Naked Lunch

Chapters

The Jungle

The Jungle

The general rule when dealing with a griffon who had been thrust into a completely new situation was to give them about a week.

Griffon society ran on a generally subtle and occasionally invisible chain of dominance. Every citizen of the Republic stood ready to display their superior status to those they held social prestation over while preparing to moderately kowtow at any moment should someone appear who mandated that level of respect. Very few of the gestures were ostentatious in nature, excepting those from the most lording or fawning (with several of the former demanding their full due): most of the time, small nods and subtle knee bends sufficed. The chain was forever twisting: some griffons ascended in power and knocked others down in the process. But unless there was a deliberate challenge or the individual was in their typically tumultuous pubescent years, every griffon knew exactly which link they were personally occupying at all times, and so their country ran as smoothly as it ever did -- with the perpetual exception of the way they often tended to rankle every other sentient species in the world.

But take a griffon out of that chain, and the invisible web would come crashing down around them. The emotional shockwave of not knowing their place would hit fast and hard. The griffon would be left reeling. Where did they rank? Who was in charge? There was nothing left supporting their entire worldview, no foundation to land on when the perpetual flight of ascend and descent abruptly crash-landed -- but fortunately (at least for the griffon), there was an easy way to rebuild the links. All they had to do was challenge absolutely everything around them, and through doing so, the rest would sort itself out!

And so a griffon, in the first week of being in a completely new situation, would try to see what could be gotten away with. They would typically turn aggressive, although the actual manifestation of the dominance attempts varied. Many became openly insulting. A few launched into full-scale prank wars: others were forever on the verge of starting fights. They were rude and inconsiderate and pushy and completely horrible sapients to be around because the griffon needed to find out who would stop them -- and those individuals would be the dominators. Anyone who couldn't was eventually designated as inferior.

Seven days, generally, and the griffon would understand their new place. Friendships might begin to bloom. Subtle nods and knee bends would start to appear. A mere week -- a very hard week for anypony unlucky enough to be in that general area, but still just a week -- and the chain would be rebuilt, with the griffon happily perched on the appropriate link, a well-adjusted and -- if the fuming from the locals ever stopped -- welcome arrival in Equestria.

You had to give them a week.

Crossing generally got about fifteen minutes.

It had been a long day. The Immigration Department didn't see a lot of traffic, at least not when it came to fresh applicants seeking entry into Equestria -- and that even held true for the Canterlot division, which processed the largest number of new arrivals for the settled zone which had the highest population of non-pony residents. (Just under two percent, and that only if you counted the embassies.) But until the moment such non-ambassador residents either departed or became full citizens of Equestria, the ID was responsible for them -- and none more so than Crossing Guard, who effectively stood watch at the final gate. He reviewed all the paperwork. His desk held The Stamp. Ultimately, the decision on whether to allow someone their chance was his. It was a tremendous responsibility and, when those new arrivals almost inevitably found a way to clash with those they didn't completely understand (or, just as frequently, when ponies refused to comprehend why everyone else didn't act like everypony else), an even larger migraine.

On this sadly-typical winter day, the griffon patiently (an odd patience, especially in one this new) waiting on the other side of the desk had been the lone applicant to reach him. But -- there had been an argument between a buffalo and an earth pony about property borders and if griffons had to know exactly where they stood, a buffalo was forever trying to establish exactly who owned the land being stood on. A minotaur, only two weeks into her residency, had greeted a new business contact with the typical friendly slap on the back: the startled pegasus had flown a quarter-gallop before circling back to file assault charges. A solitary teenage male kudu, the only one in the entire city, who had no one around to practice locking horns with and test himself, had tried to substitute... and it had taken an hour to get him untangled from the wrought iron fence. Crossing had spent most of the day rushing, teleporting, and occasionally fuming his way all over the city, and that wasn't even counting the two jaunts through the between which ended outside it.

There were only fifteen minutes left in his workday, or at least what was supposed to be his standard hours, which only overlapped with his actual labors for one day in ten. His only chance of getting home to soak his hooves, wearily insist that there was no need for his spouse to groom his coat even as she lovingly worked at the stress tangles, and watch his children scrimmage with their friends at hoofball in the snow-covered yard was to leave on time. To remain in the office for even a minute beyond the required was begging the next disaster to find a way of happening within exactly sixty seconds, and it was always up to the challenge.

Crossing dearly wanted to go home. But the griffon across the desk desired a new one, and the job came first.

But... maybe he could get through it before the clock ran out. All of the paperwork was actually in order this time, if as lacking in extensive detail as pretty much anything a griffon ever filled out. No criminal charges to discuss: not an automatic barrier to entry, but a clean slate was always a plus -- well, mostly clean: Crossing's weary eyes noted the public nuisance charges and sent a memo to his brain, where it was promptly filed alongside every other such note, because every single griffon who had ever entered Equestria had a full sheet of public nuisance charges. It was called 'puberty'.

And this griffon was oddly... polite. Perhaps he'd already worked out that in the local dominance chain, Crossing occupied the link immediately above his and would until the day the final papers were passed across by another. Or it could be that given all the hassles and inconveniences of the job, he'd been sitting in the waiting room for a full week.

"Is everything quite all right, Mr. Guard?" Gerald Gristle deferentially asked.

Other than the fact that you're not arguing with me? Maybe he just hadn't spotted Gerald's particular form of dominance ploy yet. He might have been a compulsive tidier: Crossing had once returned to his office and found a waiting griffon in the middle of resorting his filing cabinets into something more efficient. But the locks looked undisturbed...

"Surprisingly so," Crossing said, and had to repress a yawn in the middle of it. He was middle-aged, almost exactly at the center of a pony lifespan, and the stresses of the job hit him a little harder these days. The dark blue of his coat was often damp with the sweat of frustration, and the fur of the red octagon on his flank tended to tangle before everything else. "I just need to review a few things with you." Starting with the most surprising detail on the sheet. "Now -- you wrote down that you intend to pursue full Equestrian citizenship?"

Gerald nodded. "I'm leaving the Republic," he agreed as his knees slightly bent. With the tone of reciting hard-memorized words, "I understand that it's a five-year process, and that I'll have to attend classes. I was given a full schedule, and I'll attend my first one in three days. It'll be the night shift, of course..."

Crossing had to suppress the frown. Canterlot had griffon residents, yes -- but they were generally resident aliens. Near-permanent settlers who might never return to their birth aeries, but would still identify with the homeland forever. For a griffon to give that up... well, there was no criminal record, which typically left...

"Was there an overturn?" Every so often, a local part of the dominance chain would switch order so quickly as to send a few links flying dozens of gallops away.

Gerald shook his head.

And then Crossing managed a tiny smile, a real one and incidentally, his very first of the day. "Is it -- a pony?" He could count every current griffon-pony marriage in Equestria on his hooves, but the next would mean bringing in his horn...

Gerald's eyes widened, and the eagle head pulled back. "N -- no!"

Which was the typical reaction to the question. "It's just that... most griffons want to maintain their original citizenship, so when someone asks to become Equestrian --"

"-- I want to stay," Gerald quietly offered. "This is -- a commitment. If I say I want to become a citizen here, it means I'm going to stay here. The Republic... I want to start my own business, Mr. Guard, and there, I have too much competition. Too many other griffons wanting to do the exact same thing and controlling that field. I even tried to do something different, and -- when that didn't work, I came here. I'm a businessgriffon, and Canterlot has a need for the services I provide. I'm committing to Equestria in every way possible, and that includes my loyalty -- in five years, when the Princess lets me swear it in front of her."

Crossing's blue eyes glanced up from the paperwork, regarded the face on the other side of the desk. Looked past feathers and beak, read an expression it had originally taken moons to learn. Pure sincerity.

The Princess. Most griffons say 'your'. He's serious...

He was tired. It was a little chill in the office: the building's insulation was hardly perfect (and home was warm, so very warm). The paperwork seemed to be in order, even if a few of the answers had that seemingly mandatory practiced griffon vagueness which generally showed up in all the worst diplomatic overtures. All he had to do was ask his review questions, queries he could practically hear the answers to before any were ever spoken, and he could go home.

"All right, Mr. Gristle... these are just review questions. I realize you've already written your answers down, but I'm required to ask and confirm." The griffon amicably nodded. "Do you know anyone or anypony in Canterlot?"

"No."

Not always a negative factor. "Do you have a place you can stay?"

"Yes. I have a hotel room, and -- the Aviary has an opening coming up in five days. I already signed on for it."

Crossing nodded at the reference to Canterlot's near-microscopic griffon neighborhood. (Less than one square block, and generally the upper levels of it.) "Do you have a job lined up?"

"Yes... but it won't start for two weeks. I came to open my own business, Mr. Guard. I already leased the space, but it'll take some time to set everything up and make sure all my paperwork is in order." Proudly, "I'm very careful about paperwork."

Except when it came to filling the stuff out in detail, but that was such a universal failing... "You have money to cover yourself for the duration, though." Another nod. "All right. Have you ever committed any criminal acts which are not displayed on your record?" Perhaps one in two hundred was stupid enough to fall for that kind of question, and that figure included ponies.

The "No," which came back was a slightly timid one. A very unusual griffon... but one who was almost there.

Crossing's field exerted, interacted with the lock on the lowest cabinet. The drawer opened, and the bright red energy lifted and lowered, searching until it finally surrounded a tiny plain crimson pamphlet with a textless cover, which Crossing floated across to the griffon, who curiously took it in his beak before lowering it to the desk. "What's this... sir?"

"The Red List," Crossing tiredly explained -- then realized Gerald might not have heard the term yet. "You're going to need food. I'm sure you've already found or been told about a few places you can go, but that's the complete list. There's also a map of the city, and suggested routes for getting in and out without --"

And for the first time, the griffon who was on the verge of becoming Equestria's newest citizen-in-waiting smiled. "That won't be a problem, Mr. Guard."

"Mr. Gristle, I know you're new to Equestria. In the Republic, it's not a problem. In Equestria, it is. You can't just find a place on every corner --"

"-- I'm in food supply, Mr. Guard!" the griffon laughed. "What kind of businessgriffon would I be if I couldn't pull a little aside for myself?"

And then it all made sense to Crossing's rest-deprived mind. The calm demeanor. The deference. The griffon was clearly a cook -- and not a head chef. He didn't play the typical dominance game because he had spent his entire adult life being screamed at and so had forever placed himself on the last dangling link, with everyone and everypony his superior -- and so it would remain until the day he opened his own place and experienced the glorious liberation of yelling at somepony else. And as for not being able to open a business in the Republic... well, they were famed for their eateries, although nopony would ever be able to personally experience the full reasons why. Canterlot wasn't exactly flooded with such establishments: in fact, Crossing could think of exactly one. Most griffons cooked for themselves and kept the windows tightly shut. A little competition wouldn't hurt...

"And you're aware of that paperwork?" Crossing carefully asked.

"All of it," Gerald Gristle smiled. "Two weeks, Mr. Guard. Just to get the permits, pass inspection, and have everything set up."

And Crossing Guard, who truly felt everything was in order, asked a few more questions, all of which confirmed what was written down, none eliminating any degree of chance. He recorded a few of the responses, making notations on the proper forms. And in the end, his head tilted to the right, his teeth clenched around the grip of The Stamp, and the tiny echo of the impact bouncing around the little office signaled the start of the five-year countdown to the day when Gerald Gristle would be personally introduced to the Princess and bend his knees in honor to the thrones he would swear to serve.

The happy griffon flew out, feathers glistening with the promise of a bright future. The unicorn went home to be with his family, teleporting out thirty-two seconds before the report of yet another unauthorized dig being conducted by the city's one, only, and perpetually-verging-on-very-temporary Diamond Dog resident came in, leaving the oft-repeated 'No' to the Lunar shift.

