Air

Chapters

Part 2 of 4
Part 3 of 4
Part 4 of 4
Epilogue
Part 1 of 4

Part 2 of 4

It was impossible to explain what it was like to be airborne. When nothing lay below, and nothing above. Hurtling into open space, the sunlight shimmered through the shards of broken window as Pound Cake hovered in the air. For a brief second, everything was perfectly still.

And then he was falling.

Shrieking with the shrill wail of shattering glass, death took Pound Cake by the throat and cast him downwards into the gaping, toothless maw of the Canterlot streets.

The furious wind stung the pegasus’s eyes as he plummeted in a dizzying spiral. Roaring in his ears, it whistled and shrieked in blind rage. The streets below spun chaotically before his eyes, the white concrete and blue horizon swirling together. Flailing his hooves desperately, Pound Cake tried to reach something, anything. Stretching a hoof, he grabbed fruitlessly for the rushing surface of the Capitol Building that lay centimeters out of his reach.

The wind lashed at his mane, tearing at it and tugging at his feathers. Falling faster, the ground drawing closer, an instinct caught Pound Cake’s heart. It leaped into his primaries and tightened his muscles. Bracing himself, he threw his wings open.

Immediately, they peeled backwards against the cascade of furious wind. The air sliding past them fruitlessly, the stallion almost seemed to fall faster. Acting on pure instinct, he threw his head upwards, willing himself to take control. His wings, weak with disuse, failed to force themselves into position.

“Come on... come on!” the stallion screamed at himself, kicking his hooves in a frenzied panic. His wings quivered from the roaring blast of air. Summoning his last ounce of strength as the ground raced ever closer, Pound Cake hollered into the deafening gust and threw his head back once more. His hooves tucked inwards.

“Come... on!”

Pound Cake’s wings were nearly torn from their sockets as they caught the air and arched him skyward in a dizzying curve. Shooting forward from the momentum, the streets fell away and the sky grew to meet him. Before the straw colored pony could cheer, he felt the air throb and thicken. A lump fell in his throat. Shooting his eyes across the skyline, he locked onto the closest possible rooftop. He angled his wings, guiding his glide towards it. If he could only...

The air rumbled and erupted with electricity, and Pound Cake screamed as bolts of crackling lightning seared his fur. His muscles burned and ached, the current sending his neurons into a frenzy. Pound Cake’s face twisted into a pained grimace. The world lurched as his flight wobbled and sweat poured down his brow. Forcing himself to keep focused, he plummeted towards the rooftop, his feathers twitching with every electrical jolt.

His body screamed for him to give up, to fold his wings and fall into the comforting embrace of the ground below. The violet lightning crackled again, blackening his fur where it struck and tearing through his flesh. Every second was a fight for consciousness. The rooftop was so close...

Spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed, Pound Cake tucked his wings to his body and let himself fall. In an instant, the pain ceased, the lightning vanished. The fried nerves of his body became mercifully numb, but the relief was ephemeral. The pony struck the hard concrete rooftop. Cringing, the pegasus rolled head over hooves, tired limbs striking the mortar painfully. His fur ground against the coarse stone, burning his seared body further. And then, it was all over.

Pound Cake lay on the ground, immobile. His breath coming in short, pained gasps, he curled his legs to his body as slowly as his twitching muscles would allow. Under the cruelly bright sun, he let the tears flow, every pang of pain from torn skin, burnt feather, and strained muscle taking its course through his body. Pound Cake coughed and groaned weakly, rolling onto his back. His hazel eyes squinted in the light of the blue sky. Every muscle sore, he let his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling irregularly. A brief smile crossed his face, and he laughed slightly. Alive. He was alive.

You’re practically all I have left.

Rolling onto his hooves, Pound Cake cringed as his body begged him to return to his reprieve, to rest, to let the sun toast his fur and lull him to sleep. His legs trembled as he rose upright, and the stallion gasped involuntarily as another jolt shot down the back of his hind leg.

Placing a hoof to his earpiece, he pressed the button and waited for the familiar hiss of static. He frowned. Tapping it again to no avail, Pound Cake sighed and tossed the useless piece of equipment aside. He quickly opened his saddlebag, finding the precious documents to be unscathed. With a lopsided gait, the runner gauged his direction, and set off at a slow trot, his aching leg folding in an all-too-familiar limp.

***

“It’s been three hours, for crying out loud!” Scootaloo’s nervous voice was muffled through the concrete as Pound Cake dragged himself up the ladder to the hideout. Her pacing rattled the metallic trapdoor above as she passed over it once more.

“Just give him a little time, Scoots,” he heard Derpy reassure, presumably from the comfort of her swivel chair. “I’m sure he has a good reason.”

“Whatever the ‘good reason’ is, it doesn’t explain why he won’t answer his damn radio! Did you try calling again?”

“Yeah, still nothing.”

As Pound Cake seized the last rung and reached for the hatch, he heard an unexpected voice punctuate the conversation.

“Ten minutes,” Rainbow Dash asserted in a husky voice, “Ten minutes and we go looking for him. I’ll turn Canterlot upside down if I have to.” There was silence. Never in his life had he heard Rainbow Dash speak that way. The somber alcoholic had always been distant and aloof. Pound Cake held the rung of the ladder and rested his chin against the cold metal, waiting. For a long time no one spoke, until finally Derpy fumbled an uncomfortable answer.

“Dash... maybe he... you know. Maybe it’s time to accept that--”

Pound Cake pushed the hatch aside and popped his head through the hole. The conversation stopped, and the three mares stared at him. Ignoring their stares, he stood and brushed off some soot on his foreleg. Sighing, the resolute stallion on collapsed to his haunches.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said flatly.

Scootaloo and Derpy stared at the stallion, mouth agape and dumb with silence. The only sound to be heard was the static gibbering of the radio on Derpy’s desk. Rainbow Dash’s tailed bristled indignantly. Violet eyes flaring, the sky-blue mare stomped angrily, sticking her face in his.

“Where in Equestria have you been? Do you have any idea at all how many times we’ve tried to call you? You didn’t even tell us where you were going, you featherbrain! For all we know, you could’ve been...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes lowered to the meek stallion’s singed fur and bruised legs. She immediately recognized the scorch marks, and her eyes became steely and questioning. Grabbing him, she spread one of his wings with her hoof and looked from the blackened tips back to him.

The runner stallion sighed feebly and tried to dismiss her piercing stare. “Look, Rainbow, I know this looks bad, but I’ve had a really bad day, and I just want to--”

The cyan mare cut him off. “Alright,” she said flatly, a bitter tone creeping into her voice. “Now you’re going to start explaining, or Celestia help me, I will hit you so hard you’re going to be eating hay through a straw.”

Pound Cake had known Rainbow Dash since he had been just a colt. He knew her greatest moments of joy, the way her voice cracked as she squealed in excitement. He knew her darkest and most somber of lows, the drunken spluttering and moaning and the fits of booze-fueled rage that resulted in shattered glass and sleepless nights as Pound Cake would lie in his cot, pretending he couldn’t hear her. So he knew by the fierce edge in her glare that she would very well follow up on her threat.

The stallion exhaled slowly, the tension from the day seemingly leaking out of every pore in his body. He let his knees go weak and fell to his haunches. With an exhausted sigh, Pound Cake told them his story. The three mares stayed silent, with Rainbow Dash and Scoots listening with rapt attention and Derpy absently tapping her hoof against the seat of her chair. When Pound Cake admitted to having a cracked phone, Rainbow Dash’s eye twitched slightly. Thankfully, her hooves stayed on the ground rather than around his neck. He spared no detail, from his entry of the Capitol, to his finding of Fancypants’ cadaver, to his rather dicey exit.

When he mentioned the documents found on the deceased magistrate’s desk, Derpy piped up and snagged the dossier from Pound Cake. With a nod, she promised him that she would work on deciphering the encrypted file. Pound Cake reclined and exhaled harshly. Having retold what had happened to him was as if he had done it again himself. For a long time, none of them spoke. The only voice was the rhythmic babble of the radio.

As if the fates were testing him, a special bulletin suddenly crackled from the speakers of the dilapidated box. The bubbly tone of the on-air DJ was suddenly spliced by the weary mumble of a newsmare. Derpy opened her mouth to say something, but was abruptly hushed by Scootaloo and Rainbow Dash.

“Fillies and gentlecolts of Canterlot, Equestria, and the world, a great tragedy has befallen us,” started the voice, trembling slightly. “Three hours ago, at four in the afternoon, authorities discovered the body of Governor Fancypants in his office.”

The newsmare stopped for a moment. Pound Cake stared numbly into space as the static ripple of the radio waves fell silent. Inhaling forcefully, the newsmare resumed her grim tiding.

“Governor Fancypants, aged 47, was assassinated within his apartments by a gryphon spy, who has since been apprehended and has been taken to a secure location within the Canterlot Detionary, where she will await trial for her crimes. The responding agents captured the assassin after a heated firefight within the Capitol building as she tried to flee with her pegasus conspirator. This individual, believed to be an elicit smuggler, is currently wanted by the Canterlot Civil Defense. They are encouraging all citizens to be on the lookout for this dangerous, renegade--”

“That’s enough of that,” barked Scootaloo, exasperated, “turn that garbage off.” Derpy complied, and the mare was cut off as the vitriol in her voice began to escalate.

Pound Cake stopped for a moment, and closed his eyes. This wasn’t a dream anymore, he told himself. This was really happening. The world as he knew it was falling apart around him. His only family was being framed for a crime she didn’t commit, and the hatred of all of Equestria was now burdened upon his shoulders. As the three mares watched him expectantly, he wondered how easy it would be to just fall over, collapse, and just never get up. Rainbow Dash opened her mouth, and closed it again, at a loss for words. Never before had that happened. Scootaloo simply stared awkwardly at her hooves, while Derpy fumbled with the crumpled papers.

This was really happening. His world was falling apart.

Standing slowly, head low, Pound Cake trotted past Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo. They parted slightly to let the forlorn pony creep away into his small bedroom, sliding the curtain shut behind him. Curling up onto his cot, he stared at his ratty night table. It was bare, he thought. Not even the slightest photograph or momento. Nothing to remember her by.

***

The metal is so cold. It freezes his hooves as he stands there, silent and unmoving, just another faceless mask among the rows of others. Anonymous, unfeeling, unknowing.

Not his responsibility, not his fault. Just doing his job. Just doing his job.

Just another face among the masses, just another pony lining up along the wall. Just another hole in the bitterly frozen pockmarked surface. Just another cold body in the cold air. The line faces the single pony as a blindfold is offered to her. Unspeaking, she refuses. Her eyes, her crystal eyes that somehow escape the numbing, biting frost bore into his.

Just doing his job. Don’t need an excuse. Not his fault. Why is it so damn cold?

The line hears a voice, and as one their horns glow as their weapons rise, a tarnished smear of blackness in the blank canvas of concrete and steel. They click and clatter, like the fangs of chitinous creatures gnawing with their hard carapace. Like beetles of death. The firing squad is ready.

Why is it so damn cold and why can he use magic?

The pony against the wall doesn’t look away. Her eyes are vibrant and shining, seared with a fiery determination that makes her body fight the fangs of the piercing cold. They stare at him, unblinking and accusing. He sees himself through her wide pupils.

He is the same blackness as the weapons, and his red eyes are made of glass.

Pumpkin Cake mouths something, but the sound is lost in a deafening roar as Pound Cake feels himself pull the trigger.

***

Pound Cake didn’t scream as he jerked awake. Staring at the wall, his eyes dilated with primal fear, he felt cold sweat pouring down the back of his neck. Slowly, the stallion forced himself to sit upright. He felt his wings twitching nervously, his primaries flared and poised for flight, driven by a shrieking instinct that commanded he fly away as fast as he could. Panting hard, Pound Cake put his head in his hooves. Slowly, the silent stillness of the night calmed his racing heart. The warm air cooled his fur, slick with perspiration.

A nightmare. Nothing more, nothing less.

But Pound Cake couldn’t shake the feeling of something being wrong. Trembling, he pushed away his covers and staggered upright. He couldn’t bear to look at his cot. Where was Pumpkin Cake right now? What cold cell was she wasting away in as he lay here and slept soundly?

The stallion brushed away the curtain, slipping his head through the threshold of his room, and looked around. Everypony had gone to sleep. Scootaloo’s room was darkened and silent. Derpy’s computer was still on, and its owner was soundly asleep, snoring lightly with her head on the keyboard. Her gray fur and blond mane was bathed in an eerie blue light. But for some reason, it wasn’t the only glow in the darkness. To his right, a nearly imperceptible golden light leaked from beneath the curtain of Rainbow Dash’s room. Looking from it to the snoozing slate-colored pegasus, Pound Cake crept towards the doorway, and poked his nose inside.

The mare wasn’t asleep in a drunken heap, as she usually was. Instead, she was sitting upright on the edge of her tattered mattress, a candle cozily burning beside her. In her hooves, catching the warm glow with its cracked glass, was the photograph Rainbow Dash was always brooding over. Her fading chromatic mane hung over her eyes as she rubbed the image forlornly. Gently, Pound Cake knocked a hoof against the frame of the door. With a start, Rainbow Dash looked up at him. Her brow furrowed with confusion.

“Pound Cake...? What are you doing up so late?” she muttered. The stallion shrugged uncomfortably.

“Bad dream,” he said simply. Rainbow Dash looked down and nodded awkwardly.

“About Pumpkin?” she finally asked after a saturated silence.

Pound Cake hesitated, then nodded, answering with a hoarse “yes”. Rainbow Dash nodded again. She seemed uncomfortable, being caught like this. She fiddled with the photograph, and her feathers rustled slightly. It was a nervous tick of hers. Usually it came moments before she reached for a drink. And indeed, she was eyeing an unopened bottle beside her crippled hind leg. Before she could think of taking the glass container into her hooves, Pound Cake slowly walked over and sat down beside her, the mattress creaking as it adjusted to the added weight. Swinging his legs unconsciously, Pound Cake stared off at nowhere in particular and asked:

“Has it always been this hard? You know... all this. Canterlot. Equestria. Before the war?”

Rainbow Dash chuckled slightly, pushing a lock of her desaturated mane out of her eyes. “No... I can tell you that much. Equestria was a much different place around the time you were born. There wasn’t a Civil Defense, there wasn’t the slightest problem with anything. Of course, you had your occasional manticore attacks, or some sort of ‘magical catastrophe’. No big deal. But never...” She sighed again. “Never anything like this.”

Her eyes glazed over wistfully as she looked upward. Almost as if she could see the sky through the thick layers of concrete and dirt, a light in her eyes glimmered. “Back then, ponies like you and me had a place. A job to do. We cleared the skies, and we got respect for it. More or less. You should’ve seen how fast I could go, how easy it was to kick those clouds away. But then the war started, and things started to change pretty fast.”

Rainbow Dash looked down again. The luster in her eyes was gone, replaced instead by the usual dimness of her black pupils. She hugged the photograph a little closer to herself, and continued, almost as if she couldn’t help herself.

“The Princesses went to war with the gryphons... I still remember that news article, practically word for word. I read it so many times over, I just didn’t believe it. The gryphons had attacked Fillydelphia. Went so fast from there. The army went to meet them, we evacuated out of Ponyville, brought to Canterlot. Then the magic field, Cloudsdale seceding from Equestrian rule and drifting off to Celestia knows where...”

Pound Cake didn’t look Rainbow Dash in the eyes, but listened with rapt attention, drinking in every word of her tale. It had been a long time since Rainbow Dash had talked so much. Her wings, once fluttering with excitement as she imagined herself tearing through the broad blue skies had fallen still against her torso. Pound Cake stared at the photograph in his teacher’s hooves. It was funny. Despite all these years, he’d never asked about it. It was simply always there, just some strange idol, a symbol of familiarity, that existed on the fringes of his life. He could remember Rainbow Dash staring at it, screaming at it, or ignoring it entirely. And yet, from colt to stallion, he had never challenged its existence.

“Dash...” asked Pound Cake, looking her in the eyes through her tangled mane, “Who are these ponies?”

The mere caught her breath sharply. She’d known the question was coming. It had always been there, waiting, but never daring to step forth into the light. It was just easier for her to pretend that it wasn’t really there, that it would never dare creep from its crevice. Pound Cake waited, and let the stagnant words hang in the air, plucking at Rainbow Dash’s thoughts as she vainly tried to push them away. But the beast wouldn’t let up. Voice quivering, she answered.

“These were... are my friends.”

Pound Cake looked at her sincerely. “Tell me about them,” he said, curious.

Rainbow Dash sighed, and from the other room, Derpy rolled over on her keyboard, snoring loudly. There was a long yawn, followed by a smacking of lips as she returned to sleep. With a slight smile, Rainbow Dash pointed to lavender mare in the center of the group, who regarded them with a knowing grin.

“That’s Twilight Sparkle. Real egghead. Smartest pony I’ve ever met, even if she got a little ‘lecture-y’ at times. But you know, friends forgive each other for that sort of thing. She was the Princess’s student, you know. Had to take herself seriously. When the war started... she headed off to the front with Celestia and Luna. With the kind of power she has, she’s probably been a real tank on the battlefield, I bet.” Rainbow Dash gave a wistful look to her friend immortalized in the image. Her gaze lingered before she prodded an orange mare in a stenson, winking coyly.

“Applejack... oh, man, Applejack. She was a real handful, I’ll tell you that much,” said Rainbow Dash with a reminiscent laugh, “It took about six stallions to drag her away from her farm when we got kicked out. And they didn’t get out unscratched, that’s for sure. Second best athlete in Ponyville. Right after yours truly, of course.” She let her words linger, and they became lost in silence. Pound Cake tried to fill the void.

“So what happened to her?”

Rainbow Dash’s gaze hardened again. “We went... separate ways. Along with her.” She pointed to a pale yellow pegasus, almost the same color as Pumpkin Cake. Shyly, she peered at the camera through her mop of bubble-gum pink hair. “That’s Fluttershy. A real scaredy-pony. But nicer than anypony else I’ve ever met. The war was the hardest on her, what with having to leave behind her cottage and her animals. I don’t think she ever got over it.” She paused, staring blankly at the photograph, almost as if she was waiting for the still image of Fluttershy to say something, anything at all.

With a start, Rainbow Dash looked down at her hoof. Unwittingly, she had been reaching for the bottle by her feet. Pound Cake’s hoof lay on top of hers, gentle but firm. She looked into his hazel eyes, and they seemed to plead for her to go on, to be strong. Her breath shaky, Rainbow Dash inhaled and willed herself to point to the next pony, a confident white mare with a cautiously styled mane. Inadvertently, vitriol crept into her voice.

“Rarity. A good friend, once. Now she works for ‘them’.” Rainbow Dash spat this last word venomously. “She abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves in Canterlot. Gave us up to chase her own dreams and betrayed us.”

The mare rubbed at the corner of her eye with the back of her hoof. “She gave up her friends... gave up everything. She left us to rot for all she cared, ran off with Fancypants and became some uptight secretary for the provisionaries.”

The photograph shuddered slightly as Rainbow Dash tightened her grip on it. Tears began to sting at her eyes. “We didn’t always get along... but she was my friend, damn it. She was my friend and she left us!”

Pound Cake was silent, letting the tears around his mentor’s eyes run freely before she could notice them herself and snatch them away with a swipe of her hoof. He didn’t know what to say. She panted slightly, be it out of anger or her forcing herself to keep everything under control. The glass of the photograph was only slightly cracked, but the shards of the fractured image were still there, their wounds invisible to the eye.

Bringing a hoof to rest on the image, Pound Cake pointed to the final pony. “And this one?” he asked quietly, indicating the scratched-out form.

Her eyes came to a dead stop on the disfigured portion of the photograph. Her pupils suddenly expanded to wide, black pools as she stared into the eyes of the ponies that weren’t there. Rainbow Dash’s entire body went completely rigid, as if paralyzed by some electric force far more potent than the magic suppression field. Her lip quivered slightly, and she suddenly folded around the photograph, pulling it to her chest. Pound Cake stared numbly as her back rose and fell erratically as Rainbow Dash cried.

Mind reeling, Pound Cake watched his mentor choke and sob as quietly as she could, as if she could still pretend nopony could hear her. Rainbow Dash had screamed, had laughed, had smiled and moped. But not once had Pound Cake ever seen a tear steal through her striking violet eyes. She couldn’t be broken by that, not by sadness or by loneliness or shame. Rainbow Dash was too strong...

And yet here she was before him, his adoptive mother, shattered and exposed.

Unsure as what to do, Pound Cake raised a hesitant hoof and patted her on the back. “I’m sorry,” he apologized weakly, “I didn’t mean to...” He let his voice trail off pathetically as Rainbow Dash clutched the photograph and trembled. Suddenly, she shifted, and placed her head in his lap, tears still pouring from her face.

Pound Cake jerked as if he had been stuck with a hot iron. The shivering mare wept silently, the photograph still tucked in her hooves, as if completely unconscious of her surroundings. Awkwardly, Pound Cake carefully placed his hoof onto Rainbow Dash’s fading chromatic mane. In the manner he imagined a parent would soothe a mourning child, he ran his hoof through it, trying to think of something to say.

“It’s alright,” he mumbled, “It’s alright.”

He didn’t know how long he sat there, stroking her mane and whispering reassurance. The world felt a whole lot smaller all of a sudden. There was war, there was death, there was pain, but right now, Rainbow Dash was at his hooves, grieving. And nopony else was there for her. So he sat, silent at times, murmuring at others, for what seemed an eternity, gently caressing her mane. It only seemed to end when Pound Cake looked down, and the quivering had stopped. Her warm breath drying the tears matting his legs, Rainbow Dash’s chest rose and fell smoothly and softly. Despite himself, Pound Cake smiled at the sleeping mare.

Slowly, he moved Rainbow Dash away from his lap and placed her comfortably on her mattress. He stood, his legs whingeing as the taut muscles stretched and ached. Flaring and folding his wings, Pound Cake watched the sleeping mare for a moment before gently pulling the photograph out of her hooves. Giving the ponies in the image a long look-over, he placed the image face down on Rainbow Dash’s shelf. Blowing out the candle on his way out, he gingerly stepped outside the room, and shut the curtain behind him.

Was this his destiny?

He lay there in the thick blackness, the shadows scratched away from his fur by the throbbing blue light of the monitors. Was this what he would be reduced to? A broken, bitter pony, haunted by the faces of those he had lost because he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t lucky enough? Pound Cake watched Derpy sleeping soundly, having rolled back and curled into her chair. What about her? Did she think the same, staring into the photograph of the little purple mare with the blonde mane? Grinding his hoof against the concrete, Pound Cake clenched his eyes. This could be him. This would be him unless he did what he should have done long ago.

It only took him a few minutes to peel through Derpy’s computer and find the files he was looking for. Despite his feeble grasp on electronics, Pound Cake had watched Derpy enough to know the basics. Flipping through windows, he was surprised to find that the floor plans for the Lulamoon Technologies office building were already open. He quickly memorized as much as he could, scanning for entries, exits, cameras, and a route to his target. Tracing a hoof over the screen, it came to a rest over a large block on the blueprints. A hub for the central computers. Pound Cake slid the folder on the desk and gingerly put the encrypted documents inside. If Derpy couldn’t crack these, he would do it himself. Giving one final furtive look around the silent room, Pound Cake slipped open the cover of the trap door. Pausing for a moment as the muted clank of metal against concrete seemed to amplify in the quietude of the night, Pound Cake shouldered his saddlebag and slipped away through the sewers and into the moonlit streets of Canterlot.

***

Trying to maneuver his way through the haphazard obstacles of the the city was a different game after dusk had fallen. The usually familiar corners and paths were bathed in shadows, hiding the obvious routes that were easily spotted in the day. It only made every step, jump, and climb more risky. Clinging to the ladder after jumping to it with a grunt, Pound Cake scrambled up the rungs and hopped off the top. With a brisk gallop, he hurtled off the edge of the building and rolled seamlessly onto the following rooftop. Quickly repeating the directions under his breath, the runner stallion balanced his way across a flagpole.

The dim world swam as the flagpole quivered under his weight. With a pump from his hind legs, Pound Cake launched himself off the pole. The night air whipped through his wings, making the feathers ripple as he soared. With a slight grunt, he caught the edge of the following fire escape. Clambering upwards, he reached out, and started in surprise as a hoof took his own and pulled him up. He found himself staring in a pair of purple-gray eyes.

“Scootaloo? How did you... What are you doing here?” asked Pound Cake. The mare’s eyes narrowed angrily.

“I should be asking you the same. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“You’re out pretty late yourself,” retorted Pound Cake, stepping away from her, cautious. His eyes quickly flitted about, trying to identify a route to get away from her. She recognized the look immediately.

“Don’t you even think of bolting on me,” she warned, eyes flashing in the moonlight. “If you think for a second you can outrun me, you’re gonna get a reality check real fast. Now what is this all about?”

Pound Cake exhaled sharply from between his teeth. This was wasting his time. “Look, it isn’t important,” said the stallion dismissively.

“You’re telling me that sneaking out in the dead of the night without telling anypony where you’re going isn’t the tiniest bit suspicious?”

“Scoots, get out of my way!” growled Pound Cake.

“Not gonna happen,” she said firmly, “You’re confused, Pound Cake. You’re pissed at the world and you’re going to do something stupid. So tell me what the hell you’re doing.”

“Last chance. Move.”

“Or what?”

Pound Cake flared his nostrils and lowered his head, hoofing at the concrete menacingly. Scootaloo was bar none faster and more agile than he was. She’d had years of extra training and a natural talent for running that Pound Cake couldn’t hope to match. But when it came to combat, Pound Cake was no slouch. Maybe it was his namesake, or maybe it was some way of getting things out of his system, but either way, he wasn’t one to be taken lightly in a hoof-to-hoof situation. Scootaloo wasn’t the least bit impressed. Instead she sighed and shook her head, a look that would come to a mother looking upon a rebellious child in her eyes.

“Is that really what it’s going to come down to? Pound Cake, you’re making a mistake. You’re rushing headlong into things without even thinking about the--”

“Oh, now you’re giving me lectures on taking my time?” exploded Pound Cake, his wings expanding furiously. “What the hell would you know about this, huh? You don’t know a thing! You can’t tell me to be rational, to think! You can’t understand. You don’t even have a sister!”

As soon as the vitriolic words left his mouth, Pound Cake felt an immediate twinge of regret. Scootaloo positively wilted in the moonlight, her eyes losing their luster and her wings dropping to her sides like the petals of a dejected flower. She opened her mouth, but only a croak escaped her throat. Panting, Pound Cake felt his breathing slow, and he looked down at the concrete. Not daring to lift his eyes to hers, he trotted around her and to the edge of the building. She didn’t try to stop him. Staring at the gap before him, he wondered if the weight in his throat would be enough to throw off his jump. Tensing his legs, Pound Cake prepared to leap forward.

“Wait.”

The stallion froze as Scootaloo’s voice unexpectedly pierced the thick silence. The mare faced him, her eyes still hollow, her mouth and brow set with determination.

“I can’t let you go,” she said plainly, letting the statement linger in the night air. The two pegasi stared at each other, unmoving. “Not alone,” finished Scootaloo, a feeble smile forming on her face. Pound Cake didn’t say a word, and simply nodded appreciatively. He felt the guilt in his chest alleviate, even if only slightly. With a subtle nod, they took off, Scootaloo forcing herself to lag behind as they gracefully danced from rooftop to rooftop. Pulling up beside him as they galloped in a strange twilight zone where gravity didn’t seem to matter, she managed to toss him a question.

“So can you at least tell me where it is we’re going anyways?”

Pound Cake gave her a grim glance. “Lulamoon headquarters.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Probably.”

***

Breaking into Lulamoon Technologies’ main building was far easier than expected, although the fortress-like appearance of the building wouldn’t have given it away. The imposing skyscraper loomed above the cubic structure of Canterlot, puncturing the velvet-black skies like an upturned shard of bleached bone. The facade elegantly curved upwards, smooth concrete meshing with its seemingly cyborg implants of glass and steel. Polished metal and blanched stone caught the moonlight, and the whole building glowed hauntingly as two figures, breaching the still covenant of the night, slipped towards it.

Although Pound Cake had only very briefly looked over the plans, it was as if the layout of the building was burned into his mind. Navigating the rooftops with ease, he and Scootaloo darted between the fixtures and radiators. With a tuck and a leap, Pound Cake landed on all fours at the edge of an apartment building adjacent to Lulamoon Technologies. He gave Scootaloo a brief nod as she alighted beside him.

“See that rooftop down there?” he said, pointing a hoof. “The building’s climate control systems are all there. There should be a maintenance door that can access the rest of the building.” He scratched his chin with his hoof. “The only question is how we’re going to get...”

There was a clatter of hooves as he spoke, and suddenly Scootaloo shot past him, hurtling into space. Angling her legs mid-flight, she struck the side of the building with all four hooves. The momentum of the impact was gradually overtaken by gravity, and she ground down the length of the building in an impressive slide. Moments before reaching the broad rooftop, she bucked her hind legs and arched her back, back-flipping and expertly landing on all hooves. Scootaloo dusted herself off and looked upwards with a cocky smile. Pound Cake chuckled under his breath and backed away from the ledge. “Crazy mare...” he said wryly.

With a leap, he too struck the side of the building with a loud clap. Grinding downwards, he hopped off the wall with a far more simple jump. Pound Cake looked upwards at the hoofmarks that scraped the edge of the building and shifted his hooves slightly. His hoof gloves were burning slightly from the fierce friction. Trotting over to the door, he tested the knob with a slight push. Locked, as expected. A quick buck to the lock fixed that, and the door burst open with a crack.

Creeping inside, the two ponies found themselves in pitch darkness as the pale light of the moon abandoned them within the building. Scootaloo fumbled in the shadows with her hooves for a wall, using it to guide herself towards some sort of exit to the cramped room. She found it soon enough, and it opened easily with a soft creak. With a quick look through the opening, she motioned for Pound Cake to follow her out. They were in one of the main offices of the complex. Rows upon rows of computers and logistics equipment dotted the floors as ghostly light seeped through the glass windows. Past the desks and computers was a long wall made entirely of further glass panels. It was as if a clear box ran from the bottom of the building to the top, like a spine. One could feasibly look into floor from another.

“So what are we looking for, exactly?” whispered Scootaloo as they inched their way between the grid of cubicles.

“A mainframe,” responded Pound Cake quietly, eyes flitting to the windows and back to the desks. He pulled the documents in his saddlebag and passed them to Scootaloo, who gave them a perplexed glance. “If even Derpy can’t decipher this, then that means the answer can only be here.”

“Here? What do you expect to find, Pound Cake?”

The stallion dipped his head slightly, as if somepony would overhear them in the abandoned building. “Something that’s worth killing a governor over.”

Scootaloo’s wings shuffled nervously, but she nodded nonetheless. “Something that big though... If we do find this mainframe, have you thought about how you’re going to crack into it?”

“It’s not if, it’s when,” reassured Pound Cake, before biting his lip nervously, “And... I haven’t exactly thought that far ahead.”

Blinking incredulously, Scootaloo scoffed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Now follow me. The sun’ll be up soon. We don’t have much time.”

The two ponies eased their way along through the cubicles, and Pound Cake mapped out his route in his mind over and over again. Every corner and turn seemed familiar, like he’d been here before. At least that was one thing going for him... he at least knew where he was going, thought the pony with a dry smile. Scootaloo kept constantly looking over her shoulder, as if expecting somepony or something to be right behind them every step of the way. He couldn’t blame her. The walls bathed in cool light had a phantom presence to them, with every shadowy corner possibly concealing who-knew-what. The office building felt like a crypt.

Pound Cake motioned Scootaloo down a hallway marked “Server Rooms” in clean black lettering. Counting the doors, he stopped before one of them and discreetly opened the way. The small room was alight with flickering green LEDs and buzzed with the hum of electricity. The blocky machinery racked in neat rows wove an intricate web of black cables of varying girths, and a few active screens cast their artificial glow.

“This is the place,” breathed Pound Cake. Scootaloo trotted past him, snagging one of the rolling chairs laying about the place and pulling it up to one of the monitors. Placing the document where she could read it easily, the mare ran her hooves with precision over the keyboard. Before long, she was facing a blinking cursor and a command prompt. Pound Cake placed a hoof on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m getting into the server,” she said, without looking away from the screen.

“You know how to do that?”

“Not really, but I know a lot more about it than you do, that’s for sure. Derpy’s been teaching me some of this stuff during down time. Which for you is apparently nap time.”

Pound Cake grimaced, but didn’t try to retort. “Think you can pull it off?”

“No clue,” said Scootaloo, poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth in concentration. “I’m pretty much counting on hoping that since this is the main server and we’re directly accessing it, the security shouldn’t be too--”

Suddenly, the computer chirped and blacked out. Scootaloo jumped away in surprise.

“--Tight,” she finished.

“What did you do?” asked Pound Cake nervously. Scootaloo shook her head in disbelief.

“I... I didn’t do anything,” she said, flustered. She tapped her hoof on a small button on the monitor to no effect. Suddenly, she noticed something wrong. The normal buzzing of the room had stopped, and the green glow of the servers had disappeared, plunging everything into inky darkness. “It’s the power,” Scootaloo muttered, “It’s gone.”

“What? That’s not possible.” With a flutter of his wings, Pound Cake grabbed the document and slipped it into his saddlebag once more.

“Wait, where do you think you’re going?” asked Scootaloo, rising from her chair.

“To the power controls on this floor. I remember we passed some on the way here. We need the power back now.”

“Pound Cake, are you crazy?” gasped Scootaloo, scrambling over to him and grabbing his shoulder, “This isn’t a power failure, not in an office this size. Somepony’s cut it. We need to get out of here.”

Turning fiercely, the stallion slapped her hoof away. “No! We’ve gotten too far to back out now.”

“Pound Cake, this is insane,” she pleaded, “You’re going to get us killed. We’re trespassing on one of the biggest companies in Equestria, and you’re a wanted pony. We can’t--”

“Then stay here,” snorted Pound Cake, turning on his hoof and galloping down the halls. Coasting around each corner, he barrelled through the offices. Even if Scootaloo was right, even if they had been compromised, he had to risk it. He wasn’t about to let his one shot at saving his sister evaporate like this. Security here would triple if they discovered a break-in. They might never learn what was on this damn paper.

