilight was never quite sure how Shining Armor managed to become the captain lacking the DNA makeup of the rest of the Guard. She would have to ask him another time.

The two Guards stood to attention as she approached with her brother. They entered the palace proper without comment. The palace stayed well-lit throughout the day; even in the early morning, passers-by could see the constant light coming from the windows. The electrical bills must have been staggering, but then, the Royal Family were not the ones who paid the upkeep. She heard the cameras whine as they pivoted to follow their passage.

Be good inside our hallowed halls.

They found Princess Celestia seated at a refectory table in the dining room, in the company of a positively ancient bottle of red wine. She looked as sharp and radiant as ever and Twilight found herself wondering if the Princess ever slept.

“Good morning, Twilight. Shining.” She motioned for them to sit. “Wine?”

Twilight’s head was already aching with fatigue. The last thing she needed now was a hangover.

“Your Ladyship’s hospitality is much appreciated, but I’ll have to pass.”

The Princess filled two glasses.

"I insist."

Twilight resignedly watched as Princess Celestia slid one of the glasses in her direction.

“If it pleases Your Ladyship.”

She sipped at her glass and waited for the Princess to make her reasons for summoning them clear. Several silent minutes passed.

Finally, Princess Celestia spoke. “I understand that you faced down a combat-ready exoskeleton earlier tonight.”

“Well, erm, yes,” Twilight stumbled, taken aback by the Princess’s directness.

“When I gave you leave to participate in the investigation, I did not expect that you’d be fighting personally,” said the Princess.

Yeah, well, neither did I. But like you said; occupational hazards.

Twilight cleared her throat nervously.

“My apologies. Events spiraled out of our control.”

“Oh?" The Princess took a measured sip from her glass, never taking her eyes off of Twilight. "Shining tells me that you insisted on being present near the scene, despite all attempts to convince you otherwise.”

Twilight resisted the urge to look back at her brother.

“Uh.” She inspected her wine glass, looking for a suitable excuse.

“That’s alright, you are curious about the world.” The Princess gave her a chilling smile. “Perhaps it is time that you began to truly learn for yourself.”

She paused for another sip with every sign of enjoyment.

“I am hereby relocating you and your assistant to the Ponyville settlement on the edge of the Everfree.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Abruptly Twilight realized that her jaw had dropped open.

“I. I don’t understand. Am I being expelled?” she asked.

“Not at all, child. Think of it as a special assignment directly from me. You will continue your studies independently, sending a report of your findings once every week and your brother will visit you twice a week to instruct you in practical self-defense.

“Financially, you will be on your own, save for a small sum of bit credit to get you started. I recommend that you purchase the small library near the center of town. It has fallen into a state of disrepair but I’m sure your organizational skills could get it back to working order.”

Damn it all. She’s serious.

“But what about my exams?” tried Twilight. “What about the investigation?”

“Those are no longer of your concern. Gather your belongings. A Royal Guard escort will arrive to your dwelling at noon to transport you.”

The Princess raised her glass.

“I call a toast… to your new life in New Ponyville.”

(13:26) [user irretrievable] joined the conversation.
(13:26) Girls-Best-Friend: How do you fare?
(13:26) [user irretrievable]: I could be better. Nearly got killed on my run last night.
(13:26) Girls-Best-Friend: By whom? The mob? With the equipment we provided?
(13:27) [user irretrievable]: No. The investigator girl, Twilight. She got a hold of a beam weapon and shot me. Got a nasty burn, stings like a motherfucker. I should have killed her when I had the chance.
(13:27) Girls-Best-Friend: That wouldn’t have been wise. The last thing we need is to draw the attention of the Princess to what we’re doing. Regardless, my sources tell me that the Royal Guard have relocated Miss Sparkle to New Ponyville an hour ago. You shouldn’t have to worry about her any longer.
(13:27) [user irretrievable]: Praise the Sun for that. I think she may have been getting close.
(13:28) [user irretrievable]: You’ll be happy to know that much of the Bratva’s administrative unit has been taken care of, save for Fancy Pants. He did not attend last night’s meeting.
(13:28) Girls-Best-Friend: That’s a shame. I’m sure you’ll take care of him in due time, however. Keep up the good work, Lucid.
(13:28) Girls-Best-Friend left the conversation.

The Canterlot Archives stood steadfast and solemn in the mid-afternoon sun.

Shining Armor checked his digital time readout. Twilight would be long gone by now. He sighed. It was a shame that he was unable to see her off, but he’d been filling out paperwork for property damage and police reports with Heartland for the better part of the day. Twilight had told him that morning before they parted ways about her last desperate lead: The previous borrowers of Terrors of the Twelfth Hour.

He glanced through the book himself earlier. It provided detailed descriptions and instructions for casting most of the spells mentioned. Chances were good that the memetic kill spell could be learned from the original book, before it was damaged. He frowned. Dangerous times these were, when one could learn a fatal curse from a readily-available volume.

He entered the facility.

A unicorn youth was manning the checkout desk. He was hunched over and appeared to be asleep at his post.

Shining Armor spoke up. “Hey. Buddy. Wake up, I’ve got some questions for you.”

The librarian opened his eyes, yawned, and straightened up.

“Yes sir. How can I help you,” he said quietly.

He looked to be about nineteen, with a light blue coat. His brand was a cloud with a large Z inscribed in the center. He wore an antique pair of prescription spectacles, implying that he was too poor to have his eyes surgically repaired. He was almost completely unremarkable except for—

Shining had to do a double take. A large bandage covered the youth’s shoulder. The flesh surrounding it was tan and much of the hair had been singed off. The librarian must have caught him looking, moved to cover it.

“Sir?”

Shining locked gazes with the youth.

“What happened to your shoulder, kid?”

The librarian shrugged.

“Stove malfunctioned at home. I tried to fiddle with it a bit, got this burn for my trouble.” His voice sounded almost casual.

Almost.

“I see.” Shining nodded. “What was the make of the stove?”

The librarian hesitated.

“Ignam, I think. Sixty-five or sixty-six. Why’s that important?”

Shining shrugged in turn.

“I want to make sure to stay away from that brand, then. Where were you yesterday at approximately 8:30 in the evening?”

His gaze wavered.

“I was here, working.”

“Hard worker, I see.” Shining made a mental evaluation of his equipment. The weight of the standard issue electric stun prod hung reassuringly from the holster on his hip, but he had no cuffs or spell suppressors. If this was going to escalate, he’d have to knock the librarian unconscious. “You got anyone that can vouch for that?”

“Yeah, a couple ponies stopped by during my shift to check out some books," said the librarian. "I have their contact information right here, if you want it.”

Shining shook his head.

“That’s alright, we’ll get that later. Could you come wi—”

His peripheral vision registered the librarian’s horn lighting up to cast a spell. He vaulted over the table with his prod at the ready before he consciously realized what he was doing. The papers and pens flew after him as he landed on top of the librarian. He held the librarian down with a grappling spell and flicked the switch on the prod; it buzzed to life eagerly. The librarian's horn abruptly winked out as the stun prod connected with his flesh. Shining brought the prod down over and over until the struggle drained from the librarian's body.

Satisfied that his suspect had been fully incapacitated, Shining Armor stood up and sighed. It wasn’t much of a fight, but he hadn’t expected the youth to have any combat training anyway.

Unbelievable. Call it serendipity, I suppose. Who in Tartarus is this kid?

An insistent voice in the back of his head whispered that this wasn’t right, this was way too easy. He shrugged it off irritably.

The clouds were beginning to clear as he hauled the unconscious unicorn to the transport on his back. The city continued about its day, blissfully unaware and he found himself wishing that Twilight was with him.

A flock of birds flew in a sloppy V-formation overhead. Heading south. Ponyville-bound.

Author's Note

That concludes this episode. Stay tuned for the next, which will introduce a certain party pony who's fallen on hard times, and—from the opposite end of the spectrum—a ruthless corporate businessmare who will provide an alternate perspective of the Canterlot Vigilante case.

MonoGlyph, signing off.

On the Subject of Hedonism (Act One)

She felt the music wash over her; distorted saxophone warbling over the classical bass and piano. Some pre-industrial vocalist whose name she couldn’t be bothered to remember piped in excitedly. Her head felt like it was filled with cotton and she couldn’t quite make out what the lyrics were. When she asked the DJ what the genre was, the bespectacled mare laughed and told her it was something called “electro-swing”.

The needle pierces her artery and she feels a tickle as the substance is forced into her veins. The room looks like it’s underwater, the geometry slides apart into nonsense. Admiring the view, she becomes peripherally aware that a stallion is hitting on her. His face is a caricature swimming in her vision, elongated snout, small, beady eyes, and enormous buck teeth. She chortles, breaks into hysterical laughter. There are strange eyes on her, the gaze of ponies she doesn’t know.

Well, why’d you invite them then, you idiot?

Had she invited all of them? It seemed like a few too many, if she was perfectly honest with herself. Abruptly, the psychedelic coursing through her system makes her realize that she doesn’t really care.

This is pretty good shit.

She tries dancing, but her movement is sluggish and clumsy with the high; she collides with several bodies, one of them looking almost as intoxicated as she is. She chuckles to herself, shoves her way through the crowd. There are yells, but they seem so distant and insignificant. She disregards them.

In the privacy of one of the rooms in the back, a fellow party-goer offers her a bottle of eye-drops, claiming that they’re some kind of nervous stimulant. She regards the bottle with a near-suicidal lack of suspicion and clutches it.

Seize the day and all that.

Sometime later, she finds herself hunched over the toilet. She’s freezing down to her bones and the vomit comes in short bursts of agony. It’s as if she’s immobilized, just waiting to drown in her own puke.

No. No, this is all wrong. I shouldn’t be feeling like this until tomorrow morning.

She carefully pulls up the blinds from the bathroom window. Harsh sunlight streams in and stabs her in the eye sockets.

Well, shit. It is tomorrow morning.

She shuts the blinds again, blinking blearily in the darkness.

Sundamned sun.

She found an unfamiliar stallion sleeping in her bed. The floral designs on the sheets didn’t much complement his appearance. She put her forelegs on his shoulders and shook until he awoke. He shifted and looked at her through crusted eyes. Grinned.

“That was some party, wasn’t it? I dunno how you do it, Pinkie.”

“And who are you supposed to be,” she demanded.

The grin melted off his face.

“I’m uh, I’m Rivers. Don’t you remember? Last night, we—”

“Party’s over, Rivers,” she interrupted, being less than eager to hear about her latest exploits. “It was super great to see you I’m sure, but it’s time that you were on your way. Don’t you think? I think so.”

“But, but I thought—”

“Get out before I call the cops.”

Downstairs, half finished bottles of alcohol were strewn about the tables and floor. A slice of red velvet cake sat on the edge of the counter, surrounded by assorted pastries. Someone had spilled something sticky in the dead center of the floor; the site was encrusted in crumbs and dirt.

Pinkie opened the fridge and pulled out a can of bromantane soda. The pianist fingers built into her forehooves easily clenched the pin of the can and popped it open. Her head began to clear somewhat as she took greedy gulps of the fizzing liquid.

As the name of the enhancement implied, the bionic digits were originally designed with musicians in mind. These days however, they were mostly sought out by deckers who did not have the funds or the inclination to purchase a neuro-optical interface. With practice, pianist fingers cooperated with keyboards much faster and more accurately than bare hooves.

The antique clock hanging over the mantelpiece told her that it was a quarter to nine—there was much time to kill yet. She dug her keyboard out of the upstairs drawers and connected it to a bright orange display strip, which she fit with some difficulty around her eyes and into the twin ports implanted in her temples.

Like threading a needle without being able to see the needle.

She’d got the keyboard, a set of strips, the implants and the pianist fingers as a discount bundle from Material Utilization before they went out of business. They threw in a cheap facial change and rebranding for free, and Pinkie—on the run from the Ponyville authorities at the time—gladly accepted. It was a purchase of dubious quality: her new brand was a stock image of three balloons and her new forehead bore a discernible logo from a dead company.

The Grapevine emblem flashed on the display strip as she powered it on. The news bulletin scrolled across at a leisurely pace. There were a few new articles regarding a border dispute between the gryphons and the desert-dwellers, the revised proposal to colonize the moon, and the successful landing of a colony barge onto the surface of Artemis II. As always, there were also several pages worth of periodicals and opinion pieces but she never read those.

A forum section appeared as she pressed the corresponding key.

Welcome, Eu4ia!
New Thread: Technical issues by EvaDecima
New Thread: Update 17.66 by Admin
New Thread: Recycling old hardware by Lovelace
New Thread: New data from Leberica honeypot by *Elwood
New Thread: Please assist by Sweet-gel
New Thread: Urban development patterns by UNLEADED

Pinkie tutted.

Just because it’s a forum board doesn’t mean it has to be so boring. Let’s liven it up a bit, shall we?

She flexed her fingers and grinned.

The phone rang somewhere in the depths of the pile of clothing she’d left at the front desk of the establishment. The white mare groaned, reluctantly rose from the bubbling pool of mineral water and donned a lavender-scented bathrobe. The sibling spa owners looked at her questioningly and set aside the luxury-grade shamditioner.

“Sorry, girls,” said Rarity, running a hoof through her soaking mane. “You know how it is. I can’t afford to just turn off the phone, after all; it could be important.”

But realistically, one of the interns probably just spilled coffee over a console again.

She strode towards the entrance with the grace and smug self-assuredness of a panther and levitated the device to her ear.

“Yes, what is it, Eiffel?” she asked into the mic, managing to hide her irritation behind a mask of passivity. “You know that Tuesday is my spa day, don’t you?”

“I apologize, madam. This is impor—” The stallion caught himself midsentence. “Erm. I expected you’d want to hear this immediately.”

She ignored the slip.

“All right. Out with it, then.”

The line was silent for a few moments.

“We found Binary in his house this morning, after failing to get a hold of him on the company network,” said Eiffel. “He took a leg-mount and painted the walls with his brains.”

“Oh dear. Binary is dead?” She activated her neuro-optical interface and checked the corporate news section of the Grapevine compulsively. “Are you certain that this is a genuine suicide?”

Her company, Carousel Industries, had a great deal of competitors. Sometimes, her business rivals could get a little overzealous in the pursuit of their goals: assassinations of high-ranking company officials were alarmingly common and often difficult to trace to the source. Carousel security caught three corporate spies, mercifully before they could pilfer valuable assets, in the span of the past two months. These periods of high activity came and went with the approaching releases of new products and deadlines.

There was a time that quality assurance teams worked independently and could pursue multiple contracts from multiple clients, but that was no longer the case; it simply wasn’t safe. The honor system wasn’t a viable option for keeping data and intellectual property secure.

In spite of this trustless new age of commerce, rather than execute the agents, Rarity handed them over to be processed by the New Ponyville police force, Lodestar. An associate of hers, one Sapphire Shores, summarized it best: Take nothing personally. It’s only business.

“The psychosurgeons have analyzed the remains and concluded that a suicide attempt was likely in his condition, yes,” said Eiffel. “He was suffering from a severe serotonin deficiency, he was an insomniac and a chronic smoker. His financial situation didn’t help.”

“Where did Binary dig up a leg-mounted cannon?” asked Rarity. She could almost see the stallion shrug on the other end of the line, despite the video being disabled. “He didn’t have a license to carry a firearm when we screened him.”

“It’s close to impossible to account for independent dealers, madam,” said Eiffel. “We’ve lost our head datarat. It will be difficult for our Canterlot operative to continue his mission without Binary’s assistance.”

“I am aware.” She shrugged off the bathrobe and struggled into her dress shirt and waistcoat. The starchy texture chafed on her skin after her soak in the mineral water. “Do we have any recent applicants registered on our list?”

Eiffel hesitated. “Not recent as such, no, but there are a few old entries. I’ll have the recruiters look over their résumés immediately.”

“Don’t bother.” She pulled her everleather horseshoes over her feet. “I’ll be choosing which applicants to interview personally.”

“But madam—!”

The silver insect-lens glasses came down over her eyes.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Eiffel. Our current mission in Canterlot is being conducted in secret; even inside Carousel, few employees are aware of our actions in the capital. The recruiters have not been informed and so, don’t have any idea about the skillset I’m looking for.”

“That’s true…” Eiffel paused. “Please be careful; deckers are notoriously temperamental.”

“Duly noted. Though I did put up with Binary for three years, remember.”

She cut the call.

The sun had reached its peak and savagely bore down on the Everfree as Pinkie approached Zecora’s lab. The forums have, as always, proved to be an entertaining distraction but she managed to tear herself away from the Grapevine after a few hours. There was an important item on her agenda this evening and she needed to be properly dosed up; withdrawal symptoms would decimate any chance for success. The old bamboo door looked liable to collapse in on itself as she knocked. She always wondered how the zebra alchemist kept herself warm in the winter months.

The zebra had settled out in the Everfree when she moved in because the territory fell outside of Lodestar’s jurisdiction. Here, she was free to deal a wide assortment of mind-altering substances to an eager audience, consequence-free. The whole of the Everfree technically belonged to the Woodworth & Sons Lumber Company, but Zecora’s rent barely scratched her profits.

A single camera was suspended over the door, comically anachronistic, clashing violently with the rustic hut. The door swung open and Pinkie saw the alchemist waiting in the frame, one spreadgun-strapped foreleg leveled steadily on her.

“Pinkamena. I see you have returned,” Zecora chanted. “Pray tell me, should I be concerned?”

“Concerned?” Pinkie repeated, trying to sound puzzled. “No! Nope! Of course not! I’m just looking for one more dose of that nepenthe stuff, just for tonight.”

Zecora narrowed her eyes. “You already owe more than you could ever repay/ you’ll have no more ‘till your debt is paid all the way.” She jerked the spreadgun once, to punctuate the point. “What’s more, if the funds aren’t received in due course/ then I will stop by to collect them in force/ you should be wary of what you don’t give/ remember, dear girl, I know where you live.”

“Whoa Zeeke, that won’t be necessary,” said Pinkie, eyeing the spreadgun nervously. “It’s payday. This next job will definitely clear us, I swear, with, with—” she stammered as the automatic pump chambered a slug, “with interest, okay?”

The alchemist raised a quizzical eyebrow, fractionally lowered the leg-mount.

Pinkie tried again. “Listen, I’m freelance, okay? Sometimes it takes a while for the paychecks to come through. But I’ve got a big job tonight with a big payoff. I’ll be set for a couple of months at least, it’s gonna be great. So I’ll square the debts, but I need a hit tonight or everything will go to shit. Just, like, call it a, what’s that thing. An investment. How’s that?”

Zecora retreated into her hut. Peeking in, Pinkie saw her take something very similar to a cigarette from a plastic dispenser. A homemade lighter ignited the tip of the tube as the zebra took the other end in her mouth. The fumes coming off the tube smelled decidedly of something other than burning tobacco. She blew the smoke in Pinkie’s direction, seemingly reaching a decision.

“I will measure out material for a single shot/ and you will bring me payment without a second thought/ understand that if you neglect/ I’ll come tomorrow evening to collect.”

Pinkie grinned. “Sure, sure, I got it.” The unspoken supplement to the conditions was that if she tried to run, Zecora would have her hunted to the ends of the earth. But of course, she wouldn’t try to run; she was far too dependent on the zebra and her stock.

Zecora produced several packages from the cellar: a pocket-sized plastic bag filled with an earthy brown powder, a syringe with a vial filled with a transparent purple liquid, and a brightly-colored caterpillar contained in a tiny iron cage. The powdered mandragora, the constricting nightshade extract and the Stygian sixty-leg came together to form the family of nepenthe, a much-sought group of recreational substances. The very sight of them made Pinkie shiver.

She shoveled the items into a featureless tote bag which she hung around her neck.

“Don’t worry, Zeeke,” she said to the zebra, rubbing her forehooves together. “You’ll get your money, cross my heart and hope to fly.”

You have (1) unread message(s).
[read] Report Requested
[read] Revised Company Policy
[read] Misplaced Password
[read] Question about product
[unread] [NO SUBJECT]

Starburst tried to focus on the window in front of him, but his eyes wandered unprompted to the time readout in the bottom corner. It’s been several hours since he confessed his feelings to the attractive young secretary in the office across the hall. Starburst couldn’t muster the nerve to tell her face to face or to call her, so he’d sent her an e-mail instead; it was far easier to read confident than sound or look it. And still, there was no response. He hoped she wasn’t ignoring him. He could handle a rejection, but silence was almost too much for him to bear. He needed to distract himself, yet the motivation wouldn’t come.

Finally, he clicked the fifth message inside the company inbox.

From: Prince-Wilted-Tulip
To: Al’zarith, Ashes and Dust, Barber_Paradox, Carousel Industries, Doctor_Feel-Good, Flim/Flam Enterprises, Grando, Ivory, Lovelace, O^OOoo, Pregnant Silence, Troughblesome, Webster
Subject: [NO SUBJECT]
Message: Greetings, friend.
My name is Wilted Tulip and I am a former prince of the city-state of Cimmeria. as you may be aware, I have been exiled from the state following allogations of poor budgeting under the supervision of the parliament. I require your assistance in transferring my liquid assets (worth around 450 million Equestrian bits) to a bank in New Leonopolis, where I intend to take shelter for the time being. New Leonopolis does not accept long-distance transfers from Cimmeria, so with your permission I’d like to temporarily move the money to an Equestrian account (yours), to facilitate a second transfer to my destination. You will recieve a financial compensation of 10% for this commission—that is 10% of 450000000.00 EB. Please respond as promtly as you are able.
Thank you for your cooperation.

Starburst closed the window and looked at the time readout again before he could stop himself.

Would that life was so damn easy, man.

Their van came to a stop several blocks away from the Carousel Industries office building. Comet Tail pulled on the antique parking brake with his horn, locking the vehicle in place, and twisted his neck to look at the rear seats. Pinkie Pie was snickering, obviously doped. Comet rolled his eyes.

“Well I’m glad at least one of us is having a good time,” he said just loud enough for the others to hear.

Sitting opposite Pinkie, the pale pegasus rubbed her eyes wearily.

“Is this a fucking joke?” she burst out. “We’re doing this while she’s high? Are you dipshits trying to get caught?”

The muscular, brown-coated stallion named Coconut shifted in the passenger seat.

“Who’s the new girl?” he asked Comet.

“Says her name’s Spring Skies.”

“’Ey, Spring,” Coconut called over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?” Spring Skies flared, leaned forward. “Listen here—”

“Relax, baby,” said Pinkie, smiling vacantly. “I do my best work when I’m altered.” She took another violent snort of the brown powder Zecora gave her. Her nostrils had evidently dried out from the abuse; one of them was bleeding badly, the drops falling into the bag and mixing with the contents.

Spring looked at the bag, her distaste manifesting as an ugly frown. “Is that… is that mandrake? Are you taking nepenthe? That shit can put down a sundamned bull.”

Pinkie gave her a lopsided grin.

“I’m not a bull.”

Already the world outside was rolling in her vision. The hill they parked on appeared to grow and shrink, the steepness of the slope alternating every few seconds. The buildings curved over the street, their peaks meeting overhead. Pinkie unlocked her door and stepped outside, savoring the bite of the crisp night air in her lungs.

She opened the alchemist’s tiny cage, and grasped the squirming caterpillar between her fingers. As the others stepped out of the vehicle, she popped the creature into her mouth and crushed it between her teeth. Spring Skies groaned in disgust as her own hoof flew involuntarily to her mouth. Coconut grabbed a box of tissues from a compartment in the front and handed it to Pinkie.

“Plug up your nose. We don’t need you leaving your DNA all over the place.”

Her senses began to sharpen as her body assimilated the sixty-leg poison. She became aware of the sensation of blood seeping from her nose—warmth collecting, dripping to the pavement—and took the tissue box gratefully. A car alarm went off somewhere in the distance, amplified by her enhanced hearing. The dark of night grew less absolute, dissolved somewhat. The various details of the surrounding architecture—cracks, peeling paint—became more evident. The imperfections leaped out from the darkness like a desperate mugger.

She heard the other three pull various odds and ends from the back of the van. Coconut strapped on a back-mounted machine turret and two leg-mounts with Comet Tail’s help. The unicorn himself took a Levitus silenced shard pistol, loaded with star spider poison. As the stealth specialist, he didn’t need as much firepower as Coconut, but he took several corrosion grenades as a contingency measure. Spring Skies strapped a leg-mounted burst rifle to her right foreleg and pocketed two multitools. Everyone save for Pinkie took a pair of night-vision goggles.

Copious amounts of hair gel, to leave nothing for the forensic investigators. Ski masks, full-body sport jumpsuits; practical, if not stylish.

At last, Pinkie Pie reached for the tube of constricting nightshade extract, and filled the syringe with its contents. She lightly flicked the needle several times and, biting her lip, buried it in a convenient artery. Warmth spread through her veins radiating from the point of the injection, and her ears registered a faint ringing that took a few seconds to subside.

“You ready?” asked Comet Tail. Her altered perception of time made his voice sound deep and sluggish.

She pulled the keyboard from her saddlebag and made several lightning-fast keystrokes, activating a sonar program. The progress bar displayed on the strip covering her eyes felt like it took a decade to fill, even though she knew from her trial runs that in real time the process only took four and a half seconds.

A map of the network appeared on the display strip, a complicated spiderweb of neon connections of various colors and shades. Close to the center of the expansive map she picked out a single icon among hundreds, this one of a classic power plug. The outer axons of the web, the ones bridging it to the rest of the Expanse, were colored a bright orange to signify the presence of a firewall.

Given Carousel’s budget, it was nearly impossible to break into the network from the outside. She’d sent a custom Trojan disguised as a spam message to the company’s Public Relations department earlier that day to prepare for the heist. The clerk on duty probably deleted the message as soon as he saw the contents, but the Trojan would have buried itself in the network by then. Pinkie had rigged the message to discretely auto-install the malicious program as soon as it was opened.

Presently, she connected to the Grapevine and made a blank post on the general board. The other users would be annoyed she knew, but she’d grown accustomed to their ire and maybe they’ve grown accustomed to her antics. It couldn’t be avoided in any case, because the Trojan needed a trigger. She couldn’t interact with it directly while outside of the firewall, so she programmed it to activate upon her next post on the forums.

Something happened to the network map, something that an untrained eye would easily miss: one of the countless dozens of the outer connections faded from orange to a chalk-white.

It would take the proprietary AI a split second to recognize the disturbance and investigate, but Pinkie, adequately energized by the constricting nightshade, was already racing through the network, bouncing her connection from one machine to the next. Her pianist fingers were a blur as they danced on the keyboard and then, in an instant, she had access to the generator interface.
The password cracker went to work to grant her access to the maintenance commands. Various nodes began turning a cyan blue on the map as the AI checked each one for signs of intrusion. They were changing at an alarming speed—Pinkie counted at least ten a second—and they were closing on the path she’d recklessly broken in through.

As the diagnostic wave swiftly drew closer, the cracker blinked red, signifying that a successful password attempt had been made.

Welcome, Admin.

Access maintenance commands:
Troubleshooting
Restart system server
Lock system
Shut down
Log off

Pinkie smiled triumphantly and brought her finger down on the enter key.

Sweetie Belle was being childishly unreasonable, as usual.

“Please, Rarity? Cavaliers of Lesbos will only be in theaters for another week! Would you please take me to see it?”

Rarity took a drag from her cigarette holder and glanced over the list of job applications on the holographic screen of her office computer. Even with the introduction of the neuro-optical interface, most companies kept their data on in-house machines. This offered the illusion of security, even though copying corporate data to a portable device was a simple task.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie, I’m afraid that I’m a little preoccupied right now.” Strictly speaking, this wasn’t true; the number of applications for a datarat position was sorely wanting. Hopefully Sweetie Belle wasn’t perceptive enough to notice the sparse list of documents displayed on the hologram. Rarity stubbed her cigarette out on an ashtray cut from artificial diamond. “In any case, we’re subscribed to the VIP membership plan at Nightfall Cinema, remember? You could watch the film on your NOI any time you want.”

“That’s not the point!” Sweetie Belle ran up to the desk and tried to lean over it but her petite stature foiled the attempt. “I hardly ever get to see you anymore, and mum and dad are always busy.”

Rarity gave Twinkleshine an imploring look. The nanny hastily put one of her forelegs around Sweetie Belle.

“Come along, deary. Miss Rarity looks really busy right now. If you like, we could get the film on one of the screens at home for you to watch with her when she is available. How about it?”

Sweetie shrugged off the nanny’s embrace.

“You’re always like this! All you do is hide behind your paperwork and brush me off.”

She kicked at the desk, though a little more vigorously than she intended. The ashtray tipped over the edge, spilling the dust and the cigarette butts on the carpet.

Twinkleshine grabbed hold of Sweetie Belle, more forcefully this time.

“That is enough, Sweetie. I’m really sorry, Miss Rarity, I was hoping I’d taught her better than this.”

Rarity looked up from the screen. Her eyes were invisible behind the silver insect lenses, making it difficult to gauge if she was angry. Twinkleshine felt herself wither beneath her impassive gaze. Rarity shifted her focus to Sweetie Belle who looked back resentfully.

“You too will inherit Carousel Industries when you’re older, just as I did. And make no mistake; you’ll understand then why I’m doing the things I am. Running a company isn’t a game.”

Sweetie Belle’s glare could have welded lead.

“Yeah, right. I’m sure your weekly spa sessions are very draining for you.”

Rarity opened her mouth to speak, but realized that she did not have a retort ready. She’d thought that only Eiffel knew about her self-indulgent Tuesday visits.

Perhaps Sweetie Belle understood that she’d hit a nerve and chose to quit while she was still ahead.

Maybe she’s learned a few things from me, after all.

Or she just wanted the last word. Regardless, she allowed Twinkleshine to lead her away without sparing her older sister another look. The sliding door shut behind them and Rarity was left alone, ruminating in the deathly silence of the sound-proofed office.

The dust from the ashtray had settled on the dark carpet like dandruff or something equally unseemly. Rarity’s hoof hovered over her desktop pager for a few seconds as she considered notifying a janitor. Then, Sweetie Belle’s words echoed accusingly in her head and she sighed, standing up from her desk. There was a vacuum cleaner sheltered somewhere inside her closet, probably almost pristine from lack of use. The administrative AI’s synthetic tones sounded from the overhead speakers as she dug through the dark alcove.

“Madam. I don’t want to cause any undue alarm, but it appears that one of our firewalls has just been forcibly disabled.”

This gave her pause.

“Oh? Do you think it could be a malfunction?”

“I am running a full diagnosis of the network as we speak.”

Given Carousel’s expensive security measures, it was unlikely that the downed firewall was the result of an intrusion attempt, so Rarity continued searching for the vacuum.

Something killed the lights.

She stumbled out of the closet to see that the building had gone dark—the only illumination in her office came from the lights of downtown Ponyville shining through her window. There was a hum as the emergency circuit came online; dim secondary lights flickered on, lending the silhouettes of the objects in her office a suggestion of detail. The holographic computer screen appeared over her desk once more, but it was stuttering and isolated from the company network.

The network’s almost certainly down anyway. Looks like someone managed to shut off the central power generator.

The building had probably gone into lockdown, as per the blackout procedure. Rarity wasted no time in retrieving her Levitus pistol from a nearby drawer, pulling out her phone and contacting the police. The voice of an emergency operator sounded in her ear as she moved to pry her office door open.

“You’ve reached Lodestar's emergency offices, how can we assist you?”

She stifled a satisfied grunt as the door gave, allowing her access into the hall beyond.

“This is Rarity of Carousel Industries speaking. Our caretaker AI reported that one of our firewalls was deactivated shortly before someone broke into the network and cut the power. I believe that this is the prelude to a raid and request immediate armed support.”

“Understood. We will dispatch several cruisers to your location. Please stay on the line, miss.”

Rarity unzipped a crisis kit suspended on a nearby wall and took out a flashlight.

“I can’t do that. Your prompt assistance will be appreciated, however.”

She ended the call and started walking briskly through the darkened halls. Sweetie Belle was still in the building somewhere.

Author's Note

And here we are again. This episode is done, so expect the second half of it to go up tomorrow. Have a nice weekend, folks.

On the Subject of Hedonism (Act Two)

“Are we sure this blackout’s gonna last?” asked Spring Skies while her multitool cut through the glass of one of the ground floor windows.

“Thecentralpowergeneratorislocatedonthebasementfloorbehindawholebunchofblastdoors,” said Pinkie.
The nightshade had accelerated her speech patterns, making it difficult to follow what she was saying. “Thenetwork’sshutoffnowsothey’llhavetoheaddownandrestartthegeneratormanuallyandthatwilltakeawhile!”

Spring Skies looked at Comet Tail questioningly. The unicorn shrugged.

“Act under the assumption that we have a half-hour before the electricity comes back on.”

The blade compass completed its circuit around the window and was retracted back into the multitool. Comet Tail levitated the cut glass out of the window frame and set it gently on the pavement.

“I’ll take point, scouting ahead as we go,” he told the others. “Coconut, you stay behind me but don’t fire unless a direct confrontation is unavoidable. Those cannons will alert the entire building if you use them. Pinkie is unarmed, so she’ll keep to the rear. Spring, your job is to keep her out of harm’s way. Understood?”

Coconut and Spring Skies nodded. Pinkie tapped on the ground impatiently.

“Yeahyeahyeahweallgetitokaylet’sjustgetonwithitalready.”

Rarity ran into a dozen or so confused office and maintenance workers as she trotted through the gloomy corridors. She deflected any questions regarding the nature of the blackout and told them to hole up wherever they could and lock the doors until the electricity returned. Few of them had seen Sweetie Belle and Twinkleshine, but those that had pointed her to the lower floors of the building.

There had been no sign of any physical intrusion as of yet, but she didn’t let down her guard. A single security officer trailed behind her as she descended the stairs. They were nearing the second floor when they heard muffled gunshots.

“Madam, maybe it’s best that you return to your office,” said the security guard.

An explosion erupted somewhere as she started racing down the stairs.

Comet Tail was down. The three security officers took cover behind the receptionist’s counter, firing blindly as they cowered. Coconut pulled the unicorn out of the line of fire while Spring Skies shouted obscenities at their aggressors.

“Snap out of it, man. That shot barely grazed you,” said Coconut, patching the side of Comet’s neck with an easy-application bandage.

Comet was lying on the floor, trembling.

“Shh—shit. I think these bullets are paralytic. Basilisk or… cockatrice venom. I c-can’t move.”

Coconut peeked out of cover for a few seconds to trade fire with the officers. This was going nowhere. He gestured for Pinkie to come over and she tumbled across to him, glancing around wildly.

“What’supchief?”

“I’m not equipped to use these, Pink. You mind?” he said, jerking his head toward the corrosion grenades strapped to Comet’s utility belt.

“Howdotheywork?”

Coconut groaned in exasperation.

“It’s like a… like a soda can, okay? You jerk the pin and throw.”

Pinkie wrapped her fingers around one of the grenades, pulled its safety pin and threw it towards the security guards without more than a moment’s hesitation. It rebounded against the far wall, landing behind the officers’ cover.

Splash.

The air filled with a terrible hissing, overtaken by hysterical screams. An acrid smell stung Pinkie’s nostrils and made her eyes water, the smell of battery acid mixing with road kill. The sixty-leg poison surging through her system amplified her sensory stimulus to the point where she could almost taste the corrosive payload in the back of her throat. It took some effort not to retch into her mask. She felt her excess energy begin to wane in the wake of the olfactory distress, leaving her vaguely fatigued. She estimated that it would take another fifteen to twenty minutes for the crash to fully set in.

Spring rolled up and cautiously peeked over the half-melted counter. Mercifully, her night-vision goggles spared her the grisly details of the corrosion grenade’s handiwork.

“All clear,” she called to the others. “That grenade sure did a number on them.”

Comet Tail shuddered.

“Please…” His breath came in short gasps. “H-help me.”

Coconut cocked the spreadgun strapped to his left foreleg, and aimed it point-blank at Comet’s head, biting down on the discharge lever.

“Wait,” said Spring Skies. “Wait a second. What are you—?”

The spreadgun coughed, and Comet’s head was reduced to a cracked cranium holding teeth, bone shards and liquefied brains like gruel in an unwashed bowl.

Spring Skies swung up her burst rifle in Coconut’s direction.

“W-what the fuck was that? You gonna kill the rest of us too, asshole?”

He shot her a caustic glare.

“What would you prefer I’d done? Lug his quadriplegic ass along? You heard him: paralytic rounds. Without a mechanical respirator he’d have suffocated inside a few minutes anyway. And I couldn’t leave ‘im here intact for security to find, right? ‘Cos they’d get our identities from his dead neurons and it’d all be over.” He stepped over Comet’s corpse and started toward the door into the next department. “So get with the fucking program and come on. More of them are probably on the way now that this stealth BS went over so damn well.”

As if on cue, a siren began to echo in the distance.

The doorknob didn’t budge and the lock appeared to be analog. For a split second, Coconut thought he heard voices on the other side of the door.

“Stop your pouting and get over here, Spring. I need that multitool.”

Spring Skies bit back an angry retort and engaged the multitool’s skeleton key mode. A dual pick emerged from the tool and began probing the lock in an automated sequence. After a few hushed seconds, there was a click and the door swung open. The area beyond was the bottom to a service staircase, a grimy space with countless pipes and wires protruding from the walls. Steam was being steadily dispersed into the air, as if something in the plumbing had recently burst. Coconut could have sworn that he heard voices here. Almost compulsively, he opened the bright red fire hose compartment built into the wall. A unicorn filly of maybe twelve years of age tumbled out of the narrow recess. A scream erupted from behind the stairs before the party had time to question the child’s presence here.

“Get away from her, you hoodlums!”

The mare came fast and vicious, swinging a dislodged pipe with a pressure meter still attached to one end. The heavy implement connected to the side of Coconut’s head, staggering him. Muttering a string of expletives, Coconut regained his footing, raised the spreadgun and shot the mare once in the foreleg. She collapsed, weeping softly on the floor.

“Nanny!” The child brushed past Pinkie and wrapped herself around her fallen escort. “Nanny ‘Shine, p-please please be okay!”

“Who are these two?” asked Spring Skies.

“Who the fuck cares?” Coconut seethed, leveling his spreadgun on the couple.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it, bud.” Pinkie pressed herself in front of the primed firearm. “I did my research. The girl is the CEO’s sister, I’m almost positive. Don’t you think that might be worth something to us, if, you know, you don’t immediately shoot her?”

“What, this kid?” Coconut asked. “Seriously?”

Pinkie’s head drooped in something similar to assent.

Despite the intense headache building around his temples, Coconut smirked.

“Well, well.”

The halls were littered with bodies. Rarity kept a handkerchief to her nose as she advanced, to lessen the stench of cockatrice venom and voided bowels. The intruders had come prepared. She wagered they brought some way of seeing in the dark, giving them an edge over the unsuspecting security force. She stood now at the scene of the most sickening of the killings yet, three guards resting behind a heavily damaged counter. Their bodies were covered in gruesome chemical burns. In some cases, charred bone was visible through the damaged skin and muscle. The door to the service staircase had been forced open and steam spilled out into the lobby.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

“Rarity speaking.”

“Madam, we have a situation here.” It was Eiffel.

Rarity moved through the service staircase access. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw Twinkleshine prone in a pool of blood.

“…The intruders have taken Sweetie Belle hostage, haven’t they?”

His tone sounded hollow through the speaker.

“Yes, madam. They refuse to issue their demands until you are present in person.”

Rarity could still feel the weak beating of Twinkleshine’s heart on her neck. Wasting no time, she took her handkerchief and wrapped it around the nanny’s bloody foreleg. Some antiseptic would have been ideal, but there was none within easy reach and no time to run and get some.

“Where shall I meet them?" she asked.

“They’ve barricaded themselves in the southern offices on the eighth floor. The guards and I have secured the surrounding perimeter.”

“Alright. I’m on my way.”

The wailing chorus of police sirens had climbed several decibels by the time the mare in charge finally arrived. Evidently, the Carousel security force was stalling Lodestar downstairs for fear that Coconut would shoot the filly once the authorities got involved. It was a reasonable concern, noted Spring Skies as she looked uneasily at the stallion. There was a spreading wet spot on his ski mask where the escort had hit him, and his eyes were twitchy and unfocused. Spring was worried that he might discharge his arms and kill the child by accident, even without encouragement.

Her relief may have almost been visible when the white unicorn knocked on the office door. Perhaps that was also the case for the filly, but it was hard to say given that she hadn’t said a word since parting from her escort. If it weren’t for the occasional sniffle, one could be forgiven for not even noticing she was there.

They ushered the unicorn in quickly and efficiently, making sure that Coconut and the filly were outside the line of sight from the open doorway.

The child skipped at the sight of her older sister, nearly making Coconut blow her head off.

“Rarity!” she cried. “I’m… sorry about before. They hurt Nanny ‘Shine! I think she m-might be…” Sweetie Belle trailed off and tears welled in her eyes.

“She’s alright, I patched her up as best I could,” said Rarity, trying to sound reassuring. “Everything will be fine, Sweetie, I’m here to—”

“Disrobe,” interrupted Coconut.

The CEO blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Clothes off, now,” he said impatiently. “We have no way of knowing what you’re hiding under there.”

She sighed.

“Very well.”

When the CEO had stripped naked, Pinkie handed her a tiny magnetic pin.

“Clip this on an earring or something,” she told her breezily. “If you take it off, we’ll kill your sis.”

As Rarity attached the pin, her NOI flickered slightly but remained operational. She kept her face carefully immobile. It seemed that the pin was intended to be an electronic jammer. Unfortunately for her captors, when Rarity underwent the operation to install her neuro-optical interface her mother had insisted on purchasing the most expensive model available, Spite V11. One of the less advertised features of this model was that it was hardened against radiation, thwarting any attempts to disable it via EMPs or jammers.

An ace in the hole.

“Tell your security to stay on the ground floor. If I see any of ‘em up and about when we leave, the pipsqueak gets it,” said Coconut.

Rarity made a show of calling Eiffel over and telling him to herd the remainder of the security force to the bottom level of the building.

“Are you quite certain about this, madam?” Eiffel asked gravely.

“We have no choice.”

She sent him a brief message over the Grapevine as he trudged back to meet with the guards.

(21:45) [Girls-Best-Friend] joined the conversation.
(21:45) Girls-Best-Friend: Eiffel?
(21:45) Girls-Best-Friend: Keep walking; I’m not talking to you right now.
(21:46) Girls-Best-Friend: Don’t worry about this overmuch. I have a plan. Do as I told you, but be prepared to mobilize the force as soon as these raiders tell me what they’re after. We have explosives in place for situations like these, remember? I need you to ready those ASAP.
(21:46) Girls-Best-Friend: And round up the marksmen. I’ll keep in touch.

The titanium doors to the labs were large, heavy and immobile and the DNA-reader console next to them was dark. Rarity looked back at Coconut.

“It seems that barring the use of heavy explosives, we can’t get in.”

Coconut gave Pinkie a meaningful pat on the side. The decker mare unzipped her saddlebag and with some difficulty hefted out a car battery.

Rarity raised a well-groomed eyebrow.

“Please tell me you’re joking, dear. That battery will power the doors and the console for maybe thirty seconds at best. As soon as it runs dry, the doors will automatically shut again.”

“We’ll manage,” said Coconut, glowering.

Pinkie ripped several wires out of the console and examined them critically. After a few seconds, she taped a pair of them to the two electrodes on the battery, triggering a shower of sparks. The console lit up, piercing the gloom of the powerless building.

“Open it.”

Rarity licked a forehoof and swiped it over the reader. The doors juddered and parted, granting them passage into the darkened test lab interior. Countless inactive computers decorated the first room, and several bulky servers were lined up along the walls near the door.

“Watch the kid for a sec, would ya?”

Coconut approached one of the servers and, getting behind the machine, started to push on it. The structure creaked and groaned as the supports securing it to the floor were steadily weakened. With a grunt and a final violent shove, the machine toppled over producing a deafening crash. Coconut shoved the downed server into the doorway just as the DNA-reader depleted the car battery.

The titanium jaws clamped around the server, fruitlessly trying to cut through it.

Coconut sighed, catching his breath.

“This’ll do.”

The group advanced through the immaculate tiled chambers of the testing and QA department. Rarity led the way deeper into the compartmentalized area, opening door after door. Various consoles and charts of uncertain purpose were spread along the floors, usually behind an acrylic glass screen or occasionally more durable material, marked with yellow-jacket hazard stripes. A number of prototypes and untested components were suspended on the cubicle walls inside damage-resistant cases. There was a little of everything: new firearms of the three major equine builds—Levitus, spinal turrets and leg-mounted cannons—sleek, sexy prosthetics and implants, assorted body armors and mob suits, bio-aug serums and other, less definable organic material inside absolute zero refrigeration apparatuses. There were a number of more innocuous-seeming items as well, including various home appliances such as cleaning robots and autobarbers.

It was in one of the cubicles that Rarity stopped and produced a newly-built—though no less obsolete—portable console from a hidden compartment.

“Here you are,” she said, giving the console to Pinkie. “Project Huehuecóyotl is dormant inside this machine.”

Pinkie looked at the console suspiciously, nursing a comedown headache.

“Why do you have Project Weh-weh-whatever in this old thing?”

“Standard procedure. An artificial intelligence is always coded inside an isolated machine. This minimizes the risk of it escaping or being stolen or causing unchecked damage. Huehuecóyotl is pretty primitive as of yet, so I’m not sure that it was worth breaking into my facility for.”

“Great, whatever,” said Coconut and, addressing Pinkie, “Jack in and make sure that everything checks out.”

Pinkie looked at him incredulously.

“That’s a dumb idea. The thing could be dangerous! It could fry my deck!”

“Open it in safe mode, you’ll be fine. If your deck really does burn out, I’ll buy you a new one once this is all over.”

At this point Pinkie was too worn out to argue. The drugs had run their course, leaving her on the verge of collapsing into a fetal position. She plugged her keyboard into the console and activated it, making sure to switch the device into safe mode. Rows upon rows of files scrolled across her display strip. The scroll bar on the side of the screen shrunk until it was nearly microscopic—there must have been thousands of files stored on this console. Going through every one of them would have taken Pinkie several decades alone. She began opening files at random, leering at the contents.

“Well?” Spring Skies asked. “Is this it?”

“If it isn’t, it’s a very convincing counterfeit.” Pinkie glanced over several files in tandem, suddenly noticing something off about them. “Hold on a sec…”

“What is it?” asked Coconut.

Pinkie turned to face the CEO.

“This code looks like it’s been written in practically every programming language ever conceived, for no discernible purpose! Most teams I’ve seen avoid using more than one language if possible. Why risk writing disjointed instructions like this? I'm seeing scraps of code on here that shouldn't even work together.”

Rarity looked back sheepishly.

“Some of our programming corps are a little, shall we say, eccentric. I don’t understand the details myself; I’m not much of a coder. The AI—what little there is of it at the moment—does work, though sometimes it may act a little erratically.”

“Fine,” said Coconut. “That’s all we need. Now you’re gonna take us up to the roof, boss-mare. We’ll be taking one of your helicopters outta here.”

“All our helicopters are DNA-locked, I fear,” Rarity replied.

Coconut frowned. “Then you’ll provide us with a pilot. I thought you corporate types were supposed to be smart.”

(21:59) Girls-Best-Friend: Are the explosives in place?
(22:00) ToweringSolace: They are, madam. The trap has been set.
(22:00) Girls-Best-Friend: And our contingency measure? What of the marksmen?
(22:00) ToweringSolace: Lying in wait inside the rooftop ventilation ducts, awaiting your signal.
(22:00) Girls-Best-Friend: Fantastic. Inform them that we should be arriving to the helipad within ten minutes.

The winds were picking up as the CEO, the raiders and the hostage marched across the darkened helipad. The landing lights weren’t working. Rarity made a mental note to rewire them into the emergency circuit at some point in the near-future. The well-kept blacktop dimly reflected the brilliant crescent moon overhead and far below, the police sirens wailed unheeded.

A single helicopter was positioned in the center of the helipad, with a young, scrawny-looking pilot seated at the controls, looking anxious.

Coconut turned back to Rarity.

“You did good, boss-mare. Not to worry; we’ll send your brat back safe and sound as soon as we verify that we can negotiate a decent price for the AI.”

Rarity stiffened.

“You… You’re taking Sweetie Belle with you?”

“Obviously,” said Coconut, scoffing. “How stupid do you think we are? You could shoot the chopper right out of the sky if we just let you have her here and now. She also happens to be our insurance. If the AI isn’t worth as much as my contacts think, we’ll sell the kid back to you for a ransom. Consider yourself lucky that we’re only taking the one or the other.”

He flashed a mirthless smirk and turned away, walking a sobbing Sweetie Belle to the helicopter at gunpoint.

“Wait.”

Coconut stopped and looked scowling back at her. “What is it now?”

Rarity cleared her throat. “That helicopter has been tampered with; it will explode as soon as the engine starts. Please take one of the others. I apologize for—”

He cuffed her hard across the face. She reeled and fell over backwards, landing sprawled across the unforgiving asphalt.

“Bitch. Stop wasting our fucking time.”

Rarity heard Sweetie Belle calling her name as she was led away. The crescent moon shone high over her but spared no words of condolence or advice. Her mouth tasted of metal and her lip stung. She shivered as the wind caressed her body.

The rotors of one of the other helicopters started to spin in the distance.

She heard Coconut’s scream for all of two seconds before it was lost in the persistent wind. Her tongue traced her bloodied lip and her mouth curled into a smile.

“Coconut, calm down, what’s wrong?!”

Spring Skies struggled to be heard over the stallion’s shrieks as he stumbled and grasped for his head with one of his forehooves.

The spreadgun chambered another shell.

“Pinkie, get the gun!”

Pinkie rushed forward and grabbed the barrel of the firearm, just barely wrestling it away from the stallion’s head in time. The shell fragments broke apart, escaping harmlessly into the night sky.

“Get a grip, you fucking idiot!”

Coconut’s screams molded into strained Equestrian mixed with glossolalic gibberish.

“Iaaaaaa… Too much…! Can’t… Can’t understand… Mother of Celestia, these fucking fractals go on forever… Peel away the first layer and underneath there is only chaos, wearing away at everything…"

His speech devolved into incoherent babbling interspersed with choking. Blood gushed from his mouth. He’d bitten off his own tongue.

His spinal turret spun wildly, firing at random. Pinkie felt a sting as a stray bullet clipped her side. Spring attempted to pin down the stallion, but his flailing made the task nearly impossible. Coconut’s legs, shuddering as though he’d forgotten how to use them, propelled him across the helipad until one of his hooves caught on the ledge. He stood swaying there for a good two seconds before gravity took over. His screams were abruptly cut short as his body met the ground a thousand feet below. The whole sequence was almost comical.

Pinkie straightened up, shaky on her feet from the adrenaline rush.

“What the hay was—?”

Her display strip flashed and filled with nonsense characters and commands. Mixed among the junk text, a series of bolded messages blinking at the center of the screen drew her eye.

In_ITia#*LiZ-inG ent!ty...
Par$i Ng s0uR-ce code...
Rend ER^^ing per$0nAlit y m@tRix...
ReSo lving w0rld-Ly con&cErNssssss...
Huehuecóyotl @cTi%ve.

A monstrous eye appeared on the display strip and winked at her. It had a vertical lid, a sickly yellow sclera and a blood-red iris.
She yelped, ripping the strip from her ports and throwing it on the ground. A cursor advanced across the torn screen, typing out a message before flickering out as the strip lost power.

WHAT A SHAME.
HE HAD SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR._

Spring Skies trained her rifle on Pinkie, suspicious of the outburst.

“Are you gonna lose it too?”

Pinkie raised her forehooves in a gesture of peace for as long as her sense of balance allowed.

“Easy, babe. I’m alright, see?”