Crossing soaked his hooves, looked upon his wife and children with love and, as with all those he passed through, once the work shift had ended, never spared them a moment of thought unless some claim of trouble managed to get through his front door. It was Crossing's job to be there as liaison between Equestria and its non-pony residents when things went wrong, and so quiet was the best gift he could ever ask for.

He tried not to think about the job once he reached home, because doing so seemed the best way to turn a place of sanctuary into one of siege. He didn't contemplate Gerald Gristle or the griffon's plans, because no trouble surfaced at all, not even the conventional minor-or-worse disputes of a griffon in that first rough week. He glanced at the papers which said the new arrival had attended his first citizenship classes, he noted the silence on all other fronts, and he was happy for it.

And for the next two weeks, he never bothered to think about the fact that at no point within paperwork or interview had the griffon ever said exactly what his specific job in food supply was...

[/hr]

Riskette was frowning, which was the way every single one of her entrances opened. Riskette always frowned. The office had a running bet, one which said that if the young yellow earth pony ever smiled, her lower jaw would fall off, and nopony was ever going to collect because the idea would never be tested.

"Are you ready for the dawnbreaks?"

"No," Crossing sighed. He sometimes left things for the Lunars, and so the favor was more than occasionally returned. He'd gotten to the office early as a just-in-case, beating out the morning rush. Most of the ID did, especially since fresh disasters tended to be early risers. "So give them to me anyway."

"Yapper --"

" -- Celestia's horn, another hole?" Riskette nodded. "I know the Princess said to give her a chance, but either she buys her own land and digs beneath that or she'll be getting close to the end of her tether. I know the police are getting fed up with her, not to mention all those ponies who feel their property rights go into the soil. And if she ever decides to burrow under a buffalo..."

"She can't afford to purchase," Riskette grimly said. "She's renting. Her landlord won't let her dig under the apartment building, even though she offered to pay double -- and it was hard enough finding a place which would take her to begin with. And living above ground... I can see the stress getting to her, more every time she comes in, even after factoring out how cold she keeps saying she is and how it's so much warmer in a tunnel. She's better with spending days above the surface than any Diamond Dog I've ever seen, Crossing -- but it's still stressful, and if she can't sleep in the dirt, relax and renew herself... Let's get to the core of it: she's thinking about leaving." A little more hastily, "Not completely. She wants to try digging out a one-dog warren just outside the settled zone limits, then come in to work every day. And she won't have to worry about land rights once she hits the fringe."

Crossing groaned. "Which might sound like a solution -- except that it's giving her one paw out the door, and she's having a hard enough time staying in the city to begin with. Canterlot's first Diamond Dog... and staying at the personal insistence of the Princess, who insists the palace has never had anyone better at repairing the settings on the frescoes... What if she took out a loan?"

"Find a bank which will give her one," Riskette harshly replied. "I've tried twelve. They all want somepony to cosign and with regulations, it can't be any of us."

They both used the long silence for contemplating The Last Resort.

Crossing was the one to finally offer it up. "The Princess? If the palace gave her a little more backing, and made it public..."

Dryly, "Half the press will freak."

"So tell me something I don't know. If she's pro-Yapper, they'll be anti. If she's for peace, they beat the drums for war. She speaks for equality, they find a thousand vocabulary terms which imply the opposite while never quite getting around to openly saying it. I swear, we're at the point where she could get rid of the whole lot just by publicly declaring she's in favor of breathing and waiting four minutes while they went the opposite way. And there are days when they're still an improvement on the other side..."

"Crossing." They both turned to face Border, who had just stuck a concerned brown head in through the door's gap. "Intersection of Spur and Stirrup. You need to get down there. Now."

His second-in-command was typically light-hearted. Happy with life. Intrigued by the little pieces of flotsam which could emerge from the lake when fresh ripples were sent through it. He was, in fact, very nearly the world's most relaxed pony, and typically kept that attitude no matter what came his way -- which was why he was second in command, because the authority who was ultimately in charge of the ID wanted somepony in charge who understood that there were times when 'worry' had to be the first response.

Border was currently wearing an expression which put him about two stress levels away from promotion.

Crossing scrambled off his bench. "Who is it? Talk to me on the gallop: we'll both get down there and --"

"-- you passed a griffon through two weeks ago? Gristle something?"

The desperate search of his memory quickly turned into more of a ransacking. "Gristle..." He generally recalled those who caused trouble best. But in this case, the utter lack of it had stood out, and so -- "Gerald Gristle, right, world's most calm first-week griffon, I almost thought he'd been sheltering on a roof somewhere before reporting in for an official entry date until I figured out --"

"Gristle," Border cut in. "It's all about Gristle right now. And don't gallop. Teleport. Use any arrival point you've got close by and you'll figure it out when you get there. I can't say anything which you won't spot on first sight and we need you there as fast as you can reach it. Unless you've finally learned to escort --"

"-- I haven't even gotten to take the test, I keep getting interrupted and there hasn't been any chance to reschedule again --"

"-- go."

He went.

[/hr]

The closest safe arrival point had been twelve blocks away from the intersection. The few teleporters (three) among the ID were expected to establish and maintain a reliable number of appearance spots within their range, mostly centered on and around those places where the non-pony residents lived, worked, and got into trouble. Spur Avenue and Stirrup Gate was nowhere near any of those points. It was just about dead-center in the city, a high-priced district given over to exclusive retail establishments, gourmet eateries, curio shops... Basically, if it was overpriced, overdone, overvalued, and just plain over two weeks after you purchased it, you could find it there. Barneigh's held court a few buildings away from that intersection, Groomingdale's was half a block to the left, he would be practically right on top of the original Saltlick's...

Only two of those he was responsible for worked in that area, and they owned their own shop. Most of the other establishments insisted that they, as high-end places dedicated to the finest in culture, would be only too happy to hire a non-pony as soon as someone suitable came along, and the fact that no one had ever met their suitability standards was nothing more than the happiest of accidents.

Crossing's closest arrival point had been at a palace gatehouse, in a space left empty for exactly that kind of journey. After that, he navigated on hoof through a city he had fully memorized, knowing exactly where he was heading on instinct.

At least, it was instinct right up until the moment he exited the gatehouse. After that, he was steering on smell.

"Oh, no," he muttered to himself. "He couldn't have been that stupid, nopony possibly could have been that dumb, not even anyone would have made that mistake..."

Very few ponies were heading in that direction. A very large number were moving away from it, and at speed. He didn't need to worry about the pegasi, all of whom were gaining altitude in a hurry, desperately hoping the odor wouldn't be so bad once the atmosphere thinned out a little. But earth ponies and unicorns were charging in his direction, fleeing from the source, and practically all of the latter were both paying very little attention to where they were going and were rather stupidly moving at full speed with their heads down.

It got worse. Quickly. Hot breath fogged chill air with a mindless mist.

Crossing dodged, over and over. The streets were too crowded for a short-range teleport: he had to get out of the way physically and repeatedly. He still got poked, indented, nearly rammed -- but he managed to avoid the worst of it, saving his most desperate moves for those with the sharpest horns. And there was no more desperate move than igniting his corona while forcing his way against the tide of a freaked-out crowd, with bodies swarming around him and the stench of panic almost penetrating past the other smell, he avoided it as long as he could, focusing everything he had into darts and leaps and just keeping his focus as selected portions of the world around him went mad, trying to ignore the voice of instinct every pony heard during such times, the one mindlessly insisting the herd is afraid, don't think about why, don't think about reaching the source, don't think at all, just turn with them and run because the herd knows best and you are nothing more than the smallest part of it...

He screamed at that voice, fought it back, crammed it into the darkest corners of his being. But even that effort made it that much harder to think, the effort required to ignore was a distraction in and of itself -- and it meant he missed seeing the violet stallion who came with the built-in spear option until it was a mere split-second away from being too late.

Not only no time to move, but nowhere to go. Teleporting out would have meant having to fight his way in again from the start. Crossing's corona ignited, his field went up and projected forward, shoved, diverted the oncoming stallion a few critical hoofwidths to the left, their flanks grazed each other as the wide-eyed unthinking citizen went by --

-- and the next pony came in right behind him, on the original path.

Horns collided. Crossing's was still lit.

High field strength was not a requirement for a unicorn working in the ID. Crossing was above average, but not spectacularly so. It took more than a casual effort for him to shove an oncoming adult pony body, would have required a double corona before he could even remotely dream about briefly lifting a particularly thin specimen. As such, he'd been at a full single when the impact had occurred.

So nothing which would require a hospital stay, and nowhere close to the guaranteed and spectacular fatality of the triple. But Crossing was a unicorn, hard contact had been made against a lit horn, and backlash remained backlash.

His field twisted, forced itself against his body. Bruising appeared across his barrel. His left hind ankle twisted, came within three rotation degrees of spraining. There was a roaring in his ears like that of a discontent manticore, vision blurred, and he stumbled, began to pitch forward into the mass of charging bodies --

-- four hooves pressed tightly against his flanks. A burst of wind forced all the fur on his back and sides to lie down. The ground went away.

It took a few breaths before he was able to look up. A pale tangerine mare -- even more pale than usual -- stared down at him.

"Sir!" Barrier gasped. "It's the morning commute! It wasn't that bad when Border passed the place, but he realized what time it was and sent me out to find you, just in case! I thought you would beat me there, but then I saw the rush and I found you --!" This was interrupted by a desperate dive to the right, just in time to avoid a collision: her hooves ground against his ribs as she pressed inwards, desperate not to lose a load she had no true means of grasping. "There's so many of them! And they're all..."

He forced a deep breath, felt her hooves slip ever so slightly, resolved not to do that again. Barrier was strong enough to carry another pony -- but not for long, and the fact that she was making any kind of speed at all and staying intact in the air while carrying his level of burden... It was impressive, and more than a little scary, because she could catch on to what she was doing at any moment. And the instant she realized her continuing effort was impossible, she would be proven right.

He had to keep her distracted. "They'll be swerving away from the source!" he shouted up. "It'll be safest right next to it! Steer directly for the smell!"

She gagged. "Sir, I'm trying, but -- I don't know how close I can get... that stench... I want -- I want to turn and --"

"You're more than the herd, Barrier," Crossing gently said, or as gently as he could with battered body barely being held above the crush. "We all are. If we remember to be."

They both briefly stared down. A few hundred ponies, charging through streets and air, moving without thought or even the memory of same. A multihued river of fear which no longer understood why it was flowing at all.

One pony, perhaps two or three. That was how it started. A single burst of terror. Perhaps there had been a scream for others to get away, perhaps not: it didn't always matter. Sometimes it was just the smell of sweat, of panic, an olfactory alert which could always find a place in pony nostrils. Others would scent that fear and wonder what was happening. The weakest-willed wouldn't even go that far: they would simply decide that if one was running, then there was something to run from. They too would flee, with their own scent joined to the swelling mass, and others would begin to fall...

We're more than the herd. If we try to be.

Some never tried at all.

"I... I can do it, sir," she shakily declared as she veered left, just barely dodging again. "I can..."

"The police will be on the way," he told her. "They'll set up channeling barricades leading into water sprays. That'll shock the bulk of those ponies back to their senses. It's almost over, Barrier: it was doomed to end as soon as it started." But he hadn't been able to wait it out, because one of his was at the center of it and had done something stupid, idiocy which might have caused pony injuries already in the crush, and if a strong-willed pony had decided to blame the source, then the griffon might have been --

"Stupid," Crossing muttered. "Stupid, stupid -- not you, Barrier, never you, it's Gristle. He'd better be okay. He's at the center of this and I want him intact enough to yell at... Get some altitude: circle around this and come at it from the back, with the flow. We'll be safer."

He listened to the shuddering breaths above him. Breaths which took in far too much of the stenches assaulting them, from ahead and below, with the larger danger racing beneath.

One only brought fear. The other stripped away sanity.

