Shell Shock walks down a dirt path that stretches around a mountain. The earth pony puts one hoof in front of another with slow deliberation, as though he thinks the road might collapse beneath him. When he comes across a small patch of upturned earth, he begins to carefully step around it. Then, a thought seems to occur, and he brings his hoof crashing down on the mound. For a moment, a smile plays across his faded gray features, then it is gone and he continues.
Shell Shock is so gray that when he was a foal, ponies would remark that he seemed to be living a monochrome life in a technicolor world. His coat, his mane and even his scraggly excuse for a beard are as gray as looming rain clouds. His eyes were once the piercing gray of polished steel, but they have dulled over the years and become the gray of discarded nails. He so scarcely opens his mouth that some believe even his tongue is gray, and when he does, his words are so gray that they make him seem as though he is gleaming alabaster white.
Right now, he isn't wearing very much. It's cold today, but he doesn't seem to feel it. His only concession to the temperature is his boots, which stop just below the knees and seem to hug his legs a little too tight. With every step, he twitches a little, and his hoof jumps back as though bitten. His right hind leg chooses this moment to twitch, and his cutie mark ripples at the sudden muscle spasm.
Shell Shock's cutie mark is the only part of the outside of him that is not grey. It is three golden arrows, each layered atop the last one and pointing upwards. Once upon a time, it was a military insignia that was universally recognized as meaning 'sergeant'. Neither the Wonderbolts or the Royal Guard use the symbol any more, though, and so the mark has attracted many questions over the past fifty years.
Shell Shock never answers them.
Today, he is going to the market. He has spent the last few weeks watching his pantry dwindle down to a few crumbs. The only thing left on his shelves is some sort of pastry that he doesn't like the taste of, but can't be bothered to throw away. Much as the dedicated bachelor hates to admit it, he cannot simply starve to death, so he must venture into town.
Something causes Shell Shock to look up, an unusual occurrence to say the least. He has rounded a corner, and the mountainside has ceased to stand between him and the Tree of Griffonstone.
Shell Shock likes Griffonstone. Well, he likes it better than Equestria. Here, his closest neighbors live in the city, a good half hour away from him, and nobody ever comes knocking on his door urging him to come out to a party. The friendliest greeting he might receive as he walks through these streets is a nod of recognition, perhaps a smile. They might think him strange for living alone, but they don't judge him for it.
But perhaps Shell Shock's favorite thing about Griffonstone is that they don't ask him as many questions as his family did.
He walks into town, passing the griffons by with hardly a word between them. His eyes are downcast except when he reaches a crossroads, and his hooves move even more carefully in the town than when on the relatively untamed mountain path. Sometimes, he meets the gaze of griffons whose names he knows; not friends, he has not had friends for a long time. There are one or two smiles, and only one 'hello'.
If he had not looked at the calendar a few hours ago, Shell Shock might have thought this a pretty good day. But he knows what today is, and so Shell Shock keeps his eyes on the road beneath him and tries not to speak.
Shell Shock's trip to the market is uneventful. He walks down the streets, eventually finding his way to one of the few stalls in town that sells vegetables. He gives them the bits, and they give him a bag of tubers. No questions are asked, and he manages to keep from crying. After a while, he starts back on the path to his house. With every step he shudders, though now it is less from pain and more from memories. But even alone on this path, moving further away from any living soul with each passing moment, he does not dare to let the pain consume him.
Eventually, Shell Shock reaches his house. It is a simple affair, only barely qualifying as a cabin because it's too large to be a shack. The windows are dark, and dusted over, and every board seems to be on the precipice of falling over. The door is firmly fastened to its hinges, but anyone who looks at it can't help but see it as hanging off them like a bird impaled on a flagpole, so they usually try to open it with a gentle push.
Shell Shock has long since ceased to be tricked by this optical illusion, so instead he sets down his vegetables and wanders over to a rock that sits beside the cabin. In the shadow of the rock, there is a key. He has to crane his neck a little to pick up the key, but he does not mind. Any form of exercise is welcome. Then he walks over to the door, and cranes his neck to slide the key into the door. He leans into the door as he does this, if only to confirm that it is real.
The door swings open and he falls flat on his side. For the first time in fifty years, a gasp of surprise shakes Shell Shock's tired lungs. A crippling fear seizes his every cell, shaking him to his core and coaxing a terrified wheezing breath out of him. Thoughts of desperation race through his head, and his defenses fall. He remembers, but not in the back-of-his-mind way that he's been doing since it stopped. He remembers it all.