She abruptly came to the realization that someone was missing.

“Hey, wait a second. Where’s the kid?”

A familiar voice rang out over the pad, unstrained against the howling winds, making it difficult to hear.

“I recommend that you come quietly.”

Rarity had gotten back on her feet and stood a fair distance away looking serene despite her bruised cheek and split lip. Pinkie and Spring could make out Sweetie Belle hiding behind her. The two were backed by a number of armed Carousel commandoes that had materialized from somewhere while the raiders were distracted.

Perhaps desperate or enraged, Spring Skies moved to raise her burst rifle once more.

The commandoes hosed her down. The hollow-point bullets tore through her flesh until she was practically unrecognizable. Her burst rifle flew off her foreleg and was reduced to scrap metal as it sailed through the air. When the gunfire ceased, all that was left of Spring Skies was a shredded husk of tissue. It collapsed onto the blacktop with a wet slap.

The stallion Pinkie vaguely identified as Eiffel leveled his pistol at her. She opened her mouth to protest or beg forgiveness but it made no difference.

It felt as though someone had punched her in the chest. Something warm dripped down her foreleg and she was reminded of the nosebleed she’d had a half hour ago. She touched the point of entry with her fingers. It was an exercise in abstract thinking; her fingers could not feel the blood or the wound as they were prosthetic, and the wound itself didn’t hurt since her nerves were apparently too far gone to report any pain. Eventually, her knees buckled under her.

Paralytic rounds. Talk about fucking overkill. You’d think that a hollow-point bullet would be damaging enough for these psychos.

Gradually, she began to lose consciousness. Each breath became laborious and her eyelids grew heavy. The scene on the rooftop spun away into darkness.

Pinkie found herself seated inside an oblong office, facing an expensive-looking antique mahogany desk. Bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes and bottles of exotic alcohol were stood against the walls. The wallpaper was an elegant crimson, complementing the elaborate hypotrochoid patterns tiled into the floor. The head of a grizzly bear was mounted on the wall behind the desk, appearing to Pinkie as grotesquely out of place. The windows looked out into a featureless white void. Gazing through them for too long prompted a feeling of indefinite existential unease.

All in all, the office seemed to radiate an aura of nostalgia for days gone by, much like a set for some sort of period piece.

Pinkie could not, for the life of her, remember how she’d gotten here. The last thing she could recall was passing out atop the rooftop of Carousel Industries after a raid gone sour. A cursory examination of her body revealed no gunshot wound.

“Am I dead?” she wondered aloud.

The wooden door behind her swung open. She twisted in her chair to see a white outline of a mare walk into the office.

“Not as of yet,” said the outline.

It came around the desk and seated itself in the impressive old swivel chair. A three-dimensional framework appeared inside the outline and began to fill, like a texture being rendered over a model. When the last of the polygons was colored, the entity took on the spitting image of the CEO of Carousel Industries.

“Uh, hey,” said Pinkie. “Rarity, right?”

The other mare nodded.

“Am I dreaming?” asked Pinkie.

“Close, but no cigar.” Rarity took a cigarette out of one of the drawers as though the phrase reminded her of her own nicotine habit, lit it with basic pyromancy and inserted it into a holder. She bit the tip of the tube and drew on it before speaking again. “You’re currently in intensive care. We jacked you into a virtuality because I wanted to have a word with you.”

“A virtuality?” Pinkie looked around excitedly. “You mean like a virtual reality? You’re kidding! I thought these things were just a rumor!”

“Just because something is rumored does not automatically disqualify it from being true. We’ve patented the technology and it should be released for commercial use within two or three years.”

“Awesome! This is kinda unimaginative for a, um, virtuality though, isn’t it?”

Rarity shrugged.

“Set backdrop variant two.”

The void outside the windows was replaced by a grassy autumn meadow at sunset. The grass shivered in the breeze, and the distant maple trees shed their rusted leaves. Pinkie heard an owl hoot somewhere.

“Variant four.”

The meadow vanished and an underwater coral reef took its place. A rainbow-toned mollusk crawled unhurriedly across the glass. Schools of tropical fish and shrimp drifted through the ridges of coral, seemingly unaware or uninterested in the underwater office.

“Variant nine.”

A massive ringed gas giant appeared in the window, partially obscured by a violet moon. Pinkie thought that she could make out a nebula looming in the distance behind the celestial bodies.

“It’s all very basic right now,” said Rarity. “You have to learn to walk before you can run, if you’ll forgive the platitude. I’m sure the entertainment industry will make good use of the tech, however.”

“Variant three,” tried Pinkie. “Variant five. Variant seven! Pleeeeaaaaase?”

“Only the designated controller can alter the virtuality,” said Rarity. “We wouldn’t want you getting distracted.”

“Alright fine,” groaned Pinkie. “So how long have I been out?”

“About a day and a half. Not to worry—Eiffel has been reprimanded for shooting you.” She turned her head fractionally to blow smoke. “But not too harshly; Sweetie Belle told me that you’re the one who suggested taking her hostage.”

“Psh! Yeah! And saved her life! Coconut was gonna just shoot her!”

“Was he?” Rarity broke away from the window to look Pinkie in the eye. “Well, if that’s the case, you have my thanks. What’s the matter? You look perplexed.”

Pinkie tried to rouse her memories once more.

“What… What happened up there, on the roof? Coconut just… went off his nut. And then there were the nonsense characters on my display strip, and something that looked like an eye. What was that all about?”

Rarity drew on her cigarette again.

“Our AI-to-be, Huehuecóyotl, has been known to invade neuro-optical interfaces and fundamentally change its victim’s perception of reality, usually for the worse. Unfortunately your friend appears to be the latest on the list of its casualties.” The way she pronounced the word made it clear that she did not regret Coconut’s death in the slightest.

“But, but I thought your coyote was locked inside that old box console you gave us!” said Pinkie.

“It uploaded itself into your deck once you connected to it, and jumped to Coconut’s NOI wirelessly. I neglected to mention that safe mode has not proven very effective in hindering it previously.”

“Are you serious? What is this thing?!”

“Huehuecóyotl has been designed as a weapon,” said Rarity, retaining her level tone. “It was intended to infiltrate hostile systems and disable them. Permanently. When interacting with the NOI it acts as a lethal neurovirus and when entering computer systems it deletes crucial system files and overloads the machine with custom malware and junk data. What you saw was only a prototype.” She permitted herself a satisfied smirk. “Once it has been perfected, it will be able to evolve to bypass virtually any security system.”

“Isn’t it kinda,” Pinkie bit her lip, “not a good idea to make something like that? How do you control it?”

“The programmers assure me that unchangeable parameters have been written into the code to keep the AI under our control. Rest assured that it will be rigorously tested before being utilized in the wild.”

Pinkie looked skeptical. “Weeeellllll. I guess your coders know the program better than anyone. I hope you’ll pull the plug on the thing if it doesn’t cooperate though.”

“Of course.” Rarity leaned forward. “Now then, Miss Pinkamena Diane Pie. You strike me as a talented mare.”

“Is this the part where you go ‘I have a proposition for you’?” asked Pinkie, making sterling use of her ‘serious’ voice.

The CEO smiled thinly around her cigarette holder. “Done this before, have you?”

“Once or twice, yeah. What’s up?”

“Carousel Industries is in sore need of a skilled datarat. Tell me Miss Pie, can you encrypt a Grapevine user connection to, say, hide the identity of a hypothetical operative of ours?”

Pinkie tilted her head quizzically.

“I could probably write an exploit, but chances are that it’d get patched in a mandatory update inside a week or two.”

“Could you repeat what you did during the raid and disable a security AI?”

“I don’t think I could replicate what I did on the raid. Being a successful decker requires the ability to improvise.”

Rarity looked at the pink mare thoughtfully.

“You snuck into our building without tipping off the identification software or the housekeeping construct and left with a set of blueprints that you shouldn’t have been able to decrypt, all without alerting or injuring a single employee,” she told him, trying to keep her voice level.

Binary looked back impassively, chewing on the cigarette she’d allowed him.

“Could you do something like that again, if you had to?” she asked.

He took the cigarette between his hooves and pulled it from his mouth carefully.

“I could try,” he answered. The years of smoking left his voice gravelly and he had a tendency to break into fits of coughing. Unlike Rarity, he couldn’t afford to have his lungs replaced on a whim. “But success wouldn’t be guaranteed. A good decker knows how to improvise.”

“Can you maintain a low profile regarding the jobs we assign you?” she asked Pinkie finally.

“I think,” said Pinkie dubiously. “But what if I don’t wanna work for you guys?”

“If you refuse this job offer then we will take you off life support,” Rarity replied. “If you would prefer death to working for us, feel free to decline. But if you do accept, you will receive a yearly salary of eighty thousand bits, and we will move you into corporate housing, where you’ll be much better provided for than in the space you’re renting from the Cake family. Lastly, the debt with your dealer will be settled and we will replace your severely damaged liver with one fresh from the vat.”

Pinkie was about to question how Rarity knew about her personal concerns but realized that Carousel had probably read her memories while she was under.

“Sounds too good to be true,” she said, eyes narrowing. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch, Miss Pie, is that you’ll be fitted with a nanomachine leash, should you accept. Do you know what that means?”

Pinkie shook her head.

Rarity flicked excess ash from the tip of her cigarette. The dust evaporated as it fell.

“We will inject microscopic robots into your bloodstream. The half-life for these new tenants of yours will be about eight years, in the absence of a catastrophic hemorrhage, of course. You will do whatever we ask because if you try to rebel, we will activate the nanomachines, and they will heat up until they combust, effectively boiling your blood and cooking you from the inside out. Not a pleasant way to die, I assure you.”

“I-is that for real?” Pinkie croaked.

“Not to worry. If you fulfill your contract with us, you will be set loose, with an attractive retirement package. But in the end, the choice is yours.”

Pinkie looked at the floor pointedly.

The choice to either die or live on as Carousel’s wage slave. Great.

Then again, she would be paid and taken care of. It was what she always dreamed of but couldn’t have as a freelance decker. What was so bad about that?

I will only be able to pursue committee-approved jobs. She makes it sound like a good deal, but I’m effectively losing my free will as soon as those creepy robots are inside me. Carousel could easily send me on a suicide mission if they want.

I’d like to think I wouldn’t be so disposable, given how much money they’d be investing in me, but in truth I have no clue how big a sum has to be before the company stops seeing it as an ‘acceptable loss’.

But she did know one thing for sure. She wanted to keep living.

Rarity shifted in her chair and adjusted her dress shirt, seemingly just for something to do.

“Would you like more time to make your decision? I can leave you alone for as long as you wish.”

Pinkie looked up.

“Don’t worry about it. Where do I sign?”

Author's Note

Yay, we're done! The second episode is finished at last. There are a few things that need to be done before I start on the next one, but it too will be released in due time. Episode three will detail the exploits of a designer-grown cyan soldier, caught in the conflict between the Saddle Arabians and the Gryphons far from the heavily-patrolled borders of Neo-Equestria. Expect appearances from a side character or two.

Thanks for your continued support!

All is Fair (Act One)

Staff sergeant Dash reporting for the slim chance that some of this is getting through to you, Mission Control. Day five of the Bridleon engagement. We lost private Medley to a sniper on the evening patrol, bringing the number of our squad to nine, counting myself. Supplies are dwindling, as is morale. The Saddle Arabians are holding off the gryphon infantry with the assorted armor Equestria has loaned them, but already there are reports of our machines being neutralized via anti-tank weapons and amplified EMP grenades. The gryphons are numerous and bolstered by suicidal enthusiasm for war.

Their movements are far too well-synchronized for the Saddle Arabians to defend our multiple fronts effectively. It’s only a matter of time before we are overrun. I believe that the gryphons are being directed by a competent tactician hiding out somewhere inside the city—gryphon-built monitoring systems are much too primitive to allow a handler to coordinate attacks like these remotely. He or she must be within striking distance, and must be removed if our allies are to have any chance of successfully repelling the assault.

I intend to leave camp with Lightning Dust first thing in the morning to conduct reconnaissance. This is risky I know, seeing that the two of us are the most experienced officers of the group, but I figure it’s likelier that one of us will survive to return to camp this way. In the event that we’re not back within a day, I’ve appointed Stormfeather as the temporary squad leader. He may not have our… advantages, but I trust him to lead the team safely out of the city if the need arises. I hope he’ll be able to arrange an extraction with the communication issues we seem to be having.

This is Rainbow Dash, signing off.

The gryphon grunt was closing in on his prey. The tall, slender Saddle Arabian mare made a desperate 90-degree turn into a side alley, perhaps thinking that she could outmaneuver her pursuer inside the narrow passage. As the gryphon approached the turn he heard a clatter. The mare was knocking over garbage cans to slow him down. He kicked them aside without losing his stride.

The alley was unsettling, claustrophobic for the gryphon. His species as a whole were accustomed to open skies and wide, accommodating living spaces. For the most part, Bridleon was welcoming to his kind, with comparably low-rise buildings, and no air traffic to speak of, especially not anymore. The Saddle Arabians didn’t trust air cars, even though the long highways winding high above the streets essentially allowed for the same sense of vertigo. With the constant bombardment by the Gryphon Commonwealth, many of the highways had since collapsed, crushing parts of buildings and blocking the streets.

The gryphon pursuer unclipped a pistol from his combat vest and leveled its sight on the fleeing Saddle Arabian.

His outstretched claw was buffeted by a sudden rush of air, throwing off his aim. Something pierced his jugular, brushing past his spinal cord.

Blood rushed down his damaged throat. He hacked and gagged, struggling to keep his lungs from filling with fluid. Something almost invisible had him pinned, and he saw his blood run down what he assumed was a transparent blade protruding from his neck. The light started to shift, as though it was merely an image overlaid on a three-dimensional object. As it faded, a cyan mare took its place. She was well-built but her profile was lanky, an acrobat’s frame. Six vibrant colors adorned her mane. She grimaced at him. With the focused clarity that precedes one’s inevitable death, he noticed that her teeth were razor sharp. Something savage hid behind her clear magenta eyes.

He tried to raise his pistol again.

Rainbow Dash tilted her head, twisting the martial horn inside the gryphon’s neck. Choked screams escaped his mouth. With a twitch, Rainbow drove the blade out through the side of the gryphon’s throat. He collapsed in a growing puddle of blood. She jerked her head again, trying to shake the excess blood from the horn.

Martial horns were a pegasus-designed weapon, little more than sharp pieces of metal welded to the skull. Some, like the one currently clipped into the slot in Rainbow’s head, were removable. None had any actual magical function.

A second mare deactivated the chameleon-skin function of her body suit behind Rainbow. She was blond, with a bright teal coat. In much the same way as her companion, there was something distinctly unequine about Lightning Dust. Dash and Dust were both experimental genetic variants, designer-grown soldiers spliced with foreign DNA. Rainbow Dash was gifted with a select few wolf genes, supposedly granting her added ferocity in combat and instinctual pack loyalty, ideal traits in a squad leader. Lightning Dust was spliced with the DNA of a lioness and, while she wasn’t particularly talented as a member of a team, her developed muscle mass and quick reflexes made her an excellent stand-alone unit.

“I would have snapped his neck or something, instead,” said Lightning Dust. “This bloodletting shit looks cool and all, but that won’t do you much good when you catch some exotic blood-borne pathogen. Who knows what kind of diseases these mangy ratbirds are carrying?”

“Oy!”

They turned to face the voice. Another gryphon was hesitating at the end of the alley, assault rifle at the ready. Lightning Dust spread her wings to propel herself to the newcomer, but she needn’t have bothered. An artillery shell detonated where the gryphon was standing, dispersing pieces of his body in the air. Blood-red carbon rain fell on the two pegasi for a few moments. Rainbow Dash smiled at her companion. Lightning Dust grunted and moved to brush bits of viscera from her mane.

“Whatever. Don’t know why I even bother.”

A spider tank lumbered toward the spot where the gryphon had been standing, admiring its handiwork. Its spherical head rotated and studied the two impassively. Rainbow Dash gave it a wave.

“Thanks buddy.”

The machine turned and continued on its way.

“Dash, I’m not regretting leaving camp with you,” began Lightning Dust. “Celestia knows I’m happy to stop foalsitting those tenderhoof recruits for a sec. But do you have any idea where we should start looking? This city’s a fucking labyrinth. The Commonwealth’s base of operations could be anywhere.”

Rainbow Dash lowered her thermal goggles over her eyes and reactivated the chameleon-skin, gesturing for Lightning to do the same. They spread their wings and took off, straining their voices to be heard over the wind.

“Time Turner managed to trace the gryphon signals to several points in the city and triangulate them around a mile-wide radius,” yelled Rainbow Dash. “Plan A is to search that area.”

Lightning Dust narrowed her eyes behind her goggles.

“Isn’t Turner a medic? He knows how to trace local broadcasts too?”

Rainbow looked at Lightning over her shoulder.

“He’s a multi-talented individual. They didn’t assign him to our squad for his martial prowess, after all.”

They’d split up to search the suspect territory more efficiently. The afternoon air was laden with desert dust and the thick rumble of distant explosions mingled with the rattle of gunfire. Stormfeather told Rainbow Dash once that the wartime ambience sounded different from the holofilms, as though the added menace of its authenticity somehow reinforced the soundscape. In the theater, you knew it was only a track overlaid onto the background. In an actual warzone, every gunshot, every distant explosion told a story, was itself part of a greater whole, a symphony of conflict and blood and death and mourning.

Rainbow Dash thought he was being needlessly melodramatic, but then, she was conditioned to participate in battle after battle. The poetry of it was lost on her, ironed out. She was a born soldier. An active imagination wasn’t convenient here, not if you wanted to leave with your sanity intact.

The gryphon war carriers hovered steadily over the horizon. They would not enter the city after the first four were shot down by Equestrian anti-air. Nevertheless, it seemed that enemy reinforcements would come endlessly no matter how the Saddle Arabians struggled and fortified. Rainbow Dash suspected that her superiors would cut their losses and pull Equestrian support out of Bridleon soon. She hoped they would. Even she could not survive here indefinitely.

Meanwhile, the press were no doubt still reporting that this was a trivial border skirmish. She’d checked the Grapevine several days ago, during a quiet moment—there was scarcely any mention of the conflict on the feeds. It would take nothing short of a full-on nuclear detonation to force the Equestrian generals to admit that maybe this wasn’t just another foreign scuffle. Admit that maybe Equestria needed to take a bit more of an interest besides sending small detachments of fresh-faced recruits and a few tanks.

A pair of gryphon medics scurried on the street below, carrying a wounded soldier on a stretcher between them. Rainbow Dash zeroed in on the party, following them from above. A crumbling apartment complex greeted them as they reached the end of the street. The medics weaved around the battered, skeletal remains of cars and transports in the parking lot and stopped in front of the double doors. One more gryphon emerged from the building, surveyed the surrounding cityscape surreptitiously, and marshaled the group inside.

Rainbow Dash activated the comlink with Lightning.

“I may have located the gryphon command post.”

“Wow, alr—dy? —ot bad, Dash.” Rainbow could barely hear what her partner was saying over the static. “I’ll be —ver there as soo— I can. —hit these sons o— where it hurts.”

Rainbow Dash looked over the building once more and checked the position of the sun.

“Negative,” she said. “We’re pulling back for now. Come midnight, we’ll hit this place with the others.”

“You kidding? —u want the rookies to suppo— —s? Dash, we can clear— place —r own.”

With the chameleon-skin, she was probably right. They could easily storm the building by themselves. But what of the rest of the squad? Rainbow felt uneasy leaving them on their own for any longer than absolutely necessary. What’s more, she knew that the two of them wouldn’t be enough in the event that they needed to take prisoners for questioning.

“That’s an order, Dust. We are returning to camp immediately.”

There was a second of radio silence.

“Roger,” came the other mare’s voice resentfully.

There was a selection of new bullet holes in the walls of the tenement building the squad had chosen as their temporary shelter.

Rainbow Dash felt her lungs tighten reflexively until the conditioning kicked in, relaxing her. A well-used maxim of one of her old drill instructors echoed in her head.

Don’t expect anything, and you will be ready for it.

She checked the ammo clip attached to her leg-mounted magnetic shard pistol. A small chunk of metal rested in the slot, good for maybe two or three more shots. She’d figured she wouldn’t need any more than that when she left camp that morning.

“Cover me, Dust.”

Lightning nodded silently.

Rainbow Dash slid stealthily into the partially-collapsed hallway. The old rug was scuffed and ripped in places, likely prey to careless gryphon claws. She arrested her breathing as she advanced further. Spots of dried blood painted the floor brown around her. An outstretched foreleg lay protruding from the doorway ahead. Hoofed. Rainbow Dash maintained her careful approach in spite of the relative safety provided by the chameleon-skin. She had braced herself mentally for the sight beyond the door, but she felt a pain in her chest as she gazed upon her fallen comrades. The pack had been culled, leaving only her and Lightning.

Stormfeather lay on his side in a pool of blood that the arid air had long since dried out. His face was blank, eyes dull and lifeless as child’s marbles. It looked like he had tried to buy time for the rest of the team and was unceremoniously gunned down. Joe and Emerald Green were a few yards away, apparently blown apart by a wildly inaccurate SMG or assault rifle. Seasong slouched against the wall, probably slain by the same. The shots were seemingly random, and hit mostly non-vital areas. She bled out slowly; the gryphons left her there, ruling a mercy kill as a waste of ammunition. Rainbow found Lucky Streak and Jubileena in the kitchen. They had been ineffectually taking cover behind one of the tables, and the bullets had torn right through the wood.

Lightning Dust approached from behind. She didn’t look as shaken by the violent passing of their squad-mates.

“Notice somebody missing?” she asked.

“…Yeah, corporal Biceps and Time Turner aren’t present here,” said Rainbow Dash, swallowing the lump building in the back of her throat. As she mentally replayed Lightning’s question, she thought that she heard an accusatory note. “Are you implying something?”

“All due respect, Dash, come on.” Lightning rolled Lucky Streak on his back, seemingly fascinated by the pattern of entry wounds sprayed across his torso. “Turner feeds you a vague set of coordinates and then, while you’re gone, the gryphons just so happen to discover the camp and kill everyone. Except for Turner, of course. And a set of dumb, impressionable muscle. They’re conveniently MIA. This doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

Rainbow felt a disproportionate wave of anger wash over her.

“Why in Tartarus would Time Turner betray Equestrian interests for the fucking gryphons?” she demanded. “He’s a patriot, Dust, same as you and me.”

“I don’t know,” Lightning admitted quietly. “I can only comment on what I see, and what I’m seeing here looks fishy.”

Rainbow brushed past her partner and examined the entrance hall one last time, fighting the urge to break something. A subtle blinking light caught her attention, almost invisible in the harsh glare of the desert sunset streaming through the windows.

“I say we head back to that outpost you found and pay them back tenfold,” said Lightning.

“If you’re right,” said Rainbow Dash dubiously as she approached the blinking light, “if you’re right and Time Turner did go rogue, he wouldn’t give us the coordinates to the real outpost unless they were preparing a trap for us there.” The light was buried in a crack in the sandstone wall. She started scraping at it with a forehoof.

After a few moments of focused digging, a bug-sized device fell out of the crack and onto the smooth, sandblasted floor.

“Isn’t that one of the proximity alarms from our ambush kit? I don’t remember setting those up around camp,” said Lightning, looking over Rainbow’s shoulder. “Oh… shit.”

“We’re leaving,” ordered Rainbow Dash. “We’re leaving right now.”

They activated their chameleon-skin as they ran back down the ruined hallway. There was a flash outside.

“Hold on, Dash. I can… I can see you.”

Rainbow turned around and saw that, like her, Lightning Dust was fully visible.

“Damn it. They must have set off a localized EMP. It’s shorted out the bodysuits.”

They know that we have the chameleon-skin. They know.

“Get your gun ready. We’ll have to fight our way out of this one.”

They heard the scraping of gryphon claws on sandstone. Two soldiers armed with electric stun-guns rounded the corner. Rainbow raised the shard pistol. The electromagnet buzzed to life, propelling razor-sharp fragments of steel into the flesh of their opponents. The first shot perforated a gryphon’s torso. The second lodged the projectile inside his skull. As the other gryphon took aim with his stun-gun, Lightning unloaded her own clip into him.

“Well, I’m out,” she said.

“Yeah, me too.”

The blonde mare grinned.

“No ammo, no working bodysuits. I guess this makes it a fair fight.”

Something or someone ambled through the entrance around the corner. The footfalls were slow and sounded heavy. A massive equine albino turned the corner unhurriedly and regarded them with piercing, blood-red eyes.

“Hey there, Sarge.”

Rainbow felt her pulse quicken.

Bulk Biceps had changed out of his Equestrian fatigues and was now wearing Commonwealth colors. He was a mountain of a stallion, bioaugmented to the eyes. His artificially-enhanced musculature threatened to burst through the combat vest he was wearing; it seemed that the gryphons did not have a set of gear his size readily available.

Rainbow Dash spread her forelegs and coiled her rear legs into a crouch in a wide sakuden’ko stance.

“You know what we do to deserters don’t you, Biceps?”

Biceps bore his yellowing teeth at them.

“’S gonna take more than a few fancy zebra moves to take me down. You think you got what it takes?”

A chat window appeared on Lightning’s neuro-optical interface.

(20:25) Commander_Giblet joined the conversation.
(20:25) Commander_Giblet: I’ll hold him off. You have to get out of here. Head back and use one of the windows.
(20:25) Lightning-Strikes-Twice: Are you crazy?! This motherfucker’s about three times your size!
(20:25) Commander_Giblet: Exactly my point. We can’t overpower him physically, and neither of us has any ammo. Don’t let your feelings cloud your judgment. There’s no profit in having us both captured, but if you go quick, you might be able to make it out of here. They want us alive, they were using stun-guns; I’ll be fine. Regroup with another squad and hit the outpost when you can.

Biceps began to advance toward them, his heavy footfalls kicking up clouds of dust. His crimson gaze locked with Rainbow’s.

(20:26) Lightning-Strikes-Twice: Dash, there’s probably more Commonwealth soldiers waiting outside.
(20:26) Commander_Giblet: You can outpace any gryphon, Lightning, don’t bullshit me. Go!

Lightning fell back reluctantly and Rainbow heard her hooves rushing over the sandy floors to the rear of the building.

A feral growl escaped Rainbow’s throat as she sprung toward the albino giant. Her knee connected with Biceps’ chin, throwing it upwards. The stallion barely flinched, sweeping artlessly at her with one of his forelegs. She took the brunt of the blow and smothered it, locking his foreleg with her own and driving her other one hard into one of his joints. The reinforced tendons wouldn’t tear. He reared back and kicked her hard with his other foreleg.

A sharp pain rippled through her chest. He must have fractured one of her ribs. She staggered backwards, losing her grip. He advanced, throwing another blow. She ducked, ignoring her aching chest, slid through his open stance and drove her rear leg decisively into his pelvis.

Biceps cursed and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright. He turned around to face her as she rolled to her feet. She dashed forward, head and martial horn set to impale her opponent. There was a click as he caught the blade between his hooves and a snap that vibrated her skull as he bent the blade until it shattered. He threw the steel shard aside and kicked her away.

Roaring like an enraged bull, he threw out his forelegs in a double sledge kick. The narrow hallway did not afford Rainbow much room for dodging, so she caught the downward blow between her own forelegs as best she could. Biceps drove them apart and tossed his head through the open space. His forehead landed on the bridge of Rainbow’s muzzle and she felt a wet crunch as her nose collapsed under the pressure. Blood rushed through her nostrils and over her lips.

She stumbled backwards dazed from the attack, but Biceps did not allow her the respite. He stepped forward and threw out two hooks. The first clipped her right side while the second connected with her left cheek, flooring her. She felt one of her teeth come loose as she rolled with the blow. He kicked her viciously in the chest once more as she tried to find the leverage to get back on her feet. Her ribs screamed and she fell back, only barely holding back screams of her own.

"Y’did pretty good, Sarge,” he said, rolling his head casually from side to side. “Considering.”

Rainbow grit her teeth.

“Wish I could say the same for you, you steroid-abusing, turncoat fuck.”

A gryphon entered the hall behind Biceps, as if following some unseen signal, and kneeled by her, fastening a pair of plastic cuffs around her forehooves. She fought to stay conscious as the gryphon took a stun-gun from his holster and held it to her stomach. The last thing she registered was a terrific jolt. Her heart and lungs felt like they would burst from her ribcage.

Everything went white.

She was roused by a familiar voice.

“Wake up, Dash.”

Harsh light streamed down on her, visible even behind her eyelids. She’d been sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The plastic cuffs on her forehooves remained firmly in place. The telltale visual artifacts in her peripheral vision told her that her NOI was shot, probably from intentional tampering by the gryphons. She cautiously tried to open her eyes, but the blinding light prevented her from doing so. She coughed once, to try and get her dry throat back into working order.

“Time Turner? That you?”

“It’s nice to see you alive, sergeant.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re currently in the custody of the Commonwealth. You may be a war prisoner, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t talk like civil people. In fact,” there was a rustle as someone shifted in their seat, “I would prefer this didn’t escalate needlessly. The gryphons have some questions to ask you.”

She sniffed.

“I’m Rainbow Dash, my birth-date is February first, 1993, I am a staff sergeant and my service number is 11056284.”

There was a pause.

“Very good,” said Turner. “But the information we seek is not of that sort.”

“Well, under the laws of war set by the Solidarity of Domains, that’s all I’m obligated to tell you,” said Rainbow mechanically. “So you all can fuck off.”

“Dash,” he started again, almost pleading. “They’re willing to torture you, Solidarity or no. You know as well as I that the laws of war hold little sway over the Commonwealth. I’m trying to spare you the unnecessary suffering. They want details on what Equestria’s plans are, concerning Bridleon and the war at large, how much hardware they’re willing to push into the city and detailed descriptions of the weaponry they have available.”

Rainbow snorted derisively and sputtered as blood rushed down her windpipe from the nasal fracture.

“Are you kidding? I’m a staff sergeant, Turner. Even were I willing to tell you, I’m not high enough on the chain of command to have access to any of that information.”

She heard Time Turner sigh.

“Okay, we’ll start small. You’re familiar with a good number of Equestrian arms, right? Tell me about what you do know.”

Her ribs were beginning to ache again. If she’d received any medical attention from the gryphons, it was likely minimal.

“No,” she spat out. “Fuck you. Your buddies have probably seen most of our weapons in person, anyway.”

“This is going no place,” said a third voice. His heavy Tlanese accent made him difficult for Rainbow to understand as she had only a foundational grasp of the language. “I am thinking perhaps it is time for more aggressive persuasive methods.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary sir,” said Time Turner hastily.

“I think it is necessary. Gilda!” There was movement on the other side of the room. “Take our reticent friend and convince her to talk.”

Several pairs of talons manhandled Rainbow to her feet.

“This probably goes without saying,” she announced as they led her away, “but I’m going to kill you for this, Turner; you and your muscle-headed lackey.”

“Goodbye, sergeant,” said Time Turner.

She was escorted down several flights of stairs and through a hall whose windows looked out onto a large, opulent room. The surroundings worried Rainbow Dash; the chipping gilded columns, the torn curtains acting as impromptu doors and the decorated atrium implied that this was something akin to a harem. She expected that Bulk Biceps would take her to the crumbling apartment complex she’d scoped out earlier, but this clearly wasn’t it. Chances of rescue seemed more and more remote by the second.

They led her into a spacious bathroom. This place was well-kept once, as indicated by the luxurious hot tub occupying the center, along with the golden sinks and the candelabra, but layers of grime and dust have since diminished its beauty. A rusted steel operating table was set by the rear wall, probably not one of the room’s original furnishings. She struggled feebly, and was bludgeoned with a baton for her trouble. The gryphons forced her onto the table and tied down her limbs with lengths of recycled cable, not bothering to remove her cuffs first. The position was uncomfortable, and the steel was cold on her skin, despite the warm, stale air. She amused herself wondering if her captors had refrigerated the table specifically for this purpose.

A female gryphon came fourth and addressed her.

“So your name is Rainbow Dash, is it?” Her accent was not nearly as pronounced as that of the voice in the interrogation chamber, but the hard consonants and the rolling R’s were noticeable nevertheless.

“And you’re… Gilda?” Rainbow asked.

The gryphon bowed her head in mock salute.

“Time Turner tells us you’re some kind of supersoldier, yes?” Gilda somehow managed a grin despite her rigid beak. “I must say that you don’t quite meet my expectations. You could not evade capture, and Biceps bears not one injury after your encounter.”

Rainbow stayed silent.

I’m not a supersoldier you superstitious slag, there’s no such thing. Genetic variants are hardly any less likely to be captured or killed than any standard soldier.

“Why the six-toned mane?” asked Gilda. “If you were really custom-grown, wouldn’t the commanders want something a bit easier to camouflage?”

“Unintended genetic defect,” said Rainbow before she could stop herself. She’d grown tired of hearing the question from her fellow operatives and the programmed response came unbidden whenever she was queried.

“Ah, forgive me,” said Gilda. “I’d thought it was a matter of, what is it that the Equestrians call it? ‘Gay pride’?”

“That’s a little juvenile, don’t you think?” Rainbow fixed her eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“You wound me, Dash,” Gilda cackled. “All I want is to get to know you a little better. And indeed,” she leaned in uncomfortably close, “over the next couple of hours the two of us will get to know each other real well.”

A rattle could be heard outside as a trolley bearing a number of tools was wheeled over the debris-strewn floors into the bathroom.

“Looks like our toys are here,” said Gilda. “Now we can get started. Are you not excited?”

Rainbow gave the trolley a cursory glance, not allowing her mind to linger on any of the instruments. There were blades of several sizes and shapes, some smooth and some serrated, there were bottles of assorted chemicals—maybe poison or acid or bleach—spiked presses, prods, probes and electric clamps along with more antique items like fire-branding irons and a few smooth, round tools that were probably choke pears. This was a classic pre-torture technique to get the victim in the right state of mind—a display of one’s equipment. Imagination is a powerful thing, sometimes more so than the actual procedure; if the prisoner is particularly weak-willed or squeamish—as are most untrained personnel—merely the sight of the tools is often enough to convince them to talk.

She caught her breath in anticipation. Gilda lifted one of the knives. It looked poorly maintained; rust crept across the face of the blade, and the edge was notched. Fine burr was visible along the sides. The gutter was crusted over with something. Gilda dragged the edge of the blade across Rainbow’s cheek, drawing blood. There was a moment’s delay before the pegasus’ nerves reported the sting to the brain. Her face was motionless as a mask. Gilda smirked.

“I have to admire your stoicism, my friend. If your nation has more soldiers like you on reserve we may have our work cut out for us. However,” she gently laid the knife on the operating table, “there is one key advantage we gryphons hold over your kind.”

Rainbow’s eyes flickered. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Claws.”

The next instant Rainbow felt a terrible, piercing sensation as the gryphon dug into her left eye socket. A hoarse scream escaped her lips as Gilda tore her optic nerve and pulled the eyeball free. The pain felt as though it would never cease, but it soon receded to a dull ache that made her teeth itch to dig into something.

“Excuse me,” Gilda said mockingly. “I was getting a little peckish.” She displayed the bloody morsel for a second before shoving it into her mouth.

Rainbow shuddered once, trying to suppress the urge to scream obscenities at her captor.

“Getting uncomfortable? Worry not—it’s only going to get worse from here on in.”

The rest of the session passed agonizingly slowly. She could not say how much time had passed—it could have been thirty minutes, it could have been two hours. She found herself unable to muster the focus necessary to estimate. It didn’t matter much, either way.

Rainbow’s pain management conditioning was the only thing that kept her together throughout the ordeal. Willful detachment from what was happening to her body allowed her to keep from submitting to the psychotic gryphon. This, much like her martial training, was a zebra-taught technique; a latent state of meditation, total isolation of the mind from the body. She was vaguely aware that her muscular responses remained on autopilot while the mind was indisposed. Her body flew into violent convulsions with every excruciating new act. Bleach burned on her skin. Her arteries wept with each incision. The searing touch of the branding iron left her skin charred.

Halfway through the session Gilda had two of her companions heft Rainbow from the operating desk and suspend her from the ceiling. This was to facilitate more consistent work to her back and legs. The feathers on her wings were pulled out violently and in clumps, and the follicles were doused in foul-smelling acid to prevent any regrowth for the foreseeable future.

At last, Gilda sighed and put down her shock whip. Rainbow wanted nothing more than to collapse and bleed out in peace, but the rope kept her uncomfortably upright, like a worn-out marionette still hanging from its strings. Her rear leg bones were fractured in several places and properly broken in at least one. Gilda had apparently gone a little overboard in response to Rainbow’s lack thereof. It was an amateur job; such treatment would likely have killed any unenhanced prisoner.

“I tire of your lack of cooperation, Dash. If you continue stubbornly refusing to negotiate with us, I cannot promise your continued survival.”

Rainbow momentarily surfaced to cough out a sardonic chuckle.

“You wouldn’t stop if I agreed to talk,” she grumbled, licking her cracked lips. “I’ve known people like you; you’ll keep going until I’m just meat, and you’ll relish every second until then. You’re not a soldier, Gilda. You’re an enthusiast.”

She thought she saw a flicker of rage pass over Gilda’s features.

“Is that what you think?” Gilda asked. “If that’s the case, let’s discard all pretense of interrogation. I am going to take a little break, understand? When I return, we will conclude this affair for good and all.”

One final statement echoed in the bathroom behind her as Gilda marched out.

“Yeah, you’d damn well better kill me, Gil; for all your sakes.”

Author's Note

It seems that our stalwart heroine, Rainbow Dash, has found herself in quite the bind! How will she get out of this one? Will Gilda get her just desserts?! And what of the traitorous duo, Time Turner and Bulk Biceps?! FIND OUT NEXT TIME, ON CIGARETTES AND GUNMETAL! TUNE IN TOMORROW—SAME CYBER-TIME... SAME CYBER-CHANNEL!!

All is Fair (Act Two)

She had no way of determining what time of day it was. The bathroom was dark and windowless. One of the faucets was leaking, the plip-plip of the water droplets seemingly amplified by the still air and her own mounting apprehension. This, too, was an interrogation technique—long periods alone in an uncomfortable position tended to unnerve the victim, all the more so if they were awaiting further torture. The dread that precedes a session is an effective persuasive tool.

Under normal circumstances, a pony in her position would be unable to relax, but Rainbow understood that she was powerless in her current position and resigned herself to her fate. She was bound and what’s more, even if she wasn’t, the damage that Gilda inflicted rendered her almost completely incapacitated. Her genetic disposition allowed her a greater control over bodily functions like the ubiquitous adrenal response, and so, she’d shut it down completely. Within ten minutes, the pain and the blood loss overwhelmed her and she fell asleep or passed out. Functionally, there was no difference.

A light pat on her cheek brought her back around. Had the gryphon inquisitor returned? She didn’t make the effort to lift her heavy eyelids.

“Hey. Come on Rainbow, we gotta get going. Bloody Tartarus, you look like you got into a fight with fucking Cerberus or something.”

She opened her eyes, wrestling with a terrific headache. As her vision cleared, the blur in her vision took the form of her second-in-command, Lightning Dust. She was still wearing her body-suit, though it was plastered with sand and ripped in places. A martial horn was inserted into her forehead.

“What… what are you doing here, Dust?”

Lightning gave her an uneasy smile.

“I followed Biceps and the gryphon squadron when they took you. Wasn’t easy with the disabled chameleon-skin, but I managed. I contacted a friendly group afterwards and they pointed me to a makeshift Equestrian base near city limits. We’ll be heading there once we’re clear of this shithole.”

Rainbow could barely keep her eyes open. The assorted aches and burns on her body threatened to put her under again.

“Urgh, thanks for that. To be frank though, I’m entertaining thoughts of just staying here.”

“You can’t just roll over and die, Rainbow!” Lightning snapped. “We have to get them back for this! I. I can’t do it alone!”

“Sundamn it, stop yelling,” Rainbow groaned. “I have a splitting headache and you’re not helping. I’ll go with you, okay? But my hind legs are fucked and you’ll have to carry me. Happy? Get me down, would you?”

Lightning took one of the serrated blades from the gurney in her teeth and began sawing away at the coarse rope holding Rainbow upright. After a minute the strand gave and Rainbow felt her legs collapse underneath her. She lay on the grimy floor feeling sorry for herself until Lightning embraced her in her forelegs.

“It’s a relief to see you again. I was afraid you’d be dead by the time I returned here.”

Her touch felt like the prelude to more pain. Rainbow felt her mind instinctively slipping away from her body once more and tried to shrug Lightning off.

“Hey, hey. Let go,” she gasped. “No offense, but being tortured within an inch of your life tends to kinda kill the mood.”

Lightning released her, looking sheepish.

“How are we getting out of here?” Rainbow asked.

“The chameleon-skin is busted,” said Lightning. “I’ve taken care of your guards, but the building is still crawling with ratbirds. We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“You mean you’ll have to do it the old fashioned way. I’m worse than useless right now. I assume you’ve brought hardware besides that blade?”

Lightning lifted each of her legs in turn, revealing four leg-mounted pistols.

“Pistols on your rear legs? Are you trained to use them that way?”

Lightning smirked.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not a chance. The technique always struck me as needlessly flashy and impractical.”

Lightning dismissed the remark with a breezy toss of the head.

“Uh-huh. Are we going, or what?”

They set off for the exit at a brisk trot, Rainbow slung across Lightning’s back. At first Rainbow wondered at Lightning’s nonplussed pace this far inside enemy territory. As she looked around she saw traces of blood smeared across the tiled floors. A closet door was ajar as they passed it. The darkness prevented Rainbow from making out what was inside, but she thought she saw gryphon feathers strewn about near the door. Her vision was coming and going, and her head felt like it was coming unglued.

“And where do you think you’re going, friend?”

Lightning stopped. Rainbow craned her neck back. Several gryphon soldiers poured in through the curtains covering the side passages. They were armed with outdated models of assault rifles, but they’d kill just as surely as any Equestrian arm. Gilda descended a tarnished silver-plated spiral staircase in front of them.

“On my mark,” she told the soldiers. “I would prefer them alive.”

“Now then,” she addressed Lightning. “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Gilda. I have been assigned interrogation detail here. I will be your handler from here on out.”

“That’s a laugh,” said Lightning, grinning. “You the one who cut up my friend?”

“And what of it?” asked Gilda. “Are you going to file a complaint?”

“No, no, just curious is all.” The grin remained frozen on her face. “You can go ahead and take us if you want, but it’s already over for you. The outpost in the apartment complex was a ruse, wasn’t it? This is your proper headquarters, right? I’ve already transmitted the coordinates home, Gil. The Equestrian beam orbital’s gonna be in position inside an hour, and then this whole building will be wiped clean off the map.”

Gilda looked momentarily off-balance.

“What did you—?”

Now.

Lightning whipped up a pistol and fired. It was a lightning-quick shot, clumsy and ill-aimed, but it clipped the side of Gilda’s face, leaving a long scratch along her beak, and tearing her right cheek. The gryphon doubled over, screaming in pain or rage. The rifles barked, shredding the decorated interior, but Lightning was already sprinting down the opposite end of the hallway, leaving the soldiers in her dust. Turning a corner, she burst through the door into a convenient living quarters. The sun shone through a window looking out into the deserted street.

“Better brace yourself, Dash,” she yelled, leaping towards it.

The glass folded and split, raining razor shards onto the road below. Rainbow shook her head, trying to recover from the shock. Lightning spread her wings and shot into a narrow alleyway, weaving around the clotheslines and the fire escape stairways.

“Y’mind flying a little higher? I’m on the verge of losing my lunch here.”

“No can do, Sarge. They might have snipers.”

Several minutes of wordless flight later, Lightning finally saw fit to slow down. They’d made it out of enemy territory and were now in no-man’s land.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” said Rainbow. “Though I really wish you’d killed that bitch.”

“If it’s any consolation, she’ll be dead in a coupla hours. I used a Helvens pistol. Necrotic payload.”

“Holy shit.” Rainbow tried to laugh but all she could manage was an agonizing cough followed by several dry heaves. “Where’d you get a piece like that? Aren’t those collector’s items or something?”

“That’s a story for another time.” Lightning looked back at her.

“The line about the orbital was bullshit, wasn’t it?” asked Rainbow. “Equestria’s not pulling out the god lasers yet, are they?”

“Got it in one.” Lightning made a face. “Positioning and charging the damn things is way too expensive for an everyday border skirmish, right?”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” Lightning consulted her neural GPS, “the Equestrian base is south of here. Hopefully we can get there before you pass out again. They’ll fix you up better than new, Dash. Everything will be kosher, you’ll see.”

“Great. Fine.”

Sundamn it, just let me sleep.

The operation was fairly uneventful. Rainbow was unconscious for the duration of the procedure.

For any other soldier such expenses would be out of the question; a spider tank would be cheaper. Rainbow Dash, however, was a veteran with top-of-the-line training in combat and tactical squad management. Genetic variants weren’t easily expendable, experienced ones even less so. Such was Equestria’s financial philosophy, and knowing this, Rainbow was unsurprised that her rehabilitation was made a priority.

She awoke in a frugally-furnished recovery room. It looked unexpectedly hygienic given that the entire base was a rush job on the outskirts of an active warzone. The mattress on her bed was sagging in the center but was nevertheless a considerable step up from her past sleeping conditions. IV bags hung from a pole next to her, connected to an infusion pump which was connected to an artery in her foreleg; nutrients to ease the integration of her new implants and prosthetics, endorphins.

She blinked, than winked with each eye in turn. Depth perception? Apparently the doctors had given her a new eye. This was a pleasant surprise. She kicked aside her blankets and looked at her rear legs. The bottom half of each had been replaced with a metallic frame. She felt the echoes of a phantom pain where her bones had been broken not a day earlier. She ran a forehoof along the metal. No sensation, as expected. A figure-eight speed brace began at the end of each frame, impaled the leg’s midsection and terminated near her hip. Braces like these kept bionic limbs within their safe movement zone. Without them, there was nothing preventing less-than-savvy idiots from pushing the device beyond its limits and subsequently complaining about the voided warranty. This limited the range of motion in her rear legs, but it also conserved energy in pre-programmed motions, like running. In theory, she’d be able to sprint for extended distances without tiring.

She sat up and spread her wings, almost knocking over the pump. They’d been replaced with two chrome tri-fold models, fitted with what looked like anti-grav thrusters. Pricey.

Why in the name of the Princess would they go to this much trouble? Standard leg prosthetics would be much cheaper… And my wings didn’t even need replacing; they’d heal in a month or two.

She ripped off the ‘trodes connecting her to the ECG. The line on the screen of the device went flat. Standing unsteadily on her feet, Rainbow Dash moved towards the patient bathroom, dragging the IV drip assembly behind her. The piercing smart-eye staring back at her from the mirror gave her a jolt. Her face was mostly unchanged, but her new left eye was a shining red iris on a pale plastic background. It seemed like the doctors had tried to pick out an artificial eye to match her first one, but the results were questionable. Not only was the glowing red iris inconsistent with her natural magenta, the sclera was perfectly, unnaturally white. It looked unsettlingly like a doll’s eye. She turned away from the mirror, prodding the smart-eye gently with her forehoof.

The door to her room swung open and a middle-aged stallion in scrubs strolled in.

“Sergeant Dash. I see you’re awake. I have to insist that you keep unnecessary motion to a minimum. Your prosthetics are still growing in.”

“Is this experimental cyberware?” asked Rainbow.

The stallion looked taken aback.

“We prefer the term ‘provisional’. But yes. Another reason you should rest up for now.”

She smiled coldly at him.

“And I was wondering why you’d fit me with all this bleeding-edge dreck. I’m just a guinea pig for some conglomerate back home, right?”

“Actually, the procedural orders came directly from Canterlot. The Equestrian military doesn’t accept testing commissions from privately-owned companies.”

Rainbow examined her eye in the mirror again.

“Okay, fine. Who made this smart-eye though?”

The doctor examined his clipboard.

“That model comes from… Ah. Carousel Industries. Features include multiple vision modes such as thermal and night vision, a zoom-in function and the ability to interface with optical-link weapons,” he said proudly.

“It looks fucking awful. I’ll want an eyepatch or something to cover it up.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, sergeant.” He sounded resentful. “You shouldn’t underestimate the importance of depth perception in a combat situation. The army doesn’t accept recruits handicapped in this manner.”

“I’m not a recruit,” said Rainbow, raising her eyebrows. “What’re they gonna do? Kick me out? After this?” She made an all-encompassing gesture over her body. “I don’t intend to actually fight with an eyepatch anyway. I can flip it up anytime, doc. Don’t worry.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Let her do what she wants.”

Lightning strode into the recovery room. The confined space was getting crowded. The doctor looked flustered.

“Please, I told you to wait outside!”

“And miss out on the show? Miss out on seeing my buddy’s slick new gear? Look at this!”

She ran a hoof enthusiastically over Rainbow’s tri-folds. Rainbow shrugged her off.

“Quit it. So the kid next door gets a coupla shiny new toys and you just barge in unannounced to have a gander? Go get your own.”

Lightning winked.

“Maybe I will.”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“Two more enhancements you should be aware of, sergeant. Your skeleton, minus what we removed below your hocks of course, has been coated in adamantium nanomesh. The mesh should bind within a day. Afterwards, it should be considerably more difficult to fracture your bones. In the event that you do somehow manage to do so, the mesh should act as a cast and keep them in place until they mend.

“Lastly, we’ve integrated a brand-new enhancement type. The parent company dubs it ‘neurachem’, a specialized solution to shorten the response time of neural cells as they pass along and process electrical impulses. It should boost your nervous response and cognitive processes by a significant margin. I’m afraid these claims are largely untested, howev—”

She felt the air move as Lightning threw a high cross kick from her side. Rainbow’s mind processed the sensation in a split second, almost before she was even consciously aware of it. The blow connected with her waiting foreleg, and she twisted like a minotaur arm-wrestler, forcing Lightning to the ground. She managed to overcome the newfound instinct to stomp on her partner while she was prone.

“Whoa, nice work,” said Lightning, getting back on her feet.

“Ladies, please!” the doctor exclaimed. “My coworkers and I don’t need any more work right now.”

“Relax,” Lightning laughed, dusting herself off. “I’m leaving, alright? That neurachem looks to be working fine.”

The doctor turned back to Rainbow Dash as the other mare left the room.

“Commander Gibson would like to speak with you. He’ll be expecting you in two hours’ time.”

Swell.

“Understood,” she said aloud.

Rainbow Dash found the commander’s quarters on the lowest level of the building in a veritable maze of corridors, most of which were still under construction. The doors were an afterthought composed of temporary, easily replaceable aluminum alloy. They opened a full minute after the echoes of the last knock faded.

“At ease, sergeant.” Gibson’s stance was as stiff and solid as ever, his chiseled chin was devoid of stubble, and his dark, dirt-toned eyes were alert, but he sounded tired. Her wolf-gene-enhanced sense of smell detected a hint of alcohol on his breath. “Come in.”

The quarters were small and empty. Several simple steel-and-plastic chairs were strewn about haphazardly. A table stood in the center, supporting a high-tech radio, a pile of paperwork and a bottle of whiskey. She caught a pocket spinal turret protruding from a saddlebag that lay forlornly in the corner. Gibson was an earth pony, and had no qualms about using heavier weaponry. Not that it saw much action these days.

Gibson lowered himself into one of the chairs and motioned for her to do the same. He took the bottle between his hooves and carefully filled a shot glass.

“Care for a drink?”

“Er. No, no that’s okay. Sir.” The commander’s uncharacteristic display of hospitality took Rainbow by surprise. “The doctor says I should avoid alcohol for a little while.”

“Of course.” He tossed back the glass and looked grimly at her. “Corporal Dust claims that Time Turner and Bulk Biceps deserted and are now aiding the Commonwealth. Is this true?”