"I can do this..." she told herself. And she kept telling herself that all the way to the center.

[/hr]

He worked it out during the trip, including the portion they conducted on hoof after they got behind the crush, where the streets were empty and they could both trot in silence, with the only steam coming from Crossing's own fuming.

It was so obvious now. Gerald Gristle, cook. He had intended to open his own restaurant. And since he'd meant it to be a high-end establishment, it had been placed in the heart of Canterlot's most expensive shops. He'd been doing prep work, the smell had gotten out...

He's an idiot. How did I miss that? Why didn't I ask him where he was going to open the thing? Because I assumed he'd keep it near the Aviary, or on the outskirts, or... because I just wanted to get home, and I may not see home today until after the Princess...

Barrier slowly trotted next to him, panting a little, fully exhausted. Froth dripped from her wings. The extended flight while carrying him had been more than she could manage -- after the fact. She was also starting to shiver. Post-exertion stress, added to cold. Crossing hadn't bothered to do so much as grab a scarf before heading out: neither had she. The pegasus needed to warm up in a hurry, and heat-shifting had never been her strength...

"We'll stop at Barneigh's. I'll commandeer a wrap. Government need and voucher."

She forced a smile. "Their stuff is ugly."

"But it's warm."

"And expensive."

"Also warm."

"Why aren't you shivering?"

"I'm too angry to be cold. The police will probably try to get Gristle on inducing a riot, even though it was unintentional... he hasn't even been here a moon yet, he may not complete a cycle. Sun and Moon, I don't want him thrown out over this, but if anypony was really hurt and it goes back to him... He was stupid, but somepony was stupid for giving him that space in the heart of the city, somepony else was stupid because they should have said something during his inspection, and --" I was stupid for not asking the right questions "-- we have to make the stupidity stop here. If he even gets to stay. A riot, Barrier -- you know the press will be placing this on us, and that's not the worst part. We deserve it. I deserve it and I'll take the blame when the time comes. But when they send it back to the Princess..."

Barrier winced. "That's... bad."

Starkly, "Yes."

They trotted on, found the first of the police barricades two blocks out from the source. Crossing had a few quiet words with the presiding officer, received the first of what was sure to be many so-this-is-your-fault dark looks, went on through, Barrier still following.

The streets were still empty. They were approaching the heart and nopony was about. Sunlight glinted off shop windows with nopony behind them. But there was noise up ahead...

"At least... it's not chanting yet," Barrier offered. "That means no protestors."

The dark voice of experience. "Wait."

Closer still, and the smell was starting to reach them again -- but they were ready for that, and forced themselves onwards.

(There was a brief pause at Barneigh's. The resulting saddle blanket cape was hideously overpriced, along with being just plain hideous. But it was also warm.)

The sight made them freeze in their own hoofprints, and a virtual coating of ice crystallized the horror.

"Oh," Crossing made himself breathe. "That colossal moron..."

The front of the place featured huge glass windows -- actual glass, not enchanted quartz or anything else given a working which sent it into transparency. There were open vents just above the uppermost part of the pane, all the better to let the smell out while allowing some of the outside air to flow back, as the contents of the establishment only benefited from the chill of winter. Small gratings had been placed at the base of the building, presumably to catch drool. Several had already collected vomit.

The product of the establishment, the one with too much competition in the Republic, was hung with pride behind those windows. It had been rendered into what, in the griffon's homeland, would be considered a work of art. It glistened. It also dripped final proof of freshness into the catch-pans below. All of them did, and there were at least twenty pieces on display: Crossing only stopped counting when the rising bile in his throat threatened to make a nearby grate overflow.

Not a restaurant at all.

"I don't believe this," he said, not caring who heard. "No one could be this dumb. No one and nopony, but we're right in front of it, looking at it and smelling it and --"

"-- sir?"

"-- I can't even imagine how this could get any worse --"

"-- you might want to... look up?"

He did. It got worse.

There was a side-hanging sign protruding from the building on highly-polished brass poles. The sign itself was brightly painted and very well-rendered. The image was incredibly realistic. Crossing almost expected it to moo.

A half-cattle. The front half, although positioned on an odd vertical, as if it was somehow standing on its hind legs. A large plate was balanced on the right hoof, and that plate contained a fine sample of the shop's product. The cattle itself had an odd, warm half-smile on its face as it glanced slightly back and down towards its absent half, while the left foreleg was tilted back towards that vacuum -- but with the hoof scooped in. It somehow gave the impression that the contents of the plate had just been removed from the missing section, with the server reaching back because someone had just requested seconds and it was no trouble at all, sir, happy to accommodate the customer...

Gold letters at the bottom of the sign echoed the ones embedded in the window: Gristle's.

"It's... it's..." Barrier whispered.

"A butcher shop! And the single finest one Canterlot has ever seen, I promise you that!" They both looked at the door. The magnificent eagle head poked out the gap. "Mr. Guard! I was hoping you might come by after I opened, but I wasn't expecting you so soon... What do you think? Isn't it magnificent? Come inside, please, I want to show you the coolers..."

Crossing ignored Barrier's wing across his back, took a slow step forward. The injured ankle ached. "A. Butcher. Shop."

The world's stupidest griffon was now confused. "Well -- yes. I told you: there's just too much competition in the Republic, and when I tried to fill a need which no one was looking after there... well, I thought I was better off returning to my roots. Don't you think this is what the city needed? There wasn't a single respectable establishment in the whole place until I set one up! And with me in the heart of the city, in the place where only the choicest of cuts should go..."

Crossing recognized he was in the presence of an enthusiast. Also an idiot. "Canterlot has butcher shops!" he shouted, and didn't care when he saw the griffon's knees bend. The paws taking a group step back did worry him, mostly because there was a good chance of having it continue all the way out of Equestria. "I gave you the Red List! So you could eat! It lists the five places you can find food in the city! Two of them are butcher shops!"

Gerald, even in the middle of his sudden fear at being rebuked by his superior, found the strength for a dismissive, disdainful sniff. "And they're practically ashamed of it! Set in back alleys, no windows at all, only open when the smallest number of ponies are awake and about! No one can tell what's inside at all! No pride, no passion for the product, and the taste reflects it! And the other three places -- one admittedly good restaurant, I've already eaten there twice, but the other two sell pet food! You're asking your residents to either settle for the lowest-quality goods, suffer the expense of eating out three times a day -- or be treated as if they were animals!"

Crossing stared at him. The griffon then found the strength to puff out his chest.

"I," he said proudly, "am providing a service, Mr. Guard, a much-needed service. And I am proud to give this city a butcher shop it can have pride in at long-last. Frankly, it's long-overdue."

"A butcher shop," Crossing repeated, partially in the forlorn hope that it would somehow turn out to be an incantation which would make the whole thing go away.

"Yes..."

"In Canterlot."

"Well, as I said, I realize it's the third, but they're no competition at all, really. But I don't want to put anyone out of a job, so I'll be happy to hire their staffs when they go under. Frankly, I could use the help."

Crossing opened his mouth. No words came out. He closed it and waited for something appropriate to press against the back of his teeth and demand release. Nothing arrived.

Barrier took a tentative step forward. "Sir... Mister Gristle... didn't you hear anything this morning? Like... ponies going by? Rather... quickly?"

"No," said the confused griffon. "I pulled back the curtains, opened the vents, and then realized I didn't have the zirolak steaks soaking in a proper aging mixture because my chemicals only arrived last night. I've been in the back waiting for the customer bell to ring."

"And... nopony's -- no one's been in yet?"

"Well, it's early," Gerald admitted. "I'm expecting most of my traffic after the day shifts let out, so my buyers can go directly home with their purchases. But I wanted to open up as fast as I could, even if I was just puttering around for a few hours. Let Canterlot see I was here! But I'm sure I'll get a little morning traffic. Actually --" he glanced to the left, down Spur Avenue "-- here come some -- oh, look at that! Mr. Guard, it seems you have an adventurous type in your city! Perhaps more than one! Yes, I definitely see a customer on the way!"

Crossing glanced in that direction, registered little more than the hastily-drawn signs being waved in fields of all hues. Their approach was on the slow side, mostly because they were still trying to work out exactly what they were going to chant. And there was also a unicorn galloping well ahead of the pack. A very distinctive unicorn...

Crossing facehoofed. He facehoofed in an emotive fashion, with style, flair, and art. On the whole, when measured against the history of Canterlot, he facehoofed in the most magnificent manner ever seen, at least for that particular intersection.

Gerald wasn't in a cultural position to appreciate it. "...Mr. Guard?"

"Yes," Crossing tightly said, "that is a buyer. By Sun and Moon, you do in fact have a customer on the approach. Barrier, please tell me you can fly again, scoop him up and get him out of here before this gets any worse..."

"No... I'm sorry, sir, but my wings are still strained..."

The unicorn was accelerating. His expression was now visible, and it was rapturous. The face of a pony who had forever been denied full entrance into glory seeing the gates into joy swing open at last.

"I should have taken the escort test," Crossing muttered. "I should have found the time and I'd try it right now anyway except that there's supposedly the smallest chance in creation, only a rumor, really, one nopony's ever confirmed, that I might somehow lose him in the between and I'd really appreciate it if somepony would take a second and explain to me why that would be bad..."

The pony's rather unique smell reached them. The griffon took a deep, appreciative inhale, and looked impressed. The two ponies, who normally found the odor disquieting, felt it blending into the general miasma, where it made everything that much worse.

"Anypony at all...?"

And then the pony himself arrived.

The liquid-red coat shone with delight. A bone-white mane and tail shook away the last vestiges of disbelief as their owner stared at the door into paradise.

"Who..." he breathed. "...who's responsible for this... this wonder of wonders...!"

The griffon stepped forward and sank front legs and neck into a low bow. "Gerald Gristle, sir, proprietor, at your service, and -- sir, your mark! I am honored, truly honored, I had heard the legend of those who serve, but even residing in Canterlot, I never thought I would meet --!"

"You've -- heard of me?"

Gerald straightened just so he could bow again. "You and all those who came before you. Legends in the Republic, sir, the boldest of ponies..."

The unicorn's blood-red eyes shone, partially from the approaching tears of joy at a honor he'd never known. They were the brightest thing about him, especially given that he was (locally) renowned as being more than a little dim.

Crossing groaned. Only Barrier noticed.

"Those are Flebian Ram rib-eyes, aren't they?" the now-legendary, honored, and boldest of unicorns said.

"You recognized them!" Gerald happily declared. "I never thought I would hear a pony say it, not without my signs up yet! But of course, sir, it's you..."

"I want a tenth-bale," the unicorn said, his eyes now beginning to glaze over. "And the strip cuts, two-tenths there. I haven't had them in seven seasons. Those T-bones -- one full bale. I can keep them fresh: that's my personal spell. They'll never go bad as long as I'm around. I want to stock up."

Gerald's eyes were now beginning to glisten: the joy of someone who knew the dream had never been impossible to begin with, but finally had the proof. "Sir, I appreciate your patronage, I truly do -- but as much as I'd love such a sale on my first day, I'm going to be here for a long time. There's no need to overload yourself so quickly..."

"One full bale. I'm not taking any chances. Also, I smell zirolak. How long until it's properly aged?"

Crossing took a step forward in that direction, already knowing it wouldn't do any good. "Sizzler."

The operator of the meat station in the Lunar Kitchen turned to face him, still alight with rapture. "Oh, Crossing," he said happily. "Isn't it all just beautiful?"

"Sizzler, you shouldn't be here --"

"No," the cook said. "This is exactly where I'm supposed to be. Not in the alley off Przewalski Way. Not sneaking around. Not having ponies stare at me with shame. Out in the open, under Sun, looking at this beautiful glass and all the glory behind it --" and paused. "Actually, Crossing, you're right. You are exactly right. I shouldn't be here."

He did his best not to let the hope through. "You shouldn't."

