The darkness of the forest appeared a monochrome blue through the bat pony eyes of Spitfire. She glanced at her stopwatch as she stalked noiselessly through the brush. Forty five minutes left; more than adequate time to apprehend her targets before the bat pony potion wore off with a debilitating bang.
Spitfire let loose a short ultrasonic shrill. The sound waves blanketed the way forward with a gentle vibration only her elongated ears could pick up, momentarily revealed what was in front of her. She was now just a quick pounce away from her two unsuspecting prey. Beyond them were two more bat ponies completing the triangular noose stealthily closing in. Or at least that’s the way it was supposed to work. One of the bat pony was lagging behind markedly, making her formation look more like a amateurish right triangle.
“Hey what’re you doing Soarin!” Spitfire screeched in a frequency too high for normal ponies to hear.
“Sorry there’s like a ton of bramble here,” Soarin responded meekly.
Spitfire rolled her slender slitted eyes in exasperation.
“Fleetfoot, hold your position until Soarin sorts himself out,” she commanded the bat pony comprising the other vertex of the formation.
Fleetfoot gave a snicker in the affirmative.
While she waited, Spitfire looked over her quarry one last time. They were two unicorns dressed in pin stripe vests. The blue tint of her night vision made the two almost indistinguishable save for the mustache one of them sported. The two stood atop a most peculiar mode of transportation. It looked like a train that crashed into a science fair.
“Oh what is it now Brother,” one of the unicorn moaned.
The other mustached unicorn was poking his glowing horn into the vehicle’s insides.
“It appears we’ve blown a gasket,” he responded over his shoulder. He gave up inspecting the contraption with a cough as black smoke bellowed out of the machine.
“Well fix it then dear Brother,” said the first unicorn.
“Dammit Brother I’m a salespony not a mechanic,” the mustached one shot back.
“You a salespony? What a laugh,” the first mocked. “From Ponyville to Las Pegasus we haven't closed a single deal.”
“Well maybe if you’d offer folks more than a 30% share we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
“It’s called low-balling. Maybe you’d understand basic sales tactics if you didn’t spend all your time choreographing stupid musical numbers like a fairy.”
“Fairy!” the mustached one waved an indignant hoof. “Those are fighting words sir!”
Spitfire was about to give the order to snuff out their lovers’ quarrel when a rustling noise in her periphery stopped her.
“Everypony hold what you got,” she commanded pressing herself into the ground.
Spitfire fired an ultrasonic screech, illuminating four burly pony figures passing right through her formation. They seemed oblivious to the bat ponies lurking mere meters away.
“Hey we got customers,” the clean shaven unicorn whispered jabbing his brother in the ribs. “Maybe we can dump this junk on em.”
“Evening Gentelcolts,” he said clearing his throat. He lept off the vehicle and tipped his hat to the approaching four ponies. “Why tonight is your lucky night travelers, for your evening trot is about to turn into a gallop into the future.”
“Flim and Flam I presume?” one of the ponies asked.
“Why yes my good stallion!” the mustached unicorn chimed in leaping down beside his brother.
The two unicorns looked at each other knowingly.
“He’s Flim he’s Flam, we’re the world famous Flim Brothers~,” they sang in unison. “Traveling sales pony non-”
A sudden punch to their faces cut them short as they went sprawling to the ground. The four ponies stomped their hooves onto their lungs, pinning them where they fell.
“I believe you got something that doesn’t belong to you boys,” one of the ponies said.
“Why I haven’t the slightest idea what-”
The clean shaven unicorn was cut off again by another punch to the face.
“Dear Celstia,” gasped the mustached brother. “Please have mercy on us! We were going to give it back along with all the profit!”
The four ponies raised their hooves for another strike when they suddenly looked up in Soarin’s direction.
“Little help guys. I’m stuck,” the hapless pegasus screeched.
The shrubs around him rustled like pom poms as he struggled in the bramble. All four ponies turned in his direction, pulling out slender metal tubes from their trench coats. Spitfire immediately recognized them as flintlock pistols.
“Dammit,” Spitfire cursed. “Fleetfoot, attack!”
With that Spitfire sprang out of the shadows, fangs poised at the nearest of the four ponies. She caught him right in the nape. Her sharp bat fangs sank through the soft flesh and pierced the neck bone with a satisfying crunch. Warm blood sprayed straight down her throat. Out of the corner of her eyes Spitfire could see Fleetfoot hit her mark as well.
She swiftly extracted her fangs and pounced on the next. This one saw her coming and raised his foreleg trying to bring his pistol to bear. It was far too late however as Spitfire dove under the pistol and flew at his exposed neck like a typhoon uppercut. She bucked him hard towards the last pony while her fangs were still clasped around his neck, tearing his jugular right out.
The last pony managed to get a shot off but only succeeded in hitted his dead comrade. Spitfire smacked her lips as she lept from behind her meat shield. That flintlock pistol took at least twenty seconds to reload. The utter helplessness of her final victim sent chills down her spine.
Yet as she made her final approach it wasn’t fear that she saw in his eyes. His foreleg remained upright, the pistol still aimed menacingly at her. Could it be?
And then the impossible happened.
A followup shot crackled out of the muzzle. Spitfire tried altering her flight path but beating a bullet from point blank was an impossible feat, and the night only had room for one miracle. The impact shattered her dark purple armor and sent her hurtling back. Spitfire winced as sharp pain shot through her left shoulder. Out of her tearing eyes however she saw Fleetfoot seize the opening. Two shots was all that pony would get off.
“Spitifire!” screamed Soarin belatedly making an entrance.
She sternly shoved him away. “Secure the area!” she barked.
“But you’re bleeding,” Soarin protested.
“I’ll be fine. Not every pegasus is as weak as you,” she spit turning her wounded shoulder away.
Already Fleetfoot was firing off ultrasonic waves in an arc. Spitfire covered down on her sector, ensuring the area had no more hidden surprises.
They found nothing but the four dead ponies and the two brothers who laid by their vehicles unconscious. Probably passed out from fear Spitfire guessed.
She glanced at her stopwatch again.
“Let’s get these guys back to Canterlot,” she ordered the bat ponies. “We’re running out of time.”
The evening breeze wafted the aroma rising from the tea cups, and mixed with the sweet scent of midsummer. It was an ambiance befitting the royal quarters of Canterlot Castle yet it was in sharp contrast to the consternation which wrapped its occupants.
The Captain of the Canterlot Royal Guards took a final sip as if to gather the courage to address the elephant in the room.