“Yes sir.” The grisly scene inside the bathroom played over in Rainbow’s head. She felt her muscles tightening reflexively. “I was captured as a result of the injuries sustained from a brawl with Biceps. Upon waking up, I was interrogated by Time Turner who turned me over to a gryphon torturer after I refused to negotiate.”

“That is unfortunate,” said Gibson. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that. And now,” he sighed, “and now I’m afraid I must throw you back into the fray.”

“Sir?” She’d been expecting this.

“I cannot fathom Time Turner’s reasons for turning on us, but I do know that punishment for desertion is severe. What’s more, he is a technical officer. His knowledge of our broadcasting frequencies and encryption could be our undoing. He must be retrieved and brought to justice as soon as possible. Normally, I’d entrust such a task to an experienced strike team, but I’ve received very specific instructions from the higher-ups regarding this situation. You are to be the one. This assignment falls squarely on your shoulders.”

Of course it does. It’s a test run, isn’t it.

“I understand that you are still recovering, sergeant, but this decision is out of my hooves. Canterlot has spoken.”

“Yes sir, I understand,” she said, only just managing to keep the scorn out of her voice.

“Now that you and Lightning have discovered the location of their headquarters, the Commonwealth soldiers are abandoning the location en masse. We are running out of time. You’ll have one day to adjust to your new implants. That’s all we can allow. At this time tomorrow, you will be sent fourth to capture Turner. You’ll be supported by our technicians; they’ve locked on to Turner’s NOI signature.”

“Yes sir.”

She watched him pour himself another glass.

“Dismissed.”

The gyroball rebounded off of the ceiling and sunk into the basket, still revolving gently around its axis.

“Not bad,” said Lightning, flying up to the net and scooping the ball out of the hexagonal weave. “I’d say you’re doing pretty good considering acclimation to new prosthetics can take upwards of two months.”

“Come off it. I’m conditioned for adaptation and rapid recovery. So are you. Big deal.”

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t say you should consider applying for the Equestrian Leagues or anything,” she chuckled. “Hey. Didja know? The Wonderbolts supposedly sponsor a new gyroball team every year! The donations are always anonymous though.”

“Then how do they know it’s the Wonderbolts donating?” asked Rainbow. “What interest would the Wonderbolts have in gyroball leagues anyway? Sounds like a crock of shit to me.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Lightning threw the ball. It juddered erratically in the air as it spun. Rainbow flew up using the anti-gravity tri-folds and easily intercepted it. The wings reached top speed and stopped unnervingly easily. She hardly even had to flap them.

“You know, there are rumors going around,” said Lightning. “Rumors that this assignment of yours is some kind of test run.”

“Really?” Rainbow’s tone was thick with sarcasm. “I thought sending a single operative on what might otherwise be considered a suicide mission was just standard procedure.”

“Granted, maybe that was obvious.” Lightning twitched her head good-naturedly. “It might not be the hardware that’s being tested, though.”

“Huh?”

“It might be you.”

Rainbow tossed the ball toward the basket again. It bounced off the rim and over into the other end of the court.

“Is there any concrete evidence for that?” she asked.

“The mandate comes directly from Canterlot. People are saying maybe from the Solar Princess herself.”

Rainbow scoffed. “Yeah. People always say that. Tax hike in Las Pegasus? It must be Celestia’s doing! The mines are shutting down in the Crystal Caverns? Celestia is behind it all! Someone used all the toilet paper in the bathroom? By Hurricane’s bulbous buttocks! It must have been—!”

“Even if Princess Celestia is not to blame for this assignment,” Lightning interrupted, “what interest would the Canterlot aristocracy have in testing bionic implants?”

“What interest would they have in some test tube grunt?” countered Rainbow.

Lightning Dust shrugged. “Dunno. Just food for thought. Be careful on the mission, you hear? It’d be one less funeral for me to attend when this is all over.”

“Shut up and play, Dust,” Rainbow said, smiling. “You’re three points behind.”

Rainbow Dash was lying restlessly in her bed when the news came through at approximately five in the morning: Time Turner had deactivated his NOI. He was moving through the streets of Bridleon with only the eyes of the orbitals there to keep track of him. If he went underground or left the perimeter, they’d lose him. It was presumed that Turner knew this, and was presently hightailing out of the city. She was discharged from the base as soon as her equipment was packed.

Her GPS blinked red as she flew through the early morning skies. Turner’s position and altitude was marked on the map. Her smart-eye highlighted the fastest route to intercept him. She was wearing a brand-new bodysuit with the chameleon-skin enabled. Bridleon was unexpectedly quiet as she flew. There was still the occasional gunshot, but the gryphons appeared to be falling back to regroup. If the Equestrian armor and Saddle Arabian infantry continued to advance, they might reclaim the city yet.

A sound similar to high tide rumbled over the desert city. She looked back to see three miniature homing missiles approaching her from the rear. Temporary Commonwealth ballistic platforms were apparently still in play and, unfortunately, the chameleon-skin didn’t render her radar-invisible.

She accelerated through a narrow alley and corkscrewed once she was clear of the walls. Her cheeks were pulled back by the g-force as she finished the maneuver and resumed regular flight. She heard two of the missiles crash into the side of a building, having strayed too far from her path. Finally, she decelerated to a near-stop and dashed sideways as the remaining ballistic soared past her. Diving downwards, it exploded on the pavement before it could finish correcting its course.

She checked her GPS again; she was close. Time Turner was running ahead, presumably spooked by the nearby explosions. Glancing downwards, she recognized a pale red-eyed stallion marching toward city limits, accompanied by a gryphon detachment. Before she could act, the surrounding buildings were engulfed in flames. Explosions rocked the ground below. Someone had started bombing the area with howitzer shells. Perhaps the gryphons were responsible, trying to cover their escape. Perhaps it was Equestria, in a last ditch effort to prevent the deserters from departing with the opposing army. Either way, it was inconvenient.

Debris rained on the narrow street as Rainbow touched down on the pavement and raised her leg-mounted plasma-shell carbine. One of the gryphons noticed the displacement of light where she stood, an impressive feat in the gloom of the early day. He raised his voice and she silenced him with a well-placed shot that disintegrated most of his skull. She took cover behind a cracked brick outcropping as the other soldiers opened fire. Bulk Biceps took aim with the grenade launcher mounted on his spine. The brick wall exploded behind her, throwing her on her belly, shredding part of her body suit and burning her back. Gritting her teeth, she checked the tri-folds for signs of damage. They looked almost pristine beneath the thin coat of ash that now covered them. Two gryphon soldiers came from behind the remainder of the wall to verify that she was dead. Barely aiming, she bit down on the trigger again and again until they were bloody pulp.

She heard Biceps fumbling to reload the grenade launcher. Ditching cover, she fired at what was left of the squad as they scrambled to get out of sight. The bodies burst one by one, milliseconds apart, as her neurachem locked on target after target and the cracks of the carbine split the air. Only the albino giant was left. Shrugging off the grenade launcher turret, he leapt howling at her. The sky rained fire and death and the two pegasi started their struggle anew.

Ducking under his haymaker, she executed an uppercut with newfound force. The albino staggered backwards.

“Time to pay you back for before,” she yelled, crouching in the zebra’s stance once more.

“That you, Sarge?” he called. “Almost didn’t recognize you with your nose intact.”

Rainbow laughed, savoring the moment. Her catharsis for the earlier humiliation was at hand. The weight of the carbine hung from her leg, reminding her that she could shoot Biceps any time she wanted. But she didn’t raise the carbine. She unfolded her cybernetic wings and used the thrusters to charge him, forelegs outstretched. Her hooves connected with his chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

She pivoted to follow through with a bullet-speed spin kick. He attempted to side-step, but misjudged the angle and was swept aside as she concluded the spin. His hooves scraped on the concrete and he leaned forward to regain his footing. As Biceps threw himself at her again, her ears picked up a rush of air overhead. She leapt backwards. In front of her, the street flew apart as the howitzer shell touched down. She picked herself up off the ground, eyes searching for Biceps in the billowing smoke. A shrill screaming could be heard from somewhere within. Over the next few moments the smoke cleared and she saw Biceps on his side. One of his legs was gone, his mane was still burning in places, and half his face had melted in the intense heat, eyeball burned to a crisp and still hanging from its socket.

A rage burning almost as hot as his dissolved facial features took hold of Rainbow Dash as she realized that he was out of the fight. She approached the writhing stallion. He tried to crawl backwards, moaning, sobbing expletives. Rainbow’s lips peeled from her teeth in a scornful grimace.

“You fucking flunky.”

The sound of the carbine putting the traitor out of his misery was lost amid the falling explosives.

Time Turner looked about himself nervously. By some miracle the skyway was still standing, but he couldn’t say how long this happy set of circumstances would last. The phosphorous and iron rain battered the city below him like the wrath of some incensed god. His gryphon escort patted him on the back.

“Better hurry up, sir,” he said. It took Turner a second to decipher his accent. “I’ve lost contact with Biceps’ team. It’s possible that—”

His head burst mid-sentence. Time Turner felt the cranial fluids splash on his cheek. His ears picked up the steady thrum of anti-gravity thrusters set on hover.

“Morning, Turner. You miss me?”

Rainbow Dash landed on the surface of the skyway, trailing smoke from the plasma rifle strapped to her foreleg.

Time Turner lifted his own leg-mount. She saw his foreleg tremble as he took aim. He sighed uneasily.

“Sergeant, please.” He bit on the straps holding his piece in place, undoing them. The leg-mount fell harmlessly to the ground, and he kicked it aside. “I’m unarmed, see? Can’t we just talk?”

The comlink with headquarters buzzed to life in her ear.

“Exemplary work, sergeant,” said the gruff voice of a communications officer miles away. “Apprehend the deserter and bring him back home at once.”

Her teeth were beginning to itch again, just like they did when Gilda tore out her left eye.

“You didn’t give the other recruits a chance to talk, did you?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to kill them,” Time Turner answered wretchedly. “But the belligerent gryphons insisted. All I wanted was to unite Equestria and the Commonwealth against the Saddle Arabians, but everything went to shit as soon as I tried to negotiate. It wasn’t my fault!”

“Leave the interrogation to us,” said the comms officer. “Restrain him and march him back here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sarcastically, still addressing Turner. “It wasn’t your fault. Nothing’s ever your fault. It’s always somebody else, isn’t it. Sundamn it, other people are just so fucking stupid.”

“Dash, please!” he stumbled backwards, nearing the edge and the perilous hundred meter drop. Her jaw clenched at the sound of her name on the deserter’s lips. “You have to listen! The Saddle Arabians have uncovered a piece of anthroid technology unlike any we’ve ever seen before.”

The explosions of howitzer fire increased in volume below. It felt like the skyway might collapse at any moment.

“What are you doing, sergeant?!” yelled the comms officer, and his voice was like a prickling in her ear that would not stop.

Her teeth wanted to sink into something soft. Something fleshy and raw.

She deactivated the comlink.

Seeing the murder in her eyes, Time Turner dug in his hooves and ran.

He didn’t make ten steps before she was upon him. Her canines pierced his neck and, as he struggled beneath her, she jerked her head, biting a sizable chunk out of his throat. A fountain of red spattered across her face and clothing. Time Turner convulsed several times and then was still.

Abruptly, she regained her senses and her gag reflex kicked in. The blood-specked vomit came hard and fast, spilling on the black skyway road.

At least it’s not my blood this time.

She coughed weakly as she watched the bombshells continue to fall on the city.

Fucking wolf gene. Mission Control won’t be happy about this.

Her NOI was transmitting her sensory stimuli to her superiors for the duration of the mission. She wouldn’t be able to lie or talk her way out of this. She would be labeled a dangerous psychopath and interned. She might be put down and recycled. She was a war criminal.

A building collapsed, throwing up a cloud of sand and debris. Indistinct shouts down below, gunfire. Chaos.

The rich, coppery aftertaste of blood lingered in the back of her throat, overlaid by the sour bite of stomach acid.

‘War crime’. Sounds funny; almost… redundant.

Author's Note

And that, my friends, wraps up yet another episode.
Episode number four will follow a lowly farmer who gets drafted into the Equestrian Space Program against her will. The expedition to Artemis II, which was previously mentioned in passing, will be exposited on in more detail. Please look forward to it, everyone.
As always, I wish you all the best.

First Contact Dermatitis (Act One)

The letter arrived in mid-March, contained in a simple, no-frills envelope. Only the old-fashioned wax seal embossed with a modest logo hinted at the contents. The logo read simply “ESP”, and the recipient of the letter was to be Applejack. The return address listed a facility in Canterlot. The orchard formerly known as Sweet Apple Acres didn’t get much in the way of mail anymore. There was still the occasional business proposal or tax report, but that was always addressed to the managers. In point of fact, most dispatches were received electronically, making the paper note doubly unusual.

When Applejack tore open the envelope, she found an impersonal message on expensive stationery that looked to have been composed on a typewriter, signed in a script that she couldn’t read. The printed text below the signature identified the author as one Star Gazer, director of Equestrian aeronautics. The winter had receded slowly that year, and after she read that letter the chilly March morning seemed to get a little colder still.

The sun crept ever-closer to the horizon, obscured by the distant mirror-windowed skyscrapers of uptown Ponyville. A breeze swept through the trees of the apple orchard and the leaves rustled gently against one another, the sound reminding Applejack of the sizzle of crispy frying eggs. Her ears caught a hum some ways off as the apple harvesters worked tirelessly to pick off the ripening fruit. She knew she’d miss this place, despite her continued disagreements with her bosses.

Granny Smith didn’t like it when she argued with Flim and Flam. The two were secretive and none too friendly, but they did save the farm from bankruptcy. Caring for nothing but profit, they insisted on ‘upgrading’ Applejack and her elder brother with labor-class enhancements. Her bionic hind legs (trinity of apples printed on the sleek, waxy finish of the coltan hips) were heavy and required regular service, and the titanium alloy spinal column seemed designed as a sort of restriction on what she could wear and contributed nothing of discernible value. Her brother got off even worse, with all of his legs replaced and his body augmented with a clockwork chassis; he was practically more a machine than stallion at this point. But the managers admittedly weren’t all bad. The mechanical harvesters they brought with them reduced the family’s workload significantly and allowed the apple orchard to grow and prosper, more so than ever before.

Applejack turned to her younger sister, who was lounging on the front porch next to her and playing with Winona.

“How’s Granny doing these days?” she asked.

“Hangin’ in there, same as always,” said Apple Bloom. “She was wondering why you haven’t visited her lately.”

Applejack thought back to the elderly mare, hooked up to a number of life support apparatuses. Frail, confined to her bed, barely able to speak. It was painful for Applejack to see the once-strong head of the Apple family like that. She couldn’t bring herself to come to Grandma Smith’s side.

“I’ve, ah, I’ve just been busy, is all,” said Applejack. “You can tell her goodbye for me, can’t you?”

“What, why?” asked Apple Bloom, snapping back to her. “Y’going somewhere?”

Applejack chewed thoughtfully on her sunflower seeds, trying to find some way to break the news gently.

“Applejack,” her sister prompted. “Where are you going?”

Applejack spat the shells out onto the grass, and forced herself to look at her sister.

“The results of the annual Equestrian Space Program Lottery are in.”

“You can’t mean…”

“My name was pulled.”

Applejack traced the progress of the realization as it washed over Apple Bloom’s features. She was so young, still, so innocent; almost pure. No enhancements except the neuro-optical interface and the Grapevine port.

“But-but you can’t go!” she cried pleadingly.

“I have to. Sorry, sis.” Applejack sighed. “The colony barge is leaving for Artemis II this coming summer. I have to leave for training in a month’s time. My contract is supposed to last five years.”

“But we need you here! I-I need you! And Granny…” Apple Bloom didn’t finish. Grandma Smith’s chances of living another five years were about the same as those of a crippled mayfly.

“I have to go,” Applejack said again. “That’s how the lottery works. You know how these things are. Space is scary; nobody goes willingly.” She stopped. Apple Bloom wouldn’t want to hear about the perils of interstellar space travel. “I’ll be back, ‘kay? And when I do it’ll be like I never even left.”

Apple Bloom looked her in the eyes, apparently resigned. “Do you promise?”

Images of Grapevine news headlines flashed through Applejack’s mind.

Test Barge Bursts into Flames 1500 Meters over Baltimare
Expedition to Artemis Lost Under Mysterious Circumstances
Unforeseen Asteroid Orbit Decimates Neighponese Space Station

“I promise,” she said, still holding her sister’s gaze.

“Cadet sixty-two, report to central immediately for barge maintenance training,” crackled the overhead speaker. Applejack trotted briskly down the narrow steel-plated corridors of the Hoofston training academy. Through the windows, she saw twenty or so other cadets going through physical drills outside. It’s been five weeks since she left the orchard. Much of the training up to this point consisted of physical conditioning.

The shining doors at the end of the corridor slid open to grant her passage.

She glanced around the prep room; it looked the same as always. Several double doors were spread along the wall, each leading into a different testing interior. Assorted items were spread across the tables and inside standing cases. Engineering tools, multipurpose exoskeletons, vacuum suits. Thanks to her reinforced spinal column, Applejack did not conform to the physical dimensions required to wear vacuum suits. When donned, the suits expelled all unnecessary air to cling firmly to the body. Were Applejack to attempt wearing one, the sharp titanium outcroppings would likely tear right through it.

She was cleared to wear the old baggy prototypes, colloquially known as ‘bubble suits’. They were large, bulky and—according to the ESP’s lead scientists—at least 250% more likely to snag on something and expose the wearer to the icy vacuum of deep space. Thus, she was instructed to avoid leaving the barge or the eventual planetary settlement unless absolutely necessary.

“Sixty-two, today you will be working with forty-nine.”

Applejack looked around the chamber once more, searching for her partner.

“Hello,” came an impassive voice to her right. Applejack snapped back to see a bored-looking earth pony mare. She was thoroughly unremarkable, with a plain-Jane mane and a gray coat that camouflaged her against the metallic walls and floor of the chamber.

“Howdy,” Applejack said dubiously. “You know what our assignment is?”

“You will be dealing with a gradual cabin decompression scenario,” said the voice on the speaker. “You are to locate the source of the problem and remedy it before losing consciousness. You will be revived in the event of failure, but you should act as though this is an out-of-training crisis situation.”

“Got it,” said Applejack.

“You will have a standard-issue crisis toolkit and your digital troubleshooting guide for the duration of this exercise. Take the box and enter the hypobaric chamber when you’re ready.”

Cadet forty-nine opened the thick door for her as Applejack hefted up the crisis kit with her mouth. The two entered a massive chamber built to resemble the interior of the life support maintenance cabin. Shiny aluminum tubing snaked across the walls and into various containers. There were oxygen cylinders among other, less readily definable equipment. Enormous featherstahl airlock doors occupied much of the opposite wall. A convincing ambient soundscape pervaded the area, resembling the hum of the thrusters somewhere beyond the walls.

“Strap on your equipment,” advised the voice on the intercom. “The simulation begins in thirty seconds.”

“Hold on,” forty-nine said tonelessly. “I’m not an expert or anything, but shouldn’t we get some O2 to breathe first. To prevent decompression sickness.”

There was no response. Forty-nine stared blankly at the intercom, but didn’t press matters.

Applejack busied herself by strapping diagnostic sensors to her forelegs. Other items in the kit included screwdrivers, multitools, air pumps and good old-fashioned duct tape.

The intercom buzzed.

“Commencing.”

There was no discernible change to the environment, no telltale hiss of any kind. Gradual decompression was often difficult to detect until it was too late. Thankfully, the barges were armed with oxygen monitors that would indicate the faulting cabin in a crisis situation. Of course, normally she and forty-nine would also be wearing equipment to prevent hypoxia.

Applejack started running her sensors over the pipes and the surrounding machinery. Forty-nine approached the airlock.

“I’m detecting air movement around here,” she said. “That doesn’t make sense though. These doors are supposed to be perfectly insulated. There’s two layers, too.”

“Maybe someone forgot to close the outside door?” volunteered Applejack.

“I imagine barge airlocks close automatically.”

Forty-nine didn’t strike Applejack as a particularly imaginative mare. Her head was starting to get light.

“Maybe it’s a malfunction, I don’t know,” she said dismissively. “It’s a training exercise, don’t overthink it.”

Forty-nine shrugged almost imperceptibly and stepped aside as Applejack crossed toward the airlock and consulted her digital troubleshooting guide.

Section N-14: Faulty Airlock Insulation

It is possible via engineering defect or wear and tear from repeated use for an airlock door to fail to properly insulate the barge interior from the vacuum outside. It is important to address this issue as soon as possible, using makeshift means if necessary.
Run your diagnostic sensors over the edges of the aperture. The visualizer instrument built into the sensor will display the movement of escaping particles, typically a discernible cone or funnel shape. If the insulation breach is minor, it can usually be abated with liberal application of duct tape until more permanent means of repair can be utilized. If a breach is less trivial, isolate the faulting chamber and restrict access to any crew member not equipped with a vacuum suit and helmet. Contact an engineering specialist immediately once a breach has been discovered.

For soldering/welding instructions, consult section N-18.

Applejack took a roll of duct tape out of the kit and tore a strand with her teeth. She was getting drowsy. Were it not for the warning during briefing, she’d dismiss this as accumulated sleep debt. Forty-nine glanced at her visualizer.

“Here,” she said, nodding to a spot on the rubber surrounding the door. “Looks like there’s a hole in the material.” Applejack pushed the tape strand over the suspected breach.

“Just a sec, we should probably—horse apples!”

There was a harsh metallic screech as the replica hull shuddered and folded around the reinforced airlock door. Bright red text lit up the corner of Applejack’s NOI.

Fatal error encountered.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” forty-nine suggested, still deadpan, as she backed away.

“What in the blazes—?”

The next instant the wall fell away, airlock and all, into the star-dotted abyss beyond.

“T-this is supposed to be a trai—” Applejack managed to gasp out as she was swept into the fissure, into the subzero vacuum of deep space. The icy fingers of death crept over her exposed skin. It felt as though her insides wanted to leave her body via any opening available and, failing that, make one. The air in her lungs expanded until she feared it would rupture them. With no other choice, she opened her mouth and let the void reach through her windpipe and pluck every particle from her chest cavity. In her last conscious seconds, she made out the vast dark shape of a colony barge spinning away from her. The text flashed in her fading vision once more.

Aborting simulation.

It was dark, but she was conscious. She moved her head, but there was no reference point of any kind. She was laying on something soft, synthetic. She raised her forelegs and her hooves stopped against something hard and smooth.

“Relax please; the vision is the last thing to return.” It was a stallion’s voice, businesslike but not unkind. “Your eyes should begin to function again momentarily.”

Gradually, the blackness gained textures of sorts. As she looked about, the textures began to resolve into blurry colors. She was sealed in a glass case. A light gray stallion with a tidy chestnut mane stood outside, looking in.

“If you would be so kind,” he ventured, “please reach to your left temple and disconnect those electrodes for me.”

Hesitantly, still trembling from her ordeal, she did so.

“Wh-what is this?” she asked.

“You are just surfacing from our virtual simulated environment,” he explained, as the glass began to slide upwards. “I’m afraid we’ve encountered a minor system glitch.”

“Virtual environment,” she repeated slowly, voice husky from the trauma. “That… That wasn’t real?”

“No. My name is Star Gazer, and I’m the director. I’d like to apologize on behalf of my cybermancer team here at the ESP.”

She stepped out of the cylinder, shaking. Her legs buckled and collapsed underneath her, still operating under the mistaken belief that she was oxygen-deprived. She took quick shallow gasps of air, afraid that her lungs would burst from the strain. Her eyes picked up on cadet forty-nine sitting on the lip of a container identical to her own, apparently none the worse for wear.

“She’s in shock. Escort her to the therapist’s clinic immediately.” The director turned back to her. “Welcome to Aeronautics Training, cadet,” he said without a trace of irony.

After a few months of rigorous, day-by-day training of the crew, the launch of the colony barge, Consequence, finally took place on a hot, humid August afternoon. It had been raining for much of the previous week, delaying the launch.

The final thirty seconds of the sixty hour countdown sequence sounded throughout the vessel. About a third of the crew had elected to be asleep by that point, locked in suspended animation until further notice. A crowd had gathered below, rubbernecking at the massive vessel. Cameras were trained, broadcasting the momentous event over the Grapevine. Somewhere back in Ponyville Big Mac and Apple Bloom would be watching the feed with bated breath.

“T-minus fifteen seconds to launch… Twelve. Eleven. Ten…”

Strapped snugly into her seat with star spider webbing, Applejack idly questioned the authenticity of the situation. After her first encounter inside the ESP’s training virtuality, she couldn’t help but wonder. Every waking moment was potentially a simulated experience.

“Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition.”

The last word was drowned out by the roar of the thrusters and the detachable tank as they strained to lift the heavy machine off the ground. Applejack’s everleather seat felt like it was trying to absorb her into its cushions. The vibrations shook her until she wondered if her teeth would remain securely in her mouth. Maybe she should have retreated to the hibernation coffins with the others. Regardless, it was too late now.

The pilot’s voice sounded over the speakers. Applejack hoped this was intentional, rather than his forgetting to shut the intercom system off.

“Clean takeoff, Hoofston. No problems. Approaching one thousand meters.”

“Roger,” replied the mission director. “Systems appear nominal. Vent exhausts A and B.”

“Exhausts clear.”

There was a pause.

“Our readings indicate that you are a quarter of a degree off-course. Consult your star charts and correct immediately.”

“Course corrected.” The embarrassment was practically dripping from the two words as the pilot said them. “Approaching 1500 meters.”

“Unlock the detachable tank and power up the tesseract drive.”

This was the point where the first test barge exploded. Tesseract or “Godspeed” engines were what allowed the colony barges to fold space-time and essentially break the ubiquitous light-speed speed limit. These components were very desirable for traveling vast interstellar distances because otherwise voyages to distant stars could take well over a century. Unfortunately, the fundamental forces and technology behind tesseract drives were not yet fully understood by ponies. Applejack recalled that the blueprints for the first drive were authored by some mysterious progenitor species that ponies named the “anthroids”.

The technology was useful but also inconsistently volatile. The first drive was remotely warmed up to about 60% before combusting and engulfing the test barge in a blaze to rival that of the sun. Since then, every barge had been equipped with improved cooling systems to reduce the risk of spontaneous incineration.

“The tesseract drive is at 15% functionality. Initializing onboard monitoring AI.”

The smooth pre-recorded tones of Sapphire Shores sounded over the intercom.

“Barge monitoring intelligence under the designation of ‘Twenty-One’ is online. Tesseract drive is stable at 15%. Risk of Ragnaloan-class overload: low. Recommendation: continue charging sequence.”

The vibrations rocking the barge seemed to intensify as the silky-voiced AI continued its commentary.

“Charged to 30%… 45%… 60%…”

Applejack’s pulse quickened but her heart was not vaporized by a Ragnaloan meltdown. Not yet, in any case.

“75%… 90%… The tesseract drive has reached full potential charge.”

The pilot’s voice sounded over the speakers once more.

“The tesseract drive is at full charge, Hoofston. We are accelerating to folding speed. Communications will cut in twenty seconds.”

“Understood. Good luck, Consequence. We anticipate hearing from you upon your arrival.”

The hum of the thrusters turned deafening and the shaking became more violent. Applejack got the impression that it was all building up to a crescendo that would reduce her body to jelly. The displays of the world outside—the brilliant skies and the retreating ground—were shut off: this was a safety precaution. Ponies looking outside during a tesseract fold were rendered blind and, more often than not, irreversibly insane.

The noise stopped so suddenly that Applejack feared she’d lost her hearing. The vibrations ceased. She cleared her throat experimentally and found—to her relief—that her ears were still functioning.

She heard the speakers crackle and hiss and caught a not-quite inaudible whisper from the pilot.

“Oh shit, was this on the whole time?”

Applejack rolled her eyes.

Nice. Real professional.

The pilot coughed.

“Attention all conscious crew members: we have successfully reached folding velocity. ETA to Artemis II’s local space is approximately eighty-three hours from now. You are free to move around the vessel.”

Regularly recast specialty spells combined with the vessel’s consistent centripetal spin generated artificial gravity equal to three quarters of Earth’s natural field. This allowed comfortable movement through the cabins and slowed bone and muscle atrophy.
Applejack reached forward and toggled a conspicuous switch. The webbing securing her to the seat came loose and retracted into a slot by her side somewhere. Music started playing a little ways down the hall, a lively jungle salsa mix. She got on her feet and drifted uncertainly toward the sound of racing drums and Galiceñan vocals.

A tall, gangly earth stallion was reclining in his seat, cradling a pre-industrial disk player. He nodded to her as she approached and gestured to an open seat across from him.

“Hey. I don’t believe we’ve met.” His tone was casual and she had to strain to hear him over the music. “You can call me Toe-Tapper, dear. I’m a communications technician.” He flashed a flawless smile.

“Applejack,” she answered. “Agricultural assistant.”

“Ah. You’ll be tending the crops then, yeah?” he asked. “I was wondering about those enhancements of yours.”

“Getting these wasn’t my call. I’d just as soon handle everything with my old meat legs.”

He nodded knowingly but, seeing that he still had all of his biological gear, it couldn’t have been genuine.

A soft patter sounded over the sleek floor behind her.

“’Ey, what’s with all the racket, then, eh?”

She twisted around the back of the seat to see a light brown, bipedal creature approaching from the opposite corridor.

“Oh, uh, hey there,” she stammered. “I thought… I thought this expedition was… I mean, aren’t you…?”

“A diamond dog?” the creature finished. “Damn right, I am! Y’got something against my sort, is that it? Then you can fuck right off, right? ‘Cos I didn’t join this sorry voyage to make friends with the pony folk.”

“You mean to say you’re here voluntarily?” Toe-Tapper asked, astonished.

“He is,” said a quiet voice. “Spot is here to assist me.”

Applejack blinked. Once again, the other mare’s metallic-gray coat camouflaged her against the dull surroundings, allowing her to approach the group unnoticed.

“You’re number sixty-two, aren’t you,” said the mare, addressing Applejack. “I remember you from training.”

“My name’s Applejack. Agricultural assistant.”

“And I’m Toe-Tapper, a communications tech.”

The gray mare nodded. “It’s a pleasure.”

There was a pause.

“And you are…?” Applejack prompted finally. She thought she saw a flicker of surprise pass over the mare’s features.

“My name is Maud Pie,” she said. “My job title for this expedition is ‘consulting geologist’.”

The diamond dog cleared his throat.

“And this is Spot,” Maud added. “He is my assistant and supplementary manual labor.”

“’Scuse me?” Spot sputtered. “I’m no bleedin’ slave, got that?”

“That’s correct,” said Maud. “You are being compensated.”

Applejack heard a snicker from Toe-Tapper’s direction. With some effort, she put on her best poker face.

Spot sniffed disdainfully.

“I swear you fucking equines are all the same. See you assholes planetside.”

Maud looked at Applejack and Toe-Tapper as the diamond dog stormed off, muttering to himself. As usual, her expression was unreadable. After a moment’s deliberation, she pivoted away from them and started after her companion.

“Spot, wait. If I caused any undue offense, I assure you that was not my intention…”

Applejack and Toe-Tapper watched the two until they were out of sight. The tune on the stallion’s disk player died out like an aftershock.

“Quite a pair, that one,” said Applejack, breaking the silence.

“You can say that again.” Toe-Tapper hit the ‘next track’ button. “There won’t be a dull moment with them around, I can tell you that much. Anyway,” he stood up, stretching each of his legs in turn, “Eighty hours ‘til we leave fold space and no life-threatening accidents yet. I’m in a celebratory mood. Gonna go raid the alcohol reserves.” He looked back at her and grinned. “You’re free to join me, if you want.”

Applejack took a few seconds to consider her options.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “Not much else going on.”

“Unfreezing hibernation coffins in cabin 4A,” said the crackling voice on the intercom. “Rise from your grave, friends! The time of reckoning is upon us, and the promised land awaits.”

The mare shivered and spat excess fluid from her defrosted lungs.

“Who let a fucking stoner in the comms room?” she asked, brushing ice out of her mane.

“Beats me,” answered Applejack as she handed the mare a towel. “He’s probably just excited. You’ve been in suspended animation so you wouldn’t know it, but the rest of us have been in transit for a week and a half.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.”

“I’m Applejack, an agricultural assistant. What can I call you?”

The mare looked at her sideways, wiping her dripping ears with the towel.

“You too, huh? My name’s Pinot Noir, but my friends call me Berryshine. Farmhand, just like you.”

Applejack nodded. She’d met several other agricultural workers while carrying out her assigned duties of seeing to the waking crew members.

“How’s the surface look?” asked Berryshine, struggling into a formfitting wife-beater.

Applejack shrugged.

“You’ll have to ask the science team for the complete briefing.”

“I’m asking you, Jacky.” Berryshine rubbed her temple irritably. “Sorry if I don’t feel up to getting a full technical explanation from some egghead while half my gray matter is still frosted over.”

“Uh, well alright.” Applejack paused to collect her thoughts, feeling slightly out of her element. “The astronomers back on Earth didn’t know what they were talking about, apparently; no life to be seen, save for some trace micro-ecosystems of bacteria. The atmosphere is technically breathable, but the oxygen content is spread very thin. They’re saying it’s not safe to stay outside for any longer than ten minutes without equipment. The temperature varies between close to 120° Fahrenheit during midday to -50° during the night. That is, er, what was it? About 220, 230 to 320 Kelvin.”

“No life, eh?” Berryshine smirked. “That’s disappointing. I’m sure the soldiers’ll be especially crestfallen without any hostile xenofauna to shoot.”

“We’ll put ‘em to work somehow.” Applejack looked her over once more. “You alright, then? No lingering aftereffects?”

“You bet your shiny metal ass I’ve got lingering aftereffects. Rapid Thawing Syndrome’s a bitch. I doubt it’s anything I can’t sleep off, though.”

“Okay. Be sure to—”

“To report to medical if any of the symptoms persist, yeah, yeah.”

Applejack nodded. “Be seeing you around, then.”

Berryshine was the last crew member that she had to see to for the time being. With her duties completed, Applejack fixed her oxygen supply into place and surfaced into the temporary yaodong settlement carved out by the survey team. Sleek resin biodomes stood among housing carved straight from the cliff face, all contained beneath a gigantic climate-control marquee.

A group had gathered along the foot of the settlement. Applejack recognized Maud Pie and Spot among them and decided that this was probably the science team. Scraps of conversation floated toward her as she approached, muffled somewhat by the muzzlepieces.

“Don’t be so thick,” said Spot. “We’ve stumbled on a pre-vertebrate planet. No greenery to generate oxygen and millions of years away from animal life more complex than an amoeba.”

“But that’s clearly not true, Spot,” replied Maud. “If you take the time to inspect the closest riverbed, you’ll find that it’s coated in a thick layer of limestone, indicating that there was a thriving marine ecosystem prior to the drought.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing!”

“I agree with Doctor Pie,” said a short, stocky stallion. “It seems likely that Artemis II was once inhabited by multicellular life. I propose that the previous inhabitants were wiped out by severe climate change, plague, or natural predators.”

“It’s still too early to say,” Maud said equitably. “But ecological collapse is liable to occur any time a new element is introduced into the system, be it a change in the environment or a mutation in an existing organism.”

“Fine, whatever,” said Spot. “How are we gonna survive here? Y’know, with that breach…”

The scientist stallion nodded urgently in Applejack’s direction and made a cutting gesture across his throat. Spot stopped to glare at her.

Applejack felt as though she’d arrived just in time to hear the punch-line to some elaborate joke.

“Hey Maud,” she called. “What’s this ‘breach’ he’s talking about?”

Maud Pie glanced around the assembled science team.

“Well,” she began.

“Two of our water cylinders cracked during the landing,” Spot cut in. “Nearly half our water supply is gone, ‘Jack.”

“What!”

“Yeah. If nothing’s done, we might have to cannibalize the cooling systems, and then we’re stuck here.”

“Quiet, please,” urged the stallion. “The last thing we need is for the crew to fall into a panic.”

“This issue is being addressed,” said Maud. “A detachment of miners was assigned to look for subterranean rivers approximately fifty hours ago. In all likelihood, we will find a reliable source of water to add to our stores before this becomes a problem.”

“For all our sakes, I hope you’re right, Pie,” said Spot.

The meeting continued but Applejack had heard enough. The diamond dog’s words hung over her like a mist as she strode back to the cabins. Like oxygen escaping into the void.

“Half the water?” repeated Toe-Tapper. “Really?”

The three of them were lounging in Toe-Tapper’s cabin, listening to his disks. Applejack often came here to stave off the long periods of boredom that seemed to pervade the landing site.

“This is a bad sign, right enough,” said Noteworthy. “Weren’t we told this is exactly the kind of thing that shouldn’t happen, what with all our trajectory calculations and safe landing procedures and the like?”

“Accidents happen?” suggested Applejack. “There are a million and one ways things can go wrong out here.”

“Maybe the monitoring system is at fault,” said Noteworthy.

Toe-Tapper looked at the other stallion bemusedly. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Think about it. You remember the survey team that got sent to Artemis the First a couple of years back? How they just disappeared ‘under mysterious circumstances’? The programming for the barge monitoring AI is virtually unchanged from that attempt, you know? What if it’s somehow working against us?”

“That’s got to be among the most knee-jerk technophobic things you’ve ever said,” said Toe-Tapper. “Modern AIs have a preservation instinct just like the rest of us and that’s not just Turing test bullshit, it’s been scientifically proven. What possible incentive is there for one to try to actively sabotage the mission?”

“Well… You know…”

Toe-Tapper clapped a hoof on his shoulder.

“Pardon my brother,” he said, addressing Applejack. “He’s read one too many pulp sci-fi novellas.”

The comment was punctuated repeatedly with a frantic knocking at the cabin door. Applejack looked at Toe-Tapper questioningly, but the stallion merely shrugged. She stood up, unlocked the insulating seal and cautiously opened the pounding hatch. A brown pegasus stallion shoved his way into the chamber, hastily undoing his muzzlepiece.

“’Help you?” asked Toe-Tapper.

“Doctor Pie,” the stallion forced out breathlessly. “I need to see Doctor Pie immediately. You folks know where her cabin is?”

Applejack traded a look with Toe-Tapper.

“And who might you be?”

“Drill Bit,” said the stallion. “I’m on the mining team. I’m not positive about how much I should reveal to you, but suffice it to say that we’ve found something below and require the Doctor’s expert opinion as soon as possible.”

“We’ll show you to Maud’s cabin,” said Noteworthy, “if you agree to show us what you’ve found.”

Drill Bit looked perturbed.

“Ignore him,” said Applejack. “I’ll be happy to see you to Maud’s.”

“No, it’s probably fine…” Drill Bit said doubtfully. “Just… Just keep quiet about this, alright?”

“Sure. You’ve got my word.” She looked at the others. “Theirs too.”

The sun was approaching the distant horizon. The freezing night would fall in a few short hours. The climate marquee would hold back the worst of the cold but the resident meteorologist maintained that it wouldn’t be smart to be caught outside at this time without a vacuum suit.

Maud Pie opened her cabin door after the third knock. She was wearing a bathrobe and an elaborate head-mounted magnifier.
Applejack saw several rock samples of assorted shapes and colors resting on her desk next to a pick and an analog scale.

“Good…” Maud made an unsubtle pause to consult her optical timepiece, “…evening.” She noticed Drill Bit. “You’re one of the miners, aren’t you. Is there a problem.”

“We’ve dug into something, Doc. We need your help identifying it.”

“Could you be more specific,” said Maud.

Drill Bit hesitated.

It’s a… It’s a series of tunnels of some sort.”

Maud stared at him for a few seconds. The stallion was becoming visibly nervous.

“That’s to be expected,” said Maud. “Cavities occur underground all the time, be it from the movement of tectonic plates, or from subterranean currents. Which is what you’re supposed to be looking for, you understand.”

The stallion shook his head violently.

“No, no, it doesn’t look natural. It’s like… There’s a method to it. A pattern. You’ve got to come down with us, Doc. You’ll see, it looks completely… Completely alien.”

There was an unearthly geometry to the tunnels, sharp angles among organic curves and outcroppings. Drill Bit told Maud and the others that the rest of the miners had gotten spooked and were waiting outside the mines until Maud could assure them that there was nothing to be worried about. Applejack couldn’t speak for the geologist or any of her companions, but the sight of these tunnels left her short of breath and uneasy. She trod with exaggerated care. The cacophonous sound of her hoofsteps echoing down these endless catacombs made her wonder what could be out there listening.

“It’s like a gigantic… ant colony or something,” Toe-Tapper said quietly. Applejack was relieved to hear his tone, seemingly as awe-struck and terrified as she was.

Maud hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived. Drill Bit nudged her gently.

“What do you think?”

Maud ran a hoof over the smooth surface of the tunnel wall.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said woodenly.

Drill Bit bit his lip.

“You really don’t have the faintest idea?”

She gave him a wan look.

“What do you want me to say. As you suggested, it’s not natural.” She turned to look down one of the branches. The artificial torches only shed so much light, and after twenty yards the path gradually faded into nebulous gloom. “We may be dealing with an alien species. Whether it is still active is hard to say. Is it possible to communicate with the surface from down here.”

“Sorta, but the reception’s piss-poor, and probably gets worse the further down we go.”

“I see. I will report this to Ground Control, but I expect they’ll want to keep refilling the water supplies our top priority. For now, you should keep digging for water. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get our armed forces to guard you while you’re down here. I’ll ask members of the science team to keep shifts here as well. It’s doubtful that the soldiers will be particularly diplomatic toward what might be intelligent life.”

Applejack gave the catacombs one last look and turned back to the unhappy-looking miner.

I sure don’t envy you, bud.

Author's Note

Sweet, done with this one, finally. Slightly less cyberpunk than previous episodes, but hopefully the tone isn't too different. Stay tuned for the conclusion!

First Contact Dermatitis (Act Two)

It’s an unfortunate fact of life that communication between two points becomes exponentially more troublesome as the distance between the two points swells to interplanetary, interstellar proportions. Or so it was thought. Certain particles communicate with each other instantaneously, regardless of the distance between them, prompting theoretical physicists to consider the possibility of a ‘Quantum Entanglement’, the possibility that aspects of the universe are connected, and that distance is only an illusion. It’s thought that the enigmatic tesseract engines function on this principle.

Applejack pondered this as Twenty-One (whom the rest of the crew affectionately nicknamed ‘Blackjack’) opened a comlink with the farm back on Earth.

“QE connection established,” said the AI. “Activating visual feed.”

Apple Bloom’s face appeared on the screen of the console.

“Applejack! Boy, it’s ah, it’s been a while hasn’t it?”

Applejack smiled.

“You can say that again, sis.”

Apple Bloom looked around her own screen, positioned just below the camera.

Probably trying to catch glimpses of machinery or recycled metal walls…

“How is it up there? You guys okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Applejack replied, intentionally neglecting to mention the water shortage. “The landscape’s not too interesting but I guess that’s to be expected. We’ve been settling in over the past couple of weeks. Got the camp more or less set. I’m maintaining the greenhouses for the time being. Terraforming for the surrounding land is minimal at the moment. Survey teams leavin’ to check it every morning. Found some bacteria and the like, that’s about it. The miners dug up something neat, but I can’t tell you about that yet.”

“What? Oh come on, that’s not fair!”

Applejack grinned.

“Not my call, sugarcube. As soon as Ground Control lifts the outgoing info restriction, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay…”

“So how are things back at the farm?” asked Applejack.

“Fall’s coming ‘round the bend,” said Apple Bloom. “We’re picking what’s left of this year’s harvest and makin’ ready to hunker down for the winter. It’s gotten a bit dicey out in the fields of late. They say there’s a rogue manticore prowlin’ about the Ponyville outskirts. It’s weird ‘cos manticores are s’pposed to be nocturnal or something? I dunno much about it. I hear that Mayor Mare put a bounty on the beasty, but nobody seems to be takin’ much notice.”

“Wow. You be careful then, alright, li’l sis? How’s the family doing?

Apple Bloom looked glum.

“Something wrong?” Applejack pressed.

“Yeah, ah… it’s Granny. Granny Smith.”

Applejack felt her body stiffen.

“What’s wrong with—?”

“She’s passed away, Applejack.”

Her mind raced to determine how she felt, to try to find appropriate words…

Finally, words failed. She settled on a flat, hollow “Oh.”

Apple Bloom sniffed and wiped her eyes absentmindedly.

“That’s why I was so, so happy to hear from you after all these months… I don’t know who to turn to, y’know? McIntosh isn’t much of a talker, and Flim and Flam don’t care… All it means is they can stop paying to keep Granny alive, after all.”

Applejack could feel her teeth grinding at the mention of the two managers. With conscious effort, she unlocked them.

“Apple Bloom, I…”

The feed dissolved into static.

“H-hey! What is this?! Twenty-One!”

“I’m afraid that I cannot salvage this transmission at the moment,” said the AI. “It appears that a member of the crew is sabotaging communications. I have contacted the technician and several members of the armed forces to subdue him. They are currently en route.”

“Someone from the crew? Hey, isn’t the communications chamber just down the hall?” Applejack asked, getting out of her seat.

“Please remain on standby,” urged the AI. “You are not equipped or trained to handle situations like this.”

Applejack slid open the hatch into the hallway beyond. Although the landing site had been rebuilt and repurposed into a base camp, the bulk of the sensitive equipment such as the communications outpost, the central lab and the oxygen converters remained inside the colony barge. The structure towered like a titanic obelisk over the stone shelters and domes that constituted the camp around it, a tumor of gleaming steel and titanium on the featureless, sun-scorched face of the planet. The conditioned air wafted over her as she sprinted through the narrow metallic gangway.

She heard the sound of crackling electricity and equipment folding under the blows of something heavy.

I guess somebody’s got cabin fever.

She recognized the stallion before the door slid open completely. Brown pegasus.

It was Drill Bit.

“What the hay are you doing?!” she shouted.

He paused, slinging the powered mining pick over his shoulder. The instrument still hummed menacingly. Tools like this one were built durable, and with enough sustained drilling power to turn electronic equipment into scrap metal and ponies into mincemeat.
He turned his head slowly. Whereas he was scarcely able to meet another’s eye when she met him previously, he now glared at her coldly, steadily like a viper watching its prey. Her anger evaporated and gave way to icy fear.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he took the mining pick in his teeth and started walking, step after decisive step toward her. She backed out of the door frame as Drill Bit rolled his head to wind up with his pick. The swing was quick, reckless and violent. He hadn’t even waited to clear the doorway and the pick shot right through the frame and a chunk of the wall.

How can he wield it like that without hurting himself?

Blood dripped down Drill Bit’s lip. The recoil of the tool had knocked out one or two of his teeth, but he didn’t seem fazed. He wound up again.

There was a thud as a sizable stone touched down on Drill Bit’s head. The stallion collapsed, bleeding from his skull.

Maud kneeled down to check the stallion’s vitals.

“He’s still alive,” she said, getting up. “And my sample is undamaged. This is a favorable outcome.”

“Thanks for that,” said Applejack. “Tarnation. What was up with him?”

Steps echoed down the corridor. A stallion and a mare wearing riot gear and equipped with stun prods and leg-mounts turned the corner. Toe-Tapper trailed a fair distance behind the two.

“What’s going on here?” asked the comms tech.

“This fella—” Applejack started.

The downed stallion leapt to his feet and lunged, but she didn’t see, having her back turned. She only heard the hum of the powered pick as it reached a fever pitch, and Maud’s voice, all but unrecognizable, colored with surprise and agony.

She turned to see a gray stub sailing through the air, trailing crimson. The stallion hefted the pick to deliver the finishing blow, but then she was there, she was between them, and her bionic rear legs whined as she kicked outwards. A pained grunt escaped the stallion’s throat as his ribs bent and finally collapsed under her heavy metallic hooves.

“Get down!” shouted one of the soldiers, and it was all she could do to obey. The deafening crack of his firearm split the air. Drill Bit twitched, as though pushed lightly backwards, but remained standing, with his pick powering up once more. The soldiers switched to automatic fire.

It took nearly two full clips to finally drop the miner. He landed sprawled, mangled and shredded by hollow-point bullets. Something was amiss. He bled, but not a wholesome red. The bullet wounds and the liquid pooling beneath him were an oily pitch, black as the night sky. It started to foam, reacting strangely with the chemical makeup of the air surrounding it. Within several seconds, the liquid had flattened and super-cooled, leaving dark icy patches on the featherstahl flooring and the miner’s body.

The ensuing silence was broken by Maud Pie, curled up in a fetal position.

“Applejack.” She had regained her composure but her voice still cracked on the second ‘a’. It was the first time that Applejack heard the geologist utter her name. “Where is my foreleg.”

At first she didn’t understand the question. Then her mind replayed the last minute and unwilling understanding dawned. Her eyes traced the arc of the gray object before she could stop them, and found it laying in a pool of deep red a couple of yards to her left. Her stomach did a somersault.

“Ah, excuse me, it doesn’t matter,” said Maud. “There’s likely no hope of reattaching it now, out here.” She gulped. Applejack could see that her eyes were watering. “I hate to inconvenience you, but you’ll have to carry me to medical. I’m about to pass out.”

“Get us a stretcher, antibac and bandages, stat,” said the armed mare, addressing her companion. The stallion took off toward the medical bay.

Peripherally aware of Toe-Tapper vomiting in the background, Applejack knelt beside Maud.

“Stay with me, Maud. You’re a strong girl, you’ll pull through this. Try not to move.” Maud’s eyes were starting to glaze over. “No, no, look at me, look at me. You got any family back home, Maud? Open your eyes, come on!”

A venomous hiss erupted from Drill Bit’s body, prompting the remaining soldier to lift her leg mount once more.

The miner didn’t make any attempt to move.

“You are all as dead… Invading Our land, disfiguring it so… You and your kind will know the wages of your sin… We are awakened… When the two moons are as one in the night sky… hear the Song of the Swarm… and perish.”

Drill Bit’s eyes went blank as he finally succumbed to his injuries. His body began to morph hideously as they watched. His brow grew, turned jagged. His eyes turned a pale blue and split into hundreds of individual cells, compound, like a fly’s. His skin darkened and twisted, hardened into a thick, black armor-like carapace or exoskeleton, indistinguishable from the crystallized blood that spilled over it. The feathers in his wings receded, turning them translucent, almost insectoid in nature. His lips peeled back and vanished into the roof of his mouth, revealing two rows of yellowing but razor-sharp cuspids. The resulting body remained vaguely equine in its quadruped shape, but nightmarish in every remaining aspect.

“What in Tartarus…” Applejack stopped herself. This was something well beyond the realms of either Hades or Tartarus. This wretched creature was an evil altogether different from the brand to which her kind was accustomed.

Having emptied his stomach, Toe-Tapper reconciled his disgust with dry heaves.

The settlement was in disarray. Communications with Earth were down for the foreseeable future and very few among the crew knew the whole story. All anyone knew for sure was that management had ordered that the camp be packed up and the Consequence be made skyworthy once more, with minimal delay. Applejack heard hushed rumors and speculation among the other crew members as she helped collapsing their biodomes and packing their meager belongings. Some ponies believed that this was the result of a dangerous pathogen being found on the surface of Artemis II, threatening the survey team. Other theories involved space madness and sabotage, dangerous maniacs and the like. A fair few suggested the discovery of hostile alien life, coincidentally accurate theories that Applejack was quick to noncommittally dismiss.

Beneath her apparent stoicism, Applejack was quickly becoming increasingly paranoid and could see the same symptoms of distrust in Toe-Tapper. These alien creatures, dubbed ‘changelings’ by those who knew of them, could change their appearance at will. The remains of the real Drill Bit were never found, though the scientist that was currently dissecting the alien carcass hypothesized that the miner had been integrated into the creature’s body, lending it the knowledge of Equestrian language and the location of the communications outpost.