"Right," Sizzler definitively declared. "I should be inside." And trotted through the doorway, just as the first true tear of rapture dropped from his face to fall through the grate and give the vomit a little bit of dilution.

Gerald watched him go in, then glanced back at Crossing and Barrier.

"My first customer," he happily declared. "And it's him. Of all the things I ever dreamed might happen in Canterlot, sir and lady, for him to be first... Pardon me, I have to serve him, it will be a honor to..." And with that, his voice broke, his beak chattered, and he rushed through the door.

The happy premiere business transaction of the new enterprise began. It was perfectly visible through the window, and would probably remain so for some time.

Barrier turned towards the approaching protestors, who seemed to be on the verge of finalizing their chant. The current version had the word 'meat' in it. Five times.

She looked at Crossing. "Sir... how much time did you ask the police to give us before they came in?"

"Not enough."

"Um... I'm not sure how to tell you this..."

"Speaking is generally a good start."

"Well... I've never been part of any weather team, sir, but my feel is pretty good, and I've lived in Canterlot for a long time. I know the general preset air current patterns. And... a lot of the city's daytime atmosphere comes through here and -- blows outwards... and that smell doesn't seem to be getting any weaker..."

Dryly, "Thank you for telling me that."

They both stared at the protestors for a moment, who were now trying to do a little early coordination of their sign-waving. Fields were colliding. Some of the ink, which hadn't had time to dry, was beginning to run. One sign which had originally read Meat Is Murder had three streaks across it which, if the now-altered words were sounded out in phonetic Griffonant, had turned it into Death To Mushrooms. Crossing decided not to tell anypony.

Another pony, a unicorn mare, approached from the back and slipped into the butcher shop. They didn't really notice. After all, Sizzler had already gone in, so what was a second burst of strangeness? Besides, there was a picket line getting closer.

"CUNET?" Barrier asked.

"Well, let's see," Crossing reviewed. "A non-pony. A high-income area. We just had a riot. There's something offensive happening which provides a chance to scream about how the narrowest of views is the only fence slit anypony should ever stare through. And they also might be able to get a griffon out of the city. If it's not Canterlot Unicorns Negating Traditional Swears, I'll eat that cape."

"Sir, it stands for Canterlot Unicorns Need Equal Treatment --"

"-- the old name is more appropriate. Oh, and there we have Mrs. Panderaghast, so that's the confirmation. I'd know her anywhere. It's not as if I don't have enough personal experience. Or more than enough, which is any number of encounters over zero..."

"Sir -- you know the head of CUNET?"

"Her and her fieldwriting. By heart. You know those letters we get every week demanding that this individual be thrown out or that one be fired and then thrown out, plus the ones demanding our funding be revoked before we're all fired and thrown out?"

"Yes."

"She's forty percent of them, many of which are personally delivered so I can't claim they were lost in the mail. Another fifty-five percent are forms she gives out for everypony else in the group to sign. Fill in a blank here, a blank there, and..." He shrugged.

"So... what can we do?"

"Well, I'd like to get Sizzler out of there, but since we don't have any authority to remove him by force..."

"Should we leave?"

"No. Not both of us."

Several small flashes of light went off behind them. They were in exactly the wrong position to notice.

"Can we -- do anything? Anything -- real?"

"You can. Go back to the ID. See if you can spot Border on the way and if you do, tell him to gallop faster. Pull every law which might cover this and start reviewing. Make sure our Gristle actually put all his paperwork and permits in order because if they aren't, there's nothing which can save him. And send reinforcements. Lots and lots of reinforcements. Including at least two ponies who can raise shields, and whatever department you have to recruit the second one from, offer overtime."

Openly concerned. "But that leaves you here -- with them..."

"The police will be here soon, keeping things orderly. Assuming they let the shop stay open, because if the proprietor gets arrested... And if it's closed, it'll still have to be guarded. Send them in if you pass."

"I still can't fly..."

"Gallop. Go!"

Barrier raced away. Crossing looked at the approaching pickets and waited.

"Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat!" Mrs. Panderaghast screamed. "No, no, no, no, no! -- hmmm. Perhaps a little less 'Meat'? Shall we try it -- is that who I think it is? The lead traitor to all things pony, or at least the head flunky of the true cultural criminal? I see you there, Crossing! I know you were aware of this all along! Oh, this will go over your head at long last, that horn you don't deserve will finally bend in shame when I see your tail vanishing through the train doors! Don't try to run! Don't bother! We have cameras -- do we have cameras? Why do we have no cameras? How could nopony here think to bring a camera?"

"Because cameras were invented by minotaurs," somepony fanatically explained.

"So? Press one into service for a pony cause! There's a camera shop right over there! In the heart of Canterlot! Surely that must make it the finest in the city and thus, by definition, ours!"

"It's -- run by minotaurs. Two of them."

Crossing didn't say anything. He just waited.

"Minotaurs."

"Yes."

"Two."

"Yes."

"And there are no other shops."

"Nothing close, Mrs. Panderaghast."

"Can you pinch your nostrils closed with your field?"

"Not for very long..."

"Shop quickly, then. In the name of Unicorns Needing Equal Treatment! Go!"

Hooves reluctantly galloped in the proper direction, while the entire protest line paused and focused their attention that way, intent on seeing if the one sacrificing his standards for The Cause survived. Behind Crossing, a different, much happier set of hoofsteps emerged.

"I overwhelmed my field!" Sizzler joyously declared. "I couldn't carry it all, Crossing! For the first time ever! But he's going to have the rest delivered. He said he might even throw something special in, and I can't imagine what he would consider special after seeing everything in there... You know, I always thought the best day of my life was when Princess Celestia found me and said the meat station was mine after Leancut retired. But this... this..."

Crossing looked at the picketers, who were still watching the camera shop. There was a chance. Unbelievably, there was still a chance. "Sizzler, you have to get out of here. Cut down Camargue Road, then circle back to the palace. Don't say anything, just go."

But Sizzler was many things. The current holder of the meat station. Male. Unicorn. A pony with the image of a steak on his flanks. And dim. Very, very dim. "Why?"

Urgently, "Sizzler, you have a unique mark." Generationally unique, but that didn't matter right now. "You testified at Ramshead's trial, and that put your picture in just about every newspaper. You're one of the most distinctive ponies in Equestria, and everypony knows you work for the palace!"

"They sure do!" Sizzler smiled. "She recognized me right away!"

"...she?"

"Yeah."

"...who's -- 'she'?"

Sizzler pointed his left foreleg towards the shop's main window. Crossing slowly turned to look.

Wordia Spinner, the current lead Solar reporter for the Murdocks Press Corps, smiled from behind the glass, showed off teeth which only the cruelty of nature had kept from appropriate points, and waved her right foreleg at them.

"She wanted to know exactly what I thought of this great place!" Sizzler gushed. "She even wrote some of it down! And took pictures of me posing against the display cases!"

Crossing closed his eyes.

"Sizzler?"

"What?"

The words Crossing truly wanted to say were 'I hate you. So much.' But he held them back. "Can you make a shield?"

"No..."

"Of course."

"I can break one, though... hey, look! Are those more customers? And here come the police to set up barriers so the line will flow smoothly! Let me just go inside and tell Gerald to get ready. Oh, he's going to be so happy...!"

There was a distant thump, one which sounded oddly like a pony body, one which had just totally run out of oxygen, hitting the camera shop floor.

[/hr]

It was something everypony studied, typically in their third year of schooling. And typically, it was something nearly everypony forgot five days after the test: the division of the Courts.

Crossing had occasionally spoken to those who were studying for their citizenship exams and thus had a real interest in not only gaining, but retaining the information. Several of them were confused by the way the Courts operated, as it was so different from what they knew in their former homes -- and knowing how the governments of those distant nations worked, he understood how Equestria's system could look strange, at least from the outside. But he always told them to just memorize the material and then try to live within it afterwards. Elected officials. Three-year terms. No generational entitlement seats (although some families tended to be voted in time after time). No such thing as a 'veto override': a single pony signed things into law -- or not -- and in doing so, theoretically broke any ties. And the Courts were not a bicameral body.

That last part gave many future citizens trouble. But it was how things were done. Each Court handled different categories of law. Most aspects of travel were covered by the Day. Gaming and gambling belonged to the Night. The Lunar shift dealt with the funding and training of Equestria's military: the Solar covered the majority of confirmations for the diplomatic corps. Students learned which Court handled each domain and, if those students were pony fillies and colts, forgot.

Riskette had frowned her way into Crossing's office when he'd finally limped back in, two hours beyond the end of his shift. She'd told him not to go home yet (and that she would contact his family to explain), because the Princess wanted to see him. Immediately. And when most ponies said 'the Princess', they meant Celestia: even with the younger's Return two and a half years in the past, a number had trouble getting past the singular. But it was different for the ID.

Immigration was under the dominion of the Night Court.

For the ponies of the ID, 'the Princess' meant Luna.

She looked down from her throne at him. Her legs were folded beneath her. There was a stack of newspapers on her right, suspended within the star-filled field. He was paying special attention to that field. The borders were spiking. Some of the stars within seemed to be surging. At least three looked as if they were about to explode.

"You are injured," she said. "The reports I gained claimed the protests were -- peaceful, if such can be applied to rocks field-slung at the windows by regretfully unidentified assailants, none of whom were among the CUNET members, or so they all claimed, in chorus, while rather oddly refusing to use their fields and allow anypony the feel of their signatures for the rest of the day, especially given how overly enamored they all are of their more-special-than-anypony-else's magic. However, that was at the protest. Were you attacked before or after?"

"Backlash --" hastily "-- but it was an accidental one," he explained. "My arrival point meant going in through the riot, and I kept pushing because it was still the faster way. Everything else I had which was reliable was also in other neighborhoods. A pony ran into me, Princess, and he didn't have any control over himself at the time. Completely unintentional. I wouldn't press charges even if I had any idea who he was. I'll recover."

There was a long silence, and it wasn't long enough.

"You were using your field in the middle of a riot. With ponies all around you who had virtually no awareness of your presence."

"Yes."

Slowly, "Have you informed anypony else of your suicidal tendencies?"

He swallowed. "Princess, it was just a single corona, and I didn't have any other way out..."

"Very well."

"Thank you for understanding --"

"-- should we be so unfortunate as to suffer through a 'next time', run on their backs." Tightly, "Remove that expression from your face, Crossing Guard: I am hardly joking. When the bodies are packed so tightly, they are a road in and of themselves and since you do not possess my body mass, you will do little more than lightly bruise a few. I will take that over having to explain to your spouse and offspring the exact means of your demise. Do you understand?"

"...yes."

"Good. Now: I have seen the initial reports and --" she nodded to the newspapers, a few of which seemed to be glistening "-- the 'extra, extra, special emergency evening editions'. The other businesses in the area have told me about the huge amounts they are losing, demanded compensation from the palace and, after I used their tax forms to prove them liars, been silenced. I have also done some research of my own, given the many hours I had to do so after I was awoken early because of this... But I wish to hear about the events in your words now. Speak."

He did so. She listened, generally interrupting only to ask for the expansion of details or a deeper exploration of a particularly odious point.

"...and when we finally got our copies of the permits, he was legal, Princess," Crossing began to wrap up. "He's in full compliance with the Treaty Of Menagerie."

Luna nodded. "'All species which consume meat swear not to take it from any who talk or think,'" she quoted. Without bothering to conceal any of the sarcasm, "Two states which, as many ponies and others continue to prove, are often mutually exclusive. But there is our first and perhaps only comfort: that there shall be no murder trial. So he not only gained the proper papers, ponies went through an initial inspection of his stock and would have conducted random follow-ups thereafter. Not that any such have turned up an --- shall we say, improper source -- in centuries... However, this begs the question of how, since his paperwork was filed, everypony managed to overlook just where he was opening his establishment. One would think that surely having the inspectors in his shop would have alerted somepony to the problem."