“I believe it’s time Twilight learns of...us.”
Silence.
The three alicorns continued to stare down at the table as if its polished marble surface was the most interesting thing in the room.
“It is an inevitability yes...” Princess Luna finally spoke. “However is it not premature?”
“If we found her worthy of being a princess then surely she is ready,” the Captain responded. “Her raw talent for magic is unmatched to put it mildly and I need not remind anypony here that we will need her powers soon.”
“Nopony doubts her ability,” Princess Celestia joined. “However it is a delicate situation and the execution must be absolutely perfect.”
“Indeed,” Luna added. “Though powerful she may be, I am afraid she is still a product of her time. When the moment comes I do not see her capable of doing what must be done.”
The Captain rustled his multi-blue mane and sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Are we to create another trial to lay before her then? We do not have that kind of luxury.”
Princess Cadence put down her tea cup with a subtlety of force enough to silence the room without betraying her regalness. All eyes turned to her.
“As a product of Twilight’s time myself I believe I am most suited to the task at hoof, and I say she is ready.” She chose her next words carefully. “Besides...good ponies gave everything because they believed in her. I want to do the same.”
Celestia looked at her intently, finally giving a nod. “Your voice ought to carry the most weight in this matters shouldn't it? You will hear no objections from me if you think it best.”
Luna appeared to protest but tacitly acquiesced. She reached for the teapot telekinetically in silence.
“We have an accord then,” the Captain said standing up. “I will start making the necessary arrangements.” With a gracious bow he excused himself from the table.
As he reached the door out of the chamber Luna called to the Captain, “I hope you know what you’re doing Starswirl.”
He paused on the threshold, only his rear flank emblazoned with a purple shield cutiemark still visible.
“Yeah...me too,” he muttered.
Only darkness awaited Flim when he finally came to. Perhaps his body didn’t open his eyes even though he commanded it to. Yes, getting punched in the face must’ve messed with his nerves. This time he consciously opened them as wide as his eyelids would stretch.
Still nothing.
The initial grogginess quickly turned to fear. His instinct told him to run far far away yet every time he attempted to move all he heard were the rustling of metal. His limbs were bound to the floor by chain. Fear became abject panic.
“Fla... Flam!” he screamed flailing in his chains. “Where are you Brother!”
A desperate primal cry like that of a wounded animal watching itself being consumed answered back. As Flim turned towards the noise his heart skipped a beat. A blue light hovered over Flam and silhouetted across from him was surely the harbinger of their most macabre demise. Flim expelled a hoarse scream as soon as his voice returned.
“For the love of Celestia don’t eat me!”
With a raised eyebrow Princess Luna pulled away from the hysterical unicorns. “I commend thee on your illusion spell,” she whispered. “What am I exactly?”
Hidden in the dark Princess Cadence couldn’t help a smirk. “You’ll appear as a giant centipede. Your mandibles alone are as big as tennis rackets.”
“Very creative,” Luna complemented turning to the work at hoof.
She pressed a foreleg into the mouth of the mustached one and shoved her rear leg into the other. She craned her neck theatrically as if they were a segmented carapace.
“If you don’t want to become my next meal you will cease your incessant screaming and answer my questions,” Luna hissed. “You were attacked by four ponies. Who were they!” she growled slackening her hold on their mouths.
Flim immediately started spazzing out, begging for the mercy of his Goddess. Luna responded in kind by swiftly wrapping her body around him. She pressed her muzzle against his ear as she started choking him.
“Wait wait don’t eat him!” Flam begged.
Luna cocked her head exaggeratingly. “So?”
“I, I don’t know I swear.”
She opened her jaws wide as if to swallow Flim’s head.
“No stop please!” his brother screamed. Sweat covered his face as if he just stepped out of the shower. “I, I think they were after the Super Cider Squeezy.”
“You expect me to believe common robbers are that well equipped? Surely you can do better.”
Luna slithered her tongue across her victim from muzzle to ear.
“Ok we stole it! There I said it! We stole it!”
“From who!” Luna demanded.
“We swiped it from Orange Enterprises. We used to work in a factory out of Manehatten and well it was a dead end job and...oh Celestia we never wanted any of this to happen! Please, we’ll go to jail just don’t kill us!”
Luna motioned to Cadence with a slitting motion across her neck.
Cadence pushed more mana into the illusion spell that transfixed the two unicorns. If the former spell was like a delicate cobweb, this was as deft as buffeting the mind with a wet rag. The brothers’ eyes rolled back into their skulls, screams snuffed out into affixated gurgles. In moments they had lost consciousness yet again.
Spitfire leaned heavily against the rusted walls as if she were blackout drunk, though perhaps that wasn’t entirely inaccurate. She took another swig from her hip flask and poured the rest of the bourbon onto her wounded shoulder. The sting bought her a moment of clarity to remember where she was going. She slapped herself in the cheeks couple of times and rustled her disheveled mane: her natural orange color still intermingled with the dark navy color of a bat pony. Her bat wings looked like that of a mangy bird’s with random patches of yellow feathers starting to sprout from the bare black skin. One of her pupil still remained slitted and a sharp fang protruded from one corner of her mouth.
Spitfire never got used to coming down from the bat pony potion although she’d be the first to defend it was impressive she was even walking at all. Most ponies simply turned into bumbling fools or past out in a confused daze.
As a bat pony everything is so clear and sharp. Every smell, touch, and noise is so vivid bordering on omniscience. Your muscles feel engorged with blood as if you’re ready to pull a dozen carts of apples, yet they’re supple and nimble as the delicate legs of a water strider. You are truly the master of the night, but when the potion wears off its like going from a speed bike to a tricycle in a matter of seconds. Your brain trips over itself at 120 mph as it goes crashing into the asphalt turning into tomato paste. It’s no wonder most ponies lose all motor function and struggle even to form coherent sentences. Spitfire recalled how Soarin even defecated uncontrollably when he first came off the bat pony potion.
The pleasant memory made her hurl.
Spitfire walked into the laboratory as she wiped the vomit from her mouth. The room was more of a workshop than its official designation would suggest. All manners of shop equipment and tools lay everywhere. Schematics, illegible notes, screws, and power tools all lay intermingled atop the numerous cluttered workbenches. In the organized chaos, there were several unicorn researchers picking apart Spitfire’s recent haul. The strange contraption lay disassembled with its myriad parts meticulously labeled and displayed like an autopsy of a newly discovered species.