Tearing around another corner, Pound Cake slammed into the door he had spotted on the way here, tearing it off its hinges with a grunt of effort. He quickly found what he needed. Yanking open the fusebox, he deftly flipped each breaker, not knowing which one was correct. From somewhere behind him, he heard distant hoofsteps, and a strange, muted buzz. It was an electronic rumble, like words horrifically mangled by a radio with poor connection. Another pair of hoofsteps came over them, even louder.

Coming out into the hallway, Pound Cake’s eyes snapped to movement beyond the rows of cubicles. Three ponies, slipping through the shadows, called to each other with an eerie mechanical crackle. One of them looked at him. Pound Cake felt his entire body grow cold.

Glass eyes. Red, glass eyes.

He heard Scootaloo scream something as one of the pony’s horns glowed with a malignant red aura, and a weapon rose.

“Ghosts! Run!” hollered Scootaloo hoarsely. They opened fire.

The sudden crack of gunfire threw Pound Cake to the ground. Bullets tore the flimsy cubicles to shreds. Fumbling to his hooves, he darted blindly forward. All thought evaporated, all emotion vanished. It was just him and the bullets. Slipping over the cubicles, he wove his way through the office. Styrofoam and plastic shrapnel zipped through the air. The crack of gunfire punctuated each bullet hole.

Run, run and survive.

Ducking to his back, Pound Cake slid between two tattered walls. Bullets zipped and popped overhead, raining plaster onto his fur. He covered his head as a monitor was torn from its desk. Riddled in bullet holes, it exploded into sparks beside his face. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening. Ghosts weren’t real. They were myths. In one story, they were machines. The next, demons. Changelings, phantoms... the hushed tales were only to scare foals into behaving.

And yet, one of these legends bellowed above the gunfire, and the assault ceased. Reloading their weapons, silently stalked through the cubicles, hunting him. Panting, Pound Cake peered between his hooves, ears twitching for any possible sound. He could hear them coming, their vocalized breathing harsh and cruel. Where was Scootaloo? Panicked, he rolled onto his hooves and crept forward. He couldn’t hear her, and the gunfire had ceased. Maybe she had escaped. Or maybe she was...

No. No thinking like that. Biting his lip until it drew blood, the stallion tensed on his hooves. The ghosts didn’t know where he was. It would be his only advantage. He shuffled forward, keeping his head below the walls of the cubicles and away from the glass eyes of the ghosts. No time to worry about Scoots. She would have to fend for herself. She was capable enough. He froze as the rattling breath of the ghosts grew closer. Their speech was almost comprehensible as they drew nearer.

“Clea... sync alp... primary too ho... tralize secon...” choked one of them between bursts of static from the thick, black mask fitted over its head. There was the faintest rustle from its thick combat suit riddles with pockets and mesh.

Tensing, Pound Cake’s fur went on end. Too late now. He had to escape, or he would end up a bullet-ridden corpse. He was more valuable to his sister alive rather than dead. There was a moment of silence. He made his move.

Bolting from his hiding spot, Pound Cake tore from his hiding spot. Instantly, the ghosts roared their mechanical cries. Zipping from cover to cover, Pound Cake easily outran the clunky assailants. He bobbed on his hooves, and swiftly switched direction. A single bullet popped, cutting through the styrofoam and hitting near his leg. A few more cracks of gunfire, and chipped plaster shrapnel cut at his legs. Their fire was more concentrated, precise.

Breathing hard, Pound Cake whipped around another corner, and found himself in the same room they had first come upon. There was another pop, followed by a crash. The ghosts fired through the sheets of glass in the center of the building, sending glittering cascades to the floor. Shards of glass flew about him as he hurtled through the final stretch.

Another motion caught his eye as he galloped. An orange blur streaked through the light of approaching dawn streaming through the windows. With a hurried wave of her hoof, Scootaloo darted into the doorway from where they had first entered. Sliding to a stop, Pound Cake slipped inside and slammed the door behind him. Pound Cake slid down against the door, gasping for breath. His legs trembled with adrenalin.

“What... the hell... were those damn things?” he finally spat between gasps. “Those weren’t really... ghosts?”

“They were. Now get up, we gotta move,” Scootaloo said tersely, her eyes flicking around the small room. It was bright enough to see where they were: some sort of control room covered in dials and power switches. Probably to control the ventilators and air filters outside. “How many were there?”

“What?”

“In their squad? I only saw three. They’re always in squads of--”

Suddenly, there was a crunch, and the shattering of a wooden door as it was bucked inwards. Scootaloo twisted, but it was too late. Like a horrific wraith, a ghost surged forward from the doorway. Its horn flashed, and the air was split by the glint of steel. Whatever warning was rising in Scootaloo’s throat died as the ghost rammed a knife into her breast.

“Scoots, no!” Pound Cake roared, bolting to his hooves. The ghost, angular black mask splattered with blood, turned his glass gaze towards him, and tore the blade free from her chest. With a gurgling gasp, Scootaloo staggered backwards and collapsed. The ghost flicked the blade menacingly.

“Citizen, do not move,” it hissed. “Comply or be--”

Pound Cake didn’t hear a word. His body felt like liquid fire. Throwing himself forward with a blind scream, he angled his hoof for the throat. A killshot, instantly crushing the windpipe. Rainbow Dash had forbidden killing. But she was the last thing on Pound Cake’s mind as he swung for the soft fabric beneath the ghost’s neck.

His blow never reached. With frightening speed, the ghost slapped away the attack like it was nothing. Pivoting on his free forehoof, Pound Cake twisted around and bucked, aiming for the head. His hooves found only air as the ghost dodged the blow. Roaring furiously, Pound Cake lashed at it with everything he had. It would pay, it would pay. His hooves were a blur, striking, pounding, beating. None of them seemed to land. The ghost dodged and evaded each strike, its eyes locked with Pound Cake’s hooves. It didn’t speak, it didn’t even breath any harder. It simply skirted around each attack with a cold, deathly precision.

Finally, Pound Cake spun and flared his wing, disorienting the ghost. Rising upwards onto his hind legs, he slammed down on the ghosts shoulders. It would’ve shattered bone and torn muscle. But instead, it was like hitting a brick wall. The ghost rose on its hind legs in return, and its forehooves clamped around Pound Cake’s like a steel vise. The glass eyes reflected Pound Cake’s sweating face.

“Citizen failure to comply. Incapacitating,” it said with a sputter of static.

Pound Cake screamed as the ghost twisted its hoof and snapped his foreleg. It was as if every nerve in his right had exploded into searing white sparks. Reeling, his scream didn’t last long as the ghost released the shattered leg from its grip and whipped its hoof into Pound Cake’s jaw. His teeth clicked, and the stallion tasted blood. Finally, the ghost released his grip. With a rapid twist, it spun and bucked him in the chest. Pound Cake felt his sternum buckle and crack, and he flew into the concrete wall with a yelp and collapsed. Gasping for air, Pound Cake felt something warm run down the side of his mouth. The impact set his ears ringing, and spots danced before his eyes. A blurred shadow stalked towards him. Pound Cake felt himself being lifted by his neck. His shattered arm hung limply, failing to resist. Again, he found himself staring into the glass eyes of the ghost.

Cold, dead eyes. Glass eyes, and through the haze of pain and grief, Pound Cake saw himself in them. The ghost released his magical grip, turning away, and Pound Cake fell to the concrete. Cringing, the stallion rolled onto his back, a cough wracking his body in another throe of pain. His matted fur felt sticky, and looking down, he found the blood wasn’t his own. Scootaloo, eyes closed, lay nearly immobile on the floor. Blood matted her orange fur, and trickled in a crimson pool around her. Her side rose and fell, almost imperceptibly.

“G-four to all, prime incapacitated, bystand one out. Awaiting your rendez-vous.”

Something hot and wrathful rose in Pound Cake’s chest. The pain in his right foreleg seemed to evaporate, and every pang of agony when he breathed disappeared. Trembling, Pound Cake staggered upright. His entire mind was blank, and his breath tasted metallic. Levelling his eyes on the rifle strapped to the ghost’s back, he leaped forward and snagged the barrel with his teeth. With a single motion, Pound Cake tore the weapon free and raised it into the air.

With a crackle of surprise, the ghost turned around. Pound Cake swung the rifle like a club and caught the ghost in the side of the head. It grunted in pain and fell to the ground. The ghost’s hooves scrambling to get upright, Pound Cake screamed as best as he could through clenched teeth and brought it down again. The ghost shouted again, its voice gargling behind the black mask. Pound Cake raised the weapon once more, and the ghost raised a hoof.

“Stop, don’t--” it cried hoarsely. The butt of the rifle shattered the glass eyes and buckled the helmet. The hoof went limp, and the horrible mechanical drone of the ghost’s voice ceased in a shrill electronic whine. Pound Cake wearily raised the weapon again, still screaming, and brought it down again. And again. And again. There was nothing but pain and rage, every blow becoming slower and weaker. Finally, Pound Cake could do no more, and the rifle fell from his teeth.

Dazed, Pound Cake reeled and fell to his haunches. There was another shot of pain in his chest, and for a dizzying moment, he thought he would throw up. He had killed a pony. He’d murdered a defenseless creature in cold blood. The world slowly righted itself in his spiralling vision, and the pain of every jagged breath began to return.

Panting hard, he staggered away from the motionless ghost and towards Scootaloo. Collapsing onto his chest, he stroked her mane with a trembling hoof. Blood was everywhere, on his hooves, on her fur, all over the concrete... why was there so much of it? She moaned slightly and her eyelids fluttered. She was still alive... but barely.

“Hold on Scoots,” Pound Cake croaked, his throat dry, “You’re gonna be just fine, you hear? Just fine.” Pound Cake bit Scootaloo’s fur at the nape of her neck and pulled her into his back with one free hoof. “You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on....”

Staggering under her weight, Pound Cake had no choice but to use his shattered leg. Each step sent another brutal flash of searing pain through his system. Limping, he pushed open the door to the balcony, blood trailing behind him. The world was blurred through the tears and sweat dripping in his eyes.

“Just fine. Hold on, damn you, hold on,” wept Pound Cake, ambling forward as mechanical voices grew behind him. “Don’t you dare do this to me.”

He felt his lame leg waver, then give out. With a cry, he collapsed onto the concrete of the balcony, Scootaloo’s limp body crumpling beside him. Pound Cake couldn’t breathe. Every gasp for air was like gulping down fire. He tried raising a hoof, a wing, anything to bring him back upright. His spent body refused. Broken, Pound Cake lay there, glazed eyes staring upwards at the clear blue sky peering down at him through the edges of the smooth white buildings.

Slowly, cautiously, the ghosts emerged from the building, rifle butts pressed to the hollows of their shoulders. They mumbled to each other in distorted vibrations as they approached their immobile prey. Their every motion seemed hazy and syrupy, drifting in the void of numbing pain as Pound Cake begged his body to move. But it was as if every cell in his body had abandoned him. The horrid black creatures grew closer, until one loomed over him. Its massive black frame blotted out what little sky there was. Glass eyes glittering, the ghost levelled its weapon to Pound Cake’s head. Unfeeling, he could only stare into the bottomless black depths of the rifle’s barrel.

Soaked in the blood of his friend and beaten beyond all hope, the stallion exhaled laboriously, and let the end come.

The weapon hung there, suspended, but remained silent. There was a sharp metallic clang. The ghost’s head cocked, and it croaked in surprise. Then, lazily, like a falling oak, the massive figure fell, an arc of blood trailing from neat hole in the side of its head. As it hit the ground, an ear-splitting crack shattered the air.

“Get down!”

Instantly reacting, the two other ghosts threw themselves behind cover. Slamming into the cooling units, their weapons swiveled, searching for a target. They screamed to each other in furious static. It was cut off as a small canister bounced once, twice off the walls and exploded at their hooves.

The thunderous wap of the explosion was deafening. Billowing clouds of dust swept up. Pound Cake’s ears rang, and the world seemed to float in a deafened blur. In the haze, figures lurched and fought. Gunfire flared, and bullets tore streaks in the dust. A ghost staggered from the cloud, riddled with gunshot wounds. Stumbling about, it fell to its hooves, tearing a knife from its suit. Turning fiercely, it slashed the blade diagonally. Mid-swing, the ghost jerked and stiffened, its head lolling back as a bullet tore through its forehead. He fell, and nothing moved.

As two silhouettes came emerged from the dust. Pound Cake saw their mouths move, but they made no sound as they approached him. Standing above him, the two strangers watched him as his vision swam once more. The sun bearing on him, darkness crept around the edges of his consciousness, and Pound Cake’s head felt light. Two figures mumbled something hazy and indistinct. The monotone ringing in his ears grew louder and sharper, and the world became dark as Pound Cake felt himself rising.

Part 3 of 4

Running was dangerous business; of this there was no doubt. Every day was a danger, every second a menace, and even at their physical peak, runners were injured, crippled, and killed. It was a constant fight for survival, where death was counted not in years, but in air time and rounds per minute. It was a brutal toil. It was a grueling effort. But Pound Cake had long grown accustomed to the suffering that came with his line of work

And yet, he wasn’t prepared for the kind of pain that shot through him when he suddenly came to and jerked upright. His body throbbing and shooting pangs of agony, he groaned from the sudden motion. Collapsing backwards, a cushion caught his aching head with a soft thud. Several seconds passed, the ache subsiding and the pain slowly ebbing. Closing his eyes, Pound Cake breathed slowly, his throat feeling dry and his tongue cracked and parched. With a feeble croak and a groan of effort, he slowly brought himself upright, putting his head in his hooves. His brain felt several times too large for his skull. As slowly as he could, he looked around.

He was in a small but well-lit room. The floor, while gray and covered with a fine layer of rock dust, was clean. Walls of sun-burnt red bricks surrounded him, leaving only a small, oaken door leading out from wherever he was. Aside from the neat cot he found himself on and a table in the center, the room was completely bare. Rolling his tongue in his mouth, Pound Cake’s eyes settled on a glass and a jug sitting on the table. Looking down, as if to mentally motivate his limbs for movement, he rolled out of bed.

Trotting to the table, he took the handle of the simple jug and poured some water into the glass. He plonked it back down and drank thirstily, almost shivering with joy as the cool liquid flowed into him. Pound Cake reached for the jug again, then hesitated. Then, not caring whether anyone would see or not, he took the jug in both hooves and drank heartily. His right foreleg tickled strangely where it had been broken.

The jug struck the floor as it fell from Pound Cake’s hooves and shattered. The sound brought everything back in a dizzying instant. Foreleg? Broken? It all rushed back to him: the file, the ghosts, the blood.

Turning with a slight stagger, his eyes whipped around the cold, brick-laid room in panic. Where was he? Some sort of ghost compound? His legs tensed despite the dull aching inside them, and his fur stood on end. There had to be a way out. The door at the end of the room suddenly burst open, a figure appearing in the doorway.

“What’s going on in here? Is everything–”

Pound Cake didn’t give the pony time to finish. Vaulting over the table in the room, he planted his forehooves as they met the ground and bucked the table with every ounce of force he could summon. It flew across the room, slamming into his captor with a heavy crack. Before the stunned pony could recover, Pound Cake galloped forward and threw himself over the heap of wood. Barely slipping through the door, every plan of escape and battle dissipated as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Easy there. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” said the mare flatly. Hesitant, Pound Cake’s eyes slowly left the black mouth of the gun, and found two pale emerald eyes looking into his. Not glass eyes. Not ghosts. Keeping the gun trained on him, the white-furred mare looked past him and into the room. “You alright in there, Apple Bloom?”

There was a groan, followed by the sound of shifting wood as the pony pushed away the rubble. “Just dandy,” huffed Apple Bloom. “Never been better.” Brushing her fur free of dust, she stumbled out of the room, giving Pound Cake plenty of berth. “The boy can buck, Ah’ll give him that,” she commented.

The other pony frowned slightly, and the pistol flared with magical energy as it found its way back into a holster tightly fastened to her flank. She gave him a slight smile, and extended a hoof. “Sweetie Belle. And that’s Apple Bloom,” she said. Pound Cake stared at the hoof dumbly, as if unsure what to do with it. He finally reached across and gave it a weak shake. Sweetie Belle almost seemed to read his mind.

“We’re not your enemy, kid. If we were, I’m pretty sure we would’ve put a bullet in your head by now.” She scowled further. “And usually, when somepony gives you their name, you give them yours.”

Flustered, Pound Cake looked down at his hooves. He didn’t know what was more embarrassing: having been so easily stopped, or the fact that he was now being patronized by complete strangers. Finally, he muttered a subdued, “Pound Cake.”

Sweetie Belle glanced quizzically towards Apple Bloom. “Pound Cake? Isn’t that one of the Cake’s kids? Didn’t his sister...” Her voice trailed off as she caught the somber glimmer in Pound Cake’s eyes.

Apple Bloom whistled slightly. “The plot thickens,” she murmured, bemused. Her misty gaze solidified.

Pound Cake shook his head in frustration. “Just who are you ponies?” he demanded.

Sweetie Belle clucked her tongue. “We should be asking you the same. But I think you do deserve some answers.” She turned to face the corridor, nodding for him to follow. With a reluctant twitch of his ear, Pound Cake followed the two mares down the brick halls. His mind was brimming with questions, and his heart clenched with anxiety. Every step he took on the stone was like walking towards the chopping block, as if there was no going back from here. Soon enough, the hallway turned and opened into a small warehouse. Thin metal girders supported the roof, and the rafters were a juxtaposed mess of interwoven catwalks and stairs. The windows had been boarded over and the doors locked with heavy chains.

Looking about in wonder, Pound Cake found a center of clustered boxes and maps, and crates brimming with rations.

Hunched over a blueprint laid on top of a crudely constructed table, was a lean mare. Her dusty orange fur rippled with thick muscle underneath, and her platinum-blonde mane was tied into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. When she looked up, her eyes glittered a strange, vibrant green. But it wasn’t until she flopped a battered, stained Stetson atop her head that Pound Cake recognized her.

“Ah see our here guest woke up from his beauty sleep.” She chuckled, her warm voice only made more cozy by the southern twang. Pulling away from her work, she trotted over to the three of them and extended a hoof. The fur had paled along her legs where wounds had sealed and scarred. “Pleasure to meet’cha. Name’s–”

“Applejack?” ventured Pound Cake, taking her hoof and shaking it more firmly than Sweetie Belle’s. Applejack blinked in surprise, her eyes flicking between Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom. She smiled sadly.

“Yeah, well... You’re gonna have to tell me how you figured that one out, sugarcube,” she whispered. “But I’ll be darned if it ain’t got rainbows on its flank.”

Pound Cake didn’t answer, only nodding his head slightly. Applejack pulled her hat from her head, tugging slightly at the brim. She looked up at Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom, giving them the slightest twitch of her ear. Without a word, they silently left the two of them alone among the boxes. After staring at her Stetson for a while, as if wishing it could say something to pierce the silence, she tossed it gently onto one of the boxes and plodded over to one of the ration boxes.

“Care for something to eat, sugar cube? We got beans, oats, and beans with oats,” she mused, rummaging through the crate full of packaged foods. Her wry and familiar tone even managed to pull a smile from Pound Cake.

“I’ll take oats, then,” he said, and she tossed him a bar. “It’s Pound Cake, by the way. My name.”

Applejack took her teeth from the wrapper of the bar she was opening, giving him a mystified stare. “Pound Cake? Y’all best not be pulling my leg.” When Pound Cake shook his head before taking a bite from the bar, she chuckled, her eyes travelling his body.

“Pound Cake. My, my, my, how you’ve grown. I knew you back when you were a tiny little colt, ‘bout yea high,” Applejack said, holding up a hoof. “You were a real troublemaker, you were. Broke just about everything you got yer hooves on.”

She was quiet for a moment as he chewed the bar. “Seems like you never did lose yer habit of getting into trouble. Ah’m... sorry to hear about yer sister,” Applejack added soberly. Pound Cake placed the crumpled wrapper on one of the crates, shifting his weight away from his twitching forelegs. With his stomach sated, and the irritating buzzing out of his head, he could finally think clearly enough to ask the obvious.

“How did you find us?” he said carefully. Applejack’s eyes darkened slightly, and her body went into a rigid, business-like stance. It reminded him of Rainbow Dash.

“A Subsidiary Task Force deployment ain’t something that we tend to overlook.” When Pound Cake frowned slightly in confusion, she added, “The fellas y’all probably call ‘ghosts’. Private agents, pretty damn elite and hella hard to take down.”

“Then how did you do it?”

“Caught ‘em by surprise. That’s the key. If you hit ‘em before they know yer there, you actually have a chance.” She took a bite from her bar of oats, chewing thoughtfully. Her eyes stayed on Pound Cake’s hooves. “Ain’t gonna lie. It’s darn impressive that you managed to take one down on yer own in close quarters.”

“Yeah,” whispered Pound Cake under his breath. “Impressive.” For a moment, he saw the shattered glass eyes of the ghost. The oats in his stomach lurched. “But why kill ghosts? Why risk fighting them and saving us?”

“That’s what we do, Pound Cake. When STF are told to kill somepony, it tends to be in our interests to find out why. Usually, said pony is pretty important to us if they stay breathing,” said Applejack, reclining on one of the crates.

Things were starting to make sense. Pound Cake’s gaze went from the intricate collage of maps and blueprints on the corkboard to the crates full of food and, hidden to the side, weapons. Everything clicked into place. He looked up at Applejack, his eyes full of apprehension.

“Wait a minute... you and Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom. You’re–”

“Freedom fighters? Rebels? A resistance?” said Applejack, watching him with her sparkling green eyes.

“Terrorists,” finished Pound Cake, hissing. Applejack flinched at that, her mouth opening and closing uselessly. Finally, she laughed nervously.

“That’s a bit of an extreme word to use, don’t you think?” she said testily.

“Not by my definition,” said Pound Cake. The hair on his legs rose in anticipation, and he suddenly became aware of just how many dark corners there were in the warehouse. “Green District. August fifteenth. Three bombs detonated in a residential building.”

Applejack stood upright, a spark in her eyes. “That building was an STF headquarters,” she said defensively.

“Fifteen civilians killed. Thirty-four injured,” he continued.

“They were torturing ponies!” said Applejack, her voice rising hotly.

“The perpetrators tried to escape. Resulted in a firefight with Civil Defense. Three killed. One injured,” Pound Cake answered, his voice matching Applejack’s.

“This is a war, dammit!”

“It could have been my sister!” bellowed Pound Cake, slamming down a hoof. The sound echoed throughout the warehouse. Applejack stared in dumb silence. Then her eyes lost their gleam and hardened.

“How dare you,” she said, seething. “How dare you. Ah risk good ponies hauling yer sorry flank away from those agents. Ah drag you back here and have you treated and healed up. And y’all have the audacity to come in here spewing venom like a rattler with a stomach ache.”

Pound Cake opened his mouth to defend himself, but Applejack didn’t give him a chance.

“There is a war, Pound Cake. You might not see it with yer own eyes, but it’s here. It’s here in the missing fathers, the lost sons, the vanished brothers. It’s here in the arrest warrants and the newscasts and the rooftops. Ah’ve risked everything to fight this war and make sure the good guys win.

“Ah ain’t yer mother. Ah ain’t yer guardian. And Ah don’t owe you anything. Ah make mistakes, and things that shouldn’t happen happen. Ponies die, ponies get hurt. Sometimes its ponies that didn’t want nothing but to get up tomorrow in the morning. There are things Ah’ve done that Ah’m not proud of. But Ah will do what Ah can with what Ah’ve got. There’s more to this than yer sister, Pound Cake. There’s an entire damn nation that’s being torn apart, but you can’t see nothing but the tip of yer muzzle. Shame on you. Shame. On. You.”

Under the intense heat of the scathing Southern drawl, Pound Cake couldn’t help but recoil slightly. His ears involuntarily flattened, and his head hung. With an indignant snort, Applejack ended her tirade. She bit angrily into her bar of oats, drawing away from him. “I’m not asking you to fight. What I’m asking for is yer respect and cooperation. And if you can’t give me that, then y’all can get out of here.”

Pound Cake stood silently, quivering under the mare’s intense stare. His pride shaken, he nevertheless forced himself to look up and return her gaze.

“I don’t want to work with killers,” he finally breathed.

Applejack looked about ready to chew him out once more, but instead she simply sighed and shook her head. “Nopony’s innocent anymore, Pound Cake. Not even yerself. But Ah respect your decision.” She nodded at somepony behind him. Pound Cake flinched in surprise as something struck his side. Looking down, he found his saddlebag slumped against his leg. Sweetie Belle watched him cautiously from behind a crate, her pistol still resting menacingly in a holster on her hip. From the catwalks, Apple Bloom leaned on an elbow, bouncing a black canister in one hoof.

“You’re free to walk out. Right now. No questions asked,” said Applejack grimly. “Ah can promise you’ll never see any of us ever again.”

Pound Cake leaned down and picked up his saddlebag. He twisted it innocently, and felt something folding inside. The document was still there. But as he prepared to slip it around his midsection, he stopped.

“And Scoots? What about Scootaloo?” he asked, the name suddenly surging into his mind.

The silence in the warehouse fell so violently that it was as if Pound Cake had just spat the most vile swear he could conjure. Applejack lowered her gaze slightly, and Apple Bloom lost her concentration, the canister clattering harmlessly onto the catwalk. “Where is she?” he insisted. The three mares looked to each other before silently nodding in agreement. Applejack returned her attention to Pound Cake, her eyes pained.

“Scootaloo... didn’t do as well as you did, sugar,” she said softly.

“What do you mean, ‘didn’t do as well’ ?” demanded Pound Cake, his saddlebag falling to the floor, forgotten. “Don’t tell me she’s–”

His voice caught in his throat and left him in a chilly breath. Not one would look him in the eyes. Not one would say a word. The silence throbbed painfully in Pound Cake’s temples until it was roaring in his ears. They never said a word. They didn’t need to.

He almost collapsed to his knees as the air around him abandoned his lungs and left him to choke. But he wouldn’t fall. He couldn’t. Not yet. He raised himself above the black, sharp-edged abyss that had opened, gaping, beneath his hooves. With trembling steps, Pound Cake left his saddlebag behind, and crept towards Applejack. He stared at the brim of her Stetson a long time before she would return his bottomless stare.

“Show me,” he begged. “Please.”

***

The room was cold. Too cold. Buried in the womb of Canterlot concrete, whatever rare, loving warmth it could spare had evaporated into the frigid air. A shiver wracked his body as Pound Cake stepped onto the cold stone.

Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom hadn’t followed them. They had drifted away somewhere along the swirling, dizzying passageways and halls. It was only as they vanished that Pound Cake had noticed their eyes, now dull in the bleak light. Dark bruises sagged their eyelids, a red puffiness underlying the smooth fur. Their pupils were blacker than the angular metal faces of the ghosts. And so it was only Applejack who watched quietly from the light of the doorway, standing in the warmth where the room chilled with death.

They’d laid her on low metal table. An empty tray on a cart stood off to the side, as if having blamed itself for failing to save a life. And the tarp pulled over her, sullied and worn with age, offered only crude forms in the place of what had once been a valiant mare.

Pound Cake stared at the body numbly. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t feel. Like his neurons were numbed with cotton pads and sterile swabs. His jaw clenched, and he choked down a violent tug at the back of his throat. With a trembling hoof, he pulled down the fabric covering Scootaloo’s face.

It made him flinch, how peaceful she seemed.

Her face wasn’t like that of the ghost. Not crushed and broken, sprayed with shards of glass and warped with twisted metal. Her lips were smooth, unreadable, with the faintest hint of sorrow.

Her mane was so messy, Pound Cake mused, running a hoof through the tangled knot of hair. Touching her skin was like touching the concrete of the rooftops at night. It was even as rigid. For a long time, he stared at her mouth, as if waiting for her to speak. A voice came. It wasn’t hers.

“We... we tried everything we could, Pound Cake,” croaked Applejack. “But the wound was... to the heart. Too deep. She... died with her friends. She died knowing you saved her.” She paused. “Ah’m so sorry...”

He didn’t turn to face her. His eyes never left the closed lips. Pound Cake cleared his throat.

“I think... I want to be alone. With her.”

Applejack didn’t argue. With a resigned nod of her Stetson, she closed the door behind her with a muted click. And it was just the two of them in the cold room. He was silent again. Every moment looking at her pale lips and dark eyelids felt like an eternity.

Pound Cake barked an uncomfortable laugh.

“This isn’t the way we thought it would be, huh, Scoots?” He chuckled. “Not at all.” He turned away from her, staring at the blank walls as if to avoid her closed eyes.

“No way. We had so many plans,” he continued dreamily. “You were gonna teach me how to backflip. We were gonna race again one day. I was gonna beat you. That was the plan. We had so much time, didn’t we? And we didn’t get it done...”

A weight clutched at his throat, and he bent his neck, the laughter coming again. “We were... we had so many jobs to do. So many runs to make and officers to outrun.” He looked back at her, his lips twisted in a painful smile.

“Heh. Remember that one time? When we were training in that old warehouse? I was still just a colt. We were jumping from rafter to rafter and–”

He stopped, doubling over the cart in laughter, tears stinging at his eyes as his sides ached.

“–And I accidentally knocked over that paintbucket. Fell right over! Splattered all over Rainbow Dash! We were calling her Greenbow Dash for a week! Remember that? Huh? She was so pissed! I can still see her face! I can...” His voice trailed off again as his chest was wracked with laughter. Tears of mirth matted his cheeks with each choke, and he buried his head in his hooves. He couldn’t speak anymore. He was laughing too hard.

Then, with a scream, he threw the cart at the wall, denting it. Everything left him, and he collapsed over her body.

“I’m sorry! Scoots, no, please no! I’m sorry, oh Celestia, I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault! Scoots, please, come back! Come back to me!”

Every breath in his throat burned, searing his lungs with blistering heat. He clutched at her, desperate for warmth, desperate for strength.

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to! Please, Scoots, look at me! Come back!”

There was nothing more. Like a shattered infant, he covered his head with his hooves and wept. His burning tears soaked the cloth.

A hoof touched his shoulder. Tears blurring his vision into hazy shapes, a murky figure stood silently behind him. She said nothing. She simply smiled sadly.

Forcing himself away from the corpse, Pound Cake wrapped his hooves around the mare, her mane and arms enveloping him. Her voice whispered soft reassurance and sweet words, and he lost himself in the motherly embrace as he cried away the vast, hollow pain.

***

Pound Cake cradled the tea between his hooves, letting the steam swirl up from the cup and thin around his nostrils. He stared into the translucent drink with a sort of mindless fascination.

He couldn’t cry anymore. The only vestiges of pain were in occasional sniffles and the itchiness of puffy eyes. But that massive, bottomless pit still remained, twisting his stomach. Taking a pleasureless sip, Pound Cake’s ears twitched slightly as the two muffled voices outside continued their debate.

“...need him, you know that.”

“Applejack, please... he’s still so young, and nopony should have to bury their friends at this age. It just isn’t fair.”

“For pony’s sake! He’s just barely younger than Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom! And they were much closer than he ever was to her!”

“I don’t think so, Applejack.”

“Listen...”

“Not to mention they’ve had a week more than he has. The poor pony’s only just learned this.”

Applejack was quiet for a while. Pound Cake sniffed the tea. Chamomile, maybe. He was never good at this sort of stuff.

“Fine. I’ll let you figure this one out. But he stays,” finally said Applejack. The sound of her retreating hoofsteps became quieter and quieter, clopping on the concrete until they were gone. Then the door opened, and the mare stepped inside.

He hadn’t recognized her, at first. Wasn’t really trying to. But seeing her now, even with her mane carefully braided to the side and her eyes bleak, Pound Cake could see the mare in the photograph.

Fluttershy moved with an effortlessly methodical and unearthly grace. Her hooves barely made any noise as she closed the door behind her, and her gait was so deliberate despite her age that it was as if she was gliding. Pound Cake’s eyes went from Fluttershy’s face to her wings, closed loosely around her body. Then they went back to the teacup.

“Feeling any better, sweetie?” she cooed, smiling sympathetically.

“A bit,” sniffed Pound Cake. He couldn’t think clearly enough to say more. His mind was a numb, muddled mess. Fluttershy didn’t push him to speak more. She simply nodded her head with a quiet understanding. She looked up at a clock hanging from a nail in the wall.

The room was a peculiar example of organized chaos. Aside from the cot, the desk, the cupboard, and the clock, a metal locker was bolted to one of the concrete walls. All around the room were twigs and decrepit bird houses. In one corner, there was an intricately woven straw basket. Assembled so that it resembled a beehive, pillows and blankets lined the interior. Fluttershy walked up to it and gave a slight prod.

“Sweetcream, time for dinner,” she whispered gently.

There was a shuffle among the blankets, and out bounced a rabbit. Colored a silky white with coffee-brown splotches on its fur, it hopped beside Fluttershy as she went to the cupboard and poured the rabbit a bowl full of stale-looking pellets. Sweetcream didn’t complain, and ate the treats carefully and respectfully. Fluttershy looked up, catching Pound Cake staring at the rabbit.

“Have you never seen a bunny before, Pound Cake?” she asked. There was no teasing in her voice.

“I’d heard of them in stories. Never actually seen one,” confessed Pound Cake. “I thought they were still living in the forests. Didn’t know they came to cities.”

“But they do,” said Fluttershy, lying down beside the rabbit, watching him eat with tender eyes. “Sweetcream was surviving in the dumpsters when I found him. That was about three years ago. He was in a really bad shape, the poor dear. Starving, scared of ponies. Applejack would have said he was more trouble than he was worth.”

“You took him in anyways,” murmured Pound Cake, taking another reluctant sip of his tea.

“Of course,” she replied, stroking the rabbit with a wing. “Life is worth too much.”

There was another bout of silence, split only by the occasional crunch of pellets. Sweetcream finished his meal, and with a yawn, jumped up on Fluttershy’s back, curling up.

