Terminal Leave

Mossy Oak poked his head out of the mall security office and looked over to the pale pink unicorn mare waiting just outside.

"Fancy Free, he's coming to."

Fancy Free had timed the intruder's length of unconsciousness at fourteen minutes fifty-two seconds, almost textbook for a proper conversion. Still, he had been after the Foam, and had ingested enough to give her some doubt. If he was still human upstairs, they would have a problem.

Rows of dead monitors lined one wall, looming over the metal folding table that the intruder was strapped down to. A dozen ponies were surrounding him in case his struggles got too violent once he regained self-awareness. Mossy Oak stepped aside once clear of the doorway to let Fancy Free approach the newfoal.

He was a deep forest-green earth-pony now, and his mane was a lustrous ochre. He groaned as he opened bleary eyes, his neck working on instinct to move his head from side to side, shaking the post-conversion funk from his head. She watched his large eyes very closely, waiting to see the spark, the little twinkle of recognition that he was no longer human. She had seen it dozens of times before, by that point.

It came as he first tried to move his legs, and found them bound. His movements slowed, his eyes widened, and he took a deep breath. There it was.

"I'm sorry about this," said Fancy Free, catching his attention as she spoke, "but you were after something you shouldn't have been. If you wanted to be converted, all you had to do was—"

"No, I'm sorry!" yelped the pony before her. "I... I had heard that the PER had a potion that could let me keep my human instincts, and..." He lowered his head, his eyes leaving hers to study the table surface. "I wanted... I wanted revenge on the pony who killed her. She was PER like you all... Raleigh chapter." He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly, a look of agony on his face. "I was so angry..."

Fancy Free arched an eyebrow and shared a glance with the assembled ponies. "This one here... did somepony tag him before he got to the Foam?"

A unicorn stallion took a step forward and nodded. "I did, Fancy. Got him right in the neck, I saw it."

"And the Foam?"

"There were some traces on his hand and the rest of it had spilled out onto the floor. We recovered as much as we could."

The green earth-pony was visibly shaking in his restraints. "I still remember it... fantasizing about what I would do, what I would say to him... but I saw her face—her face—in my mind, and she said there is forgiveness in turn for those who forgive. I felt so small, and the hatred just... it just melted from me. It was like coming in from the cold and eating a big bowl of soup." He had a dreamy, blissful smile on his face.

Fancy Free regarded him for a moment. "If we let you go, what will you do?"

"I'm going to go to Equestria!" he cried. "Joan... no, Merrymaker... is still dead; there's nothing left for me here. I won't be able to move past it while I stay on Earth. I have to start over. But it feels possible now; it didn't before. I couldn't see it." He smiled sadly.

The pink unicorn sighed and walked over to the green earth-pony. She nuzzled him on the cheek. "Welcome to the herd," she said.

The stallion's name was Chuck, she learned, while some of her ponies put together a saddlebag of provisions for the newfoal to take with him into Equestria. He'd said he didn't know what his pony name should be yet, but that he'd be giving it a good long think while he walked to the Barrier. Fancy Free warned him to stay off of the major roads, as ponies were kill-on-sight to the HLF hardcore that dared to operate so close to the Barrier. Still, it wasn't far, a six-mile walk at most. Odds were that Chuck wouldn't see another soul between leaving the stronghold and arriving in Equestria.

Chuck turned back one last time to wave across the parking lot at Fancy Free and the other ponies who had gathered to send him off. He was grinning fit to burst, and as he turned to start heading east, his grin turned into a smile of contentment. Joan had always talked about her own conversion dream, and how wonderful it had been, the personal messages the princesses had given just for her, and the elation and true understanding she'd felt as soon as she'd woken up.

Thank goodness for that, thought Chuck. He'd sold a conversion, and he'd sold it hard. The ponies back in the mall were probably circle-jerking over it already.

Heh. Morons.