The contraption didn't concern her however as much as the device that almost killed her. She stumbled past the layout and pushed past startled onlookers. It’ll be a few more hours before she starting looking more like a pegasus than a hybrid freakshow.
She found the device labeled as a “Repeating Pistol.” It looked similar to flintlock pistols she’d seen before though it’s construction was of alarmingly high quality. Gunpowder weapons cropped up every now and again especially among criminal elements. They were usually cooked up in crude basement workshops by disgruntled (and more often than not insane) researchers exiled from mainstream academia: mad scientists essentially. This pistol however appeared machine built according to exacting factory standards. It felt heftier in the hoof as well. The added weight was in the metal cylinder attached to the breach. Spitfire felt around the weapon until it popped open.
Of course! It was so simple yet utterly ingenious. It was no black magic or trickery. The cylinder had six holes where the bullet and gunpowder were preloaded. All a pony had to do was rotate the cylinder and he was ready to go. One pony, six kills.
“I told you, no field agents allowed in the laboratory,” a nasally voice interrupted her musing.
Spitfire looked up to see the head researcher stomping towards her. In her foggy state of mind, she thought she retorted that field agents had a right to know what they’re up against. From the old stallion’s expression however, it was more likely she told him to go pleasure himself with a broom handle or other such phallic object.
She regretted that as her throbbing headache slightly subsided. With a grumble she picked up a used mug from a nearby workbench. She dumped the content onto the oil stained floor, replacing it with slightly less lukewarm coffee from the pot. It was burnt and flavorless just the way she detested. The caffeine however slightly restored her lucidity.
As a gesture of rapprochement she walked over to the head researcher and the peculiar mode of transportation.
“So, what is this thing Doc?” she asked feigning interest.
The unicorn seemed to have forgotten all about their earlier exchange, caught up once again in the thrill of discovery. He leapt at the opportunity to show off what he’d learned.
“Well I’m quite certain that it’s an agricultural machinery,” he proclaimed. “It has numerous vacuum devices that catch small critters that would otherwise ravage crops and instead pulverizes them into fertilizer.”
“Uhh you sure it doesn't make cider or something?”
“Ha cider! A clever euphemism for dead animal compost,” the researcher scoffed. “But that is unimportant. The real interesting bit is what powers this vehicle.”
He motioned Spitfire to a large chrome rectangle. A mishmash of gears and tubing, it had numerous valves sticking out of the top in a general V shape.
“The actual manufacturing of fertilizer is handled by a simple crystal engine powered by unicorn magic; nothing we haven’t seen before,” explained the researcher. “This engine you see here however is what drives the chassis. In all my years I've seen nothing like it.”
The researcher handed Spitfire a beaker displayed next to the chrome engine. It was filled with what looked like urine except it gave off a potent fume that made her nauseous and almost puke again.
“That liquid is the engine’s power source. Highly flammable I dare say. My wife always did say cigarettes would be the death of me” the unicorn said abashedly.
Spitfire suddenly realized his lab coat was noticeably charred with the left sleeve completely burnt off.
“In any case,” he continued clearing his throat. “This engine appears to use that liquid to create controlled explosions which in turn pump the pistons and drive the gears. It’s a rather dirty and noisy affair but by Celestia is it powerful. I estimate it has the strength of twenty ponies. This energy source will completely galvanize the industrial landscape!”
“Hmm and I suppose as the discoverer I should rightfully be the one to name this liquid,” the researcher said rubbing his chin. “I shall call it, Professor Nicklebottom’s Great–”
“It’s called gasoline,” a voice interrupted.
Realizing who the speaker was, the unicorn bowed reverently as well as the other researchers in the room. Spitfire followed suit.
“Princess Luna,” she addressed with a bow stifled with protocol.
Princess Luna motioned for her subjects to rise with a gracious wave of her hoof.
“Let us not get carried away my dear Professor,” she gently chided. “I trust this engine hasn't been patented?”
The head researcher’s face was beet red with embarrassment.
“Uh no Princess,” the researcher managed meekly rubbing the back of his head. “No such engine has been filed with the Ministry of Intellectual Property. I think it’s safe to say whomever designed this did so in secrecy,”
The Princess nodded pensively. “Well Professor, I’ll leave the rest in your capable hooves. I expect a full report in three days time.”
Princess Luna now turned her attention to Spitfire. She beckoned with her head as if to say follow. Spitfire obliged her sovereign.
“Captain Spitfire, I need you and your team to head to Manehatten immediately,” said the Princess after they walked out of earshot of the researchers. “I need you to scout out the headquarters of Orange Enterprises.”
“Orange Tower?” Spitfire said barely hiding her surprise. “You think that device was made by them?”
“Well admittedly there isn’t much to go on. It appears the other suspects met an untimely demise,” she glared.
“Hey my team was in jeopardy. I would've killed em again in a heartbeat!”
Princess Luna’s countenance turned stern as if suddenly remembering she was above Spitfire both physically and socially.
“I don’t want any fatalities on this one. This is strictly a reconnaissance mission,” she said leaning over her. “Find out what you can about any illegal projects they’re working on and report back: that is all. Is that understood?”
Spitfire looked away, taking a moment to remind herself that the Princess was indeed above her both physically and socially. She grudgingly nodded without making eye contact.
“You have your orders Captain,” The Princess said shoving a dossier into her arms. She turned and briskly walked away.
Spitfire muttered an expletive under her breath. This time she didn't blame it on the bat pony potion.
The bistro was quintessential of Manehatten’s financial district. If one were to take that time, they’d realize it was a chic little place with brick walls and hardwood floor adorned with tasteful minimalist furniture. Of course none of the mattered when it was jammed past the maximum occupancy enough to make the fire marshal blush, then cringe, and finally succumb to a stroke. The bistro was just one of many sardine cans filled with earth ponies in smart business suits, here for their interchangeable coffee and breakfast sandwiches.
A small television droned on over the register as if to assuage the horde as they awaited their order. A rerun of the city’s recent mayoral debate was being aired.
“And let me ask you Mr. Mayor? What is it that we gain from being under the yoke of Canterlot?” charged the younger of the two belligerents. “Manehatten and its surrounding municipality encompasses nearly a third of the entire GDP of Equestria with just a fifth of her population. Yet we shoulder a lion’s share of its tax revenue. It sounds to me like Canterlot needs Manehatten more than Manehatten needs Canterlot.”
“Yes yes but what of Discord or Queen Chrysalis?” said the incumbent pony almost whiningly. He was a dour looking old stallion with grey mane and tired eyes. Despite a nice suit and some mane gel it was clear he wasn't going to win on looks alone.