“Then why do we kill?” asked Pound Cake bluntly. The question didn’t even phase Fluttershy. She looked right back at him with her gentle eyes.

“Because sometimes we don’t have a choice. Because sometimes life is the price we must pay for everyone to be able to live theirs.”

“So some lives are worth more than others?” bristled Pound Cake. “I’m pretty damn sure that ghost whose head I bashed in would disagree!” The memory of the crushed face twisted the already sore knot in his stomach.

“You can’t think of ghosts as ponies, Pound Cake,” whispered Fluttershy, hanging her head. “They’re... machines now. They’re evil. They’re the enemy.”

“Machines?” Pound Cake leered at Fluttershy, putting down the cup of tea. “Machines don’t beg for mercy!”

Fluttershy’s head snapped upright with uncanny speed. “Don’t do this to yourself, Pound Cake,” she said, her tone surprisingly fierce. “You can’t let yourself think that way. Not with them. It’ll destroy you.” Her eyes flickered briefly with a restrained flame that vanished as soon as it blazed to life.

Pound Cake immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t fair to lash out at her like that. The ache in his chest ebbed slightly as he exhaled, staring down at his tea. “What am I supposed to do? Ignore it, then?”

“No. You can’t ignore it. None of us can,” resumed Fluttershy, twisting her head to watch over the sleeping rabbit on her back. “You need to shoulder it. Take it in stride.” Carefully balancing herself so as to not let her friend fall from his comfortable position, Fluttershy stood gracefully. Striding past Pound Cake with that same ghostly presence, she regarded him sadly.

“All life has value. Every squirrel, bird, pony and dragon has vitality and essence. We’re not meant to take that. It’s not our place. But sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes, we have to force ourselves to do evil for only a sliver of good. We choose to charge ourselves with that burden. With the burden of death and guilt.”

Stopping before the locker in the corner, she sighed mournfully, closing her eyes. “I suppose that’s what’s important. That’s what separates us from them. It’s what we choose to kill for and how we carry the burden that we’ve given to ourselves.” Her eyes levelled with his once again. “That choice isn’t made up here,” she said gently, tapping the side of her head. “It’s made in here. Our hearts. We may spend the rest of our lives wondering if we’d done the right thing, tossing in our beds and trying to cry away the bad memories. But the choice was made, and it can’t be changed. We can only pray that, in the end, it made a difference.”

With this last word, she carefully let the locker open. Pound Cake’s jaw slackened in shock. Inside the locker was the slender, intimidating body of a rifle. A bulky, powerful scope was attached to the top rail, almost obscenely deforming the sleek elegance of the weapon. But what drew his eyes was neither the barrel nor the trigger. It was the stock.

All along its length, cut crudely into the black metal, were pale, white tick marks. There were many, far too many to count. And one of them, more recent than the rest, stood plainly out among the others. A single tick. A single kill.

“You...” began Pound Cake, but his voice failed him.

Fluttershy didn’t say a word. She looked sadly at the scores upon the stock.

“Fourty-seven, in case you’re wondering,” she said, her tone indecipherable. “More recently, fourty-eight. I count every night. Every night before I go to bed.” She stopped again, looking at Pound Cake with a weak grin. “I haven’t missed yet. There are times I wished I had.”

Pound Cake finally managed to speak. “How did you... how do you even fire that? You’re not a unicorn. Only unicorns can use use firearms.”

“You’re right. Our hooves are too big to slip past the trigger guard.” She looked behind her and Sweetcream, who was still sleeping soundly. “But his paws can. I aim. He pulls.”

Staring in wonder at the curled-up rabbit, Pound Cake felt something in his gut twist. He looked down at his tea, mind buzzing numbly.

“That ghost was going to kill you, Pound Cake,” spoke Fluttershy after a long silence. “It was going to kill you and it was going to finish off what it had started. It did not think with its heart whether your life was for it to take. It thought with its brain and its hooves. It acted with purpose and coldness. But you... You were not like them. You killed because you would not let harm befall your friends.”

She put a delicate hoof under his chin, pulling his face to look up into hers. “And that’s what makes you different from them. Love.”

It was the last thing she said to him. Taking her rifle under her wing and balancing Sweetcream between her shoulder blades, she opened the door, letting it quietly shut behind her. Pound Cake was alone. He looked down at his tea and gave it a tentative sip. It was still warm.

***

With a satisfying gong, Apple Bloom struck the metal barrel sitting in the middle of the warehouse dead center. Sniffing in appreciation of her own accuracy, she bent down and reached for another stone. Pound Cake had to hand it to her: her aim truly was impeccable. The oil barrel, now dented and scratched from multiple lapidations, was a good twenty meters off. After a good thirteen throws now, Apple Bloom hadn’t missed her target even once.

It had been a rough night’s sleep. He had slept in Fluttershy’s bed while the pegasus was off doing patrols, according to Applejack. The cowpony had seemed to have softened up considerably since their last conversation, but she still kept that wary look in her eyes, a look that told Pound Cake that whatever it was she wanted from him, she hadn’t gotten it yet. He had forced himself to ignore it while his mind ran dizzy laps, trying to come up with a plan. It had never been his forté. Scootaloo would know what to do. The name made him ache, throbbing like a dull bruise after another sloppy run, ringing in his ears like a lecture from Rainbow Dash.

Rainbow Dash, thought Pound Cake half-mindedly, as another stone struck home. She was probably going out of her mind with worry right now, tearing apart Canterlot looking for him. But Pound Cake banished the merest thought of her, not daring to think of what he would tell her when she found him.

Sweet Celestia, what was he going to tell her?

“Hey,” interrupted a voice, making him flinch. He looked up to find himself staring into Apple Bloom’s eyes. “Yer gettin’ that look.”

“What look?” asked Pound Cake, scratching his mane.

“The same look AJ always gets when she’s thinking about something right nasty,” she answered casually, tossing a stone so that it would spin up centimeters away from her hoof before being snatched back. “I reckon you’ve got every excuse, now, don’t’cha?”

She didn’t seem to mind that he only answered with a weak mumble, going right back to her practice.

Gong. Dead center again.

“You’re real good at that,” he finally said after three more perfect throws. Apple Bloom shrugged.

“Ah reckon Ah should be. It’s my job, really,” she said dismissively, scooping up another projectile.”

“Throwing rocks?”

“Heh. Nah, explosives. Grenades n’ stuff like that. Make ‘em mahself.”

“But why?” he asked. “Why make any of this your problem?”

Apple Bloom stopped winding up her throwing arm, giving him a good hard look. “Because it’s gotta be somepony’s responsibility. After my big brother got sent off to fight the gryphons and my granny passed away, it was just me and AJ. So it’s my responsibility to look out for her.”

She punctuated this sentence with another perfectly aimed throw, knocking the barrel over. Apple Bloom walked over to right her practice dummy, taking the opportunity to bring back a few more stones. She chuckled slightly.

“Funny, you know. Spent so much of my life trying to figure out what it was I’d be good at. Never thought that blowin’ stuff up would be one of my stronger talents. Though AJ would tend to disagree, especially when I was still a filly. Thinks it’s cute to call me ‘Apple Boom’. Sis is creative for a lot of things. Nicknames ain’t one of ‘em.” With a shake of her head, she turned back, calculating another throw.

“Did you know Scootaloo?” asked Pound Cake.

There was a clatter of stone on stone in the place of the usual metallic boom. A miss. Hanging her head, Apple Bloom didn’t look at Pound Cake for a while. Then, with, a heavy sigh, she turned and sat heavily, dragging a hoof across her tired eyes.

“She was... one of my closest friends,” she said slowly. “Ah’ve known her since we were fillies, still hunting for our cutie marks. Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, and Ah. Inseparable.” She stopped again, her eyes boring into Pound Cake until they seemed to drill right through him. “The three of us were... we were gonna get through all this. So we thought. But we went different paths. Ah stayed with my family. Scootaloo stayed with what little she could call family.”

“And Sweetie Belle?”

Apple Bloom chuckled sadly. “Sweetie Belle... she’s only got one thing on her mind. A bullet with a certain sibling’s named carved into it. One who betrayed us all. So she stayed with whoever was gonna let her load that into a chamber.”

“Rarity,” he said slowly.

“I see Rainbow Dash never lost those loose lips of hers,” interrupted a voice from behind him. Sweetie Belle stood reclined against one of the ammunition crates.

“Sweetie Belle...” started Apple Bloom apologetically.

“You talk too much, Apple Bloom.” Her emerald eyes snapped from her friend to Pound Cake. “Applejack wants to see you, kid. Now. Bring your saddlebag.”

Exchanging concerned glances, the two slowly got up and followed Sweetie Belle. Apple Bloom passed ahead of him, talking to her in hushed tones. Applejack was waiting for them where they had first met: before the cork board, surrounded by papers and thick binders. Only now, there were a few more electronic components. Computer screens blazing with walls of text or fluttering with complex sequences stood taller than the stacked documents. Applejack didn’t look up as they entered the makeshift office. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle stood uncomfortably to the side, leaving Pound Cake alone.

It was a while before Applejack glanced up at him from between wispy strands of her platinum-blonde mane, giving him a slight nod.

“Pound Cake,” she said, acknowledging him. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, lowering his head. “A little bit.”

“Ah’m right sorry for yer loss, and Ah hate to drop this on you at a time like this, but time is of the essence. Ah think it’s time we talked, Pound Cake, about the circumstances of yer sister’s arrest.”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked carefully.

Applejack stared at the desk for a long time before looking up. “Ah’m just trying to get some facts straight. Yer sister was supposed to be assigned as a bodyguard for Fancy Pants, right? Were you in Fancy Pant’s office before or after he had been murdered?”

“After. My sister contacted me on a... cracked phone. Told me she was in trouble. I rushed over to the Capitol and found him in his office. Stabbed.”

The cowpony seemed to be listening only with half interest as she leafed through some of the documents on the desk, but her ears never swiveled away from Pound Cake.

“And what was yer sister doing at the time the governor was supposedly murdered?”

“She told me she had been knocked out.”

“And you believed her?”, she said, her tone professional.

The question seemed to chill the room by a few degrees. Pound Cake’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything, Pound Cake,” said Applejack evenly. “I’m simply trying to find out what happened.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” he said suddenly, brusquely stepping up to her. He half-heard the sound of Sweetie Belle unholstering her pistol. “My sister was framed. She was framed for murder and she sacrificed herself believing that I could save her damn life. She put her trust in me despite that fact that I haven’t done crap for her or my family in years. Is that simple enough for you? Or is this whole ‘family’ thing just a little too complex?”

Applejack stared at him, not moving from her hunched over position at her desk. A brief flicker of her eyes demanded Sweetie Belle stow her weapon.

“Pound Cake, have you heard of Lulamoon Technologies?” asked Applejack.

“Of course. Firearms producer. Technology development.”

“Absolutely. They’re the biggest corporation in Canterlot. Heck, in Equestria. It’s a powerful business, and the provisionary government is very reliant on their products. They’ve advanced Equestria by leaps and bounds. Cellular technology, construction techniques, the whole nine yards. A monolithic force in not only business, but in politics.”

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

Applejack stared at him again with her unnervingly profound eyes. “Pound Cake,” she said, her Southern twang nearly disappearing through her slow, methodical tone, “what if Ah told you that the ghosts, the Subsidiary Task Force, didn’t answer to the provisionary government. What if Ah told you that those fellas are on the private payroll of the CEO of Lulamoon Technologies?”

Pound Cake blinked in surprise. “I... what do you mean?”

“Alright, how about this: what if Ah told you that Lulamoon Technologies has made significant deposits into accounts belonging to very high ranking government officials over the course of twenty years? All except for one?”

The stallion paused before carefully asking the obvious. “Which one?”

Applejack’s eyes took on a hard, gleaming edge. “Governor Fancy Pants himself.”

“I don’t...” Pound Cake stammered, looking behind him at the two mares as if they secretly had the answers. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with anything?”

“This has to do with everything, Pound Cake.” Applejack tapped the table, drawing his attention to the point of her hoof. A manilla folder. “Does this look familiar to you?”

His eyes widened, and he instinctively reached for his saddlebag. The documents.

“We switched ‘em while you were out cold. Didn’t know if you’d be hanging around, so Ah took extra precautions. And Ah think you’ll find that, unlike Rainbow Dash’s operation, we most certainly have the resources available to decrypt such a file.” She gave the papers a light shake.

“Pound Cake, did you find these on the desk of the late governor when you came to help yer sister?”

There was a long pause. Pound Cake’s tongue felt several sizes too large for his mouth. “Yes,” he finally said.

Applejack smiled grimly, rubbing her sore, bloodshot eyes with both hooves. “Pound Cake, these documents are records of transactions. Transactions of large shipments of firearms to the gryphon army courtesy of Lulamoon Technologies.”

Pound Cake shivered slightly despite himself. “What are you saying? That Lulamoon is dealing under the table?”

“That’s exactly what Ah’m saying. And moreover–”

He finished her sentence for her. “And moreover, Governor Fancypants found out about something he shouldn’t have.” He stared at Applejack numbly, eyes wide with disbelief. “He had become a liability. So they had him assassinated.”

The cowpony nodded solemnly. “And had yer sister framed to cover their tracks. But when they were done sweeping his office clean, they realized that they were missing something. This,” she said flatly, tapping the spread papers with a hoof. “Fifteen years we’ve been looking for this. For them to slip up and give us all the proof we’d ever need.”

Biting his bottom lip in thought, Pound Cake spoke slowly and deliberately. “Scoots and I were going to the Lulamoon building to try to decode those documents. Find out what they were about. The entire building was abandoned when we got there. All except for those ghosts.”

“Sending an STF squad for a simple intruder alert is like killing a fly with a grenade. They knew you were coming, Pound Cake. They were waiting for you.”

“But how?”

Applejack’s eyes significantly darkened. “Ah don’t know. But one thing is clear: we have a traitor among us.”

These last words hung heavily in the air. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle exchanged uncomfortable glances. But Applejack’s eyes never left Pound Cake’s. They took his stare hostage, daring him to look away for even a second. He returned the paralytic glare, and it lasted until Applejack slowly returned her attention to the documents spread in front of her.

Summoning his courage, Pound Cake asked, “You say that so many of these government officials were being bribed to do Lulamoon Technologies wanted them to do. All except Fancypants. Why?”

“Ah met Fancypants once,” responded Applejack, despondent. “He’s a good pony. A strong soul. Ah only met him once, but Ah knew in my heart that he would never let such atrocities against the ponies Celestia had entrusted to him pass unpunished. Money can only buy so much.”

“Then how did they control him?”

“The same way they’ve controlled so many.” Applejack slowly raised her head again. “By holding the ones they love against them. Using ‘em as leverage.”

There was something in the way the cowpony held Pound Cake’s gaze captive, as if she were analyzing it, that tipped him off. He ground his teeth.

“And let me guess: you think that they’re doing the same with Pumpkin Cake and I?” Pound Cake questioned tensely.

She paused before speaking once more. “Ah’m not entirely sure,” she answered, her voice giving away nothing. “What you’ve gone through doesn’t add up. But Ah’ve seen better ponies do and go through worse for the same.”

There was another silence, to which Pound Cake finally said, “I’m no traitor.”

“Well Ah don’t know that, now do Ah?” Applejack stated flatly.

Pound Cake’s only response to this was a slight snort, a flick of his tail, and a sharp turn. Without a word, he trotted out of the room, leaving the three mares silent. Stomping down the hall furiously, his mind was storm. It wasn’t long before he felt a hoof on his shoulder stop him. He turned to find Applejack’s weathered face.

“Pound Cake, listen...” she started.

“No, you listen!” Pound Cake cut her off, knocking her hoof away. “I didn’t ask for this. For any of this!” All this... this blackmailing and scheming and murdering and plotting. I don’t care about your damn war or your fight. So if you don’t trust me, then fine. I don’t need you. And I never did.”

“It doesn’t matter if you wanted it or not, Pound Cake,” the cowpony insisted. “The reality of the matter is that it’s here. And you’re a part of it now, whether y’all like it or not. So you listen here: either you stay here and fight against this, against Lulamoon Technologies, with us, and get payback for everything they’ve done to you, or you walk out on us, go back to yer blissfully ignorant life, and go back to–”

Her speech was cut off by a yelp of surprise as her Stentson was knocked clean off her head. Drifting lazily to the floor, Applejack and Pound Cake looked down to find a small, jagged piece of concrete roll to a stop beside the old hat. Applejack blinked, swallowed, and chuckled nervously.

“Ah only know one pony who can sneak up on me like that,” she said lightheartedly. Applejack turned around slowly.

“Rainbow Dash. Long time no see.”

***

As if a heavy clot had formed in his chest, Pound Cake felt his pulse slow and his heart sink as he stared past Applejack to find his rainbow-maned mentor flanked by a sheepish Derpy. The wall-eyed mare gave Pound Cake an awkward half-wave. Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom looked on from behind them in bewilderment, mouths like gasping fish as they tried to explain to Applejack how they got in.

Rainbow Dash was a mess. Her mane was a bird-nest of graying tangles and chromatic knots. Dark circles bordered her eyes, betraying her lack of sleep. Her normally glittering, violet eyes were harder than obsidian, and sharper. Barely controlling herself, her lower jaw was clenched and quivering.

“Now, Rainbow Dash,” began Applejack, her tone patronizing and soothing, “let’s not do anything too brash.”

Stomping past Applejack, Rainbow Dash ignored her royally, her glare never leaving Pound Cake’s. He tried to open his mouth to say something in his defense. He didn’t get the time. Pound Cake only saw a blue streak before Rainbow Dash’s forehoof snapped into his jaw.

Reeling, spots of light flashed before Pound Cake’s eyes, and his ears popped and rang. He opened his mouth, but only a gasp of pain escaped. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the ground, clutching his throbbing jaw.

“Rainbow!” he heard Applejack bark. She reached out and grabbed Rainbow Dash roughly by the shoulder. Rainbow Dash recoiled as if burned, before sticking her face into that of the cowpony’s.

“Don’t you touch me! I’ll deal with you later,” she hissed, her voice strained with fury. She turned that burning anger down to him. “You.”

Pound Cake felt hooves grab at his throat, dragging him upright. Gasping for air, he clutched at Rainbow Dash’s forehooves.

“Do you. Have any idea. How long I’ve been looking for you?” she spat in his face. “I haven’t slept in over a week. I’ve been calling every damn contact I have. I have been turning Canterlot upside-down looking for you! Do you understand me, Pound Cake? Do you freaking understand me?” She gave him a violent shake, but all he could muster was another choke.

“One week!” Rainbow Dash screamed, her voice cracking. “One Celestia-damned week! Do you get that? I’ve been tearing through Canterlot, risking our entire operation to find you and Scootaloo! I swore by everything I had that I’d find the both of you, bodies or otherwise! Do you have any idea how many gray hairs you gave me?”

She let go of his neck, grabbing his head in her hooves. Her eyes plunged into his, taking in every detail as if she might never see them again. “Oh sweet Celestia...” she finally sobbed, a thick tear rolling down her cheek. “I thought you were both dead.” Rainbow Dash released Pound Cake’s head, and took him into a crushing hug, her cheek pressed into his shoulder. Tears rolled from her chin onto his back.

“Never. Never do this to me again, Pound Cake. Never again. I can’t take it,” she begged.

Pound Cake slowly caught his breath. Tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as well, he slowly wrapped his arms around Rainbow Dash’s back and squeezed, burying his head in her mane. Every ounce of pain and regret ebbed from his mind with every moment he was held in her motherly embrace.

“I’m sorry...” he whispered, quivering. “I’m so sorry, I...” His hold around her slackened for a moment. “Scoots didn’t...”

Rainbow Dash didn’t say anything, letting his voice trail off painfully. She just tightened her hold around his midsection. From behind her, Derpy drew a sharp breath, and her crossed, glazed-over eyes became lucid for the briefest moment. The expression wavered, then crumbled, and she hung her head miserably, biting her lower lip. Applejack looked away, sniffing uncomfortably.

Finally, the embrace ended, and Rainbow Dash held Pound Cake at arm’s length, her eyes flickering across his sullen, darkened face. Her gaze never leaving his, she spoke over her shoulder.

“When were you planning on telling me?” she asked coldly.

Applejack’s eyes narrowed slightly, but didn’t lose their hard edge. “Ah was planning on contacting you as soon as–”

Rainbow Dash released her grip on Pound Cake’s shoulder, twisting to meet Applejack’s glare with hers. “As soon as what? As soon as they were both dead?”

“Now you listen here...”

“Absolutely not,” shouted Rainbow Dash, refusing to let Applejack have even a word. “This isn’t what we agreed to when we went our separate ways, AJ. Two ponies from my operation end up wounded and in your care, and you don’t even have the Celestia-damned decency of letting them know that you have them with you?”

“Ah was going to!”

“Well why didn’t you?”

“Because Ah knew you’d be like this!” hollered Applejack. The two mares were muzzle-a-muzzle, cheeks flushed furiously. “Ain’t this just like Rainbow Dash! So blasted talented, and so much better than everypony else that she thinks her needs come before those of everypony else’s! Element of loyalty my flank!”

“You’re one to talk! Whatever happened to honesty, then? I didn’t know that lying to your friends and causing them to go sick with worry was part of the job description!”

Applejack snorted violently, her hooves stomping at the concrete as she shoved her brow against Rainbow Dash’s. “Well sure, because you’re just such a loyal pony! Running off and abandoning us! And for what? For what!? Tell me!”

Suddenly Rainbow Dash flinched, jerking away from Applejack as if she had been slapped. Her eyes widened for a moment, glittering with repressed tears. Then they narrowed into thin slivers.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anger. “Don’t you dare go there.”

“It’s been fifteen years, Rainbow Dash,” insisted Applejack, undaunted by the aggression in her friend’s stance. “Fifteen years you’ve been torturing yerself over this, blaming yerself and hurting yerself. You need to let go.”

“Let go!?” exploded Rainbow Dash. Before any of them could move a muscle, the pegasus had rocketed from her spot and slammed into Applejack. In a flurry of violent motion, the earth pony found herself pinned to the ground. “You can’t tell me to let go! How can I let go after what I’ve done? I failed her, Applejack. I failed her and you and everypony and... and...”

Whatever further self-hatred Rainbow Dash had for herself receded like a ride from shore as a hoof gently placed itself upon her shoulder. Rainbow Dash turned to find Fluttershy, who had slipped in from seemingly nowhere, standing above her. She did not need to say a word. The look in her eyes spoke volumes.

“It wasn’t yer fault, Rainbow,” said Applejack. Her eyes searched Rainbow Dash’s, searching for something that seemed to have lost its way long ago.

“I was the one who got sloppy! I’m the one who took a damn bullet to the leg. Not her! It should’ve been me, damn it! I...” Rainbow Dash’s legs were quivering, devoid of the strength that had forced the farm pony to the ground. Tears dripped from her cheeks, matting her face and falling silently into Applejack’s fur. “It’s not fair,” she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut. “It’s not fair. She didn’t have to...” Her voice trailed off weakly. She rolled off Applejack, and fell on her haunches.

Applejack’s tired face wrinkled into a sad, distant smile. “She made her choice when she saved you, Rainbow Dash,” she whispered. “We both know that. She gave her life for yers because she believed that y’all could accomplish something in this world that she couldn’t. She sacrificed herself because she believed that y’all could still give the world something good no matter how dark it was.”

Rainbow Dash didn’t say a word. Slowly, Applejack stood, looking down at her friend with that same mournful smile. A dry, pained laugh escaped her lips. “You know how she was. Smiling all consarn time. That crazy mare.”

Sniffling slightly, Rainbow Dash looked up at Applejack, who extended a hoof. She stared at the friendly gesture, as if it were a foreign object. With a sudden burst of motion that made even Sweetie Belle flinch, Rainbow Dash pushed the hoof a side. Before Applejack could blink, she found her friend’s arm wrapped around her neck in a tight hug.

“I miss her...” whispered Rainbow Dash into the nape of Applejack’s neck. “I miss her so, so, much...”

Slowly, easily, Applejack’s hooves found themselves in the same position, and she solemnly returned the embrace. With a slight cock of her head, she indicated for Fluttershy to join them. The pegasus silently obliged, taking the two of them by the shoulder and sealing the bond that had been broken so many years ago.

“We all miss her, sugarcube,” reassured Applejack.

“Every day,” added Fluttershy softly.

For a long time the three friends held their hug, in total silence. None of the ponies dared say a word, as if speaking would break this mysterious, magical spell that had so briefly transported them from reality into a world where suddenly there was light once more. Finally, Rainbow Dash grinned feebly, opening her eyes.

“Can’t remember the last time we had this. The three of us as a team,” she said.

Applejack laughed at that, and the three reof them reluctantly broke their embrace. “It’s a sign, sugarcube. Things are a-changing again. It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

“The turning point,” said Fluttershy, nodding mysteriously. She motioned to Sweetie Belle, who gave a curt bob of her head and left them all in the hallway.

“Turning point to what?” asked Pound Cake, finding his voice.

“To everything. To this war, to this occupation, to this oppression. Everything has come together at last, after so, so long.” With a cocky smile, Applejack scooped her Stetson from the ground and fixed it casually to her head. “And so have we,” she added.

The radiant glow in Rainbow Dash’s cheeks dimmed slightly, and she cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “What half-baked plan have you thought up this time, AJ?”

“Not half-baked, Rainbow. This isn’t a plan anymore. This is the real deal,” corrected the cowpony as Sweetie Belle came galloping back with a manilla folder in her mouth, passing it to Fluttershy and subsequently Applejack. “This right here is all we need. Proof that Lulamoon Technologies has been double-dealin’ and playing all of Equestria for a bunch of fools. Right in black and white. And they can’t deny it. All thanks to yer runner, Rainbow.”

Rainbow Dash shot Pound Cake a perplexed glance, to which he gave a slight shrug.

Applejack continued to press her point, her eyes focused on Rainbow Dash as she indicated for them to follow her. When they reached the improvised office once more, she splayed them across her desk, tapping the few papers in succession. “This is what we’ve been waiting for Rainbow Dash, since you left. A break to reveal the corruption that Lulamoon is up to. They’re funding the gryphons, Rainbow Dash. They’re prolonging this war and playin’ both teams. But now we have ‘em like rattlers in a pit. We can prove this to everyone now, show them what they’ve done, and all of Canterlot can finally rise up against that viper’s nest.”

Rainbow Dash didn’t say a word throughout Applejack’s speech, and neither did Pound Cake. He watched intently as his mentor’s gaze flickered from indecipherable paper to translation page by page. Something seemed to be kindling behind her pupils, like some long-dead fire being sparked to life.

And yet, as Applejack’s grandiose speech became more epic and eager, he could only feel a gnawing numbness.

“Just think, Rainbow. The skies will be free again, free for ponies to fly and play. Just like it was before. No more ghosts, no more running, no more fighting. We can bring it all back. For everypony...” Her voice trailed off, and she turned to Rainbow Dash, smiling slightly in the soft glow of lamp propped up on the desk. She gave her friend a small nudge. “For Pinkie.”

A quiver went through Pound Cake’s body, starting in his hooves and working its way into his mouth. Silently, almost involuntarily, a word formed there.

Pinkie Pie, he mouthed. It was a meaningless word... a meaningless word that for the briefest moment chilled him with the ghostly echo of a giggle and the flash of a smile. As if hearing the laughter herself, a hint of a smile flickered across Rainbow Dash’s lips. Applejack placed a hoof on her shoulder.

“Y’all know Ah can’t do it alone. Ah need a mare who knows the streets. Ah need a skilled runner... and most of all, Ah need my friend.”

Rainbow Dash looked down at her hooves, smirking slightly. “You know I can’t run anymore, AJ.”

Not can’t. Won’t.

“What does it matter? You’re still my friend, Rainbow Dash. We started this thing together, and we’re going to end it together. And besides... you can’t run...” Raising her head, Applejack cast Pound Cake the friendliest expression she could muster. “But he can.”

And just like that, all attention went from the incriminating documents on the table to Pound Cake. The stallion felt his legs stiffen and stomach tighten. All of them gave him that same look of understanding and hope and sympathy.

“I...”

“You’ve done so much, Pound Cake. You’ve fought so hard and it’s come down to this: the home stretch. So whaddya say, partner? Care to finish this fight? With us?”

Pound Cake looked from each of them, one by one. Apple Bloom’s eyes were wide with excitement, and eagerly awaiting his word. Sweetie Belle never dropped her faraway look or stiff upper lip. Applejack smiled again, confident of his answer, hooves ready to conduct the master operation she had worked her entire life to prepare. Only Rainbow Dash and Derpy knew, without even looking at him, what he would say. The two of them exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Looking to each of them, it didn’t take long for Pound Cake to realize the severity of this. The weight behind it. And yet when he spoke, it was with a nervous, barking laugh.

“No.”

The single word heavy-handedly smothered the ponies.

Applejack blinked in surprise. “Ah.. uh... beg yer pardon?”

“I said no,” said Pound Cake, his voice wavering with laughter, as if she had just told a joke. “I already told you. I don’t want anything to do with this. This has nothing to do with me.Your conspiracies and murdering and–”

“Hold on. Hold it, hold it, hold it,” interrupted Applejack, holding up a hoof. She looked back at Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle, as if they were in on the same joke and about to burst into laughter. Finding no humor in their equally bewildered faces, she raised a cynical eyebrow. “You have to be pullin’ my leg here. Y’all can’t possibly be serious. This is a joke, right?”

“No. This isn’t a joke. I’m not helping you. None of this has anything to do with me.”

“Nothing to...” Applejack spluttered, flushing. “Nothing to do with you? Are you kidding me? This has everything to do with you, and dammitall we need you!”

“Why?” blurted Pound Cake, ignoring Rainbow Dash’s subtle gesture telling him to ease off. “What the hell do I owe you?”

“Y’all don’t owe me nothin’! You owe it to Canterlot and Equestria, for Pony’s sake!”

“Canterlot? Equestria?” His voice reached near hysterical pitch. “Why? What the hell has this rathole city ever done for me? It’s taken everything I had and tossed me in the gutter. All because of what?!” This last word exploded from his chest, and Pound Cake reared. His wings spread out massively, seeming to swell with his fury. “All because of these! Because of Celestia-damned wings! This city decided I was some second-class pony because of something I never could control, and you want me to ‘save’ it?”

Panting heavily, Pound Cake stomped his hooves onto the concrete, silencing whatever protest Applejack was ready to throw back at him.

“This city... can go to Tartarus. And so can Equestria. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I... I want to go home.”

The cowpony had regained her senses, and looked about ready to tell Pound Cake exactly where he could stick his wings before Fluttershy stopped her.

“Pound Cake... what home?” she murmured gently, pushing a stray lock of mane out of her eyes. “Lulamoon has taken everything from you... not Canterlot. This is about you... It’s about all of us. We’re all against the wall. What more... could they possibly take from you?”

Pound Cake’s stare passed through her, blurring for a brief moment. And in that brief moment he saw a promise.

I promise I’ll figure a way out of this. I won’t leave you all alone, I swear.

You’re all I have left.

“My sister,” he said hoarsely.

Fluttershy blinked in surprise, looking over her shoulder at Applejack. The mare had composed herself slightly, her temper once more under control, and a passing flicker of sympathy across her face pressed Pound Cake to insist.

“You said it yourself. Use those you love against you, right? That’s what Lulamoon does?”

Sweetie Belle tensed, biting her lip slightly, and Derpy seemed to tremble for a moment. Pound Cake looked from pony to pony, before lowering his gaze to the floor.

“Scoots... Scootaloo died... because of me. Because I had my head too far up my own ass to see what I was doing. I was mad. I was stupid. And it cost her her life. Not mine. It was my own damn mistake that cost me Scootaloo. So I will not...” His eyes, flaming, shot to meet Applejack’s. She flinched from their ferocity. “I will not lose her too. If she’s under arrest, then she’s under their hooves. They’re killers, and they’ll slit her throat if that’s what it takes. I refuse to take that risk. The risk to lose her. I’m...”

He inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes. “I’m not strong enough. I can’t lose Pumpkin Cake, too. I can’t.”

Applejack swallowed uncomfortably as the attention of the gathered ponies turned to her now instead. “Pound Cake...”

“You want my help? Fine. I’ll help you. But not without my sister back. Once she’s safe, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll do whatever the hell Rainbow Dash tells me to do.” He stressed the name of his mentor, and she laughed uncomfortably as Applejack shot her a glance of annoyance. “Take it or leave it.”

Applejack sighed in frustration, rubbing her temples with her hooves. “For Pony’s Sake... We’re so close, and you want us to break off now for somepony who, for as far as we know, could already be–”

“What if it was Big MacIntosh?” piped a voice. Apple Bloom frowned in apprehension. “Or what if it was me?” she continued, pushing away from her comfortable position against a wooden crate. “Pound Cake is right. We can’t ask him to risk Pumpkin Cake. We have to try. If there’s even the slightest chance, we have to try. The least we can do is try the Royal Prison.”

“I... uh...” Derpy’s eyes rolled uncomfortably before she nodded uncertainly. “Yeah. I agree. We gotta help her out. It’s what’s right.”

There were several other muted murmurs of approval. Applejack’s ears flattened uncomfortably, and she bit her lip. After several moments of mumbling under her breath, she finally tugged her Stetson off the tight bun on her mane and sighed.

“If she’s still alive, then she’s going to be in the Royal Prison...” She stared at him intensely, gears turning in her head. “Alright,” she said tersely. “We’ll do it.”

Before Pound Cake could open his mouth to thank her, she cut him off. “But after this, Pound Cake, Ah’m holdin’ you to yer word. And y’all better follow up on it, or so help me...” She left her threat unfinished.

“I swear,” confirmed the runner, nodding his head in appreciation.

“Then let’s get to work.”

***

“Is it in place?” asked Pound Cake, watching Sweetie Belle work. In the pitch blackness of the crystal caverns, there wasn’t the slightest scrap of light. It was one of the reasons that the buried ruins, once mined to fund the war effort, were now abandoned and decrepit with disuse. That, had added Applejack, and the fact that the massive crystalline structures jutting from the rocks below had a strange life of their own. They vibrated and warped images in ways that could, and had, driven lost ponies to madness. And Pound Cake could feel it. Gnawing at him from the reflections of the glow of Sweetie Belle’s magic.