He remembers the last time he fell on his side and gasped for breath. His face suddenly feels tight, as though he were wearing the mask, and his wheezing seems to grow thinner and more filtered. His hooves spasm as he remembers where they've been, and his eyes flit around, trying to see them, where's Straight Shot, where's Open Flame, where's their little dog, how long since I wrote home...
But he isn't there. He's outside his cabin, having a fit on the ground because... she is inside his house. Of course it would be today, he thinks. It could never have been any other day.
He pushes the memories to the back of his mind, and struggles to get back to his feet. They are only memories. He tries to comfort himself with a joke, but the only joke he can think of is that he's remembering what didn't happen. His memories are fake. Straight Shot is a retired competitive archer. Open Flame was a firepony. The little dog and everyone in his family is dead.
Despite himself, Shell Shock chuckles. He picks up the bag of vegetables, but leaves the key where it has fallen. He pushes the door open, and closes it behind him. He hates to feel the wind rushing through buildings, because it makes him hear loud noises that aren't there.
Just past the door, Shell Shock eases his boots off. With every tiny twitch, he grits his teeth tighter on the boot. Finally, he pops it off, and he takes a moment to stare at the hoof. There isn't a speck of hair on the flesh around his hooves, and one or two sores on his fetlock have burst. The red contains traces of milky green, and Shell Shock ponders a hoofbath. He decides against it, and starts on the next hoof. It takes ten minutes to take off each boot.
He moves into the kitchen, and sets down the bag of vegetables. He looks at the cabinet, then at the bag, and sighs. He turns and walks out of the kitchen, through the door, and into the Hallway.
Were he a dramatic sort, Shell Shock might call it the Hall of Memories. But he is a simple pony of a practical mind, so it is just the Hallway.
Display cases line the walls. Before each of them, there are grooves in the floor, where Shell Shock has stood and stared. Those cases below eye-level have their glass subtly stained by tears. The Hallway is the only place where it is safe for him to cry.
Coming from the kitchen, the first item he passes looks like a children's treasure map. It is sketched on the back of a letter. The shape seems random, as any landmass would. It is criss-crossed with random dotted lines and odd symbols. Even an elementary-school student who has only seen a map of Equestria once could tell you that this shape wasn't a real island. The name scratched into the top right corner is a funny, childish, made-up name that was probably meant to sound dirty; Shetland.
He is on the beach, staring across the ocean at it. The docks are choked, overwhelmed with ponies trying to flee. For a moment, the sun shines so bright that everything else blurs into a white glow. He rubs the glare from his eyes, and stares in horror as the island crumbles into dust, swallowed up by the waves.
There is a single boat bobbing in the ocean. Before Shell Shock can say a word, Straight Shot lifts his crossbow and fires a bolt. The shape in the boat collapses.
Shell Shock wonders, in the desperately distracted way of those about to die, how much a fancy gilded picture frame would cost. He wonders why he never bought one in the first place. The words 'glorification of death' are a growled whisper on his lips, answering his own question, just as they have done countless times before.
The next item is framed, but it is a stark frame, simple wood and glass as one might buy on the way home from work. This is a photograph, and there can be no question to how real the ponies in the photograph are. Shell Shock is there, as are Straight Shot and Open Flame. They are all much younger in the picture, but they do not have the smiles one expects of so many youths in a picture together. Their clothes are odd, baggy and dusty burlap with random splotches of faded red. The picture carries the motto 'Ugly-Fence Painters Anonymous '03', though none of the ponies therein look like painters.
"Straighten up, gents. You done your country proud today."
Nopony answers the photographer. Most of them are not even looking at the camera, or even at the world around them. They are looking at the bodies, and at the arrows sticking out of them. Shell Shock starts to do the math of how many of them are his, but he stops himself. He finds his hoof stretching out on its own, looking for someone to cling to.
He doesn't know the face of the pony beside him. He might know the name, might know the accomplishments, might even have saved their life a few hours ago, but he doesn't know the face. But their hoof curls around his, and he is happy.
Shell Shock smiles, and touches a hoof to the picture. It leaves a barely-noticeable trace of dirt, adding another layer to the strata. Perhaps he will dust tomorrow.
He passes similar objects as he moves down the Hallway, and pauses at each. There are pictures of a destitute group home for pegasi, where there are no beds and they have nothing to eat but tomatoes. There is a scrap of paper bearing a number, most likely torn from the grocery receipt of an incredibly rich pony. There is a crossbow with a strange basket stuck in the middle of it.
He looks up at the sky, and sees Cloudsdale wreathed in flame. The screams are echoing all around him, and he sees the corpses falling from above. One of them hits the ground right beside him, and the sickening crack of their bones breaks something inside of him.