The Barrier was always there, shifting and shimmering between pink and orange, glowing with warmth, beckoning one and all to come into its embrace. About halfway to it, Chuck felt a twinge of guilt for having misled the ponies. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was unmistakable. He'd lied. That had been mean of him! Unfriendly, even.

Then it passed. It had been there only a moment, but it had definitely been there.

*          *          *

A golden dawn broke over Sweet Apple Acres, and Major York was awakened by an honest-to-goodness rooster crowing.

Getting out of bed was still something the newly-minted pony had trouble with. It wasn't as easy as it had been as a human. Instead of sitting up and swinging his legs out, he had to scoot to the edge of the bedside and sort of fall over onto his hooves. He didn't even know if it was the right way to do it, or if there was a right way documented somewhere, but it got the job done.

The thud of his hooves on the bare floorboards of the farmhouse's second story probably did the job of announcing he was awake, so he stumbled over to the window and pulled a curtain back with his mouth. York rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a foreleg, smacked his lips (damn but his morning-breath was bad as a pony), and looked out over the farmlands.

There in the low orange sunlight, the morning dew glittered as though the night sky had fallen to earth while he'd slept, coming to rest on all the blades of grass and stalks of wheat. A thin veil of haze floated over the fields, a leftover telltale of warm crops cooling in the night air. His uncle had owned cornfields in Nebraska, and the sight of Sweet Apple Acres made him recall dormant memories of waking up to mornings just like these when he'd visited his uncle as a kid.

And the air! He remembered that there was nothing like the smell of morning air coming off of crops. He brought his forelegs up onto the windowsill and pushed the window open, nearly falling backwards in the effort but managing to come back down on all fours. A cool, humid breeze floated into the room, puffing up the curtains and caressing his mane. Major York took a deep lungful of it and closed his eyes. Amazing. It was just like what he remembered, even here.

"Good morning, sunshine!" cried Applejack from behind him. York startled, slamming the window shut and spinning around. The mare giggled and scuffed a hoof along the floor.

"Why, major, y'all ain't embarrassed about anythin', are ya? It's okay ta like it here, y'know, I won't take offense, I promise." She gave him a wink and turned around. "Wash up yer face 'n hooves 'n come on down for breakfast. Granny Smith went a little overboard when she learned we had a guest stayin', so I hope yer hungry!" With a flick of her blond tail, she disappeared from the doorway and into the hall. York let out a breath—why had he felt embarrassed?—and walked out of his room, down the hall, and into the bathroom, very careful to take his saddlebags with him.

For all the similarities pony buildings had with human designs, pony washrooms were decidedly alien. Sinks were broad and shallow, the spigot angled out of the way to better manipulate the knobs with the less-dextrous hooves. Toilets were just something you stood over, similar to the squatter toilets popular in Asia, but with a flusher positioned to be stepped on by a hoof. York had had to make do with human facilities for two weeks before arriving here, and he found this much easier to use.

After getting his face and hooves soaped and rinsed, he headed downstairs. At the bottom was Applejack, who gave him another friendly smile before inhaling and bellowing out "Apple Bloom! Rouse yerself! Our guest got down here before you did!"

A girl's voice yelled back from upstairs: "I'm comin', I'm comin', hang on!"

Applejack rolled her eyes and jerked her chin at the door to the kitchen. "Go on in there and set, major. We'll be in soon enough." Her eyes flicked back upstairs. "I think."

York nodded and walked into the kitchen, leaving Applejack to wrangle the young voice that had called from upstairs. The dining area was little more than a large nook attached to the kitchen, with a decent-sized table. Sitting on cushions at the table were a large, muscular red stallion and an elderly green mare with a white mane done up in a bun. The table itself was struggling to hold up an impressive spread of breakfast foods, nearly all of which incorporated apples in some way. Tarts, strudels, jelly, sauce, juice... about the only thing that didn't seem to have apples in it were the flapjacks and the toast.

"Good morning," said York quietly. "Major Calvin York, United States Army."