Crossing delivered the next bit of news with the total lack of comfort that came from knowing that this part, at least, was not his fault. "The inspection was at a storage warehouse. It took some time for his coolers to be delivered -- he only got them in last night -- so he needed to hold the -- stock -- somewhere else. That was just an accident of scheduling. And the rest of it... he didn't completely fill in the details for his address. He got the permits, but... everypony who's used to griffons knows they're generally not great with forms, and I'm guessing everypony who looked them over just assumed he'd be somewhere in a back alley near the Aviary and didn't want to bother with the six trips required to get every last bit of ink. Nopony would have ever believed he was going to open up in that location, and the ponies he got the lease from just saw it was a retail space and... they're the same ponies who leased the camera shop to Raw and Impact Force: they want a more 'cosmopolitan' area. I got a few seconds with them before the protestors spotted them and started screaming in their direction, they galloped off and I'm not sure I blame them, given what was being screamed, but -- all they had time to say was that they knew it was food supply, but he never said what kind so they'd researched his last business and they thought it was great... Princess, I don't know what they meant. They're extremely progressive ponies, but a fully public butcher shop in the heart of Canterlot...?"

She looked at him for five eternal seconds.

"I do know," she said. "We will arrive at that point shortly, although I wish to begin with a seeming detour." Her field sorted the Canterlot Tattler out of the pile. Crossing tried to ignore the flakes of ice which fell away as she displayed the front page. "Quite a good picture of Sizzler, is it not?"

"...yes."

"I particularly appreciate the way Ms. Spinner angled him so that his mark presents the illusion of dripping blood into the catch pan. That kind of propaganda is art. Of course, that is before we reach the guest columnist editorial piece, which suggests that Canterlot has now become corrupted beyond all hope. I see a rather charming direct implication that because a member of the Lunar Kitchen is purchasing from the butcher shop, he is not only doing so with the full approval of the palace, but he is only there because I cannot be."

He was beginning to run low on saliva. "What?"

"The piece -- in concert with the central article -- suggests that such an establishment could only be allowed to exist if the palace wished it to. Because somepony within desires their products for her own meals." Dryly, "Would you care to venture a guess as to that pony's identity? A minor hint: it is not Sizzler."

The next gulp brought down nearly-pure air, at least after factoring out the bits of stench still stuck in his lungs.

"This leads into some truly fanciful attempts to suggest corruption," Luna continued. "It might be new, it might be something never fully dispelled -- the reader's own wishes can be superimposed without effort. Of course, one cannot attack me forever, at least not without entering into repeats from previous attempts. We can possibly skip the fearmongering conjecture regarding the meat's source, as that has already been proven false and the partial retraction will no doubt be invisible to the unassisted eye in the morning. So we then move to Princess Celestia and the egregious errors which I am only expanding on, the corruption of our culture from allowing so many foreign elements within. Very little detail in any of that, simply suggestions for the reader to once again fill in -- although I see the writer still cherishes the belief that to attend a game of pony-adapted rounders is to sacrifice one's own tail. But the columnist then goes on to say that it is not the griffon's fault in any way, as he is a rather simple creature, implied to be much less mentally complex than a pony, and can neither help his base desires nor comprehend how we might be offended by them. But having said that, the Republic must now be complimented. How very pure they are. How untouched by outside influence. How their society is a monolith which has remained unchanged for so long, and ponies would do well to take the same approach. Based on the other half-written suggestions, I would imagine the ideal way of doing is so by first closing our borders, then removing all non-pony elements from Canterlot. And beyond."

The temperature in the Lunar throne room had dropped five degrees from the time he'd entered. Three more joined the tally.

Crossing already knew the answer to his next question. "Is the guest columnist... Mrs. Panderaghast?"

"Ah. I see you too are familiar with her inimitable style," Luna commented. "Which admittedly makes it easy to tell when she has created forms for others to complete." Her field slung the newspaper aside: the frozen mass shattered upon hitting the floor. "Monumentally and deliberately ignorant, of course. To call the Republic a cultural monolith purposefully overlooks so many things, starting with the not-insignificant number of ponies who reside within their borders, more than a few of whom possess citizenship there and have all their lives... but we will continue with that shortly. To suggest that I have become a carnivore... well, not that it is impossible for a pony to consume meat..."

He blinked. "Princess?"

Her tones were starting to move from the imperious, slowly sliding down the scale of superiority towards that of the born lecturer. "Well, it is a biological fact that the digestive systems of pure carnivores are somewhat more simplistic than ours. They cannot break down some forms of plant matter before it completely passes through, and thus gain no benefit. However, as pony digestion is more complex, if one can simply battle past the inherent revulsion and biological imperative not to bite, chew, and swallow, ingesting only a small amount and forcing oneself to keep it down..."

The dark eyes abruptly focused on him. Crossing became aware that he hadn't blinked since 'fact'.

"It once became necessary," the Princess slowly said, "to secure a treaty through the winning of a bet."

"Yes, Princess."

"It is not necessary for anypony else to know about that."

"No, Princess."

"Ever."

"Yes, Princess."

"Should you hear any stories coming from Ponyville concerning backsides I may or may not have gobbled, you are to ignore those as well."

"Of course, Princess."

She nodded. "And now we move to the Palace Bugle," and that paper came out of the pile. "Let me see... yes, here we are. This editorial piece proposes that ponies are simply not open-minded enough. That any revulsion we experience is simply an illusion we inflict on ourselves due to a lifetime of indoctrination, one which has rendered us inherently prejudiced against those poor victims urged by their own biology to follow a different path. How dare we judge! Anypony who claims to be truly tolerant would do well to -- and this, incidentally, is very nearly my favorite part -- try meat themselves! In great quantities!" Her volume started to increase, her voice began to soar. "A week with nothing else in our diets, which of course you and I know will fill every hospital to capacity, costing Equestria untold ponyhours in work time -- but the author insists it would be proof of our compassion. We do not take enough elements of the other nations into our lives, and that does not simply mean our diet. For example, the author asks, why do we see no pony couples adopting griffon orphans? Are we so closed-in that we can only give love to those of our own races? How shameful we are! How much we should truly hate ourselves!"

The second newspaper shattered among the remains of the first, with the mixed fragments becoming indistinguishable.

"Incidentally, that was my favorite part," Luna mentioned, just a little too casually. "Largely because it is, in an illness-inducing sort of way, almost comforting to know that total and possibly deliberate cases of either research failure or majestic ignorance can appear on all sides of the equation. Crossing Guard -- you heard the portion concerning griffon orphans, yes?"

He was now waiting to be fired. 'Shattered' was also an option. "Yes, Princess."

This was an order: "You are more familiar with their culture than most. Explain that particular portion of failure."

"There are no griffon orphans. Not for more than a day." No amount of chill in the room was preventing him from sweating. "Their culture states that to bring a child into the world is to take responsibility for raising it to adulthood. And should the parents be lost, someone else must always take that responsibility. If other members of the family survive, the children are taken in. Should there be no one left above them in the bloodline, an aerie will always open. Every time, no exceptions. They regard attacks against children as the highest of crimes. Even --" and he stopped. It was part of history, a part most ponies never learned, one which had given him long thoughts for weeks after he'd first seen it.

Luna slowly nodded. "Even the children of enemies. We have had our wars with Protocera." The formal name of the Griffon Republic. "More than a few. Some during Equestria's formative years, others during my -- abeyance. And there was always a single constant. During those wars, the griffons would attack to kill us. Unsurprising: that feeling hardly went one way. But never a child. Should pony parents be lost to battle, an entire settled zone wiped out, the foals would be untouched. For you see, in killing us during what was then seen as justified battle, they had taken away our chance to fulfill the responsibility. So someone would have to take over. And the griffons would gently hold the children between their paws -- and fly them to their new home."

The chill in the air leveled out. The Princess' eyes closed, and the things she gazed at behind the closed lids would be shared with nopony.

"That is the central reason for the pony population in Protocera," she softly said. "The children of the fallen were raised as griffons, at least as much as they could be, given differences of biology. They grew up, generally married other ponies who had been sheltered, had foals of their own... and the cycle continued. For every species the griffons have ever warred with, there are members of that race in their nation, recognized and treated as full citizens, sometimes griffons in virtually all but body. Even during the harshest of times with the griffons, Crossing Guard, I tried to remember... that even if somehow, all was lost, but Sun and Moon remained... the children would be all right. It kept us from hating them too much."

Her eyes opened again. The borders of her field smoothed out, and the twinkling of the stars slowed, came to a near-stop.

"And in that aspect," Luna quietly continued, "I will give them superiority over us, for while there are individual ponies who would perform such an act... not as a species. And so for that, they best us, and likely always will, for there are pony orphans who wait for homes all their lives, and for griffons -- a day. That you may repeat to any you like, and so few will hear you..."

She shook her head, and then her volume went back to normal.

"Tell me about a griffon's diet."

Crossing blinked. "Princess?"

"We are closing in on a rather interesting punchline, Crossing Guard. Provide the facts to back up the joke."

He did his best to focus. "They're omnivores -- barely. More than ninety percent of their diet is meat, and it approaches one hundred for some. But it never quite gets there. They need certain fruits and plants for nutrients, especially to get quick sugars for flight. It's just something they don't like to admit. One of the main tests for the artistry of their chefs is how well they can conceal the vegetables -- appearance and taste. Make them look like meat... because it's a lingering part of their culture that those who consume plants are designated by nature to be prey --" hastily "-- excepting those from other races who are raised as griffons and simply can't help themselves. There's some -- pity there, and with the wrong griffon, it can go into second-class treatment. Although they respect prey which can fight back, and the harder the fight, the more prized the meat..."

"You are drifting somewhat," Luna suggested. "But yes, I suspect most of our city's griffon residents would descend on the shop in a flurry of feathers and fur once they learn that your Mister Gristle has taken the pains to stock shark. Assuming there is a shop to frequent. Back to the topic. Given that feeling about greens, how do they treat the stores which sell them?"

There was a tiny portion of irony trying to nag for his attention: he ignored it. "The way we expect the existing butcher shops to behave. Markets conceal their produce sections in the darkest corners and barely carry any real selection. Specialty shops hide in dark alleys, and griffons who favor more vegetables than the minimum skulk in and out. But we don't need meat, and they need at least a little bit of greens..."

The left foreleg was untucked, and the hoof came up: wait. "What does this do for those Protoceran citizens who just happen to be ponies?"

He took a slow breath. "They... can wind up feeling ashamed of themselves. They have no choice but to go in and out of those alleys, raise gardens in hidden spots, they try not to eat in public unless they absolutely must, because it makes them feel like less of a griffon..."

"I believe Mister Gristle told you he tried to do something different in his home nation -- something which did not work?"

It hit him.

"Oh, no..." Crossing breathed.

"Oh, yes," Luna replied, and very carefully did not smile. "He went to the capital city, leased space in the heart of Abattoiria's most expensive shopping district -- and opened a farmer's market."

She looked down at him again.

"You may laugh."

And he did. It was almost a series of howls, all the stress of the day emerging before most of it tried to go right back in, but a little of it couldn't find the return path and it felt good, one last wonderful jest from the universe before losing his job...

"From what I was able to learn, it was rather spectacular, and so gathered a large number of equally spectacular public nuisance charges," Luna commented. "Fully open-air at the front, of course. Every piece of fruit lovingly polished, with some of it lightly sprinkled with water so it would gleam in the sunlight. Tray after tray of nothing but the freshest produce imaginable, quite a portion of which he took great pains to either gather from Protocera's own earth ponies or had imported at great expense, at least for the first crops because he was willing to pay those same ponies to raise the next ones."

"A giant produce stand right in the center of the capital..." Crossing gasped. "Because with their own citizens plus our embassy, Abattoiria has the highest pony population in the Republic, and it was a spectacular business opportunity which everyone else was overlooking... Sun and Moon, Princess, how long did he last?"