“Just... about,” grunted the unicorn, apparently undeterred by the unsettling ambience of the abandoned mine. She’d been quiet the entire way here. Not that it had been particularly difficult to get in. Nopony in their right mind would come here on purpose. Yet it was ideal in order to break into the Royal Canterlot Prison.

Rainbow Dash had told him that this place was once a beautiful palace, with sparkling parapets and luxurious cloths draped from the high windows. She told him she’d been there before, before the war. It wasn’t the same now. The stone had been collapsed and demolished, the materials within recycled to fund the war effort. Now, the image of Canterlot majesty and grace had been sullied and tarnished, warped into a grim prison for the provisional government’s undesirables. He suspected that there was no love lost in blowing it apart.

Soon enough, Sweetie Belle stepped back, admiring her handiwork plastered across the ceiling of the cavern. She pressed a hoof to her earpiece. “Alright, Apple Bloom. It’s in place. Can you still get a signal from where you’re at?”

The message echoed in Pound Cake’s radio. Before long, the positioned plastic explosives beeped once. He wasn’t sure where Applejack and her crew had gotten this kind of hardware. It made him slightly nervous thinking that one of his runs could possibly have supplied it.

“Eeeeeeyup, looks all good here,” chirped Apple Bloom, her southern drawl slightly muted by the poor reception within the caves. “Both sets are in place and synchronized, sis.”

“Gotcha,” confirmed Applejack. “Fluttershy, are you in position?”

“Yes. I’ve got a clean line of sight from here. Everything seems quiet on the prison front. Not much movement...”

“And the jammer?”

“Um...” interrupted Derpy from her position in the control room. “It should be all set up and ready to go. Just flick the switch and press the little blinky green button thing and... Yep. That should do it.”

“Got it,” Fluttershy said confidently.

“Perfect,” responded Applejack, her tone clipped and professional. “Then it looks like we’re all ready to go on this end. Rainbow Dash?”

“Hmm? Uh, yeah. Let’s get this over with then...” Her voice trailed off, and Pound Cake tensed involuntarily at the radio silence.

“Final check-in.”

“Ready to provide overwatch...”

“Ready to blow!”

“Standing by.”

“Uhuh! All good here!”

“...”

“Yo, Pound Cake,” chided Rainbow Dash, noticing his failure to answer. “Are you ready?”

He inhaled warily, his legs trembling beneath him. Sweetie Belle tossed him an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “For Celestia’s sake, Pound Cake. Pull it together. We’re going to be fine.”

The stallion nodded with as much conviction he could muster. Something felt... odd. Vaguely familiar. He looked up at the steadily glowing explosives on the ceiling. One word and they’d go, blasting their way into the prison from below. The first step to ending this nightmare: saving his sister. And yet...

“Come on, Poundy, you can do it!” cheered Derpy, the smile in her voice unmistakable. It was contagious.

“Ok. Yeah. Ready. Let’s do this thing.”

“Alright, everypony. We’ve got this.” urged Applejack. She barked some inaudible words off-radio, then returned. “Lil’ sis, prime them charges.”

***

Final Verdict yawned heavily, stretching his hooves into the air as he reclined in his seat. It was late. Too late to be up for guard duty. Again. Cracking his neck, he smacked his lips and returned his attention to the flickering monitors in front of him. Every now and then the screens would cycle between different angles and cell blocks, showing images of sealed bars and dark corridors.

The night shift was always the worst.

There was a knock at the door. Looking to the monitors and back to the door again, Final Verdict rolled his eyes in abandonment and stood. Trotting the brief distance from the control console to the plated metal door, he didn’t bother to peer through the eyehole. Pressing the button beside the lock, the door buzzed once and unlocked. He stepped away from it as his co-worker, Lockdown, edged his way in, carefully balancing a tray in his teeth.

“Ah goht da coffeh,” the earth pony struggled to enunciate. Yawning again, Final Verdict nodded and mustered what little energy he had in him to levitate the cardboard tray, placing it on the table beside the monitors. Magicking one of the cups out of it for himself, he collapsed into his chair once more. Lockdown did the same, taking his seat by his own set of computer screens and control panels.

“Anything happen?” he asked, shaking his cup as he waited for the coffee to cool.

Final Verdict snorted sarcastically. “Oh yeah. You totally missed it. Princess Celestia popped by to tell us the war’s over. We’re both getting a promotion and the next week off for our... valuable service.”

“Okay, okay, no need to get snarky.” He took a tentative sip of his coffee, his expression souring as it burned his palate. “I hate it too, you know.”

“Seriously, man,” continued Final Verdict after the two of them had sat in silence for a while, “why in Tartarus are we here? It’s past midnight, already. Everypony’s asleep. Even the prisoners. The damn prisoners are getting their beauty sleep and we’re two lone assholes who have to stay awake.”

“Not just us. Would you rather be out patrolling like the others? Could be worse. Count your blessings.”

“Whatever,” sighed Final Verdict, staring down at his coffee. “I could be with my kids right now instead of this concrete shithole. What a life.”

“You could also be out on the front fighting gryphons,” commented Lockdown, looking over his shoulder as he propped his hind legs up on the desk. “Everyone does their part.”

“I just wish my part was a little more interesting than just...” He waved at the monitors. “Watching Nothing Happens: The Sitcom on the Blurry Resolution Channel for three hours on the graveyard shift. Makes you wonder why the hell I got stuck with this sorry-ass cutie mark. In prison guarding.” He took a swig of his coffee, sighing as he put down the cup. He chuckled. “Heh. Sorry-ass. Cutie mark. I made a funny.”

There was a long silence. Lockdown looked down at his coffee. “Well... Technically no. I mean, our cutie marks aren’t on our asses. They’re on our flanks. You know. Like... the sides of our asses. So that joke doesn’t make sense.”

Final Verdict plonked down his empty coffee cup, and turned in his chair. “Hey, Lockdown?”

“Yeah?”

“Ever been punched in the face? Like... really hard?”

Before Lockdown could answer either way, his coffee jumped from the cup and straight into his face as the entire Canterlot Royal Prison shook from what sounded like a violent thunder clap. Spluttering, the stallion jumped out of his chair. “What in the name of–”

Suddenly wide awake, Final Verdict, turned his attention to the computer screens, grabbing the headset on his desk. “Patrols! What the heck was that? Anyone there?” His eyes flitted from screen to screen as he awaited an answer. With a cough, somepony answered.

“Yeah, uh... Hey, watch that! Keep away from there until we get the fire crews here! Um... There was some sort of explosion out here. Smoke everywhere. Looks like the gas line just went to crap. Got a few ponies burned. We were just barely out of range. We need to evacuate the prison!”

“Got it, already working on it,” nodded Final Verdict as his hooves deftly flew across the controls. Lousy cutie mark or not, he was good at what he did. A quick glance over his shoulder found Lockdown doing the same, speaking urgently to somepony on his end of the radio. “Have you contacted Civil Defense yet? We’re going to need some help with this.”

Whatever the patrol pony on the other end of the connection tried to articulate was lost as the static on the line suddenly amplified and peaked with a shrill, whining buzz. Cringing, Final Verdict tore the radio from his ear. “What the...” He tried lowering the volume and adjusting the connection. All he got was a different pitch of static. “Hello? Hello?”

“Final, my radio’s not working. Any luck on your end?” asked Lockdown, pressing his hoof to the microphone of his headset.

“What? You too?” He swore and tossed his useless headset to the floor and headed for the door. “Lulamoon Tech... Highest end software my flank! I’m going to go see what’s going on. You get that radio online. We need Civil Defense down here stat if we’re going to get all these scuzz balls out of their–”

Opening the door of the control room, Final Verdict found himself face to face with a snow-white mare with a practically styled mane. Kinda cute. But before he could say a word, a heavy-set stallion emerged from behind her. With violent speed, his forehooves clasped Final Verdict on either side of his head and sent it straight into the button beside the door. With a crack and an electronic buzz, the pony lost consciousness.

The night shift was always the worst.

***

The second pony in the control room spun in a panic. Before he could open his mouth to scream, Sweetie Belle had drawn her pistol from its holster and levelled it at him.

“I wouldn’t do anything too stupid if I were you,” she commented dryly.

The stallion stopped dead in his tracks, slowly raising a hoof in the air. “Alright, let’s all calm down here,” he stuttered nervously. “We’re all sensible–”

“Face the wall.”

As the guard pony hesitantly complied, Pound Cake stepped around the unconscious unicorn collapsed against the frame of the door. His eyes never left Sweetie Belle. He had been very clear in his demand: no killing.

“Please, oh, please, don’t kill me,” squealed the hysterical pony as Sweetie Belle pressed his head against the concrete wall. “I’ll do anything! I’m not a bad pony, alright!? I just...”

With a sharp crack as the butt of her pistol collided with the back of his head, the guard joined his friend in dreamland. Pound Cake glanced down at him.

“Did you need to hit him that hard?”

“You’re one to talk,” she quipped, reaching for her earpiece. “Sweetie Belle here. I’m in the control room. What am I doing here?”

“Good question,” answered Rainbow Dash. “Derpy, what’s she doing here?”

“Alright, alright,” fumbled the klutz of a pony. “There, uh... should be some sort of a central terminal. Bigger than the rest. Like, not the screen. The actual computer.”

Pound Cake looked to his left. While both sides of the room were a mess of flickering computer screens, only one of them was supported by the massive metal casing of a central computer. Sweetie Belle saw it as well and nodded, trotting over to it.

“Got it. What now?”

“Ya got that stick drive thing with ya? There should be some sort of slot for it on the console. You... might need to rip off the casing. Gently, alright?” She continued speaking over the shriek of bending metal as Pound Cake rapidly concluded that there was no such slot on the front. “Once that’s in place, it’s all peachy from there. I should be able to look at the entire system. Easey-peasey, and then we can find... uh...”

Pound Cake raised an eyebrow at Sweetie Belle. “Pumpkin Cake?” he ventured over the radio.

“Yeah, Pumpkin Pie!”

The two ponies could almost hear Applejack’s hoof as it collided with her forehead. “For cryin’ out loud,” they heard her mumble.

Unfazed, Sweetie Belle’s horn glowed faintly, and a small, metallic stick lifted itself from the side pocket of her holster. Pound Cake stepped back, and she expertly slipped the end of the receiver into an inconspicuous slot in the console, bending back an antennae on it.

“Alright, it’s in,” confirmed Sweetie Belle.

“Aw yeah!” whooped Derpy. “Just give me a minute to do a bit of hoppin’ around here and...” The two ponies waited impatiently as there was the sound of rapid keystrokes over the radio. They stopped abruptly, and the there was a brief silence.

“What now?” asked Applejack over the radio, her question directed off-radio.

“I uh...” answered Derpy sheepishly, “I can’t do it if you’re looking.”

“Oh for Pony’s–”

“Come off it, AJ. Let Derpy do her thing,” scolded Rainbow Dash. “She knows what she’s doing. Nopony can crack a system like she can.”

Pound Cake couldn’t help but smile at Applejack’s sigh of irritation and a rustle of static as she presumably turned away.

“I get nervous,” Derpy explained to nopony in particular, resuming her rapid typing.

“Um...” interjected Fluttershy. “I’ve got a visual on Civil Defense. Four of them have just come up outside the prison. They’re unloading.”

“What? Ah thought the jammer was supposed to keep them from... Nevermind. They must’ve heard the explosion. Fluttershy,” barked Applejack, “we can’t let them get in here. Stop them.”

“Non-lethally,” demanded Rainbow Dash. “Warning shots. Keep them from strolling into that prison, and make sure they stay in cover. Derpy, I don’t know what the heck you’re doing, but could you do it a little more–”

“Got it!” she cheered. “Poundy, Sweetie Belle, I’m in. Our hunch was right. Not only is Pumpkin here, but I know just where she is!”

Pound Cake sighed in relief. “Thank Luna. She’s alive.” Sweetie Belle looked away awkwardly.

“She’s being held in the restricted cell blocks,” continued Derpy. “You’re going to need to head down into the sublevels. According to the blueprints I’ve got here, there should be a staircase not too far from where you are. Just take a right when you walk out of the control room.”

“And y’all better hurry it up. We’re running on the clock now. Get Pumpkin Cake, and get the heck out of there.”

Sweetie Belle nodded crisply, and gestured with her head towards the door before breaking into a gallop. “Let’s move.” Pound Cake stuck close behind her.

“Fluttershy, what’s the situation outside?”

“It’s looking messy, Applejack. I’m taking some–” She was briefly cut off as a small pop sounded in the background. “...Small arms fire. I already told Apple Bloom to fall back.” There was the pounding echo of a rifle shot as Sweetcream tugged on the trigger. “I don’t know how much long warning shots are going to keep them down.”

“Pound Cake...”

“Yeah, yeah, got it! Hurrying!” He took a shortcut through the staircase, vaulting the guardrail and striking the ground with his forehooves as he landed in a roll.

“Runners...” muttered Sweetie Belle under her breath as she galloped to keep up with him. Barrelling down the hallway, there were murmurs and stirrings in the cells as they passed by them. Pound Cake forced himself to ignore the questions and shouts of the inmates as they demanded to know what was happening, and who was going to let them out. He didn’t want to think how long they’d been here.

“There should be a grated area right ahead, and a lift through the door there. Take it!” informed Derpy. “Once you’re down there, it’s cell... uh... one-oh-thirteen.”

The fenced off area came up around the corner as predicted. Momentum in stride, Pound Cake charged forward, angling his shoulder for the doorway cut into the fencing. With a powerful thrust from his hind legs, he slammed his weight into it. The metal links bent, creaked, and collapsed, tearing the door from its hinges. Guided by Derpy’s techno-sorcery, the door to the lift ahead of them opened with a blaring horn, letting them in. The two ponies slid inside.

“Derpy!” ordered Sweetie Belle over the radio. Without saying a word, she obliged, shutting the door. Panting slightly, Pound Cake waited. For an agonizingly long time, nothing happened. They exchanged uncertain glances. Then, with a tremble, the lift screamed its siren again and descended into the depths of the prison. Pound Cake exhaled. For some reason, he’d been holding his breath.

“How’s it look outside?” asked Pound Cake over the radio, focusing on the flashing green numbers on the display as they counted downwards. Four, three, two...

Fluttershy took a moment to respond. “It looks like they’re breaking off. I think one of the shots was a little too close for them. They’re falling back, but they’re probably going to be back with more. I’m repositioning... Come on, Sweetcream, let’s go.”

“Thank you, Fluttershy.”

“Don’t mention it, Pound Cake. It was my pleasure. Now be a dear and fetch your sister.”

“You got it,” Pound Cake said, grinning awkwardly. “Did you get all that, Rainbow Dash?”

There was no answer.

“Rainbow Dash?”

Sweetie Belle looked up at the elevator’s counter. It read B4. “We must be too deep underground,” she commented.

Pound Cake frowned. “Rainbow Dash,” he repeated, “we’re in the prison block now. We should have Pumpkin Cake soon enough. Do you hear me?” Still no response. No static. Just silence. Pound Cake removed his hoof from his headset. “Alright, let’s be fast. Cell one thousand and thirteen.”

With a ding instead of the expected shriek of an alarm, the doors of the lift opened to a dimly-lit hallway. Greenish-white fluorescent bulbs guided the two ponies through the corridors, past the cell doors. Here, there were no bars. The confines were solid concrete walls, and the doors were made of sturdy, reinforced metal. Pound Cake scrutinized the numbers stenciled beside the doors, his heart thudding nervously in his chest. There was something about this place...

With a soft click, Sweetie Belle unholstered her glowing pistol and switched off the safety. The sound made him flinch.

“Keep going,” she said tersely. Checking each door carefully, they proceeded in the unnerving hum of the fluorescent lights. Pound Cake couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder occasionally at Sweetie Belle. Her white fur was almost lost in the darkness of the corridor, and the glow of her horn cast somber shadows across her face.

“Sweetie Belle,” Pound Cake whispered, stopping in his tracks. Sweetie Belle followed his gaze upward, and found a number beside door. “This is it.”

Nodding crisply, Sweetie Belle motioned for him to get out of the way. She levelled her pistol at the lock on the door. “Move away from the door!” she commanded. There was a shuffle from inside the cell, and Sweetie Belle fired twice. The echo of the gunshot was accompanied by muffled clang of metal as the lock buckled. Sweetie Belle pivoted away, and Pound Cake seamlessly took her place. Twisting onto his front legs, his hind legs coiled like a spring and snapped outwards in a violent buck, blasting what was left of the lock to pieces. The door burst inwards.

There was a terrified scream from inside the cell.

“Pumpkin Cake? Pumpkin, it’s me!” shouted Pound Cake hoarsely. Huddled in the corner, barely visible in the dim light, was a unicorn. Shielding her face, Pumpkin Cake cried in fear as Pound Cake rushed up to her.

“Please... oh, Celestia, please, duh-don’t kill me,” she begged, weeping. Her body tensed and shied away from him.

“Pumpkin... Look at me! It’s alright, it’s alright,” coaxed Pound Cake, bending down to his knees. “I’m here... It’s over...”

She peered between her hooves, sniffling. “Puh... Pumpkin?” Her eyes glistened in the darkness. “Who... what?”

Pound Cake’s eyes had accustomed to the darkness. His hooves, about to touch Pumpkin’s face, recoiled as if stung.

This wasn’t Pumpkin Cake. This was a mare... a unicorn with purple fur and a yellow mane. And he’d seen her before.

Pound Cake felt his blood turn to ice, and the air vanished from his lungs.

That’s my Dinky. She’s waiting for me. One day, I’m gonna see her again.

His earpiece crackled to life. “Pound Cake!” shouted Rainbow Dash, “Get out of–” Her voice was lost in a shriek of static as the connection was jammed. Sweetie Belle felt them. She felt them as he had, like a sliver of steel between a breast bone and blood splattered on concrete. But she turned too late, aimed too slowly. They disarmed her like it was nothing, and shoved her violently into the wall.

Pound Cake couldn’t turn around. He just stared, paralyzed, at the mare cowering before him.

One day, I’m gonna see her again.

Glass eyes bore into the back of his skull, and weapons were cocked. A voice spoke with a distorted crackle of static.

“Suspect claimed. O-one to all: we’ve got him.”

Part 4 of 4

“All units, be advised, suspect detained. Level One,” rumbled a static-laden voice. There was a brief hiccup of radio chatter in response. But Pound Cake couldn’t make it out with his muzzle pressed into the concrete. He blinked and tried to move. His entire body spasmed in pain, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth made his stomach turn.

“Verdict... old... squad... Copy?”

“Affirmative,” responded the ghost, not removing its hoof from Pound Cake’s head. “Administered... discretionary verdict.” Its voice never wavered from that same monotonous octave, hissing and low, like a threatening growl. The ghost’s hoof pressed down harder onto his skull, prompting another cough of pain from the stallion. It was like being crushed by a hydraulic press.

Another, more distant voice blurted something that sounded like “em-tab”. Slowly and reluctantly, the pressure on Pound Cake’s head lessened, and he could finally breathe again. He didn’t move. Not out of fear, but from gnawing mental exhaustion. He’d lost track of time. How long they’d beat him. It could have been for only mere seconds, the brutality of the blows stretching every moment. He could only remember it in brief, hot flashes, flashing lights, and muffled ringing. His leg twitched involuntarily, and the heavy footsteps slowly crept away from him.

Slowly, he struggled to pull himself to his hooves, coughing. The reek of blood filled his nostrils. His muscles trembling with effort, Pound Cake just barely managed to pick himself up off the ground. Before he could move, a force gripped him around his neck, dragging him along the rough concrete floor. In the darkness, he found himself face to face with those eyes. Those horrible glass eyes.

“Almost forgot,” whispered the ghost, a furious edge in its distorted voice.

Pound Cake felt his midsection explode as the ghost slammed its hoof into his gut. His limbs went numb as his entire being retreated to his stomach. The stallion dry-heaved violently as the ghost dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. Pound Cake curled up on himself, eyes wide and drool pouring in a thin line from his gaping mouth. The ghost’s face came close to his, close enough to where he could almost see through the lens of its mask.

“That one was for G-squad,” hissed the ghost. The stale air spewed from its respirator like a toxic gas, asphyxiating him. With a sharp, military turn, the ghost spun and exited the cell. Without another look behind him, it slammed the door shut with a bang.

For a long time, nothing moved in the darkness. The only sound Pound Cake could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, and his pathetic, labored breathing. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his hind legs and forelegs close to his chest and forced himself not to cry. He promised he wouldn’t give them that. He refused to give them that.

His brain felt as numb and static as the ghosts’ voices, jumbled and indistinct. Every thought, every emotion was immediately suppressed by sudden jolts of pain. Slowly, he tried to fight it, starting with his hooves. Bringing them underneath him, he managed to stand up. Just barely. Taking only two steps in the obscurity of his cell, his head suddenly went light, and the nausea in his stomach spilled up his throat and onto the floor. Coughing and gagging, the caustic odor filled his nostrils. It took all his strength not to collapse into his own sick.

Fumbling in the shadows, faint and desperate, he finally found a hold in the vacant darkness. A cot. Clambering onto it, his head fell weakly into the stiff mattress upheld with nothing but metal rods. And there he lay. For hours, maybe, he waited in the darkness for something, anything. A voice, a whisper.

He couldn’t feel a thing. Betrayed. The word gnawed at him like a parasite, chewing his guts from the inside out. He’d never had a chance. Not the slightest chance. He’d been played from the very beginning; he knew that now. All that hope. All that fighting, all that tireless running and struggling...

For nothing.

Pound Cake wrapped his arms around himself. And yet he still felt alone. So desperately alone. He was still that same little colt, huddling by the dumpster, hiding his face and his wings from the passersby. Pathetic, abandoned.

But there was no angel to save him now. No one at all. There wasn’t the slightest sound in the cell. Pressing his face into the pillow, Pound Cake broke his promise.

***

“He won’t make it,” muttered Scootaloo to Rainbow Dash. She was supposed to be out of earshot. But Pound Cake heard her, just barely, like a nagging whisper in the back of his skull. Rainbow Dash didn’t say anything.

But perhaps she was right.

Snorting angrily in frustration, the colt slammed a hoof against the concrete. It was a just a stupid vent. Just a stupid vent. He repeated this under his breath as he stepped away from it for the umpteenth time, motivating himself. The two mares watched him silently from a short distance on the rooftop, standing patiently on top on the rooftop staircase access.

Just a stupid vent.

Taking off, he sprinted full steam at the vent, eyes thin with focus. With a small grunt of effort, he leapt up from the ground. Too low. With an undignified clang, he collided with the hollow metal and slid down the side. He lay there, unmoving.

Just... a stupid vent.

Slowly, he picked himself up off the ground, wiping away a sniffle. The sun shining off the immaculate rooftops lashed at his eyes through his blurring vision as tears of hurt welled on his eyelids.

He screamed in anger and punched the side of the vent with every inch of his strength. It didn’t budge under his pathetic assault, the flimsy metal still strong enough to withstand the dismay of a mangy colt. This only enraged him more, and he struck the vent again, again, and again, until his hooves were completely numb.

It was just a stupid vent. But it was so much more than just that. He slammed his head into the side of the metal structure, gritting his teeth, and collapsed against the side. He buried his head in his hooves, not daring look up at the mares watching uncomfortably from afar.

“Worthless!” he could almost hear them whisper. “Pathetic! Dirty pegasus! What can you do right? No wonder your father left you! Your mom didn’t want you either! Filthy pegasus!”

The anger and hate and self-loathing boiled in his throat, but he couldn’t let it free. It stuck itself in a heavy lump, choking him.

“Rainbow Dash,” whispered Scootaloo. “Maybe this was a bad idea. He’s just a kid, you can’t expect him to be able to pull off this sort of stuntwork at his age.”

“You did, didn’t you?” she snapped in return. “He’ll learn.”

“And if he doesn’t? What if he just gets himself hurt?”

Pound Cake drew a sharp breath. Rainbow Dash didn’t have to say a word. Because he knew. They both knew.

He would go back. Back down to that blank, hollow orphanage, back to watching from corners as his sister talked and laughed with others, holding herself back from playing with all the other earth ponies and unicorns so that she could look after her brother. Always holding herself back. For him. Always lowering herself to a dirty, pathetic...

Rising to his hooves, the rage died in his throat. The lump stuck there dissolved and boiled, spreading like fire into his muscles and tendons. He lunged. His hooves flung upwards and latched themselves on the edge of the vent. With a single, vicious motion, his body tensed, coiled, and propelled itself up and over. He didn’t hear Scootaloo or Rainbow Dash gasp in shock as he hit the ground.

Never. Never, never, never. The word pumped through his heart like an accelerant. It drove him forward, coursing over the concrete like it was all he was ever meant to do.

The thought that he might die never even occurred to him as he reached the canyon between the two buildings, and he threw himself into the air.

***

He awoke with a jolt, his ears ringing with a metallic echo. Pound Cake jumped upright, and the sudden movement set his head spinning, lights flashing in front of his eyes in the darkness. He fell to the floor, mumbling incoherently as the ground twisted beneath his hooves.

“Let go of me!” somepony shouted, “You bastards! Celestia-damnedbastards!I’ll tear you apart for thuh–” The outburst was silence with a muffled whump and a gasp of pain. Pound Cake recognized the voice.

“Sweetie Belle...” he croaked feebly, struggling to get upright. There was the sound of labored breathing.

“Malcompliance,” rumbled a robotic voice. “Citizen marked priority level 2 by OT. Disciplinary coded–”

The mechanized judgement was interrupted by the defiant sound of Sweetie Belle spitting. Another brief silence. Then another vicious whump, and a suppressed groan of pain.

“–discretionary,” finished the ghost. “Muzzle and clamp.”

“Sweetie Belle!” cried Pound Cake hoarsely, finally getting himself to his hooves. His eyes had accustomed themselves to the pitch black obscurity of the cell. He desperately felt along the walls. The sound of hooves and slamming doors was close by. Maybe she was near. His hoof slipped into a crevice, and he looked down in surprise to find a crack within the side of the wall. In what light there was, he could see a hold embedded in the side of the thick concrete, hardly any larger than the tip of his muzzle. He lowered his eyes to the hole, peering through to the other side, only to find it as black there as it was here.

“Sweetie Belle,” he whispered through the hole, pressing his lips against it. The dust coating the walls dried his mouth, tasting like chalk. “Are you in there? Can you hear me?”

His heart soared when there was a shuffle from inside the cell, followed by hooves cautiously tapping against the floor.

“Who’s there?” somepony whispered uncertainly to the shadows. “Where are you?”

“Over here! Follow my voice,” insisted Pound Cake. “This way, this way. It’s me, Pound Cake. You alright, Sweetie Belle?”

There was no response, and for a moment, he was terrified that the voice he had heard in the shadows was only heard within his mind as it seemed to be plucked apart by the dark cell.

“Puh... Pound Cake?” came the voice again, cracking in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s me. Over here.”

There was a sudden rush as hooves scuttled across the floor of the cell, coming to a halt against the wall. Hooves felt along its surface, and Pound Cake soon felt a light, warm breath coming from the hole in the wall.

“Pound Cake?” asked the voice again, trembling.

From this close, he recognized it instantly. Pound Cake felt his heart stop.

“Pumpkin?” he whispered.

He was answered in a sudden, gut-wrenching sob as his sister collapsed against the wall separating the two of them.

“Pound... Pound Cake.... Oh thuh-thank Celestia you’re alive. Thank you, oh thank you... Th-thuh...” She couldn’t say anything more, her words falling into choking and hiccups as she rested her forehead against the concrete and cried.

Pound Cake couldn’t stop the tears as they poured down his cheeks. He pressed himself against the wall, as if through sheer will he could break through them, just to touch and hold her.

“Pumpkin... I... Oh Celestia...” He closed his eyes, pressing the top of his head against the wall, tears falling from his face. “You’re alright. It’s fine. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here. It’s okay.”

“I was so sure they’d... That you were dead. Oh Pound, I... Oh, I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Thank you, thank you for being alive.”

He smiled slightly. “I’m fine, sis.”

There was a pause, and Pumpkin asked, “They didn’t... are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Pound Cake lied, nodding as if she could see him. “I’m just fine. And you?”

Pumpkin sniffled slightly. “Uh-huh. I’m fine. It’s just...” For a moment, it sounded like the tears would come again, but she forced herself to be strong. “It’s been... so long. I was so sure that you were dead. That they’d just left me to rot in this Celestia-forsaken...”

Her voice trailed off, and there was a slight shuffle as Pumpkin Cake pressed her muzzle against the hole. Her breath blew against his.

“I still... can’t believe you’re alive,” she whispered, her voice trembling once more. “Wha... What are you doing in here, Pound? Why are you here? How did they...”

Pound Cake bit his lip, adjusting his position against the wall so that the side of his head rested near where the hole should be. “It’s... We were betrayed.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“The others. The other runners and the rebels. We were coming to save you. I was coming here to save you. To get you out of here so that–”

“Pound...” she interrupted, but he insisted.

“It was my idea to come and get you. Just when we had a shot to–”

“Pound Cake!” Pumpkin said sharply, cutting him off. “Stop. Just stop. Please.” After a long silence, she added, “It isn’t your fault.”

“No. It is. They were so close, Pumpkin. Those documents we found, remember? My hunch was right. They were big. Bigger than I could imagine. Bigger than we could imagine. Pumpkin... I’ve learned so much. Everything we thought we knew is upside down.”

“I know.”

He stiffened, looking off into the darkness numbly. “What do you mean, you know?”

“Because I’ve met her. Lulamoon.”

Pound Cake felt his blood run cold. “Met... Lulamoon?”

Pumpkin Cake’s voice was hesitant. “She... asked me questions. Personally. About where you were. Where those documents you’d taken were. I never gave them a word, Pound. Never a word. Despite what...” She didn’t need to elaborate.

“I’m sorry, Pumpkin. I’m sorry. All this is my fault,” cursed Pound Cake. “You shouldn’t have had to–”

“Shut up.”

Pound Cake blinked in surprise, but before he could open his mouth, Pumpkin Cake’s hoof punched into the wall between them. “You don’t have to apologize for a single damn thing, do you hear me? I won’t let you. And you know why? Because you’re my brother, Pound. You’re the only damn family I’ve got left. You know that. Every blow they gave me, every question and demand and threat, I took it. Because I knew that if I gave them anything, even a centimeter, it could cost you your life. That’s what family does. I held on because I knew somewhere in my heart that as long as I was alive, and that they were asking me questions, that meant that you were somewhere still out there, alive and free. I held on for you, because I trusted you.”

Those three words punched him in the gut harder than any ghost ever could. Dazed, Pound Cake stared at the hole in the wall.

“Don’t you remember that? In that office? I... I was scared. I was terrified and alone. I could have called anyone, then. My pals back in Civil Defense. My superiors. But I called you. And even though we took totally different paths, paths that could even collide at some point, you came when I needed you most. You told me to trust you. And I did. With all my heart I trusted you when you said you would come for me. Don’t you get it, Pound Cake? Has this blasted city poisoned your head so badly that you can’t figure that much out? You’re my brother, Pound, and no matter what you do, I will trust and love you. And so I will not sit here and listen to you moan about how all this is your fault.” There was a pause, and she spoke with sympathy, “At least we’re both here together now, right?”

“Yeah,” whispered Pound Cake, his throat suddenly dry. “Thanks, Pumpkin.”

The two of them sat in silence for what seemed like forever. Neither of them spoke, neither moved. They simply sat there, with their heads pressed against the wall, listening the gentle sounds of each other’s breathing, revelling in how close yet far they were, how far they’d come. It seemed as almost ironic that fate had split them this way, separating them across massive spans of conflict and time, only to reunite them together as prisoners.

“Pound?” asked Pumpkin softly. He adjusted his position against the wall to indicate his attention. “All those years ago... when we were still in the orphanage. Mom was still in the hospital... Heh, you know, I only learned that later. The hospital. That place seemed so scary when we were just kids. I never thought it had a name...” Her voice trailed off in thought. “Pound, why did you leave?”

The question struck Pound Cake in a tender spot, a sore that he didn’t know he was carrying, blistering, on his mind. He licked his lips nervously.

“I... I don’t know.”

“Don’t say that. I know you do. It wasn’t just the teasing, was it? For being... you know. A pegasus. Those kids were so mean. I remember how they’d pick on you, and I’d always butt in to save your flank. Guess you’ve repaid the favor, huh?” She chuckled slightly, but Pound Cake remained silent. “Pound–”

“I was mad,” he said quickly. “I was... so angry. I... I didn’t know what to do. It was all the same insults, but...” He buried his head in his hooves, and his stomach twisted again. It wasn’t from the injury this time.

“I was angry and... it hurt. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like... my brain was on fire. I didn’t know what to do... so I just ran. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore.” He bit his tongue. “It was just some punk kids trying to rile me up. Slinging mud. But I can’t forget it. Every damn word they said, I still hear them so clearly that sometimes it’s like they’re in the room with me. It’s just...”

He couldn’t think of how to explain it.

“You always were,” Pumpkin Cake said vaguely.

“Always were what?”

“Angry. I always wondered why, you know? When we were little. Even when no one said a single mean thing to you all day, you were always on edge. Like at any moment you might just lash out and hit somepony. And yet, every time I saw that look in your eyes, and I thought to myself, ‘this is it, he’s going to snap’, you never did. You would just hang your head that same way, and not say a word.”

Pound Cake didn’t say a thing, but even in his silence, they both knew that she was right. It had always been there, writhing in his gut. He could always feel it, like a taut wire between two hooks planted somewhere in his chest, threatening to snap and let loose something terrible that was never meant to leave its prison. The wire that had existed ever since he waved goodbye... to his father.

It just wasn’t fair.

