All-American Girl: The Third Law of Motion

Chapters

Dark Start
Orphans of the Fourth Balkan War
Dawn Among the Ruins
Young Love
Authoritarian Rebellion
Justification Noir
In the Legion
Climax on Route 47
Epilogues and Portents
First Contact Riots

Dark Start

His name was Macaroni, though that wasn’t his original name, or maybe it was, and he was too young to remember. His parents had been members of the Weather Underground, though he would never admit it even to them, and he had grown up in the commune called the Bastion. One day, though, his parents told him that they were leaving, changing their names, and that they could never speak of their old lives again.

That was until one fine Unidecimus day when Macaroni’s life would change forever. He was giving the local nerd his daily swirly when his friend came in and told him that he was joining the Guard. They might have left the Weather Underground, but his parents had still been clear that joining in on the Sun Tyrant’s orgy of oppression and suppression was out of the question. So he dropped the nerd into the toilet and tried to convince his friend to reconsider his obviously insane decision.

Macaroni’s friend was adamant, however. He was going to see the world, he said. He was going to snag all the cute mares, he said. He was going to earn money for his education, he said. Nothing could be said to sway him from his path. So instead, Macaroni joined it to make sure his friend was safe.

His parents weeped when he told them what he was doing, as if his death warrant had just been signed. Macaroni wondered if they weren’t right to cry, but he knew that he had to do it. Before he left the house for the final time, he promised to write when he could be certain that his letters would not be intercepted.

Two days later, the pair had arrived at a training camp. Twenty days later, Macaroni found himself without a friend after the bastard had gotten caught in bed with the centurion’s daughter and a pile of salt, but during that time, he had found himself. He had been a lost foal ever since they left the Bastion -- they all had been -- but in the Guard, he found himself part of a greater purpose that in turn gave him meaning. He still didn’t know if it was the right one at that point, but to him, it didn’t matter.

After getting out of training, though, he was flung right into the fray along with the rest of his cohort, purging a changeling outpost on the border, and then another, and another. Each one seemed to blend into the other as the months passed. It was just one big blur of downtime interspersed between some of the most brutal and disgusting events of his life. As a unicorn, he was tasked with casting spells that blew changeling drones apart, or burned them alive, or simply crushed them between two rocks. But sometimes, they got in close, and when that happened, he drew his gladius and slashed and stabbed them, sending blood and ichor everywhere. It was surprisingly calm when it happened, though, and to him, just one more part of the life he loved.

Together with his unit, they formed one purpose until the day the cohort’s leader changed. The old man left the stage, and in his place was a noble pony. Muscle knew what would happen when they made their next attack, and he was right. They were led into a trap, unit cohesion broke down, and it was a massacre. He was sure that he would die that day, but Celestia had been there.

She swooped in from the sky, scorching the earth with power that they could scarcely comprehend. In mere seconds, the battle had been turned and the changelings were in full retreat. The cohort was stunned: some were bowing, some were infatuated, but as for Macaroni, he was disgusted. With his telekinesis, he grabbed a standard and held it high, and with his voice, he bellowed as loud as he could.

“What are you? Cowards? Charge! Charge!”

With that, he started running towards the retreating changelings as fast as he could, not looking back. The changelings were focusing on Celestia, either running away from her or trying to attack, but without any of the coordination of a fighting retreat; whoever was commanding them was in a panic. His sword came out of its scabbard to join the standard in his magical grasp.

He slammed in the changeling line, blood and chitin splattering everywhere as the sword he was carrying lodged itself into one unfortunate drone’s neck. Some of it got in his eyes, and Macaroni found himself tripping over the body of a second changeling while still going at full speed. With disorienting swiftness, he found himself pinwheeling through the air, his hooves cracking against bone and flesh.

He hit the ground with a tumble, rolling along until his body slammed into another. Blinking the dust and blood away, he looked around with tear-filled eyes to find himself surrounded by the retreating swarm. To his eternal surprise, the standard was still in the air above him, held aloft by his telekinetic aura.

Macaroni grunted, digging his hooves into the ground as the swarm pushed past him, emaciated bodies alight with terror. They splashed against him like water, but eventually, they broke. Behind their rushing current was a wave of armored stallions three ranks deep.

The rabble that was the guard had somehow rallied and were now pushing the rout of the changeling forces. Macaroni decided not to waste the opportunity and magically grabbed a naginata off the back of one of the advancing guardsponies. He turned and then rejoined the advance.

He ran to the forefront, and the naginata came down. A drone’s spine fell victim, and again, the air was filled with blood and bisected neurons. This time, he avoided the disorienting arc of fluids and carried on.

This continued time after time until the enemy remembered that they could fly. They flew away, and even as the cheers went up, Macaroni knew his job was done for the moment. It was in the hooves of the pegasi and the Princess now.

He slammed the supporting pole of the standard into the earth. The naginata followed. Then he turned and walked back to find his sword.

A lone unicorn, rippling with muscle, sat on a rock outside of camp, polishing his sword. The dead had been cleared away, defensive positions had been set up, and now, they only had to prepare for the next engagement. For the young stallion, it was infuriating. They should have won this easily, but they were sabotaged from within by some imbecilic noblepony with more connections than sense who thankfully ended up as dead as his plans, and now, their once proud unit was lapping at the hooves of the Sun Tyrant for saving them.

“Frustrated?” a calm, feminine voice asked from behind him.

“Yes, but the maintenance helps,” he replied without turning around. There were hoofsteps, and then suddenly, the Sun Tyrant herself was sitting down in front of him. He didn’t dare meet her eyes.

“I can sympathize with that. A repetitive task that requires some concentration can help refocus the mind. Though, mostly, my days are filled with meetings, public appearances, and other social events, so instead of weapon maintenance, I’ve taken up cooking. I’ve become quite good at it over the years, if I do say so myself,” Celestia bragged falsely, clearly trying to break the ice.

“You performed well out there. It must have felt great to cut loose and get back in the fight instead of mingling all day,” Macaroni replied neutrally, trying to keep himself from screaming inside.

Celestia went quiet and a sad look came over her countenance. “No.”

The stallion's oiled cloth stopped halfway down the blade, his eyes wide with surprise and looked directly at her. “No?” he repeated. “You just smashed those bugs like they were nothing! You’re telling me that you didn’t enjoy destroying their horde?”

“Those poor drones do what they do because they have no choice. That scoundrel Chrysalis crushes their spirits and ensures they’re dead inside for their whole life until all they can do is follow her orders; had they been raised with love and harmony by pony parents . . .” Celestia paused her mournful rant and shook her head. “But it’s too late.”

She then turned her head and looked directly in Macaroni’s eyes. “I want you to remember this; if you remember nothing else, please remember this. We fight them because of who they are, not what they are. Our culture and nation is superior because of our principles and values, not because of any accident of biology. Maybe one day, the changelings will understand this and join us in the light.”

Macaroni stared at her for but a second before a smirk cracked his lips. “You’re not a goddess, are you, Princess?”

Celestia replied with her own smirk, far more mirthful than that of the guardstallion in front of her. “No, and I never claimed to be.”

“Why go on letting ponies believe that then?” he asked with smug curiosity.

Celestia shrugged her wings. “Because I must sacrifice my own personal dignity for the sake of the nation. If believing I am divine brings the nation together, then who am I to stop it? And if it gives the country an edge in diplomacy, so much the better.”

Macaroni’s smirk disappeared and he shook his head. “Why are you telling me these things?”

“To let your guard down so you’ll more easily accept what I have to say,” the white alicorn answered bluntly. “Put simply, that rally you pulled during the battle was impressive but foalish.”

The stallion could feel his anger rising and clamped it down. Celestia dismissed it and continued on.

“Your cutie mark is of a pen and paper. Am I correct in deducing from it that you are a writer?”

“Yes, but I put that away to help a friend.”

“A commendable sentiment.”

Macaroni laughed bitterly. “Not really. He was a bastard, and we’re not friends anymore, but I still stayed in.”

“For the nation?” she asked curiously.

“For myself, but I can’t deny that feeling of . . . I don’t know what to call it. Camaraderie, patriotism, a sense of being part of something bigger? Whatever it is, I didn’t have it before I joined up,” he answered, trying to go back to polishing his sword.

“Have you considered spreading that feeling through your writing when you return to civilian life?”

“You want me out.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“I’m offering you a way out when your enlistment term ends. The Guard’s current mission is almost complete, and it ill needs hotheads who will jump the chain of command as you did, but the nation does need writers who have the courage to unify,” Celestia explained.

Macaroni stopped cold, his magic ceased to function, and his sword clattered to the ground. Ten thousand memories of time discussing politics with his family and life in the Weather Underground flashed through his head. “Something’s happened,” he realized. “Something bad has happened, and you’re trying to cover it up.”

“No, there’s nothing that can cover up what has happened,” Celestia said with finality. “I just don’t feel like explaining it at the moment, but you and everyone else in the world will know what has happened soon enough.”

“Why me?”

Celestia straightened up. “Because I think you and I are a lot alike. You will keep your lips sealed for the good of the nation and sing like a lyrebird for the same, just like I will.” With that, she started to walk away. “Take some time out of the Guard, write your story, be the hero your nation needs you to be, and after a while, if you think you want back into the Guard, sign up again. Or not. It’s your life, after all.”

As she left, the stallion reached down and picked up his sword in a telekinetic field. Somehow, it felt much heavier than before.

Unity. It is time Equestria relearned the meaning of the word. Too many have forgotten what it’s like to be truly unified as a nation, and still others seek to divide us.

The common pony must stand together with their neighbor and let them know that it doesn’t matter what happens, they’re still friends. No noble or corporation or whatever silly thing that is happening in your life should hamper that. For without friendship, what are we?

I’m not saying it’s easy, quite the opposite. Keeping a friend is often one of the hardest things you can do, but you must. If not for yourself or your friend, then for your nation.

Author's Note

Disclaimer: Before anyone says anything, the vast majority of characters involved in this story are what are known as villain protagonists and do not reflect the views of the author or other decent folk. In fact, I’m writing this long before the story is finished after becoming verbally disgusted by the actions of one of the characters, in the process stopping the flow of conversation to go on a rant about how deplorable said character was. Indeed, there are precisely two (perhaps three) characters that I actually think are good people in this story, and it’s got a fairly large cast so make of that what you will. (Originally written October, 2017.)

Missed opportunities with this chapter: the narrative is ultimately only passable at best I feel, since it’s mostly a lot of “tell not show” and is on the whole very short at only six pages long. This was mostly written during that time before mission creep set in where I thought that this would just be a oneshot that didn’t go much beyond 5,000 words, and while later I would go back to this chapter I was sadly unable to find anything more to write about. All that’s needed for the story is spelled out in perfect clarity, even if it isn’t as satisfying as seeing the tale rendered in great detail would be. Still, I’m letting it into the world because “Perfect is the enemy of ‘good enough’” as the old saying goes.

Successes: While I don’t really like the character personally, and it did change over the course of writing, I am happy with the way Muscle Macaroni’s character turned out in terms of writing. This chapter sees the start of his legend, and it’s more messy and awkward then heroic and triumphic. Which is fitting on two ends.

Orphans of the Fourth Balkan War

“How is it that you can get the assignment of a lifetime and yet still turn it into a skating position?” Just News asked from the passenger seat of the Yugo as it rumbled down the streets of a nondescript Serbian town. While he was sure it probably had a name, Serbian was harder to speak than Zebrabwean Swahili to him, even if it rolled off Mac’s tongue like greased fat.

“Says the stallion currently having to take a ride from his friend in order to get to his destination because he doesn’t own a car,” Macaroni reported from the driver’s seat, his horn alight with pale grey energy, same as the pedals.

“You. Own. A. Yugo,” Just said seriously. “I’ve known automobiles exist for precisely two years, and even I know that these things are dog manure.”

“It’s not a Yugo; it’s a Koral,” Mac defended.

“The Koral is the Yugo. You and Zavasta can change the cross-language marketing around all you want; it’s still the same damn car,” Just countered.

“They’ve got character. You've just got to know how to treat them right,” Mac replied, patting the steering wheel of the car.

“You’re delusional,” Just stated as if it was self-evident.

“You’re a brute,” Mac responded in kind.

“I’m a brute? Your last column praised the Greenshirts!”

“Hey, I like results, and they got results.”

“Oh my goddess, will you both shut up?!” Ardent Printer, a red-furred pegasus and wife of Fit Printer, said from the right backseat. “You two have been like this since we left the airport. Is it always like this?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac answered.

“Pretty much,” Just admitted.

Ardent just buried her head in her hooves. From the opposite side of the car, Fair patted her on the withers.

“Don’t worry, dear. I know it seems strange, but these two really do get along well and are some of our best reporters,” the lone earth pony of the group said reassuringly.

“Why did I come here again?” she asked rhetorically.

“Because you wanted to keep your husband safe while he looked for a European newspaper to buy up?” Just replied helpfully.

Ardent just glared at him, leading him to decide that discretion was the better part of valor and that the road in front was really very interesting.

Mac glanced at the GPS mounted in the dashboard. “We should be coming up on our destination. Or a fishery.”

The four-door sedan slowed slightly as its occupants searched around for the place they were going to, or this mythical fishery. After passing a small crater in the road, the vehicle rounded a corner to find a red and grey building with a collection of children playing out front behind an iron bar fence. Mac stopped the car on the side of the street, and the whole group got out, for the first time in hours smelling something other than recycled air -- the ~~Yugo~~ Koral had, for reasons not explained by the previous owner, been sealed against gas attacks.

The harsh smell of fires long extinguished clung to everything like dust in an unopened room, instantly resurrecting memories of their home city to the minds of the Equestriani travelers. The city of Manehattan had, two years later, still not recovered from the riots, and with the flight of significant parts of the city’s population, some were wondering if it ever would. For the three reporters and one artist, they had grown used to the smell, but being inside the car and breathing sterile air for hours had made them forget for a moment what it was. The reminder unconsciously put them in a worse mood.

“It smells like home,” Fit Printer lamented. "Looks like it too."

“So much for the utopia of human ingenuity,” Just News agreed.

“You get used to it,” Mac said cheerily before turning to the pegasus stallion. “We’re here for your story. Might as well get to it.”

The brightly-painted walls couldn’t hide the fact that the orphanage, tucked safely behind its high chain-link fences, looked like a minimum-security prison. It was hard to tell, at first glance, whether the double-layers of razor wire were intended to keep the occupants in or intruders out. It still bore scars from the war, as well. While the children had been evacuated, the building itself had weathered the fighting. One side had used it as a barracks. The other, naturally, had shot at it.

Slightly mismatched bright paint covered the hastily-patched bullet holes. They hadn't even bothered to paint over the cemented-in holes caused by tank shells. The east wing was clearly new construction, the previous occupants of that space having been all but obliterated by a stray shell from a siege howitzer aimed at a target that itself no longer existed.

Like the building, the children were displaying a thin facade of cheerfulness which failed utterly at covering their emotional scars. A gaggle of kids played soccer with a ball that had certainly seen better days, smiles on their faces while they played replaced by thousand-yard-stares when they were not chasing the ball. Other children were off in the corners, their faces huddled close to electronic devices that lit up their faces.

That changed when they started to catch sight of the new arrivals.

With a flap of his wings, Just News jumped over the sidewalk to land in front of the entrance to the building’s fenced in yard. Assuming it would be rude to fly right over the gate, he opted instead to hit the intercom button next to it instead. The children, it seemed, had no such compunctions and were running right up to the gate to look at them, with a few hanging back and most chattering away in what sounded like Serbo-Croatian but which was likely one or the other.

“Who is this?” a female voice asked from the metal box over the intercom button.

“Just News from the Manehattan Beugel with my coworker, boss, and the boss’ wife,” Just reported.

“Thank you, sir. We’ve been expecting you.”

With that, there was a loud click, and the gate swung back slightly, pulled along by the weight of the child hanging off it. With great rapidity, said children began to swarm around them, excitedly asking them questions and shouting out the name of their species and country of origin. Some of them even were speaking broken English, though these were mixed in with assorted other languages and hard to discern.

A dark-haired woman opened the door to the orphanage and ran out, yelling in a manner not at all harsh to the children to step aside. They did so, but at a pace that was only rapid enough for her to graze their shoulders without tripping.

“I’m sorry about the children. They’ve never seen an Equestrian before,” the woman said in accented English.

“Have you?” Mac asked pointedly.

“Well . . . No, but that’s no reason to be rude,” she answered, a fair bit more timidly than before.

“Indeed, miss . . .” Mac trailed off, fishing for an answer.

“Milunka. Milunka Stepanović,” the woman explained.

“Thank you for having us, Miss Stepanović,” Just cut in, far softer in his words than Mac. “My name is Just News. I’m the one who arranged this visit and the interview."

“I don’t mind,” said Ardent Printer with a wide smile as she flew over the children, putting in a little loop as she finished her sentence to the cheers of the crowd.

“She’s always wanted foals,” Fit Printer explained to Stepanović, trying his best to inch towards the door.

Stepanović looked uncertain before her eyes shot open from the flash of a camera. At least three new children were holding up smartphones and taking pictures of the ponies. Their minder shouted something that sounded remarkably like ‘no flash photography.’

“I can see that this is going to take a while,” Mac lamented.

“We’ve got time,” Fit Printer told him.

Half an hour later, the group of ponies had made it inside. There, they were met by the matron of the orphanage whom Just News would be interviewing. She seemed to have been hand-picked to fill the stereotype of an Orthodox nun, some wisps of her gray hair escaping her black habit, a large cross hanging from her neck, and she seemed to have lived a lifetime of being disinclined toward smiling.

The children too young to be given run of the grounds played inside, with some having handmade old toys fashioned from wood; wooden blocks carved with Cyrillic letters or simple wood-and-twine dolls. Other children mirrored so many others of their fellow humans with eyes locked in rapture to the photoactive displays of their handheld computers. They were all watched over by a younger nun whom life had treated somewhat more kindly.

“Are you Just News?” asked the matron, her arms crossed.

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” the pegasus stallion answered in a polite but clipped tone, cap in hand.

The matron gave a thin smile that might have been mistaken for an intense frown. “It’s good to that some from your world actually have some manners.”

“An obfuscation, I assure you. We’re from Manehatten, after all,” Mac broke in jokingly.

Just shot him a glare before turning back to the matron. “Shall we begin the interview then, ma’am?”

“Yes, let's.”

With Just News the one on site to perform the interview, the rest were left to their own devices. Ardent Printer had set up her painting supplies and a canvas for portraits, and Fit Printer was helping her along with that. Mac had decided to pass the time with what he did best: telling stories.

“So there I was, facing down the changeling horde, their shambling bodies just barely buzzing along,” Mac told, pausing for a moment to allow one of the children who understood English to translate. “Now, changelings feed off emotion, and these ones looked like they had been starved their entire lives. Wouldn’t surprise me either. Their leader was a tyrant who stole everything from everyone, and if she had a shred of love in her for a single one of them, I would be shocked.

“The state of them made it a sad affair in retrospect, but at the time, they were trying to kill us, so we did what we had to and slew them. A prospect easier said than done, for there were a great many of them. Many of my comrades felt faint of heart then, but at a crucial moment during a retreat, I took up the banner and changed. I took down a mere forty of them before my compatriots, buoyed by my success, took to the field to back me up. The princess herself arrived after the battle to reward me for my diligence, and it was a grand moment.”

The children were mostly enraptured, those that could speak English anyways, and one was even recording the whole thing on his personal electronic telecommunications device.

“Ah, but I’m probably disturbing you children with what you have no doubt experienced first hand,” Mac admitted.

“Not really. Most of us were stuck in a bunker for the war. They wouldn’t let us do anything or talk to us about anything,” one of the children replied with an accent that was half-Serbian and half-viral video, before then pointing at one of his peers. “Nikica was out there though.”

Mac looked to see a young boy with the thousand yard stare of someone who had lived through the worst fighting a war of the Eurasian continent.

“He doesn’t talk much, no matter how many times we try to bribe him for good stories.”

“Not surprising,” Mac deadpanned.

“How have things managed to get this bad?” Just News asked bluntly.

“To put it simply, we are overworked. There are a mere five of us, and dozens upon dozens of children. We do not have the ability to care for them all,” the matron explained.

“But the sedatives in the formula . . .”

“It keeps them calm, reduces the workload, and conserves our extremely limited resources. We do not have the luxury of full time care. Are the orphanages in Equestria better than us?”

“Not by much,” Just News admitted.

The Matron’s frown grew deeper. “That is . . . extremely disconcerting, considering you are at peace.”

“Orphanages in Equestria have never been the best.”

“A fourth of my sisters were killed by Bosnian einsatzgruppen, and another tenth lost to a Hungarian bomb blowing up the bridge they were on. The building we are in now had to be rebuilt after the Romanians were done with it. If we are able to get close to a major nation’s care with that going on . . .” the matron shook her head.

“It is a cultural blind spot for us, I admit. I’m hoping chronicling orphanages here will get ponies interested enough in the subject that they will take a look at those in their own backyard.”

“God willing, you will be successful.”

“God . . . that’s a subject for another interview. Let’s get back to the subject of adoptions for now.”

“So he was able to get them all out?” Ardent asked as she flew alongside the nun that had greeted them at the gate, her fur now covered in small splotches of paint.