Any number of crew members could already have been replaced by sleeper changelings, and chances were good that the rest would never even know until it was too late. She was especially distrustful of the miners, the ones who first stumbled upon the evil-looking catacombs below.

She’d smuggled a leg-mounted Sledgefire spreadgun from the arms storage to keep herself safe, or at least maintain a comforting illusion that she was. She suspected from the amount of damage that Drill Bit managed to withstand that no amount of ordinance currently at their disposal would be enough to keep a small force of the creatures at bay, however.

“Yes. You’re right,” said Maud. “It doesn’t look good.”

Applejack pulled a bottle of hard cider out of her fridge and poured herself a pint.

“We’ll all be dead long before the barge is ready to fly,” she said quietly, sipping at the mug. “Then they’ll take our place and pilot it back to Earth. The whole damn planet will be changeling country in a decade or two.”

“We can’t let that happen,” said Maud, reaching for a mug of her own before abruptly remembering that she was short one appendage.

Applejack raised an eyebrow.

“No offense, but I didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”

Maud didn’t smile. “I have to return to Earth. There’s someone dear to me who might need my help.”

“Who’s that?” asked Applejack.

“My family is pretty single-minded,” said Maud. “My father was a miner. My sisters… Limestone Pie relocated to Neighpon and now tends to rock gardens. Marble Pie went to the same university as I did, but decided to pursue her career as an archeologue. Unfortunately, not all of us shared the geocentric mindset.” She looked down into her empty mug, replaying her past over the shiny glass bottom.

“The youngest of us, Pinkie Pie, decided that rocks and fossils were dull. After a tense childhood around the house, it all finally came to a head six years ago, when she had an altercation with our father.”

She paused. Applejack took another swig of cider, waiting.

“He kicked her out of the house and disowned her. I got the impression that he always regretted that decision afterwards, but was too proud to admit it.”

Maud stopped again, nudged her mug towards Applejack.

“Please.”

Applejack lightly shook the bottle; about an eighth left. She poured what remained into the mug and pushed it back across the table. Maud nodded her thanks and took a conservative gulp.

“I’d been trying to find her ever since. I don’t have much in the way of contacts, but I did finally manage to narrow down her whereabouts to somewhere in downtown Ponyville. The city’s population is four to five million. It might take me a while to locate her. But I have no intention of giving up, even here.”

Applejack thought back to her family. Apple Bloom’s face, moments before being lost to static. Winona. Sweet, faithful Winona. Grandma Smith, finally succumbing to her sickness. Big McIntosh, phlegmatic in the face of the changing times. There were others too, more distant relatives. She looked at the body of the spreadgun peeking out from beneath her bed, components and edges highlighted by the dim light.

She turned back to Maud. The geologist gazed at her levelly, unconcerned by the firearm.

“You’re right,” said Applejack. “I have no intention of dying here either. But there’s no way that we can make it out on our own. And who else can we trust?”

Maud was as still as a statue. Or a corpse.

“Nobody,” she breathed out. “Not anymore.”

It was close to midnight when Applejack stepped out onto the functional porch of her shelter. The cold reminded her of late winter back home. She wasn’t sure why she’d come outside. Normally she’d say that she just needed some fresh air, but the oxygen supply provided by her muzzlepiece rendered the excuse invalid. The muzzlepiece bobbed lightly as her jaw worked on the chewing tobacco she’d wrested from the tin she’d brought from home. Her eyes drifted unbidden to the sky. The two moons were touching, one small, comparable to Earth’s Luna, the other one closer, some three times the size. Tonight might be the night that the two would finally overlap completely.

A retort in the distance. She tensed. Gunshot? It seemed quieter somehow, but that was to be expected in the thin air of Artemis II. Commotion, as a team of soldiers bustled past. The changeling had warned them of the impending assault, as though it understood that their knowing would change nothing.

The hatch built into the shelter swung open behind her and Maud stepped outside. The right foreleg of her vacuum suit looked shriveled and deflated in the absence of the corresponding limb.

“We have to go,” she said.

Applejack pulled the muzzlepiece from her mouth just long enough to spit out her tobacco.

“Go where?” she asked. “The barge isn’t ready yet.”

“I spoke with the pilot. The innermost chambers can be detached from the rest of the ship and take off independently. The carrying capacity will be reduced, obviously, but as I understand the situation, either some of us will make it, or nobody will.”

Applejack looked disbelievingly at the other mare.

“You’re willing to just leave the others behind?”

For the first time since Applejack met her, Maud showed signs of impatience.

“Sometimes only just surviving is the best that we can do.”

She shrugged off the spreadgun strapped to her side, and kicked it to Applejack. Applejack winced. The geologist clearly had no training regarding arms safety.

“Come. The pilot is in place, but we should round up whom we can besides him.”

Applejack nodded hesitantly.

I guess there’s no choice.

As the two made their way through the campsite, Applejack noticed something off about the air. It wasn’t so much a buzzing as a persistent, ambient prickling in her ears. In the sky, the larger crescent was obscuring the more distant, smaller one. The stars were vibrating. But was it really the stars? Or the earth below?

A voice rang out before the immediate aftertaste of tobacco left her mouth.

“Cease your movement in the immediate.”

A member of the armed forces emerged from the shadows behind one of the biofabs.
Applejack narrowed her eyes and covered her right foreleg, trying to hide the contraband spreadgun.

“What was that, friend?”

The soldier lifted his own piece threateningly.

“Females. You will return to your respective apiaries.”

Applejack gambled, slowly raising her spreadgun until it was level with the stallion. His stance faltered, though she would have missed the change in the dark if she wasn’t actively looking for it.

“You alright? Want to try that in plain Equestrian for me?”

In the darkness his eyes seem to widen and bulge as he bore his teeth at the two mares. She saw a flash of something else, gazing intently into his face. Two rows of yellow fangs, arranged around an insectoid jaw behind a pair of hook-like mandibles. She bit down on the trigger lever of the Sledgefire and pulled. The weapon’s recoil kicked her backwards and a chunk of the soldier’s neck was blown away in an oily black spray. He raised his own weapon, unconcerned with his injury. Two bullets escaped the rifle before she threw off his aim with another shell.

She closed the distance between them before he could lift his arm again. The soldier looked down the almost inch-wide bore of the spreadgun moments before half his head was liquefied by the blast. Applejack felt her skin burn where drops of the changeling’s icy blood hit her. The body crumpled, reverted to its original, hideous form. Still it writhed at her feet, clawing blindly for her. She spent two more shells stilling the monstrosity.

Maud’s muffled voice, quiet in her ears after the deafening retorts of the spreadgun.

“Applejack. You’re bleeding.”

She felt an ache in the point where her shoulder met neck, the post-fight-or-flight effect of waning hormones. A leaking gash greeted her eyes as she looked down.

“Confound it. Lucky shot,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go. Maybe Toe-Tapper has a first aid kit.”

“Well, sure I’ve got a kit, but I’d like an explanation, if you don’t mind,” said Toe-Tapper, stepping into his bathroom to fetch the first aid kit from his cabinet. “And what the bloody Tartarus is with that buzzing outside?”

The relaxed dub coming from his disk player felt incongruous with the tense atmosphere.

“It’s the Song of the Swarm, genius,” said Spot. “Just like ‘Jack said, the fucking bugs are pouring out of the mines. A few of them have already infiltrated the armed forces, apparently, and if’n we don’t beat feet outta here, it’s gonna end poorly for us.”

“We’re leaving?”

Applejack jerked her head in the direction of the barge.

“Pilot’s ready and waiting.”

Toe-Tapper handed her the kit and moved toward the door.

“You guys go on ahead, then. I need to get my brother, but I’ll meet you there.”

“You’re not going alone,” said Applejack, blocking the hatch.

“’Jack’s right. A candy-ass like you won’t last two milliseconds out there,” said Spot. “So I’m coming with.”

“You know how to use equine guns?” Applejack fiddled with the straps of the Sledgefire with her teeth.

“You need that, don’t you?”

Maud spoke up.

“Stop by my cabin, Spot. There’s a sampling laser in the closet. Set it to maximum intensity and it might be more effective against changelings than ballistic weapons.”

“Got it. Thanks. Let’s head out, then.” Spot motioned to Toe-Tapper. Applejack watched the two disappear into the night outside.

She turned her attention back to the kit.

“Help me with these stitches and gauze, would you? I’m getting a bit woozy.”

An ear-splitting burst of noise erupted from the vessel as Applejack and Maud got within spitting distance. The loud hissing of escaping air, along with the groaning of strained structural supports, an occasional ring as the massive rivets spread among the crucial load-bearing points were withdrawn by the engineering drones. The Consequence was being partially disassembled for her flight back home, and the resulting racket was bound to draw unwanted attention.

“If the changelings arrive before our companions, we may have to leave them behind,” said Maud, voicing what Applejack already knew.

Racing hooves in the darkness, almost inaudible beneath the fits of the barge. Applejack raised the Sledgefire, absently trying to calculate how much ammunition she had left. Maud leaned against the inside wall, hoof hovering over the magnetic lock switch.

They were ten yards away by the time the sparse light finally revealed their faces.

Spot and Toe-Tapper, with Noteworthy following closely behind.

Wordlessly, Applejack stepped aside to let them through.

“Shut the fuckin’ door!” Spot shouted. “They were biting at our heels the whole damn way!”

Maud hit the switch. The door shuddered and began an agonizingly slow descent.

“We’re probably running on auxiliary power,” she observed.

Spot raised the sampling laser, a heavy-looking instrument with a yellow jacket trim, probably intended to be mounted on the spine.

“Shit. Help me keep them away from the door, would you, ‘Jack?”

The mob came into view as Spot and Applejack stepped back outside. It looked to be composed of a number of miners, technical assistants, and members of the science team.

“Are you sure these guys are—”

The laser screamed. A stallion was cut in half, spraying black like a balloon filled with oil.

Well alright then.

The Sledgefire joined in, blowing bloody chunks out of the incoming mob. It was a losing battle. The changelings were getting closer with each shot. Maud was right; the laser was proving to be a significant improvement over more conventional weaponry, cutting indiscriminately through the incoming drones, but it couldn’t hold the horde off indefinitely.

She saw something that looked like Berryshine running toward her out of the corner of her eye.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Jacky?”

The muzzle of the spreadgun turned to face her automatically. She pulled the trigger before she could stop herself.

Red.

Splash of something lighter, the color more clearly visible as it landed in a pool inside the halo of light escaping from the still open—damn it, how long is this shit going to take—hatch into the ship.

Red, rushing hemoglobin.

Berryshine looked disbelievingly at her. A gaping window of scarlet mingled with her raspberry coat, not quite centered between her shoulders.

Applejack’s limbs froze over as the mare’s body toppled.

“F-Ffffff…”

The mob split as three members of another breed broke through. They were tall, twisting, and although they had donned the faces of the crew, they didn’t seem to fully understand how pony anatomy worked. Their necks were long and contorted, the familiar faces rotating around a central axis like the hands of some surreal biological clock. Their forelegs terminated in crustacean claws that scuffed the ground as they ran, deceptively clumsy. Two pairs of moth-like wings jutted out from their backs, fluttering feebly and ineffectually. They let out blood-curdling shrieks as they approached.

“Shit! Shit! Get it together, ‘Jack! It’s the males!”

“I… I killed her…”

Spot took aim with the laser.

“Fuckin’ useless!”

The males were unnaturally fast and agile, effortlessly leaping and avoiding the sweeping beam as it passed. Finally, Spot seemed to give up. Applejack felt the grip of the diamond dog’s paws as he retreated into the closing hatch, pulling her roughly behind him. A single male changeling managed to catch up in the nick of time, shoving its head into the hatch just as it slid shut. The long, spindly neck crunched under the weight of the door, but still the creature thrashed and bit at the air. The shriek had been mercifully silenced as its larynx collapsed.

Spot wrestled the spreadgun from Applejack’s unresisting foreleg and shot the monster smartly between the eyes.

“Holy shit,” Noteworthy said, backing away as the pool of black expanded and crystallized. The changeling’s head reverted, but it was hard to say whether it was any different from the females’; Most of the face was demolished by the spreadgun.

Maud established a comlink with the pilot over her NOI.

“Warm up the engine. The rest of us here will be ready for takeoff in two minutes’ time.”

Applejack couldn’t hear the pilot’s reply, but her hooves caught a gentle hum radiating from the floor.

“Alright everyone,” said Maud. “Find a seat and web up.”

The external displays came online. Applejack’s eyes gravitated to the screens as her seat rotated to face upwards.

A larger shape moved among the hideous male changelings outside. It was tall enough to dwarf them, slender, with three pairs of spidery legs, a fleshy, larval body glistening in the low light, and two broad emerald butterfly wings. An outgrowth strangely reminiscent of a crown projected from the creature’s head. Unlike its brethren, it did not make any attempt at prying open the vessel’s hatch. It only stood there. Waiting.

The musical voice of Blackjack sounded over the speakers.

“Eighty-one members of the crew are not currently on board. I advise against departure.”

“Acknowledged,” said Maud.

An unwanted memory surfaced from the depths of Applejack’s psyche.

“Hold on,” she cried out. “What about the marquee?! We’re just gonna fly right through it?”

“Not to worry,” said Maud. “The Consequence is sturdy enough to penetrate the structure while sustaining minimal damage.”

“That’s not what I mean!” said Applejack. “What about the rest of the team down there? They’ll freeze to death if we punch through!”

“They’re dead anyway,” Spot said brusquely.

The thrusters roared, and she felt a jolt as the stripped-down barge left Artemis II, friends and monsters alike, behind.

“Celestia forgive us…” she whispered. “They’re dead, and we killed them. We killed them all.”

Author's Note

Is this the last we see of the changeling menace? I don't know, maybe.

The next episode will focus on a sickly pegasus shaman and her pet hare, living on the border of the Everfree. A formerly nocturnal manticore has taken to terrorizing the suburban areas surrounding the city proper. Gifted with the ability to speak with the woodland creatures and the dead alike, the mare must track down the rampaging beast and silence it before the body count gets much higher.

Dissenting voices in the city proclaim that the end is nigh.

Beggars and Choosers (Act One)

The trees of the Everfree were as tall and foreboding as ever, canopies cutting up the sunlight and throwing it to the leaf-blanketed ground in pieces like shards of broken glass. Here and there piles of the floral debris were disturbed, noticeable gaps in the rug of rusted leaves and occasional recently-broken tree branches. A bright red tuft of fur hung from a set of splinters.

She was on the right track and likely closing on her quarry. Manny had eluded her for the better part of two weeks but she was cautiously optimistic that perhaps the fickle winds of fortune had finally changed in her favor.

The press had named the rogue manticore ‘Manny’, an ironically tender title that wasn’t echoed by the personnel of Woodworth & Sons. It was hard not to see why; the beast had killed at least twenty ponies in the employ of the lumber company and showed no sign of slowing down. Fluttershy sympathized with the creature. W&S cared little about Everfree wildlife. They’d probably encroached on the manticore’s territory and were now paying the price. Woodworth didn’t see it this way, of course; a bounty of three thousand bitcreds now rested squarely on the beast’s head.

Fluttershy wasn’t terribly interested in money: no attainable amount would ever be enough, so why bother? But she knew that she couldn’t let the killing continue. Her ancestors would let the beast do as it pleased for this was, after all, the way of things. But somewhere along the path, things had changed, and as the days wore on Fluttershy became increasingly aware that life was precious.

The arctic hare bounded towards her from the undergrowth, gesturing with its forepaws. Clearing ahead. Fluttershy enjoyed an almost supernatural talent for communication with wildlife, but not all creatures chose to speak with her. Angel remained stubbornly silent throughout the years that she took care of him. She was a druid or mystic or shaman, or perhaps she’d been one in a past life. The continuing industrialization of equine society pushed her and her kind away, leaving them by the wayside.

And yet, seemingly in spite of the growing skyscrapers and cold gunmetal machinery, out here in the wild, mysticism thrived. Idol gods and pagan spirits reigned over the untamed forests, the backwater villages on the borders of nations, even in slums and shantytowns inside the gleaming cities themselves. The poor flocked to more grounded, relatable deities, spirits that could get things done.

The poor… and individuals like her. Ones who, having tried everything else, had nothing left to lose.

The glade opened up to swallow her whole, a vast field of dry, bonelike stumps and tall unruly grass that grabbed at her legs as she walked. Only one tree still stood. She took a closer look at the gnarled, twisting bark of the withered weeping willow. Staring at it for any significant period played tricks on the eyes, building grotesque shapes and grimacing faces from the texture and the way that light and shadows danced on the uneven surface.

These aren’t native here… Did somebody plant it?

Her internal compass told her that the closest known landmark was Zecora’s lab, but Fluttershy had difficulty picturing the zebra alchemist taking the time to plant and cultivate an ornamental sapling.

Angel tugged at what little of her tail protruded from the heavy bomber jacket. The brush on the edge of the glade was moving. She heard a growl that sounded like a crosscut on logs. Hunched shapes slowly emerged from the bushes, leering at her with glowing eyes of gold. A pack of vaguely canine constructs seemingly composed entirely of wood. Timber wolves.

She scooped up a clip of explosive flechettes from her pouch and fed it into her modified Guardian S013 crossbow.

“Prey…” growled the alpha male. Its voice was a barely-understandable rasp.

Fluttershy cleared her throat. The cheap mic built into her medical muzzlepiece came online with a harsh squeal of audio feedback.

“If you pounce, I’ll have to shoot you,” she said calmly. “If you overpower me and feed on my flesh, you’ll only grow sick and die. Where’s the gain?”

“The weak…” said the wolf, “pay tribute…! Flee… or die!”

Angel bunched up into a defensive crouch at her feet, chittering angrily.

Fluttershy could see the spittle dripping from their mouths as the wolves leapt toward her. She sidestepped as a rabid lupus flew past, clawing savagely at her. Splintery claws grasped for the flank of the bomber jacket, tearing it along with the yellow-coated skin beneath. Blood ran down her side, but she barely registered any pain.

She raised the leg-mounted crossbow and, hooking the trigger lever with her other forehoof, discharged. A loud pop split the air and her nostrils caught the stink of burning wood. Angel scampered onto one of the surrounding wolves and promptly dug his claws into its eyes. The hapless creature’s yelps drew another’s attention. The hare bounded off the first wolf as the second bit into its face.

The autoloader mechanism primed another flechette. She leveled the Guardian at a charging pack member but her throat filled with fluid before she could pull the trigger. She hacked, momentarily taking her eyes off of her assailant. The creature sank its teeth into her shoulder. Still coughing, she wound up with her crossbow-strapped foreleg and cracked the creature repeatedly with the sharp end of the instrument’s composite lath. The wolf’s grip on her loosed as a whine escaped its throat. She shoved the creature backwards, took aim and fired. It went up in flames, howling as the blaze reduced its body to cinders.

The pack parted again, surrounding her in a wide semicircle and watching her warily. She felt the gaze of the wolves shift to their leader expectantly. The alpha male growled and lunged, jiving from side to side, denying her a direct shot. Fluttershy readied her crossbow, and in one smooth motion caught the creature’s head inside the instrument’s bowstring. The dragon catgut polymer held firm as she twisted the wolf’s neck over the lathe and felt it give. A pitiful yelp sounded over the meadow and Fluttershy released the injured timber wolf. The effect was near-instantaneous. Keening softly, the alpha male and his flock ran for the safety of the trees, many of them limping.

Fluttershy sighed and unloaded the magazine of flechettes, counting how many still remained.

Nine.

She tried to make out the tracks of the manticore among the recent traces left by her adversaries. The hare tugged on her tail again, pointing at her injuries.

“I can’t stop now, Angel,” she whispered into the mic. “Not now that we’ve come so far. Now that we’re so close.”

He shook his head. He was right of course. Her hemophilia would bleed her dry if her wounds went on untreated. Although the medication administered by the muzzlepiece would hamper the blood loss from her ruined lungs, the same could not be said for external injuries. She had to fall back.

“So be it. I hope Snake Eyes isn’t unduly preoccupied.”

Her eyes ran over neon signs, dead in the harsh glare of the sun. Ponyville’s western wing looked slick and lubricious at night but the mask fell away in the light of midday, the flaws outlined like wrinkles and scars on a cheap face job; the sunlight threw the rusted shutters, trash-strewn streets and bleach-streaked windows of the urban sprawl into sharp focus.

She brushed past a figure draped in a dirty trench coat while her eyes were trained on the networks of pipes running from building to building high overhead.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said, glancing nervously at the stallion.

He turned to regard her through wax-encrusted eyes. A crude sign cut from a sheet of plywood hung suspended from his neck. Fluttershy squinted at the string of gibberish written out in a clumsy scrawl.

INT MAIN(){

COUT << “END DAYS ARE HERE.” << ENDL;
RETURN(0); //THE APOSTATE COMES.
}

“S-sorry… What does your sign mean?”

The stallion flexed his neck and the sign swayed slightly.

“From the lofty offices of Carousel Industries, Tyr-Tek Baal… fuckin’ ecksetera, ecksetera… to the homeless shelters beneath the ‘92 overpass. The city is Tartarus-bound as are all of us. Enjoy the time you have left, kid.” He looked at her blood-stained jacket. “You alright there?”

“I see,” she lied hastily. “Thank you for your time.”

The stallion grunted and resumed his trek along the cracked sidewalk.

Snake Eyes’ apartment was located near the gambling and pleasure district. Sensual vector holograms beckoned her to the garishly-decorated repurposed bunkers that now served as whorehouses and to the love hotels towering high overhead. Cheap neon shaped like card suits and dice flashed dimly over the mesh of wires and galvanized steel that constituted the casino.

She knocked lightly on the door, several floors up on an aging fire escape. Angel’s ears twitched and he gestured urgently. Fighting the unease building in her chest, Fluttershy put her ear to the crack of the door. A strangled choking sounded inside. She mustered what little strength she had and bucked the door with her hind legs, hearing the cheap lock snap.

Snake Eyes was suspended from the rafters by a length of thick plastic cord fastened around his neck. He’d stepped off of his suede-cushioned stool, but had evidently misjudged his own height as he now stood on his tiptoes, desperately trying to maintain the slack that only barely allowed him to breathe.

“Oh dear. Hang in there a second…” She blinked. “Sorry, I mean, um, wait.”

As the choking continued, she took some seconds to load a single bladed bolt into her crossbow. She leveled the instrument on the cord, aiming slowly and deliberately with one eye shut.

“Hold still, please.”

The bowstring went taut, propelling the bolt through the cord and into the opposite wall, nearly impaling a vintage cuckoo clock. The stallion fell to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath.

Fluttershy knelt down.

“Are you okay? You want me to maybe get some water?”

“Not the best idea right now,” said Snake Eyes. The rasp in his voice reminded her of the alpha timber wolf. “Throat might be swollen. Don’t wanna drown myself, you dig?”

“Uh, sure. Sorry.”

Getting shakily back on his feet, the stallion dragged the stool behind his folder-littered desk and sat down, rubbing at the bruised imprint that the cord left around his neck.

“Got something you need from me, ‘Shy? Looks to me like you could use some medical attention yourself, yeah?”

She shot a quick glance at the bloody stains on her jacket as though they were a peripheral concern.

“I didn’t know you were depressed, Snake Eyes.”

He looked away, his hooded eyes looking oddly weary in the sparse sunlight coming from between the open shades covering his window. They were slightly heterochromatic, one iris an olive green, the other a shade lighter: the result of a botched black clinic neuro-optical interface installation. To this day he only had NOI function in his left eye.

“I ain’t depressed,” he said, leaning on the stool’s chrome back. “I’m tired. Air conditioning’s fucked during the summer, winter’s too damn cold and dark, I’m stuck in this shithole ‘hood, the teardrop’s about to crap out completely and servicing it’ll cost an arm anna leg, maybe for real, I’ve got mounting gambling debts, tax season’s coming up, now,” he pointed at the broken lock, “I gotta get that shit fixed and so on. An’ I just don’t want to deal with all that anymore, you know?”

She tried to keep her tone impartial.

“You… You know how that sounds to someone who is terminally ill, don’t you?”

Snake Eyes snorted.

“Lady, no offense, but you don’t look like you’re looking out for your sweet ass either. You gonna let me treat those bites or are you gonna go ahead and limp two miles to a legit white-collar phys?”

“Gosh, uhh…”

He held up a warning hoof.

“I don’t ask for much, seein’ that you can’t afford it. But in return, I’d appreciate if you don’t give me any shit, capisce?”

Fluttershy’s eyes gravitated instinctively toward the scuffed wooden floor. “Yeah. But maybe… you should talk to somebody.”

“Shhh, ch, ch, ch!” Snake Eyes levitated rolls of bandages and gauze, an aerosol can of medical spray, and several plastic-wrapped surgical sutures out of his drawers. He wasn’t, strictly speaking, a licensed practitioner, but he’d picked up a number of skills in his years as an off-the-grid utility man. “You just gonna stand there and bleed out? Jacket. Off. An’ keep your damn rabbit on a leash.”

Angel bore his teeth at the stallion.

“He’s a ha—”

“Yeah, yeah…” Snake Eyes applied the medical spray to her wounds. The solution tingled and foamed on her skin. “I dunno why you’re so determined to hunt. This one in p’rticular.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, fighting the urge to scratch at her wounds.

“I mean,” he said, driving a needle and thread through the lip of the largest of her gashes, “Woodworth could stand to get taken down a peg or two.”

She sat there silently, waiting for him to finish with the suture.

“Take that zebra for example, squatting out there in the Everfree and peddling her shit to fucking anyone, right under Woodworth’s nose. Take that mare, found a month ago, tied to a tree, just three kilos off their sawmill. Sedated, mauled by a cragadile.”

Fluttershy felt a pull as the stallion tightened his stitching a little overzealously.

“You know why?” he continued. “The Everfree’s outside Ponyville city limits, obviously. The entire forest along with a good chunk of the outskirts functions as an independent, corporate-owned state. So the PD can’t launch an investigation unless Woodworth & Sons makes a formal commission.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t go after Manny because Lodestar will handle it?” she asked hesitantly.

“You ain’t listening.” Snake Eyes tied the end of the thread and cut it with a pair of old-fashioned barber’s scissors. “Lodestar can’t do shit about anything that happens in the Everfree because the entire Ponyville underworld and their nanas pay Woodworth to look the other way. That’s why the bastards deserve to lose every bitcred that manticore costs them. In a perfect world, the company’ll end up more than just morally bankrupt.”

“But it’s not the people in charge that are getting hurt,” Fluttershy protested. “It’s the workers on the bottom. They’re not at fault, they’re just trying to make ends meet.”

“Yeah, but all the smart wage-slaves are leaving! It won’t be long before—” Snake Eye’s head jerked up. “Hey wait a tick, you hear… Oh fuck, right, you’re not equipped.”

He grabbed a wire from the cluttered desktop and plugged one end into the neural jack on the base of his neck.

“This is the Lodestar channel,” he said, attaching the other end to a cassette adaptor and feeding it into his player. Fluttershy heard a gruff voice over the static as the adaptor started to turn.

“…repeat, a 10-6 on 511 Hooke Street, outer ring. All local units respond.”

Fluttershy shot him an inquisitive look. “10-6?”

“Police code for ‘animal attack’. Might not be Manny, but I’m pretty sure that Hooke on the outer ring is the part of suburb closest to where the last attack—hold it, at least let me apply the spray, for fuck’s sake.”

Fluttershy restrained herself while Snake Eyes rushed to finish soaking her wounds in ethanol and liquid bandage.

“This job’s gonna kill you, ‘Shy.”

“I’m going to die anyway. Is your teardrop good for another drive?”

He shrugged. “We gotta go slow.”

Crowds and buildings blurred past, mingling into a mess of pastels and gray. The teardrop’s engine ticked ominously as the machine hovered at a cautious two meters above the cracked asphalt.

The outer ring of the city was coming up fast, a circlet of underdeveloped suburb dotted with scrap yards and the abandoned factories of long-bankrupt companies. Still the pipes twisted about overhead, tangling with landlines.

“What’s with all them doomsayers out on the street nowadays?” asked Snake Eyes as he passed another cardboard-draped stallion sitting on the curb. “Some of ‘em are well-equipped too. I saw a mare with a holo-projector preaching outside my apartment this morning.”

Fluttershy shrugged. Her muzzlepiece hissed as it pumped another dose of targeted antibiotic into her lungs. “Something’s in the air,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, that’s what the thing’s for, ‘Shy.”

“I mean,” she made a fruitless attempt to read another sign as they passed, “I mean, out there. Something foreboding. The wind is harsher, the stars look dimmer, people are saying the moon might be losing spots…”

“Nothing that can’t be explained by climate change and light pollution.”

She sighed and the mic boomed harshly.

“If you say so.”

Voices filtered in through the open window as the teardrop slowed to a stop and touched down. A group had gathered in the open street, and a couple of enterprising young stallions obstructed the road to keep land vehicles at a reasonable speed and distance from the scene.

Sirens howled in the distance, common enough in districts like this, but getting closer.

“’Ey, listen, I’m not on good terms with the starlets,” said Snake Eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna peace out.”

“Please, Snake, I won’t be long. Stay and keep the engine running, okay? Angel doesn’t do well with crowds either, so I’ll leave him with you.”

Snake Eyes clicked his tongue.

“Yeah. Okay I’ll hang, but if they want to ‘detain you for questioning’ or some bullshit, you’re on your own.”

She nodded and, smiling uneasily at the expressionless sentries, dove into the shifting mob.

A near-unrecognizable dead husk of a mare lay in the middle, protruding ribs, innards spilling, steaming on the warm asphalt. Another girl, similarly wounded but only barely alive, sat rasping as an altruistic youth tried to keep her conscious. The surrounding ponies exchanged glances but did not interfere as the muzzled, bloodied jacket-clad mare knelt beside the corpse.

Fluttershy positioned her head over that of the corpse and looked into those blank, still-open eyes.

The crowd seemed to melt away around her and the buildings decayed into skeletal frames, looking like nothing so much as a trite, overused time-lapse effect in a cheap or fashionably avant-garde holofilm. The crimson sun hung directly overhead, a bloody eye in the center of a featureless blue-gray sky.

A slip of half-decayed fax flew by, but the air was still. There was a far-off rumble and a synthetic-sounding suggestion of a voice boomed over the desolate landscape, startling her.

“Traveler who yet lives. What business have you in my Duchy of Crossroads?”

She drew a breath. “It’s Fluttershy. You called me the ‘butterfly-branded one’? The shaman?”

A chill in the air, like razors on her skin.

“And I am Shusteht the Duke of Dust, child,” the voice said dispassionately. “I hold neither favor nor memory for you or your ilk.”

“I wish to speak with her.” Fluttershy’s tone didn’t waver. “With the mare that perished here.”

“Child of the Sun,” the phrase pronounced slowly, deliberately, “why should I oblige your request?”

“Because we have a contract.”

“Do we? You will have to remind me of the terms.”

“The terms…” her voice caught in her throat. She coughed once. “…are standard.”

Silence. The fax caught on her shoulder, came loose and flew skyward. In the distance, the skeletal buildings shimmered like a desert mirage.

“Very well. I will deign to allow you to meet with the departed. But you’ll recall that the price is steep, and I expect to be compensated upon the appointed hour. That hour draws ever closer.”

Over the next few moments, the vague sensation of being encompassed by an incorporeal entity waned and finally dissipated.

“H-hello.”

Fluttershy turned to see a mare standing behind her. She’d been young, attractive, in life. Her pale yellow coat, no longer slick with blood, shone brilliantly beneath the rays of the red sun. A trio of carrots was branded across her rear. Fluttershy reached to remove her muzzlepiece but it was already gone, along with her coat and crossbow. She licked her lips nervously and addressed the mare.

“Hello. My name is Fluttershy. What’s yours?”

“It was all so fast…” The mare shuddered in recollection. “One moment I’m walking Cherry back to her flat, the n-next I’m… laying…”

“Rest easy,” said Fluttershy. “It’s over now.”

“What about Cherry?” asked the mare, stepping closer. “How is she? Is she…?”

“She looks pretty bad. But she’s alive, for the time being.” Realizing this didn’t sound reassuring, Fluttershy appended it with “I think she’ll pull through.”

“By the Sun,” the mare sniffed, “she didn’t deserve this. I don’t know if I…”

“Death is only a fact of life,” said Fluttershy gently. “You shouldn’t take it personally.”

The mare shut her eyes and nodded, sobbing.

“What’s your name?” Fluttershy asked again.

“I’m Golden Harvest,” she forced out.

“Good.” Fluttershy smiled and put a reassuring hoof around Harvest’s shoulder. “Try to remember that. It will serve you in the time yet to come. Can you… Can you tell me anything about the beast that attacked you, Golden Harvest?”

“I…” Harvest swallowed. “I barely saw it. Hit us fast, like a… like a bullet. I caught a glimpse of red fur, two-inch fangs, a dull glimmer of something like brass or copper…”

Fluttershy frowned.

Metal?

“Did you see where he… where it went?” she asked.

“I was losing consciousness when it left us, but I think it was headed deeper into the city.”

Fluttershy felt her heart skip a beat as the blood in her veins became suddenly, inexplicably icy.

“Where?”

Golden Harvest opened her mouth to speak but, by that point, Fluttershy was already

somewhere else.

The Lodestar officer pulled her roughly away from Golden Harvest’s body.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“The manticore,” she gasped, struggling through a bout of instashift shock. “The creature that did this is inside city limits! The public is in danger!”

“I think you’d better come with me, miss,” said the officer, squinting at her over his sunglasses.

She struggled and pulled away from the stallion.

“Let me go! I have to—”

He pulled his stun baton from its holster.

Lodestar officers are equipped with expensive counter-ballistic body armor woven from strands of magically-charged byronium oxide alloy, marketed to the masses under the brand name ‘Antimag’. Diamagnetic materials such as the lead cores inside bullets are physically repelled by the armor, minimizing penetration. Bypassing it requires the use of abnormal ammunition or beam weapons (outlawed, except when in possession of a specialty hunter’s license) or aiming above the collar when the target isn’t wearing a helmet.

The officer fell over as the trank flechette bit into the base of his neck. Hooves bounding unsteadily over the asphalt, she barged through the crowd. Another uniformed stallion, presumably the partner of the officer Fluttershy had just tranquilized, swung at her as she brushed past; the electrified stun baton glanced off the side of her muzzlepiece. A slight hiss told her that some of the tubing had been compromised.

Snake Eyes opened the door on the passenger side of the teardrop as she raced toward it. She threw herself into the seat and felt the car shudder and take off.

“Shit. You’ve really done it now, ‘Shy.”

Fluttershy looked over at her companion to see that he was shaking. He toggled the built-in police scanner, probably for her benefit. She remembered that he had a cranial radio receptor installed.

“…officer down on 511 Hooke Street. All units be advised, suspect is armed and dangerous, and is being transported by a beige 2002 Tsubasa teardrop. Last known location is Lovelace Avenue in the western wing…”

He rubbed his eyes.

“Shit, shit…”

Angel scampered onto the shoulder of her seat and twitched his nose conspiratorially at her.

“…8-14 taking place at 642 Elara Avenue, local units respond…”

Snake Eyes reached for the toggle again, shaking his head.

“…All units be advised, the Street Eye system has identified what appears to be a three-hundred pound adult manticore within city limits…”

His hoof stopped an inch from the dial. He looked at the scanner, running through an emotional gamut ranging from tired, stunned and bewildered.

“…The creature is headed northeast along route ’95. It has presently injured at least fifteen individuals and shows no sign of stopping…”

He looked wearily at her.

“You sure you don’t wanna just let the starlets handle this? They’re better equipped than you.”

“No,” she said resolutely. “I want to know why. Why all this is happening. Maybe Manny will have some answers for me.”

Snake Eyes brushed a stray forelock of moss-green hair from his eyes and pushed down on the gas pedal, turning into a side alley. They were soaring over the streets now. Traffic tended to get lighter the higher you flew, but the ticking of the engine had grown more insistent as the vehicle rose and Fluttershy had to wonder if she was going to have to use her atrophied wings before the day was out.

He tilted his head as he drove.

“What’s that hissing? Hold on is that… is your mask leaking?”

She didn’t answer.

“Fucking Tartarus, man, we need to get you to a hospital. Your lungs are gonna flood if that shit runs out.”

She shook her head.

“Later. Manny gets priority.”

He took a breath through clenched teeth. “Well okay, ‘s your funeral.”

Author's Note

Stay tuned for the totally tubular conclusion to Fluttershy's chapter, kiddies. As always, one day apart.

Beggars and Choosers (Act Two)

Rarity reached to adjust her ascot, thought better of it, drew a slender cigarette from her suit pocket with a levitation spell, lit it and drew. The somberly-dressed group assembled around the meeting room table exchanged sidewise glances.

“Are we to understand that a group of burglars broke into Carousel headquarters due to a security oversight?” asked a portly unicorn. Rarity was annoyed to see that he was taking neat, blocky notes on loose leaf in a fastidiously-kept three-ring. “And that you, the CEO this company has elected, saw fit to hire one of the criminals?”

“Yes,” she said curtly.

“This is the second time you’ve done something like this,” said one of the mares. “A job offer isn’t the most effective method of discouraging further misbehavior.”

“Perhaps not,” Rarity conceded, “but Carousel Industries is in sore need of young talent, don’t you agree? How that talent was previously applied should be irrelevant.”

“An employee of such dubious record cannot be trusted,” pressed the mare.

“Rest assured that I have taken… precautions.” The pause was inserted consciously on Rarity’s part. She knew it was the sort of hackneyed dramatic flourish that the board of directors expected. “Ladies and gentlemen, I understand your concerns, but the truth of the matter is that Pinkamena’s associates—”

A turquoise stallion sporting a muted crimson suit and a slicked back mane opened the double doors a crack and poked his head inside.

As one, the directors craned their necks to look toward the disturbance, but the intruding stallion seemed unfazed.

“Madam,” he said gravely. “I apologize for interrupting, but you have a phone call.”

She shot him a look, but the intention was lost behind the impassive glare of the insect lenses mounted over her eyes.

“Not now, Eiffel. I’m in the middle of an important meeting.”

“Yes, well,” he looked sheepishly at her, “I’m afraid that this particular call can’t be delayed.”

Can’t be delayed? What are you on about?

Rarity pursed her lips.

“I see.” She looked at the assembled board. “Please excuse me.”

Outside the meeting room, a middle-aged secretary handed Rarity the phone, doing her absolute best to avoid eye contact. Trying to hide her exasperation, Rarity wordlessly took the device and plugged the bud into her ear. The gesture wasn’t necessary; it seemed that whoever was on the other end of the line had disabled the video feed.

“Hello? Rarity speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Rarity.” The serene female voice on the other end didn’t sound familiar. “My name is Raven Four and I serve as one of the handmaidens to Her Ladyship, Princess Celestia.”

Her knees almost buckled. She tried stalling.

“Can I, ah, can I have some proof of your identity?”

The voice continued unabated.

“Her Ladyship wishes to inform you that She is very much aware of your company’s transgressions in Canterlot.”

She searched for something to say but it was all she could do to continue listening in a stunned, terrified silence.

“Are you still there? I am referring, of course, to the violence your people have incited on the streets of the capital when they sought to neutralize the city’s Stalliongrad Mafia syndicate.”

Finally, Rarity regained her composure.

“That’s quite an accusation. Have you any evidence to support these claims?”

“Her Ladyship requires no evidence.”

She couldn’t read the voice. It wasn’t smug, but neither was it angry or accusing. It sounded almost completely flat.

“Furthermore,” the voice resumed, “it has recently come to Her Ladyship’s attention that your company is developing a potentially lethal artificial intelligence, one that does not conform to current Turing safety standards.”

How could she have known about Huehuecóyotl? Even the actual programming team is only dimly aware of what they’re working on. But then, why would Pinkamena’s team know about it? Someone inside Carousel must be leaking information; someone high on the corporate ladder.

“A formal investigation into your company’s actions is currently pending approval. I’m sure you understand, but if the results are unfavorable, your company could be dissolved and executives could face charges.”

Rarity, once again, found herself speechless.

“However,” the voice added, “you may still return to Her Ladyship’s good graces, if you agree to Her terms.”

She released the breath she’d been holding and chewed on her lower lip for a moment. If the threats were legitimate, she didn’t have many options. If they weren’t…

“I understand. Though I will request appropriate documentation before I agree to anything.”

A pause.

“That can be arranged,” said the voice.

Route ’95 was a huge thoroughfare that bisected Ponyville like a gaping knife wound. The ground highway consisted of multiple roads and bridges stacked over one another in an attempt to ameliorate the crippling volume of rush-hour traffic. A gridlock of Route ’95 was liable to halt ground traffic in most of the city. Air traffic, meanwhile, was sparse enough that it didn’t yet require strict regulation, though Mayor Mare had been discussing how to tackle potential difficulties in the future with city officials.

Snake Eyes tutted habitually.

“Thanks, assholes. ‘North along Route ’95’ is really fucking specific.”

Fluttershy was watching the pipes snake about over them once more. What did they carry? Why had the city not laid out the network underground, like other settlements she’d seen? Corrugated iron tubes running from building to building, through countless rooftop balustrades and facades.

And then, a flash of red.

“Look!”

The manticore had somehow made it onto the pipe network and was quickly making its way along the highway, leaping or gliding from platform to makeshift platform as each terminated into its respective tenement building. Some of the weaker pipes bent and sprayed water or steam as the creature landed, and Fluttershy wondered how these would be repaired.

Manny was fast and agile despite his weight; she could see the muscles in his legs ripple with each powerful bound. The teardrop was gaining but only barely. Something shiny was mounted on his back.

“Where is he going?” she asked dreamily.

Snake Eyes checked the time readout on the car’s dashboard.

“If I was a rabid, homicidal monster, I’d be headed for the most densely-populated areas of the city. At this hour, on the way from Route ’95, that’d probably be… the Folk Bazaar.”

He tempered the anti-grav thrusters to avoid a collision with a honking cargo barge. The teardrop was close enough that it was physically pulled into the vacuum that the speeding barge left in its wake.

Fluttershy hesitated.

“Um, okay. Could you, uh—”

“The Folk Bazaar is… well, it’s a big public lot, right? Neutral territory. Right on toppa the boundary between downtown and the proper corporate district. People go there to put up job postings and ‘cos you don’t need a vendor’s license to set up shop and… Whatever, it don’t matter, point is, it’s gonna be getting really crowded at about now, and we’re maybe four clicks away from the ramp.”

“Can you catch up to him in time?” she asked.

He eyed the dashboard and then glanced at the shape bounding over the pipeline ahead.

“Maybe. Coolers are shit, though. I go any faster, the engine’s gonna melt.”

Fluttershy clipped the trank magazine into place.

“Just get us close. I’ll take care of him.”

A siren started to wail somewhere behind them.

His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror.

“Great. It’s gonna be a rough ride, ‘Shy. Might want to strap in and hang on to your rabbit.”

A hiss of static filled the quiet teardrop interior and then the radio started to speak.

“Driver. Lodestar has reason to suspect that you are transporting a wanted suspect. Pull over immediately or we will be forced to disable your vehicle.”

The link was one-way. Snake Eyes hit the toggle, shutting off the radio. Manny’s sprinting form was getting steadily nearer, so Snake Eyes slowly drew the teardrop closer to the pipeline. There was a pop as something bounced off of the rear window: Lodestar were firing electro-magnetic harpoons at them. If one of these devices latched onto the metal of the vehicle, it would fire a localized EMP, disabling the battery. Newer air car models had emergency thrusters that would kick in during a power failure, allowing the vehicle to drift comfortably to ground level, but the 2002 Tsubasa teardrop wasn’t equipped with these safety features. If Lodestar managed to hook onto them, they’d plummet from the sky like a rock.

Snake Eyes pulled back as another harpoon shot past, rebounding off of an altitude sign.

“Motherfuckers,” he said disbelievingly. “Don’t they care if we fall into the road below?”

Fluttershy rolled down her window and took aim. The wind howled outside, drowning out Snake Eyes’ complaints. The trigger lever twitched. She fired.

A pipe burst beneath Manny’s paws; he snarled, adjusting his gait to maintain balance, and seemed to notice the teardrop for the first time. As he turned his head to face her, Fluttershy gasped.

Half of the manticore’s skull had been replaced with primitive-looking brass and silicone circuitry. Wires ran from a single photoreceptor into his charred scalp, and a hexagonal box made of featherstahl appeared to have been installed directly into his spinal cord. One of his forelegs had been replaced wholesale: a sleek brass prosthetic caught the sun as he ran. It looked like half of Manny’s body had melted around his cyberware, as though he’d climbed out of the fiery depths of Phlegethon itself.

Manny let out a roar overlaid by screeching synths: his voice-box had been altered. Snake Eyes spun the wheel away, pulling back as the beast leapt toward the teardrop. Fluttershy watched as the manticore fell away into the street below. A distant air car folded under Manny’s weight and spun out as he lunged toward a parallel vehicle. With a series of near-impossible jumps through and over moving traffic, Manny landed onto their teardrop’s rear bumper.

Fluttershy twisted around to look at Manny through the rear window as Snake Eyes shouted curse after curse at the dashboard. Far behind them, the Lodestar transport fired another harpoon.

Manny jerked back toward their pursuers almost too quickly for her to register what had happened. As her brain processed the action, she understood: Manny had caught the shaft of the harpoon in mid-transit. Her amplified voice sounded alien in her ears, as though she was listening to someone else screaming: “Get us over something, Snake!”

The stallion nudged the wheel toward the closest high-rise a split second before something sparked and the dashboard went dark. An instant later, her internal organs funneled into her throat as the teardrop started to fall. Snake Eyes screamed and she felt Angel digging his claws into her jacket.

The high-rise was rushing to meet them at a break-neck speed. Operating purely on instinct, she kicked open her door, struggled clumsily out of her jacket, hugged Angel close to her and leapt out into the cutting winds.

Her wings flapped feebly as she tried to slow her descent, but it was of no use. She hadn’t flown in at least two years, and her momentum proved to be far too strong for her to overcome. She tumbled over the rugged concrete roof, feeling one of her wings bend and crack.

She laid there for a while, until Angel struggled from her unresisting forelegs and nuzzled her cheek.

She got to her feet slowly, carefully, testing each one in turn for fractures. Aside from the broken wing, she seemed to have gotten off relatively easily, though her hip ached and her muzzlepiece was leaking much more profusely now. Her medical gasses would soon run out, and there were several bleeding bruises decorating her body, ones that wouldn’t stop until she was dry. She looked at her foreleg—the Guardian’s lathe was cracked and the catgut hung limp. She wouldn’t get much use out of the crossbow in this state.

At this point, it occurred to her to survey her surroundings. The teardrop rested a fair distance away, having nearly slid through the parapet and off the rooftop completely. It was smoking and a spider web of cracks ran through the windshield. Any other car might have flipped upon touching down, but teardrops had a notoriously low center of gravity. She could just barely make out Snake Eyes’ body through the cracked windows, smothered by the airbag. She couldn’t say offhand if he was dead or merely unconscious. Her ears registered a low growl and the post-trauma haze was instantly blown away by the jolt of adrenaline.

Manny stumbled slowly towards her. He was limping and his electronic eye was dark. It took her a second to realize that the pulse had disabled his cyberware as well, half-blinding him and reducing one of his limbs to dead weight.

As bruised, injured and sick as she was, it was nothing compared to the pain Manny had gone through.

Lodestar transports hovered around the building, waiting for something, maybe an order, maybe to see how this situation would resolve. The flashing police lights caught on Manny’s dead implants and winked at her.

“Just look at yourself…” she coughed as her muzzlepiece fed the last of the gas into her lungs. “What have they done to you?”

Manny growled again, a feral sound with undertones of fury and grief. “I am… defiled. But now… I understand firsthand… the cruelty… of your kin… pegasus.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Who did this?”

Manny snarled. “It matters not. Your kind… You are all the same. You will all pay…! As one!”

She stepped back despite herself.

“But you can’t—! They’ll kill you!”

He dashed towards her, limping awkwardly, dragging his prosthetic behind him along the concrete. He was too far gone; he didn’t care whether he lived or died. She kicked out, connecting her hooves with Manny’s facial circuits, only just bouncing away as he tried to claw at her with his working foreleg. Her legs could barely support her weight; she was lightheaded from loss of blood and though she coughed and sputtered, she couldn’t spit the blood from her rapidly-filling lungs. She tried to keep the beast at a distance, but had no plan, no weapons, no cards left to play.

At last she collapsed, the scene spinning drunkenly around her. As her sight dimmed she saw Angel leap onto Manny’s back. The beast howled and swiped at the hare, violently knocking him out of her field of vision. Before Manny could get any closer to where she lay, however, his knees gave and he fell, whimpering softly.

Fluttershy understood: Angel had taken a neurotoxin-coated flechette from her discarded ammo pouch and plunged it into one of Manny’s arteries. The fast-acting venom crippled Manny’s compromised systems almost instantly, condemning him to a slow, painful death.

You and me both—we’re just victims of circumstance. And now look: here we are. Lying here together. Waiting for death.

She rolled onto her back, ignoring the searing pain in her wing. The Lodestar vehicles had backed off slightly. Two black, unmarked heliplanes were descending over the scene, scattering dust and debris from the rooftop. News crews? Unlikely—news choppers were flashier and wouldn’t be allowed through the Lodestar cordon. It didn’t matter anyway; it was all only a passing curiosity now. Her eyes fluttered and shut as black-clad figures rappelled toward her from the hovering heliplanes.

She awoke atop the high-rise. The heliplanes and Lodestar transports were gone, along with the rest of the speeding air traffic. The crashed teardrop was also conspicuously absent. The city was quiet. There was no wind, no distant voices of the crowd, no hum of passing cars; only the silent glare of the red sun overhead.

The Duchy of Crossroads…

She was naked once more, and apparently unscathed.

Stepping up to the parapet, she looked over the ruinous outlines of the city, a vast empty sprawl decorated with dead neon and peeling paint.

“Shusteht!” she cried out, but silence reigned.

She stepped over the parapet carefully and let herself fall. Her wings, healthier, fuller than she could recall them ever being, easily caught the still air and propelled her forward over the desolation below. There were no air currents and yet she flew as easily as if she’d been doing it all her life.

Route ’95 stretched to the horizon and she followed it, unsure of her purpose or destination. Despite the feelings of liberation that flying allowed her, despite the fact that she felt healthy for once, a pang of melancholy stayed with her as she soared through the empty city.

On several occasions she thought she saw a moving shape on the ground below, something big and fast, but when she landed to investigate there was never any hint that anything had been there. She might have explored that city for hours or days, and it was so massive and so utterly devoid of any life that she felt even more alone than she ever did when she was awake.

Broken windows leading into empty, barren rooms coated in dust. Stockless, clientless diners in various stages of disrepair. Corporate buildings, possibly even more lifeless now than they had been in her own time, without the benefit of being as clean. No door was ever locked in this city, but no door ever led to anywhere notable or worthwhile. She had to leave this place before she turned the same: lost, hollow and helpless.

No options presented themselves to her.

After an indeterminate amount of time, she found a small neoclassical cobblestone bridge in one of the antique boroughs in the heart of the city. She curled up to sleep beneath it, though the sun was ever-stationary in the hazy sky. She knew that abandoned apartments were a dime a dozen here, but for some reason the thought of passing time in one made her uneasy. They were so… closed off. Isolated.

Sleep was slow in coming, but she did nod off after a time. When she awoke, she found Manny standing over her, gazing at, gazing through her.

“You…?”