The old mare stood, and York almost swore her joints audibly creaked. "Well good morning, friend! I'm Granny Smith! The big quiet one over there's named Big Macintosh." The big fellow just nodded once, regarding York with lidded, aloof eyes. "Come on, now, sit!" continued Granny Smith. "Let's get you fed."

York sat down next to Big Macintosh, and gave a smile. "Thank you, Granny Smith," he said. He'd learned in briefings that, like humans, ponies were fond of giving nicknames, but only when the two ponies were familiar. It felt a little awkward to say both parts of a pony's name—kind of like calling a human by their first and last name all the time—but he was in Rome, and he figured he could tough it out for a week.

A set of four hooves rattled down the stairs and burst into the kitchen, carrying with them a pale yellow filly with a bright red mane and huge, adorable eyes. Those eyes came to rest on York, and they lit up. In the next instant, she was seated next to him, looking up at him with amazement and wonder. York offered a weak smile.

"Uh, hello there," he said.

"Apple Bloom, it's rude to stare! Say hi to the feller," said Applejack as she strode in after her. Applejack took the cushion across the table from York and gave the filly a glare.

"Howdy!" piped the filly. "I'm Apple Bloom, Applejack's mah sister and Big Mac's mah brother, and boy am I glad yer here! I tell you what, it's soooo great havin' new ponies around to talk to, 'cause it gets so borin' here on the farm when it's just—"

Breakfast went on like that, with Apple Bloom talking away and York politely getting in answers where he could (though Apple Bloom didn't really seem too concerned with actually getting her questions answered). It would have been annoying, but York quickly saw that there was a persistent, enveloping innocence to the filly that he couldn't get over.

He also ate more than he wanted. Granny Smith had called him "skinny" and admonished him for leaving so much uneaten. York pushed himself, but it still wasn't enough to appease Granny Smith, who was all but tossing tarts after him as Applejack dragged him to safety outside the farmhouse.

Once clear of the old mare's culinary assaults, the cowpony leaned to one side to look at Major York's saddlebag. She wrinkled her nose. "Yeesh! I can smell paperwork from a mile away! Don't suit me none, and frankly I cain't suss how anypony can stand t'be around it. Not my business, though, I reckon, but jes' so we're clear, y'all didn't hafta bring any work witcha; we got plenny of that t'go around right here!"

York blinked. He remembered the night before "Work. Like... farm work."

Applejack reared up and whinnied out a laugh. "It's a farm, I said there's work, so you do the fancy mathematics!"

"I'm... not really sure how much use I would be..."

She sidled up to York and threw a foreleg around his neck. "Nonsense, yer an earth-pony! A setta four legs and a good strong back is all y'need."

He stifled a grumble. "No, that isn't really what I—"

Applejack's eyes widened in realization "Ohh, I getcha! Not all humans do their own farmin', that's right. T'ain't as bad as y'all might think, major, don't you fret none! Why I wouldn't be surprised if you got your cutie mark after five minutes on the plow!"

"The plow?"

"Eeeyup," said Big Mac, coming behind them from the farmhouse. "Plowin' in the mornin', buckin' in the afternoon. That's fer you. Buckin' in the mornin' and plowin' in the afternoon fer me."

"Enough jaw-jackin', though," said Applejack, "let's getcha tacked up!"

Major York insisted on keeping his saddlebags, even while hooked up to the plow. Applejack found that rather odd, but she chalked it up to some leftover human idiosyncrasy that she had no hope of understanding.

The brick-red stallion stood there at the far end of flat brown field, the soil on the surface shriveled and sun-baked. The plowing tack was secured at his shoulders and hips, compressing his torso firmly, the considerable weight of the plow masterfully distributed across his body. He anticipated the briefing that would come. Shouldn't be hard, he reasoned. Walk in a straight line to the end, lift the blades free, turn around, and do it again.

"Tell me, major," asked Applejack, "what makes you happy?"

York hadn't been expecting that. He turned to look at her, taking his focus off of the field. "Huh?"