“Yes, I was so very proud of him when I heard the news, I have no doubt that . . . Zivko, don’t bite that bullet!” Milunka shouted at a far off child as she ran away.

Mac trotted up to Ardent and her quiet husband, having just finished his story, and watched the scene.

“Oh, these Serbians seem so brave,” Ardent said appreciatively.

“You know,” Mac whispered besides her, “her brother was probably out killing civilians in their beds not three years ago.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the pegasus mare.

“Just saying,” Mac said neutrally.

“Let's change the subject,” Fit said diplomatically to his coworker and suddenly shell shocked wife.

“To what? Babies?” Mac asked sarcastically.

“Oh, would you like to go to the nursery?” Milunka asked, her left hand holding a 6mm wide metal pellet that was partially covered in saliva.

“Yes!” Ardant said dramatically, ignoring those around her who were disgusted by the sight of the bullet, or more specifically, the stuff covering it. “Let’s go to the nursery.”

The infant nursery was silent as a tomb. Though there were perhaps thirty babies in half as many cribs, there was little to no noise coming from any of them.

“Creepy,” Fit muttered under his breath.

“Should things be so quiet?” Mac asked Milunka. “Babies usually make a lot more noise than this.”

The nun look sorrowful for a moment, then shamed, before finally settling on on neutral. “Sometimes, to keep them calm, we put melatonin in their milk. It’s something our bodies make naturally, so it shouldn’t be too harmful . . .”

“The other times?” he dug deeper.

“Other times, we just don’t get to them in time, and after a while, they stop trying,” she admitted. “We don’t have the people to care for them, and far too few people are willing to become parents. If Sister Petra’s cousin was not the chief of police, I fear we would have child slavers crawling all over this place too.”

“Hey, it’s OK, I’m sure things will get better. We’re newsponies, so we’ll make sure to spread your story far and wide. Hopefully, that will get this place more help,” Mac said with surprising comfort in his tone.

“Thank you, Mister Macaroni. You’re a Godsend,” Milunka replied appreciatively.

“You’re welcome,” Mac replied neutrally, glancing around to find that Ardent had flown off to hover over one of the distant cribs.

Ardent Printer’s eyes grew wide and misty as she looked down into the crib at the two black-haired infants squirming. The male’s eyes locked onto hers, and her heart skipped a beat; they were the same dark brown as her own, but curious like her husband’s. The female latched onto her brother’s arm and tried to use it to shield herself, with those same dark eyes locked somewhere between fear and playfulness, an action that reminded Ardent of her sister when they were young. In that moment, their whole lives flashed before her eyes, and at every major turning point, she saw herself and her husband.

“Fit!” she said excitedly. “Fit! Come over here; I found them.”

“We lost one again?!” Milunka asked in confused horror and frustration over the thunder of hooves reverberating through the wooden floor.

“What's wrong?” Fit Printer asked from his wife’s side after skidding to a stop.

“Everything,” she told him with a gesture with her left wing towards the crib, “and nothing.”

The female seemed to be more shocked than scared at the appearance of Fit alongside his wife, and she tried to reach up to touch his nose. The stallion had a similar reaction to his wife. His whole spirit lightening as he gazed upon the children.

“Sister Stepanović,” he began, turning his head to address the woman besides them. “Ready the papers; we would like to adopt.”

“What?” as the immediate reaction of all the adults present.

Mac turned to Milunka and motioned her away. “Please tend to the filings; I shall talk them down.”

Mac took both of them in his magic and moved them to a corner, speaking in whisper. “Are you two OK? You’re acting rather rashly.”

“Yes, Mac, we’re OK. We’ve just got a certain amount of clarity,” Fit informed him in an equally volumed whisper.

“Clearly, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got from zero to minivan in ten seconds flat.”

Fit blinked at his subordinate’s strange metaphor. “What would you have us do? Just leave them?”

“I’m not doing that,” Ardent said bluntly. “I’m not leaving my little foals in a place like this. Slavers waiting in the wings? Crying that’s never cared for? Melatonin in the milk? Do you have any idea what that does to a growing human?”

Mac for once was caught off guard. “Well, no, but . . .”

“Well, I do,” Ardent said forcefully. “We adopting them, and that’s that.”

“What’s that?” Just News asked, having flown back to meet them.

“They’re going to try and adopt two of the babies,” Mac informed him. “Please tell them that things aren’t that bad here and that they don’t have to drop everything for this.”

“Ah,” Just realized. “Well, things aren’t that bad here . . .”

“Told you.”

“They’re worse.”

“What?!”

“Mac, that interview was terrifying in what passes for normal here. I say get them out. Heck, these women might actually appreciate that most of all,” Just told him righteously.

“It’s settled then,” Ardent said with finality before flying off to the crib where the children she was so enamored with lay.

A short time later, the married couple were sitting in front of the matron in her office.

“Well, there are a dozen things I would like to say about this, but I won’t, because we honestly need the workload reduced as much as possible,” the matron said with the scowl that seemed to be her normal face.

“Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it,” Fit Printer said earnestly.

“Well, you’ve got the spirit down, at least. Truthfully, the fact that you’re Equestrians and the children you’re looking to adopt are from Hercegovina makes this a lot simpler than it normally would be,” the matron informed them, patting with her right hand a stack of papers at least two inches thick.

“Hercegovina? How does that change things?” Ardent asked worriedly.

“The children were left orphaned by a car bomb just two months ago. The only identifying marks of their family showed that they were from Hercegovina, a nation to the south which gained independence during the war. Further investigation by the police showed that they were the last of that family, no relatives. Why they were in Serbia, I cannot say; we don’t even know the children’s names. Because of that, they are without most legal protections afforded to citizens, though that could change in the future. It’s all in their file,” the matron explained, motioning to the thin manilla folder in front of the ponies. “In any case, the very fact that they are Hercegovinans will likely color their interactions with others as they grow older, and not for the better. National loyalties run deep for many. Blood and soil, and all that.”

The two ponies seemed to grow paler at those words, but the pegasus quickly found the courage to speak.

“They have names. We discussed this before. The girl is named Keytone Printer, and the boy is named Brisk Printer.”

The matron quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? Awfully presumptive of you.”

“It’s like my husband said: we’ll do whatever it takes.”

I have been on Human Earth for close to two years now, and yet still, these creatures surprise me. Most times, it’s in good ways, but at other times, it’s in horrific ways. Nothing I’m not used to, being a combat veteran, but it’s unpleasant on the senses and sensibilities.

Another one of those evident cases was made during my recent trip to Serbia with the owners of the Manehattan Beugel and my good friend and fellow reporter, Just News. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the nation of Serbia from the articles I wrote about buying an automobile (I know this, because I still get mail from ponies calling it by the mass market English nickname of Yugo instead of the proper name of Koral), but for those who don’t, I shall do a recap. Do not worry, for it is a short tale.

The Fourth Balkan War was a conflict fought in the south central region of the European continent on Human Earth shortly after first contact. The conflict started as an independence movement in the Vojvodina region that takes up the entirety of northern Serbia, but quickly spread to bring in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Hungary, Kosovo, Macedonia, Bulgaria, and Romania, alongside the regional powers Poland and Russia. The conflict was short, with peace being negotiated soon after it started, and the end result of it was the Vojvodinan rebellion being put down, Bosnia and Hercegovina becoming separate countries, and the formerly extinct nation of Prussia being resurrected as a compromise negotiated by the United States of America between Poland and Russia over the territory of Kaliningrad and the ever growing population of ethnic Prussians fleeing persecution in Germany to there.

The town we visited for Just News’s article (which I recommend everyone read) just so happened to be in Vojvodina, and as such, we got to see the aftermath of the conflict after many months of reconstruction. Remarkably, as long as you avoid falling into the stray bomb crater, it’s not that much different than Manehattan aesthetically, which many ponies will see as a downside. A town is more than its looks though, and here, the rampant crime rate of the region takes its toll, with people being disappeared into a life of slavery just as easily as they are found dead in a ditch. Indeed, it is a sad fact of the situation that the babies upon whom the adoption process has been started for our illustrious editor-in-chief would not have been orphans had their parents not been killed by an unexploded bomb, and the adoption process would not be as smooth as it is without the rules being loosened in an attempt to ease the strain on the system. It is also a sad fact that many children are exploited thanks to the very same reforms meant to help them by making it easier for false adopters to take them away to be sold to slavers and organ traders.

My fellow ponies, this is a wretched situation, and so we must ask ourselves, what can be learned from this? We are not yet in a position to help, but the lesson to be learned from this is clear for our nation. We must not let our own nation fall to disunity and strife, as did the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the nation that fell to create Yugoslavia, the nation which in turn fell to create many of the nations that shed so much blood over petty differences that no one can comprehend, which has thusly led to foals being sold like chattel for their flesh.

Equestria not only can do better, but it must do better. Unity within the state is a must. For if we do not have that, we shall all surely suffer.

Author's Note

Co-author credit: Aiyel

Shortcomings: This was actually the last chapter finished, despite being one of the first chapters started, and I think it shows. The reason why it took so long was because I wanted to have “cute kid” be a thing here, but I was unable to deliver so I asked a friend to do it but their save file was corrupted so that didn’t work either. So I used notes and the few paragraphs my friend was able to recover to cobble something together using my old standbys of banter an exposition to fill in the gaps.

Successes: Speaking of banter, I really did enjoy the interplay between Mac and Just News in this. They’re a joy to write, and it’s a shame I couldn't have spent more time with them. Sadly, the story would lead me down another direction, which perhaps ultimately would be for the better.

Dawn Among the Ruins

“Who’s next?”

“The twins, Keytone Printer the filly and Brisk Printer the colt.”

“Hmm, I don’t want to cause a fuss, but they seem a bit . . . bipedal for foals.”

“Call them whatever suits your tastes in grammar best, but it’s not like the Manehattan School District has the choice to be picky anymore.”

Ardent bristled as she listened in to the conversation between the principal and his secretary, but for what reason, she couldn’t be sure. Was it because of possible tribalism that her precious darlings could face, or because the conversation was yet another unpleasant reminder of how far the city had fallen. Whatever the case, she knew the secretary was right: none of them had the choice to be picky anymore.

The door to the office opened, and out stepped the secretary, a stallion whose diligence in grooming himself had somehow missed the small stain on his tie. “Congratulations are in order, Mrs. Printer; your foals have been accepted into Stately Manners’ School for Gifted Foals. Here’s the onboarding pamphlet; it will include everything they need for when school starts. See to it that everything required of your family is ready by the end of August.”

“Oh, thank you so much, kind sir,” Ardent said outwardly, getting up from her bench to shake his hoof. Oh, sure, put everything on us. What’s a few more cutbacks as long as it keeps you from becoming a public school? she thought inwardly.

“Thank you, Mister!” her six-year-old son chimed in.

“Yeah, thank you!” her daughter parroted in kind.

“You’re all welcome. Here, let me escort you to the door,” the secretary replied politely.

“Thank you. You’re a true gentlestallion,” Ardent said just as politely. “Come along, you two.”

“Coming, Mother,” the twins replied in unison, hopping off the bench to follow the two ponies.

Within minutes of relative silence, the quartet had reached the door, and the secretary was seeing them off. Before they left, Ardent took the opportunity to thank him again. With that final expression of gratitude, the quartet turned into a trio and exited into the warm Sexis air.

June. It’s called June now, Ardent lamented. Because the Princesses just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Suppressing a scowl, Ardent turned to her two foals, or children. Really, the word choice wasn't important; all that mattered was that they were hers, they were Printers. Getting worked up over the small stuff would just lead to tribalism, and they, above all, needed it the least.

Two young black-haired humans looked back at her with dark brown eyes. Keytone had her hair long, secured into a docktail by a blue bow, while Brisk had his mane cut shorter to the neck. Both wore grey woolen formal-wear with hobnailed canvas shoes that, while obviously cheap, still looked quite good on them, if Ardent’s mother senses weren’t being biased.

“You both were great in there,” Ardent told them with the most genuine smile she had had in hours. “Very polite and respectable.”

Her foals matched her smile and loosened up considerably.

“Does that mean we can go get some ice cream now?” Brisk asked excitedly.

“I want to go see Daddy,” Keytone demanded hopefully.

Ardent’s face grew contemplative, and she hmmed audibly. “You know, I think we’ll have time to do both.”

The twins cheered, and Ardent pivoted around to let her foals hop onto her back. They did so, and with a leap, they were off. Off into the bleak skies.

Bleak though they might have been, Ardent wouldn’t trade them for any viable alternative. There were fewer and fewer ponies living in the city with every passing year, and as a result, there were more and more patches of abandoned buildings dotting the landscape, each one hastening the spiral down. Manehattan was becoming a city without hope.

After the riots, some ponies and other species that had been targeted decided to leave, having literally nothing left for them in the city. Others had tried to stay on and rebuild what had been lost, but they too were left with nothing in the end and left, and more people joined them every day. The only people who seemed in no danger of leaving were the poor, the stubborn, and the politicians.

The Printers definitely qualified for the second category, but there were still times when even Fit was doubtful on if they should stick it out or not. After all, there was a reason Ardent carried her foals on her back in the air, instead of walking along the streets like a normal pony. But every time she saw somepony knocked out on salt on some distant street, her mind flashed back to that small village where she first met her foals and where they had no chance of a future, just because they were from Hercegovina instead of Serbia.

“There!” Keytone cheered, pointing to a familiar ice cream shop.

“Good eyes, sweetie!” Ardent replied happily before banking towards the shop.

Half an hour later, the Printer trio was flying up to the offices of the Manehattan Beugel, easily recognizable by the mural that Ardent herself had painted over its front face depicting a mosaic portrait of a many different pictures to form somepony swinging a sledgehammer, the triumph of the working pony of Manehattan over adversity, and as her eyes passed over the street out front, Ardent let out a shocked ‘huh.’

“Is something wrong, Mom?” Brisk asked.

“Nothing’s wrong, honey,” Ardent said as they landed. The twins got off her back, and while she was eager to stretch out after having nearly 90lbs on her spine, she was mindful of the styrofoam container for both her and her husband’s ice cream was hanging on the same neck, and she didn’t want to lose that. “There’s just a Yugo here.”

“What’s a Hugo?” Keytone asked.

“Yugo, sweetie, and it’s a kind of car that precisely one pony in Equestria owns. Which means we have a celebrity on hoof,” Ardent explained as she walked towards the door.

“Is it DJ-P0N3?” Keytone inquired hopefully.

“No, it’s Macaroni; he’s a columnist for our paper and the only thing besides your father’s ingenuity and ambition keeping us afloat,” Ardent informed them as Brisk rushed ahead to open the door for her, something that took a great deal of effort on his part but was adorable.

“So be polite?” Brisk asked with a great deal of strain, not seeming to notice that his mother was propping the door open with her hoof as she jumped over him with her wings, landing on his opposite side and continuing to stop the door with her hoof.

Keytone walked through the door and thanked him. Ardent did the same and then turned to face the secretary watching them, letting go of the door as she did so. Brisk bolted out of the way of the door and into the lobby, stopping only for a moment before strutting along behind his mother and sister like he was the stallion of the house. The secretary who had witnessed this let her barely continued mirth and amusement show on her face after having witnessed the little show the family put on just getting through the front door.

“Wild Mane, where can I find my husband right now?” Ardent asked.

“He’s up in the main office,” Wild Mane -- so named because her hair looked like it had been flattened by a steamroller, and she herself had never been outside the city limits once in her entire life -- chirped happily. “Mister Macaroni is back in town for now, and he’s regaling the office with tales of the human world that didn’t make it into his column. Sigh. I wish I could be there with them.”

Ignoring the verbal sigh from the secretary, Ardent walked past her towards the stairs. “Thank you, Wild Mane.”

The Printer foals mimicked their mother’s words and direction of travel as they followed her up the stairs, amazingly still holding onto their ice cream cones and licking them occasionally. As the trio climbed the stairs, they were eventually able to hear the sounds of rowdy discussion coming from the office; no doubt Just News and Macaroni would be going at it again. Ardent was able to open the door to find herself unsurprised and only a little confused.

"Catalonia's independence has been a hot button issue in Spain, and France, for years now. Now it might cause the Third Spanish Civil War,” Macaroni explained from the chair at his old desk, said chair being surrounded by the rest of the news staff.

"That's--wait, Third Spanish Civil War?! When did they have a second civil war?" Just News asked, hovering in the air above the crowd and looking down on his friend.

"When Catalonia declared independence a little less than twenty years ago."

"Logical, but the Americans keep saying there's been peace in Western Europe since the breakup of the Warsaw Pact in the mid-eighties. Are they lying?"

"Oh, no, the west of Europe had been overflowing with peace, save for a few riots and collapsing governments."

"But you just said there was a Second Spanish Civil War. That's not exactly peace."

"It was less of a war and more of a drunken brawl that was over in a weekend. It's why they think there might need to be Third Spanish Civil War."

"Need? Since when does anyone need a war?"

"There are plenty of reasons you might need a war. Like, for instance, if you're Spanish."

This got an uproarious bout of laughter from the assembled crowd. And while she could have done without the needless tribalism, even Ardent was caught in the moment and chuckled a little at the joke. She tried to focus on picking out her husband in the crowd, but after finding herself unable to opted to just ask.

“Excuse me, but where is my husband?” Ardent asked innocently.

Surprisingly it was Mac that was able to hear her and respond. “He’s in his office, said he needed to finish something up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Macaroni,” Ardent said before trotting around the crowd and through the rows of desks, her son following close on her tail.

Keytone stayed put just a little while longer. “Hello, Mr. Muscle Macaroni! Okay, bye now!” and with that she was off after the rest of her family.

“That name’s just for taxes!” Mac shouted at the retreating form of the filly. He turned his focus to meet the stunned silence of the crowd. “What? I’ve always been jacked?” he said with a shrug.

“Your parents still named you Muscle, dude,” one of the older female reporters said, dumbfounded.

“Take it up with them. So, anyways, ever since Catalonia declared her independence, the Basque Territories have been pushing for their own independence, and the Spanish government hasn’t liked this one bit. Which brings me back to where this story started, bumming a ride with this crazy girl from the French Front Nationale to this town hall so she could meet her boyfriend from Nouveau Centre in what I assumed was a star-crossed lovers story but which was about to get a whole lot weirder. . . .”

Ardent tuned the conversation out as she entered her husband’s office.

“Ardent!” Fit Printer shouted, looking up from the four computer monitors that dominated his desk now. “What are you doing here?”

“Daddy!” the twins shouted in kind, running around her and preempting any response from Ardent . . . for about half a second.

“Kids! Don’t spill the ice cream!” she exclaimed even as the two humans threw their arms around the father. The expected mess never came though, and she had enough presence of mind to shut the door with a kick. “Wait a second, did you two eat all your ice cream on the way here?”

“We’re six,” was Brisk’s succinct reply.

“It was so good! I couldn’t wait to finish it!” Keytone blurted out.

“Ardent, relax, it’s just spilled milk,” Fit said, bringing his foals up into a better position on the office chair.

“I didn’t spill anything,” Ardent said with a smile as she lifted off the ground on columns of beaten air to deposit the styrofoam case on the desk before rapidly ascending again and landing on the floor next to the chair.

“We got into the school!” Brisk exclaimed.

“You did? That’s amazing, you two!” Fit cheered.

“The test was so hard,” Keytone complained, snuggling up closer to her father.

“But you got through it,” Fit reassured her, patting her on the part of her back that was reinforced by the hardened ‘saddle’ of her dress. “All that studying paid off.”

“They got into the best school for foals their age in the city; I’d say that’s quite an achievement,” Ardent said happily before adding something else quietly. “The best school left, anyway.”

Fit grimaced for a split second as his radar-like ears picked up on the statement. One benefit to human children was that their ears weren’t designed to pick up on all those little moments of shame between parents, or maybe the black-haired twins were just too polite to mention anything. He hoped it wasn’t the second one; that was the sort of thing that would come back to bite them later with a therapy bill.

Just as quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone, and Fit’s face returned to a smile. “Well, I’ll just add to this good news fest. We’ll be able to expand the company again soon, which means I should be able to find some extra room in the budget to buy you two something nice as a reward for your achievement.”

“Yea!” Brisk cheered.

“New clothes please,” Keytone requested.

“New clothes?” Ardent asked, surprised.

“These clothes are wool, Mom, and it’s sooooo hot out. I’m dying in this,” Brisk corroborated, shaking his grey jacket for emphasis.

“Well, take your jacket off for now, then,” Ardent said cheekily.

“Or take these,” Fit said before using his back hoofs to open up two drawers on his desk that were filled with spare clothes for the twins. “I prepared for this moment after that incident with the ink.”

“I said I was sorry,” Keytone repeated in an exasperated tone as she and her brother sprung for the drawers to get the clothes.

As their children changed, Ardent offered her husband an ice cream cone from the case. “Well, Fit, here’s to our family’s future; it’s looking pretty bright.”

Fit took the offered cone. “Well then, I better start wearing shades.”

It’s been a decade since the First Contact Riots, and still little has changed. The buildings are still burnt, the shops are still closed, the people are still gone. This is a level of depressive madness I have only seen in the bleakest of Third World nations.

Homecoming is usually supposed to be a happy affair, but for many of us who travel back to Manehattan, it just simply isn’t so. We see the city that we love so much in such disrepair, and it hurts us so. We weep, and we wonder what can be done to change it.