He was virginal, unharmed as she was, his hideous implants gone, his skin mended. He was unnaturally still, not blinking, not even breathing; it put Fluttershy on edge. When he opened his mouth, the voice that spilled fourth wasn’t his own.

“Awaken, Child of the Sun. Your appointed hour is not yet come.”

Tastefully dimmed loglo tubes shone down at her as she pried back her eyelids and tried to get her bearings. The room was spacious, far too much so to be a part of any economically-minded hospital. No roommate, comfortable context-mold bedding. To her left was a window looking out onto a fanciful sunset beach. The gently rolling tide crashed repeatedly against the white sand, providing a soothing bassline of white noise. She stared out the window for a few minutes, but the bright orange sun didn’t seem to be getting any lower.

Her muzzlepiece was gone, replaced by an oxygen mask. Her mouth tasted vaguely of some indeterminate brand of anesthetic cocktail, and she found that she could breathe comfortably without prompting coughing fits. There was a persistent itch in her wing, but she supposed that it was preferable to the pain she felt when it broke. When she tried to sit up she found that she was hooked up to a full suite of monitoring equipment, including an expensive-looking silicon tiara connected to an EEG. The device had picked up a recent change in her brain waves, the transition into consciousness. Whoever was looking after her here, they were aware that she had awakened.

She lay in bed for several minutes, patiently waiting. Finally, footsteps sounded outside, followed by a polite knock at her door. The stallion opened the door without waiting for an answer. He didn’t look much like a doctor—no scrubs or lab coat or stethoscope, only a dim red suit and tie.

“Miss Fluttershy, correct?” he asked.

She nodded.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Eiffel.” He didn’t offer his forehoof to shake. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” she croaked, unsure of what else to say.

“I’m glad to hear it. Madam Rarity has requested a word, if you would be so kind.”

“Madam Rarity?”

The stallion nodded stiffly. “My employer and the mare responsible for your extraction and subsequent medical treatment, yes.”

Fluttershy considered this.

“Why?” she asked.

“That isn’t for me to say,” said Eiffel. “You will have to speak with Madam Rarity for the details.”

“Okay…” The zigzags displayed on the EEG subtly changed shape as she tried to remember the confrontation with Manny. “I had a stallion and a hare with me. Up there, on the roof?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge their current status to you. Please speak with Madam Rarity.”

She sensed that she wouldn’t get anywhere trying to talk to this suit.

“Okay,” she said again. “Will you escort me to her?”

“Of course, if you consider yourself adequately prepared. You can disconnect the electrodes and the EEG band. Are you stable on your feet, or will you require a wheelchair?”

Rarity’s office was a soundproofed cube on the top floor of the building, overlooking what Fluttershy assumed was Ponyville downtown. Rarity turned off her holo-display as Eiffel entered the room with Fluttershy trailing closely behind. She nodded wordlessly at Eiffel, dismissing him. Fluttershy felt a touch of enmity for the mare as she drew on her cigarette.

“Excuse me. Why did you save me?” asked Fluttershy.

Rarity studied her through the smoke and took another drag.

“You don’t know?” she asked finally.

Fluttershy shook her head.

Rarity chuckled. “Well, let’s just say that you have a very influential benefactor.”

“Influential enough to cover the cost of new lungs?” Fluttershy asked suspiciously. “And pinion bone repair?”

“Oh yes. You are extraordinarily fortunate.” The exec seemed lost in thought for a few moments.

Fluttershy was quickly getting fed up with all the secrecy.

“Fine. Will you at least tell me if Snake Eyes and my hare are okay?”

Rarity reactivated and consulted her holo-display.

“As soon as we verified that the stallion’s injuries were not life-threatening, we had him moved to Sweetheart Chateau. The hare is being cared for at the Pulaski Veterinary Center. You’ll be able to pick it up there, once we release you.”

Fluttershy sighed. “Thank you. Then, is there anything you need from me?”

Rarity rolled her cigarette holder from one corner of her mouth to the other.

“That leaves the matter of the manticore… Given that you are the one who killed it, the carcass is legally yours. I understand that Mayor Mare and Woodworth & Sons are offering bounties, but I would be willing to purchase it off of you for double the highest competing price.”

Fluttershy looked at Rarity, trying to place her. The lenses she wore made it impossible to read her eyes.

“Why are you so interested in Manny’s corpse?”

Rarity shook the excess ash from the tip of her cigarette into a tray that Fluttershy noted was apparently cut from a single large diamond.

“My reasons are purely philanthropic. Our engineers have reason to suspect that the manticore’s cyberware was installed by a group of domestic terrorists known as the Children of the Night.”

“Who’s that?”

Rarity navigated a menu on the holo-display to bring up several files.

“You know of Nightmare Moon, yes?”

An unmistakable woodcut of the fearsome-looking alicorn appeared on the display. Her head was obscured by her iconic battle headdress.

“That’s a pseudonym, right?” hazarded Fluttershy. “Of Celestia’s sister?”

“Princess Luna, correct. What do you know of her?”

“She, ah, she led a revolt of some kind, back in the eighteen-hundreds? And Princess Celestia had her killed.”

Rarity nodded. Her voice took on the tone and pace of a weary history professor.

“Most sources say that Princess Luna was assassinated after staging a bloody coup against her sister, yes. The Children of the Night, composed of modern-day revolutionaries, claim that the Lunar Princess was banished, not killed. Given the Royal Family’s longevity, if this is indeed the case, then Luna is almost certainly still alive. The Children of the Night believe that she is due to return. And,” she sat up slightly, “at the risk of sounding melodramatic, if Luna does return to the political stage, it could spark a war that would make Bridleon look like an international gyroball match.”

“That sounds terrible. But what did the Children of the Night want with Manny?” asked Fluttershy.

Rarity stopped, presumably contemplating how to answer.

“You did well to stop him,” she said after a few seconds. “A remotely triggered pocket nuke was built directly into his spinal column. If it wasn’t for you and that EMP harpoon, a sizable portion of the city would have been reduced to an uninhabitable wasteland.”

Fluttershy realized that her mouth was hanging open.

“Oh… goodness.”

“Now, would you be willing to sell the carcass for further analysis? I am offering eight thousand BC’s.”

Fluttershy considered it. Rarity seemed sufficiently trustworthy, at least for a suit, and Fluttershy certainly didn’t want to sell a nuclear explosive to someone like Woodworth.

She shrugged.

“Okay, well… I don’t really need the money. Send the credits to Snake.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

When Fluttershy finished the necessary paperwork, Rarity shuffled though her desk drawer and withdrew a single near-blank page.

“One last thing, please,” she said briskly. “I have a document here listing four names. If you would be so kind, tell me if any of these are familiar to you.”

“Um, sure?”

Fluttershy took the page and glanced over it. A generic-looking logo reading ‘HARMONIA’ was printed on the header. Beneath it were six names, two of which had been carefully censored with black marker. She didn’t recognize any of the remaining four.

“Should I know these people?” she asked.

Rarity shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“You’re right.”

The exec grabbed a business card from the corner of her desk and gave it to Fluttershy.

“No matter. Here’s my contact information if you ever need anything.” She looked away. “That includes medical work—we’ve replaced your lungs but the infection itself is currently untreatable. Regrettably, you will relapse eventually. But until then, I wish you all the best.”

Fluttershy got up to leave.

“Thank you.”

The exec smiled wryly at her.

“We’ll keep in touch.”

Author's Note

Next chapter is the big one. The thrilling conclusion to this multifaceted story arc. Will it be the final chapter? I don't know yet. But it will be coming. Check the table of contents for the teaser!

Minor revision: changed Judith Four's name to Raven Four after this gal.
Seemed more appropriate. No need to introduce an OC if a canon background pony exists already fulfilling the needed role.

Nox Aeterna (Act One)

The numerous stars outside resembled nothing so much as grains of diamond on black velvet. Silver Spanner activated her neuro-optical interface and consulted the shuttle operator’s manual. The action was more of a paranoid tic at this point. She’d memorized the document in its entirety within a month of being enlisted into the Canterlot Underwatch.

Few outside of the agency were aware of its existence and fewer still understood its purpose. Spanner surmised that the agency coordinated a wide network of services that were considered ‘deniable’ or ‘covert’ by the Equestrian government, though naturally she wasn’t privy to any of them. Even her own position in the grand scheme of things was largely a mystery to her and she was submitted to regular polygraph tests to verify that she remained ignorant. The Canterlot Underwatch was not a pleasant employer to work for: drug tests, fitness evaluations, cavity searches, the full suite. Her income was adequate, especially considering that she worked approximately three days out of every month, but in her idle moments she sometimes wondered if it was worth the trouble.

She was tasked with flying a short-distance shuttle (short distance relative to interstellar space) to the moon every month during a specified phase, and depositing a shipment of supplies to a cramped-looking lunar base. The nature of the supplies was not disclosed to her, and neither was the purpose of the base itself. She imagined it was the site of a classified black project being conducted by the Equestrian government; maybe a testing facility for a new super-weapon, or a training ground for Space Program recruits. This latter theory didn’t gel with the fact that some of the supplies she was hauling were clearly radioactive. The shuttle interior was fitted with a Geiger counter and a lead hazmat suit whose equipping procedures she was thoroughly and repeatedly trained on. She hadn’t yet had reason to use the suit at any point, and she hoped to keep it that way.

The crater-scarred face of the moon covered most of her displays. The lunar base was a diminutive speck on the horizon highlighted by a corona of reflected light, fast approaching. Spanner flicked a few overhead switches, activating the counter-thrusters and slowing her approach. She turned on the onboard mic to hail the receptionists.

“Shuttle 307 arriving with monthly shipment. Do you copy?”

The buzzing of radio static spilled from her speakers in response. Spanner frowned.

Comms systems were wrecked by a stray meteor again.

She flipped up the plastic cover from an array of communication macro keys and hit the ‘hail’ button. Her shuttle’s serial number, pilot info and shipment contents were immediately sent to be processed by the hangar computers below. This wasn’t ideal since it would take the machines at least a full two minutes to parse the information from her signal and cross-reference it with the database of permitted persons and vehicles. Not that a couple of minutes made any difference to her after an uneventful nineteen-hour flight. She reclined her seat and whistled tunelessly through her teeth as she waited.

The slab-like airlock doors of the hangar slid open and the shuttle gradually impaled itself onto the landing rack inside, a procedure Spanner always found unsettlingly sexual. She released the locks and opened the hatch, waiting to be verified by the soldiers on duty. A minute passed.

“Guys?” she yelled.

No response from the LZ below.

“I’m coming out, okay? Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed.”

The hangar was dark. She could barely make out the crosshair patterns designating the LZ on the blacktop. The auxiliary lights were on, but predictably dim; the chain of halogen bulbs wired around the hangar left the center in shadow.

“Hello?” she called out.

This doesn’t look right, but… Shit, if I turn tail and head back to Earth and the welcoming committee was just out on break or something, I could lose my job.

She crossed the hangar and hit a switch on a nearby console, opening the door leading to the interior of the facility. The hall beyond was pitch-black: even the emergency lighting wasn’t functioning here. Even if it had been, she wasn’t authorized to leave the hangar area.

No. No way is this place supposed to be like this. I’ve gotta get out of here.

She activated the flashlight built into her vacuum suit. The hallway split perpendicularly ahead, so the beam lit up the far wall without revealing anything useful. A click sounded somewhere behind her, making her jump. She turned slowly, nervously tearing her eyes away from the hall.

Another click.

Then another, then a few more, the noise resolving itself into an unpleasant gurgling. It was coming from the inside of her shuttle, she could hear it through the still-open hatch.

It was the Geiger counter.

The seals on her shipment were still in place, leaving one possibility besides: there was another source of radiation in her vicinity and it was steadily getting closer.

She darted back to the console and instinctively shut the heavy titanium door. The electronic locks were offline, but the door was clearly intended to shut from the outside. The bolt looked primitive, and she was able to wedge it manually partway into the mechanism, damaging it and binding the door in place.

They can take that out of my paycheck if I make it back to Earth in one piece.

The crackling of the Geiger reached its climax as she raced toward the shuttle. Something was there; something was waiting for her in the dark. She collided with a tall equine shape.

The ambient glow coming from the interior of her shuttle outlined the figure before her. It looked slender and malnourished, possibly from excessive radiation sickness. Its cheeks were sunken and the curves of its ribcage were visible through the thin, papery flesh covering its chest. Most striking of all was its mane, at once hair and the immense void, dotted with stars, nebulae and distant galaxies.

Spanner felt as though if she were to take a microscope to that flowing mane, she might find a single insignificant yellow sun, orbited by a tiny blue-green planet with its own natural satellite. And were she to zoom in on this microscopic speck, she might find the lunar base where an infinitesimal version of herself was currently standing before this very mare, rooted to the spot in sheer terror.

The mare regarded her with cold azure eyes sunken deep into their sockets. Spanner tried to say something, but her throat had gone dry and her larynx stubbornly refused to work.

Nightmare Moon, for her part, did not speak either. Her foreleg, weak from two centuries’ abuse, didn’t waver as it pointed at the moored shuttle. And this was all that Spanner needed: she knew what the mysterious mare was asking of her.

The infinite night outside was, as that mane, melancholy, silent and perfect.

Rainbow eyed the holo-display projected over the counter.

“…Equestrian generals and the chairman of national defense maintain that the nuclear detonation in Bridleon was not an Equestrian attack. Noted military analysts including one Copper Croix, senior instructor at the San Marturius police academy, are skeptical, saying that the shape of the resulting mushroom cloud is inconsistent with gryphon-manufactured Sekhnar warheads.”

The cloud bloomed in slow motion behind the newscaster mare for what might have been the tenth time that night. The press had been running the story for several days now and with each subsequent iteration Rainbow heard nothing of value added. She looked down at the mug sitting in front of her. Her beer had gone flat.

Hope Lightning made it out okay.

“Largest fleet I ever fucking saw, that, fifty ships, moored together with cable and sheets of corrugated steel, tenders swimming back and forth like guppies…”

Rainbow Dash got up from her stool. Deep Six looked up at her sharply.

“What’sa matter?” he asked. “Got somewhere you need to be?”

She smirked and waved her forehoof casually at him.

“If you want to get in bed with me, swabby, you can stop recycling your stories. That shit won’t fly with any mare.” Turning away from the crestfallen stallion, she couldn’t help but let out a strangled snicker.

Low standards. Leave it to a sailor to hit on a one-eyed, shell-shocked vet, huh Dashie?

Despite the fact that she clearly recalled receiving a request from Toe-Tapper to meet her here, Applejack felt unsure as to how she’d actually come to be in this place. Her legs had carried her to the bar on auto-pilot without any input or conscious thought from her. And now here she was, sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing an empty mug some forty minutes later.

Toe-Tapper hadn’t been the same since their barge, Consequence, returned from the distant Artemis II. Since they discovered half-way back to Earth that what they took to be his brother, Noteworthy, actually turned out to be a clever changeling sleeper agent.

She remembered Toe-Tapper’s look of disbelief as Noteworthy’s oily black blood spilled from his open foreleg, freezing to sub-zero temperature near-instantly. In that moment, the creature knew that its ruse was for naught. It leapt for Maud’s stone-cutter laser, and Applejack fired the last two shells of her spreadgun into its chest. This didn’t stop it, of course, but it bought the diamond dog Spot enough time to skewer it with a Tremor drill he’d ripped from one of the engineering drones. He’d gotten off with several ugly scars where the monster’s icy blood splashed him, but killing it with the laser itself would have likely resulted in collateral damage to the hull of the Consequence.

She could still hear Twenty-One’s silky, unmoved tones over the intercom in the silence that followed: T-minus thirty minutes to reentry into the Sol solar system.

Noteworthy was dead, had been since before the launch. Toe-Tapper never recovered from the loss.

Where is he now?

She was roused from her memories by the approach of another mare.

“Looking pretty dour there, miss. What’s wrong? Get stood up?”

Six colors in her mane, an eyepatch over her left eye. Abnormally pointed ears, military-grade figure-eight speed braces coordinating the prosthetics on her rear legs. A similarly expensive-looking pair of anti-grav tri-fold wings was mounted on her spine. She looked like a veteran, and a decorated one at that.

Applejack found it hard to maintain eye-contact.

“I didn’t come here seeking trouble,” she muttered quietly.

The mare grinned. Her sharp teeth looked more in line with carnivorous canines than ponies. “Hey, don’t worry. I wouldn’t harm a fly.”

Applejack tried to match the mare with a smile of her own but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Uh-huh. Sorry, I don’t buy it.” She motioned at the mare’s prosthetics. “You look… spec-ops. Or high-end military. And frankly, I don’t feel particularly patriotic right now. Let me be.”

The mare nodded toward the holo-screen. “You’re right, it’s a bleeding mess. Glad they shipped me out of there before that happened. Name’s Rainbow Dash, by the way.”

“Applejack,” she said reluctantly.

“Hey, barkeep!” Rainbow beckoned to the bearded stallion manning the counter. “Top off my friend ‘Jack here! Your best ale!”

With a solemn air, the stallion brought a small wooden keg to their table and carefully refilled Applejack’s tankard. Applejack nodded her thanks, took a sip and grimaced.

“I prefer cider.”

Rainbow elbowed her playfully. “Lightweight. I won’t be having any of my friends drinking that fruity shit.”

Applejack chuckled. Rainbow’s amiable nature was proving infectious. “Then maybe you should go look for another candidate.”

Rainbow chugged her own mug and threw a hoof vaguely toward the exit.

“Tell you what,” she started. “Go ahead and finish that mug, right? I hear they’re rehearsing for the Celestial Festival at the Folk Bazaar.”

“Who?”

Rainbow cocked her head with eyebrows raised as if to say ‘I don’t fucking know’.

“Anyway, be a hoot and a half to watch them fuck up over and over. You game? Or you’d prefer to waste the night away here waiting for your boyfriend or whatever?”

Applejack briefly wondered if Rainbow meant to actively sabotage the proceedings. She checked her time readout and estimated how long she’d been waiting. She shot another evaluating look at the mare sitting across from her. She made a decision.

As if I have anything better to do at this hour.

Visions of circuit board patterns overlaid with psychedelic abstract shapes, morphing into one another ceaselessly, neon webs of light dancing around her. Something smooth pressed against her as she flew through the dreamscape.

A familiar voice, grating like the sharp tones of an alarm clock.

“Sleeping on the job again, I see. I must admit, I’m perplexed as to why Madam Rarity invested so much time and money in bringing you aboard.”

The shapes and webs resolved into a network map suspended in front of her eyes by the display strip mounted into the twin ports on her temples. The pressure against her cheek became the hard, indented surface of the keyboard. A pattern of grooves and squares was imprinted into the side of her face as she lifted her head off of the keys and wiped the trail of saliva from the corner of her mouth.

Eiffel was waiting at the door to her office, his face unreadable as usual.

“Oh, sorry! It must’ve been the muscle relaxant.” Her voice was hoarse. She harrumphed, clearing away the film in the back of her throat.

Eiffel tilted his head quizzically. “Muscle relaxant?”

Her head felt heavy, difficult to balance on her neck; a ball of lead atop a needle point. “Yeah. You know, to fight the spasms I’ve been getting? Ever since you shot me…”

Hard to think. Maybe that last point deserves an addendum.

“…you prick.”

For a brief moment, Eiffel looked genuinely hurt.

“Miss Pie, I hope you’ll forgive my saying so but—”

“Here we go…” she interrupted.

“—but I think that these tremors may be more a result of your questionable lifestyle choices than that of a trivial gunshot wound.”

Eiffel swam out of focus as she turned her attention to the map of the network. Connections flickered and winked out, replaced by new axons in new positions, an ever-shifting web of light and color.

“Anyway,” she said pointedly, “Being a system administrator of a network that’s already equipped with a caretaker sprite is pretty boring.”

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Pie,” Eiffel answered. “But I would also think that, given the conditions of your continued employment here, you’d be more eager to make yourself useful in any way you can.”

Pinkie drummed on the tabletop with her bionic pianist fingers. She couldn’t feel the killer nanites coursing through her veins, but she had no doubt that they were there. Rarity didn’t seem the type to make empty threats.

“In any case,” he said resignedly, “I didn’t come here to chastise you. Madam Rarity requests your presence in her office.”

Pinkie groaned. “Again?”

“I wouldn’t keep her waiting,” he said, bowing his head.

Rarity glanced through her glass office door into the hall beyond—Pinkamena was waiting outside, displaying an impatience that bordered on insolence. She resolved not to allow the decker the satisfaction of garnering her attention, and instead turned back to Twinkleshine.

“Are you certain you want to resume working so soon after your injury?” she asked. “I could put you on rehabilitation leave for as long as necessary. Celestia knows you’ve earned it.”

Coconut’s spreadgun shell had bitten out a chunk of Twinkleshine’s foreleg, and the operation left her bedridden for a week thereafter. It was a standard cleanup and replacement tissue grafting job; she’d have trouble walking and standing straight for a couple of months, but she’d live.

The nanny held her gaze, nodded. “I don’t think Sweetie Belle will take kindly to a replacement. She needs me. What’s more, she needs to see that I’m alright and stop blaming herself for what happened.”

They heard a series of dull thumps as Pinkie started pounding on the door. Rarity permitted herself an exasperated sigh and offered an apologetic smile.

“We’ll talk about this later. Please take it easy, Twinkleshine. For her sake, if not for yours.”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Twinkleshine, getting out of her seat. Rarity gave a signal with her NOI and the office door slid smoothly open.

“Oh hey, Twinkleshine!” Pinkie said brightly. “How are you doing?”

Tightlipped and stone-faced, the nanny ignored her as she lurched out of the office, the metallic heel of her rehab crutch clicking on the waxen floors of the hallway.

“Sheesh. What’s her problem?” asked Pinkie.

“Well, it can’t possibly be the fact that a partner of yours nearly killed her and took Sweetie Belle hostage not a month ago,” Rarity replied icily.

“Yeah! Partner! Not me! You can’t hold that against me personally!”

“Evidently she can.” Rarity tore her disinterested gaze away from the cityscape beyond her window and set her NOI to record.

“Let’s not delay. How exactly is it that your raiding party knew of Project Huehuecóyotl’s existence before entering our facility?”

Pinkie made a face. “This again? Eiffel debriefed me when I first woke up in the ICU. He didn’t relay any of the info to you?”

Someone leaked company data, to you and to Celestia. Until I determine who it was, it would be unwise to trust anyone in Carousel Industries fully, including Eiffel. Celestia’s courier dropped off a single page labeled ‘HARMONIA’ and instructed me to gather the six individuals listed therein. One of the names was my own.

Her eyes narrowed behind her insect lenses.

Another happened to be yours, Pinkamena Diane Pie. And what do you know, I just happened to have hired you half a month prior because your position was vacated with the apparent suicide of my previous datarat, Binary. Then there’s the relocation of Celestia’s apprentice Twilight Sparkle to Ponyville… Her name was also on the list, and she’s now within reach. And that handmaiden, Raven Four, knew the exact location of yet another member of the group, an off-grid mystic named Fluttershy. It’s all just too convenient.

“Rare? You there? Hello?”

“I’d like to hear your testimony personally,” she said finally.

Pinkie shrugged. “I got an e-mail from some guy. Dunno who, there was no name. Said something like ‘Carousel Industries is writing a wicked sick new AI.’” She paused, sensing Rarity’s disdain. “I’m paraphrasing, obviously. Anyway, he said he’d pay me at least half a million for the prototype. Gave me an address to drop it on the tenth, but I woke up here on the eighteenth, so I missed my window.”

“Don’t e-mails automatically include the Grapevine handle of the sender?” asked Rarity.

Pinkie fixed her eyes on the ceiling. “Well, sure, they’re supposed to, but e-mails don’t work the same way as Grapevine IM, they’re not real-time. So in practice, any halfway savvy user can run the message through a third-party program and change the signature before sending it. Every successive Grapevine patch renders these exploits obsolete, but new versions are usually available within a couple of days. It’s a race the Grapevine devs have been losing since day one.”

Rarity nodded, remembering that those very same exploits allowed Pinkie to anonymously send a Trojan into the Carousel network hours before her party infiltrated the building.

“I see. And you just went along, risking your life for an unverified tip. Is that correct?”

“It was the best I could do!” Pinkie said, throwing her forelegs up. “I was hurting for money and you know how expensive my hobbies are!”

“Hmm.” Rarity considered this. “Yes. ‘Expensive’ is one valid adjective.”

“Hey, I already got that line from Eiffel. I don’t need any more harassment from you,” she said, pointing with a stubby bionic digit. “How many cigarette packs do you exhaust on a given day, huh? How many lung replacement operations have you gone through?”

“You know,” said Rarity in a conversational tone, “I considered replacing your pancreas while you were under—a custom job to bypass all the garbage you put into your system on a regular basis. But I suppose in the end I figured it wouldn’t be worth the probable penalty to your performance.”

Pinkie shut up. Her jaw worked visibly behind her cheeks. Smiling, Rarity let the moment hang.

And moved on, equally casually.

“Now, speaking of your performance…”

Twilight lunged, bearing her forehooves forward.

He rolled with the incoming blow and she realized her mistake a split second too late. Her forelegs grazed past him harmlessly and she sailed after them, unable to stop. Her momentum was halted—jarringly—by a heavy oak bookshelf. Several volumes fell from their alcoves, clipping her on their way to the polished floor. She growled in frustration and, tapping into her magical amplifier, conceived a score of razor-sharp magical blades around the stallion.

He sneered as a shining spherical barrier materialized between him and the knives, stopping them as they flew. Each one shattered and evaporated, leaving nothing but a trail of sparks and afterimages in its wake.

“That’s not fair!” she yelled, stomping her hoof childishly. “You specialize in defensive spells!”

“You’ve really got to learn to control yourself,” said Shining Armor. “We’re sparring, remember? Those could have killed me. Besides which,” he added as an afterthought, “pacing yourself in a fight can be the difference between life and death. You panic, you overexert yourself, you die, get it?

“And seriously, Twily? Magic blades?” He shot her a scornful glare. “Is that the full extent of your imagination?”

Her face felt hot with uncharacteristic shame. “Sorry.”

She wasn’t certain if she was apologizing for nearly maiming her older brother or for making such an amateur mistake.

Materialization was widely denounced by modern magical duelists. The quality and characteristics of a produced solid were dependent largely on the caster’s levels of concentration. In an active combat setting, where the caster’s attention might be split between conjured items, the actions of his opponent and his environment as a whole, such weapons tended to be light and brittle to the point of near-uselessness. It was much more efficient to manipulate existing elements of the environment to the caster’s advantage.

Spike took advantage of this silent moment and cautiously peeked in from the next room.

“Hey sorry to, uh, impose, but somebody’s here.”

“What?” Twilight snapped toward the drake. “What for?”

“To… check out a book?” Spike ventured.

“Oh, sundamn it.” Twilight abruptly remembered that she was now the proud custodian of Ponyville’s Golden Oak Public Library. “Tell them we’re closed.”

“No, I think that’s enough practice for this week,” said Shining Armor.

“Hold on—”

“That’s enough,” he repeated. “These self-defense drills are comparably low-priority. Anyway, you don’t seem to be making much progress.”

The comment stung.

“All the more reason to keep going!” she tried.

“You’re not suited for combat,” he said. “That’s not what our parents enrolled you into Celestia’s school for.”

Understanding hit her like a brick, and brought with it a sense of righteous indignation.

“You’re only saying that because you’re used to training Royal Guard colts,” she said accusingly. “They take to fighting like a scarab takes to rolling up shit, they’re engineered for it. It frustrates you that I’m not a vat-grown meathead like them, doesn’t it?”

Shining stifled a yawn with the back of his fetlock and she flared up at the sight of the dismissive gesture.

“Star Swirl’s fucking beard. You sure as Tartarus don’t make it easy, Twily. We’ll keep going, alright, just not this week. Go see to your visitor.”

Twilight knew her brother well enough to gauge when she’d gotten as far as she’d get with him. Shining Armor was, true to his name, stubbornly stalwart when he reached a decision.

She waved Spike over and descended the spiral staircase—really should get an elevator installed at some point—to the main floor of the library. Some would consider Golden Oak Public Library to be ‘charmingly rustic,’ a hollow carved straight from a massive dead husk of an oak tree, augmented with added cubic compartments where the volume of the tree itself was insufficient. From the outside, this gave the impression that the tree had grown through and around an assortment of geometric solids, a mixture of the natural and artificial. The library used to be carved completely from wood before some progressive young architect realized that a dry wooden structure housing exclusively paper materials was a colossal fire hazard. The cynic in her theorized that a number of small fires occurred before somebody finally got the bright idea to replace most of the surfaces with fire-retardant materials like marble, perlite and plastic.

The mare waiting anxiously in the lobby looked something like an industrial metal-head, probably a specimen of one of the countless subcultures that prowled the streets of Ponyville’s Residential District. A bomber jacket hid most of her body, probably new given the stiffness of the fur trim. Her face was covered by a heavy muzzlepiece composed mostly of assorted tubing, and as Twilight looked closer, she could make out a circular logo containing the initials ‘CI’ embossed into one of the larger pipes. All told, this mare did not seem the type to peruse a catalogue of antiquated paper works.

“Yeah, what do you want?” asked Twilight impatiently. She heard Shining’s footsteps echoing down the staircase behind her.

“Hi, I’m uh, I’m looking for information on Nightmare Moon? Alternatively, Princess Luna, please.” Her quiet, muffled voice was amplified by a microphone built directly into her mask.

“Great.” Twilight turned to the drake. “Spike, get the mare her books.” She still hadn’t felt the need or inclination to fully grasp the decimal-based organizational system herself. “Is that it?”

“Well, also if you happen to have any newspaper clippings regarding the terrorist group Children of the Night, I wouldn’t object to maybe getting a copy…”

“Newspaper clippings?” Twilight scoffed. “What century do you think this is? Check the news archives on the Grapevine.”

“Oh, uh…” The mare blinked at her. “Grapevine has… other functions? Besides instant messaging?”

Twilight could barely keep her eyes from rolling. “Yes, actually. You want me to show you? What’s your NOI serial…?”

She shook her head a little over-vigorously. “No, thank you, uh, I figure since I’m already here…”

Twilight exchanged a glance with Shining.

Can you really blame me for opting to go through the drills in lieu of putting up with this kind of shit?

Spike stood to attention, holding a plastic saddlebag filled with several weighty volumes. Twilight couldn’t help but feel a mild irritation at the speed and competence the drake displayed in finding requested books. She brought up the new borrower ledger on her own NOI; a custom-built organizational tool she wrote to avoid keeping paper records under the reasoning that more paper is the last thing this place needs.

The spreadsheet now obscuring her vision brought back uneasy memories of the young clerk manning the desk at the Canterlot Archives—the one who turned out to be the mobster-slaying vigilante that confronted her in an alicorn-shaped exoskeleton and nearly killed her. Shining told her that he expired shortly after being taken into custody: he’d poisoned himself with a dose of cyanide kept inside a hollow tooth.

“I’ll need your full name,” Twilight told the mare. “Preferably on an ID of some kind. With contact info.”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” said the mare, sounding flustered. “I didn’t even introduce myself. My name is Fluttershy. And, uh, you are?”

She didn’t seem to be getting the hint.

I’m not here to socialize.

Twilight sighed. “Sure, my pleasure. I’m Twilight.”

Fluttershy looked distant. “Twilight… Sparkle?”

“Do I know you?” She regarded the strange mare with newfound suspicion.

“No… no, I must’ve just heard your name somewhere?” Fluttershy appeared to be regretting speaking up.

“Where have you heard it?” Twilight pressed.

A-a lady might be looking for you,” she said vaguely, fearing to commit.

Twilight noticed peripherally that Shining had stiffened next to her, was no longer propping himself casually on a bookshelf.

“Who’s looking for me?” she persisted.

“She’s a… an executive. Corporate. She oversees Carousel Industries in the north wing. She said her name was Rarity. She had a list of names, and yours was one of them.”

Twilight’s mind raced, reeled with the possibilities. Why would a blue-blood exec be looking for her? How did she even know her name? Twilight recalled her working theory in Canterlot: the mafia-hunting vigilante was corporate-backed. After all, how else could he have come into possession of a heavy exoskeleton with an anti-ballistic field? The bloody thing was essentially a war machine. What if this Rarity was connected to the case or worse, what if she provided him with the exoskeleton? What if she sought revenge on Twilight and Shining for foiling her plans?

Shining filled in the silence, reading her mind or reaching the same conclusions independently. “What kind of list? Like a hit list?”

Fluttershy was quickly growing more and more anxious. Twilight tried to edge toward the door and cut off her escape route.

“Uh, I don’t know… Maybe?” Too busy admiring the floor, Fluttershy failed to catch Twilight as she neared the exit. “Two of the names were blacked out.”

“I see. And what were the other names?” asked Shining.

“I don’t know! I don’t remember!” The mic drew attention to her voice as it cracked. She sounded on the verge of tears.

Twilight reached for the knob and stopped. A pale rabbit or hare was sitting on the front porch glaring daggers, insofar as a rodent could be said to be doing such a thing. As her hoof brushed against the knob, she saw the creature crouch as though it was preparing to pounce. She felt abruptly hesitant to make any sudden moves.

The tense seconds wore on and were finally interrupted by panicked shouts echoing down the street. Shining pricked up his ears.

“What’s going on out there?”

She peeked cautiously from the doorway, still wary of the hare. The streetlights threw halos of synthetic light over the asphalt, casting the stampede of screaming ponies in sharp relief. The mob started to break apart as it neared and passed them. A stallion stopped by the library’s porch to catch his breath, only barely stable on his feet.

“Hey,” Twilight shouted uncertainly at him. He jerked toward her, startled. “What’s all the running and screaming about?”

“Something…” he started, stopped and took several cavernous breaths. “Something crashed… in the middle of the Folk Bazaar. Some kinda… missile… or bomb or something… I didn’t get a good look ‘cause it was like… matte black, hard to make out. Was some kind of symbol in silver on the top fin, like a parabola with a lightning bolt bisecting it…” He seemed to remember something and started looking around wildly. “Shit. I coulda sworn she was right behind me. Where’d she…?”

He gave her a distracted little wave and took off again, head rolling back and forth as he repeatedly called out a name.

“That symbol he mentioned,” said Shining Armor. “That sounded like the Canterlot Underwatch logo.”

“Canterlot… Underwatch?” repeated Twilight. “Is that some kind of covert ops unit?”

“Something like that. From the description our friend gave us, I think it may have been a shuttle or transport that crashed in the Bazaar.” Shining locked eyes with Twilight and then Fluttershy in turn. The second mare demurred again and looked at her forehooves. “Maybe we should go check it out. National consequence and all that. I, for one, am curious.”

“We taking her with us?” Twilight motioned towards the other mare.

“Do I… do I not have a say?” asked Fluttershy.

“Sorry, miss.” Shining beckoned her over as he started toward the door. “We still have questions for you.”

Nox Aeterna (Act Two)

Her world was nothing but the deafening roar as the shuttle came ashore upon the new earth. Metal screamed, folded on itself, collapsed in a tortured cacophony, more than a little startling after the Geiger-textured silence ad interim. At some point during the voyage, the younger mare became restless, crawled toward the rear of the transport and shattered the crackling machine with a silver-plated engineering appliance. And now, the screeching subsided and all that remained was the hiss of molten featherstahl. The younger mare stirred in her seat. She was still alive, though her mounting radiation sickness ensured that she wouldn’t survive for much longer.

The former Princess gazed upon her shivering cohort with pity but knew that it had to be this way; this was no fault of her own. Her treacherous elder sister was to blame, and soon she too would sail the fiery waters of Phlegethon. She too would taste the blood of the legion of dead that lay buried in shallow graves across her kingdom. History would see Luna, the Princess of the Night, as the savior of this decaying world.

The emergency hatch shuddered and unlocked. Luna grabbed hold of the handle and tried to brace herself for what lay beyond. Taking one last deep breath, she pulled on the latch and shouldered the damaged door open.

A vast plaza… This was the field where the last remnants of her old guard fell.

Thestrals shouting around her, silenced one by one. Their last stand is ill-fated: the honest steel of their glaives and swords is no match for the motor-operated siege weaponry that bears down upon them. Their manually-drawn bows can’t compete with the automatic fire of anthroid-designed firearms. These new weapons are still primitive and not yet widely spread among the Solar Legion, but are effective and numerous enough to tip the odds in its favor. Princess Luna can do naught but watch from her hastily-constructed bunker as her faithful are decimated by high-velocity lead and devastating artillery fire.

At the two-hour mark, Princess Celestia enters the bunker, accompanied by an armed escort. Her casual gait would be more appropriate for crossing the pristine palace floors during the gala than the blood-soaked stage of a martial slaughter. Her brilliant eyes, now dyed liquid gold, coolly pin her younger sister in place. They are distant and emotionless, unmarked even by the smirk smeared across her lips. Her voice chills Luna’s blood.

“The steel-shod boots of progress march on, my dearest. Our only recourse is to join in, or be trampled underfoot.”

The Princess of the Night trembles, but her answer is one of outrage.

“You’re mad! You’ve widowed countless thousands, orphaned twice that number and torn our very kingdom asunder… just to prove a point?! How can you consider this just? How can you condone such progress,” the word tastes bitter on her tongue, “if its price is so steep?”

Celestia draws closer and caresses her cheek. The echoes of sisterly intimacy, here of all places, provoke a disgusted shudder.

“You are much too young yet,” Celestia says evenly. “Your naïveté, charming though it may be, isn’t welcome in the royal court. You’ve seen how wary our peers are of you, and this childish tantrum of yours won’t help your case.”

She turned away. Luna entertained some ideation of attacking her while her back was turned, but had to hold her urges in check. It was obviously a calculated gesture: Celestia didn’t view her as enough of a threat to warrant her full attention. She was always considerably more magically talented, after all. And even were Luna to somehow overcome her sister, there was still the matter of the Solar Escort.

“It’s possible that our neighbors will take advantage of Equestria’s weakened state in the wake of a civil war. A united front is essential if our nation is to continue to exist.” Celestia looked sidewise at her. “Therefore, I think it would be for the best if you were to leave the royal court for a time. This is for your own good as much as for that of our kingdom, you understand.”

That last spoken line sounded in Luna’s mind as she looked upon the brave new world that developed in her absence.

In the distance, cyclopean towers loomed hundreds of stories high, glimmering coldly. Where once there were simple family-owned bakeries, hard-working blacksmiths and inns offering warmth and sympathetic company, now stood massive gravestone-like structures streaked with harsh neon light, advertising illicit pleasures. The night sky was scarred with choking smog and crowded with glowing air vehicles, swarming like hornets. There were no trees in sight, nor birdsong in the air, only lifeless stretches of smooth black stone where once stood mighty forests.

Closer to the shuttle, ponies were running and screaming, presumably under the assumption that this was some kind of aerial attack. In the midst of the panicking mob, she saw a few individuals that had stopped and were watching her curiously. A number of them had visible artificial implants. Mechanical legs, wings, metallic protrusions around the ears and head. Tastelessly revealing clothing, face paint, garish saddlebags and purses.

By the merciful Moon, what was this place? How could everything have turned so alien, so wrong in a paltry two centuries? She felt the bitter tears running over her sunken cheeks, felt her chest heave with uncontrolled sobs. A voice echoed over the plaza and she realized with a start that it was her own.

“The Earth gave unto you, misguided foals, took you into her bosom and provided you with all that you might need! And you, overcome with pride and unjust entitlement, took until there was nothing left! The old ones have led you astray, and if you continue along this path you will all perish and disappear as they did!”

She took a shallow breath.

“Rejoice, for the Lunar Princess has returned! Repent, for your folly can still be undone! Nox Aeterna! The natural order!”

The darkness gathered around her and enveloped her like a shroud. She rode it west, to the Everfree. To meet with her new followers, as was preordained.

The Children of the Night, her children, awaited her.

Smoke spilled from the fallen shuttle and trailed into the sky like a beacon, a bonfire to honor a pagan ritual of festivity, possibly cannibalism. Shining Armor pushed through the group of rubberneckers, followed closely by Twilight and Fluttershy, her cantankerous hare perched on her back.

The shuttle lay in a smoking crater among broken stalls and the burning remains of a public postings board. Although the emergency hatch was open, nobody among the crowd had yet been bold enough to venture inside—the interior radiated sufficient heat to singe one’s eyebrows. Shining Armor’s coat glowed slightly as he entered the vehicle, though the effect was subtle enough to be mistaken for a reflective sheen. Fluttershy nudged Twilight with a hesitant forehoof.

“Should he have…? I mean, it’s so hot in there, is he going to be okay?”

Twilight gave a disinterested nod. “That was a localized temperature-management charm he cast just now. It should keep his coat from catching fire while he’s in there.”

“Oh.” Fluttershy idly wondered what Shusteht and the rest of her patron spirits would have to say on the subject of unicorn magic.

Shining Armor emerged again no worse for wear, carrying an orange-brown mare clad in a charred vacuum suit. She’d suffered several second-to-third-degree burns and spat out blood-specked vomit when he laid her gently on her side. In Twilight’s educated opinion, it didn’t look like she’d live long enough to be moved to a hospital. She dialed the trauma team on her cell regardless, vaguely disgusted by the lack of initiative the rest of the crowd displayed in doing the same.

“You’ve reached the Ponyville Residential District’s resident trauma response unit. Please describe your emergency,” said a CG likeness of a stallion on the screen of her phone.

“Crashed aerial vehicle in the middle of the Folk Bazaar,” she muttered. “One survivor, badly burned, looks to be suffering from internal bleeding. Other conditions unknown.”

“Understood,” the artificial stallion said smoothly. “An ambulatory unit will be dispatched to the site immediately.”

The pilot mare opened her mouth again. Twilight cut the call and looked at her expectantly.

“M-moon…” she stuttered, almost choking. “Moon.”

“What are you trying to say?” asked Twilight.

Shining shot her a disapproving look and gently but firmly pushed her away from the pilot. “Give her some breathing room.”

She heard some commotion in the crowd behind her and turned to investigate. The next few seconds were a blur. A hooded stallion broke from the mob and sprinted toward her.

“Nox Aeterna! Death to the Sun!”

The silver moonlight winked on the steel of his right foreleg—a leg-mounted dagger slipping from its inset sheath with a quiet click. Shining Armor’s gentle push turned into a violent shove as he threw her out of the assassin’s path. The dagger-wielding stallion slid on his horseshoes trying to adjust his trajectory and Shining moved to intercept. The dagger snapped out of its sheath and skipped harmlessly over the pavement as Shining disarmed the stallion with his magic and wrestled him to the ground, making use of body weight and a pragmatic chokehold.

Twilight exhaled but her relief proved to be short-lived: another stallion emerged from the crowd, clutching the grip of a vibroblade katana in his teeth. The crowd parted to give the stallion a wide berth as the blade blurred with a mechanical whine.

Shit. The bastard had a partner.

Fluttershy stepped behind her, cowering among the bystanders. It occurred to Twilight that—seeing that Shining Armor was still preoccupied with the other stallion—she might actually have to defend herself this time.

Okay… Let’s see if we’ve learned anything from those drills, shall we?

Unlike his partner, the newcomer didn’t speak—couldn’t, without losing his sword. He charged toward her, his blade dancing hazily through the evening gloom like a will-o’-the-wisp. Twilight’s bravado promptly disintegrated. This wasn’t like the drills; this was life or death. Panicked thoughts raced through her skull and she could feel herself freezing up.

Sundamn it, I haven’t felt this way since Canterlot…! I’m actually going to die this time, aren’t I? I’m going to die, I’m going to—

Metal on metal, sliding and locking with a dull shink. Twilight realized that her eyes were closed, cursed herself for her own cowardice. When she opened them, she saw that one of the pegasi mares she’d picked out among the crowd earlier was standing in front of her, having just stopped the blade with one of her artificial wings. The stallion gaped at her, dumbstruck.
The pegasus flashed him a razor-toothed grin. “Sorry, pal. Imported Neighponese steel will always play second fiddle to good old fashioned Equestrian ingenuity.”

She slowly started to collapse her trifold wings. Feeling the metal of the katana lock up between the spokes, the stallion desperately tried to pull the blade clear of the machinery. It was too late. The brittle flat of the vibroblade bent and split like a toothpick. She knocked him backwards with a controlled snap of her foreleg. Her conservation of motion suggested martial arts training or a military background. Disoriented from the cranial blow, the stallion wobbled as he raised a leg-mounted pistol that he had seemingly saved as a last resort.

An orange-coated mare wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson materialized behind him and tackled him to the ground before he could fire. Twilight couldn’t quite make out details as the two figures thrashed in the dark. There was the wince-inducing crack of breaking vertebrae, and the stallion abruptly went limp.

The pegasus whistled appreciatively. “Well you didn’t have to kill him, AJ.”

The other mare, presumably AJ, got back on her feet, breathing heavily.

“Yeah, sorry,” she said between breaths. “The barrel of his pistol came up and jabbed me in the eye. I guess I must’ve panicked and overreacted a little.”

“Just don’t let it happen again,” said the pegasus with a chuckle. “We’d better get out of here before Lodestar arrives.”

Twilight had regained some of her composure by this point.

“Excuse me,” she burst out.

The pegasus turned and looked at her blankly. “Yeah?”

Her sharp teeth and the glowing red iris of her left eye made Twilight reconsider her decision to address her.

Get a grip. It’s just a pegasus, for fuck’s sake.

“Who are you?” she asked tentatively.

The glare of the smart eye didn’t waver and the facial muscles framing it were equally immobile. Then the pegasus smiled and clapped her lightly on the side, breaking the tension.

“Don’t you worry your pointed little head about that. Also, you’re welcome.”

“Why did you—?”

“I dunno,” she interrupted. “Call it altruism. Call it whatever you want. We’ve got places to be, alright? Catch you on the rebound.”

She was evidently in a rush, and Twilight understood the feeling well enough to respectfully keep questions to a minimum. Trying to convince herself that the answers didn’t matter all that much, anyway.

This is Ponyville, after all. All the freaks come out after dark.

She consigned herself to watching as the two mares, the pegasus and the earth pony, trotted casually away, disappearing into the sea of faces surrounding her tiny island of solitude next to the buckled chassis of the shuttle. Lights flashed in the air above them, bathing the Folk Bazaar in red. Air rushed over and through the crowd, cushioning the stark white transport as it descended. The trauma team had arrived.

The air ambulance hovered on the edge of the crater and several white-clad ponies with silver badges disembarked and picked their way among the rubble. The hooded stallion lay by Shining’s forehooves, unconscious. Shining looked up at her, nodded wearily and set off for the nearest medic to make a report and transfer the hooded stallion to their custody. The peculiar girl with the hare, Fluttershy, was bearing over the pilot’s body when one of the medics shooed her away. Eyeing what remained of the crowd warily, Twilight couldn’t quite stifle a sigh.

Shining was right.

She scooped her phone out of her pocket again, punched in the number for Celestia’s study and held it to her ear, video screen be damned. Having called before on several occasions, she was confident that every phone in the Canterlot palace was an ancient model without video functionality. The ring tone sounded five times before someone picked up. The voice on the other end of the line was even less expressive than the construct that served as the trauma team’s emergency operator.

“Good evening. This is Raven Six, how can I assist you?”

Twilight groaned.

“I didn’t call to talk to one of you Ravens. Give me the Princess.”

“Twilight Sparkle, correct?” If the handmaiden took offense it didn’t register in her voice. “I’m afraid that Her Ladyship is currently preoccupied with other matters. I can relay a message to Her Ladyship at Her earliest convenience, if you like.”

Twilight looked disbelievingly at her phone but the video screen remained dark. “Are you kidding? This is an emergency, Six. There was just an attempt on my life!”

“You have my sincerest condolences,” said the handmaiden flatly.

“Oh good! I might be dead in a few short hours, but at least I have the sympathies of some glorified fucking secretary! That really puts my mind at ease!”

There was a pause. Princess Celestia’s cloned handmaidens understood sarcasm in much the same way that an accountant understood abstract art: they were familiar with the concept, but it fell outside their realm of expertise.

At last Raven Six seemed to decide on the safest course of action regarding the statement, which was to ignore it.

“Will that be all, Miss Sparkle?”

Twilight massaged her forehead irritably.

Why do I even bother?

“Yes. That’s all.” She hung up.

Fluttershy seemed to sense her distress. She walked over and put a forehoof companionably on Twilight’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said simply.

Twilight glared. “No thanks to you. What in the depths of Tartarus is going on?”

“The Lunar Princess is back,” answered Fluttershy. “Silver Spanner told me so.”

“Yeah? Is this what you were checking those books out for?” Twilight coughed out a laugh that died out halfway. “You don’t need a book to tell you that Nightmare Moon has been dead since the end of the civil war. This Silver Spanner guy is woefully misinformed.”

“No. She brought Luna here herself.”

“Hold on. Are you talking about the pilot?” Twilight stole a glance back toward the shuttle to see the medics gingerly slide the body onto a stretcher. “The one that’s on her deathbed, here? You’re either bullshitting or delusional.”

Fluttershy didn’t answer.

Twilight took in the scene around them; the trauma team bustled toward the ambulance with the bodies of the pilot and the hit man in tow. Several Lodestar cruisers were dropping to investigate from the swirling maelstrom of flying vehicles overhead. Clouds gathered around the crescent of the moon, growing heavier by the moment. She found herself hoping in a vague way that it wouldn’t rain.

Shining walked back toward them briskly, having hashed out the terms with one of the medics. He looked no worse for wear, despite his impromptu wrestling match with Twilight’s would-be assassin.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked her. “You seem a little worked up.”

“Yeah, a brush with death will do that to a pony. And the Princess refuses to pick up her damn phone,” said Twilight. “You know how aggravating those handmaidens of hers are. On top of all that, this flake,” she pointed at Fluttershy, “is trying to tell me that some two-centuries-dead revolutionary has returned to Equestria on this very shuttle.”

“Which one, specifically?” asked Shining.

Fluttershy hesitated. “Um. Princess Luna.”

“There you go! Princess fucking Luna!” Twilight looked triumphantly back at her brother. The stallion only shrugged.

“Princess Luna was a member of the royal family,” he said. “All-natural alicorn. It’s not impossible that she’d survive two hundred years, and if she did, the Canterlot Underwatch would be the ones to know.”

“Honestly? You’re seriously considering this bullshit?” Twilight asked, scarcely daring to believe her ears.

“I’ll lean on some of my contacts on the inside, see what they have to say about this crash.” Shining nodded toward the shuttle. “Nightmare Moon or not, you don’t see this every day. And you heard what the hood shouted, right? ‘Nox Aeterna’. It sounded like some kind of mantra. Something’s up.”

“Fine, go ahead and just leave me to meet my end at the hooves of some other psychotic anarchist.” Twilight turned resignedly back toward Fluttershy. “Do you have any reason for thinking that the Nightmare’s back? Besides your ‘conversation’ with the pilot?”

“It was… Rarity was the one,” said Fluttershy. “She told me this might happen.”

“Rarity,” Twilight repeated. “The same Rarity that had my name on a shady list?”

Fluttershy nodded.

Twilight drew a laborious breath, exhaled through her nostrils.

That figures.

Rainbow slowed down, nearing a busy intersection. Perhaps ‘busy’ was an understatement. The city streets were choking; congested like the arteries of an obese, middle-aged stallion moments before a heart attack. Irate drivers sounded their horns and screamed obscenities at one another, the sort of pitch, bigoted language that would be liable to get you stabbed in a more isolated setting. Even aerial traffic seemed heavier than usual.

Applejack took the opportunity to close the distance slowly building between them as Rainbow had purposefully led the way, cutting through the evening crowds.

“So why did you save that girl, anyway?” she asked, catching her breath.

“Eh? Why?” Her gaze remained fixed on something ahead. “I just like a fight every so often. Keeps things interesting.”

Applejack waited a few seconds and—when Rainbow made no attempt to elaborate—asked “That’s it?”