He draws the crossbow, and takes aim at the city above. He pulls the trigger, and the bolt shoots upwards. The arrow chamber rattles and slides, and another arrow loads itself. He pulls the trigger again, and again, until the chamber rattles and nothing comes out.
The next body to fall down near Shell Shock is full of arrows.
At last, Shell Shock stands before a display case that stands as tall as him. Inside is a mannequin, wearing the same outfit from Ugly-Fence Painters Anonymous, with a few important differences. There is a thick belt, sporting several large pouches. There is a helmet, thick enough that a hoof would ping off it like a pebble. And then there is the mask.
The mask is plastic. It is covered in scuff marks. There is a rubber muzzle over the mouth, and a hose leads from the muzzle to one of the belt's many pouches. The seal around the muzzle is airtight, and Shell Shock peers through the glass to see if he can spot any leaks. Seeing no obvious slits in the plastic, his attention is instead drawn to the eyes.
The eyes of the mask are two panes of glass, the same sort that you would find in flight goggles. Even though there is nothing but darkness inside the mask, Shell Shock is reluctant to stare into those eyes.
A sinister pink mist rolls over the plains. He checks his mask, paws at the muzzle to make sure nothing's getting in. His breathing is normal, everything is fine. He sees shapes in the mist, moving towards him at worrying speed. His right hoof twitches, ready to fetch his crossbow and put a bolt through one of their faces. Then they draw closer, and he plants his hooves firmly on the ground.
They are children. The oldest can't be more than eight years old. They are running as fast as their little legs can carry them, and as he watches, one of them trips and falls. The others pay her no heed, and he has to stare as she twitches and spasms and coughs up blood.
Suddenly, they are upon him. The oldest is pawing at his chest, and as Shell Shock meets the foal's gaze, bile rises in his throat. The foal is foaming at the mouth, and his body is being quickly covered in sores. The mouth opens, and a green tongue flaps as the foal chokes out a plea. It is little more than a collection of muffled sounds from inside the mask, but Shell Shock knows what is being asked of him, and it is impossible.
"Save us!"
Shell Shock wrenches himself away from the display case, his tears flowing freely at last. He grits his teeth, and lifts his hoof to wipe the tears away, but then he sees her. His hoof falls back to the floor, and he leaves the Hallway.
The sitting room has less in it than the kitchen cupboards. There is only one chair, angled towards a stark grey wall. She has left it alone, though perhaps only because she is too large to sit comfortably anywhere but the floor. The card table is set up, though rather than a game of cards, Shell Shock's entire collection of shot glasses is on display, with a half-empty bottle of what looks like bourbon sitting at her side.
"I was wondering when you would return." Her tone borders on cheerful, a calculated and practiced voice designed to calm and reassure those who hear it. It almost works on Shell Shock, but then he makes eye contact, and finds the tranquility overwhelmed by bile.
Princess Celestia could not be more out of place if she wore clown makeup in a depression clinic for minotaurs. Her white coat has an uncomfortable glare to it, shining like a lantern despite the only light source being a few rays of sunlight through drawn curtains. Her royal regalia sparkles like newly unearthed diamonds, and the rich purple of her eyes is almost hypnotic.
Shell Shock does not look at Celestia as a mortal before a god. Nor does he look at her like a peasant in the presence of a monarch. Perhaps most surprisingly, he does not look at her like a child who recently learned that not everyone beats their foals. The gaze that passes between earth pony and alicorn is one that says "we are the same", one that speaks of haunting memories and necessary evils. Shell Shock takes his seat in front of the table, and breaks eye contact to look down at the shot glasses.
Celestia sighs, and watches her soldier's tears rolling down his face. Part of her wants to reach out and comfort him, but she knows how empty the gesture would be. Too little, too late, as they say. Instead, she looks past him at the hallway he came from. Her own mind goes back to fifty years ago, to the source of it all.
The photograph shows a wall, and a rather disturbing piece of graffiti. Four simple words that, even now, promise to spell doom for Equestria. The words are scrawled on the wall in red paint, still wet when the picture was taken if the little drips are anything to go by.
THEY ARE NOT GODS. That's what the words say. By themselves, nothing more than the truth. But painted on walls with hurried brushstrokes? It was a revolution's call to arms.
"I'm afraid that's not red paint, Your Majesty."
A chill runs down Celestia's spine. She doesn't know who's behind this, but in a twisted way, she knows what she's dealing with. She's seen it before, after all.
"It's been a long time," she says, hoping to start a conversation. Shell Shock grits his teeth before saying anything.
"Since what? Not as if there's anything special about today." The words have the venom of a viper, a thought that makes Celestia consider the bourbon laid out between them.