It has become abundantly clear that in order to bring about change in the city, we must bring about change in the leadership. This is the case all over Equestria. I have been on Human-Earth for the majority of the last ten years, and as great as its been, I have longed for my homeland and the opportunity to change it.

I shall be arriving home for good soon, and when I do, I shall be starting something to finally put an end to this. The time for talk is over. We must take direct and forceful action.

We can be the change we want to see in the world; all we have to do is have hope and act.

Author's Note

Missteps: This chapter marks the point where the POV shifted sharply away from Mac, and while this makes perfect sense for how the story is laid out in my head I can not deny that is what is considered a misstep. For good reason this is so. If you’ve spent a good amount of time reading a story, becoming invested in the main character and their struggles, only to have the POV switch to someone else part-way through you would have every right to be angry. How dare the author ruin what you loved about the story, how dare they go and so completely change it, and how dare they think this is OK?! Really, I would not blame anyone if they stopped reading right here.

Successes: For those who stayed on, I have to say that my big success here was getting the dialogue of the children to be at least somewhat passable. It helped that I have relatives who are similar age groups. Still could be better, but perfection is the enemy of good enough.

Young Love

Equestrians! Here is the program of a genuinely Equestriani movement. It is revolutionary because it is anti-dogmatic, strongly innovative, and against prejudice.
For the political problem: We demand:

An abolition of the diarchist system, to be replaced with purely ceremonial roles for the Princesses and active governance managed by a shogunate of reliable military officers.

The end of the backwards nobility.

The formation of a National Council of experts for labor, for industry, for transportation, for the public health, for communications, etc. Selections to be made from the collective professionals or of tradesmen with legislative powers and elected directly to a General Commission with ministerial powers.

The disbandment, by force if necessary, of all political parties and institutions that seek to disbar Equestrians of sterling character from the national experience or the benefits thereof on the basis of tribe, species, or any other factor by which the persons in question cannot control.

The formation of a new constitution based on the above.

For the social problems: We demand:

The quick enactment of a law of the State that sanctions an eight-hour workday for all workers.

A minimum wage.

The participation of workers' representatives in the functions of industry commissions.

To show the same confidence in the labor unions (that prove to be technically and morally worthy) as is given to industry executives or public servants.

The rapid and complete modernization of the railways and of all the transport industries.

A necessary modification of the insurance laws to invalidate the minimum retirement age; we propose to lower it from 65 to 55 years of age.

For the military problem: We demand:

The institution of a national militia with a short period of service for training and exclusively defensive responsibilities.

The nationalization of all the arms and explosives factories.

A national policy intended to peacefully further the Equestriani national culture in the world.

The end of the nation’s dependence on foreign suppliers for her military arms, to replaced by a modern arms industry of Equestriani origin.

The abolishment of entangling alliances which serve no purpose but to tie Equestriani interests to the American colossus, thus freeing the nation to pursue her own ambitions peaceably.

For the financial problem: We demand:

A strong progressive tax on capital that will truly expropriate a portion of all wealth.

The seizure of all the possessions of the noble estates and the abolition of all noble titles, which constitute an enormous liability on the Nation and on the rights of the poor.

The revision of all military contracts and the seizure of 85 percent of the profits therein.

The protection of Equestriani business through trade policies and tariffs to thus allow the nation’s industries to grow and develop without being crushed by multinational corporations.

The institution of a new and advanced welfare system.

It is with this manifesto that we make our name known. Operating in the light and fearless of our fellow Equestrians, unlike our opponents. We proudly proclaim that which we are: the Equestriani Fascist Party.

Dated: June 30, 2043.

Manehattan had not seen any improvement over the preceding decade since the Printers had made their celebration of expansion, but instead, it had settled into a stagnant malaise after falling just a little bit farther. Crime and corruption were endemic to the city of ruins now, and hope was a distant memory. Nevertheless, for ponies who had grown up after the city’s fall from grace, it was normal, and it was home, for they had nothing better to compare it to.

Keytone Printer was not one of those ponies, but she fit the category in all but species. She and her brother had grown up in the city, and so to them, it was the norm of how the worlds worked. Of course, thanks to their family’s position as newsponies, they were were aware that such shining utopias as Los Pegasus and Appleloosa existed, but they also knew that places considerably worse than Manehattan abounded as well.

The end of the school day broke Keytone out of her thoughts of towns in other dimensions with craters for potholes. She might not have been a pony, but she she still had work to do after class, and it wouldn’t do to be tardy. That was another one of the facts of life for those in Manehattan: ponies grew up, got their cutie marks, and followed their special talent into the workforce and right out of the city.

The teacher gave her final thoughts for the day, and then the assembled students were left to their own devices. As Keytone was putting her tablet into her bookbag, a brightly colored gryphon tom got up from his seat across the room and waved her down with a smile, clearly wanting to talk with her. The sound of an organic pump rhythmically pulsing briefly filled the young woman’s ears before she forced it down.

Gabriel Graystone was a sixteen year old gryphon whose family was one of the few who had decided to move to Manehattan instead of away from it. Said family had been in Equestria for generations and could trace their lineage all the way back to the retinue of Princess Gemstone. Gabriel himself was strong, kind, generous, loyal, a great friend to Keytone’s brother Brisk, altogether very honorable, and he had a great sense of humor, just to put the frosting on the beefcake. He was, in other words, the sort of stallion you took home to meet your parents and the object of more than a few young mare’s affections.

Keytone glanced to the side at a lightish-red earth pony filly who gave her an enthusiastic grin as she went out the door. Her friend, Champion Pastry, was clearly encouraging her and giving her the go ahead to pursue whatever it was that Gabriel wanted to talk about. It was a welcome change of pace, since the preceding month, Champ had tried to ask Gabriel out and been rejected.

They met out in the hallway.

“Hey, Keytone, how are you doing?” Gabriel asked nonchalantly.

Keytone raised a single eyebrow. “Not jumping straight to the point?”

“I know you’re not your brother,” he said simply and then gestured down the hall.

Keytone nodded thoughtfully and then turned down the hall, Gabriel walking besides her. “No, I am not, which is strange, because you usually rush out the door to talk to my brother about some nicety of baseball or one of those other sports that you boys like to play in on Herald’s Field.”

“It’s mostly baseball. Which, of course, you know, because you helped us clean up the abandoned lot,” Gabriel pointed out cheerily.

“Yeah, that was a good day,” Keytone said wistfully, blushing as she did so. “I admit that I do not not know as much about the game as perhaps I should, though.”

“Well that’s easily rectified. Just come and watch a few games, I’ll even personally invite you to the game on Saturday,” Gabriel offered with a devil-may-care grin.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Father is so awfully busy at the paper, and I simply must help him,” the teen declared, shaking her raven locks in denial. “To deny him my service when it has already been promised would be unconscionable.”

“That’s an . . . interesting way of putting it, but I get what you’re saying,” Gabriel reasoned, almost befuddled.

Keytone raised her eyebrows at that for about five seconds, until her eyes went wide and blood rushed across the inside of her skin. “Ah, yes, let’s just leave it at that.”

“Leave what at that?” the familiar voice of Brisk Printer asked.

By this point in their walk, they had reached the main entrance for the school, a voluminous room with tall ceilings and a stairway from the second floor that reminded ponies of an old mansion or ballroom. Indeed, the comparison was apt. In days long passed, the building had hosted many events for the young nobility, and after that, it was the staging ground for the scions of the obscenely wealthy. These days, the standards had been lowered to the point where one could get in merely on a heroic lineage or an atypically successful business, but the events continued in smaller fashion, and the entrance hall still stood just as well-to-do as it ever was.

At this time, there were a lot of other students either milling about or just exiting the building, both under the watchful eyes of the teachers. It was in this conglomeration that Brisk stood in watchful vigil over his youngest siblings as the young foals played with each other, the collars on their woolen school uniforms opened slightly to allow better airflow in the increasingly hot days. Celestia’s sun was seen shining outside through the large wood and glass windows on either side of the entryway, and while in the winter months, the light would stream inside in quite dramatic fashion, the summer months instead saw the hall bathed in a strange sort of dark contrast.

The foals playing at Brisk’s feet were just that, young ponies. Shadow Printer was a pegasus filly and the oldest of the new trio, while Benday Printer and Dot Printer were twin colts who were technically the youngest members of the family. All three had been adopted in two separate instances not long after their older human siblings had started school and had become well integrated into the family, and after a rocky start, the humans had become fairly protective of their young brothers and sister.

That protectiveness, in Brisk’s case, also extended to Keytone. So it was no surprise to either her or Gabriel that his tone was fairly aggressive when he addressed them. His sister would never admit it where he could hear, but she found his expression when he got protective both terrifying and utterly adorable. Adorifying was the word Champion Pastry had used to describe it.

“A simple grammar error on my part, brother. Nothing to get upset about,” Keytone explained sweetly.

Brisk’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and he cocked his head towards Gabriel. “She serious, Gabe?”

“I’m afraid so,” Gabriel admitted.

Brisk got a grin of barely controlled mirth and looked about ready to say something until his littlest sister flew up besides his face.

“Keytone’s here. Can we go now?” Shadow asked, her puce eyes widening somewhat in excitement.

“Yes. Let’s get walking,” Brisk replied easily, turning his head toward his airborne sister with a smile.

“Wait, walking? Where’s Mom?” Keytone asked worriedly.

“You didn’t get the text?”

“No, my phone was off for classes.”

“Her transport got delayed at McQuack, and she won’t be able to pick us up for a while. Since Dad’s still in South Mongolia, it was decided that we should just walk home together. One part of the Green Zone to another, and we’ll be together the whole time.”

“That’s good for you, but I’ve got to be at the office in a few minutes. I promised I would send Dad some information on the People’s Democratic Republic of Koguryo, and I can only do that from there. If I go home first before going to work, then I’ll be late.”

“Well, you can’t go to the paper on your own.”

“Of course not, that’s madness.”

It was then that Gabriel interjected. “I can escort her.”

The squabbling siblings paused and turned their heads to him. “Really? You would do that for me, Gabriel?” Keytone asked with a slightly pleading tone.

“Sure,” the gryphon answered easily. “When have I ever let you guys down?”

“Well, there was that time with the hamburger and hay fries,” Brisk answer cheekily.

“Okay, I’ll grant you that, but in my defense, the hospital ponies did need training on the stomach pumps,” Gabe deflected.

“I won’t accept that, but you’re the only person available I trust to escort my sister to her destination, so go ahead,” Brisk relented. “Just remember, I know where you live.”

“Ha ha!” Keytone cheered as she and Gabriel strode away from the academy on a street perpendicular to the road home, her long spindly legs allowing her impressive speed while her brother’s friend flew alongside.

“Well, you seem happy,” Gabe observed with a smile of his own.

“Why should I not? After all, we’ve got to have some time relatively alone,” the young woman said with a gesture at the very few ponies along the sidewalks and the sparse vehicles driving down the road between. Even in the Green Zone, the population hit of the last two decades was noticeable. “And I get to fulfill my duty, with the only worry being some drifter from the Yellow Zone,” she finished.

“Or the Red Zone,” Gabriel theorized.

“Celestia forbid!” Keytone exclaimed. “Anypony who survives out there in that anarchic wasteland is bound to be a character of great ill repute.”

“Or some superhero.”

Keytone paused for a moment in her speech, even as her body kept moving, considering the statement earnestly. “I don’t see the difference in this case. We aren’t seeing anypony being picked up by the police from the Red Zone, which means that the vagabonds there are being killed. That means that what’s going on out there is murderers killing murderers, and you know what the worst part of that is?”

“That nopony cares because the police removed the Red Zone from crime statistics?” Gabe answered without missing a beat.

“Yes!” Keytone replied emphatically. “My father asked some Canterlot noble -- a prince of all things, if memory serves -- if he had anything to say about Manehattan’s high crime rate. He replied that Manehattan’s crime problem was under control and that the city was a model of good urban planning.”

“So they cut apart this city, cook the books, and the city government’s reward is a pat on the head from the nobility?” Gabe said sternly. “Well, they don’t rule this nation; the princesses do. You planning to spread the word about what’s really going on here to get their attention?”

“If not them, maybe us. I mean, take a look around . . .” Keytone said with a sweep of her dominant arm, gesturing to earth ponies and other creatures milling about on old worn streets. “Everypony is always looking for a knight-elemental or some other hero to come and save them, but how are they supposed to rush in here to save the day when we can’t even lift a hoof to save ourselves?”

“Case in point,” Gabe said with a gesture to a poster on a nearby brick building.

It was a striking thing with bold gold and black lines featuring an earth pony rising up to shake free of heavy chains labeled “Made in USA.” One of the pony's hind legs was kicking in the teeth of a red pony sporting a socialist cutie mark that seemed to have been trying to hold him back. Above the pony was an eclipse, and a quote. “Join the EFP” was printed above and below the picture.

“‘Fascism recognizes the real needs that gave rise to socialism and trade-unionism, giving them due weight in the guild or corporative system in which divergent interests are coordinated and harmonized in the unity of the State.’ ~ Benito Mussolini,” Keytone read aloud, pulling back from the wall with an inscrutable expression on her face before continuing along.

“I’m sorry,” Gabe began, flying along behind her. “I know he’s your uncle and everything, but...”

“No, you’re right, he’s turned into a huge jerk,” Keytone interrupted hotly. “You know, that quote he chose for his recruitment poster really says it all. He claims to oppose the Purehooves, but when you read their manifestos, the only things they seem to disagree on is race. Call me crazy, but I don’t want to avoid death just so that I can learn that the government now owns the Manehattan Beugel.”

“... You know, you’re pretty when you’re resolute,” Gabe commented out of the blue.

“What?” Keytone gasped, not breaking her stride per se but stumbling slightly.

“Let’s be honest, Keytone. I’m escorting you on this journey because I have romantic intentions towards you, and you’re going along with it because you have romantic intentions towards me,” Gabriel explained earnestly, beating his wings to fly out in front of Keytone as she walked, his head moving around like it was on a swivel as he did so.

“Well . . . yes. That’s true, I would very much like for you to be my coltfriend, and for me to be your very special someone,” the black-haired young woman admitted.

“I wanted to be the gentlestallion and ask you, but what the heck? I accept,” Gabe said with a devil may care grin.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Close enough for army work, and you know my family’s all about that.”

“I remember.”

“So, now that we have established a baseline, I would like to reiterate that you are a very pretty girl, Keytone. And you know why?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me,” Keytone said with a blush.

“It’s your spirit, your disposition and mind. Humans are extremely expressive, so your inner beauty shines through to your outside,” Gabe explained.

“Well, that is… that is… That is my stop! Right here!” Keytone stammered, pointing at the painted face of the Manehattan Beugel barely 10 meters away.

“Well, will you look at that? Guess it was closer than we thought,” Gabe said wistfully, looking up at the building.

“I’m sorry,” Keytone said out of the blue.

“What?” Gabe snapped his vision back down to see Keytone hiding her face behind black bangs.

“You called me pretty because of what’s inside, and that’s so corny and sweet I could just die, but if I was asked something similar I would reply your wings. I’ve always wanted a pair, ever since I was a little filly riding on my mother’s back, and I can’t help but feel a little envious and covetous whenever I look at your big strong wings,” the girl admitted. “But that’s not real. I’ll never have wings, and putting my desires onto you is just unhealthy.”

“You are are remarkably cognizant of your own failings,” Gabe observed, setting himself down on the ground with his wings and tail extended out to allow him to stand on his rear paws and be level with the human.

“Yes, but I’m also aware that this,” Keytone began, taking the gryphon’s talons in her hands, “is real, and it isn’t unhealthy. I have no idea what the future might hold, but right now, I want to face it with you.”

Then, before Gabe could reply, Keytone closed her eyes and bumped her nose into the tip of Gabe’s beak. She then let go and quickly moved away.

“I know humans don’t normally show affection like that, but I was raised by ponies! Please don’t think I’m a whore!” Keytone said cheerily with great alacrity as she bounded into the building.

Gabe stared at the doors that Keytone had disappeared behind for a few seconds before dropping back down onto fours. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I think that went better than I could have hoped,” the gryphon said before taking flight.

“You booped his snoot?!” Shadow gasped later on that night as the Printer family sat around for dinner.

“Could you please not describe it like that?” Keytone asked, her face blushing furiously as she tried to distract herself by stabbing her fork into what looked vaguely like meat but must not have been, because the ponies in the room were eating it with aplomb.

“But that’s what you did! You booped him right in the snoot!” Shadow declared with the firm certainty her young age brought her.

“It’s called an Eskimo kiss, and it's perfectly normal,” Keytone explained emphatically.

“Fillies, don't fight, it's unladylike,” Ardent told them sternly. “Now, Keytone, what did you tell Gabriel that put you into such an emotional state?”

Keytone’s blush deepened slightly, this time in shame, but before she could say anything, Brisk interrupted. “Can I just say that I am amazed your first coltfrend was the one guy in the worlds I wouldn't first think to kick the butt of?”

“Don’t interrupt, Brisk,” Ardent chastised her son. “Though he does bring up a good point that this is surprising. I would have thought you put off by Gabriel's want to join the military -- just like his father before him, and his father before him, and so forth -- given how much you were going on about that non-aggression principle.”

“It’s not a violation of the NAP to not be a jerk to military personnel!” Keytone defended hotly, her face by now glowing red. “Besides, Gabriel is different from anypony I know. He’s kind, generous, loyal, honest, funny, a great friend to everypony, and generally a good sort. He’s everything I could want, and he wants me. What more could I want?”

After finishing her speech she went back to eating her food, but not before muttering a continuation. “Not to mention that all the ponies I know think I stink.”

“We don’t think you stink, big sister,” Benday said helpfully.

“We’re her brothers; we don’t count,” Brisk supplied helpfully as Keytone just tried to eat her food.

“Since when?” Benday shot back.

“We’re talking about Keytone becoming the Deirdre Lear to Gabe’s Kai Allard-Liao. Do you really want to count for that situation?” Brisk asked.

“What?” Benday said flatly.

“I count for a Kirghiz, right?!” Dot asked excitedly.

“Hundred ton Clan OmniFighter?” Brisk asked rhetorically, looking his younger brother up and down and finding that he was still a rather average sized earth pony foal. “Yeah, I can see it.”

The conversation drifted even further away from where it started as dinner continued, which suited Brisk just fine. It was his duty to protect his sister, after all. He would get an answer out of her later, no matter how long it took.

“It was the wing thing again, wasn’t it?”

Keytone stiffened a little, startled, as the two of them stood in the hallway outside the bathroom. They were switching out use of the shower as, of course, the last members of the family to wash up for the night. This meant that they were wearing only towels, and the burning frustration and annoyance that only family could induce.

“Got it in one,” the girl whispered in reply.

“That isn’t good, sis. I don’t want you to get hurt, but Gabe’s still my best friend, and I don’t want him hurt either,” Brisk sighed quietly.

“I don’t plan on hurting him,” Keytone insisted, keeping her voice low.

“Nopony plans on these things, sis; they just happen.”

Keytone turned her head to look him in the eyes, her own narrowing. “You don’t have any experience on that matter, brother. You’ve rejected everypony that has attempted to engage you romantically before even giving them a chance.”

“Not my intention, but it does prove my point,” Brisk noted.

Keytone let out an exasperated sigh in response. “Duly noted, brother. I will be careful not to make this situation any more awkward for you than it already is.”

“Safety, I was going for safety,” Brisk mumbled as he opened the door to the bathroom.

“Tact isn’t your strong suit, brother,” Keytone reminded him as the door closed.

Brisk kept quiet as he went about his nightly ablutions. His sister was, of course, right. He always had been a bit of a hot head, but he was trying to work on fixing that. The problem, from his perspective anyway, was that everypony else just kept getting into trouble, and he had to pull their flanks out of the fire, not that he minded.

As he stepped into the shower, a thought struck him. Keytone had gotten a coltfriend, his own best friend, maybe it was time he did the same? Perhaps his sister's best friend to add symmetry to their relationship?

Just as soon as the thought struck him, though, it was dismissed prima facia. Champion Pastry was a nice young mare, but that’s all she was. Indeed, upon further examination, he found that he could not think of anypony he could imagine himself with romantically. There was just too much to do in his life at that time, and the future held too many unknowns.

The case for that was made abundantly clear just a few seconds later when Brisk found himself scrawling a picture into the condensation covered side of the shower. He looked at the relatively thin, finger formed lines and smiled. Wasting no further time, he finished washing as fast as possible and leapt out of the shower to dry with great aplomb.

In his rush to get back to his own bedroom, he only briefly remembered not to slam the open the door for fear of waking his brothers. In like Flynn, he soon went about his business. Snug in his bed, that business was found in his sketchbook, a thick binder full of paper pages covered in multicolored pictures in various stages of completion.

He chose his H pencil and began working. His hand moved lightly and carefully to lay the framework he saw in his mind’s eye just a few minutes prior. With all the rapidity due from excitement, Brisk made good on his name and quickly finished the foundation. He then switched to a darker pencil and gave the picture definition.

When he thought himself done, he laid down his implement and looked to his left. His brothers were still asleep in their bunk bed, Benday and Dot having grown accustomed to their older sibling's bouts of nighttime inspiration. He smiled at their youthful slumber and then turned back to his work.