“It’s just the way I’m wired, ‘Jack. I think a part of me maybe kinda misses Bridleon.”

Applejack was stunned into silence.

After the draft a decade back, dad never came back from the front lines at all. Big Mac did, but only as a withdrawn shell of his former self. And you… you miss it?

“Where are we going now?” she asked, trying for a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

Rainbow navigated several menus on her NOI to remotely hail a taxi.

“Dunno about you,” she said by way of answering, “But I’m damn curious about that alicorn.”

“Yeah, sure.” Applejack coughed drily onto her forehoof. “You saw it though; vanished without a trace.”

Rainbow looked back, pointing at her glowing left iris with something like dramatic flourish. Applejack had preferred it when the plastic-coated oculus was hidden behind her eyepatch.

“Uh-uh. There’s a trail of positive ions floating overhead like a luminescent cloud. My smart eye has built-in particle filters, and that alicorn was glowing like a Hearth’s Warming pine.”

“Are you saying it was radioactive?” The obvious question escaped her lips before she could lock it down. “Why?”

“Beats me.”

The aerodynamic yellow profile of an aircab stopped above them and began its descent. There was a spark of something in Rainbow’s one good eye, but Applejack—largely out of practice with social matters—couldn’t read it.

“Don’t you want to find out?”

Rarity took a long, discriminating look at the interior of her spacious office closet. After several minutes’ deliberation she withdrew, carrying a conservative petticoat jacket. It was a cut of her own design, though these days fashion design generally took a backseat to her responsibilities as a CEO. She smiled to herself.

Mother was right. The four years I invested in the Canterlot Academy for Design hasn’t really helped me in running her company.

It had been a long, tedious Tuesday. She’d had to postpone her customary appointment at the Gemini Spa to catch up on work. A few worrying headlines on the Grapevine caught her eye as she went about her business that day, but she’d be damned if that was going to stop her from enjoying the evening.

Her desktop phone rang. She sighed, loped tiredly back to the phone and picked up.

“Rarity speaking.”

“It seems that you have visitors, madam,” came Eiffel’s voice.

“Do I really?” she consulted her calendar. “I don’t see anyone scheduled.”

“Yes, madam. They are, how should I put it… Walk-ins.”

Rarity tutted. “You know I don’t tolerate unsolicited visits, Eiffel.”

“Ah, but you see…” He sounded unexpectedly flustered. “We were unsuccessful in barring them entry.”

Rarity hesitated, questioning whether she’d misunderstood. Finally a single word fought its way out from her strangled larynx.

“What.”

Thumping on her door again. She looked up.

A lavender unicorn was knocking on the acrylic glass, accompanied by a familiar pale-coated pegasus.

“Eiffel,” she said impassively into the receiver.

“Yes, madam?” There was a satisfying hint of dread in his voice.

“I think it’s time for a reassessment of Carousel’s security division.”

“Yes, madam.”

The exec, Rarity, greeted them magnanimously enough, but Twilight took note of the exaggerated care she took sitting back down and a subtle undertone of impatience in her voice.

“Good evening, Fluttershy. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. And I see you brought a companion.” Despite the obfuscating insect lenses mounted over the exec’s eyes, Twilight could feel her gaze shift in her direction. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Oh drop it,” Twilight spat. “You know who I am. Well enough to set contract killers on me.”

Rarity rested her head on a fetlock. Twilight got the impression that even were she able to see the exec’s eyes, they’d be as flat and inexpressive as the lenses that covered them.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, dear. Carousel Industries has no such contracts pending for the time being. Perhaps if you introduced yourself—” She reached for something on the table.

“Twilight. Sparkle,” Twilight supplied. “Fluttershy told me you were looking for me. Shortly afterwards, I was attacked. Would you have me believe that was just coincidence?”

Rarity took the item between her forehooves, a pack of cigarettes.

“And you came here to confront me?” She seemed amused. “In my very own corporate headquarters?”

“My brother is the captain of the Royal Guard, and he knows I’m here. If I don’t exit this building in one piece, you’ll have the entire Solar Legion knocking at your door.” This was an exaggeration, but Twilight doubted that the exec would take any unnecessary risks.

Rarity turned theatrically to look at the analog clock mounted on her wall. The pendulum swung back and forth and its tick echoed through the office as the seconds wore on. She muttered something under her breath, and Twilight managed to catch the tail end of the thought.

—know the half of it.

Rarity cleared her throat.

“I repeat. No hit men are currently in my employ. Nor the company’s, in any capacity. I will ask that you leave my office, or you will be ejected forcibly.”

Fluttershy finally spoke up.

“Princess Luna is back, just as you said.”

The moment inflated. Even the pendulum seemed to pause. Rarity closed the packet again and stowed it in her desk. When she spoke again, her tone sounded worn.

“I’m leaving for the Gemini Spa. If you wish to continue this conversation, you’re free to join me.”

Twilight and Fluttershy traded glances.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Twilight suspiciously.

“Just that, Miss Sparkle.” Rarity got up from her seat. “If you crave explanations, you may accompany me. If not, go home. Luna’s return isn’t your concern, after all. Either way, I’ve had just about enough of this stifling office for the night.”

Twilight looked incredulously at the exec. The bespectacled unicorn didn’t slow down as she approached the door. Silhouettes of armed security personnel appeared behind the acrylic glass, the same stallions they’d narrowly avoided via the elevator downstairs. If Rarity escaped now, it was unlikely that Twilight would be able to chat with her again for a long time.

Twilight’s curiosity got the better of her.

“Alright, hold on…” Desperation in her voice, despite her best efforts. She gritted her teeth and reigned in her emotion. “Fine. I’ll come along with you to your stupid little spa visit.” The statement seemed surreal, comical in a way.

Fluttershy nodded her assent.

Rarity gestured almost imperceptibly to the guards outside and they vanished.

Just like your self-respect, Twilight noted privately. What little you may have had left.

Nox Aeterna (Act Three)

To distance her thoughts from the mare currently exfoliating and shining her ragged hooves, Fluttershy considered the bout of verbal judo unfolding between the two unicorns. Every phrase that spilled from Rarity’s mouth seemed expertly fashioned to make Twilight uncomfortable. Perhaps she was taking revenge for their unannounced intrusion into her private evening.

“Twilight, dear, you simply must try one of these massages,” she said in honeyed tones as a muscular stallion worked on her back. Her insect lenses were gone but, if anything, her navy blue eyes were proving to be even more intimidating. “That tension of yours can’t be healthy.”

Twilight, for her part, remained standing and still fully clothed, unconsciously projecting an image of a coiled spring.

“That’s not what I’m here for,” she insisted.

“Oh, I see,” Rarity inserted a musical chuckle. “You needn’t worry, you know. All the males have been castrated.”

The librarian flushed a bright crimson.

Fluttershy gathered the courage to interrupt. “Mm… Miss Rarity? I thought you said you’d tell us about Princess Luna?”

Rarity sighed. “Oh, very well. Are either of you well-read on the Equestrian Civil War?”

“Yeah,” said Twilight begrudgingly. “In the late 1700s, Equestria started to research unearthed anthroid relics they scammed off of diamond dog miners. It kicked off a global technological singularity, and Luna—being the stubborn mossback that she was—led a bloody campaign to eradicate anthroid technology and return equine society to its untarnished state. If I recall, she didn’t have any substantial plan besides ‘destroy what we can find’. Naturally, this didn’t work out in her favor.”

Rarity nodded, smiling wryly. “Very good. You’re glancing over much of the nuance, but I suppose this will suffice for our purposes.”

Twilight looked away, muttering to herself. The words ‘privileged’, ‘egotistical’ and ‘vamp’ were uttered in quick succession and Rarity pretended not to hear them. Unaware of, or perhaps professionally indifferent to, the tension filling the room, Fluttershy’s attendant quietly asked the pegasus to stop fidgeting.

“But you see,” Rarity continued, “This is a different era. And a fairly uncomplicated method of bringing the world back into a second Dark Age may now exist.”

“Does it?” asked Twilight, sounding skeptical. “Do tell.”

“I intend to nip it in the bud before the situation complicates.” Rarity stretched catlike on the massage bench. “Carousel Industries has already decided on a course of action. With luck, the Lunar Princess will be incapacitated and brought to justice before the night is through.”

“Isn’t that… Lodestar’s duty?” Fluttershy asked uncertainly.

“Lodestar lacks my resources,” answered Rarity, and Twilight could have sworn that the exec sounded almost defensive. “Besides which, I’ve been commissioned by a higher authority.”

“You’re not talking about gods,” said Twilight. “Are you?”

“Do I strike you as a mare of an ecclesiastical persuasion, Miss Sparkle?”

Twilight shrugged. “I don’t know. What do devotees look like these days?”

The attendant’s voice again. Miss Fluttershy, please refrain from any unnecessary movement.

“What indeed,” agreed Rarity.

Sparse moonlight shone through the glassless windows of the old fort. The structure once served as an Equestrian guard outpost to repel foreign invaders, but it seemed to have fallen into disuse and disrepair since Luna’s departure.

The Everfree had reclaimed much of the land surrounding the fort; a lively stream now ran adjacent to the building. She saw the inert body of a massive sea serpent floating on the rapids and wondered briefly how it had come to reside in such a small body of water, so far away from the ocean. An impromptu radio tower had been constructed from assorted scrap metal and jutted precariously from the old stone.

She was greeted by a portly, overeager stallion who introduced himself as ‘Blue Moon’ Louis.

“It’s a pleasure to meet Your Radiance at last.” He raised her fetlock to his lips and she snatched it away, swatting him across the face.

“Don’t misunderstand me, sir.” The title pronounced in a strained tone, clearly insincere. “I am not merely some trollop to be idled with in return for your services to my cause.”

He bit his lip. “Milady.”

A younger stallion emerged from further in. Her heart skipped at the sight—he looked similar to a pegasus, but leaner, with high cheekbones, reptilian golden eyes and leathery, bat-like wings. A thestral; possibly among the last of his kind.

“Excuse the geriatric. We’ve arranged a gathering to honor your return. Please allow me to escort you.”

Blue Moon bristled. “Pardon me? Do you know who I am?”

Luna spared the youth a smile. “I’d be delighted.”

Ignoring the glowering stallion following closely behind, the thestral youth led her further into the fort. A few halls were still covered in withered rugs, and torn banners hung forlornly from catwalks above. She recognized a fair number of the designs, pre-industrial coats of arms belonging to different platoons from the Solar and Lunar Legions.

“I notice you’re of chiropteran blood,” said Luna. “Tell me your name, child.”

“Nova Jr.” He looked embarrassed for a moment. “I was promoted for my heritage, but in truth there’s still an entire borough for thestral residents in downtown Ponyville.”

He led her into a vast atrium crowded with a couple hundred followers. A deathly hush permeated the air. There wasn’t a set uniform, but most among the group were dressed in somber darks, as though attending a funeral. A few higher-ranking individuals were clad in the ceremonial cobalt of the Lunar Legion. And above, much of the roof had collapsed, allowing an uninterrupted view of the clouded moon and stars. In the deserted center stood a frugal-looking altar. As she approached the structure, she saw that it supported a silver-gray headdress.

Memories flooded back.

It couldn’t have been her original Lunar Helm: that was smelted with the Solar Crown just before her formal banishment to produce the united diadem that Celestia still wore to this day. But even so, the resemblance was uncanny; it was a replica of exquisite craftsmanship. With an air of reverence, she mounted the helm on her head once more; for the first time in two centuries, she felt whole.

A disturbance rippled through the assembled faithful. She heard a voice, hushed but noticeable against the silence nonetheless.

“We’re just here to watch. Unless you want a broken nose, you’ll let us.”

She grimaced. “Who ventures to interrupt this hallowed moment of my return?”

The effect was instantaneous. Those among the crowd wearing Lunar Guard plate took their stations, obstructing the doors. The assembly morphed subtly until two mares stood isolated before her. The orange-coated salt-of-the-earth laborer looked appropriately intimidated and averted her eyes, but her pegasus companion glared impudently back at Luna, unconcerned by her or the mob surrounding them.

“My bad,” said the pegasus coolly. “Keep going, don’t mind us.”

“You’ve really done it now,” muttered Applejack out of the corner of her mouth.

Rainbow allowed herself an aside glance toward the farmer, a calculated expression of dismissal aimed at the alicorn. “Pshaw. What are they going to do, kill us?”

The alicorn mare clicked her tongue at the cobalt-plated bouncers. “Take them outside and teach them of due respect.”

“Now’s our chance,” said Applejack. “We can break away from them and run back to town once they show us out.”

One of the well-muscled stallions laid his forehoof on Rainbow’s neck. She shrugged away and whirled to face him, baring her teeth.

“You’re gonna have to work for your paycheck tonight, tiny.”

Applejack grunted in exasperation. “Mind giving the snappy one-liners a rest, Dash? Unlike you, I’m not insured against provoked battery.”

Leaves rustling outside. They heard them clearly through the shattered dome of the atrium. A harsh wind picked up, entered the interior and raced, trapped inside the antiquated hollow of the fort. The whirr of rotors served as an undercurrent to the howling of disturbed air currents. Applejack shielded her eyes as a spotlight pierced the darkness and glared, swaying back and forth, cutting blind spots into the assembled crowd. She made out vague outlines of two helidrones hovering against the starlight.

A low-fidelity speaker built into each machine broadcast a gratingly cheery voice.

“Wow! Quite a turnout, huh Lulu?” There was a slight delay between the two microphones, making it sound as though the crowd was being addressed by a well-rehearsed duet. “My employer would like you all to know that she’s very much looking forward to meeting each and every one of you!”

Applejack heard a clean snap of unlocking metal: the two drones were equipped with wide-barreled riot guns. Rainbow shoved her back into the group and followed closely behind, operating almost entirely on conditioned instinct.

The riot guns unloaded on the defenseless crowd. Tennis ball-sized pellets of a grayish-white substance shot from the barrels with the urgency of assault rifle rounds. Rainbow was thrown to the ground as a stray pellet hit her dead in the side, sticking to a wing. Applejack hefted the pegasus back to her feet before she could be trampled by the panicking crowd.

Rainbow Dash stared in stunned fascination at the flattened pellet as it started to swell on the molded levitite alloy of her wing. “Shit. Expanding sticky foam. We have to get out of here before the fuckers smother us in the stuff.”

The last thing Applejack saw as she turned to look back was the shadowy form of the star-touched alicorn as it sped through one of the helidrones, bisecting it with a single cleave of an ultraviolet blade.

They burst out of the building in a mad dash, weaving through the escaping bodies. Rainbow’s right wing jerked but remained shut when she tried to unfold it; the foam had gummed over the joints. The pegasus smiled bleakly.

“I guess we’ll have to hoof it, huh AJ?”

“Go ahead and try.”

His serpentine eyes regarded them with icy calm, apparently oblivious to the surrounding chaos. “You led those helidrones here, didn’t you?”

“And you’re that thestral kid that was with the pompous alicorn bitch, right?” asked Rainbow. Applejack felt a sharp pang of frustration hearing her not so much as try to deny the accusation.

She’s an instigator. She’ll get us killed.

The thestral discarded his calm like a mask, revealing the unrestrained rage beneath. He lunged forward, forelegs a sparking blur. The old cocktail seeped through Rainbow’s veins like a narcotic: adrenaline, the stir of muscle memory from ingrained drills, her brain shifting into overdrive to analyze each of her opponent’s motions like a play-by-play. She sidestepped the blow, hair of her coat standing on end, her mind turning over the information and arriving at a conclusion she wouldn’t be fully conscious of until later: the rear side of each of his legs was fitted with a high-voltage stun baton. Each electrified rod was wired into a bulky battery unit strapped onto his back.

Rainbow threw out a speculative hook and the thestral deflected it with a sweep. The recoil of the blow took her off balance, and the stallion stepped in to take advantage of the opening. The baton grazed her static-upright mane as she ducked and retreated from his effective range. She regarded the thestral with newfound caution.

His legs rooted to the ground; simple, pragmatic strikes and counters intended to keep the opponent unsteady, without putting himself in unnecessary risk. This was not a pegasus-taught martial art. It appeared to be a modified Royal Guard stance: effective, but rigid. If she stayed mobile, she should have been able to eventually come out on top… but with one of her wings out of commission—

Applejack sprinted past her, flailing wildly at the thestral. He rocked from side to side, avoiding one blow and stopping the next with his shoulder. Rainbow opened her mouth to warn her but it was a split second too late: one of the thestral’s batons connected with Applejack’s ribcage. The farmer grunted and thrashed, but then, by accident or by design, her forelegs closed around his sides. Rainbow Dash smelled burning plastic and battery acid in the air: the stun batons and the unit on the thestral’s back had short circuited, and the stallion himself hadn’t gotten off any easier. He collapsed, still convulsing and quickly losing consciousness.

Applejack stood over him, gasping and swaying.

“T-t-tarnation. Nearly bit off my tongue.”

“You sure can take a hit, ‘Jack, I’ll give you that much,” said Rainbow. It suddenly occurred to her that the mob was gone. They were alone, facing the Everfree as it unfolded before them for miles in every direction. The whirring of the rotors hasn’t subsided; was getting louder, in fact.

The remaining helidrone emerged from the building above them. It was still mostly intact, indicating that the alicorn had either fallen or—more likely—withdrawn. By the time she remembered to shield her eyes, the machine’s spotlight had already half-blinded her. The irritating low-fi voice again:

“Oh, hey there. Looks like I missed a couple! Prepare to be…” It stopped. She saw the built-in camera adjust focus. “Hmmm! You wouldn’t happen to be Rainbow Dash, would ya?”

Rainbow gritted her teeth. Maybe I should just dye my fucking mane; save myself some trouble.

Aloud she said “Who wants to know?”

“Come along. My employer wants to have a chat,” answered the helidrone.

She could feel Applejack’s stare on the back of her neck. “And if I refuse?”

The machine considered this. “Refuse? If you’d prefer I could just shoot you and have you picked up by my coworkers in the morning. That’s more fun for me, anyway! What do you say?”

Rainbow sighed. She couldn’t outpace a helidrone in her present condition.

“I’ll take option one. My friend’s coming with, though.” She winked at Applejack. “Can’t leave her hanging out here all by herself after a night on the town, can I?”

There is a quiet bustle inside the facility as the transporters move her through the halls. The scenario seems vaguely familiar, but she can’t recall where she’d experienced it before or how it might end. Doctors and nurses scamper out of the way of the incoming stretcher. She glances at each of them in turn and, yes, they seem completely indifferent to her as she passes. The stretcher rapidly accelerates to a speed she’s come to anticipate; it’s suspended on an air cushion rather than conventional wheels.

Windows blur past, darkened, a silver crescent peeking from behind distant clouds. Something’s tapping on the glass.

“What’s that sound?” Twilight asks dreamily, though in her heart of hearts she already knows the answer.

“Sound? That’s rain, honey,” her father answers.

“Rain,” she echoes.

“Indeed. Not a common occurrence anymore, I take it?”

The third voice sounds somewhere behind her, but she can’t identify it. It feels wrong, somehow. Unfocused panic sets in. With some effort, she lifts her head off the pillow, props herself on her foreleg and turns to look.

It isn’t Princess Celestia following closely behind her and her parents. While still an alicorn, the mare is darker and wiry to the point of looking unhealthy. Nor is it the Celestial Diadem perched on her head, but a cobalt headdress reminiscent of a legionnaire’s galea: sleek curves built to deflect blades and a wide nose guard. Pinpricks of starlight shine in her flowing mane.

The alicorn mare smiles sadly at her. “You’re my sister’s apprentice then, are you. I wish there was no need for bloodshed; my quarrel is not with you or your peers. But alas.” She exhales, radiating regret.

Yeah, right.

Suddenly Twilight feels lucid enough to speak her mind. “Fuck you.”

Nightmare Moon snaps back to her, surprised.

“Fuck you,” Twilight says again, “and all your kind. ‘I wish there was no need for bloodshed’ you declare as you consolidate your militias, your revolutionaries, your assassins.”

A shadow passes over the Nightmare’s face. “You insolent foal…!”

The caravan arrives to the doors of the operating room. Neither Twilight’s parents nor her transporters give any indication that they hear the conversation. Twilight rallies self-destructively onward.

“Employers are losing workers, friends are losing friends, parents are losing children and you sigh, musing ‘if only it weren’t so.’”

The hilt of the knife is in plain view. She grabs it and twists. “In the end, you’re no better than your sister; duplicitous and manipulative.”

The Nightmare flinches, as though physically accosted. Twilight breaks eye contact; her boiling rage calms to a slow simmer of disgust. “How about you fight your own damn war,” she adds finally.

The large bulk of the autosurgeon hangs overhead, stainless steel arms folded and withdrawn, like the legs of a massive deceased insect. There’s one arm for every instrument, be it laser scalpel, cauter or buzz saw. Its photoreceptor regards her stoically.

The Nightmare opens her mouth, but her retort is lost amid the hum of machinery as the autosurgeon comes alive. It descends slowly over Twilight, limbs dancing as it checks the functionality and mobility of each. The saw screams.

Darkness.

After having followed the helidrone back to the Ponyville corporate quarter, they were ushered into a modestly-sized room plated in whites and grays. A small waiting room table stood level with three eggshell chairs. The chairs were suspended in midair by nanofibers and electromagnets; while Applejack could appreciate the dedication to a sleek, futuristic aesthetic, the faint magnetic pull she felt on her augmented spinal column forced her to switch off the magnets and lower the eggshell to the floor. Rainbow Dash followed suit with her own chair, presumably for similar reasons.

Something about the room made it seem less a waiting room and more an interrogation chamber. Applejack couldn’t quite determine why.

“Sparse furnishings,” noted Rainbow. “Chilly atmosphere. Not much visual stimulus. Maybe you’re on to something, ‘Jack.”

Pointedly ignoring their surroundings, they made small talk for close to an hour. While Rainbow Dash was very interested in her time on Artemis II, Applejack noticed that she seemed evasive regarding her own past. Of course, that wasn’t to say that Applejack herself was entirely forthcoming about the expedition. The changeling invasion was to remain undisclosed to the public, after all. Knowing this, Applejack begrudgingly allowed Rainbow a modicum of privacy on the subject of her tour in Bridleon.

At last, an austere-looking suit entered the room, carrying a binder and wearing a wooden expression. He closed the door behind himself, sustaining the impression that they were prisoners.

“Good morning, Miss Dash. Miss Applejack.” He gave each of them a shallow nod. “My name is Eiffel, and I will be your intermediary with the rest of Carousel Industries until Madam Rarity is prepared to speak with you.”

“So this is Carousel, huh?” Rainbow ribbed him playfully with her forehoof. “Guess I have you guys to thank for this expertly matched smart-eye of mine.”

“Quite,” he said humorlessly.

“Whoa buddy, try to curb your enthusiasm.” Rainbow smiled amicably, clenching her teeth. “I could have sworn I almost heard some emotion in your voice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Rainbow fell silent. The stallion’s aura was like a vacuum, draining the life from its surroundings. The silence stretched.

Applejack cleared her throat after about half a minute.

“So, uh, how long have you—”

“At any rate, if you have any questions or requests in the meantime, please do not hesitate to ask,” said Eiffel, steamrolling over her.

“Requests, huh.” Rainbow jerked her plastered tri-fold toward him meaningfully. “How ‘bout you scrub this shit offa my wing?”

“In due time, Miss Dash,” he said, leafing distractedly through his binder. “In due time.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her teeth were starting to itch.

From: Circuit Cutter
To: Blue Moon
Subject: Acceleration
Message: Luis,
Our mutual benefactor has informed me that she wishes to move our schedule forward by one week. Operation Griderez is go on the 21st. Please make the appropriate arrangements immediately. I will await your word at the launch site.
Nox Aeterna, brother.

“Anything of use, Miss Pie?”

Shifting focus from her display strip, she saw her employer loitering at the doorway, frowning. The corners of her mouth tugged upwards in response and she forced them back down with more effort than should really have been necessary.

“Maybe. Might I say, your mane’s looking particularly luscious today. Productive night?”

Rarity’s frown deepened. “I will thank you to stay out of my affairs, Pinkamena. Have you found anything or not?”

Pinkie pursed her lips diplomatically and took a swig from the can of bromantane soda perched conspicuously on her tabletop. Trying to hide the nervous tremor in her pianist fingers, she overcompensated and nearly crushed the can. “Apparently the launch has been moved up to tomorrow.”

Rarity froze, aghast. “Tomorrow? We won’t have any assault ops on reserve until Saturday!”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” said Pinkie, gently setting the deformed cylinder back on the table and tuning back to the emails. “Better figure something out, Rare. I don’t have the patience to learn another trade if this one falls through.”

A shrill buzzing filled the hallway outside.

Pinkie’s face split in a schadenfreude-fed grin. “Speaking of patience; looks like our guests downstairs have exhausted their supply.”

Rarity clapped a forehoof to her forehead, frustration mounting at every turn.

Should have posted some guards outside their room.

Voices filtered in.

She backed away from the doorway as the technicolor-maned mare Pinkie identified as Rainbow Dash turned the corner outside and peeked in at them. Having accompanied her, another mare came to rest stoically just outside the door.

“I was told I could find management here,” Rainbow Dash said in a sour tone. “We’ve been sitting in that chamber for over an hour.”

“Talk to Rare,” said Pinkie, jerking a finger in Rarity’s direction with breezy aplomb.

Rarity shot her a look, but the decker took no notice behind her display strip. We’ll talk about this later. She turned to face the expectant newcomer with some reluctance and noticed that she too was looking in Pinkie’s direction. Maybe she’d recognized the decker’s voice as the one that addressed her through the microphone of the helidrone. If she held a grudge about being forcibly marched here, her face didn’t show it.

Rarity swayed back and forth, trying to find a vantage point to see over Dash’s shoulders and into the hall beyond. From what she could see it was empty, save for her Stetson-wearing companion.

“Where’s Eiffel? He was supposed to address your needs in my stead.”

Rainbow Dash shrugged.

Specks of blood stain the pristine table as she rams the stallion’s head repeatedly into the glassy surface. By the time Applejack manages to finally pull her away from him, Eiffel is fully unconscious with a fractured muzzle and several dislodged teeth littering the inside of his mouth.

“Sleeping on the job,” she said simply.

Applejack’s voice sounded from the hall outside, apologetic or merely embarrassed: “He, ehm, he might need some medical attention.”

Rarity inclined her head, affecting to look unimpressed. “I see.”

She sized up the pegasus as though considering something, and then nodded to herself. “Hmm. Alright, Miss Dash. Perhaps your penchant for violence could be better utilized to serve our purposes. What do you say?”

Rainbow glared at her own reflection in the exec’s lenses. Her perfume overpowered Rainbow’s canine-spliced nostrils.

“To what end?” she asked, strained casualness in her tone.

Rarity only smiled.

Somewhere in the distance, Pinkie Pie downed the rest of her cola and spun gleefully in her swivel chair. “Better put your game face on! We’re saving the world, Dashie!”

With a focused effort of will, she finally managed to peel her eyelids and survey her surroundings. She was folded over an inert massage chair and covered in a heated blanket. One of her hooves protruded from the covers and as she raised it for inspection, she saw that it was smooth and bore a gleam to rival gunmetal. She stirred under the blanket, confirming her suspicions: she was naked underneath.

She had no recollection of stripping her black denims and jacket, yet there they were, folded neatly atop a chest of drawers by her side. Her mane was slick and free of the fastidious ponytail that she habitually wore. Her back muscles, from the base of the spine to the brain stem, felt looser, more flexible. She felt vaguely violated, and the fact that she couldn’t remember much of the night before only served to support that impression.

Fluttershy was spread face-down on one of the benches, covered in a blanket identical to her own. A gentle background of dull white noise filled the room and it took Twilight a moment to register that it must’ve been raining outside.

One of the twin spa owners, Aloe probably, trotted over smiling.

“Hey, uh, sorry,” started Twilight. “I left my credit stick at home.”

“Do not concern yourselves with payment,” she answered smoothly. “Madam Rarity has covered your stay.”

Twilight sighed.

Well at least there’s that. I hope she won’t demand I repay the ‘favor’.

A prompt flashed on her NOI.

>Invitation to join private conversation received from Aegis.
>Accept?

Twilight gestured apologetically to the twin, pointing at her eye. Aloe(?) nodded and bustled away to see to Fluttershy.

Accept.

(13:11) Star-Struck joined the conversation.
(13:11) Aegis: It’s about time. I’ve been trying to contact you all morning, but both your cell and NOI were shut off.
(13:11) Star-Struck: Sorry, I was asleep. Did you find any info on the crash, Shining?
(13:12) Aegis: Sure, but that’s not why I was trying to contact you.
(13:12) Aegis: First off, yeah, Nightmare Moon’s back, they’ve been keeping her in a lunar oubliette ever since the civil war. Presently she’s still in a weakened state. They kept her physical and magical power in check with continuous radiation poisoning over the past two centuries.
(13:12) Star-Struck: Seriously? Radiation for two hundred years? Shouldn’t she be just one massive throbbing tumor by now?
(13:13) Aegis: Maybe. I’m not clear on the details myself.
(13:13) Aegis: More importantly, I think she may be heading to confront the Princess. There was a mass blackout in the palace two hours ago. I’ve been unable to reach anyone inside since. I’ve left for Canterlot so don’t expect me back in the library for a while.
(13:14) Star-Struck: Hold on, you’re flying to Canterlot without me?
(13:14) Aegis: Honestly Twily, what did you expect? You’re a civilian and, no offense, but you’re not any good under pressure.

Twilight paused. Why was she so keen on going to Canterlot, anyway? It would doubtlessly have been a dangerous excursion, but…

But I’m getting sick of this loud, obnoxious slum. And anyway, I wouldn’t mind getting a front-row seat to a showdown between Celestia and her sister. It might take that smug immortal sociopath down a peg or two.

(13:14) Star-Struck: You can’t stop me from following you.
(13:15) Aegis: Just don’t, okay? I’ve got enough to worry about without your help. Head back to the library, lay low, lay down some wards to discourage any other hit men. Once this is all sorted out, I’ll discuss what to do about your newfound notoriety with the princess.
(13:15) Star-Struck: Sure, sounds great, Shining. Go “sort it out”. I’ll chalk up some wards and hope that they don’t fry some hapless library visitor. Oh boy, wouldn’t that be embarrassing?
(13:15) Aegis: Then lock the door and put up the ‘closed’ sign. Listen, it’s been a while since your pre-school years and I’m not Cadance; I’m not going to foalsit you. You’re a big girl now, so act like it for once in your life.
(13:15) Aegis: Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a regicide to prevent.
(13:15) Aegis has left the conversation.
(13:16) Star-Struck: Asshole.

She realized she must’ve donned a grimace in response to Shining’s disdain. Fluttershy approached her, radiating well-intentioned concern. Her hare bounded after her reluctantly, still outwardly hostile towards Twilight.

“Are you okay, Twilight?”

Twilight looked away, uncharacteristically bashful. They were both still naked. Casting aside the heated blanket and struggling hastily into her denims, she cleared her throat.

“I gotta go. The Nightmare’s gone to confront Celestia in Canterlot.”

Fluttershy’s forehoof on her shoulder again, forcing them face-to-face.

“You’re going after Luna?” she asked grimly. “Alone?”

“Yeah. So?” Twilight shook off the shaman’s grip irritably.

Fluttershy flinched away, suddenly self-conscious. She hesitated and exchanged a somber look with Angel.

“I know you uh, you’re smart enough not to chase after alicorns without thinking things through so… So what is it? Your plan, I mean?”

Twilight stopped half-way to the door.

Plan? Piss off Shining, I guess.

“Hmm.” She cast an evaluative glance back at the shaman. “I guess. Maybe I could use some help.”

Fluttershy smiled encouragingly.

While the shaman dressed in turn, Twilight took out her cell and clipped on the earpiece. The exec’s phone number drifted hazily through her mind, a fragment of useful information among unidentifiable mental detritus. She recalled that she hadn’t been entirely sure why Rarity had given her the sequence at the time, but it was admittedly coming in handy much sooner than anticipated.

She heard a bitten off yawn as the call finally went through. Rarity’s face appeared on the screen, and Twilight got the impression that she’d caught the exec just as she was putting on her makeup. Once again, her trademark insect lenses were conspicuously absent from her face.

“Rarity speaking. Is that you, Twilight? I told you not to worry, I’d covered your expenses.”

“And we’re very grateful for that,” said Twilight carefully. “I was wondering if you’d do me another favor.”

Rarity studied her impassively, and then appeared to take interest in something off-screen. Twilight waited, assuming a mask of amicable patience. When the exec turned her attention back to her phone, her voice was nothing less than cordial.

“While I’m a generous soul by nature,” she started, “I can’t help but think that you may be taking advantage of me.”

“Yeah, well, do the words ‘national security’ mean anything to you?”

Rarity blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I got in touch with my brother. Canterlot palace has gone dark a couple of hours ago and nobody inside is answering calls. It stinks of Nightmare.”

Far from the reaction Twilight had hoped for, Rarity merely looked thoughtful. “You’re suggesting Luna departed for Canterlot to confront her sister directly? Why would she do that?”

How about you fight your own damn war?

The memory materialized without warning, but Twilight couldn’t quite piece together the context. She tried to shut down the vague notion that this situation was somehow her fault; put it away for later scrutiny.

“She’s been locked in a microwave oven on the moon for a pretty long time,” she told the exec, her inflection just short of casual. She coughed, trying to play off the apprehension in her tone. “She might not be feeling particularly reasonable right now.”

“I suppose…” Rarity ran a distracted hoof through her mane. “Carousel is spread rather thin right now. Our strike teams are being trained and reevaluated in Manehatten and the one other competent combat operative I have at my disposal is being prepped for a higher-priority mission.”

“Higher priority?” Twilight repeated incredulously. “Higher priority than the preservation of Equestria’s administrative infrastructure? Who is this ‘competent combat operative’?”

“Her name is Rainbow Dash. Would that I could introduce you, but—”

“Rainbow Dash, huh,” Twilight muttered. “Six-toned mane? Cyan coat? Wing implants?”

“Ah, yes, that’s the one.” Raised eyebrows, a note of mild surprise in the exec’s tone. Twilight felt a warmth collecting in her chest born of petty satisfaction.

“We’re already acquainted. And this mission of hers?”

“Regrettably classified.”

Of course it is.

“You can’t help me at all?” Twilight asked doggedly.

“Before I can make that determination, you have to be more succinct about what it is you actually want, darling.”

You’ve got me. I’m making this up as I go.

“I want,” she said emphatically into the mic, “transportation, at the very least. Armed personnel, if you can spare them. I’d also appreciate the help of somebody with experience in hardware and electronic troubleshooting.”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Rarity smirked, but the twitch in her lip didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And I take it you need these things ASAP, yes? I’ll have the transport and some sundry other items waiting for you at sead-11 in, say… half an hour. Unfortunately, I must entrust the coordination of this operation entirely to you. I’ll be indisposed for the next hour or two.”

Twilight frowned. “Indisposed how?”

“Sead-11, Twilight. I wish you nothing but the best of luck.” Rarity’s face dissolved onscreen as the line went dead.

Twilight undid the clip on her ear and stared wistfully at the featureless screen. “I guess that’s the best I can hope for.”

She turned to sneak a glance over her shoulder, but her gaze was immediately obscured by Fluttershy’s masked face.

Twilight recoiled with a yelp, losing her telekinetic grip on the phone and nearly crushing it underfoot. “Holy shit, haven’t you ever heard of personal space?!”

“Oh, s-sorry. Uh. What did she say?”

Twilight grabbed the cell irritably off of the tiled ivory floor and pocketed it. “We’ve got a date at the sead.”

The SE-AD, or the South-East Aerial Dispatch, was an expansive tower-mounted platform used primarily as an office by the Aerial Taxi service. Gates eleven and up, however, were open for civilian access and were more or less public space.

Twilight and Fluttershy rode the speeding elevator in silence amid a somber-looking group of ten or so other mares and stallions. The outside wall was plated in acrylic glass so the less easily unnerved could watch the city skyline as it fell away from them at a dizzying six hundred meters a minute.

It was a smooth ride, save for a few moments of turbulence that Twilight attributed to the elevator cab passing one of the three other adjacent cabs. She felt Fluttershy tense up behind her every time this happened.

You don’t see me acting chicken-shit, and I don’t even have wings.

She pulled up the Grapevine on her NOI to distract herself from the bulky, sweat-dewed stallion pressed up awkwardly against her side. Her eyes scanned the selection of headings on the front page and caught on one in particular.

Local News: Crash Landing in Folk Bazaar

Her eyes widened for a split second before she remembered where she was and deliberately wiped the expression from her face. She focused on the heading and blinked twice in quick succession, opening the file.

Local News: Crash Landing in Folk Bazaar

5:21 October 15, G4.2015

At approximately 22:30 last night, an unidentified aircraft touched down on the commercial center known as Folk Bazaar in New Ponyville’s residential quarter. Reported casualties recovered from the collision site currently stand eighteen strong, five of which have proven immediately fatal. One of these latter cases is reportedly the pilot, but this mare’s identity is awaiting verification.

The aircraft appears to be a small-scale space shuttle and bears an as-yet unrecognized logo. Witnesses claim to have seen a tall, unnaturally slender alicorn emerge from the wreck and vanish shortly thereafter.

This was also the scene of an armed clash ten to fifteen minutes later, occurring between three unicorns, two male and one female, one liberally-augmented female pegasus and two earth ponies, male and female. Two of the combatants were recovered; one dead and the other currently in Lodestar’s custody (unable to be reached for comment). The rest remain at large and are wanted for questioning. Police sketches are up for distribution.

If you have any information regarding these individuals or the crash, please contact Lodestar by phone or email, listed here.

There was a sickly tension in her lungs as she opened the attached images.

Shining Armor’s sketch was of a handsomely generic stallion sporting a light gray coat. His features were far too angular and the highlights in his mane were absent. Likewise, Twilight seemed to have gotten off relatively lightly: her portrait had a blue-tinted coat and the single identifying characteristic of the locator ink printed on the right side of the face. The ink designs were vague and inaccurate however, and Twilight knew from observation that a fair number of other Ponyville residents also wore facial tattoos.

Most of the detail on the portraits supposedly gleaned in the gloom of the previous night was questionable at best. Rainbow Dash might have had a harder time evading law enforcement however, seeing that her eyepatch, multi-toned mane and wing implants seemed to have been transcribed onto the image with a fair degree of accuracy.

Twilight couldn’t quite comment on the image of Dash’s earth pony companion. She didn’t get a very good look at her at the time. The image portrayed her as oddly masculine, white-haired, freckled and azure-eyed.

At last, her body started to feel like it was getting lighter. The elevator was coming to a halt. Gate eleven led to the summit of the SE-AD’s public quarter. The SE-AD landing platform assembly was vaguely clover-shaped; each quarter was oblong and composed of ten landing platforms stacked neatly over one another, looking almost like a model of a corporate high-rise hanging from a slender support beam.

One might be forgiven for misjudging platform eleven as ‘scenic’, given its awe-inspiring views of the steel-and-silver city horizon, were it not for its thin coating of wind-strewn litter and bird shit. Despite the midday hour, it was mostly devoid of life. Two or three lonely air cars sat dormant near the edges of the landing pad; most of the other drivers doubtlessly chose to park below, keeping their vehicles inside and out of the rain and other elements. For a few seconds Twilight wondered if they’d arrived too early, before she heard a hiss from one of the distant carrier barges.

The vehicle was large and painted a conservative, radar-reflective black. Twin rotors flanked the sleek profile of the chassis, mounted on joints, allowing for angle adjustment. The belly of the vehicle split and five figures disembarked over a narrow walkway.

Of the five, three wore leg-mounted firearms and Carousel security duds. The remaining two seemed unarmed and were clad in less readily identifiable uniform.

A mare wearing a long, time-worn duster, the ends of the garment flapping violently in the wind like the wings of a skewered, dying fly. Gleaming chrome columns protruded from her spine and the slot in the duster seemingly cut expressly to accommodate them. Her hat was perched on her back, hanging loosely from her neck on a length of twine. Twilight narrowed her eyes, squeezing tears into the blistering winds. The mare was familiar; almost identical to the police sketch of the earth pony that accompanied Dash, save for color.

The unicorn stallion standing next to her was wearing a pair of bulky sunglasses that looked like they might have been in style at the turn of the previous century. A pair of enormous studio cans hung around his neck, blasting something akin to shoddy garage rock. He kept a classical umbrella suspended over his head via levitation, constantly wrestling with the wind for control. His outmoded wardrobe was brought together by a cheap imitation Haywaiian shirt poking from his coat vest. A greasy-looking halo of moss-green hair flailed over his—

“Snake Eyes?” Fluttershy pushed past and trotted briskly toward the peculiar stallion. “What are you doing here? Are you working for Carousel now?”

“Oh, uh, ‘ey there, ‘Shy.” He coughed out a chuckle, and Twilight thought his cheeks reddened slightly beneath his shades. “Nah, this is, you know, strictly on a per diem basis. I haul some Carousel shit every so often, they pay me. I get a little help with the bills, the big boss gets her merch delivered. Everybody’s happy.”

He slapped the hull of the barge affectionately.

“I’m gonna be real here, I liked my teardrop better, but I’m not about to turn down a free company ride. ‘Specially a fancy number like this one.”

“So you’re our driver then,” said Twilight, and turned to the duster-clad mare. “And you are…?”

“Applejack,” she supplied around her chewing tobacco. “I’m your grease monkey.”

“I didn’t ask for a ‘grease monkey’. I asked for an electrician,” said Twilight testily.

“Ee’yup, I can do that too.” Applejack flashed a tight smile. “I’m a full-time utility gal over at Flim/Flam Agricultural. I can maintain and repair pipes, circuits and the occasional automaton. Tryin’ to learn guns too, if that’s more your speed.”

The smile somehow conjured memories of the night before; of the farmer breaking a stallion’s neck with alarming ease. All of a sudden, arguing semantics with her didn’t seem wise.

"O-okay," said Twilight. "And the muscle?"

One of the security detail stepped forward and presented himself obligingly. He was a dark, well-built, intimidating-looking pegasus. “Name’s Thunderlane.” He pointed at each of his comrades in turn. “The gryphon's name is is Giselle; don't stare, she's on parole from camp. The rookie’s Flash Sentry. Pinprick’s still inside, sulking.”

“So that’s it, then.” Twilight glanced over the assembled troop. “I get just the four guns going up against the all-powerful ex-Princess of the Night?”

“Well chief, to be fair, it’s not certain that the blackout at the palace is the Nightmare’s work,” said Snake Eyes, lip curling. “The boss has no real proof a blackout even happened. She barely fucking knows you. What’d you expect?”

Honestly Twily, what did you expect?

“Fine, I get it,” Twilight conceded begrudgingly. “Let’s get this shit show on the road, then.”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” Snake Eyes grinned at Fluttershy. “Your friend’s a real piece of work, huh? This’ll be a helluva road trip.”

Beneath her mask, Fluttershy’s lips quirked up until she caught Twilight’s eye. Her smile shriveled painfully beneath the librarian’s steely glare.

“Y-yeah…”

Intermission

Author's Note

Princess Celestia declined her invitation (and those in attendance collectively let out a sigh of relief). And there was much cake and merrymaking. Happy anniversary to Cigarettes & Gunmetal! Better late than never, I say.
This cake is for you, Pinkacalypse, you glutton.

Nox Aeterna (Act Four)

Rainbow Dash checked her zero-emission chameleon-skin bodysuit for tears and dead zones for what felt like the twentieth time. It was a more advanced version of what she’d worn on her tour in Bridleon, modified to nullify body heat to fool infra-red detection systems, and built from radar-absorbent material.

The dropship took two hours to get into position, not because the destination was particularly distant, but because the piloting AI fired up one initial thrust to start the journey and then immediately shifted gear to the ‘drift’ setting on the anti-grav propulsion system. Ideally, this would prevent the craft from being detected or differentiated from any other more benign airborne mass like a flock of birds or a migrating drake or wyvern.

The vocal codec on Rainbow’s NOI crackled to life, broadcasting Rarity’s voice intimately close.

“I’ve returned. How goes the journey?”

Rainbow held down a shudder and tried to suppress the conviction that her private space was being invaded by an invisible mare whispering in her ear. “Hermes said that we were about twenty minutes off, but that was maybe ten minutes ago. So I guess we’re close. Where’d you go, by the way?”

A pause.

“An acquaintance of mine was requesting assistance. Nothing you need concern yourself with. Let’s go over your orders one more time.”

Rainbow sighed wearily. “Drop two miles off the base. Infiltrate the security perimeter and extract this ‘Circuit Cutter’. Head engineer, mousy guy named Gizmo. Ignore the warhead, get in and out as quick as possible.” She stopped and, after a moment’s deliberation, decided to finally ask. “You never really told me what this warhead is actually for though.”

“It’s quite simple,” said Rarity gently. “The rocket contains an experimental magnetic accelerant engine known as a CME Enticer. The Children of the Night intend to launch it into the sun. There the engine will activate and trigger a solar storm of an unprecedented scale. This will result in a coronal mass ejection powerful enough to overload the global power grid and essentially fry all networked electronics.

“In essence,” she concluded, “if the launch isn’t stopped, our electrical infrastructure will be crippled for years to come. And given how much we’ve come to rely on electricity, our society may very well disintegrate completely in the meantime.”

“Fucking seriously?” asked Rainbow, tone tinged with amused disbelief. “This sounds like the plot to an e-comic; like something out of the sundamned Power Ponies. Why don’t you want me to destroy the thing while I’m in there?”

“Comic book plot or no, I sincerely doubt you’ll find a glowing red self-destruct button on the consoles, Miss Dash. Make no mistake, this is a very large, very sturdy device. Decommissioning it will be Pinkamena’s department.”

Rainbow sprang toward the unfamiliar name. “Pinkamena?”

That hooves-on-chalkboard voice sounded in her ears again, the same irritating voice that came from the helidrones, the voice of the datarat she found in Rarity’s company.

“That’s me! Pinkamena “Pinkie” Diane Pie, novahot decker extraordinaire, best datarat on this side of New Ponyville, humbly at your service!”

Rainbow’s curiosity got the better of her. “Pinkamena Pie, you said? You wouldn’t happen to have any space-faring relatives would you?”

“Not that I know of,” Pinkie answered brightly. “Why?”

“Applejack told me about a geologist she met on the way to Artemis II, or something? Don’t remember her first name. Anyway, ask her later.”

She heard the confusion in Pinkie’s voice. “You’ll ask her later, or are you telling me to ask her?”

Abruptly, carrying on the conversation wasn’t worth it any more. “I don’t—ugh, whatever. Forget it.”

“Oookay then.”

Hermes cut into the awkward exchange with machine-surgical precision.

“Miss Dash. The dropship is in optimal position for you to disembark. If we drift any closer, we will be at risk of crossing the facility’s aerial cordon and forewarning the security systems.”

“Got it.” Rainbow got out of her seat and hooked a forehoof around the cabin door’s drop latch. “Looks like it’s showtime, ladies and gentlemen. Shut off the neural codec, Rare.”

“Will do. Remember: double-time it in and out. You won’t want to be in there forty-five minutes from now. And Rainbow?” Rarity’s tone hardened in the wake of the jarring informal address. “Bring Gizmo out alive. I don’t want a repeat of what happened in Bridleon.”

Rainbow paused, wondering sluggishly if she’d misheard. No chance; the neural codec was pitch-perfect. “How in Tartarus do you know about that?”

No answer, only the hum of the dropship’s anti-grav engine. The link was closed. Rainbow shrugged to herself and jerked the latch. The door slid away grindingly slow, and she leapt through the opening immediately, not giving herself time to consider what else Rarity knew about her.

The featureless green of the steppe spread from one end of the horizon to the other with nary a landmark in sight. Rainbow spun on her axis as she fell, taking in the sights at terminal velocity. The unclaimed steppes of Leng lay beyond the Olympian peaks that supported Canterlot just north of New Ponyville. Leng was not a contested territory. Much like Bridleon, the natural resources available here were sparse, though without the benefit of Bridleon’s buried treasure trove of fossil fuel and anthroid relics.

There was a government-mandated development initiative to try and make some use of the acres upon acres of empty space a couple of decades back, but it fell apart due to a general lack of enthusiasm and funding. Pony communities wilted, citing soul-crushing isolation and exposure, while crops fared no better in the cold, dry climate. To this day, the steppes were mostly devoid of life, save for wolves, ghouls and a handful of nomadic antelope tribes. The antelopes were diminutive and singularly peculiar, savage and shamanistic. As such, they got on poorly with the ponyfolk and the Equestrian government eventually abandoned all hope of forging a fruitful relationship with the tribes. Ambassadors returned home and trade routes dried up as fast as they were erected. The paper trail wrote Leng off as worse than unprofitable, as an unmitigated money sink.

But it seemed that there was at least one off-the-books project taking place here at the behest of the Equestrian government.

Rainbow doubted it would be the only one.

A hundred fifty meters until contact. She spread her tri-folds and pumped the anti-grav to slow her descent. The earth turned sharp, she could discern the individual blades of grass below. It hit her like a truck, and she loosened her joints to absorb the shock. She let her momentum carry her forward and rolled over the stiff grass, feeling her mane moisten with dew. Her chameleon skin came online with a snap and a whine as she stood and pulled up her hood, and she vanished in the dim early afternoon sunlight like a phantom. The sky was heavy with storm clouds. The rain hadn’t reached the steppe as yet, but if and when it did the water might further distort the camouflage of the chameleon skin. Consulting her optical compass, she started in a north-eastern direction, unconsciously taking a marching pace.
She wondered idly how Rarity had gotten hold of her military track record, and how Pinkamena intended to ‘decommission’ the warhead remotely. The notion that the targeting computers or the missile itself were somehow connected to the Expanse seemed ludicrous. Black sites tended to be fully isolated from the grid. There were no phone lines and no open networks.

The chilly breeze ran a parent’s caress through the grass, revealing a weatherproof sensor spike. The device was slick, bulb-shaped and shaded green to blend in with the surrounding turf. Were it not for the blinking lights puncturing the bulb at each of its cardinal poles, Rainbow would’ve missed it completely.

She flipped up her eyepatch and surveyed the surroundings with her smart eye. The sensor spikes were spread along the perimeter of the site at ten meter intervals. In theory, her zero-emission chameleon skin would allow her to penetrate the perimeter without alerting the sensors. She crossed the barrier trying for equidistance between two of the spikes; the closer she came to either, the more likely it was that they’d pick up on the distortion from her camouflage.

If the sensors detected her presence, they didn’t show it.

She continued deeper into the perimeter, keeping an eye peeled for sentries. Lightning’s voice in her ears, almost as clear as the vocal codec: Dash, we’re strapped for time and you’re wearing a state-of-the-art infiltration suit. Why not fly?

Under the hood, Rainbow’s lip twitched. Did you get killed by the nuke in Bridleon, then? Haunting me now, are you?

That’s moronic and you know it. The fact that you think you’re hearing my voice is probably just a symptom of your PTSD.

Hey. Is that any way to talk to a superior officer?

Officer? You were a staff sergeant, Dash, don’t get a swelled head. Besides, you’re nobody’s fucking officer anymore.

A raised mound materialized among the featureless green, notable due to how artificial it seemed compared to its surroundings.

See? I woulda missed that if I’d been flying, right?

The ghost in her ears remained silent. She shrugged it off and approached the protrusion. The grass looked different in this patch, denser and less natural. Following a vague feeling in her gut, she dug into the patch and pulled. It came away smoothly and in one piece, a strip of sod laid to cover a gleaming steel hatch. A DNA scanner blinked dully in the center of the octagonal door.