"Between the furious picket lines, their own newspaper articles claiming he was shaming their culture, his being declared as having voluntarily descended to prey, and everything else which came with it? A week." The Princess seemed to be doing something which was almost repressing a snicker. "And then he looked carefully at his critical error, examined it from every possible angle -- before deciding his solution was to simply render it into a photo negative..."

She giggled, and it couldn't have been anything else.

"He's an idiot!" Crossing howled. "An idiot who can't learn! Who just found a new way to make the exact same mistake!"

"Yes," Luna agreed. "Since he already so clearly echoes much of our own population, shall I wave aside the five years and declare him a citizen immediately?" And before that could sink in, "Oh -- yes, I have neglected to mention the mascot. Do you recall the fearmongering we skipped over earlier? I can tell you now that it tried to link into the persistent rumor that not only would most griffons welcome pony meat on their table, some give in to their horrific natures and do so on the sly. False, of course, but ponies believe what they wish in the face of all evidence to the contrary, and one can seldom prove a negative. Well, for his farmer's market, he felt that the perfect representative image would be a pony, one with eyes which came out a little on the glazed side. Which he placed within a tray of mixed vegetables, with the front half of its body sticking out... and an apple stuffed in its mouth. An image which those griffon citizens of Protocera who just happen to be ponies had some small amount of disagreement with..."

It shouldn't have been funny. It should have been an image to banish into Tartarus, locked away forever. Instead, it sent them both into gales of laughter, Luna's forehooves helplessly pounding against her throne, Crossing's field massaging his own aching ribs, and it went on for a very long time.

Finally, Crossing forced himself back to his hooves. Looked up at the throne. Waited.

"You did not ask after the exact nature of the business he meant to open," the Princess said. It was a statement.

He hung his head. "I didn't."

"Your reasons?"

"I don't have a good one." Best to be let go after a good laugh and in full honesty. "I was tired... I got to work too early, I'd been galloping around all day, I talked myself into thinking what was on the paperwork was all there had to be because I just -- wanted to go home..."

He couldn't look at her, and found his attention on the silver inlays within the floor.

There was a sound of hoofsteps. Then there was a shoe gleaming. And a dark field shot through with stars gently tilting his head up to face her.

"You work too many hours," she said, "in a department with too little staff, trying to find solutions for far more wildly differing sentients than a single pony should ever be asked to handle. You are allowed to be tired, Crossing. You put too much on yourself... and I have not allocated enough towards you in the name of relieving that burden. To that degree, the fault is mine."

She looked at him for a moment. The field released his chin.

"You are not fired," she told him. "No matter what some of the newspapers might wish, in spite of everything Mrs. Panderaghast demands... you will remain at your post. And we will see about finding you additional help. But for now... we have a problem to solve."

She trotted back to the throne, settled in again.

"The riot came, but it was not intentionally created," the Princess said. "There were some minor injuries, but we were lucky in that yours are the worst of the lot. Your Mister Gristle has some wealth: inherited, as I understand it. He should be able to settle any minor civil suits and pay the fine with ease. There will be no criminal trial in his future, no matter how loudly some ponies might scream. And with that in mind... how do we help him to stay where he is?"

Crossing, just starting into the recovery phase for the last group of statements, barely summoned a blink. "Princess... I know he's stupid and I still know it's not always something to throw someone out over, but to keep him in that location... there are real problems. I helped hold the line to keep anything from happening to his shop and I'm glad he's got thick glass, but if he stays right there..."

"We shame them," Luna said, and it was another statement. "As the griffons give some degree of shame to those who, in a better world, would have grown up among their own species. There are no laws which required the two extant butcher shops to operate in the smallest of the dark places, with enchantments to muffle even the scents inside the shop should somepony other than Sizzler somehow find themselves within and be offended. To have space for so little stock. For their customers to hide away when they consume. I once attended a barbecue during a peacetime. I could not consume a single thing they were preparing, I could barely stand the smells... and so I simply listened to the laughter involved in a grand family gathering conducted under Moon, and the love which flowed within. We have families here, and we deny them that joy. Operate only in the dark so that we will not have to see you. For your habits nauseate us -- or is it you doing that with your presence?"

"But... it's a real reaction... they shouldn't have to feel like they have to hide away, but the way we respond..."

"After the first hour," Luna continued, "I could still smell the meat. I simply did not care. The company was worth staying. And after two... Crossing, we can adjust if we wish to. But I am not so foolish as to demand that an entire settled zone change their beliefs at once, especially with so many ponies within incapable of the act because the only thing moving through their so-called minds is rhetoric."

He sank to his haunches, listened.

"The criminal charges which shall not materialize, the civil suits... those can be dealt with, and legally so," she said. "We can use a variation on the concealment illusions which hide private areas from those who are not authorized to perceive them, tune it so that only those who consume meat will see the windows as being clear... and additionally, Sizzler. Another scent-masking enchantment can be applied at door and vents. And by the Moon, somepony might be able to make him understand that that mascot must be taken down immediately, before the first cattle wanders past it, which may have been our greatest piece of luck to date. Those citizens of Equestria and residents who simply happen not to be ponies and require meat in their diet... they have every right to as much variety and joy in their meals as we find in ours. A shop only dark to those who might be troubled by it -- but one fully in the open. That is the most compromise I am willing to offer those who protest."

"It won't stop the picket signs," Crossing said. "Or the articles, or anything else. Murdocks might get bored with the story after a while, especially if something else happened -- but CUNET has the resources to keep ponies there full-time. We could keep police there constantly to prevent incidents, but that's pulling resources away from other areas, and the first time we get something which has to pull them away..."

"We can guard the shop short-term," Luna agreed. "But not in perpetuity. We cannot make everypony accept its presence. I can suggest places to purchase an assortment of security spells along with the rest, provide some protection -- but that is still no guarantee. We must find a way to make even the angriest protestors leave Mister Gristle be. For he is stupid, I will not argue that -- but in his idiocy, he has made a point. The ponies of the Republic should not be shamed -- the griffons and sundry of Equestria have equal right to a fine dinner. I know poor Yapper would feel better about her new life if she could simply bite into a steak once in a while, instead of being forced to visit pet stores... and what does that say?"

No matter what a certain newspaper writer might claim, it was foolish for Crossing to hate himself, as he was no part of the problem and was trying to provide part of the solution. It still felt as if it took a small effort to escape the emotion. "That it's time to change," he realized. "So how are you going to make it work?"

"By asking you about your own ideas," Luna replied. "For at the moment, I have none."

They both sat and thought for a time. Nothing came of it.

[/hr]

The police had set up barricades in front of the butcher shop, along with maintaining a presence there under Moon. They were bundled up against the winter chill, marching back and forth in front of the door -- pausing only to make sure anyone who wished to enter could, because the place had remained open for the night shift. After all, it had lost so many hours during the day.

Several pegasi were at work overhead, desperately trying to induce a short-term change in Canterlot's airflow patterns. It was currently creating a significant downdraft, and Crossing felt his fur ruffle as he approached, trying to take a few last deep, halfway-clean breaths.

The picketers quickly spotted him.

"Corrupter!"

"Enabler!"

"Destroyer of pony culture!"

"Rounders fan!"

Two officers surged forward. "All right," the mare barked. "You've said it and you can keep saying it all you like. You can even keep marching back and forth all night: that's within your rights. But if he wants to go in --" she looked at Crossing, who nodded "-- he goes in, because that's his right. Same as the last pony who entered, and everyone else. So let him through."

Last pony. Luna's shoes, hadn't Sizzler snagged enough on the first trip?

"But this is his fault!" the rounders non-fan screamed.

"And if you block him and injure him in any way, it's your arrest --"

"-- I've got this, officer," Crossing broke in. "But -- thank you."

She looked even gruffer than the dark grey coat and near-retirement age should have allowed. "It's my job."

Crossing stared ahead, through the still-clear-to-him windows, tried to ignore what was hanging behind them. There was just enough space... "And this is mine."

He went between. The shouts of anger hit his ears as he materialized in the butcher shop.

There were two griffons browsing at the display cases, both females, one of whom he recognized as a resident alien, the other wearing the formal colors designating a member of the Republic's embassy. Gerald was busy assisting another customer --

-- a pony. Who was not Sizzler. A young adult light purple pegasus mare with a pink bow in her mane and a lightly-lashing tail.

"It's that much for shark?"

"I have to have it flown in," Gerald apologetically explained. "And even then, it's almost impossible to keep fresh. It's not as if I can stick any in the rivers and breed them there... actually, now that I think about it..."

"NO." The word emerged without Crossing's initial knowledge, but with his full post-vocalization consent.

"Oh, Mr. Guard! I'm glad you're back. Just give me a moment... so can I wrap some up for you?"

She snorted. "Might as well, I came this far for the stupid stuff and I'm not flying back with empty saddlebags..." One of which seemed to be wriggling. "Half a pound."

Crossing looked at her mark. Three dragonflies. No steak.

"Half a pound to go!" the proprietor happily agreed. "And thank you for coming to my opening --"

"-- to go," the mare harshly cut in. "Before I suffocate?" The griffon nodded and moved a fresh portion to the scales.

Crossing kept looking at the mare. Back to the wriggling saddlebag. The mare again.

"What?" she crossly demanded. "If you're thinking about asking me out, don't bother: you are way too old..."

"Where did you fly in from?"

"Ponyville. Why do you care?"

"And you came here -- just to buy?"

"I saw a late edition about this place. I have a kitten who needs a reward for proper cloud edge training. I can't catch enough trout at this time of year." Her eyes, which had started at narrow, moved towards slits. "Any problems with any of that?"

"No."

"Good. Then stop staring at me." She passed over several bits, allowed Gerald to drop the package in the non-wriggling saddlebag, glared in response to a final offer which Crossing didn't quite catch, and headed for the door. "At least getting in and out is easy. Good old reliable, loud, aggravating, incredibly stupid CUNET... not a single pegasus protester in the bunch..."

The mare exited. Crossing listened to the howls of outrage as the organization's limited membership standards effectively sabotaged itself again, then waited while the griffon females were served and took the exact same extremely effective exit route.

"So what can I help you with?" Gerald asked. "I'm sure that with your job, you have a lot of carnivore friends, Mr. Guard... I'd be happy to suggest something. For starters --" he nodded towards one of the half-carcasses hanging in the window "-- that has a particularly fine texture, not that I'd ask you to find out for yourself, of course..."

"Gerald," Crossing carefully tried, "do you understand what's going on outside?"

The griffon's feathers seemed to collapse on themselves, and claws scraped against the blood-spotted floor. "They don't want me here. The same way they didn't want me in Abattoiria. But my customers do. They did there too, Mr. Guard. I had buyers in and out all day until things got... too bad. If there had been any way to make the others go away, I know it would have worked. But I thought... that there were customers here too, ones no one really looked after, and... maybe things would be better..."

Just for a moment, Crossing wondered if Gerald had made the forms vague on purpose, tried to buy himself that much more time. And then he decided it ultimately wasn't important. "They're not leaving any time soon."

"I know," Gerald sighed. "And... the police told me what happened. Griffon children like to run away from the little produce sections screaming, pretending to be scared because they've turned into prey just from being close to so many greens and someone might catch them. I didn't think ponies would... all the ones who lived near me were just used to the smell, and... I'm sorry, Mr. Guard. I am. But this might be my last chance. I don't want to go."

Ponies used to the smell of both raw and cooked meat. Well, that was only natural: they couldn't eat the stuff, but its presence was normal to them. Normal was the thing which had happened during the last moon added to that which would happen in the next, and the ponies of the Republic had experienced a lifetime of normal. Keep the butcher shop around long enough and for all but the most angry -- CUNET -- its presence would become normal, although something would still have to be done about the smell. The palace could buy time -- but it couldn't stop the hate...