The picture wound up being a winged human female rising up from a dark valley. Her wings were outstretched to catch the rays of a bright sun that shown behind her, in the picture’s upper right. Her face expressed nothing but joy and elation, and her arms were outstretched likewise.

It was, he decided, a perfectly adequate picture. It was certainly a good basis to build off of, but he could see a few flaws that others could point out. Perhaps foremost of them was that the figure in the picture was nude, but that was only a problem thanks to the dominant American image hosting sites having strange standards about nudity.

That was a problem for tomorrow, though, for that night there was only sleep.

The next day found Brisk and Gabe walking together through the city, on their way to the local party store. Indeed, some said that it was the last party store left in the whole city.

“How long has it been since we’ve done something like this?” Brisk asked.

“Oh, since your birthday, if I remember right,” Gabe answered.

“That long? And it’s a welcome home party for my dad on tomorrow of all days that breaks the months-long streak of nothing. Huh, do you think it’s strange that we’re not celebrating that much?” the human mused.

“Not particularly. After all, this is neither Ponyville nor Canterlot, and I’m not the Element of Laughter.”

Brisk paused long enough to confirm that his gryphon friend still looked like he was ripped straight from an old Royal Guard recruitment poster, albeit sans the trademarked gold-colored armor and the single red feather under the right eye that his grandfather could never get rid of and the artist decided to leave in. “Clearly,” he deadpanned.

“Hey now, just because I don’t look the part doesn’t mean I don't know how to throw a real humdinger of a hoedown!” Gabe said with a fake accent and an arm swing. At Brisk’s embarrassed expression, the gryphon relented. “Okay, so I can’t do an accent, but at least I know the way to the store where we can get supplies for your dad’s welcome home party. Who else could could do that?”

“Any search engine, online retailer, or 3D printer,” Brisk answered without missing a beat.

“Ah, but could any of those things be as good a conversationalist as me?” Gabe countered

“If they have an AI. At the very least, I could tell them not to take me by this sorry place,” Brisk complained with a gesture towards the burnt building covered in tarps and scaffolding they were passing at that moment.

“'Engaging Night’s Midtown Art Gallery, coming back April, 2039.’ Well, they’re six years too late there,” Gabe read aloud as he looked at the bleached sign hanging from the wooden barricade surrounding the dilapidated building.

“More like eighteen,” Brisk commented. “This place was hit during the First Contact Riots, and they still haven't repaired it.”

“Common story for half the city there. So what's the difference with this one?” Gabe asked curiously.

“My mom’s got some pieces in there. I’ve never seen them. Heck, I don't even know if they're still in one piece, or even legible,” the human lamented.

“Planning a break in?” Gabe asked.

“. . . What?”

“I’m just saying that, since no one cares . . .”

Gabe stopped mid-sentence as a loud pop split the air. Every other pedestrian on the street paused for a brief moment too, then they went back to what they were doing before. The pop was quickly forgotten by most.

“Car backfire, got to be,” Brisk said conversationally.

“No, that was a gunshot,” Gabe replied.

“How can you tell?”

“The echo’s different. You got to listen for that.”

“Fair enough . . . We should get going.”

“Of course.” Gabe said.

The gryphon and human resumed their route, once again walking along the street towards their destination. It would be a few more minutes before they reached it. No sense dallying more than they already had.

“So I got another application for the team today,” Gabe started.

“Oh, who was it?” Brisk asked.

“Shooting Star; he’s got an incredible fastball,” Gabe explained.

“Maybe, but is it going to be enough to beat Tartarus Flames High next week?”

“No, but we’ve got enough good players already to carry the day. He’s going to be great in time, I know it.”

The pair turned the corner, finally bringing the party store in view.

“Well, end of the road, for you maybe,” Gabe commented.

“Planning to bump me off?” Brisk asked somewhat seriously.

“No, I’m being literal,” Gabe replied, pointing to the far end of the street where, at the opposite intersection, the green dividing line met a freshly painted yellow line. Traffic, of course, now refused to go down that quarter of the intersection on either car or foot. This was highlighted by the ponies traveling across three crosswalks in a gigantic arc rather than going across the one sidewalk that crossed over the road with the yellow dividing line.

“Well, that’s depressing,” Brisk sighed, unconsciously checking to make sure the pepper spray canister stored inside his coat was still there. “Expected, but depressing. At least the party store isn’t in the Yellow Zone yet.”

“I guess the 30% Green Zone, 50% Yellow Zone, 20% Red Zone number is official now then,” Gabe lamented.

“I guess so . . .Listen, Gabe. We’re friends, best friends, known each other for years, right?” Brisk asked strangely when they were but ten meters from the store.

“Yes, that’s already been established,” Gabe replied, acknowledging the obvious.

“Good, but with all that said, I just wanted to let you know that if you ever hurt my sister, I’ll beat you to death with a shovel,” Brisk threatened casually.

“Would never think of it, but just so we’re clear, which sister? Twin sister?” Gabe asked curiously.

“Twin sister,” Brisk clarified.

“OK, good. Because you know you’ve given me this speech before right? And that you have more than one sister?” Gabe inquired.

“I know, but it’s relating to your romantic relationship now.”

“Thought so. Just wanted to be clear there, though.”

“Perfectly understandable. It is an important issue.”

“Shall we get the supplies now?”

“Oh, assuredly, dear friend.”

After the party supplies had been delivered, Gabe decided to make like most good prospective male companions and take his girlfriend to an ice cream shop. It was an event that, for two people so notable in the community, received much notice. While most was praise, the law of large numbers dictated that not all would be so.

“Observe, Comrade. What do you see?” an earth pony mare wearing a red bandana asked of her friend as they sat at a table at an outdoor cafe across the street from the popular frozen dessert establishment.

“Bourgeois, capitalists, and capitalist-bourgeois, comrade,” her unicorn mare companion, wearing a red foreleg band, replied.

The earth pony’s face became flat. “Yes, this is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. What else do you see?”

“Oh, well, there’s ponies walking together and eating together and . . .” Foreleg Band said before her face contorted with disgust. “Hurk!”

“Hold it in, comrade,” Bandana ordered.

“But it’s a baby-snatcher and a stick kissing!” Foreleg Band hissed. “With their noses! In public!”

“Yes, comrade, now you see the true disgusting form of the upper crust, and that the race struggle and the class struggle are inexorably linked,” Bandana explained.

“Oh, my classless society! She just booped his snoot, in public!”

“Please focus,” Bandana pleaded. “And don’t call it that.”

“Sorry,” Foreleg Band said, snapping her around to look at the mare across the table from her. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that the class struggle and the race struggle can not be separated. That just as we struggle to overthrow the princesses, we must struggle to do away with the other species. That just as a war between the species over land and even the very ability to reproduce is a scientific truth and inevitable conclusion, so too is the class war where the proletariat overthrows the nobles and merchants a . . . Hey, are you listening?”

Foreleg Band had gone back to watching the gryphon male and human female on the date, her head not evening turning to look at her companion this time. “I’m sorry, it’s just that they’ve started eating out of the same bowl and . . . Oh, by the glorious flanks of the working pony, he’s booping her snoot now too? That’s disgusting! I have to go to the water closet now!”

As Foreleg Band rushed away from the table, Bandana slammed her face into the table in frustration. “Ugh, why do I even bother?” she cursed before her eyes shot open, and she turned her head to find a waitress staring at her with wide, and enthusiastic, eyes. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough, and I totally agree with you about the class/species intersection,” the waitress said quietly but cheerfully.

“Ah! Finally, somepony gets it!” Bandana cheered.

“And I really think that somepony should go teach those degenerate Printers a lesson.”

Bandana’s head hit the table again.

“I’ll bring it up at the next meeting,” she relented.

“Yay!”

“So do you have a fillyfriend?” Fit asked of his son as he sat down besides him.

They were at the party, and everyone was getting down with their bad selves to the beat of Strummin’ Bass’s Grooving Orchestra. Emphasis on bad in Gabriel’s case, for while the gryphon had many talents, dancing was not one of them. Keytone didn't seem mind though, as she was laughing and dancing right alongside him, in spite of the tangle of limbs that the studio floor had devolved into.

Brisk himself had decided to sit the song out after a close encounter of the unpleasant kind with Champion Pastry. It might have been an embarrassing spot to be in during a party, but it was certainly less painful than the alternative. His father had at the very least found it convenient for conversation.

“No, sir,” Brisk answered neutrally, not having to bend his neck much at all to meet his father's eyes while they were both sitting in chairs.

“Eh, give it time. I was the same way when I was your age. Always had something to do, always had to be there for my family, and never had any time for romance,” Fit assured his son.

“You once told me you were a coward before us," -- Brisk frowned -- "so does that mean . . . ?”

“Oh no!" his father cut him off. "That wasn’t what I was calling you at all.”

“You used those exact words though, coward.”

“Word, singular. And I was just being hard on myself. Even if you are more assertive than I was at your age.”

“Ah . . . So, what changed then?”

“Not much; I just wasn’t very good at it before. You learn to get good at what you do fast when you have a family. Not that I saw myself having a family way back then. Before I met your mother, I never would have thought myself to be able to do things that I do, raising you and your siblings most of all,” Fit said wistfully.

“If it's any consolation, I think you're you’re the best dad I've ever known,” Brisk said appreciatively.

“I'm the only dad you've ever known,” Fit reminded his son.

“Not true, sir. I've known plenty of other dads, and I wouldn't have wanted to be adopted by any other than you,” Brisk affirmed with a steady voice.

“Shucks. You really know how to make your old man feel welcome,” Fit said with a chuckle, wrapping a foreleg around his son.

The brief moment was broken by the father reminding his son of some unpleasant truths.

“The world is changing, son, and I just want you to know that, should anything happen to us, Just News is still your godfather. That means you go to him when we kick the bucket, assuming we do so before you hit your 18th birthday. If it happens after, you're to go meet him all the same,” Fit informed him.

“Why not Uncle Mac?” Brisk asked him curiously.

“Mac is never around in a place you can find him. Better to go with the pony that you always know about than the guy who spends half his life in the shadows,” Fit explained.

“Do you think something bad is going to happen, sir?” Brisk asked.

“Maybe, the world is changing. Just today, I got the two letters. One of them was a demand that I disown you and Keytone. The other was a demand for me to muzzle my daughter and to contain her to her quarters for such gross displays of inter-species affection. I, of course, denied both, but it's another sign that groups like the Purehooves are growing in power, and that worries me,” Fit said, shaking his head. “That's why I want you, Keytone, Shadow, Benday, and Dot to all understand what to do in case of an emergency. Because if the country is lost, that's terrible, but if I lose you, I don't know what I would do.”

“In this scenario, you would be dead,” Brisk pointed out.

Fit sighed in befuddlement at his son's words.

The pair were interrupted from further conversation by Champion Pastry approaching them with two pieces of cake sitting on her back. “Mr. Printer, I just wanted to say, welcome back to Manehattan; we've all missed you here. And Brisk, I'm real sorry about what happened on the dance floor,” the blue earth pony mare said remorsefully.

“Don't worry about it, Champion. It was an honest mistake that anyone can make,” Brisk assured her with the wave of his hand.

“We will take that cake though,” Fit said cheerfully.

Champion offered them the plates on her back. They took them, and she went back to the rest of the party. When she was safely out of hearing range, Fit leaned over to his son. “Legs still hurt?”

“Oh, they're killing me. I'm going to be walking with a limp for the next few days,” Brisk admitted with humor.

Brisk's prediction turned out to be correct, as by the time school was letting out for the final time before summer vacation just a few days later, he was indeed still walking strange.

“I’m still really sorry about what happened, Brisk,” Champion apologized for what must have been the twentieth time since the party.

Brisk’s only reply was a low growl.

“Champion, at this point, the bruising has gone mostly away, and the swelling is soon to follow. Just stop apologizing for the same thing over and over again. That will get him to lighten up,” Keytone informed her, making Brisk grunt in affirmation. “See?”

“Oh, I guess I should stop with the apology cakes too,” Champion said shamefully.

“She didn't say that!” Dot declared, the three siblings walking alongside the four friends on the way to meet their mother.

“Yeah! Stop putting words in Keytone's mouth!” Shadow agreed.

“We are getting a bit fat here,” Brisk said.

“You are delirious with pain!” Benday shouted.

A bout of laughter erupted from Gabriel as he watched the proceedings. “You guys should go on tour with this act.”

“I assure you that this is no act,” Brisk said with overdramatic calm. “If it was, it would have more pies.”

There was a snorted laugh from up above, and group of seven looked up to see Ardent Printer with a large passenger cart strapped to her mid-section. She had, somehow, managed to sneak up on them.

“Hi, Mom!” five of the group cheered, with slight variations.

Ardent waved her hoof and then descended, bringing the cart to a gentle rest on the ground. “Hi, kids!” she cheered in kind. “How is everyone today?”

The answers she got were a mixture of acknowledgements in the positive.

“Say, Mom,” Keytone began, “you look like you’re working really hard to pull that cart. Why not let me just walk to the paper, and Gabriel can escort me?”

Ardent looked put off for a moment, but then a sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, yes, dear, that sounds lovely. You two go right along then. You do have protection, though, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Keytone and Gabriel said in unison, pulling aside their uniform jackets to reveal holsters with spray cans full of irritants inside. Ardent was obviously pleased at the sight.

“You’ve never shown signs of strain before, Mother. Has something happened?” Brisk asked worriedly.

“Brisk, it’s a pretense,” Champion Pastry hissed.

“What’s a presense?” Shadow asked.

“Didn’t she say presence?” Benday asked.

“No, honey, nothing has happened. It’s just that I could use some lighter work today. In fact, removing the weight of one human female should be just what I need,” Ardent explained with a wink.

“. . . Oh! Oh, yes, that should be something of an easy fix then,” Brisk replied quickly. “Well then, we should be off!”

Brisk reached down and picked Benday and Dot into his arms, bringing them into the cart before he too leapt in. Shadow merely launched herself into the cart with a burst of kinetic energy from the feathered wings on back. They buckled themselves in and waved goodbye before their mother and the cart attached to her took off.

Gabriel, Keytone, and Champion waved goodbye to them as well, but soon, they were out of sight, flying over the building tops. With the family gone, the gryphon and human filly took their leave as well, walking out of the parking lot and into the streets. That left only the lightish-red earth pony, alone with distant strangers and her thoughts.

“I hope my mom is OK,” she said absently to herself, “and not, you know, murdered in her car or something.”

“Oh I hate it when that happens,” a random earth pony colt agreed from what must have been five meters away.

Champion Pastry just rolled her eyes at the black joke.

“So, you’re still planning to join the military?” Keytone asked as she and Gabe traveled down the street.

“Yes, are you planning to stop me?” Gabe answered seriously.

“No. I don’t like killing, but having weapons and using them are two completely different things. Besides, I don’t think that peace is going away anytime soon, thanks to the grand American umbrella of NATO, even the BRICKS nations exist under that umbrella and have no wish to upset it,” the black-maned girl mused logically.

“Yeah, peace and stability looks pretty invincible for Equestria now. Nothing but small scale conflicts and posturing from here on out,” Gabe said semi-sarcastically.

“You don’t believe it will last?” Keytone asked.

“No, I don’t. I can’t explain it, but I just know that war is coming,” Gabriel said with a shake of his head. “When it does come, I want to make sure you’re safe, and then I want to end it as quickly as possible to keep you that way.”

“By killing?” Keytone inquired pointedly.

“Perhaps, or more likely, by finding some sort of magic artifact or making a new friend to make whatever is causing the war go away,” Gabe replied with good cheer. “After all, this is Equestria, and friendship is magic here.”

Keytone laughed. “That is an odd little quirk of our history, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Gabe said with a laugh of his own. “Listen, Keytone Printer, if I could be so bold, I love you, and as soon as we finish school . . .”

Gabriel never got to finish his sentence. Out of the blue, a simple steel pipe rushed towards him, one end cloaked in an aura of blue energy. It hit the back of his neck with a bang like a gong, punctuated by the sickening crack.

The couple was barely able to scream before a second pipe came in and hit Keytone in the shins. She hit the concrete of the sidewalk with a terrible cry, blood spraying everywhere. Her uniform skirt darkened with blood, and what could be seen beneath took an odd and unnatural shape.

Out of the shadows of a nearby alleyway, six ponies emerged, two unicorns and four earth ponies, all dressed head to hoof in red hooded tracksuits with balaclavas pulled over their muzzles. They surrounded the fallen couple and brandished knives and clubs.

Incredibly, Gabriel was still able to move and tried to swipe at one of them with his claws. The red-clad thug jumped back, and one of his companions repaid the heroic gryphon for his trouble with a slash by a large knife across his face.

“Get away from him, you bastards!” Keytone managed to scream out. She was rewarded for her trouble by the same pipe that had broken her legs hitting her in the chin. The pain, or anything else, didn’t seem to register for her.

The next blows came too fast and too furiously for either of them to contemplate, metal-shod hooves joining in the frenzy alongside blade and club. It seemed like every bone in their bodies was being broken, and of course, there was blood everywhere, but these were merely guesses on the part of their addled minds.

The red-clad thugs did not seem fazed by it at all. The red of the blood and the red of their clothes blended in well together. Strangely, it made them seem as if they had merely run through the rain rather than what was actually happening.

There was another crack and a splatter, and for some reason, Keytone felt some great pain in her chest. Academically, it didn’t make much sense for her, since so far, the blows had been coming down from above. Though maybe she could have been turned over once or twice that she didn’t know about?

Why was she on the ground again?

One of the unicorns growled at his companion. “Idiot!” he cursed. “You overstepped, and now it will have to be the girl who delivers the message.”

He turned to face Keytone, giving her a view of his upper face, which unlike everything else, was rendered in perfect clarity that burned itself into her memory like a brand. His fur was blue, and his right eye was covered by an eye patch as black as the heart of Nightmare Moon. His left eye was red and stared at her with a hatred she didn’t think any creatures were capable of.

“This is what happens to liars and race mixers who stand in the way of the working pony’s revolution,” he said simply before rushing off with his companies.

. . . Are those sirens?

Author's Note

Missteps: I can not into romance. It is one human emotion that I simply cannot grasp in any meaningful respect. Thus, writing this chapter was like squeezing stomach acid from a stone, and it took quite some time to write it. It seemed like nothing would get done until it was suggested that I switch the focus to Brisk, so that the story would be about someone reacting to romance instead of someone actually engaging with a romantic venture. Things worked out at least possibly in the end.

Successes: I was able to simply get this chapter done without screwing it up too much. Sometimes survival is its own reward, so to speak.

Authoritarian Rebellion

Equestria! We have grown muchly over these past years. Indeed, we have grown to rival even the great old nations of the Eurasian continent, but it has come at a terrible cost. That cost, my friends, is our independence in the industrial and military fields.

Instead of relying on our own developments, we have taken them from the Yankee. His armaments are our armaments, his interests are our interests, his economy is our economy, and whenever those change in Washington, the government in Canterlot leap to match. We have become a satellite state to the US, and we have not a single American to blame. They offered charity, but it is we who took it and became dependent on it, making for grand consequences should they ever revoke that charity for whatever reason their flighty democracy has enter their heads.

Living financially and economically on American charity, selling up the house to the Yanks when he won't pay any more charity out. Are you content to be occupied and protected by American aeroplanes? Are you content to be in the position of an old mare, gypped by her young relations? You who were the greatest power on Earth fifty years ago, and still can be! Why do I say, 'you still can be'? Because, my friends, I know you, I know the Equestriani people! I know that twice in my lifetime, in the war I fought in, in the war the Elements fought in, we the Equestriani have put forth our effort, our energy of valor, of heroism, unequalled in the history of the universe.

It is for that reason that, here in Manehatten, in Trottingham, and in other cities across Equestria, the Fascist movement is taking ground. We remember what it is to be part of this nation and all the great things that we have done. We also remember that this great land needs protection that is all its own.

Sadly, in this day and age, it simply isn’t just a matter of making some grand speeches to rally the population. It requires direct action. And that’s what the Fascist Legions, the Goldshirts, are for. They shall affect direct change in the community to counteract the rot of tribalism and to help all Equestriani who need it to further the bonds of friendship between them.

Together in Equestria, we have lit a flame that the ages shall not extinguish. Guard that sacred flame, my brother Goldshirts, until it illuminates Equestria and lights again the paths of sapientry.

“Where is she?! Where is my sister?!” Brisk Printer roared as he ran up to the front desk of Charity Kindheart Memorial Hospital, still clad in his painter’s overalls.

The earth pony receptionist didn’t seem phased and tried to placate the clearly distraught human who was easily twice her size. “Easy now, sir. Now, does your little sister have a name?”

Brisk let out several ragged breaths before replying, his voice more worry than panic now. “Keytone. Keytone Printer. I’m her brother, Brisk.”

“And I’m her mother, Ardent Printer,” the self-introduced pegasus explained as she came in with three foals in tow. “They’re all mine too.”

The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly before she refocused herself on the screen in front of her. “Right. That should be enough information. . . . There. She’s in surgery right now with visiting MD Dr. Silver Sutures. Her father -- your father -- is already in Waiting Room 3. Place your smartphone on the grey pad in front of me to download the directory.”

Brisk did so, and as soon as there was a confirmation beep, he was off at an impressive gallop, despite his shortage of legs.

“Make sure to give him his ID band when you catch up,” the receptionist told Ardent as she handed off a bundle of five white bands to her.