He forced the sentiment back down his throat, where the thought bubbled darkly, biding its time.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. Pumpkin Cake didn’t press the question. She knew better. Suddenly, Pound Cake’s legs went numb, and he cringed as his legs prickled as if they were being stung. Standing quickly, he stretched his legs and trotted briefly about the room until the blood started to seep back towards his hooves. He could just barely see his way around the cell. There was no possible way out; it was like being sealed in a concrete tomb.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” he asked as he came to sit down, eager to change the subject.

Pumpkin Cake sounded surprised that he would ask her a question. “I... I don’t know. The guards rarely ever come. Only those... machine things.”

“Ghosts,” muttered Pound Cake.

“What?”

“They’re called ghosts. At least, that’s what most ponies know them as.”

“Never heard of them.”

Pound Cake remember what Applejack had told him. “I think they’re called... Subsidiary Task Force or something like that. STF.”

“Funny. Never heard of them either. Maybe they’re one of the newer sectors in Civil–”

“They’re not. They’re not on the government’s payroll. They work for Lulamoon Technologies. Like their own personal hit squad. They almost...” He hesitated momentarily, unsure if he should needlessly worry his sister. “They caused me a lot of trouble, back when I broke into Lulamoon Headquarters.”

Pumpkin Cake sighed heavily, running a hoof down her face audibly. “Luna help me... Secret police forces, breaking into government buildings... what in Tartarus have you been up to out there, Pound? I would never have pointed you out as a troublemaker.”

“Yeah. Silly me,” he answered, laughing weakly. The laughter caught itself in his throat, and almost came as a sob. For no reason at all, his eyes started to burn, and he pulled his head into his hooves as tears threatened to come.

Silly me. Scootaloo’s dead now, silly me. Rainbow Dash and Applejack, and all of them could be dead right now. There’s blood dripping off your face, and it isn’t just from–

“I’m here, Pound Cake,” whispered Pumpkin. Through the painful haze, he looked up to the hole in the wall. She spoke as if she could feel his agony, hear the doubt running through his veins and smothering his lungs. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happened out there. But I’m sorry.”

Pressing his head against the wall again, Pound Cake slowly outstretched his forelegs, pushing his hooves against the concrete, as if he could cradle her from the other side. He could almost feel her weight pressing against him.

“It’s alright. It’s alright,” she cooed gently, rubbing her hoof along the surface of the wall. “Oh, Pound... What have they done to you out there?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...” he exhaled every word painfully.

“Shh, shh...” she murmured from the other side, so agonizingly close. “It isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. It never was.”

“I...”

“You were always angry, Pound. I knew it even as a filly that you weren’t angry at those kids, or at the orphanage, or at me. You were never angry at mom or dad, or anybody. There was only one person that you were furious at, the one person you could never outrun.”

“Pumpkin, please...”

There was a brief pause, but her voice did not falter.

“You were always angry at yourself. You ran away because you never let yourself hate others, because the world taught you to hate who you were. But it was never your fault, Pound. Never.”

“Guh...” He couldn’t even bring himself to articulate a word. It all fell apart in his mouth, leaving him a gibbering, whimpering wreck. “Why?” he finally managed to croak. “Why is it all so unfair?”

“I don’t know,” answered Pumpkin Cake honestly.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” said Pound Cake after he had finally regained himself. “I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, we’re going to go far, far away. Away from Canterlot, away from Equestria. We’ll run away, and never come back.”

“Just like that?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“And what about Canterlot?”

“What about Canterlot?”

“Are you just going to leave it like this?”

Pound Cake’s brow furrowed. The same question, always coming back to the same question. “Pumpkin, can’t you see it? There is no city anymore. Not for us. It’s just you and me.”

“What about everypony else, Pound?” insisted Pumpkin Cake. “The ponies like me... like you. They never asked for any of this either. They just want to live out their lives like everyone else, but look. Everything around them has been corrupted, destroyed, ruined. We have a chance to stop that, together. If we have that one, tiny little shot, we have to take it.”

Somewhere in his mind, his sister’s words rang true, painfully so. He could have been any other pony out there. He could have never run away, he could have never met Rainbow Dash. Where would he have been now, then? Somewhere adrift on those bleak streets, shriveling under the pitying, scorning glares of ponies as their eyes burned into his wings. He could’ve lived out his slow, pathetic life as another misfit in a city that was too lost to know anything was wrong. He would die never knowing anything better.

But that wasn’t what happened.

No, he had found better, whispered another voice, murmuring from its spot in the small of his back. Through his own blood and sweat he clawed his way to the rooftops to gasp for air that was clean when he never knew he’d been breathing poison all his life. He had refused to succumb to loneliness, and he had fought for purpose. Purpose. Where was that purpose, back when he had fallen into the cracks of the orphanage? Pound Cake had been made strong, and he knew it; he was not just any other pony. Not anymore.

“I can’t understand what you’ve gone through, Pound,” admitted Pumpkin Cake. “I could never understand what it’s like to be hated for something you never could control. I’ve used magic my whole life but you...” She stopped mid-sentence, trying to choose her words correctly.

“Pound Cake, have you ever flown?”

His body answered before his mind could. “No.”

“...Are you going to let them get away with that?”

He didn’t want to answer that. “I... Pumpkin, it isn’t that simple.”

Pumpkin Cake sighed heavily from her side of the wall. “I know. You’re right. I just... I don’t know. I don’t know a lot nowadays.”

“We’ll get through this, Sis.”

“I know. I trust you.”

That was all that needed to be said, he supposed. Leaning his head against the wall, Pound Cake closed his eyes, a sense of uneasy peace creeping over him. He let everything else fall away.

We will get through this. If I die trying, we’ll get through this. I won’t fail again.

A muffled clanging echoed down the hallway outside, heralding the heavy hoofsteps and rumbling radio chatter that followed briskly behind.

“...OT request... Priority One. Advise all to...” the mechanical voices sputtered. The vibration in their throats slithered into Pound Cake’s veins, and he knew Pumpkin Cake felt it, too. There was the sound of cocking rifles and barked orders as locks were turned.

“Pound Cake?” whispered Pumpkin Cake urgently into the hole in the wall.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

***

Blindfolded, Pound Cake found himself ambling through shadows, the only hints of the outside world coming in shoves from any which side, tripping steps, and the sounds of guttural croaking and groaning from mechanized throats. He had stopped trying to understand where he was going long ago. Every now and then he would be stopped and then guided over some steps or through some hissing doorways. At one point he was forced into a seat and strapped down, and the sound of heavy carriage wheels grinding along the concrete brought him along to his unknown destination. Now, he was held roughly in place as he felt himself slowly rising in some sort of elevator. None of the ghosts had said a word to him, none that were comprehensible at least. Every now and again he managed to a catch a loose word, but their chatter seemed restricted to the same static sputtering that only seemed to be understood between them. Two letters kept coming up, though. OT.

He didn’t have time to start considering what it could mean before they tore the blindfold from his eyes. Immediately squinting in pain at the sudden change, he twisted his head away from the brightness overhead. When his vision finally dimmed back into focus, Pound Cake immediately wished that they had kept him blindfolded.

He found himself in an open lift opening on a short hallways with a high ceiling. Angular buttresses made of the same smooth white concrete that built Canterlot spanned the lengths of the walls, meeting at flourescent lamps embedded into the stone above. The floor itself was plated with black marblel tiles that seemed to absorb the sound of every step. Their pitch-black tint made it seem like he was standing above the mouth of a gaping pit, suspended in mid-air.

Standing there made him feel unnaturally claustrophobic despite the high ceiling. It felt as if at any time the walls would cave in on him, the sharp corners of the buttresses grinding him to powder, like teeth. At the end of this black-and-white gullet was a single, massive metal door with elegant carvings and engravings. And lining the walls were ghosts.

For the briefest moment, they looked like silhouettes, their black body armor outlined against the blank white walls. But then the lights caught their red, glass eyes, and they glimmered in the dark. Staring straight ahead, none of them even looked in his direction. They were all perfectly motionless, their hooves planted into the ground and snapped close together.

Looking to his side, Pound Cake’s heart throbbed as he realized that he was not alone. Sweetie Belle, her hooves manacled together, glowered defiantly at the ghosts standing at attention, as if daring one of them to make eye contact. The unspoken threat seemed almost pitiable with her mouth clamped shut by a painfully tight muzzle that cut into the bottom of her chin. Bruises under her eyes and the sides of her chest darkened her white fur.

Beside her was Pumpkin Cake. She hardly looked like a pony anymore. Her eyes were lackluster, still blinking as they tried to cope with the light in the hallway which cast long shadows over her gaunt cheeks and brow. She barely managed a smile with her cracked lips as their eyes met briefly.

That old anger boiled in him again, and Pound Cake suddenly felt blood rushing into his legs. Somepony would pay for this, dearly. Had his hooves not been shackled, and had there not been so many ghosts...

There was a sudden, crisp snap in the corridor as suddenly the rows of waiting ghosts came to life and saluted smartly. At the end of the hall, the massive door clicked, and slowly swung open. Pound Cake felt the cold tip of a rifle barrel press against the back of his neck. Without a word, he lowered his head and marched forward, crossing the hallway into the next room. It was as if entering another world, and they all felt it as the fur on the back of their necks stood on end from the sudden cold. But only Pound Cake felt his wings suddenly become heavier, and his feathers more numb.

It was an office.

Here the ceiling was even taller than in the hallway, and it was dominated by a massive mechanical structure, constructed like a hemisphere composed of plates that turned it into a puzzle-piece globe. Running off the sides were thick cables and support struts embedded into the white concrete walls. Here too, the floor was of black marble. In the middle of the room was an elaborate desk, made of solid oak and decorated with ornate carvings and inscriptions. Aside from the multitude of papers on the desk, there was a large, stone claw held upright by metal mesh. In front of the desk were three uncomfortable-looking chairs. Behind it were massive windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, providing an awe-inspiring view of the city below, ridged and angular like a texture map. Pound Cake knew the rooftops below like the back of his hoof, and he immediately knew where they were.

Lulamoon Technologies Headquarters. Top floor. The executive office.

There were two other ponies in the room, silhouetted by the light radiating from the tall windows. One of them turned her head as they entered, flinching from the sound of the door as it slammed open. Pound Cake recognized her instantly. He felt his heart sink.

It was perhaps the first time in his life that Pound Cake saw Derpy looking back at him with both eyes focused on him. The mare looked like she was going to say something, her mouth hanging open. But she couldn’t. Closing her eyes in dismay, she hung her head and looked away as the three of them were escorted to the center of the room. The other pony noticed the distress of her companion, and turned to look over her shoulder. The light caught the side of her of her face, casting a long, sharp shadow across the middle of the room. Crossing into this blade, the coldness of the room seemed to amplify tenfold. Pound Cake gasped despite himself, the breath sucked out of him.

She didn’t need to say a word. Her elegantly coiffed mane, primly combed to one side of her face, the tight-lipped smile that oozed with vile knowledge, and those eyes... those bottomless, cold eyes spoke for themselves. There was no need for introduction.

“And these must be your friends, then, Miss Derpy Hooves,” Lulamoon cooed, her gaze going over each of them slowly, as if bored. “How lovely that they could join us. Please, have a seat.”

The ghosts were not gentle as they shoved Pound Cake into his chair, pressing him roughly into the seat and hitching the cuffs to its legs. Pumpkin offered no resistance, bowing her head submissively. Sweetie Belle, however, was not so wise. She pulled away from the ghosts as they attempted to restrain her, refusing to sit. All it earned her was a sharp swipe from the butt of a rifle, and she found herself anchored to the chair like the rest of them. Her emerald eyes burned holes back into Lulamoon’s, glaring in violent defiance.

Lulamoon raised an eyebrow coldly, unimpressed. “I told you not to injure them too badly,” she chastised, taking note of the bruises smudging her white fur.

“This unit apologizes,” nervously coughed the ghost flanking her. “Suspect was–”

He was quickly silenced as Lulamoon raised her hoof impatiently. Casting a slow glance towards Derpy, who neither moved from her spot nor raised her head, she casually paced around her desk. The sound of her hooves against the marble tiles echoed in the massive office.

“Quite the catch you’ve netted me here, Miss Derpy Hooves,” she commented, walking past the three of them, as if they had lined up to be inspected. The ghosts did not move an inch. It was almost as if they weren’t even breathing. “A member of a rather ennuyant terrorist organization, and the pegasus who was irksome enough to help himself to my property. So that’s two.” She stopped suddenly, turning her head sharply towards Derpy.

“I like numbers, Miss Derpy Hooves. I find them to be quite relaxing, don’t you? There is no unexpected change with numbers. A one is always a one, a zero always a zero. Numbers are so very tangible. So when I see two ponies in front of me, when you clearly reported a total of six, I’m less than impressed. I don’t know if you find yourself an avid fan of numbers, Miss Derpy Hooves, but I’m sure you can agree with me when I claim this to be a rather unacceptable ratio.”

Derpy still didn’t raise her eyes, mumbling numbly as she stared at the floor, “I... I did as you asked.”

“No, Miss Derpy Hooves,” tutted Lulamoon, shaking her head. “Do you know where we would be right now if you’d done as I asked? If you’d done as I asked I would be sitting here... Right here,” she clarified, pointing at the large, leather bound seat behind the desk, “sipping a cup of tea as I worked out some accounts for the southern HVM line, which has been showing poor performance. You would probably be with your daughter. And do you know why? Because if you’d done as I asked in the first place, I’d have my documents in my hooves, because you’d have remembered to take them after eliminating the governor.”

Had Pound Cake not been sitting, he probably would have collapsed right then and there. His head suddenly throbbed furiously as it struggled to understand. That was... impossible. Derpy could never have it in her. Never. He knew her too well. The klutz of a pony, with a penchant for silliness that always seemed to transcend every bleak corner they turned could never take a life.

But then again, he had thought she would never betray them, either.

“Instead, I find myself here, Miss Derpy Hooves, with only three prisoners in my possession, multiple dangerous sociopaths on the run from the law who threaten the very stability of my plans and of Equestria’s well-being, and I still. Don’t have. My documents,” she hissed tersely.

Derpy shook her head weakly. When she looked back up, tears were in her eyes. “I... I know. I’m sorry. I... I can’t always. I... Uh... I fuh-forget things sometimes. My brain doesn’t... I...”

Lulamoon raised a hoof, cutting her off. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. Make no mistake, you’re not entirely to blame, Miss Derpy Hooves. You were selected for this assignment rather hastily, I’ll admit. But you were the only one available, the most secure link. I couldn’t risk any of my Subsidiary Task Force units being caught assassinating a governor, now could I? That’s very risqué, Miss Derpy Hooves. Bad business. I’m sure you understand that I’m all about business.”

“Puh... Please,” begged Derpy, her knees shaking as Lulamoon turned away from her, staring up at the metallic sphere on the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I tried, I tuh... tried my best. You have them now. The pony who stole the documents, everything. I... I just want my little filly back. Please!”

Lulamoon closed her eyes and sighed wearily, rubbing the tip of her hoof against her forehead. Finally, she turned, nodding. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, nudging the marble claw on her desk. “I will admit this, Miss Derpy Hooves; given your circumstances, you have proven to perform exceptionally under pressure. You’ve always responded quickly, acted without hesitation... I hear you even managed to wound the terrorist leader as they fled from my units. Despite your faults, you have shown yourself to be a valuable employee, one worthy of trust. I will uphold our deal. I’ll arrange it so that you may see your daughter again.”

Derpy broke down in tears. “Oh thank Celestia. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she wept, bowing her head. “Just... I... thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Miss Derpy Hooves,” said Lulamoon, smiling gently, her eyes focused intently on the claw. “I’m only fulfilling my end of the deal as you have fulfilled yours. You’ve done admirably.” She blinked suddenly, her expression becoming quizzical as she looked up towards the sphere once more, as if listening for something. Seemingly satisfied, she walked behind her desk and nodded to one of the ghosts.

“Amputate and cauterize.”

Pound Cake didn’t even see the pistol leave its holster. One minute it was there, the next it was hovering in front of the ghost. Squeaking in surprise, as if she had just found herself on the receiving end of a clever little prank, Derpy fell limply to the floor as a neat hole appeared in the middle of her forehead.

“No!” screamed Pound Cake, lunging towards Lulamoon. All he got was the vicious bite of the metal cuffs as they dug into his forelegs. Without hesitation, one of the ghosts guarding him raised the butt of its rifle and cracked it against the side of his skull. His head hanging limply as a trickle of blood ran down the laceration on his brow, he stared in horror as Derpy’s eyes, for the briefest moment, became lucid. Trembling, they froze, returning his gaze before going dark. “No...” he whispered, the strength leaving his body.

One of the ghosts trotted over to Derpy’s lifeless body, unceremoniously hoisting her over its back. “Amputate suspect 20-89, as well,” instructed Lulamoon coldly, flipping through some documents on her desk. “I’d hate to be made a liar on a business arrangement. Send N squad to administer.”

The ghost nearest to Pumpkin Cake snapped a crisp salute before hissing a distorted command into his intercom. Outside the cell, hoofsteps clattered along marble into the distance.

“Please,” begged Pumpkin Cake to Lulamoon, who looked up questioningly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s just a filly. She has nothing to do with this!”

“You’re right, suspect 45-27, she has nothing to do with this. In fact, she has nothing to do with anything. She’s an asset whose use has ended. A liability. As you soon will be. Now then–”

“You’re no pony,” hissed Pound Cake under his breath.

Lulamoon blinked, mildly surprised. “Beg your pardon?”

“You’re not a pony,” he repeated, raising his head. His vision swam, his throat burned furiously. “I’ve seen true ponies. Ponies who lay down their lives for each other. Ponies who fight every single day against things like you. Machines.”

Lulamoon stared at him quietly. The ghosts tensed, their telekinetic grips on their weapons tightening as they awaited a command. It didn’t come. Lulamoon simply smiled.

“You... a pegasus. An illicit courier. A traitor to your kind and a coward hiding on the rooftops while ‘true’ ponies toil for their livelihoods and futures in the streets below. A murderer, not to mention a terrorist. A sloppy one, to boot. Pray tell, suspect 46-27...” She stepped out from around her desk as she spoke, and lowered her head close to his on this last phrase, “Who are you to give me your value judgements?”

In another time, a time long ago between a hole in the sewers and an orphanage, Pound Cake would have shied away, denied everything, submitted. In another time, Lulamoon’s words would have cut through muscle and shattered bone. But that time had passed.

“Because I’m the one who was told being a pegasus was wrong,” he hissed. “Because I was the one who suffered from the ponies who you told that I was wrong. Because I was the one who was forced to fight against you, even if I never knew I was because I thought I was the only thing wrong with this world. And because despite all that... I’m going to stop you.”

Lulamoon smiled slowly, her eyes half-closed, as if in a trance. “Such strong words from somepony tied to a chair. I must admit that I’m even a little bit impressed that you’re so... vengeful. I respect that. I truly do. I wonder...” She paused for a moment, looking over him. With another grin, she brought her mouth close to his ear, and whispered, “How many of your friends have I killed?”

Pound Cake spat squarely in her face. Immediately, one of the ghosts raised the butt of its rifle to strike him down again, but it was halted by a terse gesture from Lulamoon. “That won’t be necessary,” she said calmly, levitating a handkerchief from her desk and patting it across her face. “Did you know, suspect 46-27, that I have a most peculiar ability? I can predict what the media will print tomorrow. In fact, I can see it right now.” She raised her eyes upward, squinting them as if reading a finely printed sentence floating in the air. “Right on the front page of every newspaper. The radio broadcasts too, I suppose. ‘Assassin of Governor Fancypants escapes custody, takes own life in a suicide bombing attack.’”

“You bitch,” spat Pumpkin Cake, glowering. “You’re disgusting, you coward.”

“Such a headline could be avoided, of course. All I need from you is one little thing,” said Lulamoon evenly. She suddenly slammed her hooves down, bringing her muzzle close to Pound Cake’s. Even the ghosts flinched. “My. Documents.”

“Why do you care?” asked Pound Cake, refusing to recoil.

“Those files are an outlier. They shouldn’t exist. Should they get out–”

“Should they get out, you’ll be known as the megalomaniac phony that you are,” he interrupted.

Lulamoon’s eyes suddenly sparked, and she struck Pound Cake viciously across the face with the back of her hoof. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is not–” she shrieked, eyes blazing, before clutching at her head. Turning away from them, she hissed violently under her breath. Sweetie Belle seemed to tense in her chair, having remained entirely immobile up until now.

Forcing her breath to even out and slow, Lulamoon leaned herself against her desk before smoothing her mane back into place and turning to face them. Her eyes briefly glimmered before hardening once more into a cold, lancing glare. “Unit,” she said gently, and the ghost she was addressing snapped to attention. “Have my secretary contact the GO and send her to my office. Tell her that I have a gift for her. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

“Ma’am,” crackled the ghost, nodding its head crisply and crossing the room to the door, leaving Pound Cake, his sister, and Sweetie Belle alone with Lulamoon and the two other ghosts.

“It’s very strange, 46-27,” said Lulamoon, addressing Pound Cake, “how much looking at you feels like looking into a mirror. How very much like you I was so very long ago.”

Sweetie Belle mumbled something indistinct through her muzzle, earning her a disdainful glance from Lulamoon. “You see,” she continued, “I too for a long time felt as you did. Abandoned... and alone. It was quite painful.” Turning away from them, she looked out the window over the massive city before her. The building seemed to rise and bend their heads to look up at her. “In fact, I had somepony sitting in the very same position that I must be sitting in for you. An opponent. A rival. One who destroyed everything I could have been. With one fell swoop, this pony ruined my livelihood and turned me into the laughingstock of Canterlot.

“We both know that feeling,” she added after a brief pause. “To think that everything you are is wrong. For everyone to hate you, despise you, mock you. Neither of these two can understand,” she added, pointing gesturing at Sweetie Belle and Pumpkin Cake. “They couldn’t possibly understand what that feeling is. We do. That makes us similar. But let me tell you why we are different.”

She stroked her chin with the back of her hoof, staring blankly out the window. “You see... after this pony humiliated me, I struggled to move on. I scraped for every job I possibly could as a performer. Equestria wasn’t exactly a jobless place, but nopony wanted to hire somepony who had been humiliated and run out of time by Princess Celestia’s top student. It was shameful. Degrading. But eventually I found my way and landed a large job thanks to a very kindly... stallion.” She said this last line uncomfortably, clearing her throat.

“It was a disaster. One of my fireworks misfired and destroyed part of a priceless statue, part of which I’ve kept ever since. In memory. Because you see, it was then that it hit me.” She turned rapidly, a glimmer in her eyes. “It was quite like being struck in the back of the head. The idea came from nowhere, but it had been so obvious that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Fireworks. Pyrotechnics. Here I was sitting on top of a potential goldmine and I was using it to entertain the bourgeoisie. So I started small. Very small. I founded this company, Lulamoon Technologies, and began to develop new and incredible methods of building, of crafting, of constructing. It was...”

She stared at her hoof, as if something were written there. “It was amazing. As if every blueprint, every step and tool needed was simply being whispered into my ear. Do you know what that feels like? It’s like being the smartest mare in the world.

“But it was never enough. Not the machinery, not the weapons I developed in secret. I was still the laughing stock, still the mockery. But that was when it came to me. As it came to you.” She looked upwards, a manic gleam in her eyes. “It wasn’t my fault. I was a product of corruption. Of favoritism by a monarchic system. I realized that what I was attempting to do, to revolutionize Equestrian technology as we knew it, was worthless. Like trying to tune a gear in a machine when the entire system is a quivering, outdated wreck. I was trapped, a symbol of the failures of a system determined that its way was the only way. That this was as good as it could get, and that nothing more could possibly be added. But we’d been holding ourselves back, you see. We always had been.

“So I did what was needed. I began to plan. Everything fell into place as if I was watching a brick road being laid out before me. I got involved in politics. As Lulamoon Technologies grew, so did my wealth, and I had more than enough to spend it on. Bribing politicians and high-class ponies. Imagine that... The same ponies that had scorned and shamed me were now coming crawling to me, begging for campaign donations and support for their ‘extraneous expenses’. It was simple, unbelievably simple. Things are far less complicated when you break things down into numbers and pieces, you see. There was a hiccup, of course. Two, actually. Fancypants was the first. He was the top of the top, the créme de la créme in Canterlot society. A shoo-in for a position in the palace itself, especially after I paved the way for it. He was perfect.”

Lulamoon frowned slightly, pacing around the desk. “Too perfect,” she added. “An idealist. He couldn’t see the bigger picture like I could. Money meant nothing to him. But something else did... An affair. A rather nasty little secret that he kept out of his social life. Once I discovered that, of course, all it took was some pressure in the right places, and he was completely compliant. And of course, then there was the obvious problem: Princess Celestia and Luna. Marvelous ponies indeed. I had the chance to meet them, once. Strong, stoic leaders. A shame they were so archaic, and more importantly, in the way.” She walked behind the ghosts, her eyes distant in thought as she circled the ponies in her custody. “What was I to do? Stage a coup? With what forces? And how could a company ever amass the resources required to raise an army of that size and caliber? I realized it was impossible. Never could I get enough ponies willing to truly open their eyes and stand against their own nation. Impossible.

“Then... I realized I didn’t need to. There were other ponies, you see. The poor, the broken, the downtrodden. Those who had fallen between the cracks as I had and found themselves in the shadows, frightened, alone, abandoned. Ponies with nothing. So instead of raising an army... I created a squadron of the ponies on the edge, those who just barely existed on the fringes of society. I took them... molded them... and turned them into the most beautiful, ruthless, perfect fighting force to ever grace Equestria.” Her eyes grew misty as she stopped in front of one of the ghosts. She looked up at it, her slim figure framed by its massive bulk. “The Subsidiary Task Force. My blade and arm. Perfect and obedient. The kind of ponies Equestria needed, and the kind it still needs,” she murmured, pressing her hoof against its broad chest. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Pound Cake saw the ghost shiver.

“It wasn’t an army. Not even close. It could never stand a chance of toppling the Equestrian regime.” She turned to face Pound Cake, her eyes darkly lucid. “I don’t exactly remember where I heard this from but... somepony once said that the only thing that can change the world is a small, devoted group of ponies. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He didn’t respond. Somewhere in the back of his head, everything was starting to come together, all except for one piece. The one piece he refused to believe was true.

“A small, devoted group... in the right place at the wrong time. A single act, a single swift act that makes echoes and ripples, like a droplet of water in a pond. All it took was a single well-placed group of ponies to do it... and a stolen suit of armor.”

Once again she leaned close to him, her obsidian eyes boring into his. “Suspect 46-27,” she murmured, “Or... Pound Cake, yes? I think you and I can appreciate the humor in how a simple... arranged misunderstanding is enough to spark a war between two nations.”

“Oh, Celestia, no,” exhaled Pumpkin Cake.

“You didn’t. You couldn’t have!” Pound Cake whispered hoarsely.

“The conflict is exactly what I needed. Even as we speak, Celestia’s armies and the gryphons chip away at each other, weakening each other, and thanks to appropriate funding, I keep the war at a long, brutal stalemate. And meanwhile, while they weather away their armies, my forces only grow in strength. It doesn’t matter who wins this war, Pound Cake. Because either way, I’ll be the one in the lead.” She smiled dryly. “Not bad for the laughingstock of Equestria, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re insane.”

“Insane?” echoed Lulamoon. “Yes, I suppose, to you, I am. I must look absolutely mad. That tends to happen with those whose thinking is ahead of their time, displaced in both thought and society. But an ox never asked for the opinion of an ant, Pound Cake. That’s always been a problem, I’m afraid. Ponies, like you, who can’t understand the scope of events. You’re totally incapable of looking at time and the world in a broader sense. If you could, you’d be able to see how the ends are a justification to the means.

“Ponies like you are very subject to acting... rashly. Which is why I decided long ago that the less ponies know, the better it is for all of us. One of the first buildings to be erected in Canterlot was this, my business headquarters. It was to be more than just an apartment; it was to be a symbol of strength, development. It also allowed me to enact and enforce the Civil Protection and Assurance Act, along with the Flight Retainment Regiment.

“In times of fear and crisis, the masses become so very easy to manipulate, and so very predictable. Instilling them with a fear and loathing of pegasi was quite easy, especially after the secession of Cloudsdale. I convinced them that the CPAA was for their own protection, and in a sense, I was telling the truth. Limiting flight not only protected Canterlot against gryphon agents, but it also protected it from potentially dangerous information escaping... or getting in.”

She looked snidely over at Pound Cake. “Runners such as yourself were always an inconvenience. But nothing more than that. I could have crushed you whenever I felt like it. But my patience rewards me. I felled not only one of the bigger illicit courier services in Canterlot, but one of its most dangerous terrorist organisations in one swoop.”

“You call them terrorists,” shot back Pound Cake, “and meanwhile you’re the one starting wars and eliminating ponies with a secret police.”

“And yet the beauty of it is quite simply that nopony knows. Because there is no flight. Control flight, and knowledge comes right after. That sort of thing would be inconceivable. Inconceivable! Pegasus flight in itself is a feat of magic. To restrain that would require magic far more powerful than any normal pony would be capable of creating.”

Lulamoon smiled slightly to herself, her chest swelling with pride. With a leisurely pace, she returned to behind her desk. Placing her hoof underneath it, she asked. “Would you like to see how I managed to make it possible?”

There was a loud click, and from above, the sound of heavy bolts pulling to the side drew their attention. The large metal hemisphere above split down the middle, the two halves slowly drawing apart and retracting into the ceiling. As they opened, the feeling of lead in Pound Cake’s wings amplified until it felt as if they might tear from his back. The retreating doors lay bare a twisted, gnarled net of machinery. Interweaving wires and pipes hung from bulky hydraulics and thick cables crackling with violet electricity, creating a glistening gunmetal spiderweb. Somewhere in the knotted electronics, barely visible through the plexiglass casings and straps, was a patch of purple fur.

Pound Cake could feel it, crackling in the heart of the machine. It was burden that kept him locked to the ground. It was the fear that choked him in his sleep. It was the ache in his wings and chest. It was the jeering of fillies and colts. It was the essence of all that had poisoned Canterlot.

The flight suppression field. This was its core.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” marvelled Lulamoon, inspecting the machine’s every aspect. “Weapons, construction equipment, optical technologies... everything pales in comparison. This is the pinnacle of everything I have accomplished to this day. The magical conduit that has made all this possible. It’s more than just that, though.” Lulamoon barked something like a laugh, but it was too cold and vile to have sounded anywhere near mirthful. “It’s a trophy case.”

“Do you remember, Pound Cake,” drawled Lulamoon, “that pony I told you about? The one who ruined my good name? It’s amusing how she would not only be the pony to show me the possibilities I could reach, but one of the instruments to help me attain them. Oh, it wasn’t a given, to be sure. It took three Subsidiary Task Force squads and a great deal of manipulation and misinformation to eliminate her following and bring her here. As far as anyone of importance is concerned, she was captured by the gryphons in battle long ago.”

She looked up at the metal casket, and whispered, “Forgotten by the world. It’s only fair that she should know what it feels like, don’t you agree?”

He didn’t answer. Staring upwards, Pound Cake felt nausea twist in his gut. A thick, invisible current seemed to pour from the pony in the machine. It swirled around him, drowsy and oblivious, like a pack of sharks sleepily waiting for blood to hit the water. Tense with subdued anticipation, calm but expecting, he knew it could be on him in an instant. Never before had it felt so powerful.

“Miss Lulamoon,” chirped an unexpected voice in the room. Turning towards it, Lulamoon pressed a button on the side of her desk, speaking into the intercom.

“What is it?”

“The Governess is here to see you, ma’am.”

“Good. Send her up,” she said before removing her hoof from the button. “In my line of work, I find it most advantageous when one can kill two birds with one stone,” continued Lulamoon to her prisoners. “And since you’ve decided to be uncooperative, suspect 46-27, and 45-27 has no longer any use to me as an asset, I intend to do just that.”

With a slow, venomous grin, she towered over Pound Cake, her eyes glittering cruelly. “I do believe I showed you what I do with useless assets, didn’t I?”

“You mother–”

“Muzzle them. All of them.”

Biting at the fabric being pulled over his face, Pound Cake could do nothing but mumble furiously as he was silenced. Sweetie Belle glanced at him sympathetically as Pumpkin was muzzled as well. He fought against the restraints, his jaw itching as he tried to tear the the thick fabric around his mouth. The ghosts, satisfied with their work, returned to their positions behind them. Just in time for the door at the end of the office to creak open.

The Governess made no sign of surprise as she entered the office. Neither to the machine hissing above, nor to the heavyset guards standing behind the three ponies bound to the chairs. In fact, everything about her seemed unnervingly detached. She entered with a dignified elegance, her carefully manicured mane barely moving as she walked, as if made of the same stone that constructed her rigid expression. Her eyes, though they may once have been glittering and beautiful, as indicated by the carefully applied make-up, were distant and lusterless. Nothing about her appearance was left up to chance, down to the lapels of her tailored suit and the curl of her eyebrows. Everything in place, nothing out of order. Her voice was as composed as her posture.

“Miss Lulamoon,” she said tersely. With a more subdued tone and a hasty upwards glance, she mumbled another quiet greeting that Pound Cake couldn’t quite make out.

“Ah, Governess Rarity. Always a pleasure.”

With a frightening burst of violence, Sweetie Belle lashed out against her restraints, lunging for the Governess. Struggling viciously, it almost looked like she would upset the chair she was held against. She screamed into her muzzle furiously before being silenced for the umpteenth time by a vicious blow to the side of the head from one of the ghosts. A trickle of blood staining her mane and rolling down the side of her face, her eyes burned with hatred, and she exhaled forcefully through her nostrils in rage.

A good friend, once. Now she works for ‘them’.

Lulamoon blinked in surprise at Sweetie Belle’s sudden outburst. “Do you two know each other?” she asked quizzically.

She abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves in Canterlot. Gave us up to chase her own dreams and betrayed us.

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Rarity’s face as she looked over Sweetie Belle, the way somepony might look over an insect, a test specimen. The smile that Pound Cake had seen in the photograph, miles and miles away, was nowhere to be found.

She gave up her friends... gave up everything.