Thankfully, Rarity had seen this coming. A biohazard pouch containing a sample of Blue Moon’s blood was provided after the initial briefing. The old stallion proved unreceptive to willingly give them the sample and after a few minutes of arguing, Rarity allowed her security to collect it forcibly.

Rainbow ripped the pouch, withdrew a test tube and uncorked it with her teeth. She sprinkled the sample liberally over the scanner. Most DNA locks were fine-tuned to recognize saliva, but blood worked as well and often better. The lock chirped accommodatingly and the bolts withdrew with a dry chink. Peering into the darkness below, she could make out no obvious threat. She took the ladder two rungs at a time, taking care to shut the lid above her. The night vision setting on her smart eye was of no use without any ambient light; the shaft might as well have gone down for miles. As though she was descending into the pits of Tartarus itself.

The afternoon was transitioning slowly into early evening when the carrier finally made its shuddering descent onto one of the landing pads on Canterlot’s outer rim.

“You couldn’t have taken us in closer?” Twilight asked Snake Eyes irritably.

“Yeah? You wanna try piloting in these conditions, huh?” Snake Eyes twisted around his seat to glare at her. “This is the Olympian Ridge, and FYI, it’s some serious shit. The air’s thin and the rain’s turning into hail. The sundamned rotors are gonna crystallize midair if I push her much farther.”

He shook out a cigarette and lit it. “I’ma pop the hatch and let you folks get on with your bid’ness. I reckon you don’t need me out there and I’m not going to sit in the cold if I don’t gotta.”

“Thank you, Snake,” said Fluttershy.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” His mood had evidently soured from the exchange with Twilight.

True to Snake Eyes’ observation, stinging grains of ice took the place of rain outside. The SkySystems weather net looked to be down once again. Twilight tried to stem the waves of resentment as they washed over her; this was her homecoming, after all.

Ivory towers lined the streets.

New Ponyville had been an unplanned melting pot of a number of species and cultures, and for the most part, the buildings and street plans tended to reflect this fact. The tenement houses could be patched together from bricks, corrugated steel, wood, cement and in some extreme cases drywall, sometimes all at the same time. The streets were equally chaotic, radiating from the center in all directions, over hills and valleys and through public parks. New Ponyville’s expansion was, in a word, organic. Traffic suffered; the roads twisted, punctuated by unsynced traffic signals often at intervals consisting of less than a hundred feet.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Canterlot’s development was always rigidly plotted. The architecture was soft and sterile, and the streets were arranged in an intuitive, AI-generated grid. Consequently, ground traffic was more manageable and there were fewer air vehicles. Building permits were granted sparingly and the owners had to agree to keep within a number of set parameters before construction could commence. This made sense: unlike New Ponyville, Canterlot stood on even ground and only had so much room on its cliff side platform to work with. Efficient use of space was ideal.

The palace towers jutted upward ahead, phallic and erect despite the frost.

Giselle fractionally quickened her pace until she was striding side-by-side with Twilight. Twilight kept her eyes unflinchingly ahead, trying to ignore the tall, dark-plumed gryphon next to her. The façade didn’t last; she flinched visibly when the gryphon elbowed her.

“Ack! W-what?!”

Giselle leaned in conspiratorially. “Hey, don’t look now but I think the rookie’s taken a liking to you.”

Twilight grunted. “Sentry? Yeah, no kidding. He’s been staring at my ass ever since we got off the carrier. Not very subtle is he? Doesn’t know how to take a hint either.”

Giselle chortled. “You know how to speak your mind, Sparkle.”

Approaching the foot of the palace, they saw that the main throughway was barricaded wall to wall with about a dozen assorted vehicles, air- and ground-functional. Contrary to what Twilight expected, none of them appeared to be Royal Guard or police transports. They were sleek and dark, modern but conservative and very well maintained. Though they lacked the lightbars, the front of each vehicle was fitted with conspicuous push and PIT bumpers, much like a standard police patrol car.

“Do you think those cars belong to the Children of the Night?” asked Fluttershy.

Twilight shook her head without stopping. “From what Rarity told us, the Children of the Night are disorganized and interested in maintaining their anonymity. There’s no way they’d arrange to have matching transportation.”

A unicorn stallion wearing an immaculate pinstriped suit and sunglasses emerged from one of the cars and started toward them. Twilight couldn’t help but notice that he was holding a Levitus pump-action before him, casually lowered but promising to rise at the first sign of trouble.

Her armed escort tensed and cut in front, keeping her out of the firing line.

“Then who is this?” Fluttershy continued. “Is he with the, uh, the Canterlot Underwatch?”

“Fella does look pretty spiff,” Applejack contributed. “Y’don’t see a lotta government officials nowadays sportin’ pinstripe though.”

Twilight cut the farmer a surprised look. “I’m… inclined to agree.”

“Stop! What you think you are doing?” The stallion’s accent seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “This is restricted area. We… insist you clear out immediately.” He jerked the gun at them, still not quite raised.

“And who in the bleeding Tartarus are you to ‘restrict’ this area?” asked Twilight, more confident behind her four armed bodyguards. “This is the Canterlot palace. What authority do you have here?”

The suited stallion clicked his teeth.

“Oy! Shtani! How long you’re going to have me sitting out here, scaring off kids?”

Another one of the cars in the center hinged open, this one an impressive limousine. A single stallion descended the discharge steps and stood squinting at them in the sleet and fading light. He was a fairly tall specimen, bearded and dressed in a tailcoat fit for a tsar. A pair of diminutive prescription lenses was mounted on his nose, framing his face and accenting his cheekbones.

Twilight grimaced. Sundamned ghetto chic. You want me to believe that you can’t afford corrective surgery, wearing that?
The two suits exchanged words in a harsh-sounding foreign dialect. For a moment it seemed like the first stallion would lose it and ventilate his superior with the pump-action then and there, but instead he left the way he came, trembling with barely-suppressed irritation and wounded pride. The bespectacled newcomer glared at Twilight’s group.

“Can I help you folks?” he asked icily. His accent was much less pronounced than his subordinate’s and, while he was not armed, he radiated an aura of cultured control.

Twilight brushed past her guards and locked eyes with the stallion. “You can tell me who you are and why you’re obstructing traffic into the palace.”

“My name is Fancy Pants.” He made an all-encompassing wave over the cars behind him. “My associates and I are here at the behest of the Royal Guard. Until the signal is given, nobody enters or leaves the palace grounds.”

“You’re Fancy Pants?” Twilight remembered her last few days in Canterlot a number of weeks back. The Stalliongrad Mafia and their new Pakhan, Fancy Pants, courtesy of Lucid’s assassination of Duke Levin. The same Lucid that Shining Armor took into custody shortly thereafter, with Twilight’s consultation. “Did my bonehead brother put you up to this?”

“You’re Twilight Sparkle then? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Fancy Pants bowed stiffly. “Yes, it was Shining Armor who requested our services. And seeing that he did us a kindness some months ago, I felt it was only right and proper to return the favor. The Bratva does not forget its debts.”

“Why couldn’t he get the Guard’s help instead?” Twilight asked, narrowing her eyes.

“It is my understanding that most of the Royal Guard is, rather inconveniently, missing in action,” said Fancy Pants. “Mister Armor came to us as a matter of last resort. For the moment, we’re keeping watch over the outskirts of the palace, but Mister Armor took a detachment of our combat operatives inside about an hour ago.”

“An hour?” Twilight repeated disbelievingly. “You don’t think it’s suspicious that he hasn’t come out yet? Come to that, don’t you have any vocal link with him?”

“Mister Armor tells us that the palace interior is equipped with comm jamming equipment. As for the interval… It is still inside acceptable parameters. He’s enlisted our assistance until six in the evening. Once this span is fully exhausted we will cut our losses and depart. But until then, he has our full support. Will that be all for questions?”

“Full support.” Twilight gave the Pakhan a sardonic grin. “Right. I’m going in. With or without your aid.”

Fancy Pants consulted an antique pocket watch detachedly. The action looked manufactured to Twilight’s tutored eye; he was taking cover.
“And what makes you think you’ll have any better luck than your brother, Miss Sparkle?”

“I can at least get the lights back on,” said Twilight, nodding to the farmer. “Come on, Applejack. I’ll show you the way to the circuit center.”

Applejack smirked and pulled her Stetson fractionally lower over her eyes. “Right behind you.”

The Pakhan turned to watch them as they passed but made no attempt at pursuit. Twilight gauged her opponent correctly: he didn’t dare try stopping her by force—not with her overt connections to both the Royal Guard and the Princess herself.

“We will not take responsibility for any harm that comes to you while you are inside the building,” he called after them.

“Deal,” she answered curtly over her shoulder.

When her hooves were finally on solid ground again, Rainbow found herself in a confined corridor cramped with pipes, vents and pressure meters. She moved cautiously but without hesitation, and the corridor’s mouth opened out into a rectangular processing checkpoint, overseen by a stallion in what she recognized as Lodestar Antimag armor.

Is Lodestar supporting the Children of the Night?

The notion wasn’t out of the question: despite their position as effective law enforcement in New Ponyville, Lodestar was at the end of the day a private military contractor. As such, its allegiances tended to align with those whose pockets ran deepest. And given that Equestrian economics were strictly a free market affair, Lodestar could legally support domestic terrorist groups as long as they could provide the receipts.

The Lodestar grunt sat reclining in his chair behind a desk laden with newsprint hardcopy, clearly asleep. Presumably his job was to make sure that new arrivals were on the staff list, and to usher them through the x-rays and the metal detector. Rainbow slid a glance appraisingly over her prosthetics and the metal detector in turn, lip twitching at the sheer obsolescent stupidity of it.

For real? You still have this stone-age gear? Don’t have many cyborgs working here, do you?

She vaulted over the counter, bypassing the arch of the metal detector, flicked the sleeping guard a lazy salute and continued into the fluorescent-lit corridors beyond, deeper into the sprawling complex.

She ran into several more awake, patrolling guards as she navigated the burnished metallic hallways, but none of them presented any difficulty to her. Wearing the chameleon-skin, she snuck through and around their patrol routes without fear of alerting them; it was unlikely that they’d pick up on the minimal visual distortion unless they were actively looking for it. The few cameras smattered around the facility proved equally unaware, at least for the moment. Perhaps when someone went over the security tapes later on they might be able to track her progress, but that was inconsequential. There were non-military personnel as well; occasionally she ran into engineering and maintenance workers busily replacing wall panels or troubleshooting exposed circuits, wire cutters and soldering irons at the ready. They seemed fully absorbed in their respective tasks and she doubted they’d notice her even without the suit.

Piece of piss. I could sleepwalk through the place without tripping a single alarm.

She came to a one-piece acrylic window looking out into a LED-dotted abyss. Looking at what lay beyond, she felt her bearings slide smoothly into place like a deftly manipulated game of fifteen: The complex wrapped around an enormous parabolic pit, housing a single massive warhead. Rarity had not been exaggerating: the rocket was the single largest piece of artillery Rainbow had ever seen. It was hued a deep blue-black with navy accents on the fins. Blocky letters bisected the rocket fins to tip, and Rainbow instinctively knew what they said even before her eyes adjusted enough to properly read them: NOX AETERNA. The Lunar Ex-princess’ brand, (crescent over a nebulous night sky), was faithfully reproduced next to the letters making the whole thing look like a rather unsubtle advertisement for a sleep-aid product.

A crotchety-sounding male system voice filtered through the overhead intercom. The cheap syllable-by-syllable recordings contributed to the launch facility’s grimy low-budget atmosphere.

“Commencing phase three of pre-launch procedure. Facility temperature to be lowered by a factor of 20%.”

The vents around her exploded with rushing air and pipes flooded audibly with liquid coolant.

Rainbow shook herself, circulating. “Awesome. 20% cooler, and no fur coat.”

She stared through the window once more, looking for any clues regarding her objective. The spotlights inside the few alcoves on the outer rim of the pit highlighted a single outcropping on the opposite end, connected to the rocket via a retractable arm. She could only assume that this was where the main control deck was, likely her best bet on where she’d find Gizmo.

It was a twisting, difficult path. The corridor didn’t circumnavigate the silo perfectly and took her out of sight of the rocket several times. Doubtlessly it would have been easier to enter the silo proper and fly towards the control deck directly, but she didn’t trust chameleon bodysuits in high-contrast environments. The active camouflage simply couldn’t shift hues fast enough to keep up with such a rapid change between lights and darks.

Trotting hurriedly through the corridor, Rainbow finally ran into a sign, the first one she’d encountered since she arrived, discounting the high voltage and hazardous substance warnings plastered so liberally throughout the complex. It was a shiny white-on-black navigational plaque, listing different facilities including restrooms, generators and most notably, the control center.

CONTROL CENTER 0.5 MILES

A stylized arrow painted on the sign urged her forward. Rainbow Dash threw a triumphant hoof in the air.

“Alright! Finally getting somewhere!”

Her mission time was rapidly accumulating: it had been twenty-five minutes since her departure from the dropship. She quickened her pace, leaving her luck behind in the dust.

An Antimag-clad guard emerged from a side passage and in her rush she couldn’t quite stop in time to avoid him. She pivoted to the side, brushing shoulders with the stallion.

Stunned, he jerked around, squinting at her. “W-what the—?”

The zebra-taught martial art of sakuden’ko is not one unduly concerned with detrimental notions like fairness or mercy.

Riding her panic, she struck him in the throat. The stallion crumpled over the waxy floor tiles, rolling onto his back and gasping for breath, probably trying to get his headset online. She stepped over to straddle him like a lover, and whipped him repeatedly with hook after violent hook directed at the face. After about half a minute, bruised and bleeding from his nose and mouth, his eyes seemed to swell shut. Rainbow continued bludgeoning the guard until she felt sure she was just short of killing him. Finally she straightened up, wiping the blood spray absently from her cheek, and dragged the body behind a couple of pallets stacked with metallic crates.

More or less satisfied that he wouldn’t be discovered any time soon, she spun on her rear hooves and started towards the control deck.
A rasping cackle erupted behind her, bringing with it a peculiar sensation of almost nostalgic dread. She stopped dead in her tracks, putting off the moment that she’d turn around and confront the memory.

Who’s the fucking enthusiast now, Dash, it asked derisively. Tell me you don’t enjoy this shit.

“You’re dead,” Rainbow muttered. “Me and Dust left you behind in Bridleon, a necrotic payload eating through your system. There’s not a filly’s chance in Tartarus that the Commonwealth had the resources to bring you back, not fast enough.”

That’s right, Dash. Maybe I should have killed you when I had the chance. But I’ll always cherish the memories we shared in the short couple of hours that we were in each other’s company.

Rainbow Dash did turn around then, and instead of the unconscious Lodestar officer, she saw the gryphon reclining casually on her elbow. Behind her scarred beak, Gilda’s cheek was still raw and torn open from the grazing shot of Lightning Dust’s necrotic bullet. Rainbow could see through the gash and into the dark recess of the gryphon’s mouth. A mixture of blood and saliva dribbled over her cheek and neck plumage as she stood, and she wiped it away with a nauseating slurp before speaking again.

I can’t be here, you and I both know this much. She grinned and leaned forward, inclining her head. But your perception of me is less a question of my existential status than it is of your current state of mind.

A muscle jumped under Rainbow’s smart eye.

Yes, you understand the implication: early onset variance-induced psychosis. The words sounded alien on Gilda’s tongue, twisted by the Tlanese accent.

You’re losing it, just like you knew you would eventually. Test tube grunts like you typically don’t start exhibiting symptoms until their late thirties, but it seems you’re a special case, aren’t you, Dash? Maybe the process has been accelerated by the recent installation of your new prostheses. Gilda shrugged dismissively. But who cares, really. Soon enough, you’ll go completely batshit and they’ll put you down like the rabid bitch you always were.

The words were irritating, infuriating like a consistent full-body itch that ebbed and focused into a dull ache in her teeth. It would be sated by nothing less than the taste of the gryphon’s still-beating heart. She leapt, pinning Gilda beneath her as the phantom burst into a fit of manic laughter. It had to stop. Rainbow stamped down hard on Gilda’s head, feeling her skull cave in under the weight.

All of a sudden, it wasn’t Gilda’s skull anymore. His facial features mangled and concave and immobile beneath her forehoof, the guard lay dead at her feet. As the buzzing in her ears subsided, it was replaced by a more substantial sound: the blaring of intrusion alarms. The systems voice chattered over the intercom again.

“Guard 404 is deceased. Intrusion countermeasures are in effect. All personnel be advised.”

“Ah, fuck me,” she groaned.

It appeared that the vital signs of each guard were wired into a central monitoring system. The slowed heartbeat of general unconsciousness didn’t seem to be enough to trip the alarms, judging by the sleeping receptionist she’d met at the entrance, but the same could not be said for altogether absent vitals.

Bright rotating warning lights emerged from apertures built into the ceiling, filling the corridors with flashes of garish crimson. Rainbow raised her foreleg, assessing the active camo. It was no good; the hue of the pigment cells fell behind the revolutions of light by nearly a full second, and with the now-alert guards patrolling the compound, her chances of getting to the deck unseen were looking dodgy at best.

And here I was hoping that the chameleon-skin might end up useful for the complete run just this once, she thought morosely.

She reached into a low-profile pocket on her bodysuit and withdrew the slender blade of the martial horn. Leaning against a nearby wall, she slotted the horn neatly into the socket hidden under her forelocks. She had declined to take any firearms along with her on the mission, knowing that no gun currently manufactured was compatible with chameleon-skin bodysuits. Lacking the pigment cells coating her martial horn, leg or spine-mounted firearms would stick out like the implements of an angry poltergeist.

Rainbow hurriedly undid the straps on the dead guard’s leg-mounted assault rifle and wrapped them around her own foreleg. It wouldn’t be much more visible than the bodysuit itself flashing out of sync with the warning lights.

Her ears caught steps echoing down the corridor—the remaining guards were closing in on the location of their fallen comrade. Shadows danced to either side of her, there and then gone again as the lights made another revolution. Her mind went into overdrive, drunk on the neurachem sloshing through her gray matter. The restrooms were a dozen feet behind her, probably a dead end. She might be able to use the pallets of metal crates as an improvised cover, but she was willing to wager that the guards would search the area thoroughly enough to discover her. There was a vent grate just over her head, on the ceiling, but it seemed to be inset with screws.

There’s no time for this.

She flew up to the grate, slid her forehooves through the wide oblong holes between the turning vanes, and yanked at it using her full body weight. The grate came loose with a metallic thunk, followed immediately by the clatter of a couple of the screws as they hit the floor. It wasn’t a quiet exit by any stretch of the imagination, and she could only pray that security wouldn’t catch wind of it immediately. She cast the discarded grate behind the pallets and scrambled into the cramped ventilation duct just as the first of the Lodestar officers turned the corner.

Rainbow imagined what it must have looked like, something flashing and indistinct disappearing into the ceiling. The officer shouted and opened fire at the duct. Bullets chewed the metal around her, loud and insistent in the confined sound-amplifying space. As she shimmied further in, a stray slug bit into her stomach. Her system automatically administered anesthetics and amphetamine to keep her functioning, but the sensation was far from pleasant. She clenched her teeth and crawled further in, trailing blood, remembering that the duct disappeared into an adjacent wall. There she should be comparably safe from harassment for a moment, assuming of course that security didn’t have any pegasi on duty, or stepladders within easy reach.

The vents were dark and claustrophobic with no room to maneuver. She was forced to contort herself into painful positions to turn the sharp ninety-degree corners, and each time she felt a stab in her small intestine where the bullet had lodged itself. Through the grates below, guards hurried to and fro, searching for her. Their efforts appeared to be coordinated via their headsets, with individuals splitting from groups to search each corridor and question other employees. They weren’t scanning the vents just yet, but it was only a matter of time.

She reminded herself of her time limit and crawled on. The control deck was in sight, but the duct terminated just over the entrance. Two sentries, a male and a female, had been posted to keep watch over the door, which was closed off by a steel shutter not unlike the ones she was used to seeing over storefronts after dark in uptown New Ponyville.

She sighed, prompting another sting in her belly.

Can’t be helped.

She broke through the nearest grate and descended over the two guards like a closing curtain. The Lodestar mare’s proximity sense kicked in well in advance of her partner; she actually managed to spin around and fire off a shot before Rainbow severed her spinal column with her vibrating martial horn. The stallion was slower on the uptake, barely raising his voice as she ducked below him and delivered an unrestrained kick into his solar plexus.

He struggled on the floor for a split second before Rainbow finished him with a cranial gunshot. It was a little late in the day to be taking prisoners.

As an afterthought, she bit down on his headset and shook it off of him. Closer examination of the device revealed that each one was meant to be used in conjunction with military-standard commjacks, typically implanted in the base of the neck. Being ex-military herself, Dash naturally still had her own jacks, though they were getting dusty with lack of use.

She opened her neuro vocal codec and dialed for the decker.

Pinkamena’s voice intruded into her thoughts once again, this time uncharacteristically impatient.

“Yeah Dashie, what’s up?”

“Pink. Mind doing me a favor right quick?”

“Oh, sure,” the decker muttered reproachfully. “It’s not like I’m preparing for a super-important decomish or anything.”

“It’ll be fast, I promise,” said Rainbow. “I’m gonna hook myself up to security’s communication channel. I need you to piggyback on my NOI and knock it out.”

“Don’t know if I got the means to do that right now,” said Pinkie, still sounding preoccupied with something in the background. “Best I can offer would be flooding the channel with white noise.”

Now it was Rainbow’s turn to start losing her patience. “Yeah, good enough, just do something.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” There was an acidic cheerfulness in Pinkie’s voice. “How could I possibly say no?”

Rainbow smiled to herself and mounted the headset, plugging the jacks.

“All units check in,” said the channel operator, his voice high and bearing a distinct Germanian accent.

“Squad leader alpha checking in. No sign of the intruder. Sector four looks clean.”

"Squad leader gamma checking in. 311 is saying he saw something weird crawling into the—”

Something obscene flashed across Rainbow’s vision just as the line disintegrated into the drone of white noise.

“Sundamn it Pink, was that what I think it was? Did you dig that shit up on a shock site somewhere?”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about,” the decker said unconvincingly. “We all good?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Rainbow ran a hoof over the headset. “Do I need to keep this on to broadcast the signal?”

“Not unless you wanna go deaf,” said Pinkie. “It’s a self-perpetuating feedback loop. It’s gonna keep building in volume until the channel crashes. Won’t stop the operator from restarting though, so don’t hang around. By the way, just reminding you, you’ve got ten minutes left on the clock.”

“Thanks.” Rainbow ripped the headset off and discarded it.

The shutter obstructing the entrance to the control deck was secured to the floor by an old-fashioned padlock, rusty and calcified, and a cursory inspection of the bodies indicated that neither of the guards had the key on them. Rainbow powered on the vibroblade of her horn again and cut through the shackle of the lock. The metal screamed and spat sparks but gave way and the shutter slid up with minimal resistance.

As she entered the bunker-like interior of the control deck, she was met with the sight of a stallion consulting a wall of security monitors. He spun around in his chair as she came near. He was a frail-looking specimen wearing a bow tie and corrective lenses that looked to be grafted directly into his skull. His expression was slack and stupid, bordering on the uncanny valley. Wirehead syndrome they called it: small muscles in the face tended to die in users that spent an inordinate amount of time physically hooked up to high-resource hardware.

“Ach! It’s…! It’s him! The intruder is here!”

She recognized the stallion’s voice as that of the security channel operator. He turned hurriedly back to the main screen, which was occupied by a waveform visualization of the comms channel.

“S-shit! What’s wrong with the audio system?!”

Rainbow pulled the chameleon-skin hood from her face.
“I’ve disabled that. Gizmo, right? You won’t be alerting any of your guards in here, so make it easier on yourself and come quietly, mein freund.”

The weapons locker next to her burst open and a familiar thestral tackled her to the floor. The two of them grappled there, with the stallion clenching her rifle and tearing it free. She swung her head sideways, swiping at his jaw. He let out a strangled grunt and recoiled, spitting blood. She got up and dusted herself off theatrically, then looked at the thestral youth. The vibrablade horn sliced straight through his cheeks, giving him a bloody Cheshire smile.

“Fancy seeing you here,” said Rainbow. “I guess you came to before Carousel arrived to collect you and your friends at the old fort, huh? What’s your name, kid?”

He bared his bloodied teeth at her. “The fuck is it to you?”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Gizmo was out of his seat and leaning against the monitor assembly as though he was hoping it would absorb his mass and allow him to escape the room. “V… why are you here? Do you have any idea what you are doing?!”

Rainbow shrugged again. “Pretty good idea, yeah. Anyway, I’ve been paid.”

“So you’re a corporate samurai then, are you?” said the thestral, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Actually…” Rainbow smiled gently. “I fancy myself more of a ronin.”

“H-how much?” asked Gizmo. “We’re government-funded! Tell me your price, and I’ll double it!”

“Ah ah ahh…” Rainbow tutted, shaking her head. “That’s poor form. I can’t build a very good résumé if I have a history of backstabbing my employers, now can I?”

“Then save your résumé…” The thestral lunged, flaring his wings. “…for the fucking Cerberus!”

Rainbow spun, sweeping her attacker with the levitite alloy of her implants. As he stumbled sideways, she hooked his head with one of her forelegs, and drove him face-first into the monitor assembly. The screens cracked and shattered, raining sparks and tube fragments.

He lifted himself weakly off the imploded screen, face bloodied.

She strolled casually and put a companionable elbow on his back. “Bet you wish you upgraded to holo-displays,” she said, addressing Gizmo. “Seriously, are these fucking CRT monitors?” She kicked the thestral in the ribs, flooring him.

And then it was over. The engineer stood cowering in the corner, while his thestral bodyguard lay incapacitated at her feet. She evaluated the youth. He would probably live unless…

Gilda’s voice echoing somewhere far away, perhaps from the smoking radioactive ruins of Bridleon: Put the little shit out of his misery, Dash. It’s in your nature.

She took a breath through her clenched teeth, feeling the bullet worming through her gut.

I’ve accrued enough of a body count for one lifetime. What do I have against any of these poor bastards? Most of them are just doing their job. The kid’s a thestral, probably born into a disgruntled chiropteran family, surrounded by anti-solar sentiment. He never had a chance.

She turned to the engineer.

“You’re coming with me.”

The perimeter of Children of the Night’s rocket launch facility stretched before her, a vast ostensibly empty plain stretching to infinity below, hiding the sprawling industrial complex in its depths. Hermes’ voice boomed through the interior of the dropship.

“Mission successful. Retreating to minimum safe distance.”

Rainbow stiffened. “Minimum safe distance?”

Everything went white. It was as though the terrorist cell had incited the wrath of the gods themselves. A throbbing column of white descended from the heavens above and enveloped the plain in unimaginable heat and light. There was no sound, except a subdued sizzling as vast quantities of earth and metal were almost instantly vaporized.

Rainbow’s vocal codec came online giving her a start. Maniacal laughter filled the line, sounding like it was already well underway when the decker hit the broadcast switch.

“Did you see that, Dashie?! The whole damn thing, up in smoke in ten seconds flat!”

“Pink.” Rainbow’s mouth had gone dry. “Was that… Was that an orbital beam?”

“It sure was! Can you imagine? With this deck and software bundle, the whole global network of god lasers is at my fingertips!”

“You hijacked Æther’s orbital network?” She felt nauseous. If a two-bit datarat like Pinkamena could break into the Equestrian orbital beam network and fix it to annihilate anything they pleased…

“There is no need to worry, Miss Dash.” Rarity’s voice on the codec. “This is strictly a single-use affair. I’m sure that Æther will reinforce their security systems once they discover our actions here. And it’s not as though this was easy to arrange; I provided Pinkamena with a deck and ICE-breaker software bundle that won’t be commercially available for another two years.”

Gizmo was strapped into his seat next to the thestral, both unconscious. Rainbow scooped a cigarette out of his pocket, held it up to the ignition patch on the side of the box, and drew.

It had been a while since she’d smoked last.

“I will transfer your payment as soon as you arrive with our target in tow,” Rarity continued.

The cigarette tasted bitter. You gotta stop with this self-destructive bravado of yours, Lightning whispered in her ear. Sound and fury, et cetera.

Rainbow Dash cleared her throat through the fumes. “Rare, could I get checked out by one of your psychosurgeons, pronto? You can take the expenses out of my payment.”

“A psychosurgeon?” Rarity hesitated. “Well, yes, of course, but…”

“Appreciate it. So what do you want with Gizmo anyway?” asked Rainbow Dash.

“I wish to offer him a job.”

Rainbow heard a derisive snort over the line and could only assume it had been Pinkie’s.

She peered at the bloody face of the thestral beneath his singed forelocks. “I see. I’m bringing somebody else for you to have a look at too. If it’s not too much trouble on your end.”

Look at you. A rabid killer with delusions of sainthood.

She couldn’t tell if the voice in her head had been Gilda’s or Lightning’s or her own.

Nox Aeterna (Exeunt)

Applejack inspected each of the distribution boards in turn and sighed, closing her maintenance kit. Next to the toolbox, her discarded cellphone hummed quietly and Twilight’s face materialized on the screen.

“How’s progress, Applejack?”

The farmer spat out the screwdriver she’d been clenching in her teeth and nodded at the wrecked fuse cases behind her. They looked like they’d been melted through.

“Not good,” she said to the phone, letting it continue lying face to the ceiling. “Sorry to say the main circuit is completely FUBAR. Whoever was down here did a real thorough job.”

“So there’s nothing you can do?” asked Twilight in a tone bordering on accusing.

Applejack screwed her lips in the dark. The unicorn’s abrasive mannerisms were starting to grate.

“Nah, the auxiliary circuit seems salvageable, so I’ll try and reroute the power through there. Dunno what it does though, so I couldn’t tell you what that means for our incursion.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” said Twilight. The screen of the phone went black again, plunging most of the room back into darkness.

Applejack adjusted her spotlight tripod and turned to the case housing the auxiliary distribution board.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

The heavy ebony doors leading into the palace interior stood proudly obstructing entry. On each polished slab the detailed pony-carved designs were pristine, displaying stylized reliefs of assorted creatures kneeling prostrate before the piercing rays of the sun. A single serene eye was carved into the solar centerpiece. The Eye of Providence; a pre-equine symbol plagiarized and adapted from several unearthed anthroid relics.

Twilight chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

I guess the dominion of one of the largest nation-states in the world affords one the luxury of having questionable taste.

Standing there, she heard steps behind her. A unicorn stallion and an earth mare in business attire crossed the threshold beneath the roof of the veranda, shielding their heads from the hail with rolls of newsprint. The stallion wore several small piercings beneath his lip and over his right eye, and an eight-pointed solar emblem hung from his neck. The assorted bling didn’t complement his tie and waistcoat. An unlit clove cigarette hung loosely from his lips.

His companion was similarly at odds with her suit: the collar of her dress shirt was unbuttoned and flared, and decorative ink was printed across her forehead, sharp, angular letters made to resemble Cyrillic script spelling “BLESSED IGNORANCE”. The vertical line on the reversed R continued below the brow, through her left eye and over the gentle curve of her cheek, bringing to mind scars or exaggerated clown makeup.

They were both armed, the unicorn wearing a holstered Levitus bear-slug and the mare supporting twin SMG turrets around her midriff and corrosion grenades clipped into what looked like a homemade utility belt. Giselle brushed past Fluttershy and Angel to intercept the couple before they could reach Twilight.

“We gonna have a problem?” she asked them.

Her own piece was fastened to her breastplate with static strips, but at this distance she didn’t need it; if either of the strangers made any sudden moves, the gryphon would claw them apart well before they’d be able to prime their arms.

The printed mare squinted balefully at Giselle.

“Just like a typical ratbird, don’t know to mind her own fuckin’ business. We’re here to talk to your stick-up-the-ass boss.”

A grin crept across Giselle’s beak. Sharply contrasting Equestrian values, in gryphon cultures the baring of teeth is almost always intended as a threat. Perhaps the stallion was aware of this as he chuckled warmly and nudged his companion’s shoulder, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Excuse her please, the weather’s put her a little on edge; colder than a wendigo’s heart out here. My name is Baroque Belobog and this is my partner, Yaga.” He made an elaborate bow as Yaga rolled her eyes. “Mister Pants related to me that he would never forgive himself if any harm were to befall Miss Sparkle as a result of his inaction here. Yaga and myself volunteered to ameliorate Mister Pants’ conscience by accompanying you into the palace.”

Twilight idly consulted the Grapevine’s weather forecast; the hail would continue for the duration of the day and the next night, until the warmth of the next morning’s sun would convert it into rain.

“Yeah? Mister Pants said that, did he?” she asked. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand, Mister Belobog?”

“Of that I am quite certain.” The stallion winked, beaming at her around his cigarette. “And I would never fabricate or misrepresent the facts, Twilight. Can I call you Twilight?”

“No,” she told him icily. “Miss Sparkle will suffice. I guess I’m not really in any position to turn away help. But keep your distance.”

Three notes of Oscura’s eighth symphony escaped Twilight’s pocket before she withdrew her cell and hit the receiving switch. The screen blinked to life, broadcasting a close-up of Applejack’s mouth. Twilight had to stop herself from visibly recoiling from the phone in the presence of her new escorts.

“The auxiliary circuit is online,” said the mouth. “I’ll meet y’all in the foyer.”

“Right,” Twilight answered and, searching for something else to say, “T-thanks.”

The screen returned to neutral as the call ended. She slid the phone back into her pocket and nodded to the others.

“Well then. After you.”

There was little change to the palace interior since Twilight had last seen it, besides the gloom that permeated every corner and crevice of every room. The usually luminous chambers and halls were shrouded in pervasive darkness.

They reunited with Applejack in the lobby as agreed. Two curling rug-covered staircases climbed behind the secretary’s desk and merged with a marble catwalk that skirted the chamber and led into the second floor of the palace, home to the ballroom and the royal court. Beneath the stairs, a broad entrance hall led deeper into the building.

“So did that rewire really accomplish anything?” asked Twilight. “The whole place is still pitch-black.”

The fluorescent tubes inset in the walls ignited almost before she’d finished the sentence. Dim lines of light spilled from the narrow glass apertures, reaching several yards into the hall before fading back into black. The palace remained dark beyond.

“Is that it?” asked Thunderlane, brushing the grains of hail out of his mohican. “Alright, clip in your torches, gents.”

Applejack shot the stallion a sidewise glance and started wordlessly into the hall. As she walked, the tubes appeared to warm up, reaching their maximum brightness just as she passed them, light reflecting off of the polished coltan of her robotic hips, and dimming again behind her. After making some twenty paces, she turned back around to regard the rest of the group.

“Motion sensors in the walls toggle the lights,” she said with a smirk. “Not what you’d call optimal, but it’s energy-efficient and I don’t think we’ll be taken off-guard with these doodads lightin’ up any movement.”

Thunderlane returned the grin, shrugged. “Alright, fair. I think we’ll take the lead then, missy.”

Applejack fell behind with Fluttershy and Twilight as the four Carousel sec-ops and two Stalliongrad mafiosi scouted the passage ahead, squinting into the darkness of branching corridors and connecting rooms. Applejack managed to negotiate a spreadgun from one of the mobsters outside before entering the palace, while Fluttershy was armed with a fletcher crossbow. Assorted pouches of flechettes were slung across her back, beneath her pet hare. Angel was trained to keep his master supplied with clips whose payload was appropriate for the situation.

Only Twilight remained conspicuously unarmed. Her only prior experience with weapons had been a beam pistol, and neither the Carousel security force nor the Stalliongrad mafia had access to anything of the sort. Beam weapons were expressly forbidden in Equestria outside active warzones, without the possession of a specialty hunter’s license, which were notoriously difficult to obtain and almost impossible to forge thanks to their holographic serial fingerprint.

“Maybe we should split up?” ventured Flash Sentry. “We’d cover more ground.”

“That better be a joke,” Thunderlane said grimly. “We don’t even know what we’re up against, Sentry.”

This stretch of hallway appeared to be devoted to servants’ quarters. The rooms were comparably small and spartan, their entirety illuminated by the sparse light filtering in from the hall. In the hall proper, even here, the floor was covered in decadent crimson fuzz and the walls were adorned with portraits of past rulers and artist’s interpretations of famous events in Equestrian history. Twilight’s studied eye recognized the signing of the peace treaty between the Three Tribes, the coronation of Clover the Clever and the coming of the Celestial Diarchs.

Nostalgic recollections of the past, rendered by some deluded romantic, ringing hollow in the silent gloom.

The entire floor seemed to be utterly deserted. No bodies, nor any hint that there ever had been any residing here.

“Shouldn’t this place be swarming with posh inbred aristocrats?” Yaga asked loudly.

“Stay sharp,” said Thunderlane. “We know that a scouting team had already disappeared inside the building earlier today.”

“No kidding, inspector chucklefuck. It was mostly our guys that went in here. Don’t think we don’t know the score.”

Flash raised his eyebrows at Baroque.

“Your partner sure has a gift for making friends,” he said under his breath.

Baroque chewed on his unlit clove and shrugged, smiling faintly. “That’s one way to put it.”

As they neared the rear staircase, the lights they ignited finally fell on a discrepancy in their surroundings. A single suited stallion lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, his limbs a disturbing parody of equine joints, the flesh of his meatier components marked and torn by something resembling teeth.

“Sun preserve us,” Baroque whispered, touching the solar emblem around his neck. “That’s Koschei, isn’t it?”

Yaga rolled the stallion over, flinching at the terrified expression frozen on his face. “Yep. He was a tough motherfucker too. And whatever got him, he was running away. See the blood?”

Twilight got closer for verification and, sure enough, a trail of deeper red had seeped into the crimson of the rug covering the stairs. The stallion was already bleeding when he stumbled, rolling down the steep incline of the staircase, probably injuring himself too severely to continue running. His pursuer caught up and tore him apart while he was still alive and conscious.

The eyes of her escort felt hot on her back. She took a cylinder of quiesenathine out of her jacket pocket and dry-swallowed a tablet, still facing away from the others. Then she allowed herself an exasperated sigh, not entirely manufactured.

“Look, anyone want to back out, stop wasting my time and piss off. But I’ve got an obligation to the Princess and to my brother to keep going. Everyone else, we’re moving on to the second floor.”

Pinprick looked to the stretch of hallway behind them longingly, but Thunderlane stopped him dead with a warning grunt. Twilight ascended the staircase with the rest of the team trailing closely behind her.

A pair of ornate double-doors, (apparently a dime a dozen inside the Celestial Palace), swung open into the rear of a lavish ballroom. Most of the lighting was nonfunctional but the musical podium was a stunning ebony silhouette, suggestive even in the darkness. The reflective pipes of the organ gleamed in the auxiliary light and stretched towards the grand painted ceiling high above. The deserted atmosphere ran counter to the pristine condition of their surroundings; the wax on the tiles was fresh enough that one could almost see his reflection standing opposite below.

“Oh my, is this where the Royal Family hosts the Grand Galloping Gala?” asked Baroque, and she could almost see the sparkles in his eyes. “Please, Miss Sparkle, you have to enlighten us! Have you ever attended a Gala?”

“Not since I was ten,” Twilight answered disinterestedly. “Dresses, dancing and alcohol aren’t my idea of a good time. Neglecting to mention the vacuous gossip and circle-jerking between the blowhard politicians and the ‘inbred’ aristocracy, as your friend so elegantly put it.”

She tossed her head in the mobster’s direction. “Anyway, I’m not here to be your tour guide. Move it or lose it.”

The ceiling was supported by six marble wendigo gargoyles, grimacing down at them from their loadbearing columns overhead. Fluttershy kept her eyes trained on the statues as the party crossed the wide, exposed ballroom floor. The shadows cast by the borrowed light played on the wendigoes’ features, lending them an air of malevolence as if they were watching for an opportunity to descend into the trespassers’ midst and put their incursion to a violent end. The memory of Koschei’s mauled and shattered body played in her mind, and she couldn’t shake it loose.

A grand staircase climbed from the midsection of the ballroom onto the next floor, leading directly into the Hall of Indulgences. The staircase itself was tall but not overmuch, so as not to dilute the effect of a royal entrance. The distance was expertly measured; each time the Princess descended the marble steps, her audience would collectively cease their conversations and catch their breath. The crimson of the rug complemented the immaculate white of her coat, which put even the polished marble and ivory of the walls and floor to shame. The effect was that of a goddess drifting from the heavens to mingle with the groveling mortals below.

Twilight had always suspected that the palace architects had made the building interior ever-so-slightly off-white, so as not to overshadow the Celestial Princess. The memories of her time in the palace set her teeth on edge.

If Shining wasn’t around here somewhere…

She stopped. Then what? Would she knowingly allow the Nightmare to stage a coup?

At the summit of the grand staircase stood an imposing gate, equipped with a wrought iron portcullis. The portcullis itself had been raised by force, if the damaged electric winch next to the door was any indication. Giselle shouldered the gate open and they entered the hallowed Hall of Indulgences.

The Hall was intended as a superficial method of impressing foreign ambassadors on their way to the throne room. Breathtaking murals of Equestrian landscapes and romanticized modern interpretations of grim-faced past rulers covered the massive walls inspiring feelings of reverence and personal insignificance that were appropriate to prepare oneself for an audience with the esteemed sovereign-cum-matriarch.

Enormous stained glass windows towered over the hall, depicting individuals whose school-taught historical significance bordered on religious worship. The valiant Commander Hurricane. The hedonistic Duchess Platinum. The deranged Chancellor Puddinghead. Below them, Star Swirl the Bearded and his pupil, Clover the Clever, harbingers of the Post-Classical Era. As the Hall progressed, their surroundings became more difficult to define. The murals dissolved into impressionism, then abstract art. Fluid, nonobjective statues flanked the passage. Though they didn’t seem to represent anything in particular, Twilight found the statues to be vaguely erotic, slick couplings of polished bronze caught mid-coitus.

Another stallion was reclining against one of the statues, his head forced through an opening in the sculpture and twisted to the breaking point of the neck. His cooling body lay limp and bloodless in the unyielding embrace of the amorphous figure, looking as though it was being devoured by some newly surfaced amphibious lifeform.

Twilight swallowed, involuntarily checking the position of her own neck and throat.

“Triglav too,” muttered Yaga. “Shit.”

As they neared the ornate white gold door leading into the throne room proper, Twilight heard something mechanical stir in the corners of the Hall. Members of her escort raised their arms as one. The emergency lighting flickered on, exposing the source of the commotion.
Two identical, vaguely equine machines came shuddering to life, seated on stools to either side of the door and, using their jarringly unequine claws, began keying a pair of elaborately painted harpsichords.

The automatons were a sterile white, faceless and composed of overlapping plates made to resemble rippling musculature. Meanwhile, the instruments they played looked like refurbished antiques, the black and white of the keyboards inverted, overlooked by finely painted lids. The resulting duet sounded like a neoclassical rendition of the popular Equestrian military hymn Ode to the Sun (Light of Heaven Guide Us).

Thunderlane glanced over his shoulder at her anxiously. “What is this, some kind of security system?” he asked.

“No, nothing so practical,” said Twilight, lip twitching with distaste. “It’s the Two Heralds. Purely decorative. Leave it to the Celestial Princess to flaunt her wealth, even in the absence of a reliable power source.”

This wasn’t true in the strictest sense; The Heralds had foiled at least two intrusion attempts in the past, but not in and of themselves.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Few assassins are brazen enough to enter through the front door these days.

The throne chamber doubled as a panic room; its door was a gilded, jewel-encrusted affair, with a complex, gear-based locking mechanism that would put many high-end vault hatches to shame. The assembly had all the grace and subtlety of a thermonuclear suicide vest.

Giselle ran a claw over the fine engravings of the arch. “Is this some kind of expensive self-parody attempt?”

Twilight shrugged. It occurred to her that she barely even knew the Princess, despite all the years she’d spent in her tutelage. Maybe Her Ladyship was intentionally milking her crème de la crème public image. Twilight had certainly never been brave enough to broach the subject.

“Ready your guns. I think we’re approaching the endgame here.” With that, Twilight focused on the external bolts, pins and tumblers decorating the door. They didn’t offer any resistance as she manipulated them in the correct sequence with her horn, and each slid smoothly back into its sheath, unlocking the gilded lid leading into the chamber.

The gaudy door swung open, sparkling dully in the hallway glow and sending shards of broken light dancing across the darkened heart of the Celestial Palace.

The crimson carpet raced from the door into the center of the room, disappearing into the darkness. Another set of statues stood bordering the carpet in pairs, leading up to the dais supporting the throne. Twilight knew from memory that the statues were busts representing a grab bag of pre-industrial gods. Some were equine, some avian and some caprine, expressions ranging from studied indifference to grimacing rage, smug half-smiles and grief.

You didn’t need a degree in psychology to understand the symbolism.

Cast aside your primitive superstitions. The Celestial Princess and her confidants in the Royal Court are your new gods.

A matronly voice rang out against the darkness, sudden enough to make her flinch.

“And so another flock of licentious lambs wanders into the lion’s den…”

The emergency lighting around the throne finally kicked in, the motion sensors only barely registering the movement of the speaker’s lips.
The Nightmare sat reclining on the cushioned golden seat, a fetlock casually supporting her chin. Her head was covered by her iconic cobalt galea, her azure-bathed pupils contracting momentarily from the light, though the rest of her sunken, radiation-worn features remained motionless. She was clad in elaborate plate mail to match her headdress, save for her horn and wings, which remained mostly bare.

Twilight choked out a small giggle, with an edge of genuine hilarity. The lighting change was sudden enough that the whole encounter could have been taken for a scene out of some nostalgic holofilm melodrama.

“I don’t know how it was two hundred years ago, Luna,” she said, trying to regain her composure, “but in the present day lions and sheep are generally not found living in the same habitat.”

The Nightmare shifted in her seat, leaned forward to consider the party more closely.

“Twilight Sparkle,” she said finally, experimentally, as though she was unused to how the syllables were strung together. “Filled to overflowing with the hubris of youth. We meet for a second time.”

“Excuse me?” asked Twilight. “I don’t know you.”

“Does your memory betray you, lamb?” The Nightmare leaned back on the throne, tossing her star-pocked mane apathetically with her forehoof. “Regardless. Nothing you do here will serve any purpose. Much too late… The new moon will rise again, as it must; it is beyond the means of mortals to stay the sunset.”

“You wanna drop the theatrics and tell us what the fuck you’re doing here?” Yaga demanded.

The Nightmare remained silent, no indication that she even heard the question.

“What is your plan, exactly?” Twilight tried, stepping forward. The indentations between the floor tiles around the carpet lit up in pale yellow, casting the stained patterns of the tiling into elaborate silhouette. “You think that, assuming you somehow overcome Princess Celestia and her Royal Guard, you can just outlaw anthroid technology and bring back the good old days? You can’t kill progress, Luna.”

The Nightmare’s lips quirked up, and her smile felt as warm and reassuring as it would on the face of a Manehatten sewer gator. “Perhaps not,” she conceded, “but it is only a matter of time. Poverty, strife, immorality, these are the wages of your sin. Industries arise, built on slavery, prostitution, intoxicating substances and tools of war, to name but a few. Countless lives, lost at the flick of a switch. Others, sold, piecemeal, to the highest bidder. Wars, regimes established for natural resources. For profit.

“Society cannot exist at length under such conditions,” she said matter-of-factly. “Rioters will flood the streets, storm our halls; put their clerks and senators to the sword. The poor will devour the rich.”

“You really believe that societal discord and upheaval alone is going to be enough to set the world back two hundred years?” asked Twilight. “Care to make a wager on that?”

“Look upon my masterwork arrows, cried the fletcher, and quake, for I hold in my hooves the power to end this world,” Luna went on, unmoved. “But he did not foresee that other stallions, too, would discover the secret to crafting his mighty arrows. And so, when next the kingdom’s squires, knights and archers marched to war, the earth was charred black and ash eclipsed the sun.”

Something seemed to stir in the shadows surrounding the throne, something nebulous and suggestive. The busts framing the carpet took on a more sinister aura; trophies. Beheaded criminals and leaders of rival tribes, mounted on pikes standing before the throne of a cannibal chieftain. Shapes in the dark, trick of the eye.

“This façade of prosperity and intellectualism is doomed to crumble in time,” she concluded. “My followers and I aim only to destabilize it quickly, and with a minimum of collateral damage.”

“There’s something moving out there,” Fluttershy whispered.

Applejack tapped Twilight urgently on the shoulder. “Maybe we should—”

“You know what, you’re right, pre-industrial life was so much better,” said Twilight, rolling her eyes. “I would much rather starve or die of smallpox or be crucified and stoned for my religious skepticism.

“You know why you think things were better during the dark ages?”

“Please enlighten me,” said Luna, deadpan.

“You were a pampered diarch whose chief duties were to gorge yourself at the tax payer’s expense and pretend to move the moon across the sky for the ignorant masses,” Twilight said heatedly. “Once the peasants got any means to improve their miserable lives, however small, you just couldn’t let it lie, could you?”

But Luna wasn’t rising to the bait this time.

“You are more recalcitrant than I would expect from my sister’s protégé.” She smiled again but more gently. “Though perhaps… that is precisely the reason.”

“Save your amateur psychoanalysis for someone who gives half a shit.” Abruptly Twilight understood that continuing the exchange just wasn’t worth the effort. “Where’s my brother, Luna?”

The Nightmare’s eyes lost focus, as though she was staring through Twilight, through the palace walls and somewhere far beyond.

“The flock, lost to the folly of the old ones. Stallion, mare and foal under the influence of evil, ancient beyond imagining. I am among the stars, unable to intervene, passively watching as my body and the world below wither away.”

Twilight held down a shudder. More than a century’s worth of isolation on the moon. It’s no joke.

She took another step forward. “Where is my—?”

The floor in front of her shattered in an ultraviolet flash. She yelped, shielding her eyes from the tile fragments as they buffeted her.

When she felt it safe enough to sneak another look, the distance in the Nightmare’s eyes was gone, replaced by barely suppressed fury. Her long, slender horn glowed a menacing azure.

“Tread softly, lamb. Draw any closer and I will eviscerate you where you stand.”

Behind her, Twilight heard the dry clicking of firearms being primed.

“That’s pretty impressive,” said Thunderlane. “Can you stop bullets with that horn of yours too?”

As before, Luna refused to acknowledge outside commentary.

“Your brother, you say,” she said, visibly composing herself. “Perhaps you are referring to the foolhardy white unicorn that blundered in here sometime prior. He too walked with a cohort of armed commoners. They were, quite appropriately, decimated. Before we could rout the interlopers in their entirety, however, the unicorn and two others barricaded themselves in the wine cellar.”

She inclined her head dismissively.

“His wards are… competent. But alas, even these won’t hold us back indefinitely. And so, I present you with a choice, Twilight Sparkle. Or rather, an ultimatum. Reveal to me the location of my treacherous elder sister, and you and your kin may leave the palace grounds unharmed.”

Twilight ran a forehoof over the side of her face; her cheek was bleeding in several places. She found herself disproportionately preoccupied with the likelihood of the cuts becoming infected.

“She’s not here then, is she?” Almost casual, but the crack in Twilight’s voice belied her calm veneer. “What do I look like, her secretary?”

“So you are not privy to her whereabouts,” said Luna. “That is most unfortunate. Though mayhap I can still turn this situation to my advantage.”

Something in the Nightmare’s tone made Twilight’s heart sink.

“If I take you as my prisoner, I may be able to coerce her into granting me an audience. Won’t you agree, my little lamb?”

“You’d have to go through us first!” yelled Flash Sentry.

“Right.” Giselle stripped her pistol from its static holster and pulled the slide back to check the chambered round. “Think you can polish off all eight of us by yourself? With the lights on?”

The Nightmare’s lips peeled from her teeth in an unpleasant smirk as she regarded the others for the first time. “You seem to be under the impression that I am here alone.” The darkness behind the throne started swimming again. Twilight’s blood ran cold. “Allow me to address that… misconception.”