The atmosphere inside Waiting Room 3 was so tense that it could be cut with a knife, and as he shifted and paced about, Brisk looked ready to do just that. Lack of a knife notwithstanding.

“Son, sit yourself down and try to remain calm,” Fit ordered him.

Brisk snapped around like a black mamba to meet his father’s gaze, his brown eyes burning with a rage that made his younger siblings shrink back in fear.

“My best friend is dead,” he growled, his voice seeming to hitch at the last word. “My sister might soon follow him. Why should I be calm?!”

His voice was a broken scream, making his siblings retreat even further. Ardent, for her part, just looked heartbroken and full of pity. Fit did not flinch away from his son’s gaze and instead held it, his own bright eyes boring into his son’s dark orbs like a pair of lasers.

“We can’t do anything right now. Keytone is in the hooves of the best surgeon in Equestria and in the best trauma ward in the country. All we can do is wait, and you scaring your siblings like you are isn’t going to help anything,” Fit said firmly as he continued to hold his son’s gaze until the boy flinched away.

Brisk fell down into the chair behind him like a puppet with its strings cut. “It’s been hours,” he moaned morosely. “Why hasn’t anyone come in and told us anything?”

“They probably just don’t want to say anything before it’s done, to make sure they don’t worry us,” Fit reasoned.

Brisk felt like making a snide comment about them not accomplishing that goal but glanced at his father and decided to hold back, shame displacing his anger. Here his dad was, the stallion of the house, and him the unstable one. His dad had been at the scene of the attack and had watched Keytone being loaded into the ambulance; he more than any of them had cause to be upset, but instead, he stayed as calm as a mountain stone. Brisk resolved to follow his example.

“Shadow, Benday, Dot?” Brisk addressed his siblings. “I’m sorry if I scared you, it’s just . . .”

He paused, as if searching for the right words. Shadow filled them in for him. “It’s okay, big brother. We’re all worried about Keytone.”

He looked at the graphene-furred pegasus filly for a moment for moment before nodding.

The waiting room descended into a tomb-like quiet after that, nopony finding anything they could say to improve things. It continued on like that for so long that time as well as sound seemed to lose all meaning. A knock at the hallway door cleared their minds like the gentle bump of a thunderclap. The clock said that only half an hour had passed.

The door opened, and in walked a slightly pudgy, green-furred earth pony stallion wearing a police uniform with the stench of tobacco smoke following him around like a miasma.

“Alright, which one of ya is Fit Printer?” he asked, seemingly bored with the very act of breathing.

Fit got up from his chair and walked in front of the police officer, the eyes of the whole family upon him. “I’m Fit Printer.”

“Right, so I’m supposed to get your statement on the stick and birdbrain that got whacked out on 54th street. Just tell me what you saw, and we’ll have this over in a jiff,” the police officer said, pulling a pencil and notepad out of one of his coat pockets.

Brisk’s nostrils flared, Fit’s face seemed to grow unnaturally calm, and Benday asked if his sister was dead. While Ardent was trying to calm the younger foals down and assure them that Keytone was still in surgery, Fit decided to continue on. The police officer had the pencil in his lips and was waiting for a response.

“Yes, I arrived on the scene as soon as I found out what happened.”

“Did you see who commited the crime?”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“An MPD patrol car, officers examining the body of Gabriel Graystone, and an ambulance taking Keytone off the street and loading her into the back. I asked where they were taking her and followed,” Fit reported.

“OK, so the birdy died on the pavement, and the stick died on the way to the hospital. That about right?”

“Keytone Printer is still very much alive and in surgery as we speak,” Fit said serenely, “and she is not a stick, she is my daughter.”

“Whoa there, buddy! Calm down! I didn’t ask about what kind of pets you owned, I’m just trying to get to the truth so we can all go home,” the police officer said, sounding strangely genuine.

“Then why don’t you listen to what he’s saying?” Brisk objected, frustration clear in his tone.

“Hey! Calm down, twiggy. One more outburst like that, and it’s the clink for you,” the police officer officer said, pointing the hoof holding the notepad at the human in what was clearly an attempt to be threatening.

Fit glanced between the police officer and his son, as if confused by what was happening. “Do you know who we are?” Fit asked curiously.

“No, and frankly, I don’t give a buck,” the police officer said, impressing Brisk with his blunt honesty.

“We’re the Printers, owners of the Manehattan Beugel, the largest news company in the city,” Fit explained, as if introducing the family for the first time.

“Never heard of ya,” the police officer said, much to the incredulity of everypony else in the room. The police officer then got very close to Fit. “But are ya threatening me?”

“No, sir, just stating the facts. It’s my job,” Fit said respectfully.

The police officer grunted and then went back to scribbling in his notepad. “Witness arrived at scene after the fact, found gryphon male dead and human female receiving medical attention. That about right?”

“Yes,” Fit said.

“Good. Have a nice day,” the officer stated tensely before pocketing his notebook and pencil. After that, he left in such a rush that it was a full ten seconds before Fit turned around to address his family.

“I think that was one of the most bizarre encounters I’ve ever had.”

“I got it all on tape,” Ardent said, pulling out her smartphone from where it hand been laying behind her. The screen showed one of the more popular recording apps that she would often use for things like grocery lists.

“Thanks, honey,” Fit said before being interrupted by the ringing of his own phone. He took it out of his shirt pocket, and his eyes widened at the caller ID before he answered. “Mac?! You have got the best dramatic timing of any stallion I’ve ever met.”

“A strange compliment, but I’ll take it. May I ask why though?” Mac’s voice said over the line.

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in months, and then, out of the blue you call just as I finish one of the weirdest conversations of my life,” Fit explained, moving to sit back down on his chair.

“What happened?” Mac asked, sounding curious and genuine.

Fit quickly relayed what had happened in the most efficient manner possible. At the end, Mac let out an angry sigh that, for some reason Fit couldn’t explain, unnerved him. Something had definitely changed about his former employee since he decided to get into politics.

“Bastard. I’m sorry you had to live through that, my friend. Pass along the same to your family.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, but why did you call in the first place?”

“To ask how you and your family were holding up, and to give you some information.”

Fit’s right eyebrow raised briefly. “What kind of information?”

“I know who killed Gabriel and attacked your daughter. Two of my ponies were astute enough to follow when they heard the sirens, and when they reached the scene, they interrogated several eyewitnesses and found out that they were attacked by a group of masked ponies dressed entirely in red. I shouldn’t have to tell you whose colors those are,” Mac reported, and as he reported Fit’s countenance became increasingly serious and furious.

“The Purehooves,” Fit growled.

“Who else? I hope you don’t mind, but I’m e-mailing you the information my ponies gathered along with the names of the witnesses. I thought you and the old crew would like to update that headline on the site.”

“We would. Thank you for everything, Mac. I won’t forget this,” Fit said enthusiastically.

In his office in the Yellow Zone, Mac demurred, “Think nothing of it, my friend. In fact, I’m just an anonymous informant.”

As he closed the connection, Mac spun around in his office chair to face his lieutenants. If there was something good to be said about the headquarters of the Equestriani Fascist Party, it was that the lighting was extremely thematic in the evening. The neutrally grey earth pony stallion Collective Consciousness, currently his chief propagandist, was covered in golden rays, while the navy blue unicorn mare Enigma Mirror, his chief of intelligence, was cloaked in shadow even though she sat just a few feet away.

“Collective,” Mac began, “I think it’s time you got back into politics. There’s an election for mayor coming up soon, and you are going to win it.”

If Collective Consciousness had any sort of emotional reaction, he didn’t show it. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, sir, but the next election won’t be for some time.”

Mac gave an expression of faux shame. “Well, you got me. It’s really more of a special election. Which brings me to you, Ani, because you’ll be arranging it. After all, someone has to let the mayor know about the allegations against him.”

Enigma gave an equally jovial smile. “I do believe we have several things on file about him.”

“Good. Now, I believe it’s also time we unseated the rest of the police and politicians in this city with connections to the Purehooves. We’ll have to rally the legionaries at the start, but we can get a lot more ponies with the proper motivations. Let’s start with something simple like, ‘Hey, hey, ho, ho, these corrupt cops have got to go.’”

Apple Tree grumbled as he walked up the stairs to the apartment complex where his penthouse was located. The day had been like walking through Tartarus with the bucking newspapers going on about the murder. All that was left was the agonizingly slow trip to the top. Being mayor had its perks.

He had just hit the button for the top floor when a unicorn mare wearing saddlebags entered the elevator herself. As she did, she hit the button for the second highest floor and slipped in alongside him.

“Good evening, Mr. Mayor. Fancy seeing you without your bodyguards. Brave move with this city’s crime rate,” she said far too cheerily.

Apple Tree gave her a sideways glance before responding. “Yes. When I’m home, they screen visitors to the apartment complex; it’s far more private that way.”

“And I bet that privacy is something you find pretty useful,” the mare commented, her cheery demeanor never wavering.

Apple Tree was sure there was something up, so he decided to skip right to the chase. “What do you want?”

“Why, to help you get out in front of this scandal, of course,” the mare answered before her horn glowed pink, and a manilla folder floated in front of him. It opened to reveal things that could get a pony thrown away forever just for looking at them, especially if that pony was in them. “Colt cuddling, boy busting, tomfoolery, todd trembling, and a bunch of other fun ways to say ‘child rapist.’ Quite the palate,” the mare’s saccharine tone was now completely at odds with what was happening.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, unable to stop fear from creeping into his voice.

“Oh, Mayor, it’s the twenty-first century, everypony has a camera with them at all times now,” the mare said, and if it was possible, her grin got wider. “But like I said, I’m here to offer a solution to your problem. You see, the ponies who took these pictures are going to post them all over the internet in a few days, but if you get out ahead of this and resign first, then they’ll have no reason to do anything to you. Which would be a good thing to prevent it from coming to the attention of your royal relative. Make sense?”

The elevator dinged on the second to last floor, and the folder snapped shut and returned to the saddlebags. “Remember, you’ve only got a few days,” the mare said as she left the elevator.

The doors were almost closed before he slammed a foreleg through the gap to get them to open again. “Hey, wait a . . .” Apple Tree started before the doors opened to reveal nothing.

She was already gone.

Chief of Police City Lights couldn’t help but turn his nose up at the mass of ponies and other creatures marching through the street below the abandoned apartment that had been converted into a command center. There must have been thousands of them in the morning air, many of them wearing yellow and/or carrying signs that demanded things like justice and an end to corruption. Idiots.

If these foals thought that they were going to get anything by repeating the horrors of twenty years past, they were out of their trees. They would bring only ruination and destruction. Still, so far, they had been remarkably peaceful, despite their rowdy nature, and he would be cursed if he let the lines of riot troops around the protesters be the ones to start the fight.

“Sir?” one of his lieutenants asked, getting his attention.

“Yes, what is it, Lt. Storm Rider?” City asked, gladly turning to look at his subordinate. A couple of the protesters were carrying a fabric display banner that was playing looping footage of the attack on Gabriel Graystone and Keytone Printer that somepony had recorded on their smartphone. It cut out before anything really nasty happened, but there were only so many times a pony could watch that and stay sane.

“The mayor has ordered us to fall back. I was sent here to make sure you didn’t panic when the posses start to disperse,” the lieutenant reported.

City’s eyes eyes narrowed and then widened in shock as he processed the information. “In Celestia’s name, why?”

“He said that our presence was only increasing tension and that we should just let the protesters blow off steam,” the lieutenant answered, as if not believing it himself.

“Damn him,” City cursed before turning his head to catch the eyes of everyone else in the command center. “Nopony goes anywhere. I want this command center up and running, no matter what happens.”

City galloped past the lieutenant towards the door. “Road Pig, you’re with me. We’re going to talk the mayor out of this insanity.”

The two earth pony stallions galloped out of the room and down the stairs as fast as they safely could, sometimes skipping two or even three steps as they practically flew out of the apartment block. They passed by a group of retreating police ponies on their way out the door, and City barked at them to defend the building.

The protest was taking place several blocks away from the city hall, so they didn’t have far to run, but with his officers dispersing, City felt like like every second counted. That made that run one of the longest of his life. Luckily, he and his family had spent their entire lives in the city, and he was sure to find the fastest route possible.

The pair reached City Hall in short order and dashed up the stairs to the entrance, throwing open the door and locking eyes with the secretary.

“We need to see the mayor,” City declared as the pair strode over to the secretary's desk. “Now!”

The secretary, a small earth pony mare with wire frame glasses and earbuds, just looked bored. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait; he’s in a very important meeting right now.”

“I’m the Chief of Police. Who could he be meeting with that’s more important than me during a major security incident?” City demanded.

“The city exterminators. You know how important they are, and how much they hate surprises,” the mare informed them.

City stared her down for several seconds, cursed, and then spun around to walk towards the windows overlooking the steps to city hall. “Tell Apple Tree that the Chief of Police demands an audience as soon as possible.”

The secretary shrugged, then turned back to her computer. Officer Road Pig looked at her strangely before going over to City Lights’ side. He looked to be in another one of those moods.

“You know why I’m doing all this, Roadie?” City asked.

Road Pig grimaced at the mispronunciation of his name, but didn’t bring it up. “I have a good idea, sir.”

“It’s for my children. I have three foals, two fillies and a colt, and I want them to grow up in a city without civil unrest. These rabble rousers stand in the way of that future and must be swept aside,” City said wistfully.

Road Pig grinned wickedly and then leaned in to whisper into the chief’s ear. “The kickbacks and tail are nice too though.”

City Lights let out a sinful chuckle while grimacing in disgust, thinking of the dark furred mare he had bedded just two nights ago. He didn’t know her name, but he made sure to get her something nice with the extra money the department had before the next budget got rid of it. “They don’t hurt.”

Road Pig let out a ‘heh’ before fishing his smartphone out of his pocket. They were going to be a while.

“I feel for the Printers, I really do. They’ve been in this city for as long as I can remember, but starting all this over their stick daughter and her coltfriend won’t change anything; it will only make things worse.”

“What else are they supposed to do?” Road Pig asked jokingly.

“Accept it and move on, like the rest of us do every time something like this happens,” City answered seriously. “Damn it. I want to change this city, I want to so badly. I want it to rise up from the ashes, reverse this damn decline we’ve been in for the last two decades, and once again be known as the greatest city in Equestria, instead of the nation’s shame. Maybe they think this will help, but Luna take their souls to Tartarus, where were they when Gaston Greyfeathers was torn apart last year? Where were they when Perrywinkle had her brains blown out last week? Where were they when that zebra birthday party was attacked by the Purehooves back in ‘41? Where were they when all the other deaths happened? Did they only just now start to care because it happened inside the Green Zone? They weren’t even that far inside.”

“I think it’s the Equestriani Fascist Party that’s organizing the protests, sir,” Road Pig said, briefly looking up from his smartphone.

“The Fascists!” City cursed. “Rabblerousing idiots in search of a time that never existed and bullying anyone who doesn’t conform to their delusions. They are merely the pawns of that fiend, Macaroni, their ‘Boss.’ Their attempts to bring about a unitarian collective from diverse species shall end only in their own destruction. They are almost as bad as the Purehooves, almost.”

“This is the first time they’ve called for your head,” Road Pig pointed out helpfully.

City Lights rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Roadie. Maybe there’s time to fix all this yet though.”

“Purehooves have shown up,” Road Pig stated, once again wincing at the nickname.

“What?!” City said, whirling around to face Roadie, who was helpfully holding up his smartphone. On it was displayed the terrifying sight of ponies in red masks and hooded tracksuits marching on the protesters while wielding bats and clubs. As they started laying into the protesters, an old mare wearing a black and gold hoof band was bashed in the withers by some faceless thug.

And then they appeared.

"They" were a second group of ponies wearing yellow and gold, advancing from both within the crowd and from a side street. "They" were one of the rumored Fascist Legions, now appearing for the first time in public; they too wore masks, but otherwise stood out as having members from all species. The two groups collided, and a full blown street brawl was on.

City turned away and stomped towards the secretary. “We need to see the mayor now.”

“As I said, chief, the mayor can’t see anypony . . .” City ignored her and continued marching towards the mayor’s office. “Hey! I just said you can’t go in there!”

“The mayor can bucking fire me for all I care!” City yelled back.

Road Pig pocketed the smartphone and ran after his commander. When he found him, he was at the mayor’s office and shaking the door handle. He yelled for the mayor several times before giving up.

“Buck! It’s locked. Roadie, help me bust this thing down,” City ordered.

Road Pig let out a growl of annoyance but took up position alongside the chief with their rears to the door.

“Okay, on the count of three,” City began, tensing his muscles in anticipation. “One, two, three ... ”

With a mighty rear and a buck, the two stallions laid hooves to the wooden doors with enough power to smash clear through the door’s handle and locks, and the doors themselves flew open in an explosion of wood and metal. Shrapnel bounced off the carpet and embedded itself in the wall, causing thousands of bits in more damages.

The pair of police stallions advanced into the room and began scanning their surroundings. Luckily, there didn’t appear to be any blood or bodies.

“Mayor, are you here?” City called out.

From under the desk emerged Mayor Apple Tree, holding a violin and looking shell shocked. “Luna buck. What the buck is wrong with you, Chief? You destroyed my door? Why… why the buck did you do that?”

City glared at the mayor, disgust rolling off his muzzle. “Were you playing the violin?” he asked gravely.

“Well . . . yes, as a matter of fact I was,” the mayor answered, still in a daze.

“You were fiddling as your city burned,” City growled, advancing on the mayor. “Could you be any more of a bucking stereotype?!”

“Burning? I think you overestimate how bad things could get, you bucking moron,” Apple Tree cursed.

“And I think you’re bucking insane. You called off my officers, and now the bucking Purehooves have shown up to fight the protesters. The protesters that are being backed by the Celestia-damned EFP! We’ve got goldshirts and redshirts fighting in the streets!”

“Oh, good, I was hoping they would show up,” the mayor replied calmly.

City and Road Pig just stared at him like he had grown a second head. “. . . What?”

“The protesters were clearly a problem that needed to be dealt with, but I couldn’t just order you and your police to smash their heads in; that would look bad in the papers. So instead, I ordered you and your police to disperse and hold back, because frankly, they were protecting the protesters as much as containing them, and that’s really far too scary. Once they were gone, I knew that the Purehooves would amass a force to fight the protesters to follow up on their attack yesterday, and because they want to squash the Fascists that oppose them. Now it seems that everything has gone as I have foreseen,” Apple Tree said smugly, trotting over to City Light to meet him muzzle to muzzle.

“The protesters will be dealt with, the city will get a big old batch of royal aid to deal with crime, and we wouldn’t have had to lift a hoof. You could have been a part of this too, and all you had to do was not smash down my door like a complete bucking lunatic! Now I’ll have to fire you and find somepony else more pliable.”

“Do your worst, you diseased maniac!” City barked.

Apple Tree chuckled. “You’ve been reading too many of those comic books with those delicious foals of yours. You’ll see though, the Purehooves are sweeping aside this little insurrection, and once they’re done . . .”

“Purehooves are getting their flanks kicked,” Road Pig cut in, having gone back to watching his smartphone at some point during the melodramatic conversation.

“What?!” Apple Tree exclaimed.

“Yep,” Road Pig said nonchalantly, turning the phone around just in time to show the outrageously muscular form of the EFP’s semi-mythic unicorn leader punching a Purehoof square in the jaw, sending her to the pavement in a heap.

The mayor visibly deflated, and City grew a vicious grin. “Looks like the Fascisti have proved you wrong. They weren’t just some rabble to be swept aside.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no . . .” Apple Tree muttered as he collapsed to the floor. “I’m ruined. They’re going to castrate me and hang me from a construction crane.”

City rolled his eyes at the mayor’s misunderstanding of the Equestriani justice system. “Take the bit and bridle off my force, Mayor, and we might just be able to salvage something out of this.”

Apple Tree just waved him away with his hoof and curled up into a shivering ball, repeating the same words over and over again. City turned away in disgust and motioned for Roadie to follow him. They left the mayor’s office as they had found it.

As they walked into the hall, City keyed his commset and spoke with a confidence that he hadn’t felt since the previous morning. “This is the Chief, I have consulted the mayor, and he has allowed us to continue operations as normal. Please do so. I also need a squad to the mayor’s office as soon as possible.”

When he stopped talking, City just turned his head to Roadie and grinned like the day his first foal was born. His opposite rolled his eyes but allowed a small smile of his own. Those expressions stayed on their faces till they neared the command center.

“Lieutenant, report, and make it a good one,” City Lights said as he sauntered into the abandoned apartment.

Lt. Storm Rider straitened up. “Sir, we’ve made a multiplicity of arrests, reports keep arriving about them. On the whole, the Purehooves and the EFP have both dispersed, and the cordon around the protesters has been reestablished. Medical ponies have arrived to treat the wounded, and evacs are under way for those in need of critical care.”

City sighed happily. “Good. Crisis averted then.”

As the chief was trotting over to the window, Storm Rider continued speaking. “Sir, there was one other thing, and it’s big.”

City was about to ask what it was when a big booming voice echoed through the city, their voice dampened in the command center by ambient noise and the insulation.

“People of Manehattan! Today we have won a great victory. Not just one of us, but all of us, together!”

“Who is that?” City asked, looking around until he spotted one pony who had gotten on top of an ad hoc stage in front of the protesters.