Applejack returned the look with a warm smile. "Pleasure. Contentment. Joyful feelin's. What makes yer heart go all mooshy an' wanna sing out?"

Major York looked away for several moments before speaking. "I'm not a pony because I want to be," he said. "I'm not even a pony because I don't want to die. I'm a pony because becoming one let me continue to pursue the one thing I have left in my life that that Barrier hasn't taken away from me yet."

He looked at the parched soil under his hooves and idly picked at it with a hoof. "In and out. But it's never that simple, is it? Two weeks ago I was prosecuting HLF members trying to raid arms rooms on Lewis, and now I'm a little colorful horse who's hooked up to a plow on a farm in a different world. Your Celestia must be busting a gut at all of this, isn't she? Set up some circus hoops for the stupid humans to jump through, if they want this guy so bad. Let 'em stew. Yeah?"

Applejack's ears drooped under her hat. "So... what I'm hearin' here is... ain't much makes ya happy?"

"How would you feel if something was swallowing up Equestria and you had to leave it forever? How would you feel if everything you'd worked hard for was taken away? How would you feel if you watched everyone around you just give up and take the easy way out, clean slate, no responsibility, no consequences? Would you feel happy?"

The major lifted his head. "I'm not here because I like plowing fields, Applejack, or because I like checking my dignity at the door and accepting royally-mandated retreats. I'm a professional. Duty is the one thing I have left, and it's the only reason I'm here. I'm going to hold onto it until Earth is completely gone, and when it's gone, I won't have any regrets."

He saw Applejack's distraught frown and tried to lighten the mood with a weak smile. "This is a nice place, Equestria. It's beautiful and tranquil and everyone I've met has been genuinely nice to me. But we haven't earned it. I want to earn it."

Applejack pursed her lips. "Get plowin', there, major," she said. "We'll walk 'n talk. Burnin' daylight."

York kicked the lever on the plow with his hind leg, dropping the blades into the dry soil. He took a step forward, and the plow protested, staying in place. He gritted his teeth and lurched, and the plow grudgingly began to inch forward. York grunted. This was going to be torturous.

The orange mare walked alongside him at his snail's pace. She shook her head slowly. "Ya cain't," she said plainly.

"Beg pardon?"

"Ya cain't earn this place, major. Ya think us ponies did? It was a gift to us just like it's a gift to you now. A gift from them, the Sun and the Moon. Cain't nopony flesh and blood earn a place like Equestria, an' they don't have to."

York blinked. "Why not?" The straps of the tack were digging into his shoulders and back. It wasn't quite painful, but he definitely felt rooted. The sliding and scraping noise of the plow behind him was weirdly soothing.

Applejack reared up and whinnied. "Well, shucks, because it's just their way, major! Philosophers stopped barkin' up that tree a long time ago. They'd ask Their Royal Highnesses 'Why're we here? Whadda y'all want from us?' and Their Royal Highnesses'd just smile and ask if they wanted any tea. Humans seem to got this immovable sense of honor and justice and 'earnin'' everything and feelin' guilty for acceptin' help, like it's a weakness. Pony-folk just cain't cotton to it."

York snorted with effort, and the horselike sound coming from his own body startled him a little. The plow was still moving. "Maybe we humans don't like the idea of you ponies lording Equestria over us, like it's a favor to be repaid. You couldn't do that if we had to earn our place as opposed to you just giving it to us."

Applejack looked ahead and smiled. "There you go again, major, with that 'earn' nonsense. So just how many ponies've you seen gloatin' about this whole worlds-collidin' fiasco? Holdin' it over yer heads, tauntin' ya, makin' ya feel low fer decidin' to come join us?"

Major York said nothing.

"Egg-zactly," said Applejack. "Things ain't gotta be complicated all the time, major! Maybe this 'gift' really is a gift! Maybe ponies're just happy to see that they could help by openin' their homes 'n their hearts 'n their world to a whole other species what fell on hard times. I know it's made me happy, boy howdy. Speakin' of happy, now stop."