“Your radical proposal to secede from Canterlot is is pure madness,” the Mayor said waving his hoof feebly. “We need the protection of Alicorn magic to keep us safe from arcane threats. And let us not forget that it is because of the Princesses that we have the very sun and moon under which we are having this very debate. ”
“So then we are being blackmailed?” said the opponent with a confident cock of the head.
“I never...you’re twisting my words Mr. Orange.”
“But they are your own words Mr. Mayor. You feel we are powerless without magic, that somehow we must bow down and defer to these beings. Where is your pride as an earth pony Mr. Mayor?”
Some murmurs of agreement could be heard from the audience.
“It’s quite alright Mr. Mayor, this is exactly the kind of attitude the Earth Pony Liberation Front aims to change,” said Mr. Orange gently brushing back his slicked green combover. “Too long have the unicorn bureaucrats of Canterlot condescended upon the supposed humble earth pony for our lack of magic that this inferiority complex has become self imposed. But I say, the earth pony has magic. In fact our magic is all around us.”
Mr. Orange theatrically spread his forelegs out towards the audience.
“Go to any home in Equestria from the Crystal Empire to Las Pegasus, and you will find that nearly all its content was fabricated in our great city. We tamed an inhospitable marsh into the very heartbeat of Equestria with grand towers that brush the very heavens: a monumental feat of technology and ingenuity. All of that with just these,” he said holding up his hooves.
“Now ladies and gentlecolts, if that is not magic I don’t know what is,” Mr. Orange said with a silky smile. “Blood and sweat: that is the earth pony way.”
The audience burst into cheers and applause.
“Now now hold on a second,” the Mayor stammered. “You stand to save millions from corporate income taxes...I have papers...documents here…” the Mayor impotently fumbled through his notes. With a sigh he looked down at his podium, accepting what his opponent knew before the debate even began.
The mediator tried to silence the audience in vein. Shouts of “Manehatten for the Earth Pony!” drowned the auditorium.
Spitfire took another sip of tolerable coffee as she turned away from the television. She glanced at her watch again to see if she should be enjoying her breakfast or be shoving the croissant down her throat. The prognosis was good.
“What a crack pot,” said the sky blue pegasus sitting across from her. “Seceding from the rest of Equestria? I can’t believe they let sideshows run for office in this city?”
“Cause Cloudsdale’s mayor totally isn’t right,” Spitfire shrugged. “Look Fleetfoot, ponies around here’ve been talking about seceding since I was a little filly. It’s just inflammatory crap politicians spout to get ponies riled up, especially when times are tough.”
“Yeah I guess,” Fleetfoot conceded. “Exit polls have Orange with 15% of the vote,” she said tapping the newspaper on the table.
“Yeah so that’s like what? The stoner college kids and a few hobos,” Spitfire scoffed. “By the way is Soarin preparing our gear for tonight?”
Fleetfoot shrugged casually. Her boss knew from experience that meant a resounding no. Spitfire grumbled an expletive and bit into her croissant like an ursa tearing apart its prey.
“Hey relax Spit, I’m sure he’ll get to it when he wakes up,” Fleetfoot said reassuringly. “I don’t get why you’re so hard on him all the time. Yeah he’s kinda slow I’ll give you that but he tries his best.”
Spitfire abruptly stopped chewing, fixing her cold narrowed eyes at Fleetfoot.
“You don’t get why?” she hissed leaning close to Fleetfoot. “Cause he’s an embarrassment to the Nocturnes, an embarrassment to the Wonderbolts, and a sad excuse of a pegasus.”
Fleetfoot put her head down with a groan, immediately regretting setting off one of Spitfire’s conspiracy rants.
“That Orange got one thing right: Unicorns run everything. You think it’s a coincidence almost all central government officials are unicorns or that except for Cloudsdale, all the Royal Guard captains are unicorn?”
Fleetfoot hesitated, wondered if answering the rhetorical question will hasten extrication from Spitfire’s tirade.
“No!” Spitfire all but growled. “However ponies wanna sugar coat it, at the end of the day everything comes down to raw power and the magic wielding unicorns have it spades. Earth ponies? Ha! They’re totally screwed. Is it any wonder most of em are menial laborers and farmers? At least we got wings but if each pegasus doesn't live up to their full potential we’re gonna be marginalized just like them. We pegasus need to prove ourselves every day, and work twice as hard as the next horned bastard. That’s the cold heart truth. That’s the wonderful happy world your precious Princesses created, and if you don’t want to grovel under their gaudy manes you better shape up!”
“Aye Captain,” Fleetfoot said with a smirk. She sat up rigidly and gave a mocking salute.
Spitfire’s face contorted as she made several attempts at a retort. In the end she gave an exasperated snarl and stormed off.
Fleetfoot picked up the coffee cup Spitfire left behind and opened the lid, trying to confirm what she suspected she smelt on her Captain’s breath. Sure enough the pungent smell of whiskey poured out of the coffee, or perhaps it was more appropriate to say the whisky smelled sort of like coffee.
Fleetfoot let out a deep sigh as she trotted after Spitfire.
Little by little the secrets of Equestria revealed itself to Twilight Sparkle ever since her coronation. Of course this came as no surprise to her; afterall Princess Celestia wouldn’t grant her such title without purpose. Everyday she was learning something new from her fellow Alicorns. Bit by bit every passing day in Canterlot Castle hinted at something greater for her to undertake. And so, her sister in law’s seemingly trivial question threw her completely off guard.
“Do you remember when you got the pony pox, and I used to visit you in the hospital?” Cadence asked.
“Yeah back when you were my foal sister,” Twilight managed to regain her bearing. “You spent hours with me by my bed making sure I was ok.”
The fond memories came back tempered as Twilight tried to read ahead what Cadence was trying to get at. It was all she could manage not tripping over herself as the two walked briskly down the hallways of Canterlot Castle.
Cadence smiled nostalgically as if momentarily reunited with young Twilight in their shared memory.
“You used to tell me all about the books you were reading while you were bed ridden,” she continued as her smile wore off. “There was one book in particular that got you all excited. Do you remember?”
“On the History of Ponykind,” Twilight answered almost immediately. “By the 4th Century unicorn naturalist Comet Trail. He posited that technological advancement of ponykind should follow a roughly exponential curve. Except it doesn’t. Technological advances instead happens in spurts followed by long periods of plateauing, and then suddenly another jump as if somepony or something was controlling the pulse of innovation. Like a garden hose being…”
Twilight caught herself rambling, none of the excitement that so galvanized her young mind lost after all these years. She blushed with embarrassment at losing her royal composure.