“That’s Muscle Macaroni, former member of the Royal Guard and current leader of the Equestriani Fascist Party. Shall we bring it up on a monitor?” Storm Rider reported.

City nodded, and one of the technicians that had been watching him went about bringing up a live feed of the speech on one of the bigger monitors.

“Mayor Apple Tree has just resigned!”

The news made the crowd cheer, and as they did, City turned to the lieutenant. “Was this the big thing?”

The LT nodded.

“Now we can all see what happens when we put aside our petty differences and embrace our common bonds as Equestriani. When we unite our collective strength for a single goal. When we stand as one indivisible facis!”

Another cheer went up, bigger than before.

“The city charter calls for an election to determine a new mayor within a week, and my good friend Collective Consciousness has stepped forward to fill the position. When that day comes, we are all going to need to get out the vote, and I know we will. We have shown the world our strength, and in a week, we will show them our will!”

The third cheer had somehow gotten even bigger, and as it did, a monochrome stallion took the stand, becoming animated in a way that did not seem natural.

“A stain on Equestria’s honor, that’s what they call this city. We were once the greatest city in the world, and now, we’re a poster for urban decay. No more! Dare to hope, because when I am elected mayor, things will change. No more salt dealers selling to foals, no more retreating from neighborhoods, no more terror from the Purehooves, no more will we consider someone rich because they’re losing less money than us, no more will teens with bright futures ahead of them be beaten to death in the streets! We will create a city in which what happened to Gabriel Graystone never happens again, because the new fascist government will be a united government where no one gets left behind!”

A huge cheer erupted from the audience.

“No one gets left behind!”

The cheering became a roar, and it wasn’t until it was nearing its end that City Lights realized that one of those cheers was coming from his own throat.

When the door to Waiting Room 3 finally opened and Doctor Silver Sutures entered, it was a miracle that there was anyone around to greet him. He had been in surgery for more far than a day, and it would have been perfectly reasonable for anypony to relent and sleep in their own beds while waiting that long. Remarkably though, the entire Printer family was present when he arrived.

Dot was the first one to react, the young colt lacking any pretense and jumping straight to the point. “Where’s Keytone?!”

Fit jumped up and rushed over to meet him. “You’re Doctor Silver Sutures, M.D. and you’ve been working on my daughter for two days, so can you please give us an update?”

“Please, Doctor, tell me my little filly is all right,” Ardent pleaded.

The rest of the family had reactions that were how variations on “How is my sister?”

Silver, quite practiced on this routine by this point in his life, calmly began to explain to the family the news of what had happened.

“Your daughter will make a full recovery, and physically she’ll be fine.”

Thanks to the march of technology, the news was more often positive than negative.

“So she’s okay? Can we go see her now?” Brisk asked hopefully.

“Those were future tense statements, and you said physically. Is there something wrong with her head?” Fit inquired.

“She’s currently sedated and will be in and out of surgery for a while. We have her in a life support pod right now, so she can stabilize, and we can rest, but I’m not going to lie to you: she is going to have a long road to recovery even after her body is rebuilt. She lived through something that no one should have to experience, and that’s going to require a lot of time and psychological therapy to deal with.

“But she survived, so she’s through the worst of it, and because of that, I know she’s going to be fine,” Silver asserted confidently.

“How do you know that?” Brisk asked pointedly.

Instead of responding immediately, Silver Sutures stood up on his hind legs, towering over Fit and Ardent and looking Brisk almost directly in the eyes. “Because years ago, when I was living in Scotland, I was hit by a car and had almost every bone in my body broken, but I was not only able to survive but recover to the point where I can now stand before you a whole stallion. Medical science has advanced even further since then.”

Silver dropped back down onto his front hooves. “I know that she will be able to recover because I was able to recover. You two made the right call, putting your children in the genetic database here for cloned organs, and if you ever find out who called that ambulance, tell them they saved your daughter’s life. They got there with time to spare.”

“So she’s going to be okay?” Benday asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Silver repeated. “As long as she’s diligent with the recovery regimen, she should be perfectly fine.”

“And if she’s not?” Shadow asked.

“She will be,” Fit said firmly.

“Then she’ll most likely have to wear one of those fancy new exoskeletons when walking for extended periods of time, or use a cane like I did,” Silver paused to look around. “Look, I might have come straight for surgery, but I’m not deaf. I know that your family has been through a lot and that the whole city is in an uproar over it. I just want to assure you that I’m not going to be one of those ponies haranguing you for being a blended family or sacrificing quality because of any personal feelings.

"Indeed, last year, when my wife Moira broke her wrist after dropping something on it, I made sure to give her the best of care."

“'Moira'? She’s not a pony, is she?" Ardent asked.

"Well, no, she's human. And for that matter, later that day, I had to fix the arm of the M'bega kid - also human - next door." He chuckled. "You know about foals climbing in trees."

"Most of the trees are in the areas of the city infested with salt addicts, spice traders, and drug dealers, so no,” Brisk said matter-of-factly.

“Trees mean danger!” Dot shouted.

“Stay away from the trees!” Benday confirmed.

“If you see a field, find another way,” Shadow intoned from memory.

Silver was slightly taken aback by the response. It appears that Manehattan is in worse straits than anypony has realized, he thought, shocked.

Ardent looked pensive for a moment, eyes darting back in forth as if watching a tennis match. “I want to see her,” she said suddenly.

“Are you sure, ma’am? She is-” Silver began.

“Yes, Celestia damn it!” Ardent interrupted. “She’s my daughter! I want to see what those what those bastards did to her and know that my little baby is okay now! Please, Doctor, let me see her!” her voice was practically pleading by the end.

“Very well,” Silver answered simply.

“Brisk, watch after your siblings. They’ve seen too much as it is,” Fit told his oldest son, looking him in the eyes and wordlessly bestowing upon him the title of family protector while they were away.

Another knot of shame formed in Brisk’s gut, but he nodded anyways.

A few short minutes later, the Printer parents were standing in front of a hermetically sealed pod with Doctor Silver Sutures standing behind them. The doctor barely held back a yawn, and the parents nodded to each other, slowly walking towards the transparent panel that would allow the person inside to see out, should they be conscious. The whole thing was another marvel of modern technology that ensured that more and more ponies would live, but to the Printers, it just looked like their daughter had already been sealed inside a coffin.

They peered inside, and Ardent let out a gasp of horror. It was gone, it was all gone. The long black mane that Ardent had spent so many hours helping her daughter groom in her youth was gone, replaced in its stead by a web of sutures and scabs. That face, that beautiful face that had smiled up at her with a big toothy grin on her third birthday and said she wanted to fly like her mama, had fared even worse. It looked like her jaw was held together by metal and glue, and a plastic tube snaked down her through her mouth, itself open to reveal several missing teeth and a stitched tongue.

Ardent couldn’t bare to look any longer and buried herself in her husband’s withers, bawling and losing all composure as she did so. Fit looked upon his daughter with dispassionate eyes, as if emotions had simply ceased to function for him. He observed, in this state, that Keytone actually looked much better than when he had last seen her. Of course, when he had last seen her, her legs had been hanging on by tatters, and he couldn’t see how any of that was going now.

“I know it looks bad, but she’s stable, and a fresh batch of organs are being flash cloned as we speak to replace what she lost,” the doctor told them.

Fit nodded solemnly. “We’re sorry for taking up so much of your time, Doctor. Get some rest. This whole city could use it.”

His coffin had passed by thousands on its way to the cemetery, an avatar for a city that had finally had enough. Tears were wept by nearly all involved, none more so than his parents. For Brisk, though, Gabe’s best friend, surrounded by the wailing throng as he helped transport his deceased buddy’s remains, he could not shed a tear.

Nothing came to him; he just walked on pained legs in stony silence. Even as he stood alongside his fellows as they laid their friend onto the unlit funeral pyre by the sea, his face showed neither emotion nor expression. Such sentiments he did not express even when the priestess spoke about the times Gabe would volunteer at the celaerium whenever they needed help, and even attempts by politicians of the mostly fascist persuasion to rally support for their pet causes, like state ownership of 'unreliable’ businesses or politically productive paramilitary patrols.

Things blurred together, and before he knew it, the pyre was lit. His buddy's remains were consumed in fire. He watched the orange spires climb into the sky, and the world faded away again.

When he came to, he was down by the shore, sitting on a rock and looking down at the refuse and oil collecting in the gaps between the rocks. For the first time in hours, something mattered enough to notice, and it was a bunch of trash. It was too strange to laugh about.

“Bit for your thoughts?”

“Hello, Uncle Mac, where have you been these last few months?” Brisk asked without turning his head.

There was a scuffle as the large unicorn sat down on the rock next to his. “You know, that was such a pitch perfect recitation of what you said just a few months ago that I could swear you went and got one of those new voicebox replacement implants. You know, the ones with the playback and recording settings?”

“No offense, Uncle Mac, but that sounds disturbing.”

“Oh, you’re disturbed now? I’m the guy who got greeted by an MP38 file when I walked in,” Mac pointed out in faux offense.

“Sorry, I guess I'm just a little bit out of it right now.”

“Your best friend died, people you cared about got hurt, and you’re convinced it’s your fault. I know that feeling exactly.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, happened during the riots. Didn't know what to do for days after it happened, but eventually, those I cared about were able to bring me to the correct conclusion.”

“What was that?”

“That I should focus on keeping what happened from ever happening again. The EFP was the solution I came up with. You might come to the same conclusion.”

“You asking me to join up?”

“No. You're still in school, and your family would kill me if I let you join now. Can’t say I would disagree in this instance.”

“Then what are you telling me to do?!”

“Think things over. Finish school. Then . . . That’s up to you, and no one else. I hear the Guard is hiring, and I’ll certainly need every warm body I can find in a year, but your sister will need all the help she can get at the newspaper. Just make sure whatever you choose is what you really want, and commit to it.”

There was a resounding clop when Mac’s heavy body hit the ground of the concrete pier. “I have to go out of town again. Your parents are waiting for you. When you're ready.”

Brisk stayed on that rock for five minutes and twenty-six seconds more. Then he got up, and faced reality.

Mac waved to Hurricane Wake and Stormy Keys as the twin pegasus stallions sat behind the controls of the rotorcraft. Between them was a Germanic human in a business suit helpfully pointing out parts of the controls when prompted. There was a nod between them, and suddenly, the double-stacked rotors on top of the craft began to turn, followed quickly by the propeller in the tail coming alive and pushing the craft down the runway. As the craft lifted into the air, the muscular unicorn turned back to face the young gryphon in a business suit who had officiated the meeting.

“Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Faust?” Mac asked as the two walked towards a rotorcraft identical to the one currently flying through the air, both ground-bound sapients keeping one eye on the vehicle above them as it maneuvered like a hummingbird possessed.

“What is there to say? As your pilots will soon discover, Herr Macaroni, the Braunschbank company makes the finest aircraft on two worlds and the Br-16 in particular is the best civilian helicopter in the air today. Fantastic speed, great carrying capacity, and a compact hydrogen power plant that creates fuel savings that will surely be noticed on the bottom line,” Kurt Faust said, even now in the sales representative mode that was his job.

“Why are you doing this?” Mac asked suddenly, as they reached the nose of one of the parked Br-16s and memories of the recent election campaign back in Manehatten flashed through his head.

“Selling aircraft or selling aircraft to you?” Kurt asked, dropping the pretense of his job.

“To me, to my organization. You recognized me on sight.”

Kurt didn’t answer at first, deciding to take a single gold coin from his pocket, his claw running over it with affection. “It’s simple: you fight. My parents and sister were driven out their home in Manehattan during the riots when the Purehooves burned it to the ground. Soon after they immigrated to the Spezielle Bayrische halb-autonome Wirtschaftszone," -- the Bavarian Semi-Independent Special Economic Zone, their current location, Mac noted -- "and changed their names to something more local. I was born soon after, and as is the custom here, my parents gave me a gold coin to help invest for the future.”

Kurt paused to repocket the coin. “My father joined the Luftwaffe and became their first ace in nearly a century, fighting in some war I never really understood. Hans Faust became a household name; they called him Der Adler, The Eagle. My father was a folk hero, my mother was running a successful bakery, and my sister was starting a life of her own. Everything should have been fine for me, but we were still gryphons living in a land soaked with the blood of people who were not our ancestors. They are not bad people, they try, but sometimes, these Germans can’t help but mention how alien you are, and when the hyphenated description they tack onto you is Equestriani-Bavarian, one can’t but be curious.”

“You found out about the Purehooves and wanted revenge. Why not move back to Equestria and join us in the fight, then?” Mac asked, filling in the blanks.

Kurt chuckled. “If I did that, then who would sell you aircraft?” Mac gave a short chuckle at that too, but the German gryphon continued. “Of course I want to see the verdammt Purehooves destroyed, but not for what they did to our family. Life is good here, and in that way, they did us a favor, but we weren’t the only ones affected. They hurt many others and continue to hurt more every day. They might even come to hurt us here in little Bavaria. After all, they say that they just want to relocate the non-ponies, but we Germans know precisely where that argument leads.”

Mac raised an eyebrow at the gryphon’s speech. “You do know what my political party is called, right?”

“Yes, and it’s unfortunate; my father would certainly have me turned into a throw rug if he knew about this, but you’re not advocating the genocide of any ethnic groups, so I’m willing to let your poor choice in words slide,” Kurt said with a shrug. “Now then, does the Braunschbank Br-16 meet your specifications, Mister Logging Company Representative?”

Mac took another look at the sleek rotorcraft and the twin sets of blades stacked on top of each other that dominated its profile, then he glanced down at his smartphone to read the texts from the twin pegasus pilots he had brought along that were currently test flying one of the Br-16. They confirmed what he had already suspected, that the machine would suit their purposes just fine. Good speed, good carrying capacity, and most importantly, plenty of room to modify.

“It does. We’ll take 24.”

Kurt’s eyes went wide. “A full staffel?”

“Is that a problem?” Mac asked coldly.

Kurt shook his head. “Nein, it’s just . . . that’s a lot of deutschmarks. Can your company pay for all that?”

“It can, and more,” Mac said confidently. “In fact, throw in another one, and make it a luxury model.”

“Very well, Herr Macaroni, I’ll get the papers,” Kurt said enthusiastically before flying off.

When the gryphon was out of earshot, Mac started whispering to the white rotorcraft in front of him. “You’ll do fine, my Redsprites, you’ll do fine.”

It was early in the morning when Keytone Printer finally woke up, right on schedule. Her eyes fluttered open restfully, and then shot wide in horror. Her breathing increased to a rapid pace, and her eyes darted around her surroundings, a view soon filled with fur. A less than eloquent whinny of surprise was all she got out before her wits came back.

“Keytone! You’re awake!” her father exclaimed, rather stating the obvious. He was the only one besides her in the hospital room, the dawn light of Celestia’s sun fluttering through to frame him in a kind light as he stood above her bedridden form.

“How long have I been out?” Keytone managed to rasp out.

Unconsciously, Fit reached over to pass her a paper cup full of water. Keytone took the offered cup with eagerly grasping hands, drinking heartily from it. As soon as she had drunk her fill, her father took it back from her and placed it on the nearby stand.

“Thanks, Dad,” Keytone said wearily.

“No problem, sweetie. Anytime,” Fit Printer replied, patting her shoulders with the selfsame hoof he had used to grasp the water.

The human girl took several deep experimental breaths, trying to get her bearings. The ticking of the clock seemed to echo throughout the room, each tick the loudest thing in their ears. Behind thick walls, the muffled music of equine activity could be heard as the hospital scrambled to keep up with recent casualties.

“You’ve been out for about a week,” her father reported.

“A week?!” Keytone asked, shocked. “That’s no good, I have to go down to the police station to make a report about the stallion who attacked me and Gabriel right away.”

She made a move to prop herself up in the bed, and her father rushed to stop her.

“Hey, hey, hey, instead of doing that and making the nice doctors angry, why don’t we make a video testimony instead?”

Keytone considered this, then nodded in agreement. “That makes sense.”

“Yeah,” her father said blandly, filling the gap in the conversation before reaching into his bag to bring out his smartphone, an Epsilon Eridani II. He brought the blocky green device up to eye level and pointed at his daughter, keeping the screen facing himself. He did not want his darling baby filly to see what she had become.

As soon as she saw the camera light turn green, Keytone began to make her statement. Reporting with all the clarity and accuracy her family was known for, she left no detail out, describing her attackers such that those who observed the recorded video would be left with a picture most vivid. After saying what she could, she gave a hand signal to her father, and the recording ended.

Her father’s extensories moved deftly across the surface of the phone, sending the recording both to the police and to their own personal repository. “Done,” he told her.

“Good,” Keytone said satisfactorily. “Now that the time sensitive stuff is out of the way, where’s Gabriel? I know he was probably . . . Dad? What’s with that look?”

“Sweetie . . .”

Keytone’s pupils shrunk, and her lips started to vibrate as saline came unbidden to the surface of her eyes. A memory, something cerebral hitting her nose, blood and pain. “Dad, where is Gabriel?”

Fit fought with himself to meet his daughter’s quivering eyes. “He’s gone to meet his ancestors in the Great Pasture.”

Keytone said nothing for a few moments, her body shaking, and her father rushed to embrace her fully. As soon as his familiar forelegs were wrapped around her body, her subconscious knew that she was safe, and all her defenses fell. She wrapped her arms around her father in turn and broke down.

Several orderlies in the outside hall paused their work as the air was split by an ear piercing wail, like the horrible sounds of a banshee. Those closest to the room the Printers were in then heard loud sobbing muffled by the door. They looked at each other in shame, then continued on with their duties.

“Mackie, come to bed, please,” Wild Mane complained from beneath the covers of the princess-sized bed she shared with her coltfriend.

It was a gorgeous night in the simple apartment on the outskirts of Manehattan. Luna’s moon was shining through the window, illuminating it in soft, pale light. Every wrinkle of the sheets was brought out in contrasting shadows, while on a nearby couch, a pair of gold and black Suri Polomare designed uniforms lay discarded. The only blemish was the muscular stallion hunched over a computer on the room’s desk.

“I’m sorry, Wild, but there’s just too much to do,” Mac said tiredly.

The straight-haired mare exhale audibly. This was one of the things she loved and hated about her coltfriend: his dedication to the cause. It was wonderful to see in action, but sometimes, he needed a little reminder that other things existed.

“Mackie, the city has been freed from the tyranny of the democrats and the Purehooves, Collective is settling into the mayor role like it's his cutie mark, the last mayor died of ricin poisoning after he resigned, so it’s not like he can be re-elected somehow, Enigma has that fancy new umbrella she likes, more ponies than ever are joining the EFP, and our abandoned warehouse expansion project is moving along nicely, not to mention getting those fancy new helicopters so we don’t have to fly coach every time we need to get to Trottingham,” Wild Mane rattled off, holding up her hooves and making extensories as she did so. “Things are looking good. You can afford to go to bed at a reasonable time for once.”

Mac sighed and brought his muzzle into his forehooves. He stayed like that for nearly a minute, Wild Mane quietly letting him compose himself. “He’s still alive,” he finally said.

He dropped his hoofs and turned to look at his fillyfriend, weariness and despair showing on his features. “Remember what I told you about what happened in Manehattan all those years ago? About that stallion I killed by stabbing him in the eye?”

Wild Mane nodded sadly. “He was your best friend, until he was thrown out of the military, then he changed his name to Firebrand and joined the Purehooves. How could he still be alive?”

“I don’t know,” Mac admitted. “He should be dead, but the description Keytone Printer gave of her attacker when she woke up matches him exactly, just without the eye. No Purehoof we’ve found yet has matched that description, so he’s still alive and out there somehow.”

Wild Mane stayed silent, absorbing the information. “Well, what can you do about it now?” she finally asked.

“I’ve ordered Enigma Mirror to start tracking him down, I’ve put out feelers to my contacts in the old Weather Underground who haven’t joined our cause fully, and I’ve had Collective get the police to add him to the wanted list,” Mac listed.

“That’s what you’ve done. I’m asking what you can do,” Wild Mane clarified.

Mac paused for a moment before answering. “Well, nothing, I suppose.”

“Then come to bed,” Wild Mane reasoned.

Mac sighed and then got up from the desk, shutting the computer down as he did so. “Very well. I could use the rest anyways.”

As he was trotting over to his side of the bed, his fillyfriend scooted over to allow him more space. He smiled and started to get into the bed. His smartphone made a beep, and on instinct, Mac’s horn glowed and pulled the phone to levitate in front of his face. Wild Mane was clearly not happy about it.

Da Chief says:
‘Shoud i ‘

Mac grimaced at the incomplete message, but nevertheless typed out a response. He had a pretty good idea why he would be getting this message, but at the same time, it was still annoying. If only he had been a few minutes earlier . . .

Mac turned the phone off and tossed it onto the couch where the gold shirts lay before focusing back in on the bed and the mare on it. “Sorry about that. Had to take it.”

“What was that about?” Wild Mane asked as her coltfriend settled into the bed.

“Just tying up loose ends,” Mac said before kissing her.

Out in the bay, Road Pig looked down at his smartphone as he stood upon the deck of a fishing boat.

The Boss says:
‘Sure’

The stallion shrugged and then pocketed the phone.

“Was that The Boss? He told you this was all a big mistake, right Roadie?”