York looked up and realized he'd reached the end of the field. It had gone by faster than he thought! He looked back over his shoulder and saw a straight line of tilled soil behind him. The dirt was still dry and pale, but it had been turned.

"You just done plowed a whole row on the south field without a single happy thought in your heart," she said. "Fer an earth-pony, that's sayin' a lot, and I'm the last pony who'd fib to ya 'bout that."

The stallion raised the blades clear of the soil and turned the plow around with Applejack's help. "Now I wantcha to find somethin' in your heart, in your memories that makes ya happy."

"Thanks, but I'm not really here to get therapy, Appl—"

She shook her head emphatically. "This ain't nunna that fancy-prancy therapy hooey! There's a reason for it, I promise!"

"What?"

Applejack patted his back with a hoof. "Jes' trust me, major. I saw ya at the window. I know you got some happiness in there somewhere."

York arched an eyebrow, but he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. In his mind, he went to his wedding day. He'd lost Glenna and Robbie to a boating accident two years ago—just before the Barrier had first appeared—and the stab of sadness was still there to greet him. His wedding day, however... that had been perfect. The sunlight coming into the church had made Glenna's veil glow like white gold. Her look as he gave his vows was one of pure adoration and love. The five years they had spent together had been absolute joy. Robbie would have been seven now. York thought about how much he'd like it there in Equestria; he'd been even more of an outdoorsman than his dad. He pictured Robbie playing with Apple Bloom, running with her through the market streets of the town he'd flown over last night. He pictured Glenna still there with him, living on, asking the princesses why they had helped humanity, then getting only a secretive smile and an offer of tea in return.

He felt as though it should make him sad, but it didn't. It felt good and hopeful.

York felt his hooves sink into the bare soil beneath them. He felt the grit through his hooves, the individual small rocks and the thirsty dust and the shriveled ribbons of clay. He was sinking, though, definitely... if only a little. The earth was happy for him; some tickle in the back of his mind was speaking its language and translating. It was giving him a little hug.

He opened his eyes to see Applejack's beaming face. "Have a gander, major," she said quietly.

York looked down and saw that the soil had darkened beneath him, spreading out a few feet in all directions, and his hooves had sunk an inch or two into its now-rich, yielding surface.

"If you soften your heart, the earth softens with ya," said Applejack. "Farmin' ain't toil for an earth-pony with a glad heart." She rested a hoof on his neck. "Try plowin' now. Hold onto the happiness."

He moved forward, keeping his departed family in his mind. Now it was like moving the plow through warm butter. Aside from the compression of the tack, he hardly felt the tug of the blades at all. He just walked forward, letting the sun warm his face and the fresh morning smells fill his nose, and in an instant, another row was plowed.

"Whew-ee!" cried Applejack, galloping up next to him. "You took off like a dog that just got skunked! You tryin' ta prove somethin', newfoal?"

York laughed before he even realized he might. "Sorry, I just kind of zoned out there."

She nodded, knowing the feeling. "Don't be ashamed none; happens to me too," she said. "But there ain't no rushin' needed neither. We like to take things slow here, Major Calvin York of the Yoo-nited States Army. Workin' the soil, plantin' the crops, makin' food spring up... slow is better. The earth likes it slow. There's plenny a' time, and more'n you might think. Always will be."

York nodded, kicked up the plow, and turned around for the next row. He could feel his saddlebags rubbing against his barrel, strapped in place by the tack, reminding him of his ultimate purpose.

Celestia's cool look when he'd first entered her court flashed across his mind. She knew what he was and what had transpired to make him, and she hadn't liked it. Luna was the one who had sent him here, to be among ponies loyal to the Crown. They were nice, these Apples, but he couldn't let his guard down. Keeping his saddlebags with him had definitely been the right choice.

*          *          *

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with Their Royal Highnesses on such short notice," Inkwell said to Gavel as she led him to the Sanctum. She lowered her voice to a whisper to prevent eavesdropping as they moved through the sunlit marble corridors. "As if this whole Rockheart business wasn't bad enough, now there's suspicion of spies in Princess Luna's elite regiment!"