Without the slightest tremor of doubt or regret, and an almost rehearsed disinterest, she raised an eyebrow and replied, “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Sweetie Belle stared down her sister with a look dripping with venom. Pained, caustic venom. Even when Rarity looked away, not from intimidation, but indifference, her gaze did not falter. Her eyes never moved, even as burning, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. But as if the weight of her stare was too great for her to bear, her frame crumbled and she hung her head.

Looking between the now-silent Sweetie Belle and Rarity, Lulamoon looked skeptic, as if she would press the issue further before the Governess interrupted her.

“Miss Lulamoon, I do believe you understand that I’m a very busy mare. Despite what you may think, I still do have a great deal of this city that remains to be run, even without your input. Now if you wouldn’t mind being so kind as to getting to the point as to why you’ve summoned me, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Reluctantly, Lulamoon let it go, giving the ghosts a quick nod. “Leave us,” she ordered. Without hesitation, the two stallions saluted crisply and trotted out the room, closing it behind them. Lulamoon paced around to her desk, sitting in her tall-backed chair.

“Governess Rarity, I realize that you and I are not on... the best of terms,” she said vaguely, fiddling with the marble claw, “but I feel that your frustration is misdirected. It is only an unpleasant byproduct of your own grief. The death of the Governor was a regrettable affair. I’m truly sorry for your loss.” She said this with such convincing sympathy that it was hard not to believe her. “He was your fiancée, I believe?”

Rarity looked away in discomfort. “Nothing so... official, no. We were close.”

“Close?”

Pausing, Rarity mumbled, “Very close.”

“The grief caused by death of a loved one does not recognize titles, Governess. I’m sure that, wherever he may be now, he must be quite proud to see what you have accomplished in his position.”

“I... Thank you.”

“It pains me greatly, Governess Rarity, to see that the horrid taint of war has managed to leak from the front and strike so close to our hearts,” said Lulamoon, nodding. “Governor Fancypants’ assassination shattered the feeling of security in Canterlot. The streets don’t feel the way they did back then. What the people need now is a strong leader, a strong figurehead to look up to. Somepony who can guide them through their fear.” Lulamoon sneered in disgust.

“Especially given the... nature of the assassin. The gryphon spy.”

Rarity nodded mechanically, her gaze distant. “Yes. I understand she’s still in custody.”

Lulamoon caught the resentment in her voice, pouncing on it. “You have to understand that I couldn’t allow you to see her during the interrogation procedure. It would have been more than a security compromise, it... wouldn’t have been good for you. The assassin was... bellicose, to say the least.”

“Bellicose?” echoed Rarity.

“Yes. Arrogant. Prideful, defiant. Aside from her inane, spiteful rantings, she would often boast of her success, of how she had managed to bring ‘Canterlot to its knees by slitting a decrepit puppet’s throat’.”

Bristling at every word, Rarity’s eyes sparkled with repressed fury. Her facade of control and composure slipped with the severity of the venom at which Lulamoon described the murderer. Pumpkin Cake’s eyes were wide with horror, and a mumble of protest escaped her muzzle.

“It seemed that she had trained her entire life to achieve this. I’m humiliated at how long she managed to stay under the radar, contemplating such an abomination. That’s about as much as we managed to extract from her during our interrogations.” With a slow smile, dripping with malice, she turned her attention first to Pound Cake, then to Pumpkin Cake.

“Isn’t that right, suspect 45-27?”

Rarity’s body became taught, trembling, as she followed Lulamoon’s gaze, and with the intensity of a predator, fixated herself upon Pumpkin Cake. Her jawline twitched slightly as her teeth ground themselves together, and her eyes burned with the same white-hot flame that sparked within Sweetie Belle. It seemed to take her every effort to contain it.

“Why are you telling me this?” growled Rarity through clenched teeth.

Lulamoon pressed her forehooves together, leaning her forelegs into the desk. “I’ve been speaking to the martial board. They’ve informed me that there’s not enough evidence to get a valid conviction.”

“The news...”

“The news tells the people what they need to hear,” affirmed Lulamoon. “They don’t need to hear that their Governor’s assassin may escape the law due to red tape bogging things down. It would be so much easier if she were a gryphon. But a pony... The gryphons are clever. It makes things more complex.”

“We can overrule the judgement,” hissed Rarity, turning sharply. “We have to overrule the judgement. We can demand a second hearing. The martial board can’t possibly deny it. I won’t let them.”

Lulamoon sighed. “Even then, Governess, the court fees, the investigation costs... not to mention the misallocation of precious resources would only further hinder the process. Justice is just, but slow, Governess. You know that.”

“This is outrageous! What more do they possibly need? They have the murder weapon, for Celestia’s sake!”

“It proves nothing, Governess Rarity. As incriminating as it may seem, it’s a standard issue knife given to all Civil Defense officers. And I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are quite a few Civil Defense officers that are assigned to protect the governor. Many of whom have... inconveniently disappeared.”

“You fear foul play?”

“I do. Removing witnesses and testimonies to ensure a full testimony would be all the gryphons could need to avoid a conviction. We’ll have no choice but to release her, even if it means–”

“Never!” screamed Rarity, even taking Lulamoon by surprise. “I will not allow that to happen. I will do everything in my power to make sure this... treasonous, murderous sub-pony suffers the fullest extent of the law. There has to be a way!”

Uncomfortable, Lulamoon fiddled with her hooves, biting her lip nervously. Glancing at the locked door behind Rarity, she nodded slowly. “Well... There is one thing.”

“Please, tell me!”

“Governess Rarity, I don’t think it’s wise to–”

“I don’t care what it is,” pleaded Rarity. “I’ll do anything, sign whatever you want. Just...”

“Well,” Lulamoon said after a pause, “there could be an... accident.”

Rarity recoiled slightly. “An accident?”

“These cuffs are so old,” explained Lulamoon, reclining into her chair. “The suspect so... violent. Overcome with the kind of super-pony strength found in the mentally unstable. If we weren’t careful, she might break loose, and threaten your life in an attempt to rock the Equestrian regime once more, to spread terror across Canterlot. In the event of such a situation, we would have to defend ourselves. And such a brutal outbreak of violence could only end in tragedy.”

Listening carefully, Rarity became deathly still. Lulamoon’s words seemed to have a disturbing, transformative effect on her. The glimmer of life in her eyes seemed to be leaking out of her, and the same lusterless allure that dwelling in Lulamoon’s was overcoming them. She shook her head, as if trying to shake a fog.

“I... No, I couldn’t possibly...” she denied.

With a frown, Lulamoon adjusted the marble claw. “You’d have to be the one to do it, of course. I certainly couldn’t. Neither could my guards. I can’t risk the general populace becoming aware of my involvement, or even of this meeting. And besides, you do want to do it, Governess, don’t you?”

As she spoke, her horn glowed, opening a drawer in her desk. She brought to bear an elegant, pearl-handled revolver, proudly engraved with the Lulamoon Technologies insignia along the the barrel. Rarity’s eyes met the muzzle of the weapon, and something inside her seemed to be sucked into it.

“Have you never killed somepony, Governess?” asked Lulamoon, telekinetically weighing the revolver in her grasp.

“I...”

“It’s quite unpleasant, the first time,” Lulamoon admitted, angling the revolver here and there, admiring the craftsmanship. Her craftsmanship. “It becomes much of an acquired taste. You never become quite fond of it. Merely tolerant.”

Straightening her grip on the weapon, she briefly seemed to aim it at Rarity. When she didn’t flinch, she smiled and rotated it, offering her the handle. Her horn glowed, and Rarity took the weapon into her own grasp. Her bottom lip was quivering, and her expression blank and hazy.

“You want me to...”

“I don’t want you to do anything, Governess, except what it is you want to.”

“What I want to,” echoed Rarity distantly, nodding.

Struggling in his chair, Pound Cake twisted his hooves behind his back, his heart pounding in terror. He had to break free. He had to. The cuffs were strong and bound his forehooves in such a way that he couldn’t get much leverage on them without feeling as if he were tearing them out of their sockets. But that didn’t seem like an option to accept as Rarity levitated the revolver and aimed it at Pumpkin Cake.

“What.... I want,” she repeated, her eyelids flickering.

Lulamoon grinned crookedly from behind her desk, sliding the marble claw between her hooves. “She murdered your loved one. Denied you everything that you fought so hard for. And she even has the audacity to brag of it.”

Shaking her head violently, tears streamed down Pumpkin Cake’s face as she twisted in her chair, as if she could somehow get away from the weapon as it came closer and closer.

“I’m not your enemy, Governess Rarity. You know this. We both know it. But there are many things you don’t yet understand, so much that I still have to show you,” whispered Lulamoon. “I’ll open the world before your eyes, and you’ll see everything the way I do. It will all make sense. But not until you do it.”

The trigger of the revolver trembled.

Pound Cake screamed in rage, his fury leaving him as nothing more than pathetic gibberish. Not her, he roared, not her. I’ll do what you want, tell you what you want. Just don’t–

“Once I have you, the world and more will be ours. We’ll be able to see the end of this world, and the birth of a new Equestria. But not until you do it. Do it!”

“I... I h... Ha...” Rarity mumbled incoherently, her grip shaking, the fog in her eyes thick and murky. Slowly, the trigger pulled back in the guard. Pound Cake thrashed with all his strength as Pumpkin Cake closed her eyes, looking down in acceptance, waiting for it to come.

A voice came from nowhere.

“Ma’am?”

At first it seemed as if it hadn’t even spoken, the single word freezing the horror playing out before his eyes. But then it came again, from the intercom on Lulamoon’s desk.

“Ma’am? This is–”

“For Pony’s sake,” hissed Lulamoon, jamming her hoof against the button beside it, “this had better be important!”

“Ma’am, it’s about the live radio broadcast.”

Lulamoon frowned. “What are you going on about? I haven’t authorized any broadcasts at this hour.”

“I know. It’s... well... Let me just...” the secretary mumbled nervously, flicking a switch.

Loud and clear, a series of voices came through the intercom, as clear as if there was a radio in the room with them.

“–Careful with that,” whined a mare. “There’s no need to point that so–”

“Move aside right now. Stop stallin’, ya hear?”

“I’m not–”

“Move!”

“I’m moving, I’m moving! Yeesh.”

The room was dead silent, Lulamoon’s expression contorted in confusion. Rarity, her aim never moving from Pumpkin Cake, shivered, as if a wind had passed through the tall glass windows.

“Are we on? Alright, good. Watch the door. We probably don’t have long now.”

The second mare cleared her throat, and there was the sound of shuffling papers.

“Ponies of... Uhm... Equestria. The time... Ah...” The mare sounded flustered shuffling through the pages in an attempt to read what was written there. She stopped and stuttered several times before, finally, she sighed heavily, either from fatigue or acceptance. “Ah’m no good at speeches. Ah don’t talk much nowadays. But if there’s any place I could begin, any place at all, it’s here: My name is Applejack.”

It was as if a curtain over Rarity’s mind had suddenly been ripped away. In a single moment, as that name left the intercom, the light suddenly returned to her eyes, and some malignant claw was tossed aside, powerless. “Applejack,” she breathed.

Lulamoon lunged for the button on her desk. She was too slow. Swiveling the revolver, Lulamoon suddenly found herself being aimed at by the same weapon she had created.

“Don’t,” warned Rarity. “Leave it.”

Raising her hooves away from the desk, Lulamoon backed away, seething with rage.

Not saying a word, Pound Cake, stared out the window numbly as Applejack spoke, a tremor of emotion in her voice.

***

“Ponies of... Uhm... Equestria. The time... Ah... Ah’m no good at speeches. Ah don’t talk much nowadays. But if there’s any place I could begin, any place at all, it’s here: My name is Applejack.

“Some of you may remember that name. If you don’t Ah’m not surprised. If you do... then Ah’m right ashamed to have taken so long... so long to get here. Long ago, Ah, along with five other, incredible, inspirational ponies, became a bearer of an Element of Harmony. Ah went from cowpony to defender of Equestria almost overnight. That was scary. Real scary. The kind of scary that leaves you staring at the ceiling at night. But that feels like right nothin’ compared to what I have to do right now.

“Those of you who remember me may know more. You may know about the times when the skies were full of pegasi clearing the clouds away, when the streets were full of laughter and smiles, and not fear and distrust. Ah still miss those days, desperately so. Ah want them back. Ah want the friends Ah’ve lost back. Ah miss them all so much.

“For so long, Ah thought that this was just the way things were, and that Ah had to buck up and deal with it. ‘It’s for a good cause,’ Ah told myself. ‘It’s to fight the gryphons, to protect ourselves.’ But sometimes Ah look at what we decided to pay for freedom and Ah wonder if it was really worth the price. And Ah have fought so long and so hard to get to this moment. Ah almost don’t mind the fact that none of us might get out of this alive. Because if this gets out, if you the simple pony, hear this message, then that means that we finally won.”

There was another crinkle of stacked paper, and a slight tapping as the edges of the stack were aligned against a board. “What Ah hold in my hooves is a record of transactions from Lulamoon Technologies, our benefactor, destined to an unnamed agent in the gryphon army. These documents were recovered from the desk of our late Governor Fancy Pants, whose integrity I once doubted. Many ponies have died, many ponies have been murdered and have been robbed of the ones they loved so that these documents could get into my hooves, and so that I could read them to you today.

“For the sum of two and a half million Equestrian bits, a transfer of no less than: 500 units Atlas Combat Rifle System, 300 units Pluma Fragmentation Grenade, 300 units Stella Concussive Grenade, 750 units Timberwolf v6 Armored Utility Vests (Retrofitted)...” She ran through the entire list, citing off weapons, armors, and ammunitions that had been provided by Lulamoon Technologies and funded by the gryphon forces. She went on, adding locations to which the deliveries had been made, with poignant cities like North Point or Trottingham, which lay on the edge of the conflict. Applejack finally stopped, drawing a weary breath. “That was the first page. I am holding a stack of documents consisting of exactly thirty-two pages, front and back. The same corporation which has so helped us build our city, security, and livelihoods has been extending the conflict with the gryphons for their own ends by arming them with the same weapons we use ourselves.

“It doesn’t end there. Lulamoon Technologies has made gratuitous payments to multiple members of the provisionary government, and has been pulling the strings in Canterlot for years, enacting laws and acts that have blinded us and forced us to submit. Those who would not submit were disposed of. My friends, my family, and even Governor Fancy Pants. All these ponies were cut down and eliminated because they dared to make a difference, to expose the rattlesnake that’s been coiled around Equestria. None are safe from its poison.”

Applejack fell silent for a moment, clearing her throat. There was an incomprehensible murmur from another pony. “But you aren’t blind anymore,” insisted Applejack, her voice gaining strength. “You’ve been handled with a ten-foot pole, lied to, and deceived because Lulamoon Technologies is afraid. And for good reason. You, the downed ponies, you, the scared ponies, you, the lonely and beaten and ignorant and happy ponies are stronger than they could ever be.”

There was a sudden, loud, banging noise from further away. The same voice that had murmured earlier spoke up again, more urgent. “Applejack, we’re running out of time. Fluttershy and Apple Bloom can’t keep that door up much longer.”

“Ah know, Rainbow. Hold them. Ah’m almost done.”

“Applejack–”

“Be strong, girl.”

“I am. I’m ready.”

Applejack resumed, a tone of finality in her voice. “Ah’ve done my part, Equestria. Ah’ve done my duty, as Ah swore Ah would. As Ah swore upon my friends, as Ah swore upon my family, and as Ah swore upon Equestria. Ah can’t do anymore. The truth can speak volumes, but it’s only a voice, and it means right nothin’ if nopony is listening. But I believe in you.”

The banging grew louder and louder, accompanied by a chilling, splintering sound. With tears in her voice, Applejack spoke one last time.

“My name is Applejack: Bearer of the Element of Honesty. Do me proud, Equestria.”

***

It was impossible for any of them to speak. With her final words, Applejack had stolen their voice, and had left it with nothing but her own. Staring numbly at Lulamoon, Rarity had to fight with all her strength to keep the revolver trained on her.

“You... what have you done?” she said breathlessly. “All this time... all this time I trusted you because Fancy Pants said it was for the best. I believed that you had changed. That perhaps, with you, Equestria could be something different. Better. That we could end this war and bring things back to normal. You never intended that, did you? You’ve lied to me since the beginning.”

“How very perceptive,” said Lulamoon quietly, her eyes not leaving the revolver. “A shame, too, Governess... Well, just Miss Rarity, now, I suppose. I was truly hoping that I could get you to see things my way.”

“Your way?” hissed Rarity. “How dare you, you psychotic, dangerous, maniacal whore! What was your way? Letting more ponies and gryphons die for your own insanity?”

“For the greater good, yes.”

“And you pretend to know what that could possibly be?”

“Of course. That’s the point. The best for Equestria must be decided by one pony. Everyone else is too afraid, too stupid, or just to ignorant to see the bigger picture. Reforming the system takes only one pony, Miss Rarity. Not thousands.” Despite this, she sighed in disappointment.

“Canterlot is over, now, I suppose. There’s nothing further I can do here. And in the end, it’s only detrimental to Equestria. I suppose all that’s left for me to do is move on. Perhaps the crystal ponies...”

“You aren’t going anywhere, Lulamoon. I won’t let you get away.”

“Is that so?” asked Lulamoon, lowering her arms, a demeaning smile on her lips. Rarity menacingly pulled back the hammer on the revolver, and she quickly put her hooves back into the air.

“You’re forgetting who’s holding the gun, Lulamoon. Step away from your desk. Right now.”

Lulamoon looked at Rarity in surprise, then began laughing an eerie, cruel giggle. “A... A gun? And what, that makes you think you’re in control? Miss Rarity, you disappoint me. My most elite STF squad is waiting right outside of my office. The second they hear that gunshot, they’ll come rushing in through that door. My dear, you and everypony in this room will be dead before you even have time to turn around.”

Rarity’s furious expression slipped, but only a little. It was enough for Lulamoon to pounce on. “But by all means, my dear, shoot me. After all, you have one bullet, don’t you? So go on, then. I’m sure you’re dying to avenge your friends. After all, how many have I killed now? Three are probably dead by now, one died long ago, and the other probably wishes she were dead. What a win-win, situation, Miss Rarity. You kill me, avenge your friends, and then you immediately get to join them.”

The revolver wobbled.

“All it costs, of course,” she added, “is the life of three little miscreants. But let’s face it... no one would miss them, right? I’m sure their deaths would be worth it.”

Rarity barely chanced a glance behind her at the Cakes and Sweetie Belle, the latter of whom was still near-catatonic.

“Or,” continued Lulamoon, “we could all be reasonable ponies. You lower the gun, I call my guards in here, you leave, I leave, and we all forget this nasty business. You’ll never even see me again. Don’t you think that enough blood has been shed? Hmm? And even if not, Miss Rarity... I think that as a politician you understand that not every battle can be won.”

She offered out her hoof, and Rarity didn’t try to stop her. “So, then. What will it be?”

There comes a time in every pony’s life when a choice falls onto them. It is not expected, it is not anticipated. It is thrust into their hooves and there are no possible choices where something or someone will not be hurt. Pound Cake had learned this, long ago. He’d been thrown at the wall and pushed to his limit, forced to choose between two evils, two horrors, two deaths. His arms weak in his cuffs, and his breath coming in slow, tired winds, Pound Cake recognized the look as it overcame Rarity. Acceptance. Realizing the corner, and knowing that in the end, only one thing really mattered in a choice, no matter how small: to choose, and to live without regret.

“Sweetie Belle,” murmured Rarity, her eyes misty and distant as she kept the revolver aimed at Lulamoon.

Blinking in disbelief, Sweetie Belle raised her head to the sound of her sister’s voice.

“Sweetie Belle,” she said again, softly. “I know you... could never accept my apology. I don’t expect you to. You’re mad at me, furious. Even though I wish I could take back everything, start over from scratch... I... I’ve caused you so much hurt. You and everypony else. I’ve been such a blind, stupid fool.”

She laughed regretfully. “Even though you’ll never forgive me, Sweetie Belle... I want you to know one thing. I’m... so proud of you. So proud of how you’ve grown into such a beautiful, strong, determined mare. The kind of pony I always hoped you’d be with all my heart.”

As she listened, the beautiful, strong, determined mare couldn’t stop the tears that welled once more in her eyes. She pulled weakly at the restraints, stretched her jaw to try to speak, to try to move.

“I thought I could do everything to keep you safe and to make sure nothing could ever hurt you. But you were stronger than that. You ran away because you refused to believe your sister could be a coward. Despite all that I’d done, you still expected better of me, and I... I love you so much. Never forget that.”

Sweetie Belle screamed into her muzzle, begging her, pleading with her. Not that, anything but that. Pumpkin Cake couldn’t watch, looking away. Lulamoon could only watch in horror as Rarity raised the revolver.

She smiled, willing herself not to cry. “Maybe... one day you’ll see, too, the crazy things that we do for love... and for friendship.”

Taking aim, Rarity raised the revolver and fired a single bullet into the guts of the machine above, striking the pony buried within the metal coffin.

***

With a gasp of shock, Pound Cake jerked in his chair, the restraints biting into his arms and legs as his eyes went wide. His ears popped and rang furiously, and splotches of light flared in his vision. He didn’t hear a thing, couldn’t see anything as everything around him seemed to go dark. For a terrifying moment, he thought he would drown in the thick nothingness that swirled around him and poured down his throat.

Then, suspended there, he felt it.

It was as clear as the sensation of water running through his hooves. A heavy, syrupy wind rushed from behind him, as if his back were against the current of a river. And as it passed through his every cell, each one sparked and hummed and vibrated with energy and life. The current, pulling him towards that one single point above his head, into the machine, dragging something out of him as it returned to its source, slipped away like a toxic gas and left behind clean air. The blood in his back suddenly raced, throbbing and boiling, and shot down to where he hadn’t felt it before. To where he had never felt it before.

Every feather in his wings stretched and flared, trembling like a muscle waking from sleep. As if relieved of a burden, they lifted, raised, and uncurled. Tears welled in Pound Cake’s eyes from the agony as the veins and arteries in his wings swelled and found strength for the first time in ages, revitalizing and returning to him what was whole. And in a single, blurring instant, he became a pegasus.

The agony and wonder of the flare of life almost drowned out the slam of the office doors as the ghosts burst inside, weapons drawn. Lulamoon lunged away from her desk, sharply veering towards the exit with surprising speed.

“Kill them!” she shrieked in fury. “Kill all of them!”

Rarity turned, raising the revolver to fire again at the fleeing unicorn. She didn’t get far. She didn’t have a chance. With deadly precision, the ghosts opened fire, peppering her immaculate white fur with splotches of red.

Sweetie Belle screamed into her restraints as her sister fell. But her grip on the revolver never released. Collapsing to the floor, she fired again, gritting her teeth even as blood fell from her lips. One of the ghosts cried out in pain as it was hit in the shoulder, breaking formation.

Everything happened in slow motion. One of the ghosts raised his rifle. Another scream. A blur of motion and violence. And with a single, final breath, the pony in the machine closed her eyes, a solemn smile on her lips. The river stopped.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a bolt of lightning.

They all stopped in their tracks. Far off, through the windows, the sky became split in two, cut straight down the middle as a beam shot from the top of a building in Canterlot. The beam travelled upwards, almost lazily from afar, but at a furious, violent speed towards the sky. Glittering magically, it escalated and curved slightly.

Then it exploded.

At first there was a burst of light, and all sound ceased to exist. With a deafening clap, it returned, and the flash vanished. In its place, rapidly spreading across the sky like a ripple in a pond, there was a massive, glittering rainbow. The ghosts watched in horror as the sonic rainboom blossomed in the wide, blue skies of Canterlot.

They never saw it coming. The bolt of rainbow light shot through the window of the office, echoing like a gunshot. It went right between Pound Cake’s legs, shattering the chair he was tied to, along with the others. One of the ghosts, just barely understanding what was happening, tried to raise its weapon. In the blink of an eye, the light smashed into his chest, sending him flying into the wall with an electronic scream. Ricocheting off its chest, the light pummelled the next ghost in the side of the jaw, throwing him to the ground. Bouncing through the air, leaving a trail of rainbows wherever it went, it aimed for the final ghost, throwing it upwards.

Stopping in mid-air with perfect, effortless fluidity, Rainbow Dash blinked into existence and bucked downwards with all her strength.

The ghost slammed into the floor hard enough to crack the marble tiling with its bulk. Croaking in pain, it went limp, unconscious. Panting, Rainbow Dash alighted beside it, sweat pouring from her brow. Her wings were flared awkwardly, her sides heaving, and scrapes on her joints matted her fur with blood. But it was unmistakable, as Pound Cake stared in wonder as her mentor shook off the fatigue as if it were nothing. She was stronger and more beautiful than he had seen her in his entire life. Free. The mare buried in those sewers beneath all that alcohol and pain had evaporated, and Rainbow Dash was born in her place.

“You make one hell of an entry,” he croaked in disbelief. She nodded wordlessly in response.

“Pound Cake!” He turned just in time for Pumpkin Cake to throw her hooves around his neck, squeezing him. “Pound Cake... Oh thank goodness. I thought...” She didn’t have to say anymore, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Relieved, he returned the embrace, holding her close.

Sweetie Belle tore free of what was left of her restraints and ripped the muzzle free from her mouth. With a scream of pain, she cried, “Rarity!” She galloped to her sister’s side, scrambling to her wounds. Rainbow Dash looked past Pound Cake, trotting over to the fallen mare. Sweetie Belle was frantically looking for anything with which to make a bandage, trying to revive her sister.

“Stay with me, Rarity,” she pleaded. “You’re going to be fine. You have to be fine!”

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze distant and misty. They seemed to search around the room before finding Sweetie Belle’s face. She raised a blood-covered hoof to it.

“Sweetie Belle... Oh, I’m so...”

“Don’t talk,” she demanded, holding her hoof. “I have to stop the bleeding. You’re going to be okay! I promise!”

A shadow fell over her, and Sweetie Belle looked up to find Rainbow Dash staring down at them, her washed-out mane hanging over her glittering eyes. Rarity mustered what little strength she had into a smile.

“Forever the show-off,” she reprimanded quietly. “And yet still somehow late... How unladylike. But I knew you’d come.”

“Rarity...” started Rainbow Dash quietly before being cut off.

“I know, dear... There’s so–” She choked for a moment before regaining herself. “I’m sorry. I know it will never be enough. But I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Rainbow Dash, pressing a hoof to Rarity’s mouth. “And don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. You’re a tough girl. You’ll make it. Sweetie Belle, go rip up the ghost’s uniforms. We need some bandages to stop the bleeding.”

As her sister ran off, Rarity sighed heavily, letting her head fall to the ground. “Oh dear,” she said dizzily, “Rainbow, darling, there’s blood getting into my mane... I won’t be able to get that...”

“Stay awake, Rarity. You have to stay awake.”

“Applejack... Where’s Applejack? Is she–”

“She’s fine. Fluttershy is alright, too. They’re waiting for you. You’re going to get to see them. I just need you to stay awake.” Rainbow Dash turned to Sweetie Belle, who handed her some strips of coarse fabric. “Hold still.”

“Oh, Celestia,” gasped Rarity as the impromptu bandages wrapped around her gunshot wounds. “Rainbow, I can’t... Do that. I can’t possibly face them again. Not when...” Tears welled in her eyes, but this time it wasn’t from the pain. “Rainbow, I couldn’t save her. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t even save her.”

Rainbow Dash closed her eyes, forcing herself not to cry. She couldn’t now, not for her friend. She had to be more. “I know, Rarity. And that’s why I’m not going to lose you, too.” She stood, and Pound Cake blinked in surprise. Rainbow Dash seemed taller than she had ever been.

“Sweetie Belle,” she said her tone steely. “Grab a weapon from the ghosts and get Pumpkin Cake out of here. The streets are going to be chaos. Every two-bit ghost and Civil Defence officer having second thoughts about keeping order in Canterlot is going to be out there trying to hold on to what little control they have from the rioters. Keep her safe, and get to the radio tower. Find Applejack and Fluttershy. Tell them what happened here.”

“But–”

“Sweetie Belle, Rarity is going to die if she doesn’t get to a hospital soon. I’m the only pony here who can get her there quickly enough. There’s nothing more you can do for her.”

Sweetie Belle, tears in her eyes, looked as if she would hold her ground. Looking between her sister’s barely breathing body and Rainbow Dash, she slowly nodded, whispering, “Alright.”

“Then go.” As Sweetie Belle scrambled for ammunition, not daring to look over her shoulder, Pumpkin Cake looked uncertainly at her brother, who was as perplexed as she was.

“Pound Cake,” Rainbow Dash spoke again, a heated edge creeping into her voice. Pound Cake watched as his mentor carefully picked up Rarity, placing her over her back. When she looked him in the eyes with same passion and vigor that was in the pony he saw long ago in a lost photograph, he knew exactly what she would say.

“Lulamoon. Cannot. Escape.”

Pound Cake nodded solemnly. “I swear that she won’t. And Rainbow Dash!” he added, as she bent her legs to take off. “Thank you.”

With a worried glance at her unconscious friend, she shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet, Pound Cake. Canterlot still needs saving.”

With that, she flapped her wings once, twice, then vanished through the window, diving through the air with neither hesitation nor fear.

Sweetie Belle pulled free a magazine from one of the unconscious ghosts, and slid it in place with a satisfying click.

“Let’s go, Pound Cake. We can’t waste time.”

“No we can’t,” he answered through clenched teeth as he watched her go. Spinning, he crouched, placing his center of balance low to maximize his downward motion and friction. With it, he kicked off his hind legs, launching himself into a full sprint in only a fraction of a second, barrelling for the door of the office.

Sweetie Belle grabbed Pumpkin Cake, and they took off after him into the hallway towards the awaiting elevator. “There’s the lift! We need to get down there as fast as possible!”

“She’s not down there,” realized Pound Cake as he came to a grinding halt in front of it.

She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The lift is still here,” noted Pumpkin Cake. “Nopony called it back up. Lulamoon couldn’t have taken it down. Then where...?”

A glint of metal caught Pound Cake’s eyes in the blank wall of the hallway. The rung of a ladder. Trotting over to it, he looked up to find sunlight pouring down into the hall through a rectangular gap.

“There’s a ladder. I think it goes to the roof.”

“Why the roof? She’s cornered up there,” said Pumpkin Cake in confusion.

His brow furrowed. She was right. It didn’t make sense. But there wasn’t time to sit around and think this over. Grabbing the first rung, he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll handle Lulamoon. You two get out of here.”

Sweetie Belle nodded confidently, keeping the rifle close to her body as she hopped onto the elevator. Pumpkin Cake watched her brother climb the ladder uncertainly.

“Pound Cake!” she cried out as his head was about to disappear into the passage. When he turned, she bit her lip nervously and blurted, “You’d better come back to me in one piece, or I swear, I’ll...”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Slowly, Pumpkin Cake nodded, then motioned at him with her hoof. “Then tear her apart.” There was a click as Sweetie Belle pressed a button, and Pound Cake watched his sister descend as long as he dared before returning his attention to the ladder. Rung by rung he rose, using each upward pull to his advantage, until it was almost as if he were flying up the ladder. As he grew closer to that distant square of light above, a sound echoed through the passage. He couldn’t place it as anything he’d ever heard before; at the closest, it was like the sound of rapidly beating wings. It became louder and louder still, and gusts of wind rushed past him, as if the building was desperately trying to inhale him back into its depths and swallow him whole. It wasn’t enough. With a final grunt of effort, he heaved himself over the edge, the sunlight stinging at his eyes as he emerged. No... not the sun. The wind.

Slowly rising off the roof was a clunky, wiry looking machine. It shrieked with a violent mechanical whine as a rotor on the top of it spun four, lengthy blades that chopped in the air and propelled it upwards away from the building. The cockpit was surrounded by a tinted glass, and the tear-drop shaped machine tapered in a long, fine tail that spun with its own rotor.

Then he saw her: Lulamoon. With a frustrated look over her shoulder, she rolled the door of the helicopter shut as the machine whined even louder and the rotating blades accelerated, pulling her away from the edge of the building and into the sky.

In awe, Pound Cake could do nothing but watch as it left him behind, his scream of frustration lost in the rushing, chopped air. He galloped to the edge of the building, but it was already too late. His mane whipped about his eyes, almost blinding him as the vehicle, and Lulamoon, left him behind.

Desperate, Pound Cake looked down, and his heart froze.

Standing on the very edge of Lulamoon Technologies HQ, there was nothing between him and the sudden, gut-wrenching drop down its sheer face and into the cubic map of buildings below. A fall like that, and he’d wear out his throat screaming before he hit the ground. But looking back up, Lulamoon’s vehicle was only widening the gap between them.

And she couldn’t escape. He couldn’t let her escape!

Slowly, Pound Cake backed away from the edge, and he felt his back go tense as his wing muscles instinctively flexed and stretched. Each feather tested and angled in the wind, and without quite knowing how, Pound Cake could almost see the currents of air flowing around him, gliding through his primaries and leading edges. His breath quickened as he lowered his stance, his heart beating faster. Blood pumped into his wings, and he gave them a test flap. For a split second, he almost expected to be electrocuted for that alone. But the air remained emotionless, simply gliding past him. For once, it wasn’t something to be afraid of.

His eyes went wide, and for a moment, as he ran, it felt as if he weren’t in this body at all, that it was all some strange, bizarre dream.

I’ve never flown before in my life.

The thought that he might die never even occurred to him as he reached the edge, and he threw himself into the air.

***

Teeth clenched, Lulamoon punched the back of the seat in front of her in frustration. The sudden gesture surprised the STF pilot, who looked back behind itself to make sure everything was fine.

“Keep flying!” hissed Lulamoon, roughly tossing a lock of her mane back behind her ear before sinking back into her seat. The pilot obliged, keeping itself focused on the controls. Although Lulamoon had never expected that she’d need to resort to this particular invention of hers anytime soon, she’d ensured that all members of her task force were trained in flying her personal helicopter.

Always thinking ahead, a voice in the back of her mind teased. She shook it away. And yet here we are.

Sneering in disgust, she looked down out the side of the vehicle as the rooftops of Canterlot rushed past her. Where the grid-like streets and alleyways had once been orderly and pristine, they were now buzzing with chaos as violence broke out in the streets, funnelling itself towards her headquarters.