Current Chief of Police Road Pig turned to face the former Chief of Police City Lights, currently sporting the latest in concrete hoofwear and standing near the edge of the boat. He looked pretty terrified.

“You know, City, you ain’t got a lot going for you. You’re too corrupt for the people to want to keep you around, you’re too much of a goody-four-shoes for the party to want to keep around, but mostly . . .” Road Pig turned around so his hind legs were facing City, “you keep mispronouncing my damn name!”

Road Pig’s hooves slammed into City Lights’ chest, knocking the wind out of him as he went flying into the sea. He didn’t even have time to scream before his head passed beneath the waves. A few bubbles floated to the surface, but after that, nothing for the next five minutes.

When he was sure that his former boss wouldn’t be coming back up for air, Road Pig sauntered over to the bridge. He’d let the Fascist captain know to “dump the cargo” and then call it a night. He really hadn’t been getting enough rest of late.

Keytone, her now bald head lying on the hospital pillows, looked up at the ceiling of her room with mournful eyes.

I never even got to say goodbye, she thought for the hundred and eighty-second time that day alone, just as she had done every few moments since finding out that Gabriel’s funeral had happened while she was in a coma.

Her eyes briefly glanced to the left, catching the bright petals of the flowers her maternal grandparents had brought. They contrasted well with the balloons her paternal grandparents had brought. The human filly briefly wondered if they had coordinated on this; they certainly had done so for watching over her siblings like they were doing now, but then her eyes shifted, and so did her thoughts.

On her right was her mother, a patient smile upon her muzzle, calmly knitting a hat with dexterous pinions. She had told her it was something for her head, since she didn’t have any hair left, and it would be a long time before it regrew fully. It was a kind gesture, but a futile one.

Her gaze shifted upwards from her mother to the windows that looked out on the city to find a dark eclipse flying from a flagpole. She grimaced in disgust, knowing that her mad uncle had used the attack on her and her beloved for his own political gain. She'd trusted him once, and he had betrayed her in the worst way possible . . . so far.

She had lost everything but her family: her body, her city, her dignity, and so much more.

Oh, but I would be able to bare it all, my love, had I not lost you too, she lamented, tears no longer flowing from her eyes after so long under such strain. You’re gone, and it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.

There was a click as the door opened up to admit a new dancer to the festival of sorrows.

Both the Printer mares tried to stand up, but the two gryphons that had entered waved them back down. Gisa and Guarino Graystone would not stand for their friends being made to bow and scrape, especially at that moment. They had all lost so much.

Keytone was the first thing to say anything. “Mister and Missus Graystone, I’m sorry for…”

“Don’t you say anything,” Guarino, dressed in his REAF uniform, ordered. The Printers followed his command, stilling their tongues. “I know that look; you got survivor’s guilt. Well, get over it, because that’s the exact opposite of what Gabriel wanted for you.”

“Dearest, I know this is who you are, but do you have to be so blunt about it at this precise moment?” Gisa, who, unlike her husband, was dressed like a civilian pony, asked worriedly.

“Yes,” Guarino replied before refocusing on Keytone. “Perhaps you forget your own testimony, but the police showed it to us-”

“Not exactly professional,” Gisa put in.

“-and the implication from that red’s message was that you were the one that they were trying to kill. Gabriel was the one that died instead, and that allowed you to live. That’s the best way we Graystone toms can go, saving the ones we love. I know you’re not trying to do it, but please don’t dishonor his sacrifice by wishing you died instead.”

“But if it wasn’t for me, then Gabriel wouldn’t have had to make that sacrifice at all!” Keytone replied, her voice wet with poorly healing wounds.

“If it wasn’t for you, Gabriel’s final months would have been far less happy than they were,” Gisa countered. “He loved you like Princess Cadance loved Shining Armor and could not bare to spend his life without you. You made him the happiest creature in two worlds, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

“Besides,” Guarino broke in again, “those rebel scum were lying in wait. That tells that they would have struck eventually, whether you two were together or apart. Nothing anyone without precognition, which is all of us, could do would have stopped their attempt. I’m addressing you too, Ardent.”

“What?” the pegasus exclaimed, surprised.

“You’re thinking right now that if you had only done something different that day, the attack never would have taken place, but I’ll tell you now that everything you can think of would have just resulted in more casualties. This is the least bad of all possible outcomes,” Guarino finished, obviously trying to convince himself as much as the Printers.

“Please excuse my husband; he’s just dealing with the pain in his own way,” Gisa explained.

“That way is action. When I return to my unit, I am going to raise all sorts of hell about this with command until someone takes notice. We can’t have socialist paramilitary forces operating inside Equestria; we just can’t,” Guarino elaborated.

“My way is by settling accounts,” Gisa said, reaching into her saddlebags to retrieve a folded cloth square. She walked over to Keytone and handed her the bundle.

“What is this?” Keytone asked as she took the cloth. Almost unconsciously, she started to unfold it.

“It was found on Gabriel’s body; he had intended to give it to you that day,” Gisa said, her voice starting to hitch.

Keytone gasped as she revealed a gold ring, a wedding band.

“He had been trying to find something that would fit, but he realized it might need to be resized anyway due to growth, so he got in engraved instead, and . . .”

Keytone’s hands closed around the talons of the chick who, had fate permitted, would have been her mother-in-law. “Thank you,” she said, looking into Gisa’s eyes with all the love and gratitude she could cauble together within herself. “Thank you, Gisa Graystone. I can’t express to you how much this means to me.”

“You’re welcome, Keytone Printer,” Gisa replied with a tear-filled smile.

The room got quieter after that, and after a few seconds, Guarino spoke again.

“I guess we better get going then.”

“Do you have to get going now?” Keytone asked.

“Well . . . no, not exactly. We actually could stay for a while,” the gryphon tom answered, a little uncomfortably.

“Then do that. Pull up some chairs, let's talk. We never got to do that enough while school was in session,” Keytone replied, a genuine smile upon her properly healing face.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Gisa rationalized.

So the two gryphons sat down and talked with mother and daughter, and when lunch came, they broke bread together. They might not have been bound by blood, but all of them resolved to hold fast to their relationships and not let them wither. All of them prayed that Gabriel would have approved.

Mac climbed the steps to The Manehattan Beugel’s main offices with a spring in his step and hard cider in his saddlebags. He was happy, and why shouldn’t he be? He was returning the conquering hero after driving the darkness from the land, and like any good hero, he wanted to celebrate with his best and oldest friend.

So it was that he opened the door to the office with a smile on his face, his two Fascisti bodyguards taking up positions inside while two more watched the outside. The ponies inside were both shocked and awed, at least that was the impression Mac got from their faces. He made sure to give them a reassuring gesture as he moved towards the office of Just News, something he had earned for himself as the company had expanded over the years.

Mac gave a brief knock and then opened the door without prompting.

“Come in!” Just said even has the door was opening; he turned away from his work to look at who had come through his door. “Oh, it’s you. Didn’t expect you of all ponies to see me today.”

“Well, why wouldn’t I, buddy?” Mac asked rhetorically before glancing around the office. It was completely bare, save for the small box of valuables Just was packing on his desk and the half-open window. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

Just didn’t answer immediately, a roll of packing tape in his mouth as he finished packing up the box. As he applied the tape, a car could be heard backfiring in the distance. “I got an offer for a job at Schaffhauser Zeitung and decided to take them up on it.”

Mac was stunned, his eyes wide and jaw moving as if trying to decide how the words tasted. “Schaffhauser Zeitung? Switzerland?” Mac repeated, finally getting a grasp on the situation but surprise still evident. “You’re moving to Schaffhausen, Switzerland? You’re giving up living in the city and nation you’ve worked for your whole life for at one of the biggest newspapers in the worlds to go to some small time newspaper in a tiny tourist trap in the most neutral nation to have ever existed?!”

Just shrugged his wings. “They made a pretty good offer, and I thought it was time to move on.”

“Move on from what? Are you just running away like the coward you were all those years ago?” Mac said mockingly, much like he had a thousand times before.

Just merely finished packing his things and stared at Mac like he was a rebellious teen son, then on went the saddle bags, and he was walking to the door.

“Maybe, but it’s the only path I see,” Just said simply.

Mac blocked his path with a single muscle-bound foreleg. “Stay in Manehattan, Just. If you’re done with the paper, join up with me. The EFP needs good stallions like you,” Mac implored, his words punctuated by the sound of a car backfiring drifting through the open window.

Just met his old friend’s eyes with a flare of emotions that were all quickly silenced into neutrality. “No, Mac, the EFP most certainly does not need stallions like me.”

The pregnant silence between the two was filled by the staccato burst of a small parking lot’s worth of backfires. It ended when Just leapt over Mac with a powerful flap of his wings.

“Auf wiedersehen, Mac,” Just said with finality.

Mac stayed calm for only a moment, an ear-splitting pop breaking him out of his stupor. His muzzle split into a twisted vestige of fury, and his eyes bulged with rage. The floor cracked as he roughly pivoted around.

“Fine! Run away to your neutrality, you greedy despot! You power-hungary vermin! Nazi! Collaborator! Faint-hearted liberal! Communist! Stagnant monarchist! Leech-loving layabout! Duplicitous Trotskyite! Teutonic traitor!” Mac yelled, his face contorting with oxygen deprivation. When he was sure that Just was almost to the entrance to the building, he galloped over to the still open window and leaned out. “Syndicalist slaver! Enemy of the working class! Dullard! Fanatic fiend! Rapine purveyor! Sister seller! Fishmonger! Jew! Profiteering-profligate! Blood drinker! Anti-Semite! Gold loving fool! Hitler-friending islander! Nonsensical non-interventionist ninny!”

Mac panted for breath as Just drove away, trying to think if any of his insults contradicted each other. With a bitter grimace, he extracted the cider from his saddlebag with his magic and unconsciously uncorked the bottle to take a swig. He was an eighth of the way through when he stopped, eyes wide, and turned the bottle to look at it.

That lasted for thirty-one seconds before he tossed the bottle out with an angry growl. Predictably, there was crash when it hit the pavement.

“Somepony clean that up!” he shouted out the window.

Storming out of the empty office, he saw one of the younger reporters looking at him. “You! What are your feelings on neutrality?”

The young mare squirmed under his gaze, terrified of the angry revolutionary. “I, uh, have no strong feelings one way or the other?”

“Was that a joke?” Mac asked hotly. “Because that was pretty funny. If I was in a better mood, I would laugh.”

“T-thank you . . .”

Mac ignored her stammering response and went out the door.

“Guards, avanti!”

Author's Note

Mistakes: The timeline can get a little confusing here, and while I edited it with a little more clarification I still think it’s unclear. Perhaps that’s for the best though, I don’t know. Functionally, however, all sections are sequential, and that’s why they’re arranged that way.

Successes: I love this chapter. It’s perhaps my favorite of the story, and that’s one reason it’s so long. There were a lot of events going on, and they were all vividly burned into my mind, such that I felt comfortable writing them in full. The only part where that wasn’t the case was when Keytone woke up, which was one of the last parts of the story to be finished and was almost going to be cut entirely until I was convinced by a friend that the story needed the section. Soon after that it was written, and I think that he was right, the story is better for it.

Inspirations: Two specific instances that inspired major or minor parts of this story that I thought deserved mentioned as they were unlikely to be picked up on were the 2015 Baltimore, Maryland Riots and the SB>1 Defiant. Specifically about the riots was the mayor at the time making the famous comment about giving protesters “space to destroy” and the resulting chaos that ensued, which obviously inspired some of Mayor Apple Tree’s behavior though with more pragmatic than emotional reasons being the motivating factor. The SB>1 (yes, that is pronounced “ess-bee greater than one”) is a joint project between Sikorsky and Boeing to produce a next generation rotorcraft to break the physical speed limit currently on traditional helicopters that they hope will be able to outcompete Bell Helicopter and Lockheed-Martin’s own joint project (the V-280 Valor tiltrotor) for valuable military contracts, and it obviously inspired the Br-16 seen in this chapter alongside another famous helicopter whose influence will sadly not be felt until a later date.

Justification Noir

Brothers and sisters of the Equestriani Fascist Party, it is time I once again addressed one of the most common criticisms of our beloved movement. The criticism of which I speak is, of course, the wrongheaded notion that we wish to repeat the follies of the Second World War. Specifically, that it is our alleged desire to bring about in Equestria a reincarnation of the society propagated by the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, commonly known as the Nazis.

This falsehood is a side effect of the highly effective propaganda campaign waged by the Allied nations of World War II. During this campaign, Fascism’s good name was defamed in an effort to mobilize people to fight against the Italians. The Italians had in turn wrongfully allied with Hitler and his Nazi Germany because of the even more wrongheaded snubbing of Mussolini by their old allies prior to the war. They had turned their noses up at him, enacting unjust embargoes and restrictions, and for what? For having the courage to see a wrong in the Ethiopian slave trade and the willingness to fight against it by any means necessary, even unto war.

Make no mistake, though, that despite the grave insult the Allied Nations heaped upon Italy, allying with Hitler’s Germany was a grave error from every possible angle. It is also not something that we Equestriani would have done had we been in the same situation. In the same situation, we would have stuck fast to our old friendships and tried to work things out and never would have allied with a man who was so publicly abusive of everyone and everything. Our Fascism would not have been Mussoliniism and it certainly wouldn’t have been Hitlerism.

Fascism, since that is the word that is used, fascism presents, wherever it manifests itself, characteristics which are varied to the extent that countries and national temperaments vary. It is essentially a defensive reaction of the organism, a manifestation of the desire to live, of the desire not to die, which at certain times seizes a whole people. So each people reacts in its own way, according to its conception of life. Our rising, here, has an Equestriani meaning! What can it have in common with Hitlerism, which was, above all, a reaction against the state of things created by the defeat, and by the abdication and the despair that followed it?

So take heart, young people from across the interstellar veil, for the Fascists are your friends, not your enemies! We seek only to fight against those who would drag us into war, and to live in peace with those who will let us. A repeat of the Holocaust is what we fight against most of all.

Thus I make a public appeal to the American President, who no doubt has heard of our rise. Mister Cantwell, do not strike us down. We are no threat to you, and indeed might become your biggest ally in the future against the enemies of all life. If it would put your mind at ease, meet with me, the Boss of the EFP, personally, and I shall ease all your fears.

[Dated: October 12th, 2046; no public response from the White House was ever given to the article.]

The window to Just News’s old office was covered with a translucent curtain of rain, darkening the room and reducing the lights outside to yellow blurs, just as planned. Winter was coming soon, and for the first time in Brisk’s life, he imagined it might just arrive on time. Things had certainly changed for the better . . . well, most things.

“I hear that you’re dozing off in class again,” Brisk said conversationally, still staring at the rain soaked window.

“Not for long, and my grades aren’t suffering at all,” Keytone replied quickly.

Brisk took a moment to glance at his sister. Her black hair was coming back, her head looking less like a cue ball and more like a soot-covered lawn every day. Around her were scattered tablets, PDAs, datapads, and half a dozen other electronic devices that he couldn’t remember the classifications for. Her fingers danced over the holographic keyboard projected onto the table in front of her Advent Halcyon computer, a speaker mounted into the projector making a noise not unlike their grandfather’s old typewriter with each key activation. She was in her element, but dark rings surrounded her eyes, and though she never frowned, she didn’t do much smiling either.

“You know what I’m getting at, sis. You need rest, just like the doctor ordered,” he reminded her.

The retro-futuristic soundtrack stopped, and she looked up with eyes so dark in the poor lighting of the room they looked like two black pools with no bottoms. “You know why that won’t work, Brisk.”

He clasped his hand as a flash of fire ran across his vision. “Yeah, I know why,” he said, pausing for a moment to inhale not unlike a sob. “Just . . . I don’t know, take a pill or something to knock yourself out without making you remember. I don’t want to wake up one day to find out that my sister escaped death only to die of exhaustion six months later.”

“I . . . I’ll try, Brisk. That’s all I can do,” she relented.

“‘All you can do,’ huh?” he said with a sardonic chuckle, pivoting around to face her fully. “You say that while doing, what? Five different things at once?”

The smallest glimmer of a cheeky smile appeared on her mouth. “I’m a girl, remember? Our brains are supremely adept at multitasking.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’ve told me a dozen times before,” he said, walking up to her and patting her shoulder.

“Listen, I’ve got to go now. Champion said she would be along shortly. You going to be alright until . . . ?”

“Yeah,” Keytone interrupted. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. Gives me more time alone to work.”

“OK then, I’ll see you home by eight?” he asked.

His sister paused for a moment, but then nodded. “By eight. I’ll see about my work getting covered.”

“Thanks, sis,” he said before walking out the door.

He was climbing down the stairs to the lobby when he saw her, small, fluffy, and lightish-red. One of her purple eyes was hidden behind that peekaboo Veronica Lake manestyle that had become so popular of late, and which Keytone had been planning to get before she lost her hair in surgery. That didn’t stop her from encouraging her friend to go and get the same style though, and it looked like she had finally taken her up on that.

“Good evening, Champion,” Brisk said as he walked towards the coat rack where she had just finished throwing up her own jacket.

“Good evening, Brisk,” Champion Pastry said, looking up at him with one sad eye.

“Keytone’s still up in her office, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

“I was, actually. Has there been any improvement?”

“A little. I actually got her to smile a little when I pointed out a contradiction, and I got her to promise me she would be home by eight, so remember that.”

“Was the contradiction that she was multitasking a lot? Because the females of your species are really good at that.”

“Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me. Amazing how no one ever talks about how us males are really good at focusing on things though.”

“That's because it's not really remarkable, Brisk.”

“It might be boring, but it’s also practical.”

“I’ve seen your art, so I’ll have to give you that.”

Taking the lull in the conversation as permission to move, Brisk walked over to the coatrack to put on his jacket and hat. It was a large affair in a classic Manehattan style, but he thought he wore it well. The hat was a simple brown wide-brimmed fedora. Both had been waterproofed with hyper hydrophobic materials, perfect for a night like the one pouring down outside the door.

“We never should have let her go that day,” Champion whispered to herself as she turned away.

“No, we shouldn’t have,” Brisk replied sadly. When the earth pony turned around in surprise, he clarified. “My hearing isn't nearly as bad as it seems sometimes, and you’re not half as quiet as you think you are.”

With that, he exited the building into the cold night. Liquid ice fell, splattering against his coat and hat to bounce off like grease on a teflon pan. He wasn’t wearing any gloves though, so into the pockets went his hands. It was a cold November night.

He considered calling a taxi to get home. That would have been the smart thing to do. He wanted to take it slow, though, and center himself. So he walked home, which he could do, now that the government was finally cleaning up the streets.

No more Yellow Zones or Red Zones or even Green Zones, just one big city policed in its totality. It was a good thing to think about. Now if only it had happened earlier.

He knew he shouldn’t think like that, that Keytone had repeatedly told him not to. That didn’t matter; he had still let her go. It was all his fault.

If he had just put up more of a fight, she would have jumped onto that cart, Gabe would have flown home, and everything would have worked out. That day at least. Those Purehooves had probably been lying in wait for a while and would likely waited for a long time after. That is what he told himself. It wasn’t his fault.

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to walk home. The rain had a way of making you focus inward, even more so with the cold. It must have been close to zero degrees centigrade.

Blast it. Blast the cold, and blast myself for doing this, he stewed.

He was getting closer to the residential district of the Old Green Zone, but he still had a few blocks to go.

No one else is walking right now. It’s just me and my stupid self.

He heard a crash in the alleyway he was passing; he ignored it. He heard a mare’s scream muffled; he didn’t ignore that. A Printer stallion wasn’t a coward, not with that call.

He rushed in and found under the illumination of a door light two cops with gold and black eclipse bands on their forelegs, the symbol of the Equestriani Fascist Party. They were gagging and beating a mare who around her neck wore a red bandanna, the red of the Purehooves. They all had frozen mid-struggle to look at him.

The cops were both armed. One was with a PPf-43 submachine gun, a weapon from Polara that was as cheap as it was reliable and chambered to fire the fast 7.62x25mm cartridge and its spinoffs. The other was armed with a CCA-2, a modular assault rifle designed for the Equestriani military, chambered to fire the formerly obscure 7.7x58mm cartridge. Both of those were military weapons, and yet strangely, Brisk had no fear facing them, a sure sign of madness.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. Nothing legal, I’m sure.

“Just cleaning up some communist criminal filth,” one of the police ponies replied, her voice tripping with confidence.

“With a gag? In the pounding rain? In an alleyway out of sight from common passersby? With such overzealous force?” Brisk pressed.

The police mare’s eyes darted from side to side, as if looking for an escape route. “. . . Yes?”

Her floundering attempt to explain herself told Brisk more than a straight answer ever could. They clearly had attacked the bandana-wearing mare without either a cause or a warrant and were now trying to spirit her away to some horrible fate. The mare on the ground was even now pleading with her eyes and even mumbles for him to help her, an easy feat for someone from his family, and yet . . . He looked into her eyes again. They weren’t just pleading, they were filled with hate, hate greater for him than could ever be directed to the very ponies beating her, and a desperation that led her to temporarily put aside that hate.

Brisk had seen that plenty of times before, on the faces of those who expressed hatred and derision for anypony not a pony, but who always came crawling to them for help. That mare was a Purehoof and not just some unlucky mare who had gotten one of their bandanas put on her by corrupt cops, he was sure of it. She was a member of the same organization that had killed his best friend, maybe she even participated in the attack, and now she begging him, the stick, for help.