"It's been fifty years, Shell Shock. Can't you put it behind you?"
"I have." The lack of sincerity is obvious, but so is the bravado beneath it. "That was the whole point. Cover up what we did because we didn't want to live in a world that thought you were just a normal pony."
"You don't honestly think that's why I did it, do you?" It occurs to her that she has never done anything but give him orders.
"Partially." He raises a hoof to tap one of the glasses. "You didn't want them to see what lengths you'll go to to suppress heresy, or what kind of desperate things ponies do when they think they're fighting gods."
"That's not it at all."
Once upon a time, these laboratories had examined strange, exotic lifeforms under their microscopes. Once upon a time, diplomacy was about keeping the peace between nations. Once upon a time, the crossbow was a weapon made only barely legal thanks to competitive archery.
Now, the scientists study chemical weapons and super-medicine. Diplomacy is a race to see which country can make the more convincing threat. Every day, the crossbow is made obsolete by a more advanced model. The latest prototype has crystal arrowheads loaded with incendiary enchantments.
It is a small blessing that such a horrendous instrument will never be deployed, if only because technology will outpace it tomorrow.
"Latest report from the front, Celestia."
Celestia turns and offers a weak smile to Twilight Sparkle. The eyes of her former apprentice are glowing and vacant, absorbing information from every source. Her horn sparks and flickers, causing thousands of quills to jutter across sheets of paper.
"The enemy is routed. The war is over."
Victory had never tasted so sour.
"War had become our leading industry. Our chief export was crossbow bolts, express delivery. Friendship had fallen out of favor, replaced by hatred and fear. Equestria had no future. I could not let that happen."
"So you wiped out every trace of the war. False records, fudged census numbers, and of course, all of the memories you erased."
"Would you have preferred I wipe out everypony old enough to know what had happened?" Celestia feels a single tear collecting in her eye.
"Might have been more honest, at least. You would also be able to raise an entire generation by yourself, that would definitely help your approval rating." Shell Shock clasps a shot glass between his hooves. "Plus, I wouldn't have been forced to live with those memories and not be able to tell anypony." His head shoots up suddenly, and he glares at Celestia as a parent about to scold a child. "Why, Celestia? Why did we have to remember while all of the others forgot?"
"I don't know what's happening, Celestia." Twilight Sparkle was curled up against her mentor, her hair matted with sweat. "I keep having this same nightmare. There's checklists, and I'm looking out of a hundred different eyes, and there's screaming everywhere. I see numbers in the dream, and the numbers scare me. I don't know what it means!" She is shivering with terror.
"Don't worry, Twilight. I'm sure Luna will be able to help." Celestia can't stop herself from shivering as she feels the telepathic presence of her sister. She feels Luna's concern and apprehension, and tries to reach out with calming thoughts.
"I would not wish this on anyone," Luna whispers, despite the fact that only Celestia can hear her. "I am so sorry."
"There is no need for apologies," Celestia reassures her. "We did not know that the trauma would be persistent. Now we do."
"What will we do about the soldiers? They will be waiting to get their old lives back."
Celestia cannot help but cry. "You can't go through what we've been through and not have nightmares about it. I felt you deserved to know why you dream about death and killing."
"Do you know why I left Equestria?" The question is sudden, and every word feels like a razor. "I couldn't look my mother in the eye. I felt safe at home, so I cried, but then she would ask me why, and I wouldn't be able to tell her." Shell Shock starts to cry again, and lifts the shot glass to his lips. He tips the glass, and the bourbon races down his throat. Celestia holds her tongue, and waits for him to stop.
"I know it isn't much," she tells him, her voice fading a little, "but I could kill you now."
It breaks her heart to see him smile at that. He looks at her, and those grey eyes almost seem to sparkle like precious silver. "Would you?" His voice is shaky with desperate hope.
"Just say the word," she manages to choke out, before the first of many sobs shakes her. Instead of saying anything, he nods, what seems to be a million times in the space of a single second. She sighs, and puts on a brave smile. "This is going to hurt."
Right on cue, the snake venom does its job. Shell Shock's face suddenly contorts with pain, and he collapses on his side, gasping for air. He paws at his throat, but that's only where the pain is; all the real damage is happening in his bloodstream. Celestia tries not to look as the worst part starts.
It takes five minutes, but Shell Shock finally stops twitching. Celestia gets up and leaves, wiping the tears from her eyes before stepping out into the cold light of day.
As the Princess of the Sun, Celestia should bask in the light. But now, as with every year, her sun seems to judge her with its piercing rays. She makes a note to make it overcast next year.