A shame. A blasted shame. She’d worked so hard and so long for Canterlot to get this far. Certainly, ponies had died in the process, but omelettes and eggs, and that sort of thing. In the grand scheme of things, it was all worthwhile. Well, it would have been.

Anarchy. The word rolled off her tongue like a delectable syrup. But not just any anarchy. It would have been her anarchy. Not the chaos that was consuming the streets below, nor the rigid bureaucracy of the Equestrian regime. Pure, unadulterated anarchy, where the fittest survive and all only occurs through strength and cunning rather than social stigma and fear. Fair, balanced... and quite fun.

But that was over now. Never stop looking forward, after all.

“Ma’am,” crackled the pilot uncertainly. “Permission to enquire.”

Sighing defeatedly, she answered, “Granted.”

“Destination, ma’am?”

She stared out the window, mulling over her options. That was the big question, wasn’t it? Where to start all over again? Finally, she nodded waved her hoof impatiently. “Head for the gryphon border. I have an operation waiting for orders in a town near the–”

Lulamoon’s sentence ended in a cry of surprise as something smashed into the side of the helicopter, violently tipping it to the side. The pilot swore, fighting with the controls to keep the vehicle stable. Eventually, it levelled out once more.

“What in Tartarus was that?” demanded Lulamoon, struggling to regain her composure.

“Unknown, ma’am,” replied the pilot, desperately flicking switches in the cockpit to silence the blaring sirens and flashing lights. “Projectile on aft. All systems nominal and–”

The bashing sound came again, this time louder, but less powerful. Lulamoon flinched in surprise as the door of the helicopter dented once, then twice. The lock on the door blew inwards as it was met from a blow on the other side.

Gritting his teeth with effort, Pound Cake gripped the handle on the outside of the helicopter and ripped it open. Lulamoon’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“You must be joking!” she snarled.

“Ma’am?”

“Straggler! Lose him!”

Pound Cake barely managed to hold onto what little of a grip he had on the outside of the helicopter as it suddenly veered to the side. The pilot looked over its shoulder in frustration as he anticipated every move it would make. Every inch of Pound Cake’s skin was on fire. Suspended in mid-air with nothing but his wings and and the helicopter keeping him aloft, everything seemed to work in slow motion. He’d never experienced it before, but it all seemed so natural.

“Lulamoon!” he roared into the wind as the helicopter twisted once more, trying to shake him loose. It wouldn’t do. Clasping the frame of the door, he pulled himself towards the inside of the helicopter. He just barely heard a heavy click-clack nearly lost in the rushing wind. Pound Cake found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

On nothing but instinct, he released his grip on the frame, falling away from the helicopter. There was an ear-shattering gunshot, and he felt the pellets from the rifle zip through the tips of his mane. The feeling of suspension was suddenly lost as Pound Cake plummeted back down to earth. His body did all the thinking for him.

Spreading and angling his wings, the sudden alteration in pressure and resistance flipped him right-side up. They shot out, catching the wind like a tarp and throwing him into a glide. This... this was no different from running, he realized, arcing into a wide loop underneath the helicopter. The same precarious balance of momentum, speed, and friction. Only now the walls and pipes were invisible, existing only in a rippling force of updrafts and turbulence, obstacles that were not seen but felt.

Pulling with the same force and determination that had dragged him over alleyways and ladders, he forced his wings downwards, catching a spiralling gust radiating outwards from the helicopter’s propellor. This time, he aimed his hooves directly for the latch of the door, smashing it open with a single, fluid motion. Lulamoon, eyes ablaze with anger, turned to face him, struggling to twist her weapon through the narrow confines of the helicopter. She fired again. Pound Cake felt his foreleg explode in pain as the blast tore into the the side of his body.

Not good. Not good, not good, not good. For a horrifying moment, his head went light, splotches flashing before his eyes as his body slipped into shock. Blood trickling down the side of his body, he pulled himself away from the helicopter, beating his wings heavily. Pound Cake gasped for breath, pressing his good hoof to his wound.

No time to help it now. In the meantime, he was down to only three hooves. That, and he was bleeding more than he’d expected.

Stay awake. No matter what, do notpass out.

Fainting now would be instant death. Nopony would save him this time. The helicopter flew further away, leaving Pound Cake flapping his wings idly, trying his best to suppress the flow of blood. Biting his lip in anger, Pound Cake tucked his injured leg close to his body. He’d come too far and lost too much to let a flesh wound stop him. Using his remaining legs to balance himself as best as he could, Pound Cake tore after the helicopter.

He had to get rid of that shotgun before Lulamoon stopped missing and took his head off.

Destabilize your enemies, Rainbow Dash’s tutelage echoed. Keep your balance, and remove theirs.

Oh Celestia help him, this was going to be a stupid idea. And yet, genius tends to come from stupid ideas. That, or instant death.

Angling himself into a spiral, he veered away from the doorway of the helicopter, and aimed for the tail. With a scream of anger, he slammed his shoulder into it, tucking his wings closed. The effect was immediate. The sudden blow instantly set the helicopter spinning out of control.

Looking up, Pound Cake saw what he feared. The propellor of the helicopter whipped straight for his neck. Keeping his head down, he fell. The blades grazed his skin, cutting so close to his wings that feathers were sliced at the tips. Falling head first, he waited as long as he dared before he opened his wings once more, far from the propellor.

Not done yet.

Pulling into an upwards spiral, he twisted once more to dive for the helicopter. Spinning through the air, the tail and propellor sliced at him viciously, as if screaming for revenge. Closing his eyes, he took a breath, and shot between the tail and straight into the helicopter.

Lulamoon, desperately hanging on to her seat and shouting for the pilot to pull the helicopter together, didn’t get a chance to react. Pound Cake slammed into her, throwing off her aim. Eyes wide with animalistic fury, her horn sparked as she tried to aim the shotgun at the intruder. Before the barrel could reach him, Pound Cake struck the weapon with his elbow, and Lulamoon fired blindly.

There was a loud crack and a muffled scream as the blast tore through the seat in front of her, spraying the pilot’s blood against the windshield.

No!

Pulling back a hoof, Pound Cake’s muscles contracted and trembled with anger. Then, letting all go at once, he smashed his hoof forwards, snapping Lulamoon’s head to the side. The shock was enough for her to lose concentration, and the shotgun lost its magical glow and tumbled through the air and out the helicopter. Unfortunately, it ended up right in the propellor. Shrapnel exploded outwards, lodging itself uncomfortably close to Pound Cake’s head. He chanced a glimpse at the pilot.

It was slumped against the controls, blood flowing from spider-web cracks in its glass eyes. Too late. Slowly, almost lazily, as if the helicopter was falling asleep, it began to tip in the air, falling from the sky like a wounded bird.

Blood flowing freely from her muzzle, Lulamoon shrieked in anger as her horn flared, charging a spell.

“I’ll kill you!” she screamed hysterically. “I’ll kill you for this you filthy pegasus! I’ll turn you to ash and spray you all over Canterlot!”

The helicopter lurched as it fell, and a searing burst of energy shooting from her horn burned into the cockpit rather than Pound Cake’s chest. Planting his hind legs against the side of falling helicopter, he bared his teeth and smashed his hoof against her face, silencing her outburst with a grunt of pain.

“No. No more!” he hissed, his stomach twisted into a freezing knot. “No more! That was the last one, you hear me? The last one!”

Lulamoon tried to speak again, but was only met with a vicious kick to the gut. And as the helicopter fell, Pound Cake tore into her, one blow after another.

There was a meaty crack. That one’s for Derpy.

Crack.

That one’s for my sister.

Crunch.

And that one’s for...

“Scootaloo,” he whispered on a breath. His hoof raised, it stopped in midair as the world tumbled around him. Lulamoon breathed heavily, blood dripping from her muzzle, one eye blackened and the other swollen shut. Coughing weakly, Lulamoon gasped for breath, reaching out with a battered hoof.

She looked up at him with quiet resolve. Her eyes were not afraid. They were cold, steely. Daring him.

Take. That. Step.

He didn’t have a choice as the helicopter lurched in its freefall, tearing what little was left of Lulamoon’s seatbelt. Without so much as a scream, her eyes never him as she tumbled out of the helicopter, falling into the streets below.

When Pound Cake spread his wings and shot outwards of the helicopter, his body did not move of his own accord.

She murdered Derpy. Shot her in cold blood after twisting her and breaking her for her own gain.

He spun around a piece of debris, kicking it to the side as he dove downwards towards the rapidly approaching streets.

She took everything from you. She stole your wings, stole your parents, stole your sister.

It was coming fast. Too fast. The wind roared in his ears but he couldn’t hear any of it. Every muscle in his body was straining, and he was falling like a stone. Nearly there, almost caught up. He had to...

And Scootaloo. You lost Scootaloo and it’s all her fault. You lost the closest thing you had to a friend.

She was just out of reach. Floating centimeters away as the wind ripped at her mane, Lulamoon screamed in panic as the ground rushed up to meet her. Just a little bit more. He pushed with more strength than he had ever used in his entire life, every cell in his body screaming with effort and exhaustion.

Scootaloo’s dead. You couldn’t save Scootaloo so why save her? She died and you never even had the courage to tell her that you loved–

“I won’t let her die!” Pound Cake roared to the wind. He reached out, and grabbed Lulamoon’s midsection. Flaring his wings, he put himself between her and the ground. Spreading his body as much as he could to slow his fall, he felt the wind cut at his battered body. The helicopter exploded below him. And everything became silent.

***

When he hit the ground, he hit it hard. Slamming into the concrete, he opened his mouth to scream in pain, but nothing left his throat. Everything in his body seemed to turn into liquid, and his nerves became mercifully numb. Bleeding, broken, shattered.

With what little strength he had left, he managed to tilt his head upwards. Lulamoon was collapsed against his chest, barely conscious. He watched her immobile body in terror. Then, finally, it rose and fell in a weak breath.

Alive. She was alive, and so was he. Moaning in agony, the mare shuddered, then rolled off of him. Laying on her back beside him, she coughed heavily, and it twisted into a feeble laugh of disbelief.

“Un... Unbelievable. You just couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it, could you? After all I’ve done, and you just couldn’t even do it. Couldn’t even just leave me to splatter on some rooftop.” She laughed again, stopping as her body seized with pain. She turned her head to the side to look at him from behind her tangled, bloody mop of a mane. “Absolutely incredible. You truly are something else... Pound Cake. I almost respect that.”

Legs trembling, Pound Cake turned onto his side. Every muscle in his body was begging for him to lie down, to just close his eyes and sleep off the pain. He almost fell on his face accidentally pushing downwards on his wounded foreleg. But slowly, finally, he stood, legs bleeding, wings crooked. Alive.

“And he stands,” whispered Lulamoon. “I don’t believe it. What are you?”

Spitting a glob of blood out of his mouth, Pound Cake gauged his surroundings. A rooftop. He looked upwards at the sun, trying to figure out where he was. Nothing seemed familiar from down here anymore. He knew every last rooftop in Canterlot, and yet here he was, lost. Testing his wings, he stepped over Lulamoon. Gritting his teeth with pain and effort, he picked her up. Her battered body offered no resistance, and she moaned again in pain.

“I’m just a pegasus,” he finally said.

Pound Cake spread his wings. There would be a better view up in the air.

Epilogue

“—multiple reported casualties from the authorities, the suspects were neither apprehended nor killed, and the group continues to evade capture as Equestria struggles to regain balance after the violence that has since upset the nation.” The newspony, barely moving his head as he shuffled the papers at his desk, looked back to the camera. The professional grimness did not leave his face as he continued.

“This outbreak of conflict now marks Equestria as only a sporadic event, as today marks the second week since the arrest of Trixie Lulamoon, CEO of Lulamoon Technologies, by insurgents composed in part by several Element Bearers. Despite the attack on new government outposts by the corporation’s forces, the STF, trial proceedings are still underway. Charges being brought to bear against Lulamoon herself include treason, conspiracy, and murder, among others.

“Canterlot finds itself in an uneasy peace, as despite the toppling of the provisionary government, the future of Equestria remains unclear, though reports have confirmed that talks between the Equestrian diarchy and the Gryphon—”

“Turn that off, dear. It’s giving me a headache.”

Wincing, Softheart took the remote in her mouth and silenced the reporter mid-sentence. The uneasy beeping and humming of the hospital room immediately took its place.

“Sorry,” she mumbled awkwardly to Drip. She joined her by the hospital bed. Her coworker, a lanky unicorn, leaned against the cart they had brought, as tired as she from the long shift. It almost seemed that without it, her thin frame would collapse under its own weight. Shrugging off the fatigue, she returned her attention to the patient.

“No need to apologise, dear.” She busied herself with replacing the patient’s IV bag as she talked. “I just don’t want somepony reminding me of how many bullet wounds I’ve had to deal with these past weeks.”

“At least it’s over,” offered Softheart, watching Drip work. Her eyes noted every movement. Despite her fragile appearance, Drip moved efficiently, each motion rehearsed through long nights and frantic shifts. When the other nurses had told her that Drip was one of the best on staff, they hadn’t been exaggerating. Softheart could only hope to meet her abilities even halfway. That is, if she managed to keep this job.

“For now, dearie. For now.” She wiped her brow and motioned to the anesthetic machine demurely beeping beside the patient’s bed. “Could you check her vitals, please?”

Softheart consulted the readouts, focusing intently on the flickering numbers. It took her longer than she wanted to admit to determine which was which at a glance. She blushed. Note to self: memorize the order of the numbers. “Everything looks good,” she said, barely keeping her voice from quivering. “Respiratory rate is a little low, though.”

“That’s fine.” Drip pulled back the blue-and-white checkered sheets to examine the patient, handling her as if she were a glass doll. Softheart couldn’t help but stare. The pony’s emaciated frame was almost grotesque, amplified by her dull, matted fur. “This one’s always been a slow breather. She’s been here for a while, and there’s not much we can do to make it change. Just let her rest.”

Softheart raised an eyebrow, giving the patient a sideways glance. “Is she awake?”

Drip shrugged and turned her attention to the bedsheets. “I don’t know, dear. She’s been here an awfully long time, and I’ve never gotten her to say anything. I’m not sure she can hear us.”

“Is she comatose?”

“No, she’s just…” Drip looked upwards, trying to find the right words. “She’s tired. Very, very tired. Poor dear.”

“Strange.” Softheart picked up the chart attached to the foot of the patient’s bed. She skimmed its contents, and her brow furrowed. She held it up to Drip.

“Miss Drip, is this chart correct?”

The nurse only briefly glanced at the chart before returning to cleaning the patient’s bed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“But that means this patient has been here for over twenty years.”

Drip rolled the covers back up to the patient’s chest, carefully placing her forelegs so that they rested on top of it. She scratched the back of her neck, peering at Softheart through the loose strands of mane that escaped her tight bun. “Has it been twenty years already? My, my, how time flies. I still remember when she was first checked in.” She pointed to Softheart. “I was about as new as you were. My first week, in fact. And she’s been here ever since.”

Softheart slowly lowered the chart. The patient, still in her bed, seemed nearly statuesque, the wrinkles on her face carved sad and lonely. Only the slight lowering and rising of the covers gave her away as one of the living. There was some distant, unplaceable sorrow in her eyes, as if staring at a grave.

For some strange reason, that vacant look was more terrifying than the numb, twisted agony that she’d seen so many times these past weeks.

“Does she get any visitors?” she asked, forcing herself to look away.

“Her daughter. She comes to visit now and again. Sits here for hours just talking with her. An angel. She’s lucky to have her.” Drip sighed to herself, propping up the pillows beneath the patient’s neck and gently brushing the her mane to the side.

Softheard nodded absentmindedly. She hooked the chart back onto the bed, watching Drip as she finished her duties. Satisfied with her work, Drip pushed the cart towards the hallway and motioned for Softheart to follow.

Softheart paused, looking to the patient, then to the large window overlooking her bed, letting sunlight stream across the room as it bounced across the white rooftops of Canterlot. It seemed as if the sky itself was watching over her.

“Dearie, we still have the rest of the floor to do. Come now.”

She flinched, snapping out of her trance and fumbling to catch up with Drip. “Sorry, Miss Drip. I was… Sorry.”

Drip chuckled, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart out of the room. “You need to loosen up, dearie. There’s no need to apologize so much.

“Sorry,” Softheart blurted, before flushing a deep red. It earned a laugh from Drip.

“Relax, child. No need to be so tense. You’re doing just fine.” There was a twinkle in her eye when she gave Softheart a friendly nudge. “You’re going to make for one heck of a nurse.”

Softheart blushed even deeper, but a smile slipped across her face. “Thank you, Miss Drip.” She gave the patient one last look over her shoulder before letting the door shut behind her.

***

The hospital room, now empty of nurses and medical staff, fell to its usual rhythm. The muted beeping of the anesthetic machine and the slow, measured breathing of the patient suspended in the silence. The patient did not move. Her eyes were deathly still, fixed on some invisible spot on the wall before her that only she could see. Under the glaring, sterile light of the sun, she waited, waited as she always had.

A shadow crossed her face, and there was a rustle of feathers at the window. Slowly, a glass pane creaked open.

She didn’t make the slightest motion to show she’d heard the intruder. Instead she only distantly heard hooves as they touched down on the laminate tiles with a precise click.

There were no further sounds, no further hoofsteps, and it wasn’t long before she reasoned to herself that her mind had once more played tricks on her. But then they came again, slow, deliberate. This time she was certain. She closed her eyes, her breath catching with every step closer to her bedside. With it came the sound of his breathing: rapid and nervous.

His shadow came over her, but its presence was meek and uncomfortable. For a long time he stood there, uncertain. He placed a trembling hoof beside her head, touching her mane. That was when she smelled him. When she did, she knew. Faces, voices, and even names change. But that smell would never leave her. As long as it had been, she had not forgotten it.

She opened her eyes, and the light blurred her vision, leaving her with only a hazy image. His body tensed against the bed. He knew she was awake, and when he spoke, and his voice cracked on the word.

“Mom?”

A feeble smile crept across her face. “Pound Cake. My little boy.”

Pound tried to speak, but his voice caught. Whatever words he tried to summon came as a measly croak. Slowly, Cup Cake reached up for his face. Her frail, thin arm hovered hesitantly in the air, too weak to reach higher. Pound Cake took it and pressed it against his cheek. Feeling her son’s warmth against her hoof once more stirred something inside her, and she couldn’t keep the tears from welling in her eyes. Her vision sharpened, and she saw his face.

“Pound Cake…” She just barely managed to shake her head in disbelief. Her eyes flickered over his face, his shoulders, drinking in every detail that had evolved in twenty long, empty years. His broad, powerful frame etched in the sunlight seemed so vulnerable somehow. “You look so much like your father. You have his eyes. So handsome.”

His lips quivered, and he tightened his grip on his mother’s hoof, holding it close. Glittering in the sunlight, his tears fell against the covers with a muted pat pat.

“Mom, I—” He tried to speak once again, but the sobs overcame him. Like a crumbling tower, he collapsed at her bedside, his strength failing him. Croaking, the only words that could ever matter finally came. “I… I missed you so much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Running a hoof through his tangled mane, Cup Cake whispered gentle comfort. “It’s alright,” she murmured. “It’s alright. I missed you too.”

“I never came.” He buried his head in the side of her chest. “I was so scared and ashamed that I never came. I ran away and didn’t look back. I’m sorry. But it’s over now.”

There was nothing further said. Holding him to her, Cup Cake stared at the ceiling, humming and coddling him. In every choking sob that wracked him, she felt pain. A bottomless, unfathomable pain that had remained stifled and bottled away for far too long. It had eaten at him, gnawed at him, left him a husk. But it had also made him strong.

It had brought him here.

And so she let him cry. She let him curl beside her on what little room she had on her bedside, a grown stallion weeping into the sides of a weakened mare. She held him and stroked him and let the void that had formed inside them both fill. Cup Cake closed her eyes, slowing her breathing as if it could draw the moment out forever.

Long after the tears had ebbed, the two of them lay silent in the stillness of the hospital room. The only sound was that of their breathing, and the muffled electronic and organic conversation of the hospital halls.

“There’s so much I have to tell you,” Pound Cake finally said, his voice dry and cracking with exhaustion.

“There’s time for that, Pound Cake.” She closed her eyes as she spoke. “All the time in the world.” A weight lifted itself from her shoulders. Time. For the first time in so long, the word tasted sweet. Now it meant something more. It meant hope.

“I fought… so hard.” Pound pushed himself upright, placing his hooves at the edge of the bed so that he could look into his mother’s eyes. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. Everything’s fallen apart so many times and I’m…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes lowered. “I’m so tired of losing and of seeing death and pain. I can’t force myself to believe that it’s all over now.”

Cup Cake smiled, touching a tender hoof to his cheeks. “It’s over now, sweetie. It’s okay to be tired.”

A shadow crossed his face, and Pound Cake shied from her touch. He stood, and when he walked he was as an old pony, burdened with the weight of age and experience. He couldn’t keep his voice from trembling. “It’s over because… Because I made it end. Because I’m the one who stopped her. Lulamoon.”

There was a moment of silence as Cup Cake digested the words. She looked briefly to the TV, then back to her son. It had once been background noise, a noise that brought more pain than pleasure in the past month. The image of her daughter’s face had floated there, dreamlike, with accusations of horror and violence. Now, however, the noises added up.

“You were with them, weren’t you?” she asked. “Applejack. Rainbow Dash. You stopped this. Oh, Pound Cake…”

“I keep being told I’m a hero,” he said sharply. “I have to run to the rooftops to get away from… reporters and journalists. But even that doesn’t even mean anything anymore. Pegasi can fly again. Everything I’ve worked to learn and perfect means nothing. Suddenly everything that was normal is upside down and I don’t know what to think.”

Cup Cake said nothing, letting him speak.

“Why don’t I feel like a hero?” He turned to face her, and his eyes glistened with confusion and pain. “I’ve paid so much to get here, and now that I’ve made it, I don’t know what I was trying to find in the first place. I can’t sleep at night, not with the things I’ve seen. All the bodies and death. I’m supposed to be free but I’ve never felt so…” He choked up and closed his eyes. “So alone.”

Cup Cake’s brow creased with worry, and she patted her bedside. Reluctantly, Pound Cake sat himself beside her. “No one chooses these things.” She rubbed his back soothingly. “They’re chosen for you. Whatever you were searching for all those years you were gone, whatever it led you to, it was not for nothing. It made you so that none but you could have made those sacrifices. No matter what happened, no matter what thoughts you had or what things you had to do, it got you here. It isn’t fair. It can’t be. But in the end the choices you made have saved thousands of lives and freed many more from misery.”

His eyes, deep with sorrow, looked into hers, and she held their gaze in a way only a mother could. “You saved everyone without losing yourself, Pound Cake. You’ve given Equestria hope, and whether or not that means nothing to you, it means the world to each and every person you’ve given a future to. And you know what else?” She smiled, and ran the back of her hoof along his cheek. “You’ve got one too, now. And you can’t let what’s happened destroy everything that’s before you.”

A weary smile, cautious and fearful, grew upon his face. Pound Cake took his mother in a tight hug. He buried his muzzle into the crook of her neck.

“I want to tell you about them. About everything you’ve missed.”

“And you will.” She smiled, and her eyes wandered the the window. The sunlight, golden and clear, lit Equestria for endless miles. “We have all the time in the world now.”

Part 1 of 4

***

Pound Cake craned his neck skywards, stretching his back muscles as he enjoyed this rare moment of free time. It wasn’t often that he didn’t have to go off on a job, and he fully intended to enjoy every second of simply sitting in the warmth of the sun. With a crisp breeze tempering the heat, it was a perfect state of comfort and relaxation. It’s silent here, he thought, smiling slightly as he scratched his straw colored fur. Then again, it was of little surprise that the dull roar of Canterlot didn’t reach to the roof of the thirty-floor office complex. It was the kind of absolute silence that only the runners were entitled to in the clamoring city. Funny how such a geometric white city, a false image of a utopia, could be so chaotically loud.

Grunting contentedly as he worked a kink in his shoulder, Pound Cake reclined against the bright red metal fence, his eyes traveling across the jungle-gym of rooftops sprawled out before him. To anypony else walking the streets below, the scenery was ugly and mechanical, the pipes and vents pockmarking the otherwise pristine rooftops with their bizarre shapes and twists. But to him, and all the others that took the dangerous lifestyle of running, these forms were opportunities. Trained eyes and skilled hooves could turn each corner, each pole, and each wall into speed and fluidity. This is what they did, and they were damn good at it.

Just as Pound Cake thought he would try to hunt the skies for an errant cloud, simply to smirk to himself about the city’s poor weather control, his earpiece beeped and came to life.

“Hey, Poundy, you there?” questioned the voice over the radio waves. Pound Cake rolled his eyes and sighed. There were two coordinators for the Rainbow Runners, and only one of them called him “Poundy”. He put a hoof to his ear and pressed the talk button.

“Yeah, yeah, Derpy, I’m here. What’s up?” spoke the brown-maned stallion.

“Sorry for buggin’ you while on break Poundy! But something came up, and Rainbow Dash wants you on this one,” apologized the gray mare from her radio station hidden within the sewers. If it wasn’t for the amateurish antennae that they had built, there would have been no way that they could get good reception this far from HQ. Pound Cake still remembered the multiple free runs he had to do so that Rainbow Dash could pull some resources to get the parts for the damn thing.

“Is this really that important?”

“I wouldn’t be calling you otherwise...sorry, Poundy!”

Pound Cake snorted in frustration as he pulled himself off of his comfortable spot on the fence. Loosening his shoulders, he hopped onto his hooves, shaking the treacherous numbness of laziness from his muscles. Stepping away from the edge, he turned to face the gap between his building and the next.

“Alright, alright. Not like I have a choice anyways. Am I picking up the package?”

“Nope. Scoots took care of pick-up, and you’re on for the trade-off.”

“Rally point?”

“Blue. No, no, wait! I mean Orange!”

“Be there soon,” said Pound Cake, as he burst into a gallop. Kicking off his hind hooves, and throwing his weight forward, he flung himself skyward.

It was impossible to explain what it was like to be airborne. When nothing lies below, and nothing above. Hanging in that perfect balance, the moment is eternal as life and death snatch at the flying pony at the same time. It made something in Pound Cake’s soul ache, and his wings twitch. There was a word for it...

As the rooftop rose to meet him, Pound Cake placed his hind hooves forward and, upon contact, let his momentum carry him into a roll. His legs coming back beneath him, he hurtled forward, hooves clattering on the hard mortar as he wove between the ventilation shafts and fans that spewed stale air from the streets below.

Freedom. Yeah. That was the word, thought Pound Cake with a smile.

A chain link fence surrounding the building’s electrical controls loomed forward and, with a leap and a grunt, he hurtled over it, playfully grazing the barbed wire with his hoof. Laughing as he ended his flying arch, he fell back down upon a generator; its warning hum was akin to Rainbow Dash’s grumbling back when he was only a trainee.

“Keep your legs tucked in! Running is half instinct, half skill! And if you don’t balance the two, you’ll end up being a splattered mess on the street!” she would reprimand.

Lost in thought, Pound Cake came to a screeching halt: the imposing white facade of another unmarked building that shouldn’t be there stopped him. He cursed under his breath. Wrong way. Scoot wasn’t going to let him forget it if he was late again. Trained eyes flicking across the wall, he spied a fire escape. Backing up to get some distance, he rocketed forward, his hooves a blur as he launched himself above the gaping maw of the alleyways. An outstretched hoof caught the bottom rung of the ladder with a clank. Quickly climbing upward, he grunted as he muscled onto the thin metal platform. Threading his way up the fire escape, he ducked around each corner of the stairs and easily reached the top of the building.

Pound Cake quickly gauged the position of the sun to make sure he was heading in the right direction. Satisfied that he was still on track, he galloped to the edge of the rooftop. If he was going to be on time, he was going to have to take a riskier short cut. A cable stretched from his building to the next, suspended by metal flagpoles.

Pushing his body to go as fast as possible, he jumped and latched his specially protected hooves around the cable. Kicking his hind legs forward to maximize his momentum, he zipped across the gap, the speed blurring his peripheral vision. An involuntary shout of excitement escaped him as he hurtled to the ground, grinning from the thrill of adrenalin.

Canterlot, since martial law was enacted 20 years ago, was a city constantly under construction. When the Gryphon War was sparked by their incursion on Equestria, the princesses had left with the mass of the Equestrian Army to meet the threat. The conflict had been raging for 20 years, and the absence of any rule had left a stallion by the name of Fancypants, who had become a strong political force since before the war began, to care for the land while the princesses were gone. His devotion to the development of military resources had led to an expansive recruitment campaign for the army, a crackdown on the flow of information and, more crucially, a massive reconstruction of Canterlot that led to the presence of these massive cranes, one of which was about to become a shortcut for Pound Cake. Swallowing hard, he pawed at the concrete, forcing himself to focus on the thick steel cable held taught by the hanging hook.

“This is stupid. This is stupid. This is stupid!” muttered Pound Cake. And yet, he ran, and he jumped.

Hooves outstretched, every second of wingless flight was a millennium. Just as it seemed that he wouldn’t reach, and gravity seized Pound Cake’s body in a cruel arch, his hooves grabbed onto the cable and swung forward with a nauseating twist. He gritted his teeth as it felt like his forelegs were being torn right out of their sockets. Beads of cold sweat pouring down his brow, his muscles screamed as he slightly loosened his grip, and slid down the cable. Reaching the bottom of his descent, he kicked his hind hooves backward, and threw himself downward towards the brick-red iron girders. Soon, these would be the foundation of a bank building, or an apartment. But for now, the zig-zagging network of the thin walkways were the perfect obstacle course for Pound Cake.

Weaving his way through the metallic jungle, the warmth of the noon sun toasting his fur, he swung from pole to pole, bouncing and balancing fluidly. With a small humph of effort, he leaped over the fence of the next fire escape and raced upwards. Its coat of orange paint confirmed his approach to the Business District. Nearly there, grunted the brown-eyed stallion, his heart pounding as he rounded the final bend, and emerged onto the rooftop. An orange stencil of a pair of pegasi wings adorned the wall of the rooftop stairwell. And leaning against the same wall was an unimpressed mare of the same color regarding him with an air of disappointment.

“Three minutes late,” she said matter-of-factly.

Pound Cake clicked his tongue in mock frustration. “Oh lay off, Scoots. I had to take a shortcut through the construction yard and everything!”

“Yeah, I saw,” snorted Scootaloo, amused, “Not only are you late, but you even try to show me up! Totally uncool, Pounds.”

“Deal with it. Got the package?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Scootaloo, pulling open the flat, specially designed saddlebag strapped to her back. Carefully pulling a manilla folder from the inside pocket, Pound Cake took it from her with his teeth. After he placed it in his own bag, Scootaloo passed him a slip of paper. It was common practice for runners to not speak out loud about assignment details. Their light-hearted banter was as genuine as it was an attempt to fool any potential taps or listeners. The fuchsia-maned mare gave him a slight nod as she bounced on her hooves.

“Alrighty then! See ya later back at HQ then, Pounds. And don’t be late this time!”

“What, no goodbye hug?” complained Pound Cake sarcastically. With a laugh, Scootaloo took off, scaling a wall and expertly flipping off the edge before vanishing into the white concrete jungle of Canterlot.

“Show-off...” muttered Pound Cake, unfolding the slip of paper. However, Scootaloo was his superior, he thought, both in skill and experience. After all, it was partially thanks to her that he was here rather than down there in the streets. Forcing the thought out of his mind, he looked down at the neat script.

“Red District, top of the Blue Blood Inc. building. Cash for the package.”

Crumpling the slip of paper in his hooves, Pound Cake swore under his breath. Red District, or the Government District, was not only one of the far riskier areas of Canterlot to go to, but also quite out of the way from where he was currently. It looked like it was going to be a long day, he thought dismally. Tossing the piece of paper into his mouth and swallowing it, he also cursed Rainbow Dash’s strict customer privacy policy.

Getting a running start, Pound Cake took off, soaring across rooftops; his hooves were light and quick as he wove obstacles into a single, fluid path. As the sun continued its slow, creeping descent towards the foggy horizon, the runner stallion’s ears perked as a rare sound arose in the silence of the skyline. A chirping sparrow, its nest comfortable in the crook of a satellite dish, ruffled its feathers and flapped its wings, taking to the air as it scolded Pound Cake for interrupting its rest. Refusing to stop, he tried to pay no attention to the bird as he leaped over a water cooler. But the sparrow’s song made his wings ache once more as they did when in the air.

Pound Cake was too young to remember when the provisional government enacted the Civil Protection and Assurance Act. Along with the ability to control the flow of information, enforce strict regulations on movements in and out of Canterlot, and the permission to detain suspicious individuals without any trial, the CPAA created a new policy: the Flight Retainment Regiment. It was a law enforced not by police forces, nor cameras, nor spies. It was enforced by the air itself, corrupted by an invisible magic force. Nopony knew where it came from, nor how it was powered. All they knew was that nothing larger than a hawk could fly through Canterlot without the most dire consequences. Pound Cake had heard rumors of pegasi that had challenged the field, rumors whispered in dark corners with hushed tongues and furtive glances.

The pegasi had suffered the brunt of the brutality as the unicorns took control of the government and police force. Their persistent outbursts and riots against their rulers had labeled them as revolutionaries and spies. Equestria was not a home for winged ponies.

The unsettling thoughts stirred memories that threatened to throw Pound Cake’s focus. He forced them out of his mind, and pressed onwards.

***

It was nearing nightfall when Pound Cake finally reached his destination. Panting hard, he finally heaved himself over the edge of the bank building, his hooves weary from from climbing the series of pipes. The bank building was obnoxiously well monitored, meaning that he had to take a far more contrived route than he would have hoped. Frustrated, he rolled onto his back. As the rising and falling of his chest became smooth and even, he propped himself upright, shaking off his exhaustion. Eyes sweeping the rooftop, he spotted his target. A robust black briefcase lay ominously on the cold concrete, waiting for him. Opening it, his eyes glimmered as he gasped in amazement.