Cadence softly giggled as if to reassure her that no formality need exist between them.
“Yes that’s the one,” Cadence said in a more sober tone. “Twilight, what if I told you that Comet Trail was on to something?”
“I, I don’t understand,” Twilight stammered.
“Someone is manipulating the progress of technology Twilight. That someone is us.”
Twilight realized they were now in a corner of the castle she was unfamiliar with. Cadence cast a spell on a section of the wall seemingly indistinguishable from the rest. With a soft hum the wall became translucent, revealing a dark corridor leading further down.
Cadence gently took a bewildered Twilight by the hoof like she used to as her foal sister, and led her through the threshold. Their hoofsteps clanked as they went along, the floor turning from marble of the castle to cold dull metal.
“The Equestria we know is actually the third incarnation,” Cadence said over her shoulder. “Twice before ponykind brought itself to near extinction. The first apocalypse happend nearly two thousand years ago and the second happened eight hundred years ago. In both eras ponies reached a zenith of technological wonder only for it to come crashing down through bitter wars of annihilation.”
“War?” Twilight sounded the words out as if to tell herself she heard correctly.
“Ponies killing ponies Twilight.”
“But, I...the last recorded war...it’s just a myth...a legend...the parable of the Hearth Warming Eve…that was over eight hundred years ago...”
Twilight’s voice trailed off as she made the morbid connection.
“Even though we try to hide it we’re a violent species by nature. We have selfish desires and ambitions. You know it to be true Twilight. Ponies like Trixie isn't the only one you've met who was like that. What about the girls that torment Applebloom and her friends? What about the ponies that bullied you when you were a filly? Ponies didn't grow kinder as they got older Twilight. They simply learned the meaning of pain, and chose to suppress their greed because they didn't want to get hurt themselves. But what if there was a way to take what you want without getting hurt? That’s what technological advances promise. Left unchecked ponies develop ever greater weapons to match their true ambitions, and in the end the result is always the same.”
Feeling Twilight’s rising anxiety Cadence squeezed Twilight’s hoof tighter, reassuring her that her sister was here.
“But it doesn't have to be that way,” Cadence continued. “That’s why Princess Celestia and Princess Luna created the Nocturnes; a secret organization sworn to lead ponykind’s technological advances in a positive direction.”
The metal corridors branched out like an intricate ant colony. Cadence led the way with practiced swiftness down narrow hallways and ladderlike stairwells.
“We’re in the central headquarters of the Nocturnes hidden deep within the mountains behind Canterlot,” she said over her shoulder. “This is where we study technology brought back by our field agents, and measure the progress of ponykind. If they’re harmful we’ll try and suppress it before it get’s out of hoof.”
“Suppress?” Twilight said with a rising tone of disbelief. She sensed the darkness peeping back at her across the euphemism.
Cadence took a deep breath. “Twilight, we’re equals now and I don't want to sugar coat anything. Field agents are authorized to use lethal force if necessary. Usually we’ll try to sabotage their research. Sometimes we’ll resort to intimidation to dissuade key ponies from continuing. Of course if that’s not enough...not to mention some field teams are more zealous than others.”
Twilight drew her hoof back from Cadence's grasp. “Murder? You’re...you’re talking of murdering ponies like...like it’s nothing!” she gasped stumbling back.
Cadence gave a pleading smile, gently walking after her.
“You’re...you’re not Cadence...you can’t be Cadence,” Twilight stammered. “Who are you! Stay back!” she shouted.
Twilight’s horn glowed purple as she instinctively accumulated mana for a spell. But she didn’t know what to cast. Her mind raced in a confused jumble. The only thing keeping her from sheer panic was the one thing in her life that always made sense. Magic overflowed out of her as she poured yet more mana into her horn. Purple light now wrapped her entire body as she braced for an impending attack by what had to be a changling Cadence.
Yet the only thing that reached out to her was the unmistakable soothing magic only the princess of love could produce. A warm light blue aura surrounded Twilight, gently caressing away the haphazard mana which spurted out of Twilight like a frightened porcupine erecting its needles.
Cadence tightly hugged her sister in law’s now calmed and limp body.
“I don’t expect you to agree with our methods. In fact I’m glad you reacted the way you did,” she whispered in her ear. “You and I...we’re both princesses now but we aren’t like Celestia or Luna. We haven’t been alive for millenias nor are we supernatural. We’re just regular old ponies when it comes down to it.”
“It took awhile for me to accept my role in the Nocturnes and I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t truly believe in,” she said gently stroking Twilight’s mane. “All I ask is that you give me the chance to show you what’s really at stake.”
Spitfire tugged at her collar to get an unchoked breath of air but the motion only made her wig shift further forward. On the other hoof Fleetfoot looked comfortable in her disguise as if she were born wearing a business suit. With a grumble Spitfire gave up on comfortable respiration and strode towards the reception desk.
Orange Tower was a monstrosity of a building from the outside, quite handedly dwarfing anything in the Manehatten skyline. One step into the interior and it was easy to see why as the reception area alone had at least a ten story ceiling. The polished stone walls were flat and unbroken by any architectural flare and echoed their footsteps hollowly, giving the impression they were in some old world monolithic mausoleum.
“We need to see Mr. Orange right away,” Spitfire said approaching a receptionist.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow from behind her horn rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Orange? As in the Mosely Orange?” the receptionist responded incredulously. “The founder of Orange Enterprises and the proprietor of this very building?”
“Yeah you know him?” Spitfire quipped.
The receptionist smirked, some of her coworkers even chuckling.
“Mr. Orange doesn’t have an appointment scheduled for three weeks out. You can’t just barge in here demanding to see the most powerful pony in Equestria. It doesn’t work like that deary.”
“Actually that’s exactly how it’s gonna work,” Spitfire responded nonchalantly.
“Under what authority?” the receptionist scoffed.
“The divine kind,” Spitfire smiled sliding a badge across the desk. The badge featured two golden alicorn profiles with their horns crossed with Ministry of Justice Special Investigation Administration engraved around the crest. “You’re being investigated for possible trade law infringements. Your cooperation will be duly noted.”
The receptionist’s expression quickly soured. Spitfire however didn’t have long to bask in the glory of besting a middle age mare working a dead end job.