Shadows spread from the throne, unaffected by the emergency lighting. As Twilight and her companions watched transfixed, the dark shapes started to inflate into the third dimension and dress in thin blue-white fog. Then, as the light danced over their features, Twilight saw them for what they were.

Equine. Their ears were pointed, reminiscent of bats, and their leathery, ethereal wings compounded the effect. Nevertheless, their facial structure was distinctly pony-like, though in some cases worn to the bone. Those that still wore the scarred skin and muscle on their skulls contorted their faces in pain or anger.

As the mob swelled and rippled, ghastly will-’o-the-wisp lanterns ignited above, and beaten, gore-spattered war hounds began to circle restlessly below, snarling and spraying spittle over the gleaming tilework.

“Wild Hunt,” Fluttershy whispered. Twilight barely heard her over the barking of the phantom dogs.

“Martyrs of my Separatist Lunar Guard,” Luna explained. “Two hundred years ago they fell trying to repel their brothers among Celestia’s royal army. Even now, even in death, they are loyal only to me. Surrender yourselves and prostrate, lest you all be torn—”

A burst of gunshots echoed around the dome of the throne chamber.

Giselle’s pistol spat out three hollow-points, two passing through some of the apparitions and temporarily distorting their forms, while the third pierced the Nightmare’s outmoded breastplate and buried its cracked shrapnel inside her ribcage.

The phantoms surged forward, screaming and snapping. Before them, the stands supporting the deific busts toppled and the marble heads cracked on the tiled floors. The decorative candelabra standing on the outer edges of the chamber were thrown backwards against the walls casting their extinguished candles every which way. The massive chandelier hanging overhead took to swaying ominously, the pendulum of a giant’s grandfather clock.

And over the pandemonium, they heard the Nightmare’s outraged howl.

“Then perish and smolder in the pits of Tartarus, you insolent churls!”

Twilight felt Thunderlane pushing her backwards with the length of his wing.

“Scatter!” shouted the stallion.

The company broke apart. As she raced for the exit, Twilight caught quick unfocused glimpses of Baroque and Yaga taking off toward the royal bedchambers. From the corner of her eye she saw Giselle, still firing into the murky depths of the mob in a futile display of defiance.
Sprinting beneath her bullets, leaving smoking paw prints in their wake, the phantom war hounds sprung at the gryphon and bit into one of her wings as she instinctively raised it to defend herself. There was a shrill scream and a flash of sanguine as their incisors drew blood. Twilight forced herself to tear her eyes away and remain focused on her escape.

Ahead of her, Flash Sentry stumbled over a fragment from one of the busts and went flying head over heels. Thunderlane stopped somewhere behind her as she left them in the dust.

“You’ve got wings son, use them! I’ll buy you and Sparkle some time!”

She wanted to shout over her shoulder as she ran, but she knew that she had to conserve her wind.

Buy us time? You’re not even going to slow them down, you moron!

Flash Sentry closed the distance. Twilight felt him grabbing her roughly around the midriff as he barreled past, his wings flapping madly. Her mind drew inappropriate comparisons to hummingbirds.

They shot through the throne room door like a bullet, and landed sprawled before the Heralds next to Applejack, Fluttershy and Angel who seemed to have gotten an earlier start.

“Close… the door!” Twilight yelled between pants.

Forget combat training, you need to take up cardio.

Applejack and Fluttershy shouldered the massive gilded vault door, slamming it shut. Twilight noticed that her mane felt looser than usual. Somewhere in the chaos she’d lost the band keeping her ponytail in place. She attempted to brush the wild tufts of hair out of her eyes without much success.

“What in the Sam Hill just happened back there?” asked Applejack. “Did anybody else make it out?”

“Pinprick and Thunderlane are both gone, I’m pretty sure,” said Flash Sentry somberly.

“The gryphon too,” said Twilight. “Uh. What was her name again? Gazelle?”

“I should deck you for that crack, Sparkle.”

The voice sounded like it was coming from the corners of the ceiling. Its rasping undertones were familiar.

“Is that you, Giselle?” asked Flash Sentry. “Are you okay?”
A choking snicker sounded through the Hall of Indulgences. Twilight couldn’t determine whether the strained quality of the sound was a product of the cheap speakers or the speaker herself.

“Peachy, thanks for asking. Thunderlane managed to pull me out of the mob before he got mauled. I crawled into what looks like a tech closet, there’s a shitty little intercom in here.” She coughed into the mic, nearly blowing out the woofers. “My wing is seriously fucked. I’d bleed out, but I think they’re gonna get me before I get the chance.”

“There's no lock on the door?” asked Applejack.

“Oh there’s a lock,” said Giselle. “But the door itself isn’t what you’d call vacuum-sealed. The mist is starting to seep through the cracks. Hanging over the floor like a byproduct of one of those vintage smoke machines you see the fossils use at concerts from fifty years ago.” She paused, lost in the metaphor. “I figure as soon as it gets thick enough to reconstitute into something, I’ll be properly boned.”

“We lucked out then,” said Flash Sentry. “As far as doors go, this one seems to be pretty airtight.”

“Uh, g-guys…” Fluttershy pointed. “I think this was a bad place to stop.”

A fine blue-white fog was escaping into the Hall of Indulgences through the gold-plated vent grates high overhead. It drifted gently to the floor, pooling into puddles that had already begun stirring unnaturally, building on themselves.

“Well? You’re the book-learned egghead!” Applejack told Twilight. “Ain’t there any way to fight these things?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never heard of anything like this before!” Twilight took a step backwards. “Maybe if we could get the fans working…”

“Does keepin’ the air from getting stale sound like a productive use of diminished voltage to you? The ventilation system isn’t wired into the emergency circuit!” shouted Applejack.

“This is a Wild Hunt,” Fluttershy said quietly. “It’s a congregation of spirits animated and united by a common purpose. I think I could arrange to have them dispersed, but the process might take a minute or two, and I’d need someone to protect me in the meantime…”

“Vengeful spirits?” Twilight asked. “What do you take me for?”

“I don’t think this is the time for skepticism, Miss Sparkle,” said Flash Sentry.

“The Nightmare said that your brother blocked himself off from them, didn’t she?” Applejack nudged Twilight. “Can you do that?”

Twilight fidgeted sheepishly in place.

“Well, honestly, Shining was always much better at magical barriers than me…”

The first of the clouds had fully reconstructed itself into a skeletal thestral, its bleached skull grinning at them as it drew closer. Behind it, two more Lunar Guards and a hound had also started drifting forward, though not yet whole.

“Doggone it Twi, can you do anything besides talk shit?!”

The thestral specter darted forward, an ethereal staff lance materializing in its teeth moments before impact.
With a deafening clap, the weapon glanced off a partially transparent lavender sphere that encased the four corporeal ponies standing opposite the specter.

Applejack chuckled, the relief forcing itself from her throat. “Alright. That’s more like it.”

Eyes firmly shut and augmented horn glowing to match the color of the shield, Twilight exhaled.

“Refrain from talking and control your breathing,” she said calmly. A faint sheen of perspiration was forming on her brow. “Bubble’s sealed and airtight. We have something like five minutes of breathable oxygen. Fluttershy, whatever it is that you have to do, do it quick.”

Fluttershy nodded, and Angel skipped obligingly from her back onto the floor. As Applejack and Flash Sentry watched her uneasily, she sat on her haunches and eased her eyes closed.

The Celestial Palace disintegrated around her piece by piece as Fluttershy entered the Duchy of Crossroads. The building’s foundations were still in place, but parts of the ceiling were missing and the paintings—those that still hung—were torn and sun-bleached. Debris littered the tiled floor and the rug was scuffed and discolored.

She caught pony-shaped distortions in the air around her, the afterimages left by the restless spirits of the Lunar Guard. She understood with the certainty of dream logic that they couldn’t harm her here.

She trotted towards one of the windows—stained glass long gone—and stared at the stationary red sun hanging in the blue-gray sky.

“Shusteht.” The name fell from her lips with a curious lack of urgency. Half a minute of silence passed. She remembered that the spirit had little consideration for visitors. She might wait there until Luna’s Guard broke through Twilight’s barrier and get no answer, though admittedly she wasn’t sure if time passed in the Duchy at the same rate as in the corporeal world.

Finally the Duke of Dust’s voice echoed through the palace.

“Again you visit my domain, traveler who yet lives. What would you ask of me on this occasion?”

“I thought you said you would spare no memory for me and my ilk,” said Fluttershy.

There was another pause. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could almost feel an atmosphere of resentment suspended in the silence.
“Perhaps you misunderstand me, Child. I have no patience nor inclination to indulge in idle conversation. State thy request.”

Then she knew she hadn’t imagined it, despite the fact that the spirit’s synthetic tone and volume remained level. The Duke of Dust only took to using the archaic ‘thou’ and ‘thine’ when he was annoyed.

“My…” her tongue caught in her teeth on the word friends, “…companions and I are being accosted by the spirits of Luna’s Guard. The mob has all the characteristics of a Wild Hunt. Would you be able to put these wrathful spirits to rest, Shusteht?”

“I would,” the Duke said slowly, “but I am not in the business of bestowing gifts without compensation. As always, I demand payment for services rendered.”

Fluttershy swallowed. She’d suspected it would come to this. “What do you want in return?”

Around her, a faint breeze picked up through the ruined palace halls. In the window, she saw the celestial banners dance over the spires of Canterlot.

“It’s a fetching façade you’ve constructed for yourself, concern for others, for those that have led you to this unenviable position. In spite of this, there are few things in your life that you’ve come to truly value.”

Fluttershy tossed her mane over one eye and lowered her gaze to the floor. She couldn’t see the spirit, couldn’t be sure there was anything to see, but she sought refuge from its voice, which abruptly seemed to turn accusing.

“My offer is as follows; surrender the life of your arctic hare to me, and thy will shall be done.”

Her head jerked back up reflexively, and she found herself glaring at nothing in particular. “I refuse.”

“Oh? Intriguing. Are you perchance aware that in the past your lot, the awakened, the shamans, would breed and raise their familiars specifically as bargaining chips for their dealings with their patron spirits?”

Her breath turned shallow. “That’s… barbaric.”

“Is this truly what you believe, Child of the Sun? The strong benefit from the sacrifices of the weak. Is this not the way of things?”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “Angel’s life is off the table.”

The banners fell too suddenly to be a result of natural currents. The air inside the palace corridors likewise turned deathly still.

“Certainly,” said the Duke. “Then we will have to discuss alternate payment options.”

Fluttershy smiled, relieved. “Please.”

The air inside Twilight’s protective bubble was becoming thin as the phantoms continued to batter its exterior. Applejack took greedy gulps, but her shortness of breath would not go away. Her vision was steadily dimming. Next to her, Twilight had already collapsed, struggling to stay conscious enough to maintain the barrier. Flash Sentry had fallen to his knees as he frantically checked the safety on his leg-mount. The situation brought to mind the training sessions prior to her expedition to the distant Artemis II.

Angel started to chatter excitedly. Applejack turned in time to see Fluttershy’s eyelids part. An unearthly scream of undiluted agony erupted from her sickly lungs, honed to a razor edge by the microphone built into her mask.

Twilight’s barrier cracked and shattered as the unicorn lost her concentration, clutching her ears, cursing to herself. As Fluttershy fell into a fetal position, screaming, clawing at her face, an immense, almost physical shockwave burst from her writhing form.

Applejack caught herself on a railing and remained standing, vaguely nauseous, but the phantoms flew apart and dissipated into mist as the wave expanded.

She watched the clouds for some seconds to make sure. This time, they remained static.

Twilight crawled over to the sobbing pegasus.

“Hey, hey. Are you… okay?”

Fluttershy took her trembling hooves off of her eyes and Twilight recoiled with a gasp. Her irises had been bleached a milky white, and her pupils had misted over. Twilight raised a hesitant foreleg and waved it in front of Fluttershy’s face. Her eyes remained motionless.

“She’s gone blind,” Twilight said numbly.

Fluttershy’s cheeks were streaked with tears and her chest heaved. “The Duke of Dust gave me his assistance… And in return I gave him my eyes.”

Twilight looked away. Her lungs felt heavy with a vague feeling of guilt. “Holy shit.”

“Buck up now,” said Applejack. “She’s given us a straight shot at the Nightmare. Best not let the chance go to waste.”

Twilight looked back at the gilded vault door. “I guess you’re right. Though someone should stay behind to keep an eye on her.”

Fluttershy shivered. Applejack exchanged a glance with Flash Sentry. The stallion sighed.

“Roger. I’ll extract her from the building. You two better come back alive though, you hear?”

Applejack clapped the stallion on the shoulder. “There’s a good sport,” she said with a smile. “Come on, Twi. Let’s finish this.”

Fluttershy stood back up shakily and Angel reclaimed his perch on her back. “Good luck.”

When they reentered the throne room, the ghostly members of the Lunar Guard were gone, reduced to stardust. The bodies of Thunderlane and Pinprick were still present however, laying several yards from the entrance, stripped nearly to the bone. Twilight wondered if they would have made it out had Applejack and Fluttershy not sealed the door quite as quickly.

Luna stood facing away next to the throne, and although the rest of the chamber was clouded in fog, a globe of clear space surrounded her standing figure.

As the sun peaked out from behind the clouds of hail outside, the dim stained glass surrounding the throne turned momentarily brilliant. Elaborate hypotrochoid patterns resembling the sun and moon over the spherical earth above. Below stood Star Swirl the Bearded, levitating aloft his elder oak staff, the legendary Rethalvius Tome held close in the clasp of his left foreleg. His aging face regarded the throne chamber gravely as the young Clover the Clever stood just beneath, eyes cast upwards at his mentor, as though invoking him for guidance.

“Whither did they vanish?” Luna pondered aloud.

“Gone into the ether,” said Twilight. “I laid your undead slaves to their long overdue rest.”

Luna turned, seemingly only just noticing her. “Indeed? I find that rather difficult to believe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Luna raised her eyebrows beneath the curve of her headdress. There was something wrong, something deranged in the depths of her eyes, shark fins slicing menacingly through pools of azure.

“It means,” she said emphatically, mocking Twilight’s offended tone, “you and your kind are weak as mewling newborn babes. Grown fat and complacent in the two centennials that I’ve been away. Just look at yourselves; bloated, ignorant livestock, ripe for the slaughter.

“Look at you, lamb,” She started walking forward, descending the dais. The clouds that remained of the bygone souls stirred in her wake. “Look at that farcical tin cone grafted to your head.”

Suddenly she was right in front of them, leaning in close enough that Twilight could smell her sour breath. “You cannot even muster a rudimentary teleportation spell, can you?”

“That’s enough yowlering out of you.” Applejack chambered a shell into her spreadgun and fired.

The fragments bit into Luna’s breastplate point-blank, shredding the armor and the flesh beneath.

The alicorn grunted. With an azure flash, Applejack was tossed backwards over the waxy tiles. Twilight’s nostrils stung as the smell of burning leather filled the air. The chest of Applejack’s duster had been reduced to a charred crater. The farmer propped herself against the far wall of the chamber, moaning, drawing breath through clenched teeth.

“Two centuries on the moon, poisoned night and day,” the Nightmare bellowed bitterly. “You believe you will lay me low here, armed with naught but gunpowder and pellets of hot lead?”

An ultraviolet blade materialized around the length of her horn. She tossed her head, winding up. Twilight could almost feel the hairs of her tail get sheared as she tumbled to the side, trying to avoid the downward cleave. As Luna wound up for a horizontal swipe, Twilight lifted a marble stand that had been supporting one of the busts, and cleanly stopped the blade before it could reach her exposed neck.
She felt a warmth of gratification in her belly as a crack spider-webbed across the face of the Nightmare’s blade like a drunk driver’s windshield.

“Didn’t get the memo, Luna?” she asked derisively. “Materialization is for bitches.”

The Nightmare clicked her tongue. Her blade flashed momentarily as she adjusted the spell, mending the cracks. Then a set of serrated teeth spouted on its edge.

Oh shit.

The marble screamed as the Nightmare’s weapon sawed through it nigh effortlessly. Twilight stumbled back, barely clearing the sharpened tip. Before she could regain her equilibrium, the Nightmare opened her mouth and let out a ghastly, banshee-like screech that physically knocked her backwards.

She landed ass-first, feeling emasculated and disoriented. The Lunar Ex-princess’ wail seemed to have irritated her inner ear, leaving her off-balance and defenseless.

“You are not deserving of the horn that you bear,” the Nightmare spat as she unhurriedly approached. “Perhaps I should hew it clean from your wretched skull.”

Twilight sat up, somehow finding the strength to crack a tired smile. The threat should have terrified her. Magic was among her only talents, after all, the subject of her brand. Without it, her life would become meaningless. In spite of this, the only emotion she could muster was sardonic resignation.

“Be my guest,” she grunted. “You don’t even see it, do you? You thrive off of suffering, just like her. Talk about the leprechaun calling a dragon greedy.”

As Luna drew closer, Twilight saw Applejack rise unsteadily to her feet and inch forward.

And then—

A metallic thunk as a silver stake slammed into the Nightmare’s shoulder guard and dug into her side. Twilight turned her head towards the source and the sudden motion made her sick to her stomach. With some effort, she kept her gaze steady.

Baroque stood at the summit of the staircase leading to the bedchambers, excitedly jamming another oversized round into his levitating firearm. The bear-slug rifle was designed specifically for hunting big game. Bears, buffalo, rhinoceroses, there are even accounts of elephants succumbing to a single well-placed shot. The recoil is monstrous, so the gun comes in only two flavors: spinal mount and Levitus.

Before the mobster could finish reloading his arm, the Nightmare fired a single precise beam from her horn. Baroque lost his telekinetic grip on the weapon and toppled awkwardly down the stairs, clutching his smoking foreleg.

The Nightmare’s breath came in ragged bursts as she started toward the fallen stallion. When she crossed the halfway point, Yaga rolled from her cover behind the staircase and peppered the approaching alicorn and the room at large with unfocused suppressive fire.

Shredder rounds, the small-arms equivalent of artillery shrapnel shells. Built to burst into dozens of smaller projectiles mid-flight for maximum surface coverage.

This time, Luna was prepared. Her horn projected a thaumaturgical wall, stopping the disintegrating bullets as the twin SMGs barked. Yaga shuffled backwards, but it wasn’t enough. The Nightmare darted forward, impaling Yaga against the wall with her horn, not even bothering to conjure another sword.

The sanguine of the mare’s blood dripped over the deep navy of Luna’s horn. Somewhere else, Baroque Belobog was shouting Yaga’s name.

“Do you understand now,” Luna rasped, “how utterly insignificant you are?”

Something small, oblong and metallic fell from Yaga’s grasp and landed between Luna’s forelegs.

Yaga grinned. There was a safety pin lodged between her teeth.

“Choke on it, you mouthy aristo cunt,” she seethed.

Luna hardly had any time to react before the corrosion grenade detonated. Acid-based explosives are generally not known for their explosive yield. A powerful explosion isn’t necessary to achieve significant damage and is actually counter-productive; if the detonation is too hot, most of the chemical payload will evaporate, effectively becoming redundant.

Her barriers would have been more than sufficient to suppress the explosion, but her lack of experience with pocket explosives ensured that she was caught flat-footed when the device went off.

Luna found herself sprawled on the broken tiling, ears ringing, and a searing pain along half her face and most of her body. Her wings had burned to uselessness, her legs were aching badly enough that she feared they wouldn’t hold her upright.

Twilight stood up, but stumbled and fell. The disorienting effects of the Nightmare’s shriek were starting to subside, but she was still not stable enough to comfortably walk. With this in mind, she slowly crawled towards Luna’s prone body.

When she reached the acid-burned, barely-conscious ex-diarch, Twilight lifted the partially-melted galea from Luna’s head, wrapped her forelegs around her neck and bit into her slender, blood-stained horn.

“Loathsome sow,” the Nightmare managed, shuddering. “Release me at once…”

I don’t think so. You could use a lesson in humility yourself, Luna.

Horns are the only known piece of equine anatomy that remains completely magic-proof. In the past, a number of warlords and chieftains independently attempted to craft anti-magical armor using severed unicorn horns, but these attempts were ubiquitously doomed to failure; the ivory of the unicorn horn quickly flakes apart and crumbles once separated from its host.

Twilight clenched her teeth and pulled.

Time to take you down a peg or two. Or ten.

Luna struggled upright under Twilight’s weight. “What, what are you doing?” She tried in vain to shake Twilight loose. “Remove your filthy personage…”

The temperature of the bloodstained horn started to rise. As Twilight wrestled to shatter it, the shaft started to smoke, glowing red; the Nightmare’s last-ditch effort to uncouple Twilight’s teeth from her person. Doggedly she clung to the horn, even as it turned white hot, even as the corners of her mouth were agonizingly charred.

There was a minute crunch as something inside the curling ivory started to give.

“No!” Luna renewed her struggle, flailing desperately, the scalding surface of her horn brushing against Twilight’s cheek. Finally, she threw herself towards the edge of the chamber at random, trying to dislodge Twilight by bludgeoning her against the wall. Twilight braced herself for impact.

When the impact came, it wasn’t with stone.

All she heard was a high-pitched ringing as the surface gave beneath their combined weight. Sharp-edged spots of color danced in her vision. At first, she thought she was seeing stars as a result of the trauma; then as they shifted into focus and started to drift gently past, she understood that they were shards of stained glass.

The Canterlot cityscape beyond, buildings reminiscent of teeth in the gargantuan maw of some prodigious horror. The bitter cold, punctuated by stinging hail.

They were falling, the two of them. Twilight understood in a vague way that she had drawn the short straw. When they finally hit the pavement below, she’d be the one to absorb the impact, sandwiched between the unforgiving blacktop and the merciless alicorn. It was unlikely that she’d survive.

You cannot even muster a rudimentary teleportation spell, can you?

She blinked as the memory stirred in her skull. As they approached terminal velocity, she released Luna’s horn and watched the alicorn’s body start drifting away.

Fuck it. What have I got to lose at this point?

The mythril base around her augmented horn glowed a brilliant lavender. She was familiar with teleportation theory, but only in passing. She closed her eyes, clearing her mind of distractions. It was easy to let go: succeed and live, or fail and die. She visualized the ground far below, imagined it steady beneath her hooves. There was a spark.

Abruptly, she was standing under the freezing hail. Her knees, unready to support her weight, gave out and she collapsed. As she opened her eyes once more, she saw Luna land ungracefully several yards away with a dull thump.

She flexed her lips and winced. The corners of her mouth were burning almost unbearably.

“Hubris of youth, huh,” she said to the hail. “How did you expect to defeat Celestia and her Royal Guard if you can’t even handle a bunch of nobodies like us?”

The alicorn stirred on the blacktop, looking like nothing so much as miserable half-dead roadkill.

“I didn’t,” she gasped.

Twilight raised a quizzical eyebrow. Above them, a flying limousine parted from the currents of air traffic and began to descend nonchalantly.

“I expected to die,” Luna continued. “As long as I could deliver my message, I would be satisfied.”

“Message?” Twilight repeated.

The limousine touched down, expelling clouds of steam into the chilly evening air. The door of the vehicle’s passenger compartment hinged open and a slightly-built brunette unicorn mare wearing horn-rimmed corrective lenses stepped out into the hail. She was dressed in a simple off-white suit and an unobtrusive anti-precipitation collar, which projected an invisible static umbrella over the mare, keeping her dry. Unlike the business outfit Rarity had been wearing when Twilight met her, this one was plain and conservative, no frills, no jewelry. A pair of unexpressive Royal Guards clad in anti-ballistic mesh exited the front half of the vehicle and took up positions flanking the mare.

Twilight wrestled her body upright. “Great,” she said morosely. “Which one are you?”

The bespectacled mare smiled thinly. “One.”

Twilight sniffed. “Nothing but the best for the occasion, eh? I’m sure we feel all the more special for the gesture.”

Raven One’s eyes lost focus as she consulted the readouts on her holographic horn-rims. “It would appear that you have preserved the Equestrian quality of life. Canterlot and its people owe you a great debt, Twilight Sparkle. Thanks to you, our glorious nation retains the joy and prosperity that—”

Twilight waved a forehoof impatiently. “Spare me the script, One. Get to the point.”

Raven One stopped and bit her lip. The lines of text on her horn-rims advanced as she scrolled through the rest of the monologue. “Her Ladyship requests a vis-à-vis, to congratulate you in person,” she concluded and stepped back from the limousine, beckoning. “Please have a seat.”

Twilight gestured in Luna’s direction. “What about her?”

Raven One nodded to her royal escort. “The Guard will take over from here. Her Ladyship will address Madam Luna at another time.”

The alicorn shivered. Her lips were twisted in a sneer. “You think you’ve won,” she said. “Your victory here means nothing, lamb. Even as we speak, the Children of the Night continue my work. Even now, a spear of the new world races towards the sun and once it strikes, the folly of this age will be undone.”

Twilight stiffened. “What did you say?”

Raven One leafed through the files stored in her lenses, face devoid of expression. “Ah yes, you must be referring to the launch of the CME Enticer warhead. Regrettably, that has been indefinitely postponed. The rocket and the silo housing it have both been forcibly decommissioned as of approximately… forty-two minutes ago.”

Luna laid in silence for some seconds. Behind the chemical scarring, her face suddenly looked lost and listless. Twilight almost felt sorry for her.

“Decommissioned?” she rasped, blinking the tears from her eyes.

Raven One nodded. “I’m afraid so. Via surgical killsat strike. Everything inside a two mile radius surrounding the facility had been precisely and thoroughly incinerated. You have my sincerest condolences.”

As the two Royal Guards lifted the alicorn bodily from the pavement and carried her away, the handmaiden turned to Twilight and nodded towards the limousine. “Shall we?”

“Hold it. There are still wounded in the palace. Maybe you’d better stick around here and arrange for medivac.”

“Miss Sparkle, I apologize, in all sincerity, but that isn’t my department.”

Twilight glared.

Later, she’d recall the scene and wonder what she must have looked like to the handmaiden, cheek scarred and bloody, hair wild, a dark line of burned skin bisecting the corners of her lips, eyes one step away from murderous.

Raven One broke eye contact and cleared her throat delicately. “I understand. I’ll stay behind and direct the trauma team, yes?”

Twilight nodded wordlessly, stepped into the vehicle and eased herself into the velvet cushions. The engine purred and the chauffeur commenced the lift sequence. Twilight drew the silky mauve curtain over the window, plunging the passenger compartment into darkness. She didn’t want to see the handmaiden watching the car from below. All she wanted now was some time to herself.
The city swam past unseen as Twilight leaned back against the headrest, eyes shut and her slumber dreamless.

Author's Note

This isn't the end, but you can see it from here.

A Dinner Date with the Matriarch (Epilogue)

Congratulations, Twilight Sparkle.

When the limousine came to a stop nudging her awake, she found it docked on an enormous luxury airship. The spires of Canterlot reached for the vessel beseechingly hundreds of meters below. She recognized it as a Germanian model; Hoofenburg or Vanner Zeppelin.
A simple, unlit sign hung over the entrance into the antechamber, reading Cloud Nine in metallic cursive. The sign was probably the single most tastefully subdued piece of visual design Twilight had seen in the past hour and a half. As far as she could remember, Cloud Nine was the name of a hyper-exclusive six-star restaurant frequented only by the most privileged circles of Canterlot’s oversaturated social elite.

Whenever Cloud Nine was mentioned on the Grapevine feeds, it was either as the meeting place of high-profile international reps or as the culprit to another air-to-air detonation of some hapless unauthorized vehicle that had unwittingly strayed into its local airspace. The vessel was a repurposed military aircraft carrier, armed with radar and automated beam weaponry, similar to that mounted on Equestrian killsat orbitals, albeit at a lower intensity.

Twilight felt displaced for a moment, with her disheveled mane and battle-scarred features. She pushed the thought away, forced defiant scorn into its place. She disembarked from the limousine, refusing to wait for the chauffeur to hold her door for her, and strode purposefully towards the polished oak entrance.

The words again, as she crossed the vestibule and threw the banquet hall doors open.

"Congratulations, Twilight Sparkle... my most faithful student."

The esteemed matriarch of Equestria, Princess Celestia, sat at the head of a lengthy refectory table, surrounded by six elaborately attired mares and stallions Twilight recognized as members of the Royal Court. The youngest among the group seemed to be Prince Blueblood, who was well into his early forties.

Twilight noted with mild irritation that another one of the Ravens, looking identical to the one she’d left behind, her lack of an anti-precipitation collar notwithstanding, stood motionless by Celestia’s left shoulder.

A partially-dissected boiled lobster laid among lemon slices, a selection of golden-brown roasted potatoes and assorted greenery on Her Ladyship’s platter, complemented by a stemmed glass filled with red wine. The sight of the crustacean twisted knots in Twilight’s guts; the Princess was likely the only pureblood equine she knew who could tolerate large servings of meat without suffering crippling digestive problems.

She gestured at the empty seat seemingly a kilometer of ceramic and silverware away, opposite her. Twilight clenched her jaw and forced herself into the plush context-mold cushion of the chair.

“We’ve been awaiting your arrival,” Her Ladyship said superfluously. “Steward, please. Fetch a bottle of a venerable vintage for our honored guest’s enjoyment, if you would. 1898, I think; the year of choice for the discerning taster.”

The waistcoat-clad stallion standing across from Celestia’s handmaiden gave a shallow, formal bow and started towards what was presumably the kitchen.

Twilight cleared her throat loudly, overturned her wine glass and set it to rest on its rim. “Actually, I’d prefer a cup of stinging nettle tea. Two sugars and a hint of tangerine.” She paused for maximum effect. “If you would.”

A deathly hush fell over the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Twilight saw Baroness Euchre frozen, a laden fork halfway to her gaping mouth. The servant had similarly stopped in his tracks, scarcely daring to turn even partially back toward her.

Princess Celestia furrowed her perfect brow and cocked her head, as though examining an abstract painting at a different angle, searching for meaning. Then an amused smile crept across her cheeks. “Well?” she asked pointedly, eyes breaking away from Twilight and coming to rest on the servant’s back. “I thought she expressed herself quite clearly.”

The waistcoat left the room at what was just short of a full gallop.

“Are you enjoying your dinner?” Twilight asked. “Not too pricey, I hope. After all, you’d already paid in advance with the lives of several of my partners.”

If the side conversations among the Court had been winding down before, by now they had all completely halted. The group gathered around the table were watching her expectantly, sneaking glances back at the Princess at irregular intervals.

Princess Celestia dug into the lobster’s rigid tail with her pick, carving out the remaining scraps. “Now, now, Twilight. Don’t be so melodramatic. As Equestria’s premiere political figurehead, what would you have me do?”

“I would have you deal with your petty sibling rivalry on your own, like a responsible adult,” said Twilight.

Her rebuttal was too heated and too fast. Princess Celestia chewed thoughtfully on the tip of her pick for some seconds, completely unconcerned. The fact that Her Ladyship was controlling the pace of the exchange so easily only served to fan the flames of anger licking at Twilight’s chest.

“Like I did two hundred years ago, you mean?” Celestia asked finally. “Surely you can see that was only a short-term solution. Luna needed to be taught a lesson, and I could not have been the one to administer it.”

She took a measured sip of her wine.

“As long as I continued to mete out punishment personally, Luna could continue acting under the illusion that if she were only to best me, the rest of her misguided vision for the world would come to fruition.” Celestia shook her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “No, Princess Luna had to be debilitated by proxy. Only then would she view the rest of the Equestrian people as a genuine threat.”

“You should hear how smug you sound right now,” said Twilight. “As if this is the outcome you’d predetermined from the start. It wasn’t the cakewalk you think it was, Highness. The Nightmare came to a hair’s breadth of winning, and if she had, she’d be on her way here right now, aching to wipe that self-assured smirk clean off your face.”

Twilight scanned the hall as she talked. There was not a single visible member of the Royal Guard anywhere in the chamber. In spite of this, the ponies dining at the table remained completely at ease. Twilight could only assume that Celestia was competent enough to be at least a match for her sister, though she never witnessed Her Ladyship partake in anything as uncouth as physical combat personally.

Regardless, her magic probably wouldn’t have done her any good against the Wild Hunt.

The steward returned, levitating a cup on a saucer, a modestly-sized sugar bowl, a single peeled tangerine, a small teapot smelling of nettle leaves and a still-boiling, silver-plated samovar embossed with floral designs. Twilight forced herself to appear unimpressed by his telekinetic dexterity. He began painstakingly combining the ingredients in front of Twilight as the Princess spoke.

“I have to contest that point. Nightmare Moon’s defeat was guaranteed from the moment that you entered the palace grounds.”

Twilight took a shallow sip of her stinging nettle tea. The brew was bitter, with an acidic edge and a sweet undertone to alleviate the lingual shock. She nodded her thanks to the steward, and unfolded the hardcover e-booklet of menu items he offered.

She was starting to catch on to her mentor’s technique. Rushing in with outraged accusations only painted herself as hysterical, unreasonable. Her only hope of coming out on top in this verbal scrimmage was to be patient and try to outplay the Princess at her own game.

“Yeah? How do you figure?” she asked at last.

“I’ve made arrangements.” Princess Celestia jabbed her fork in Twilight’s direction. “You’ve always been a historically-minded sort, haven’t you, Twilight? Do you recall how unicorns that misused their talents were punished during Luna’s reign?”

Twilight pointed at an entrée on the menu almost at random, fried tofu with sticky rice in soy sauce and a side of boiled vegetables. The selection lit up, displaying a list of ingredients and nutrition facts.

“Wasn’t that…” she started hesitantly as the steward bowed and disappeared into the shadows.

You are not deserving of the horn you bear. Perhaps I should hew it clean from your wretched skull.

“…dehorning?” She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory.

“Correct. And if you’d failed, this would be your fate.” Princess Celestia stopped manipulating her cutlery for a moment, her fork and pick hovering motionlessly before her. Even at this distance, Twilight could see herself reflected in the silverware. “But then, your horn isn’t exactly standard fare, is it?”

“You…” Twilight’s mouth had gone dry. She took another swig of tea before continuing. “Are you telling me…?”

“That magical amplifier cost a small fortune, you know,” said the Princess. “Cookie Crumbles of Carousel Industries had her engineers customize it to my specifications. On one hoof, it was a risky investment, but on the other, it doubled as an insurance policy. If Nightmare Moon severed that horn she would, how should I put it, cease being an immediate concern.”

“And so would I,” Twilight said numbly. “Right?”

“Maybe so.” The Princess took a bite out of her potatoes and dabbed at her lips daintily with a napkin. “I hope you don’t take this personally Twilight, but if you ever lost your magic you would no longer be an asset.”

She expected the words to sting, but they didn’t; they only served as proof of her suspicions. The bomb grafted to her upper forehead almost seemed like a peripheral concern by comparison. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a lid on her indignation. “That’s all that matters to you, is it? Ponies, companies and nations, just assets and liabilities, investments and reimbursements. Don’t you think that’s a little sociopathic?”

“Twilight,” the Princess said tenderly. “I am well over seven hundred years your senior. Long after you are gone, long after your grandchildren are gone, I will still be here. If you’ll excuse another financial euphemism, becoming attached… simply doesn’t pay.”

“Then maybe everlasting alicorns like you and your sister shouldn’t be allowed to hold positions of power,” Twilight spat. “You don’t care about us; all you care for are the fucking statistics.”

The words barely escaped her mouth before High Minister Love Lost clapped his forehooves on the table. “That’s treason!” he blustered, outraged. “Stay that impudent lip, lest you wilt in prison for the rest of your days!”

“It’s alright,” Her Ladyship said evenly. “Her concerns are valid. Besides, we encourage open forum here in Equestria, don’t we?” She resumed working on the lobster, appearing fully immersed in the task. “This isn’t a dictatorship.”

“But milady!” Love Lost interjected. “Such brazen disrespect shouldn’t be—”

Princess Celestia clenched the nutcracker over the lobster’s claw and the hard shell collapsed with a resounding snap.

The rest of the Minister’s spiel died in his throat. He swallowed and averted his gaze.

“Now then, Twilight.” Celestia turned her attention back to her student. “Would you deny that, with my guidance, the past half-millennium has been the most prosperous period in our nation’s not inconsiderable history?

“Would you have us go back to the days of mortal kings, their subjects at the mercy of an imperfect monarch for the duration of the better part of a century before the next one took over?

“Or perhaps you’d advocate for the fully democratic system? The ignorant holding as much power as the informed, the individuals at conflict with one another as they simultaneously try to steer the government and its people in multiple directions?”

Twilight had to consciously stop herself from lurching to her feet. “Holy shit, that’s some rhetoric you’ve got going for you. Have you been workshopping your straw man regimes while you were waiting for me to get here?”

“My point,” Celestia inserted coolly, “is that you shouldn’t let the trivialities you’ve endured skew your view of what is intrinsically an optimal governing body.”

“Trivialities? You played me and the others like a fiddle from the start, didn’t you? Did any of us ever have any initiative of our own?”

Celestia gave an exaggerated shrug. The gesture seemed oddly grounded, equine. Manufactured, Twilight decided silently.

“Of course you did, Twilight. This particular scenario was never set in stone. There are far too many variables, too many unknowns even with my extensive communications network. Ergo, this desired outcome will always have been a result of canny improvisation as much as of concrete planning.

“There were other pieces,” she continued, after a pause for another bite from her plate. “Other units moving in tandem, some of whom you are likely not familiar with. As yourself, they were never particularly unique or out-of-the-ordinary, not what you’d call prophetic heroes by any stretch. Most of them were never even my first choice. What you witnessed here today was the result of countless decades of trial and error, and I can’t even honestly say that it’s gone off without a hitch.

“The soldier, Rainbow Dash, was intended to return to Equestria as a respected veteran, not a war criminal. I had to bail her out all but personally to have her shipped back before Bridleon was reduced to a radioactive crater. Pinkamena Pie wasn’t my original choice of decker either, no, that was a stallion whose name is no longer relevant. However after he, rather selfishly, chose to liquidate himself, I was forced to seek out a suitable alternative. Applejack and Fluttershy weren’t even on the map until my informants identified them as desirable resources, hardly a proverbial moment before the final scene of the play was set in motion.

“You may think that the events leading up to our conversation here were expertly engineered,” Celestia said smiling, “but in truth, everything was always very slapdash, difficult to predict. However, where I could not, my dedicated team of chronomancers could fill in the blanks for me. After that, all it took was a gentle push here, some pressure applied there and the rest fell into place.

“Rarity was the only one among you that followed my desires to the letter, and unsurprisingly so; she was always the one with the most to lose. I could manipulate her via more conventional means.”

“Threats, extortion and blackmail,” Twilight hazarded.

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Princess Celestia conceded. “There may be some prejudice today regarding the phrase ‘for the greater good’, but I feel that it is applicable here.”

The steward emerged from the back room once more, carrying a covered platter with Twilight’s order. As he lifted the lid from the dish, Twilight’s mouth began to water in spite of herself. It felt like she hadn’t eaten in several days.

“Either way, everything is for the better now that you’ve endured your ordeal, agreed?” Princess Celestia cast her gaze at the members of the Court seated around the table for confirmation. “And with considerably less collateral damage than I expected, a pleasant surprise. A few busts, carpet stains and tiling, some bullet holes, one stained glass window…

“It was an expensive window, mind you,” she said offhand, interrupting herself. “Sixteenth-century, cut straight out of the Solarium Church of Veniceon. Regardless, I think Star Swirl and Clover the Clever are sufficiently well-represented throughout the Celestial Palace, no? Perhaps it’s time for someone more… contemporary to be immortalized in the throne chamber.”

Twilight glared at the Princess over her untouched food. “Not interested.”

“Come now, Twilight,” Celestia tutted. “Perhaps you don’t fully grasp the enormity of this occasion. You and your fellow compatriots are heroes. History was made in Canterlot and in New Ponyville this evening. Come sunrise tomorrow, your exploits will have been—”

“I never asked to be a celebrity,” said Twilight. “You put me on your window and maybe I’ll find another alicorn to suplex through it.”

Her last few syllables were drowned out by a sudden fit of violent coughing coming from Countess Lace Curtains’ direction.

Princess Celestia sighed. “Chew your food, Curtain, dear; this is unseemly, especially so for one of your station. Please excuse her, Twilight. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch what you said just then. Care to repeat that?”

Twilight surveyed the table silently. Mares and stallions that existed solely as an extension of the matriarch’s will, exercising demands on their subjects far below, both literally and figuratively. So far removed from the world around them that they were essentially as out-of-touch as they were untouchable.

At the head of the table, the highest authority in Equestria, unbound by the constraints of time or capital; sacrificing lives towards ends that were so negligible that they might well go on unnoticed. And unlike the rest of the Royal Court, the Princess was all-too-aware of the world’s imperfections, and all-too-eager to use them to her advantage.

Suddenly spending another moment in their company, let alone long enough to finish her meal seemed like an extremely unattractive prospect.

She stood up.

“I’m done with this. Go find yourself a new protégé.”

“Twilight.” The immediacy of Celestia’s response almost seemed to imply that she expected this. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

Twilight grit her teeth. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

She turned away from the table. Another two of the identically-dressed Ravens had materialized in front of the door while she was seated, obstructing her exit. She tried to push past them, but they were as steadfast as a wall.

“Get the fuck out of my—”

Her lungs locked up as the two horn-rimmed mares started to transform. Posts emerged from their legs, stabilizing them and exposing their innards as completely mechanical. Claws emerged from their forehooves, reminiscent of those employed by the Two Heralds outside of Celestia’s throne room. Each of their bodies split, exposing the chest cavity, a mass of wiring and adamantium mesh grafted hideously through and around what looked like an almost biological nervous system. An assembly of several firearms and low-bore beam casters were nestled closely inside the confines, probably enough to disable a spider tank.

Twilight felt nauseous, but it took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t as a result of the handmaidens’ metamorphosis. A single glowing component with working pistons was embedded into the neck of each Raven. Twilight immediately recognized it as a thaumaturgical vacuum, a still-experimental technology that drained unicorn magic and converted it into usable energy. She would venture a guess that the handmaidens could not be harmed or otherwise affected by anything she could muster, even with the magical amplifier.

It wouldn’t surprise her if they were equipped with anti-ballistic field generators as well. There was little wonder that Her Ladyship was so unbothered by potential assassination attempts.

Above the mechanical horror constituting their bodies, each Raven’s head remained stationary, though their eyes turned lifeless. Their vision had likely defaulted to some nondescript photoreceptor somewhere inside their artificial ribcage, closer to their ordnance, so as to better judge trajectory.

“You have not been formally dismissed by Her Ladyship,” the two machines intoned in unison.

Twilight’s lungs started to work again, hyperventilating as the adrenaline shot through her body.

“She is free to go.”

Twilight craned her neck back at the Princess; completely unfazed, the unmodified Raven still standing motionlessly at her side.

“Against my better judgement, Twilight Sparkle has my permission to leave,” she reiterated.

The machines shuddered. “Acknowledged. Reverting from conflict management mode.”

As the two handmaidens returned to their unassuming equine appearance, Princess Celestia spared Twilight one last smile.

“Then I bid you farewell for now. Though I’m sure we’ll be meeting again in due time.”

As Twilight exited to the top deck of Cloud Nine, all she could feel was a faint chill running along her spine. It was getting dark.
She jumped as a quiet jingle sounded through the air, and it took her several seconds to recognize that her cellphone was ringing. She levitated it out of her pocket, like a child finding a wrapped nugget of melted chocolate she had completely forgotten about.

Shining Armor’s face appeared on the screen, radiating almost comical concern. “Twily, what’s going on, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last…” he trailed off. “Are you alright, sis? Applejack says the last time she saw you, you were falling through one of the throne room windows. There weren’t any bodies on the street below, what the Tartarus happened there?”

She looked across the landing pad to where the chauffeur was standing next to the parked limousine.

“I’m fine,” she said uncertainly. “Listen, I’ll… I’ll tell you all about it later. Is Applejack still with you? There’s a carrier on one of the lots outside the palace district, pilot named Snake Eyes. Applejack will show you the way and I’ll meet you there. Anybody else make it out of the palace?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Shining hesitated. “There’s a grunt in Carousel sec-op gear and that pink-haired mare we met in Ponyville, Fluttershy? They’re idling by the gate. There was a gryphon and another stallion too, but they looked in pretty bad shape and the trauma team took them away. The rest are in body bags.”

“Yeah, Sentry and Fluttershy should be coming too. Remind them if they aren’t. I’ll see you in maybe thirty.”

She cut the call and pocketed the phone again. After her aggravating exchange with the Princess, being in the amicable company of absolutely anyone else would be a relief. She started toward the limousine.

The hail-spewing clouds above had started to dissipate, exposing a brilliant silver crescent. She took respite in its silent light as the vehicle started to rise once more, bound for her reunion with the others.

Author's Note

This concludes season one of Cigarettes & Gunmetal. I hope you enjoyed the ride, folks, 'cos I sure did. I haven't decided whether there will be a season two yet. Might be in my best interest to move on to other things, but who knows. For the time being, I'm stamping this particular story with the 'Complete' tag.

Thanks kindly for reading!

Introduction, Table of Contents and Miscellanea

[…] Discoveries have been made in the subterranean caves and tunnels of the diamond dogs. The artifacts recovered within altered the course of world history forever, though we’ve yet to see if it’s for the better or worse this way.

Over the last two centuries ponykind and their countless kindred sapient species bore witness to what is unquestionably the most radical technological and societal revolution recorded in the short 50 million years that we’ve inhabited the face of this earth. Our once-primitive villages and fiefs have evolved into sprawling cityscapes populated by millions of individuals apiece. Naturally, this population boom brought with it a number of problems including—but not limited to—rising instances of mental disorders due to perceived depersonalization and interpersonal disaffection, increased crime rates, popularization of anti-authoritarianism and other undesirable movements, rampant materialism, et cetera. […]

Our joining of minds resulted in an era of enlightenment and the inception of the scientific method. Technological progress was and is made at an unprecedented pace, accelerating exponentially with each year. Religious and, to a lesser extent, magical study has been cast aside in favor of advancement in the seemingly more pragmatic fields of the technical and the manifest. The Immortal Solar Monarch Celestia, once hailed as a godlike paragon to move the sun itself, is relegated to a more grounded position as an executive in the Equestrian government. Church attendance plummets with every passing generation. […]

Presently, we find ourselves in a dangerous position. The establishment of the vast digital network known as the Expanse and its social aspect, Grapevine and its affiliates, have made it possible to converse and trade ideas with people anywhere on the planet in a matter of nanoseconds. The potential for innovation is astonishing, as is the potential for abuse. The law and those who enforce it, as they currently stand, cannot hope to keep up with the inevitable fallout. […]

The theory of an impending event known as the singularity, (wherein technological advance accelerates to the point where our future is no longer possible to predict), has been scrutinized at length and ruled unlikely by popular scientific opinion, but this does not dissemble the fact that a major restructuring is in order if our society is to continue to function. Failure to do so will result in catastrophic consequences and, in the worst-case scenario, a global devolution into complete anarchy.

—Tall Order, chief administrator of the Manehatten Archives,
April 2001

Episode 1: Brain Cancer District
Characters featured: Twilight Sparkle, Shining Armor
Additional tags: [Mystery]
Craving change, Twilight takes a break from the tedium of being Princess Celestia’s star apprentice and injects herself into an ongoing murder investigation with her brother’s help. The head of the local mafia family has been slain under mysterious circumstances; a vigilante stalks the streets of Canterlot. Can the inexperienced unicorn shed some light on this case, and more importantly, should she?
Inspirations include the novels Altered Carbon and Thirteen (AKA Black Man).

Episode 2: On the Subject of Hedonism
Characters featured: Pinkie Pie, Rarity
The freelance hacker Pinkamena Pie (online personality ‘Eu4ia’ to her clients) is in debt to the drug-dealing zebra living in the Everfree. Running out of time, Pinkie takes part in a dangerous corporate raid on the headquarters of Carousel Industries to retrieve an unconventional AI prototype. The CEO of the company, Rarity, juggles company recruitment, familial problems with her estranged sister and dealing with the thieving hooligans.
Inspirations include the novel Neuromancer and the tabletop RPG Shadowrun.

Episode 3: All is Fair
Characters featured: Rainbow Dash, Lightning Dust
Additional tags: [War]
An artificially-grown genetic variant, Rainbow Dash, is in charge of a newly-assembled squad deployed to the Saddle Arabian border city of Bridleon. The Gryphon Commonwealth has mobilized to invade the territory for a yet-unknown purpose and unless something changes soon, Equestria and Saddle Arabia are posed to lose the city to overwhelming numbers. Rainbow and her second-in-command, Lightning Dust, set off on a daring mission to find and destroy their foes’ command post and destabilize their assault efforts.
Inspirations include the novel Broken Angels and the video game Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots.

Episode 4: First Contact Dermatitis
Characters featured: Applejack, Maud Pie
Additional tags: [Space Horror]
The results of the annual Equestrian Space Program Lottery are in. Applejack is to accompany the expedition to the newly-discovered planet Artemis II as an agricultural assistant to aid the terraforming efforts. After the tragic failure on Artemis I, suspicion surrounds the AI installed on the colony barges. Paranoia among the crew members runs rampant. Mysterious sightings are reported inside the subterranean sections of the newly-established planetary outpost. Is the fear of this alien world the root of the team’s hysteria? Or is it merely a symptom of something else?
Inspirations include the films 2001: A Space Odyssey, Aliens, and The Thing.

Episode 5: Beggars and Choosers
Characters featured: Fluttershy, Angel
A string of killings on the outskirts of Ponyville, ostensibly committed by a rogue manticore that’s developed a taste for equine flesh. City management and an independent lumber company have placed a significant bounty on the creature’s head. A sickly, hemophiliac shaman by the name of Fluttershy is in hot pursuit, assisted only by her trusty fletcher crossbow, an ill-tempered arctic hare, and the spirits of the slain. The rampage of the formerly nocturnal beast is an ill omen, portending the return of the Lunar Tyrant of legend. But the city, in all its opulence and unfounded self-indulgence, is ignorant of the coming darkness, one that won’t be tamed with streetlamps and neon signs.
Inspirations include the historical Beast of Gévaudan.

Episode 6: Nox Aeterna
Characters featured: Twilight Sparkle, Pinkie Pie, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, Applejack, Fluttershy
Additional tags: [Double Feature!]
Rejoice and kneel, for the mistress of the night, Princess Luna, has returned after two hundred years’ imprisonment inside her confined lunar oubliette. Believing that the exploitation of anthroid relics will lead to the self-destruction of equine society, Princess Luna (or Nightmare Moon, natch) will stop at nothing to overturn the technocracy that governs the modern world and bring about a second Dark Age. Six unrelated individuals inside the Ponyville Residential District appear to be uniquely suited to foil the efforts of the royal lunatic—if her vast magical superiority and reserves of shadowy revolutionaries don’t silence them for good.
Inspirations include the novel Mona Lisa Overdrive, the video game Deus Ex: Human Revolution and the forced deindustrialization of Cambodia during the 1970s.

Epilogue: A Dinner Date with the Matriarch
Characters featured: Twilight Sparkle, Princess Celestia
Additional tags: [Season Finale]
In the aftermath of Princess Luna's flamboyant return to Equestria, Twilight finally scores the opportunity for a brief chat with her life-long mentor.

Author's Note

So, I'd only got it in my fat head to put in an introduction after the first four submissions to the story were already done.

Ha ha.
Whoops!

I'll just go ahead and surgically insert the newly-composed introduction before the first chapter. It's the perfect crime. There's absolutely no way anyone will ever notice.

Disclaimer:
A portion of the fictional terms and occasionally entire setting/character concepts in this story are plagiarized wholesale from existing (published) works. I'll list these in a more detailed post-script later on.