The gray earth-pony followed her with a smart step, but inwardly his stomach was doing turns. He wasn't sure if he would be able to give Their Royal Highnesses the support needed to deal with an inter-world affair such as this. It seemed too big, too sweeping. Besides, even as a human, it had been six years since he'd last given legal counsel. He'd always felt that he'd been better on the floor of the Senate than on the floor of a courtroom. Still, Their Royal Highnesses had been everything that the Equestrians working at the Bureau said they'd be and more. If there was even a chance that his skills and experience would be of use to the Crown, then he would answer.

Pence Pocket was pacing and fretting outside of the guarded door where the suspected spy was being held. When she saw Inkwell and the newfoal approaching, she sighed with relief and rushed up to them, throwing her forelegs around Gavel in an unexpected hug.

"Gavel, welcome, and thank harmony you're here!" she sighed. "They're waiting inside."

"We will see to your wife and son's comfort, while here," said Inkwell. "Do not worry."

The older earth-pony blinked as Pence Pocket withdrew from the hug. "Th-thank you," he stammered out to both of them. The two Sanctum guards nodded once to him, and the guard on the right opened the door with his magic. Gavel stepped into the interrogation room, leaving Inkwell and Pence Pocket to fret over their benefactors together.

The "interrogation room" was actually just one of the quiet rooms used by students and researchers for studying the books and scrolls of the Sanctum library. As Gavel entered, he was surprised to find that the suspect was still in the magically-altered appearance of the Night Watch. Princess Luna's personal guard detail was chosen on an individual basis for their dedication, cunning, and discretion. They were afforded a more fearsome appearance than their counterparts, with yellow cat's eyes, bat-like wings, and tufted ears. Together, it gave a predatorial edge to their looks. Their actual duties under Her Royal Highness's command were a well-kept secret, even from the other branches of the Royal Guard. To accept a billet with the Night Watch was to willingly swear to serve via the unknown.

Luna turned to make eye contact with Gavel, but Celestia stayed focused on the suspect. The Night-Watch pony was not bound in any way, though the presence of both the Sun and the Moon in the room made quite inadvisable any attempts to escape or be hostile.

"Gavel," said Luna. "Now that you are here, we may proceed with questioning." She turned to the slate-gray guard, who eyed Gavel with those eerie, discomforting eyes.

"Carbide Tip, you are being held under suspicion of espionage," said Celestia firmly. Gavel noted that she was careful to keep anger or judgment out of her voice. Innocent until proven guilty. "We are going to ask you a few questions, and I recommend you answer them truthfully. Luna and I will know, quite easily, if you are lying."

"Suits me fine," said Carbide Tip in a gravelly voice. His manner was oily, self-assured, unrepentant. He certainly didn't seem concerned with coming across as innocent. "I've got nothing to hide." He cocked his head a little. "Am I lying there?"

They both ignored the remark. "Are you a newfoal?" asked Luna.

"I am," said Carbide Tip, smiling at her.

"What was your human name and where were you ponified?"

"Peter McRae, Fort Huachuca, Arizona."

Celestia frowned. "He speaks the truth, but the nearest Conversion Bureau is in Tucson."

Luna leaned in towards the guard. "Are you then saying that you were illegally ponified?"

Carbide Tip shrugged. "Illegal by whose standards? Your laws don't reach into Earth, much as you might want them to. But no, I didn't go to any Conversion Bureau, if that's what you mean."

Gavel took a step forward, and the slitted pupils shot over to him again. "Fort Huachuca is a military installation," he told the princesses. "Carbide Tip—"

"You," said the guard, "call me Peter. I can smell a former human from a mile away."

He cleared his throat. "Peter... are you currently serving under the remnant command of the United States military?"

Carbide Tip's mouth split into a grin. "No." He looked to Celestia expectantly.

Celestia nodded. "I see. Who, then? Who are you working for?"