“I’m Agent Northwind and this,” Fleetfoot said winking at Spitfire, “is my partner Agent Taco Tuesday.”
The receptionist chuckled, the smug expression returning to her face. She filled out the necessary paperwork and handed the two their guest passes.
“You have a good day now Ms. Taco Tuesday,” she said with a patronizing smile. “And I do hope you enjoy your stay at Orange Tower.”
Spitfire all but ripped the pass from the receptionist as she rushed to the elevator.
“Hey lighten up huh,” Fleetfoot said as she joined her captain. “These last nights have been kinda crazy but you need to relax girl.”
Spitfire slowly turned towards her, one eye rapidly twitching with ire and bloodlust. She looked away again before her urge to redecorate the elevator with Fleetfoot’s insides became too great.
“Or not,” Fleetfoot shrugged rolling her eyes.
She knew Spitfire's glare had no bite when they were undercover. Nevertheless she decided to play it safe for the duration of their ascent.
The elevator ride up certainly gave Spitfire ample time to cool off; a building nearly a hundred stories tall will do that especially when it inevitably stops a myriad times for business ponies to pile in and out. As they continued up floor after floor it was quite clear Orange Enterprises was the mother of all conglomerates. They passed by the cosmetics division, home appliances division, industrial machinery division, pharmaceutical division, real estate division, agriculture division, wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube pony division ...really it was probably easier to count the things they didn’t make.
The two pegasi made one stop at the accounting division, ostensibly to request financial documents for Orange Enterprises’ R&D activities, and to use the restroom. The sheer contempt the office ponies exhibited towards them was palatable. Not only were they being audited, they were being audited by Canterlot bureaucrats afterall. Spitfire was sure Queen Chrysalis dressed in bloody pony skin would’ve received a warmer reception here.
Finally they made it to Mosely Orange’s office on the top floor.
Bright light pierced Spitfire’s eyes as the elevator doors opened. As her sight adjusted she realized it was natural sunlight pouring through a ceiling made entirely of glass. Not only that, the office wasn’t even an office so much as it was a garden. Spitfire looked down at her hoof, amazed she was standing on natural grass.
All manner of flowers and shrubs filled the open space, all neatly trimmed and groomed. Towards the center of the garden was an immaculately rounded tree with ripe oranges hanging from its limbs like so many amber gemstones.
The only thing that reminded her she was still in an office building was a large mahogany desk placed near the base of the tree, yet that too appeared at home in the greenery. Fallen leaves were just at home on the desk as strewn documents and fountain pens. A luxurious leather chair stood unoccupied behind the desk with an expensive looking suit and matching tie neatly draped over its back.
Spitfire and Fleetfoot looked around for the owner of the suit as they walked into the garden. They spotted a lone yellow stallion on the opposite side of the orange tree. He was dressed in slacks with a dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and the sleeves rolled up. Hunched over a rose bush, he meticulously examined each stalk like a doctor delicately holding a broken leg of a filly. After every precise cut with his shears he sniffed the flower as if the scent communicated to him how much to prune. He took one last whiff and sighed deeply, gathering the patience to address the intruders who dare disturb him in his sanctuary.
“Pegasi?” he said momentarily taken aback. “Now this is a surprise. When I heard we were having friends over from the Ministry of Justice I figured they’d be unicorns.”
“What do you got against unicorns?” Fleetfoot responded reflexively.
“Oh I have nothing against them as individuals,” he said brushing his slicked back green mane. “I just find the Canterlot bureaucracy...vexing shall we say.”
He dusted himself off and started towards his desk. Standing fully upright, he was much taller than Spitfire imagined from the television, and despite being well along into his middle age, he was altogether handsome. He knew it too, and a smile that was somewhere between haughty and confident never seemed to leave his face.
Sitting down he waved a hoof at the pegasi as if to say, get on with it.
Undeterred, Spitfire met her host’s swagger headon. She produced photographs from a manila envelope and tossed them onto the desk.
“What do you know about these,” she demanded.
With a raised eyebrow Mr. Orange went through the picture of the repeating pistol and the Super Cider Squeezy. Spitfire stared intently as he looked over the photographs. If he knew anything at all he hid it well behind a pokerface honed for politics.
“We have evidence that these devices were created by your firm,” she pressed. “That metallic tube is a weapon. Under Article 3 Section 38 of the Equestrian Arms Act, only the Royal Guards Armory at Canterlot is allowed to manufacture weapons unless you have a permit issued during a state of emergency, which clearly you don’t have. That wheeled vehicle has a new type of engine which is beyond the prototype stage. At no point during its development did you submit appropriate paperwork with the Ministry of Transportation Safety, making it illegal not to mention dangerous to the general public.”
“Is that the best you can do Agent?” Mr. Orange chuckled as if listening to a little foal explain where babies come from. “Over the years your government has thrown some ridiculous accusations my way from tax evasion to labor law violations but this is the most absurd yet my dear.”
“Besides you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said pulling out a bottle of whisky and a glass from his desk. “I’m no longer involved with day to day operations here.”
“But you’re still the chairpony of the board of directors,” interjected Fleetfoot.
“It’s mainly just a figurehead position,” he shrugged. “It keeps the shareholders calm.”
He poured himself a generous glass and swished the content around admiring its hue. Spitfire’s mouth watered, immediately recognizing it as Johnny Trotters Blue Label. Her heart died a little as Mr. Orange returned the bottle back into his desk without offering a glass.
“I suppose your main focus is the mayoral race now,” Spitfire said regaining her composure.
He took a long sip from the glass, mulling its various accents over before swallowing it. He sat there transfixed by the drink before finally turning back towards Spitfire.
“Is this what this is about,” he scoffed. “Canterlot sends out their lackeys to try and sabotage my chances in the election?”
“Your Earth Pony Liberation Front will lose on its own that I assure you,” Spitfire countered. “I mean a big business tycoon seeking deregulation from central government oversight? Come on Mr. Orange, that’s the stuff of comic book villains.”
Mr. Orange cracked up. Genuine hearty laughter poured out of his lungs that at once incensed Spitfire but also unnerved her.
“The stereotype of being wealthy never ceases to amuse me,” he said wiping the tears from his eyes.
He leaned forward, his voice suddenly taking on a more sober tone.
“Look Miss, I grew up on a small farm outside this city when it was just a rat infested backwater. I built this company from scratch and I earned every bit that I made through grit and hard work, just like everypony in this city does. I just want to see to it that we keep what we sow instead of being indentured to old money unicorns who’ve never lifted a hoof in their lives.”