It had been a long time since he’d seen this many bits for a single job. A slow grin spread across his face, and he unzipped his bag. Quickly making the exchange, he placed the manilla folder into the briefcase and swapped it for the heaps of bills. Since metal was now in short demand, paper bits were now more popular, and because of that much easier to carry. Satisfied, Pound Cake put his hoof to his earpiece.

“You there, Derpy?” he asked, and waited. There was a brief crackle of static, and the klutzy mare answered.

“Uh...yeah I’m here! Scoots just got back a second ago, she’s taking a breather. What’s up, Poundy?”

“I’ve dropped the package, and got the payment too. Could you get my coordinates and tell me the fastest way back home?”

“Gotcha, just give me a second!” she confirmed, and the sound of typing could faintly be heard. Tapping a hoof patiently, Pound Cake shifted the load on his back and stretched his wings.

“Say, Derpy, where’s Rainbow Dash? She’s gonna be pumped about this new haul!”

“Um...” started Derpy uncomfortably, “I think she’s asleep. Maybe. I haven’t checked, but I could go if you want...”

Reality crushed Pound Cake’s victorious high. The straw colored stallion sighed, a heavy weight tugging his flying heart back down. “She’s passed out drunk again, isn’t she?”

Derpy was silent for a moment, then spoke.

“Poundy, you know that--” she was cut off by a beep in the background, presumably by her computer equipment. “Oh, lookie there! There’s a water purification plant about half a mile north of your position, and it hooks up with our tunnel!”

“Derpy...”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you...ksshh...break...kssh...interfe...”

“I know you can hear me perfe--”

Derpy ended the call. Switching off his headset, Pound Cake shook his head with disappointment. Fueled by a twinge of anger, he leapt from the roof of the bank building, landing painlessly onto the next rooftop with a roll. The sunset giving him his sense of direction, it wasn’t long before he came to a wide, circular concrete pit nestled between the shadows of the tall buildings. Sliding his way down a drainage pipe, he trotted around the hole, eventually finding a ladder leading downwards to the network of large, empty tunnels. Their cavernous walls, stained with the black mark of running water, echoed with the sounds of distant water droplets returning to their pools.

Looking over his shoulder, Pound Cake made sure he wasn’t being followed, and, satisfied, was swallowed by the blackness of the sewers. He made his way along the sides of the passage, his hooves splashing into the cold, stagnant water. The smell no longer made Pound Cake gag each time it greeted his snout, simply from having been around it for so long. Dying fluorescent bulbs encased in thin metal wire cages provided a dim glow by which the runner pony could see. As the monotone scenery started to become more and more familiar with a good half-hour of trotting, eventually he found what he was looking for.

A lone door, embedded into the smooth walls of the pipe, was lit by a single, flickering bulb that swung lazily in the stale breeze. Its base warped by water and mildew, it was emblazoned with a decomposing sign that warned in large letters “Toxic Hazard: Nopony Allowed”. Pound Cake ignored it and entered. Shutting it behind him, he climbed up the rusty red ladder, cramped for space by the wire fencing surrounding pipes fiercely hot with steam and water. He reached the top, pushing aside a thin steel-plate hatch, and hoisted himself into the room.

“Oh, hi, Poundy!” said Derpy contentedly through a mouth full of crumbs. It was good to be home.

The base of operations for the Rainbow Runners, while seemingly stark, was actually very comfortable by runner standards. Nestled deep below the concrete, and shielded from the sunlight, it was nevertheless kept cozy by the rattling pipelines that radiated a warmth which kept the cold darkness of the sewers at bay. Poorly lit, the room was only illuminated by the blue glow of the wall-eyed pegasi’s computer screens. All the essentials were there, though: maps, spare clothes, food, and comfortable beds.

Pound Cake let his saddlebag slip off his back, and sighed in relief as he reclined into one of the sagging cushions that were haphazardly tossed about the room. The gray pegasus swiveled in her chair, away from her monitors, to face him.

“Fo ha deh eh go?” she said, her voice muffled as she chewed her favorite pastry.

“Come again?”

“Forry.” Derpy swallowed and cleared her throat. “Sorry. How did it go?”

“See for yourself,” answered Pound Cake confidently, tossing her the saddlebag. The mare missed the catch, and bent over awkwardly to pick it up. As she opened it to peer inside, her crossed eyes widened and sparkled in wonder.

“Oh...that’s a lot of muffin money!” she whispered in awe.

“What’s that now?” asked a voice. Scootaloo trotted in casually, twirling a hoof glove, with a curious look on her face. Derpy Hooves nodded excitedly, pointing inside the bag.

“Poundy hit the jackpot!” she cheered, “We got tons of bits from that last run. A few more like these and we’re set for life!” Scootaloo bumped Pound Cake on the shoulder amiably.

“I knew you’d be useful one day!” teased the orange mare, “Wait until Rainbow hears about this!” Then she stopped, and her bemused grin weakened into a thin, uncomfortable line. “So...who wants to tell her?”

Nopony volunteered. Derpy looked downwards at her hooves, brushing her blonde mane out of her crossed eyes. Scootaloo shifted her weight from hoof to hoof. Finally, Pound Cake sighed and pushed himself upright.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Neither of them stopped him as he pushed aside a curtain that led to a dark room.

His snout wrinkled as he entered. The bedroom reeked with the bitter tang of alcohol, and hadn’t been cleaned in far too long. Bottles, clothes, and grimy fabrics littered the floor, and pieces of crushed glass made every step hazardous. Nothing was organized nor clean, and the only movement was the slight rising and falling in the corner of the room. The soft sound of Rainbow Dash’s breathing as she slept under a pile of ratty covers softened Pound Cake’s frustration. But only slightly.

Rainbow Dash hadn’t always been this way. She had had her on and off moments in the past, sure, but only recently had she gotten so attached to the bottle. It made her irritable, moody, and melancholic. And yet, watching her sleep, it could almost be forgiven. His hoof suddenly crunched on something, and he swore silently as he looked down to find that it wasn’t a bottle. It was a framed photograph, the one that Rainbow Dash always seemed to come to in her drunken rage or depression. Scooping up the face-down portrait, he found that most of the glass had already been cracked and fallen out. Gingerly smoothing the worn photograph within, his gaze flickered between the six mares. They sat together, posing for the picture with wide grins. He didn’t recognize four of them, and one of them was crudely scratched out of the image, but the last was clearly Rainbow Dash. He smiled slightly. Her mane and tail were far more vibrant back then.

As if somehow hearing this comment, there was a shuffle in the darkness, followed by yawn. Rainbow Dash groaned as she struggled to push away the covers. Her once rainbow mane was frayed and graying, the radiant colors now dull and unsaturated. The wide, eager eyes of the past were now sullen and creased with age.

“Mmm...whozat?” she slurred, slowly rising from her slumber.

“It’s me. Pound Cake,” said the stallion quietly, placing the portrait upright on a shelf.

The mare groaned, stretching her disheveled wings. Cringing as a shot of pain went through her skull, she rubbed her forehead. “Oh, sweet Celestia, my head feels like it got run over by a herd of buffalo...What time is it?”

“It’s eight in the evening, Dash.”

“Wow, eight already?” she mumbled, dragging a hoof down her face, “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been on an assignment,” answered the runner, nudging a bottle across the floor with his leg, “You know. The one you gave me this morning?”

“Um...right, right, I remember that. How did it go?”

Pound Cake tried to force a smile. “Great, actually. We made a lot of bits on this one, Dash. More than usual.”

Rainbow Dash mumbled something incoherent, rubbing her bleary, glossed-over eyes. She finally looked up at him, and cleared her throat before saying with disinterest: “That’s good.”

“Yeah...it’s good,” said Pound Cake quietly, looking down at his hooves in dismay. “It’s very good.”

The silence of the room was heavier than the stifling, cloying odor of alcohol. The two ponies waited uncomfortably for the other to speak. Rainbow Dash scratched her mane. “So...a lot of bits?”

“Yeah. At least ten thousand, I think.”

The weary mare whistled slightly. “That’s gonna do a lot of good around here. Get some leaks patched up. It can get a bit nippy in here.”

Pound Cake scratched at the floor. It was rare to get so much out of Rainbow Dash, even when she was sober. Nowadays, even that was rare in itself.

“So how’s the leg?”

The mare sniffed and pulled her leg out from under the mattress. Stroking it with her forehooves, she grimaced as she passed over the the joint, where the pale blue fur had grown sparsely to cover the old wound.

“It’s been better. Aches in the morning, but otherwise it isn’t too bad...How’s Scootaloo and Derpy?”

“They’re in the other room. Scoots did a great job on assignment, like always.”

Rainbow Dash nodded absentmindedly as she stretched her wounded hind leg out before her. “Yeah. She’s a good girl. Runs fast. Really fast.” Her bleary eyes remained focused on her knee. “Aches in the morning... The migraine doesn’t help either. Pound Cake? Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” said Pound Cake with a slight nod. Rainbow Dash waved her hoof dismissively towards a corner of the room.

“I think there’s some unopened bottles behind those empty ones,” she mumbled, rubbing her snout, “Could you bring me one...?”

The stallion didn’t say anything as he felt a weight come grinding downwards in his chest. Wordlessly, he complied, gently depositing the bottle before her. He turned his back on her, and walked out of the room, his head low to the ground as Rainbow Dash coughed and popped open the bottle. He stopped before Derpy and Scootaloo, neither of whom said a word as he stared at his hooves numbly.

“Pound Cake…” started Scootaloo before her voice faltered. The words needed would never come to her. She cast a look to Derpy Hooves, who was absentmindedly bending a photograph she always kept tacked to her monitor. Pound Cake remembered that photograph. He had asked her long ago who the purple mare was.

“That’s my Dinky. She’s waiting for me. One day, I’m gonna see her again. I’m gonna see my little filly.”

Pound Cake was silent.

“We all have our reasons for being here,” Scootaloo said finally.

Sullen, he trotted to his room, leaving the two mares alone. They exchanged glances, sighing as Pound Cake plopped into his bed, and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

***

Pound Cake reclined and let the breeze chill the sweat on his fur. It had been a long day. Having one prolific assignment didn’t mean that he could take a break, and he and Scootaloo had just returned from finishing two separate assignments. Massaging one of his hind hooves, he let the other dangle off the edge of the building, precariously positioned over the chasm that led to the city streets. Silent, he enjoyed the refreshing air, his ears twitching slightly. He opened his eyes as Scootaloo sighed heavily, lying down on the concrete roof and staring at the drifting clouds. Pound Cake looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“So what’s up?” he asked casually.

“The sky,” she responded with equal nonchalance. Pound Cake chuckled slightly, and Scootaloo couldn’t help but smile herself. “I don’t know really. Just thinking. Gotta get my wall jump a little more precise than it is. I keep losing momentum after about two of ‘em.”

“It’s all in how you place your first hoof,” said Pound Cake, remembering his own experience, “You need to get that contact right, or your balance and speed gets completely thrown off.”

Scootaloo nodded at the sound advice, but kept her wide, violet eyes concentrated on the ethereally blue sky. After a long, drawn out silence, she spoke again.

“Wouldn’t it be something? You know, to be up there?” she wondered out loud. Pound Cake gave her a sidelong glance.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. To be up there, in the sky, where we’re meant to be. Flying alongside the clouds.”

Pound Cake frowned slightly, scratching the concrete with his hoof. “I don’t think about it,” he lied, “Some things aren’t meant to be, and wishing for ‘em won’t do us any good.”

“You don’t think about it?” said Scootaloo suddenly, rolling upright to look at him, “How can you not think about it? It’s in our blood, we’re meant to fly!”

“How would you know? Have you ever done it, before the field went up?”

Scootaloo blushed furiously, and she stammered: “Well...no, not exactly. But I saw Rainbow Dash flying before, and all the pegasi too, before all this insanity started. You were too young to remember, is all.” She stood up, her mane rustling slightly in the wind. “And besides, if you didn’t want to fly, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Running has nothing to do with flying,” protested Pound Cake.

“It has everything to do with flying. Whether you’re on the ground or in the air, it comes down to the same thing. It’s about--”

Freedom. The word completed itself in Pound Cake’s mind before Scootaloo finished it. She sighed again and shook her head. “Anyways, you think whatever you want. But keep in mind where you would be right now if it weren’t for running. If it weren’t for Rainbow Dash. I’m going back to headquarters; I’m starving.” With that, she backpedaled and took off, twisting through the air as her wings shimmered in the sunlight. Pound Cake watched her go, lost in thought. Pushing himself to sit on his haunches, he put his head in his hooves, looking across Canterlot’s glistening white rooftops, and the alleys that intersected them in grid-like patterns.

***

Pound Cake wiped the salty tears from his eyes as he sat against the dumpster. The sobs refused to come anymore, and his stomach ached from the crying. Sniveling and alone, the colt hid himself from the passersby that crossed the mouth of the alleyway, fearing that one of them might be more of his classmates.

“Dirty pegasi!”

“The war’s all your fault! My daddy’s fighting gryphons because of you!”

“Spy, traitor! No one wants you here!”

He pressed his hooves against his ears and whimpered, as if it could blot out the jeers and hateful glares that were trapped in the recesses of his mind. None of it was true, he told himself...was it? His daddy was off in the war, too. He’d been drafted and forced to leave him alone with sister and mother at the cake store on the corner. He missed daddy so, so much...and mommy too. But mommy was off at the big white hospital, because she was sick and she was “unfit to care for two young foals needing proper care and attention”. And that left him alone with sister.

Sniffling, he frowned, burying his head in his hooves. But what did she know? She wasn’t a pegasus; she didn’t understand what it was like. Nopony could understand. The pegasus sat silently in his corner, alone. Shivering slightly, he scrubbed away the tears on his cheek. That’s when an angel spoke to him from above.

“You alright, Pound Cake?” it said. Gasping, the colt leaped upright, his brown eyes flitting across the alleyway, and finally turning upwards. Amare with her pale mane loosely falling on her sky-blue fur was watching him, a kindly twinkle in her eyes. Reclining against the stairs of a fire escape, she was a good 10 feet above the ground.

“Who...who are you? And how did you--” stammered Pound Cake.

The mare’s eyes folded into a smile as she laughed, “How did I get up here?That’s my little secret. As for who I am...I don’t know if I should tell you that just yet. But what about you?” She punctuated this last sentence with a cock of her head.

“Why...why should I tell you anything...?” retorted Pound Cake with what little defiance he could muster, cautiously inching toward the street. In answer, the mare shifted her position slightly. The straw colored colt stopped dead in his tracks as the stranger unfolded her two broad wings. Fine and strong, they taperedelegantly.

“Does that answer your question?” she asked whimsically.

Jaw agape and eyes wide, the colt crept toward her in awe. The kindly mare folded her wings again, and in a fluid motion, swung off the fire escape, landing on the ground gracefully. One of her legs folded more heavily and moved more awkwardly as she stepped around him. “I’m more like you than you think, Pound Cake. I know what life is for you, the hell this city can put you through.”

“How...how do you know my name?”

“I knew your parents. Long ago, back when they still lived in a place called Ponyville. Before it was turned into a giant lumber mill, that is. You were just a little foal back then...”

Pound Cake felt a little uncomfortable asking so many questions, and yet every time another one came to mind.“But who are you?”

She smiled at him with an air of confidence. “Rainbow Dash, the greatest flyer in all of Equestria. Well...I was,” she added a little regretfully. Shaking off the thought, she patted the awed colt on the head with her wing. “And let me tell you something. Things are difficult, now more than ever. Despite everything, there’s one thing you can’t let them do, Pound Cake.”

She knelt down, looking at him with her wide, rose-colored eyes that seemed untouched by the weathering force that had dulled her mane and faded her fur.

“Don’t you let them beat you. Don’t you dare. If you believe what they say, if you believe the insults and the hurtful words, if you believe their lies and their force, they’ll win, and you’ll lose. Don’t let them do that, or they’ll break you.”

Pound Cake watched her as she hopped onto the dumpster, and leaped onto fire escape from whence she came. Just as she was about to climb upwards, Pound Cake cried out:

“Take me with you!”

The rainbow mare stopped, and turned. Her eyes were sad and forlorn. “I...I can’t do that, Pound Cake. You have a family that needs you, and I can’t take you away from them.”

“I’ve never had a family that needed me! I’ve never had anypony that needed me and I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be beaten, and I don’t want to lose!” The colt’s eyes welled with tears once more, and he blinked them away. “I want to fly! I want to fly and leave this place behind, but I can’t!”

He breathed shakily, looking up at her. “You have to know what it’s like,” he implored, “don’t you?”

“To want to forget, and leave it all behind?”

***

There was a sudden vibration in Pound Cake’s bag. Snapping him out of his trance, he looked at it in confusion as it vibrated again. The majority of all cellular devices, an innovation brought about by Lulamoon Technologies, were bugged and tracked by the government. Phones that were tampered with were highly illegal, and their use carried massive consequences. Because of this, they were not only insanely expensive, but also very dangerous to carry. Pound Cake only used his for emergencies, and nopony, not even Scoots, knew that he had one. Only one other pony had the number to call it.

The phone vibrated again. Pound Cake picked it up, pressed the button, and put it to his ear.

“Pumpkin, why in Equestria are you calling me?” snapped Pound Cake.

On the other end of the line, his sister sighed with relief. “Oh, thank Celestia you picked up. I was so scared that you didn’t have your phone anymore.”

“Cut to the chase, Pumpkin. This call is risky, I thought you knew that.”

“I do know that. You know I wouldn’t try to talk to you this way unless it was an emergency.”

Something in the mare’s voice sent a shiver down Pound Cake’s spine. “And?” he asked. His sister was silent for a moment, breathing rapidly. Finally she spoke again, failing to suppress a nervous tremor in her voice.

“Pound…I…I’m in a lot of trouble right now. I need your help. Please, just…get over here. I need you with me, I just don’t know what to do…!”

“Calm down, calm down!” reassured Pound Cake, his eyes flitting around the rooftops to plan a quick route forward. “Where are you?”

“Red District. Capitol Building. Top floor.”

Pound Cake nearly dropped his phone. Stunned, he tried to quickly gather his thoughts before picking up the phone again.

“Don’t move an inch. I’m on my way.” He slid the device into his bag, and swallowed nervously despite himself.

The Capitol Building. Out of all the places Pumpkin Cake had to get into to trouble in, it had to be the office of Governor Fancypants, the de facto ruler of Equestria in the absence of the princesses. As he leaped into the air, the ache of panic was heavy in his chest.

What had she gotten herself into?

***

Pound Cake prodded the sewer door with his hoof, putting his weight into it. As expected, it hadn’t been reinforced after previous break-ins using the same route, and it gave after some convincing from his shoulder. Looking around, he discreetly closed the door behind him. The Capitol Building was well fortified, sure, but it was still fairly easy to get in when you had the correct sources; mainly, the say-so from the ponies that worked there. Pound Cake, among other runners, had done more than his share of transporting political secrets, blackmail, or letters from extramarital relations for the “illustrious” politicians of Canterlot. Guards were sometimes instructed to look the other way, but they wouldn’t hesitate to arrest a few runners just to keep up their quotas. And so the runners preferred taking alternate routes through the building.

A short trot found Pound Cake standing before a wide, rectangular hole in the white concrete wall. This service elevator had been out of commission for years, and the main cable provided an easy way to ascend the thirty-two stories of the Capitol Building. That is, if one had the endurance for it.

Exhaling deeply, the runner stallion sized up the climb, gauging the distance and the thickness of the cable. He spat into his hooves and rubbed them together, his eyes tightening in focus as he wrapped them around the interwoven steel threads. With a grunt, he placed one foreleg over the other, and began to climb. Swinging dizzyingly, he bit his tongue as sweat broke out on his brow. The strenuous climb was already putting a sharp pain into his shoulder muscles, and they began shivering from effort.

He looked behind him, ensuring his hooves stayed latched onto the cable, and panted. Only twelve stories? Groaning, he returned his attention to the climb. The pressure made every second last five as he hauled himself upwards. This whole thing had better be worth it, he told himself, trying to make light of the situation.

Finally, he had reached as high as he could possibly go. Muscles numb and aching, he contemplated his next step with a downward glance. The sheer drop stared back at him, seeming to silently beg for his hooves to slip or his grip to weaken. He ignored it, and latched his focus on the closed elevator doors ahead of him, a number thirty-two stenciled onto the concrete wall beside it, and the thin ledge below it. Exhaling slowly, Pound Cake called up what little of his strength he had left, and he kicked his hind legs forward, propelling himself into the air.

And he missed his jump.

For a single, horrifying moment, Pound Cake felt himself falling, the depths swallowing him up, and he lashed out with a hoof. By some miracle, it found the ledge, and held. Panting, he grabbed the small hoof hold with his second hoof, and hoisted himself up. Every cell demanding his surrender, he finally hauled himself upright and collapsed against the door. Letting the sweat cool, and the tremors subside, he slowed his heart and pried the old doors open.

Stumbling forward into another plain white service hallway, he swept his gaze across it, trying to figure out where in Equestria he was going. Scratching his chin, he quietly stepped through the hallway. In retrospect, it would probably have been smarter to figure out where exactly on the top floor his sister was awaiting him. But unfortunately, he had a sneaking suspicion as to where that was.

“It was unbelievable, I’m telling you,” came a sudden voice, echoing off the plain walls. Pound Cake’s ears perked nervously, swiveling about as another voice joined it.

“You’re kidding me. She said that right to your face?”

Panicked, the runner’s mind raced. Aside from a mop and a bucket, the hallway was completely empty. There were no vents, no boxes, and no way to escape back into the elevator shaft without the screeching doors giving him away. Pound Cake swallowed hard as two shadows spread themselves around the corner.

***

“Yeah, right to my friggin face. Can you believe it?” complained the earth pony stallion, waving a hoof in emphasis, “I bust my chops all day long in this place, and she tells me off for asking for one measly daffodil sandwich.”

His comrade shook his head in disappointment as he stopped and reclined against the wall. “I dunno. Maybe she’s got something on her mind? I mean, with the recent pregnancy and all, she’s probably pretty wound up.”

“Yeah…I s’ppose so,” admitted the other, sniffing, “I mean, I do my best to take care of the family, ya know? I have to take it on myself to feed a colt and filly, not to mention her. Couldn’t she cut me just a little slack?”

“Well listen. Here’s what you need to do.” The second guard stood up and twirled his baton absentmindedly. “You need to sit down and talk with her. Maybe she feels unappreciated. Mares tend to be like that, and all she does is sit at home with two kids. Just…I dunno, remind her that you love her or something.”

This advice earned the guard a cynical glance. “That’s got to be the…”

Before he could say more, he suddenly straightened to a small sound. Whipping his head around behind him, he found nothing but an empty hallway. His friend looked at him questioningly.

“What’s biting you now?”

“I coulda sworn I heard something…didn’t you?” said the guard warily, placing a hoof on his baton. His friend patted him on the shoulder and chuckled.

“You’re hearing things,” he reassured, “Now come on. Let’s get out of here. A few more rounds and we’re shifting off. Tell you what: we’ll stop by O’Mule’s, and get some ciders. They’re on me!” With that, they walked along, albeit to the suspicious guard’s reluctance. Together, they disappeared around the corner, leaving the lonely white halls empty once more.

Had they stayed for a moment longer, they would have heard the sound again as a heavy drop of sweat rolled off of Pound Cake’s chin and splattered against the hard floor. Spread eagled, he listened the their hoof steps as they left him where he was, several feet above the floor, pressing all four hooves against the narrow walls to keep himself up. Not daring to move until he was certain they had gone, he released the pressure and dropped to the floor as quietly as he could. Breathing softly, he waited for a moment. Reassured by the silence, he warily slunk off through the halls.

***

It should have been to no surprise that the top floor suite would be on a different level than the barren maintenance hallways, but Pound Cake still found himself overwhelmed by the luxury of the penthouse as he slipped inside through a ventilation shaft. Fancypants’ apartment was sleek and designed in the ultramodern style of the latest and greatest architects. Smooth, glossy white marble adorned the floors in geometric tiles, reflecting the rays of sunlight pouring through wide windows. Thin glass sheets intersected the room to create an illusion of greater space. Plush leather furnishings with minimalistic metal legs were organized around a glass and metal table. Along one smooth wall were a several tasteful abstract paintings lit by embedded fluorescent lights.

Pound Cake used this wall to his advantage, running and getting two hooves up on it in order to grab the black steel banister of the overlooking walkway that was connected by a spiral staircase. Trying to get his bearings, he strained his ears for the slightest sound. Finally, he heard something, like a panicked breathing, from behind a black wooden door at the end of the walkway. Pushing it open, he found himself inside Fancypants’ office. The same wide windows overlooked the sprawling cityscape, illuminating a large glass and steel desk covered in papers, quills…and blood.

The runner stallion drew a sharp breath. Fancypants, the Governor of the state of Equestria, was lying face down, dead on his desk with a blade sticking from the his back. And sitting in the same room was his sister, the unicorn Pumpkin Cake, tapping a hoof anxiously. Dressed in a loose fitting white vest, a navy armband indicated her as a member of the Canterlot Civil Defense. It had been a long time since he had seen her: not since he had watched her graduation ceremony from the Academy safely atop a distant rooftop.

Her sapphire-colored eyes rose to meet his, and her shivering ceased when she saw it was him. Scrambling to her hooves, she threw her arms around her brother and held him tightly. Pound Cake returned the embrace numbly, his eyes locked on the dead pony and his expression, frozen in mild surprise. A trembling whisper escaped the terrified mare’s lips.

“Thank the goddess you’re here. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Pound Cake spoke, finding his throat to be suddenly quite dry. “Sweet Celestia, Pumpkin….what happened? What in Equestria happened? What are you doing here!?”

The pale yellow unicorn didn’t respond for a while as she breathed rapidly, tears rolling onto Pound Cake’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I found him like this…oh my Celestia, what am I going to do…?”

Pound Cake took his sister by the shoulders and pulled her away, leveling his eyes with hers. His heart was racing furiously, but he forced himself to ignore it. “Sis, calm down. Breathe, and tell me what happened?” He gave her a forced smile. “We’re going to figure this thing out, alright?”

The mare nodded, and gradually composed herself. Her voice still quivered slightly as she explained. “I…I was pulled from the bureau about a week or so ago for a special assignment: one of the bodyguards for the Governor. I’ve been supervising him, keeping an eye out, doing patrols, the works…And sometime around noon, I think, I was sitting outside his office…and I don’t know what happened. I felt something hit my head, and it knocked me out.” She swallowed hard, blinking so as to force away any tears that might return. “When I woke up my…my knife was missing.” She gulped again, and her breath quickened. With a trembling hoof, she pointed to the blade in Fancypants’ back. “And then I found it.”

There are few words to be used in such a situation. However, Pound Cake found himself able to compress it down to one.

“Shit.” Struggling to think of what to do, he paced around the desk, giving a wide berth to the immobile body. “Who knows about this?” he finally asked.

“Only you. I called almost the minute I found the body.” Silent as she nervously sat down and rubbed the handle of the pistol loosely hung on her belt, she asked the obvious question. “So what do we do?”

The runner pony tried to think, his eyes uncomfortably coming to rest on the weapon she was carrying. Perhaps the most infamous invention of Lulamoon Technologies was the firearm. Designed to only be operated by trained unicorns, the weapons had taken the lives and careers of many good runners. He forced himself to look away from the glinting barrel, and rubbed his temples in thought.

“I don’t know, Pumpkin, I don’t know. This whole thing tastes sour. How the hell could somepony manage to kill the friggin Governor?” he muttered anxiously. “You didn’t see anything at all, did you? Or hear a voice?” Pumpkin Cake shook her head morosely, eliciting a sweat from the runner. Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to something on the desk. Beneath one of the dead pony’s forehooves was a manilla folder. And Pound Cake recognized it.

“What are you doing?” asked Pumpkin Cake as her brother gingerly pulled the document out from under Fancypants’ hoof.

“I’m not sure,” said Pound Cake thoughtfully. Flipping the file open, he found there to be only one sheet of paper. Covered in obscure diagrams, numbers, and lines, the only thing he could recognize was a symbol at the bottom corner of the page: a crescent moon and a wrench. The logo of Lulamoon Technologies. A sliver of ice slid down Pound Cake’s spine. To the surprise of his sister, he quickly opened up his bag and slipped the file inside.

“What are you doing?” whispered Pumpkin Cake.

“Acting on a suspicion. This isn’t just a murder, this was an assassination.”

“And the killer left me alive to take the blame. I’d already figured out that much, thanks. But why in Equestria are you taking that with you?”

Pound Cake hesitated. He didn’t want to tell her anything about his running. She already knew what he did, but he’d never given her any specifics, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. Sister or not, she was Civil Defense. “You just need to trust me on this.”

“Trust? How the hell can I trust you, Pound? You abandoned our family, you abandoned me!”

“Pumpkin, please, this isn’t the time for--”

“Oh, it’s never the time for this!” snapped the mare, stomping a hoof in aggravation, “Mr. Big Shot ran off to join the dashing and dangerous life of the runner pony, and left his sister all alone to fend for herself! When’s the last time you saw mom, huh? Or even thought about visiting?”

“That wasn’t about any of you!”

“Well for something that wasn’t about us, it sure as hell tore us apart, don’t you think!?” shouted Pumpkin Cake, practically screaming. Panting hard, she glared at him, her sapphire eyes thin with anger. She kicked at the floor again in frustration. “You’re my brother, dammit. You’re practically all I have left, and you’re never there. How the hell am I supposed to feel about that?”

The straw colored stallion failed to find the words to defend himself. Sighing heavily, he trotted over to his sister, and placed an easy hoof on her shoulder. “Please...please just listen to me. I promise I’ll figure a way out of this. I won’t leave you all alone, I swear.”

Pumpkin Cake’s eyes were glistening with repressed tears as her eyes rose to meet his, and he smiled. “If you’ve ever believed me, if you’ve ever had faith in me, do it again now. You need to get out of here. Come with me.”

The wheat-gold mare nodded half-heartedly, and then shook her head. “I can’t come with you...I can’t.” Her eyes watering once more, she looked him in the eyes. “All the evidence points to me. If I run, they’ll only hunt me down and find me anyways. They’ll hurt whoever they have to to get me. What if they go after mom?”

Pound Cake sighed in frustration. “Dammit. Pumpkin, you can’t--”

The two of them jumped to the sudden sound of knocking at the door. A muffled voice came from the other side. “Mr. Fancypants, sir? Are you alright in there? We heard shouting.”

The runner stallion turned to face his sister, giving his sister the most pleading glance he could muster. Her eyes darkened in response, and her horn pulsed with a yellow aura as she levitated the steel-black firearm into the air.

“I swear to Celestia, Pound, if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to put one through your leg. Go.” She hesitated for a moment, then quickly wrapped her arms around him one last time. Making it last for as long as he dared, Pound Cake finally stepped away, his eyes downcast, as if saying “I’m sorry”.

“Sir? Alright, I’m com--”

The guard behind the door didn’t have time to finish as Pound Cake rammed into it with all his frustrated energy, blasting it clean off its hinges and slamming the pony to the floor in an unconscious heap amongst the splinters that rained down on his collapsed body.

Pound Cake bolted as a scream of “Hey, you!” that he had heard a thousand times before rang out. A couple panicked guards galloped behind him, their hooves clattering clumsily on the smooth marble. Sliding down, Pound Cake snagged the bar of the railing on the banister and swung his legs underneath in a fluid underbar.

“Stop! Stop!” cried out another. Stopping at the bar Pound Cake had lunged under, the guards contemplated leaping over themselves, before being intimidated by the sheer height of the fall. Nodding to themselves they scurried around, following him via the stairs. Taking every second of delay to his advantage, Pound Cake hit the ground galloping.

Pound Cake vaulted over a couch. His eyes locked onto the target: the air vent through which he had entered. Another angered outburst from the guards behind him pushed him onwards. Two doors were slammed open by another pair of guards. One, a unicorn, locked eyes with him, and something on his hip glowed the same color as his horn.

Pound Cake was just barely able to duck and avoid the bullet as it burned the air with an explosive crack. His ears ringing with the resonating echo of the fearful explosion, pieces of cracked marble flew across the room, stinging his coat where they struck him. Scrambling frantically, he changed direction.

Clearing the stairs, the two guards that had been pursuing him obstructed his path. Pound Cake’s eyes shot around the room for some sort of escape route, time seeming to slow as adrenalin pounded through his veins, raising his fur and sharpening his breath. The blinding light of the sun refracting through the tall glass windows seemed to sear an idea into his racing brain, and he focused on the two heavyset stallions blocking his way backwards towards his sister. To their surprise, he lunged towards them as they raised their billy clubs in warning.

Runners, as a general rule, avoid confrontation. It’s easier, safer, and far less expensive to run away rather than fight back and risk becoming overpowered and captured. However, this by no stretch of the imagination meant that they couldn’t defend themselves. And with the extensive training under Rainbow Dash’s strict regiment, Pound Cake proved this to the guards. With vicious force and deadly accuracy, the runner stallion’s toned frame stretched and sent an elbow slamming into the neck of the first. His eyes bulged, and with a feeble croak, he keeled over. Letting the momentum of the strike carry him, Pound Cake spun and struck the second guard in the gut, doubling him over. Snagging the dropped club, the straw-colored stallion whipped the weapon upward with as much force he could muster, cracking it under the jaw of the dazed opponent. The impact whipped back the stallion’s head, sending him falling backwards in a shattered heap. Throwing the club behind him in a whistling arc, the armed guard ducked to avoid the projectile, making him miss another shot at the runner.

Using every second to his advantage, he throttled forward, hooves flying across the marble. The flying blades of sunlight cut across his body as he closed his eyes and prayed to whatever deity might possibly be watching out for him.

There was a scream of anger, of surprise, of horror. But it lost itself in the furious crash of shattered glass. Translucent shards twinkled in the sun’s light as they cascaded through the air, following the form of the straw-colored pony as he tumbled forth into empty space.

Their fragments shimmered, and vanished into the blinding whiteness of Canterlot. They evaporated like ghosts, like fleeting spirits, like the runner.