Crossing briefly wondered what the stuff smelled like when it was cooked, and if anypony in Equestria other than Sizzler even knew.

"I'm not breaking any law," Gerald pathetically said. "I wasn't at home, either... what..." and he became smaller still "...used to be home..."

Crossing looked at him. Truly looked, through eyes which had all of the lingering exhaustion shoved away.

"You can't go back," Crossing stated. "Can you?"

"They.... don't want me... I wasn't banished, not formally, but what everyone said... I thought that in Equestria, I could... start over..."

He could still smell the meat. The blood. Everything urging him to run. But it seemed a little more distant now.

Maybe he was just getting used to it.

"We'll try to keep you open," Crossing said. "The ID and the palace. But I can't make any promises, Gerald. Except for this one: if there's anything else you're not being fully open about with me, I'm going to be very angry. Is there?"

Shame now. "...I -- didn't cross the border when I said I did. I snuck over and hid for a while. Just -- watched ponies for two weeks, as much as I could without being seen. I was only trying to work things out..."

The bright eyes came up, wet with tears.

"Am I going to be deported now?"

In a heavy voice, "No."

"Oh." The griffon blinked several times, ruffled feathers until they were dry again. "Mr. Guard, would you -- like a complimentary scarf? With my mascot on it? I've been passing them out... lots of customers will be wearing them..."

"No."

[/hr]

Crossing sat on the antique rocking bench which was the jewel of his porch, stared out across the snow-covered yard and noted the section of trampled hoofprints where the last scrimmage had taken place.

One set of prints only came in twos, while a quartet had been placed by paws.

Minotaur children. Griffon children.

I'm in a rare position, and it extends to my colts and fillies. Most ponies don't get much of a chance at friends from the other species. And for the first five years, they're mostly a headache... but the ones who adjust, who make it...

...I don't have a lot of friends from the other species. None among any group of current applicants, because I have to keep that bit of distance: that's what I keep telling myself. But I still bring some of them home to meet my family, because they should get that chance... and their children play with mine, some of them come back...

We get used to each other. Unless we do everything we can not to.

Pony culture... was pony culture, the good and the bad. Why did anypony have to protect the bad?

Rounders, at least once it had been adapted for mouths and hooves, was fun.

The burst of warm air from the opening door reached him before his wife's voice. "It's too cold out here," Tarter said. "Whatever you're thinking about, either think about it inside, or contemplate it with company, Crossing. And either way, move over."

He did. Her soft coat settled against his, and the field-held brush began working through several tangles.

"I know it was a hard day," she sighed. "I know how many of them are hard. But if you want to see Sun rise over more of them to come, you have to let go..."

"I can't. Not yet. There's someone who needs me to think, Tarter. And if I can't think of something, and the Princess doesn't come up with an answer..."

"I wish I had one for you."

The clouds of their breath merged, dissipated.

"Want to know a secret?"

"If it's not a national one."

"Ponies can eat meat. In very small quantities. Please don't ask me how I learned that, but do believe it's not from personal experience."

She blinked. "I think I'll keep that one to myself. Did Mr. Gristle put out a sample serving tray in front of the shop and somepony stupid lived through a dare?"

"No. But Celestia's tail, a sample tray wouldn't have surprised me. One kick dodged."

She began to gently massage his shoulders and hips, careful to work around his backlashed injuries. "I saw the papers. All of them. I'm only bringing that up because it's a reason not to tell anypony else. Claiming the Princess has turned carnivore... if those ponies knew it was possible to eat meat, they'd call it evidence, even if everypony can do it."

"Everypony can, potentially," he nodded, and paused to emit a thankful low moan as she loosened up a tight spot. "But won't. The entire palace knows that Sizzler doesn't even taste his own dishes: he prepares on talent alone and trusts his magic to get it right. Even with him, there's a limit. Maybe he just hasn't gotten the nerve together. Or he's afraid that after his job and that smell, actually eating the stuff would be --"

No clouds frosted the air for half a minute.

"Crossing?"

"I just had the stupidest idea."

"How stupid?"

"Gristle-stupid."

She smiled, shrugged. "Better tell me anyway."

He did. And two hours later, he told somepony else.

[/hr]

The two reporters were arguing their way through the palace. There was nothing else they could have done.

"You were trying to get into her bedroom!"

"Because the public has a right to know how a Princess is spending their tax bits! If there's any unnecessary opulence, which is to say, given her horrible taste in regalia and total lack of wardrobe, any opulence at all... plus there's a consistent rumor..." a cruel snicker broke in "...that she keeps a diary..."

"The palace is self-supporting! The bits from the tours..."

"That's just what they want stupid Diarchists like you to believe. I swear, if you were any more of a sheep, your coat would be turning white and curly right now..."

There had been no formal entertainment offered for the gathering, which was already taking place far too close to midnight for nearly anypony's comfort. That meant the approaching non-discussion was it, and so those already seated in the room ahead strained their ears towards the next line.

"What's your proof?"

"The fact that they're covering up the proof! Besides, you should talk!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You're claiming to have caught me on the way into her bedroom, right?"

"Claiming? I was there! I'm a witness!"

"A Diarchist witness who can't be trusted because she'll tell any lie to protect a Princess --" There was a deep breath of countering protest waiting to be unleashed, but it didn't get any farther than that. "-- and one who in that hypothetical and clearly false situation, would still be doing what she always does: deliberately ignoring facts. Like the one which says, again hypothetically, that if I was supposedly on the way into her bedroom... then the only way you could have caught me was to be there yourself."

The argument took a five-second timeout while the excuses regrouped.

"Maybe I was there. If it means you were too."

"And did the Guards know you were going in?"

"The public has the right to know how elegantly their Lunar Princess lives. How beautiful her taste is, how simplicity can be an art form in itself --"

"-- how being a freak who's twice the size of nearly any other pony means she can't get a dress to fit anyway..."

Danger now. "Take that back."

"It's a fact."

"So it's her fault for being tall? The same way I suppose it's your fault for smelling like a brewery?"

The danger had been doubled. "I do not smell like a brewery."

"You think so?" A miniature show was made of sniffing the air, which didn't work out quite as planned. "I can usually make it out, but with whatever that wonderful scent in the air is... So let's go out in the street and find a few neutral ponies to judge, and then we can establish this as a fact..."

"Sheep!"

"That's an insult to sheep! Just what I'd expect from somepony like you!"

"You're right! The sheep are being insulted through a comparison with you!"

"...let's take this outside. Right now."

"Yeah, like a Diarchist would ever have the courage to fight..."

"Just follow me out."

"And miss the opportunity to see Her Most Royal Moonbutt humiliate herself? Not a chance."

"Then you're the one who won't fight! Coward! Hiding behind your words and never proving anything..."

"Anywhere. Any time. Except here and now."

"Tomorrow at noon."

"I'll be sleeping in."

"Outside --"

"I think not," Luna called across the threshold. "Inside, I believe, at least for now. Since you have both come this far. Ms. Spinner, that is your bench at the right edge of the table. Ms. Marshdew, please have the one towards the left. As far away from each other as possible, which seems somehow suitable."

The two unicorns, both of whom had completely lost track of just how far they'd trotted during the fight, froze.

"Anything you claim is hearsay," Wordia Spinner told the room.

"Anything you claim is a lie," Raque Marshdew overshot.

"Anything you both continue with is holding everyone else up," Luna insisted. "Both of you -- sit."

They sat.

Luna looked around the large table, which had been brought into the dining room for the occasion. "Thank you all for coming," she told the group, "and especially at such an unusual hour -- well, unusual for some of you, at least. I recognize that this is a casual lunch for myself, and required significant effort for the majority of the remainder -- excepting our representatives from the press, who are often awake polishing their stories, at least as far as the base material can be worked on at all. I understand that with some extrusions of words, that can be rather difficult..."

Both of those representatives looked at Luna. Then at each other. One immediately decided she was being insulted. The other felt she had been praised. Neither could work out exactly how.

"And now the assembly is complete," Luna declared. "Mrs. Panderaghast, it is, as always, an experience. Ms. Spinner and Ms. Marshdew... you have been asked here in your role as reporters: given the recent articles from your respective publications, I felt it was appropriate to have you both here for the follow-up."

"So why did you confiscate our notepads?" Wordia spat. "If we're supposed to be recording..."

"I wished to remove all weapons from the room before we began," Luna steadily replied. "Which included any inevitable attempt to papercut somepony to death. Simply practice your standard work of listening to me and then deciding what I said after. Now, the others at the table... Mr. Guard, who is the head of the Immigration Department. And Ambassador Gus Grindstone, who is here representing the Republic. I wish to extend a particular welcome to that last... I understand he is new to the post and has only dealt with my sister for the whole two nights he has been in Canterlot, so this is my first chance to meet him. A pleasure, sir."

"The same, lady..."

They stood, extended one wing each, briefly intermeshed feathers. Mrs. Panderaghast quickly looked away.

"I hear they have parasites in there," she whispered to Wordia, who was on her immediate right. "They bring them into our country, and now the Princess has them. Did you know about that?"

"Oh, everypony will know by tomorrow..." Wordia delightedly hissed back.

Luna cleared her throat. The attention of the group focused in that direction. "This meeting concerns some recent difficulties with a new arrival to the realm," she announced. "I believe all of you are familiar with the -- let us call it a stir -- which Gerald Gristle has created in Canterlot. Correct?" They all nodded, which was one of only two things they would agree on all night. "And I also believe, mares of the group, that the three of you each, in a rare show of mutual contemplation, put some focus on the consumption of meat in your discussions. There was a thought that ponies are simply prejudiced against the substance, and would change their minds should they venture to try it..."

Raque rushed into the gap. "Absolutely! You know, Princess, most of what so many ponies see as culture is just bias and hatred solidified into tradition. There's no real reason for it!"

Mrs. Panderaghast snorted, and sounded as if she wished to do considerably more.

"...and another which, if translated from the suggestive, seems to feel I live on a diet of the stuff."

It was Wordia's turn. "Well, I suppose it would be possible for somepony to read that into it, if they were deliberately looking to distort everything and came to what's clearly a completely wrong personal interpretation..."

Luna rolled her eyes, which displayed edges gone very slightly to white. Wordia shut up.

"There is a certain tension in the air," Luna said. "You have all been up too late, and I have yet to have lunch, which is why I asked that the meeting take place here. Not that I know if you are all hungry, but that wondrous scent in the air is certainly giving me an appetite..."

Which triggered the second and last group agreement of the meeting.

"I compliment your chef," Ambassador Grindstone declared, "and that is before I ever taste the dish."

"I've never smelled anything like that!" Mrs. Panderaghast decided. "It's exclusive royal food, isn't it? For Princesses only? The most refined of tastes!"

Crossing nodded, and left it at that.

"It'll be wonderful," Raque smiled. "It comes from the palace and the Lunar staff, the finest kitchen in Equestria... how could it be anything else?"

"I'll certainly try it," Wordia grumped. "Just because it can't taste as good as it smells and somepony had better give it a proper review. False advertising..." She peered down at the china. "Looks expensive. And that isn't the old pattern. How much did this cost?"

"I am certain I do not know," Luna calmly replied. "Perhaps I will wake my sister in the middle of the night and make the inquiry later, with appropriate credit. So... here we are, and the subject of the night is Mister Gristle. I have read your articles and opinions, for those who composed them. I have spoken to Mr. Guard and gained his perspective on the situation, and I have also consulted the ambassador. But within all that, I fully understand that the butcher shop is disrupting the normal flow of life within the city. This meeting is the first step towards correcting that."

"So you're making the Republic take him back?" Mrs. Panderaghast hopefully asked. "Immediately?"

"Not quite."