He took another sip, the whisky seeming to return some of his earlier good-humor.
“You know I have a niece about your age in Ponyville. Real sweet girl and beautiful too. You remind me of her,” he said with a velvety smile. “You both got the same fire in your eyes of dedication, of hard work. There’s also something else though; a certain suppressed bitterness for being overlooked and marginalized despite all that you give.”
“You’re quite young for a full fledged Agent with the Ministry of Justice and I commend you for it, honestly I do,” he said waving his glass at Spitfire. “I know how much blood and tears you had to shed to get to where you are in a unicorn dominated system.”
Spitfire knew she was being sucked in by Mr. Orange’s words yet she couldn’t come up with any retort.
“Now let me ask you a personal question,” he continued constricting her with his silver tongue. “What’s your real name Agent?”
“What do you mean? It says it on the guest pass.”
“No I mean your real name?” he persisted.
Spitfire stood there with a faux confused look trying to hide her utter lack of words.
“You’re clearly wearing a disguise. I know because my company manufactured that particular wig you have on for starters,” he said slyly. “What Agent would have a need for a disguise during a routine investigation?”
“Unless,” Mr. Orange said rubbed his chin theatrically. “you’re not a real Agent at all. I have my pet theories of course but who do you really work for Miss?”
Spitfire felt as if the wind was knocked out of her.
She managed to recover, shoving down her rising emotions behind a defeated grin. Spitfire nodding to herself knowingly, averting her eyes towards the ceiling to collect her thoughts.
“Good luck with the election Mr. Orange,” she finally said.
With that she quickly turned on her heel and trotted off, all the while wishing more of those thugs from last night would pop out. Fighting her way out was much better than leaving with her tail between her legs.
Spitfire and Fleetfoot walked side by side without saying a word. The streets weren’t quite as suffocating now with ponies having already returned to work after their lunch breaks. A cool breeze rushed through the shadowed urban valley of skyscrapers, creating as good a respite one could hope for in Manehatten. The winds however were of little comfort to the two pegasi as they continued along silent and with shoulders hunched.
Spitfire fumbled through her jacket for a cigarette and lit it, taking a listless drag.
“You know those things ruin your lungs right?” Fleetfoot finally spoke.
“And yet I’m still faster than you,” Spitfire smiled back weakly.
“Yeah but that Rainbow Dash will dust you,” Fleetfoot said. “Bet she doesn’t smoke.”
Normally comments about a pegasi’s speed, especially among the Wonderbolts were contentious at best and at worst resulted in a brawl, yet Spitfire simply shrugged it off. She was just glad to hear a friendly voice even if it came from a mouthy subordinate.
She felt some of the pressure from her encounter at Orange Tower easing. Clearly it could’ve gone better but it could’ve easily been so much worse; she could’ve killed somepony for instance. As daunting as Orange proved, she’d still much rather take her chances against him than an angered Luna.
And yet, she knew she was in over her head. She didn't feel anypony shadowing them which perturbed her even more than the contrary. Was Mr. Orange that confident his guests posed no threat? Or perhaps there was no connection between him and last night’s encounter?
Spitfire quickly dismissed the latter notion. Mr. Orange didn't seem the type that did anything without purpose, without a plan. The fact that he didn't dispatch anypony after them must mean he’s holding cards yet unknown. She completely misjudged her opponent and perhaps endangered the lives of those under her command like the pompous captains of the Royal Guards she so despised.
“Hey,” Fleetfoot said putting a hoof on her shoulder.
Spitfire flinched.
“I’m gonna run these financial documents we got to our contact at the auditing firm. Maybe she can dig something up and narrow our search,” Fleetfoot continued with a concerned expression. “Meanwhile why don’t you take it easy huh. Maybe go visit your dad once in awhile.”
Before she could protest Fleetfoot shoved her hoof in Spitfire’s mouth.
“And no buts. Think of it as doing me a favor,” she said pleadingly.
With a wink Fleetfoot drew her briefcase close and flew off.
Spitfire found herself at a loss for words yet again today.
Every time she went back to her hometown Spitfire always regretted not bringing with her at least a company of her best soldiers from the Cloudsdale Royal Airborne Guards in full battle rattle. That’s just the kind of place the Broncs was, or at least that’s how she remembered it. As she touched down in what used to be an abandoned industrial park, she was shocked she wasn't clamouring for her concealed carry switchblade right away.
The urban decay from her past was transformed into a sea of green, as out of place in its serenity as a swan in a hurricane. The winding back alleys were now cleared into jogging paths with lush trees overhead. The burning oil drums where ponies huddled for warmth were now water fountains with foals playing around it blissfully.
She was sure she messed up her bearing and flew miles off course were it not for the familiar sight of homeless ponies hiding away under their newspaper and garbage bag accommodations. Still, they now appeared to be the exception rather than the backdrop.
Towards the entrance of the park Spitfire came across a large bronze bust. She immediately recognized that smug profile. Sure enough, “Broncs Park: Restored with the generous donation of Mosely Orange,” was inscribed on the pedestal.
Spitfire snickered.
Yet as she walked onto the street the surprises continued. She knew all the street names by heart but everything else appeared a surreal bizzaro version of her native borough. Brand new apartment complexes stood where dilapidated project housings used to be, and thriving factories and utility stations lined the streets where gangs used to scowl and peddle poison joke. Even public infrastructures like hospitals, libraries, and community centers; luxuries she discovered only after moving out now dotted the landscape. An overwhelming majority bared the name Orange this or Orange that. Clearly the savior of the Broncs didn't want to go unnoticed.
Spitfire spent the better part of the afternoon in an ambivalent daze exploring the stomping grounds of her youth. To be sure a part of her foalhood was now irrevocably and abruptly dead. Yet at the same time she wasn't entirely sure that chapter in her life was nothing more than an open wound waiting to be closed. Even her initial anger at seeing her community gentrified she begrudgingly admitted seemed unfounded, most of the residents having found employment at the new factories. Certainly the ponies around town appeared no less delightfully crass and unrefined as she remembered, punctuated by several ponies asking her if she wanted to hang out with a real stallion. Spitfire politely declined each offer with a swift uppercut.
Before she knew it she found herself in front of a most familiar shop: Barley Brew’s Liquor Store. Of course, much like the rest of the neighborhood the name was the only thing she recognized. The windows weren't boarded up anymore and there weren't hobos loitering around the entrance begging for bits. The inside reminded her of an upscale department store now. Gone were the blinking fluorescent lights and Barley Brew telling ponies to fuck off from behind his iron bar reinforced counter. Who knew alcohol subsidies were the cure to social ills.