His grin only widened. "Special Activities Division, Ground Branch, Group Noble," he said. He flicked his eyes to Gavel and was rewarded with the sight of his fellow newfoal's eyes widening and ears drooping.

Gavel swallowed and walked closer to Celestia. "Did he just tell the truth?" he whispered.

Celestia looked down at her counsel's face, and the sight of it made her uneasy. "Yes," she said slowly.

Gavel stormed up to Carbide Tip so quickly and forcefully that Luna thought for a moment she would have to hold him back. Being an earth-pony, Gavel was slightly taller than the other newfoal, and he tried his best to loom menacingly over him.

"What is your mission here, Peter?" he shouted into his face. "What are you meant to be doing?"

The Night-Watch pony's tufted ears instinctively went back against his skull. "My orders were to join the Night Watch, monitor how you handle the dispute over Rockheart, and await further instructions," he said with a smirk. "Go on, Your Royal Highness, tell him I'm right."

Celestia's brow knit. "That's it?"

He shrugged again. "That's it."

Gavel turned and looked between the two princesses. "I need to talk to both of you outside, right now."

Carbide Tip began to chuckle.

On the other side of the door, out in the hallway, Gavel pulled the two goddesses to the far side of the corridor, away from Inkwell, Pence Pocket, and the door guards. The two mares tried to get in close, but a sad shake of the head from Luna told them to stay out of earshot.

The two tall alicorns dipped their heads low so that Gavel could whisper to them.

The former Senator swallowed once before speaking. "Special Activities Division. Ground Branch. Holy shit, this is bad." He bit his bottom lip.

Luna's voice was gentle. "Gavel, sir?"

He snapped out of it. "That guy is CIA."

"I've heard of it before," said Celestia. "It is the United States's spy agency, correct?"

"The CIA is more than just spies," said Gavel. "Ground Branch is something... special. There are... or there were, rather... many different elite military units that the US had: Army Delta Force, Marine Force Recon, Navy SEALs, Air Force Pararescue... all trained to operate in conditions and do things that would give an Equestrian pony nightmares. Ground Branch recruits from units like those. The hardest of the hardcore. The CIA's private troops."

"I do not like the sound of that," said Luna. Gavel managed a wispy, bitter chuckle.

"There's only a little bit left that I think he can tell us," he said.

The two princesses followed him back into the interrogation room. Gavel fixed the spy with the hardest gaze he could muster, and received only a cool indifference in return.

"You said you're operating in a group named 'Noble.' What is your callsign?" he demanded. "How many of you are there operating in Equestria?"

"Callsign 'Argon,' and as for how many are here, I have no fuckin' clue." He smiled. "For all I know, I could be the only one." His yellow eyes twinkled as he looked to Princess Luna. "I doubt it, though, seeing as you're here talking to me. You have your elements, we have ours."

Gavel took a step back from Carbide Tip. The outed spy sucked on a tooth.

"So," he asked with a casual interest, "when's my execution?"

They left him there in the room. Gavel let out a shaky breath. Inkwell and Pence Pocket grew anxious as soon as they saw how whatever they'd learned had affected the newfoal.

"A Ground-Branch team in Equestria," he breathed. "Jesus Christ." Celestia and Luna stood there silently. They still didn't understand all that well, but the newfoal before them, once a member of the United States government, was visibly shaken. That was enough for the gist of it.

Luna growled and spun to face her assistant.

"Inkwell! Have the royal archivist pull the Conversion Bureau records for all newfoals serving in the Royal Guard. Assemble a team of native Equestrian ponies who have worked at Conversion Bureaus in the past to review the records for inconsistencies. We have to know how many potentially 'transformed' humans we're dealing with here."

Gavel looked to the princesses, worry creasing his face. "Your Royal Highnesses," he said, "you two raise the sun and the moon. You've lived longer than anything else that breathes, and your power is beyond mortal comprehension. I know all of this. So, in light of that, please believe me when I say that you can not handle these guys."