"All right," Wordia started. "Maybe because somepony seems to have ordered an override of the justified criminal charges, he can't be deported just yet, but surely even the Diarchy sees the need to move his so-called establishment somewhere ponies won't have to deal with it..."

"Again... not quite," Luna smiled.

"You're smiling," Wordia noted.

"Your point?"

"I've seen that smile before..."

"Yes, I am sure you have. I smile more often than most would believe."

Raque brightened. "So the palace will support Mister Gristle? Because he's the victim in this, Princess! I've been looking into things and I have reason to believe that riot may have been started on purpose -- by ponies, Wordia -- and once you hear how I'm seeing things, you'll --"

"-- at the moment," Luna cut in, "as that agreed-as-wonderful smell is definitely on the approach, I believe I will eat. We will proceed from there."

Several ponies trotted into the dining room, led by a rather young pegasus mare. "Princess." Multiple fields floated dome-covered dishes into their proper settings behind the china. "Whenever you're ready to start."

Everypony (and griffon) took a deep, tantalized breath and held it.

"I believe I will serve, Anise, if only so that nopony has the etiquette dilemma of beginning before or after me," Luna told the head chef. "You shall return later for your honors, of course."

The light green mare nodded and trotted out, with the rest of the staff following. A liquid-red unicorn was the last pony out.

"So," Luna said, "let us eat..."

Stars surrounded six domes, and the dark blue field lifted them as one.

The scent wafted up. So did the steam.

The sight hit them all last, and once it did, everything else stopped mattering.

"So what are you all waiting for?" Luna smiled. "All may now dig in!"

Four ponies stared at their perfectly-seared steaks.

"Does the seasoning not smell wonderful?" the Princess continued. "Sizzler is admittedly a unique sort of artist, but art remains what he produces..."

Nopony moved. Ambassador Grindstone lowered his beak to within a quarter-hoofwidth of the plate, took a deep breath. He blinked twice, then smiled. "Any time you want to release him to the embassy, Princess..."

"Oh, I believe we shall retain him," Luna said. "It is rather harder for us to replace such a talent, especially given my own diet and his particular mark only emerging once per generation. Why is everypony waiting? For that matter, Ambassador, whenever you are ready..."

The ambassador took a large bite. Chewed slowly, taking his time, and swallowed with visible reluctance to let the beakful depart from his tongue. "I can't speak for you, Ms. Spinner -- but at least to this beak, it tastes exactly as good as it smells."

Luna's expression wore nothing but open pride at the accomplishments of her staff. "Of course it does -- Ms. Marshdew, why have you not begun? Is this not what you wanted? Partake, please, and in doing so, let the misunderstandings dissipate."

"What... I wanted?"

"You wished everypony to change their diet for a week, did you not? Or did I somehow misinterpret those words?"

"Yes... but..."

"I eat this all the time."

The mares blinked.

"You... eat this... all the time?" Wordia just barely got out.

Steadily, "My freakish height requires an equally freakish amount of protein."

Wordia seemed to have missed part of it. "I was -- I was right? I wasn't -- I didn't -- I never thought -- Princess, I just remembered something I left in my apartment, I have to gallop back right now and --"

Luna's field surrounded the door, followed by the windows, and finished with the air vents as a precautionary measure. Every aperture into and out of the room, regardless of actual size, slammed shut.

"After lunch," the Princess firmly said. "Which will be the first of many."

The mares stared at her. Then at their plates. Back to her.

The ambassador continued to happily munch away.

"...first of many?" Mrs. Panderaghast looked as if she was about to faint.

"Well, dietary laws are the domain of the Night Court," Luna noted. "You may not remember that. Nopony seems to. So I plan to introduce a law requiring everypony to live on this for a week. And then we will all understand each other so very much better, will we not? So -- all together now..."

"What's keeping you?" the ambassador asked through a mouthful of food. "It doesn't get any more wondrous after it cools off!"

Raque now, rather weakly. "Princess... I may have been thinking of a -- symbolic gesture..."

"And I am not," Luna told her. "For to be effective, symbols should be made real. Ms. Spinner, come now... we are all eating the same thing! Surely it must delight you to witness this? Think of the story you will gain! I wonder who will file it first? Likely the one who completes her plate before the other, as nopony will leave until they have eaten..."

Wordia stared down at her plate. The horror was still in her eyes -- but there was something else there now, and it was making its way towards the non-pointed teeth. Opportunity.

"We'll all eat?"

"Together," Luna agreed.

Mrs. Panderaghast had nearly sagged all the way through her bench. "I don't -- I can't..."

Wordia's field nudged her. "It's what the palace wants," the reporter said. "It's what we can see the palace wants..."

The older mare's head came up. She managed the smallest of nods.

"Mr. Guard, I know I have your trust, do I not?" He nodded. "And Ms. Marshdew... surely you of all ponies would never wish to be the last at a table who could be accused of prejudice?"

"I -- Princess, I believe in you and whatever you want us to do, I have faith, I swear I do, but -- this is..." And went pale before Luna's steady gaze. "...exactly what Equestria needs..."

"Then we have waited long enough!" Luna enthusiastically proclaimed. "I certainly have. So, by royal order this time, we all proceed as one. Nopony waits for any other. We take our first bites as a unit. Snouts down, everypony, on my count, and when I say 'three', we eat. And should you not... well, it was a royal order, so let us not follow that thought, especially since nopony here will betray it while I am watching them."

Four snouts slowly dipped towards the Plates Of Doom.

"One -- two --"

Mouths inched towards the contents. Teeth parted.

"-- three."

They bit.

The camera flashed.

Three mare heads came up. All still had the food in their mouths and in their haste to clear the passage, the trio instinctively swallowed -- which triggered another flash.

"What -- what are you doing?" Mrs. Panderaghast gasped.

"Recording a special moment in Equestria's history," Luna calmly replied, securing the camera in a bubble of field near the ceiling. "I realize that normally falls to the press, but since those were confiscated as well..."

"You're recording us?" Wordia shouted.

"Why, yes. You do it to me all the time. I thought I would see what it felt like. It is actually rather appealing."

Raque's snout dipped towards her plate again.

The rest of the room's occupants stopped whatever they were doing, watched her. Her teeth nipped off another piece. and she chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.

"You're -- you're sick," Wordia declared. "I always knew there was something wrong with you, and that was just from what you believe. And you, Princess... you're a monster, you're eating this and you'll make us all into monsters just like you, you're a new kind of Nightmare, you consume --"

"-- it's soy."

They all stared at Raque, who had followed her words by going down for another bite. Then at Luna.

"I did say I ate it all the time," the Princess calmly decreed. "It's very healthy and can be flavored in a variety of ways, along with being shaped into just about any appearance one might desire. I felt decreeing that everypony try it for a week would aid the farmers who grow it. Was there some confusion?"

"What are you trying to pull?" All of Wordia's strength had come back at once. "You wanted to make us eat soy? What kind of trick --"

"-- it is a vanishing trick." Luna looked at Mrs. Panderaghast. "I am about to make your protestors disappear. And you will keep them away, Mrs. Panderaghast. You will, in fact, do everything you can to make that butcher shop completely safe from all attack. And you, Ms. Spinner, your articles on the topic shall evaporate. For you see, I now have in my possession film which has recorded you an image of you both eating something which others, including those who follow you, might just choose to interpret as meat. Of course, I would not say such a thing. I would simply distribute the images of our fine lunch together and let ponies -- draw their own conclusions, something Ms. Spinner would surely argue I could never be blamed for. Has either of you ever heard that at many times, those who protest an act the loudest are the ones most likely to practice it in secret? I'm sure you have -- in fact, I believe I recall that philosophy appearing in articles and letters alike. Will your followers recall it as well? I wonder what that would do to readership and donations. Surely it would never drive anypony to follow another..."

Raque continued to munch at the soy, occasionally watching the other mares.

"This is blackmail," Wordia said.

"It is photography. As your Press Corps continues to remind me every time I complain about an image you have captured of me without my awareness or permission, what I do with the results, as the holder of that copyright, is my business. Why should there be a separate set of film standards for the palace? If I wish to print a one-sheet with the picture and fly over Canterlot letting it fall wherever it may... That is the lesson you took such great care to teach me, Ms. Spinner. My thanks for the education."

Mrs. Panderagahst thrust herself away from the table. She went to all four hooves in a single bound, and her eyes flashed the purest of hate.

"Your -- your sister would never do anything like this!"

"Then it is to everypony's benefit that I have Returned," Luna peacefully said. "Or in this instance, everyone's. Believe me, Mrs. Panderaghast, this was only one of many things I might one night have a mind to do. Please try to remember that."

"You -- you are not a proper unicorn!"

"Good."

Wordia stood up.

"May we leave, Princess?" she hissed. "If you feel we're quite finished with our meal? Your precious soy with that new and wonderful smell, the smell of cooked meat..."

"Ms. Spinner," Luna smiled as her field released the doors, "how would anypony at this table possibly know what cooked meat smelled like?"

The mare's face flushed with rage, and she galloped from the dining room. A fuming Mrs. Panderaghast slammed the door behind them.

Raque finished her plate.

"That was brilliant, Princess! Wait until you see tomorrow's article! Everypony will see just how smart you really are! I know this is going to change some opinions, just you wait! I'm going to get writing immediately --"

"-- you will keep this quiet."

"But -- the citizens should know..."

"Which, for the purpose of Mister Gristle's safety, is counterproductive, for the other two would no longer have anything left to lose."

A very small "Oh," was followed by "I see now! It's all part of the plan..."

"Ms. Marshdew?"

"Princess?"

Luna stood up.

Her mane and tail flowed at speed. The sheer height of the junior Princess cast her shadow across the entire table, and her presence loomed over the world.

"Eating meat for a week would make everypony horribly sick," her voice boomed. "And there is no such thing as a griffon orphan, not for more than a day. Use the time you would have spent reporting on this to do proper research. I will have somepony let you into the Canterlot Archives. And then you will compose a correction, which I expect to see in your next edition. Do you understand?"

"Princess... I would be honored to spread the truth."

"Yes, that would make for a refreshing change of pace."

The reporter stared at Luna, uncomprehending.

"Leave," voice, white eyes, and fast-flow all commanded together.

Raque left. Luna settled back to her bench.

"Mister Grindstone, my thanks," she smiled. "Should any of those three somehow have doubted that as being meat, nothing convinced them faster than a griffon tucking in -- especially an actor who knew how to look as if he was truly enjoying his food."

The performer chuckled. "My pleasure, Princess. How did you know none of them would be aware who the current ambassador was?"

"Because there was a change recently and the replacement has yet to arrive. Also, they are reporters. I do not expect them to be informed, and I have yet to be disappointed." She turned to Crossing. "Do you feel we may have solved the issue?"

"I think so, Princess," he said. "We'll have to watch out for independent operators for a while, and there's always going to be some fanatic who wants to make a stupid statement, or at least a statement of their own stupidity. But without the press and CUNET backing them, the loudest voices will just fade out. A little police patrol in the area every night, when they're around looking after the high-end stores anyway, place all the spells you talked about, and in a few moons, the butcher shop will be -- normal."

"And by then, you may be able to talk Mr. Gristle into changing his mascot? And excepting those owners who somehow see them as collector's items, we will have gotten most of the scarves back, which will stop the local cattle from swarming the place?"

"I hope." He didn't have that much of it.

"Well... one hoofstep at a time." Her snout went down, and she took a bite. Swallowed. "The Lunar Kitchen truly did outdo itself this time... Crossing?"

"Princess?"

"You still have not touched your plate."

"I know."

"Yours is still not zirolak steak. I did not sneak any level of prank in."

"I understand, Princess. It's just that..."

His left forehoof scraped across the edge of the table, like the bashful colt he'd been a seeming lifetime ago.

"Yes?" Luna asked.

"...I hate soy..."

"Give it a week."

Author's Note

Title suggested by GroaningGreyAgony