Luckily the wares appeared as bottom shelf as always. Spitfire wistfully grabbed a bottles of Applejack Daniels. She remembered giving bits to a hobo to get one from this exact liquor store. That was the night she first got wasted and maybe even got her first taste of love...it was all a bit fuzzy.
With bottle in hoof Spitfire headed for her father’s apartment by nightfall. Amazingly nopony tried to mug her the entire trip.
For a change the apartment appeared as run down and uninhabitable just the way she remembered, although the scaffoldings suggested that wouldn't last too long either. A rusted carrot dog cart was chained to a nearby tree. Despite looking like food poisoning on wheels, the cart proudly displayed a stylized face of Spitfire gleefully chowing down on a carrot dog.
“Wonderbolt Approved!” it read.
Spitfire facehoofed.
She never thought she’d see the day piss covered stairwells and rubbish piles would somehow be comforting, but nostalgia came flooding back as she entered the complex. Even the door to her old apartment was just as she’d remembered, chipping paint and missing room numbers and all.
Spitfire knocked.
“What do ya want,” a grumbly male voice responded. “I don’t have any bits.”
After hearing no less than five latched being undone the door finally peeped open but no more than the final chain lock would allow. A bloodshot eye peered out, studying his guest intently. The eye went wide upon recognizing her.
“Spitty!” the earth pony exclaimed flinging open the door. He tossed aside the baseball bat he was brandishing and zealously hugged Spitfire. “How are ya girl!”
“Doin fine dad,” she managed in a muffled voice, her face pressed tightly into his yellowed wifebeater.
“And you brought my favorite,” the stallion said loosening his grip on her. “Guess I raised you right after all,” he laughed eagerly relieving Spitfire of the AppleJack Daniels.
Spitfire smiled back as she walked into a studio apartment frozen in time. The only real piece of furniture remained the mustard colored sofa, still as torn up and patchy as ever. A cable spool lay on it’s side in front of it, acting like a makeshift table.
Her father looked just as haggard as his kingdom of squalor. Deep wrinkles cut across his gaunt face like valleys, and a thinning multi-orange mane clung to his head stubbornly as if refusing to go completely bald. A mean 5 o'clock shadow added yet more years to his perceived age.
“I’ll tell ya being able to drink with your own flesh and blood,” he said as if trying to divert Spitfire's worried gaze. “is the greatest joy for any father.”
He cleared off the cable spool of old newspapers and beer cans stuffed with cigarette butts, pulling out two dusty shot glasses from beneath the sofa. He spat into the them, wiping the glasses off with his wifebeater before enthusiastically pouring shots.
“To two generations of drunks!” he said passing one to Spitfire.
The whiskey burned going down her gullet leaving behind a taste of rubbing alcohol and motor oil with all the subtlety of a minotaur at a hostage crisis. There was something refreshing however about its bluntness. It had no pretense of being anything more than something to get you wasted, and it was proud to oblige quickly and efficiently.
The two pounded their empty shot glasses onto the table.
“Whooo that’s the stuff,” the stallion said quickly refilling them.
Another toast, another shot down the hatch.
“Looks like Orange has been dumping bits into the Broncs,” Spitfire said shaking the fire down her throat. “I hardly recognized this place.”
“Yup that guy’s done alright by me,” he said wiping his lips. “At first a lot of us were concerned Orange Enterprise was gonna push us all out through urban development and that jazz, but nope. He pretty much just rejuvenated this whole town free of charge. Brought in a bunch of new commerce too. Heck, If I actually cared about politics I might even vote for him. He’s done more for us than Canterlot ever has that’s for damn sure. All those uppity unicorns ever do is give my carrot dog cart food safety citations.”
“You get most of your condiments from restaurants dumpsters,” Spitfire sighed.
“You can't prove that” he said with a cheeky smile.
“Well if you’re down with Orange why not get a job with one of the new factories?” Spitfire asked.
“Bahhh you know I ain't about handouts,” he dismissed. “Besides my true passion is making carrot dogs.”
“Dad your cutie mark is a bass guitar.”
“Now that was a long time ago,” her father smiled wistfully. “Don’t get me wrong, me and the White Stallions had some great times but mane metal’s dead. Besides, most of our songs were about sticking our carrot dogs into places they don’t belong,” he chortled slapping Spitfire on the back.
“Yup, I haven’t felt this happy in awhile,” he said his face taking on a sanguine glow. “Probably not since your sister graduated from Royal Guards training.”
“What!” Spitfire exclaimed nearly choking on the whisky. “Tempest didn’t tell me she enlisted!”
“Is that so,” he shrugged.
“That is so typical of her,” she said knocking back another. “I’ll get her transferred to Cloudsdale right away.”
Her father furtively shifted his eyes, suddenly taking interest in the peeling wallpaper.
“What?” Spitfire glowered. “Serving in the Airborne Guard is the highest honor for any pegasi!”
“Well you know,” he wavered swishing around his shot glass. “Tempest looks up to you a lot...but to a point. She wants to follow in your hoofsteps but probably wants to step out of your shadow too. She ain't gonna be your little sister forever you know.”
Her father pulled a cigarette out with his muzzle, sliding the rest of the pack towards Spitfire.
“Everpony needs to move out eventually, unfurl their wings and fly towards bigger and better things,” he said with a suddenly pensive expression. “Sometimes you crash and burn but what really matters is that at least you made that jump. So you can’t begrudge a pony for trying...nor leaving.”
Her father suddenly appeared very small and frail, his long years of solitude and crushed dreams welling up through his craggy face. Did he always look so skinny? Spitfire realized her only reference for comparison was more than four years old. A sudden rush of guilt and shame washed over her.
“Ahhh now don’t give me that damn look,” he said waving his lit cigarette. “I know this place sucks. I know I suck. You got every right to shun me and have nothing to do with me after everything I put you through. The fact that you drop by occasionally is more than I ever deserve. Don’t feel sorry for me Spitty. I lived more in my time than ten ponies put together, and whether I croke tomorrow or hold off for another decade I know I still came out on top,” he said winking at her.
“Now try and keep up girl,” he said filling her shot glass yet again. “Don’t tell me your old stallion can still drink you under the table.”
Spitfire beamed, clinking glasses with her father.
Soon the two were past out together on the sofa. It was smelly, itchy, but familiar. Spitfire hadn’t slept so soundly in a long time.