“Listen, you’re a human, right?” the cop asked, trying to break the silence while her partner applied more pressure to the mare on the ground. “This mare would probably kill you first chance she gets if she goes free. What profit is there in it for you if you help her?”

Brisk stood there in the rain, feeling the weight of the pounding water anew. The cops stared at him, and then each other. The mare on the ground suddenly looked panicked, her eyes darting around.

“What profit indeed?” With those words, Brisk pivoted around and exited the alleyway just as another muffled scream followed him.

The rain was cold. So very cold.

Celestia’s sun was warm and pleasing, just like the mare who moved it.

It was a good day for drawing, Brisk thought. His hand was once again dancing over his art book with a specialized pencil nestled in his fingers. This time, he was creating a landscape of the park in front of him.

So engrossed was he that he didn't even notice the earth pony who had come to stand right in front of his bench.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” Brisk told him without taking his eyes off what he was doing.

The stallion got up on the bench next to Brisk with little effort. It would be another ten minutes before words were spoken again.

“You're pretty good at this, Mr. Printer,” the stallion said appreciatively.

Brisk stopped and then turned to look at his new benchmate. He was white from head to toe, wore one of those EFP tunics, and had a cutie mark on his flanks of snow falling in an S shape.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mister . . .” Brisk asked, trailing off on purpose.

“Sorry. Where are my manners? The name’s Snow Serpent,” the stallion answered, putting his hoof out.

Brisk pressed a fist into the offered hoof, and the two appendages moved up and down in tandem.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Serpent. So what brings you to the park this day?” Brisk asked as the two grippers fell back at ease.

“Well, I was going to give you the pitch on joining the EFP, but that was before I sat down and recognized who you were,” Snow Serpent explained.

“So now what?”

Snow Serpent sat back. “Well, I suppose that I could still give you the pitch, but it'll be a long time before you could apply it.”

“I’ll graduate high school in a week. Where did you go to school?”

“Stalliongrad, on the island of Loshad, up by Polara. Our school system is a bit different up there. It’s mostly frozen, for one.”

Brisk allowed himself to chuckle at that. “I guess that would mess with the schedule. . . . Still, I don’t think I could join your organization. My family would have kittens.”

“Literally, or figuratively? I know your family is famous for adopting a lot.”

“Figuratively, in this case. They think your organization is violent and brutal.”

“They’re right.”

“. . . Wow. You came right out and said it.”

“Didn’t expect that?”

“No, I can’t say I did. You said you would give me the pitch on joining, and usually people leave stuff like that out of their pitch.”

“I thought that the honest approach would be better in this case. Especially since you’ve probably witnessed it first hand, but we have good reason to be that way.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Brisk Printer, the world’s controlled by big forces, and none of them care about the little guy, here in Manehattan or anywhere else; we’re just chattel to them and their techno-consumerist ways. The banks, foreign militaries, and even political movements like the Purehooves, all they care about is squeezing the life out of us while they get rich.”

“That’s the way the game is played, as they say.”

“Yeah, but you know what’s the worst offender in all this? The one that hurts the most? It’s our own damn government. They should be the ones that care the most, and yet, they’re the ones that care the least.”

“The Princesses and Elements seem to care a lot.”

“Maybe that would have been enough a hundred years ago, but now? Now there’s just too much stuff going on. It’s clear the Princesses can’t handle it all, and that’s distracting them from what really matters. If that wasn’t the case . . . Why would things ever have gotten this bad here?”

“And this is why we need a shogunate?”

“You’ve been reading The Boss’s work!”

“Why wouldn’t I read Uncle Mac’s stuff? He was a big deal at the paper for years, and a close friend of our family.”

“Uncle Mac, huh? Here’s a tip then: if you do decide to join up? Don’t call him that. It would mess with unit cohesion.”

“Got it.”

“Anyway, my point was this, against all those big gigantic forces, how can we be anything but violent and brutal? Especially against the Purehooves? We want to save Equestria, and they want to remake it in their own hideous image using the most bloodsoaked ways possible. Against that, using anything other than political violence is a fool’s errand.”

“You don’t have to tell me how brutal they can be.”

“. . . Hey, I’m sorry about bringing that up like that. Gabriel and Keytone . . . the whole community is still mourning what happened.”

Brisk mulled over asking him to leave, but to his surprise, Snow Serpent got off the bench himself. The pony looked even more shaken than he did.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry for stirring up bad memories, but I still would like you to consider joining up. We’re doing a lot of good work out there -- breaking up slave rings, stopping Purehooves, making the taxis run on time -- and we could sure use the help,” Snow Serpent said, his voice going from uncommonly nervous with an accent that hadn’t been heard before to confident with proper Manehattan tones over the course of the sentence. “Well, goodbye!”

As he walked away, Brisk fiddled with his pencil as he mulled over the conversation. He looked down and found that the picture had not gotten any more complete since he last saw it. The only difference was that he seemed to have lost his train of thought.

“Blast it.”

“So, now that you’re out of school, do you have any plans for the future?” Ardent asked her son as the two of them sat at the dinner table alone. Keytone was once again absorbed in work, and Fit had taken the younger siblings to gymnastics practice and wouldn’t be back for another hour. Dinner had yet to be prepared, but they would start soon.

“I’ve been giving serious thought to a few things,” Brisk answered calmly.

“That’s more than you had last time I asked, so what are they? Where does my handsome young son see himself in five years?” Ardent inquired curiously and hopefully in a manner most motherly.

“Well, I’ve been thinking of joining the EFP Legions.”

Ardent stared at him like he had grown a second head. “Un-uh, try again.”

“What?! Why not?” Brisk demanded, confused.

“Brisk, sweetie, I know things have been rough lately, but what you’re talking about is insane,” Ardent told him, herself just as confused.

“How? How is it insane to join a political movement that’s helping people, helping this city rebuild for the first time in . . . ever?!” the younger Printer inquired.

“They’re a violent and brutally repressive organization! They scared the living daylights out of poor Mrs. Mango down the street, not to mention all the other people they’ve accosted.”

“Mrs. Mango kept telling you to keep me and Keytone muzzled in case we would try to eat ponies!”

“She’s 85 years old! She can’t harm anyone, and even if she was a spring chicken, her being rude does not mean some goldshirted thugs have the right to threaten her with bodily harm!”

“Those thugs are the only ones who have enforced any sort of law and order in this city.”

“I don’t care. No son of mine will become a monster shaking down old ladies for their ramblings. I forbid you from joining the Fascist Party, and that’s final!”

Brisk looked like his face had run cold at his mother’s words. “I guess I should have expected this . . .”

“Yes, you should have,” Ardent agreed.

“. . . After all, you’re the one that let Gabe die that day.”

Ardent felt like she had been kicked. Unable to react, she merely stared on, her lips quivering, as her son got up from the table. He looked angry, and it was that realization that finally shook her out of her stupor.

“Brisk! Brisk, what are you doing?!” Ardent demanded, panicked, as she scrambled after him. She found him in his room, picking up one of the bug out bags they had made two years ago.

“I don’t see why you care,” he said coldly, moving past her. “After all, I’m not your son anymore.”

“Brisk! That’s not what I meant at all! Brisk, just calm down, and let’s talk this out,” Ardent pleaded, the pegasus’s voice growing ever more panicked.

Her son was at the door by now, bag slung over his shoulder and hand on the doorknob.

“Brisk, please just think about what you’re . . .” Ardent stopped when her son turned his head to look at her.

Despite human claims to the contrary, Ardent found it hard to look at humans and not just see them as killers, but apex predators as well. It was like they were built from the ground up to be fighting machines, and they not only looked the part but could act on it, especially the males. That was hardly a bad thing in the pegasus’s opinion though; there were many species that were predators, and those instincts and designs could be turned to positive outcomes in just about every case.

There was a particular analogy Ardent had picked up while studying the raising of human boys, that of the sheepdog and the wolf. The logic went that human males were, in a general sense, naturally competitive, ambitious, and prone to value to action and violence, and that all those traits would either be channeled into positive pursuits and result in a sheepdog, or they would be allowed to run free and feral and become a wolf. It might not have been completely accurate in her family’s case, but she took it to heart as a lesson on the fundamental differences between ponies and humans.

So she tried to raise her oldest son up right and teach him how to direct his natural instincts into constructive desires, to control them instead of letting them control him. He would become a model Equestriani subject, and he would do it by just being himself. And it worked. He became a top scoring student at school, a kind hearted soul who helped out the needy, and a very good painter who, Ardent had to admit, always made his mother feel safer when they worked on a job together.

In that moment, though, for the first time in her life, she saw her son, and he terrified her.

Brisk stood there for several moments, his eyes burning with rage, his whole body tense with fury. Then he turned and exited the Printer family home, slamming the door on his way out. Nearly a minute later, Ardent collapsed onto the floor, weeping.

Author's Note

Missteps: After re-reading this chapter, I’m not sure there were any grievous problems with this. Huzzah!

Successes: This was one of the last chapters (if not the last chapter) conceived of and begun for this story, and if memory serves it was after watching one of Razorfist’s Film Noir Archives videos. Really happy with how it turned out, especially the detailing in the first section and the emotions in the final. Brisk is more than a bit of a jerk, but I wanted to provide some kind of context for the reader to make them understand why he is falling the way he is. I hope I succeeded in that regard.

In the Legion

One city wiped off the map, two devastated beyond recognition, countless millions of Equestriani citizens dead, injured, or displaced, thousands upon thousands of our brave defenders killed in action, the deployment of orbital superweapons, the Princesses themselves assaulted on multiple occasions. It is sadly not unprecedented for such destruction to occur, even in so short a time. What is unprecedented is for a country to be so ravaged, and yet do nothing.

Equestria has been attacked, and we are now at war. If one were to look at the government, though, one would scarcely believe it. The nobles are still engaging in their powerplays and arguments, the bureaucrats are continuing on as usual, new agencies are being formed that have little to do with fighting a war, and the Princesses are currently on vacation. Instead of the Princesses at the head of government, we have a changeling queen who was apparently raised by ponies installed as regent while the Princesses indulge in family drama.

It would be a betrayal of my Fascist principles to question the loyalty of someone who has so clearly embraced the Equestriani lifestyle. However, it would only be sheer folly to not question the qualifications of the mayor of a village where everyone is her child to serve as regent of one of the biggest nations in the world undergoing one of the biggest crises in its history. In peacetime, perhaps, this could have been considered acceptable, but it is not peacetime. We are at war, and no one in the central government seems to have realized this.

My fellow Equestriani, we have never seen a more shining example in all of history of the need for a Fascist change in government. The Princesses have clearly demonstrated that they neither are capable of ruling nor do they actually want to. If we are to survive, a shogunate must be installed that removes the Princesses and the nobility from authority and replaces them with a military junta.

We can talk about the sanctity of the royal family and noble traditions after the war. Right now, all that matters is survival, and to survive, we must win this war. Equestria as a whole must unite behind this cause. If we do not, then our annihilation is assured.

It had been twenty years since Equestria discovered alien nations, twenty years since the War of the Elements, and twenty years since the First Contact Riots destroyed Manehattan. Now, just two years after the Equestriani Fascist Party came to power, the city was once again thriving. Crime had cratered, old debris had been cleared away, the population was booming, and the economy was soaring. Things were looking up, and it seemed like the worst was behind Manehatten at last.

For young Brisk Printer, now a man, it was a good feeling. He was part of something bigger than himself, a cog in a great collective machine that was helping to save Equestria from the cancerous rots that had infested it. And now, for just a moment, he could bask in the glory of a world without democracy or racial communism.

It was a sentiment that was, in a way, literal. His ten-person contubernium was nearing the end of its wartime patrol and was currently in Unity Park. Formed from several blocks of burnt rubble that had laid there since the riots two decades prior until being reclaimed in a collective community stimulus project by the new Manehattan Fascist Works Project Administration Committee, the park’s most prominent feature was a large mobile sculpture in its center known as the Aligned Unity, which gave the park its name. It was a simple idea, a replica of Luna’s moon mounted on a gimbal and moving in such a way that it would always create the appearance of an eclipse for those standing near the fasces replica at the center of the sculpture, no matter the time of year, but it had been fiendishly complicated to implement. From what he heard, his own mother had helped in the construction of the monument, and if true, it made his opinion of her go up slightly from the pits it had reached when he left to join the party.

The contubernium’s decanus, Snow Serpent, had stopped the group briefly to partake of the local carrot dog vender. It had been this pause that had allowed the human to contemplate whether or not his family was still a bunch of cowards.

“Here you go, ten of my best carrot dogs, on the h-house,” the vender declared, handing over the last of the foodstuffs, a slight tremor of fear in his voice.

“Thank you, and do not fret, there will never be another Fillydelphia as long as we’re on guard,” Snow Serpent said warmly and to negligible effect, motioning the contubernium to partake in the meal. As they did so, he noticed that Brisk once again had one of those ‘artistic’ looks.

Leaving behind his own carrot dog, Snow Serpent instead grabbed Brisk’s and walked over to the human. Giving his subordinate a tap on the flank, he was able stir his attention. With a start, Brisk looked down to face his decanus’ upturned hoof and the carrot dog mounted on it.

“I’m sorry, sir, I . . .”

“Don’t apologize, remember? If you’re doing good, keep doing good; if you’re doing bad, stop doing it. You really must have been out of it if you forgot that, legionary,” Decanus Snow Serpent chided even as he hoofed off the food.

“Yes, sir,” Brisk replied before biting into the carrot dog. Bloody hell, this thing is good, he reflected.

The contubernium started to move out of the park, and as they did, so Brisk reached into his pocket and placed a multiplicity of bits on the countertop of the vendor's cart. He didn’t stop, nor did his gaze waver from in front of him, so it was easy for him to see the earth pony in front of him turn around roll his eyes.

Rampage always did have a distaste for charity, or offered help of any kind. His pride and video addiction could often get in the way of things, but he was a darn good machine gunner, and he followed orders exactly.

In front of him was a rifleperson by the name of Tantrum, a minotaur bull with an ax to grind after a cow he was sweet on got turned into steak by a syndicalist. He might have anger issues, but who didn’t? Those monstrous Purehooves were taking everything from them and packaging it as ‘certified grade-A Equestriani’.

Next to him was Headstrong, a unicorn who lived up to his name in terms of insistence that he was as good a marksperson as Brisk. He was not, nor was he as strong as him. These were things Brisk chose to remember, instead of the fact that the unicorn had outranked him in the legion’s last art expo.

In front of those two was Divebomb, a pegasus rifleperson who seemed to fit the loner stereotype of a gryphon fairly well. Maybe it was because of that that he was kicked out of the air force, or maybe it was the glee in which he undertook aerial operations.

Next to him was Razorclaw, a rifleperson who was actually a gryphon and who was calm, patient, and efficient. There was not a significant negative trait about him. In fact, he was so perfect yet so unassuming that he had a tendency to unnerve other members of the legion.

Another pony that effectively unnerved others was the earth pony mare in front of him, the machine gunner Munitia. She was even more calm and collected than Razorclaw, to the point of never showing any emotion, something which made chills run down the spines of those who did not work with her constantly. Naturally, scuttlebutt shipped her and Razorclaw together.

Walking next to her was Black Out, another pegasus who never even got far enough into the army to get kicked out like Divebomb had been from the air force, washing out for unclear reasons that may or may not have involved his siblings instead. He had voiced a desire to become a marksperson instead of a rifleperson and Brisk had taken to helping him practice his skill. He was one of the only friends Munitia had, along with the gryphon flying just above them.

That gryphon was Firefly. He had once tried to join the Foreign Legion of the Sixth French Republic, but was rejected because of latent pyromania, and so had decided to join a more local legion. Soon after, the 3rd Legion in Trottingham had him transferred out for blatant pyromania. He delighted in the use of the flamethrower, had shown great aptitude for explosives as well, but in their contubernium filled the role of a rifleperson more often than not.

Last, but certainly not least, was the leader of the pack, Decanus Snow Serpent. He had been like a second father to Brisk, really to all of them. Without him, their personality flaws would have spiraled into a discordant mess that would have seen them all in the brig, but thanks to him, most of their flaws were not but quirks, and their contubernium fought as one. None of them could ever imagine themselves without him.

They entered the former abandoned warehouse district located between Launchpad International Airport and the harbor, now revitalized . . . Well, partly revitalized. Another part had been converted to a grander purpose.

That purpose was well hidden both legally and physically. Companies who were fellow travelers or outright shells for the EFP owned much of the warehouses, and the warehouses themselves were insulated against leaking any sort of emissions. To ensure that their contents never saw the light of day until they were ready, a series of large tunnels connected them. All were things that could not have been achieved had anyone cared about Manehattan, but no one did, so the modifications went off without a hitch.

It had been a bitter pill for the members of the contubernium who were Manehattan natives to swallow, but none of them could complain about the results.

Walking under a steel awning that hung out over a minotaur-sized door in the side of one of those warehouses, the group of legionaries milled about as their decanus did the usual back and forth with the intercom. While that happened, they watched the angles, looking for any suspicious characters. Any suspicious characters besides themselves, that is.

The door clicked, and the group filed in one at a time. As they entered through the door, they also passed through an energy screen that disabled any magic held on them. The door closed behind them and, upon seeing that everyone was still who they appeared to be, the door ahead of them opened. They passed through another energy screen, and their magic was restored. From there, they turned right into a stairway.

The metal under their feet banged as heavy boots and hooves hammered into the stairs. They went faster than was perhaps necessary, but they were all eager to get some rest before their next patrol. With the war going on and tensions rising, they never could be sure when their next rest would come.

At the bottom of the stairs, they soon found themselves at the edge of a cavernous room lined end to end with neat rows of Monolith tanks alongside Onager SPGs. It was a sight that was stunning and shocking the first they saw it, but now, the impressive view had turned into an annoyance. They all knew that in order to untangle the mess of armored vehicles, members of an infantry cohort, likely theirs, would be conscripted for the task.

The Monolith was a massive 70 metric ton main battle tank, designed as a prototype for the Equestriani Royal Guard but rejected in favor of surplus M2 Powell tanks from the US. It had a distinctive sloped rear and sides, in addition to the classic sloped front that gave it excellent all around protection. This was made possible by the hydrogen fuel cell power plant that pumped out 1750 horsepower without the need for bulky engine blocks. On top of the fuselage was an unmanned turret carrying a 14cm autoloading gun with 7.7mm coaxial MG, and two additional APS turrets on the side. All of that put it in one of the two armor cohorts under the command of Praefectus Castrtoum Arashikage.

The Onager was a self-propelled artillery piece built on the same chassis as the Monolith but featuring greatly reduced armor in an attempt to reduce cost. What it lacked it armor, however, it more than made up with firepower thanks to its 20cm main gun, which had earned it the nickname “Big Bucker” by the Fascists who were training to use them. That gun was capable of firing everything from leaflet rounds to long range guided munitions, but it was stocked mostly with high explosive due to the predicted ECM-heavy and spotting-poor combat environment. They were mostly under the command of Primus Pilus Onslaught and his 2nd Fire Support Cohort.

All that, of course, meant that they were under different commands, and therefore, moving them out of the warehouse would be a huge ordeal. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if the 1st Infantry Cohort’s Kasztanka IFVs had been in there too. The Kasztanka, of course, being an almost total copy of the Polish BWP-4 using local parts, a simple box of an armored transport that carried a 3.2cm Gast gun in its unmanned turret and up to 12 legionaries in its hull -- though, thanks to the fact that contubernia only had ten troops each, that was usually just extra space. Luckily, it seemed as if not a single one could be seen in the room.

Just to confirm all that, Decanus Snow Serpent decided to ask the older gryphon who seemed to be leading an operation to get a Monolith loaded up with ammunition that would no doubt be needed soon.

“Hey, Geoff. Geoff? Geoff! Blast it, you old codger, listen up!”

“Yes, what is it?!” Geoff bellowed back, clearly irate, even as he motioned for his donkey companion to continue operating the crane where the 60 kilogram shell was gently being lowered into the tank’s ammunition feed.

“There any Kasztankas or other vehicles we’ll have to move in there?” Snow Serpent asked mirthfully.

“That’s it? That’s what you came to ask me about? You know, back in my day, when the Weather Underground was still around, there was no one who would shirk any sort of responsibility, but now, you got all kinds of folks joining up, and I’m telling you now, not a one of them want to put in the work necessary to get stuff done. Why, if I knew then what I know now, when the Macaroni said they were getting the band back together, I would have told them flat out . . .”

“Okay, we get it!” Snow Serpent interrupted. “You’re a paragon of virtue, and we young 'uns are unfit to be in your presence.”

Geoff hmpfed, possibly with no small measure of forced pride. “Well, as long as y’all know your places. Speaking of which, I don’t have a job for you, but I know someone who does.”

“Who?”

Geoff pointed off to the contubernium’s left with a smile. “Her.”

Snow Serpent and the others whirled around to find a somewhat familiar looking pony.

“The Boss wants to see you and your contubernium, Decanus,” announced the earth pony mare whose name escaped Brisk. “Follow me.”

Most of the members of the contubernium glanced at Brisk or were too polite to do so. They all knew his family’s connection to The Boss; it was a matter of public record. Indeed, even beyond that, it had entered into local legend that the leader of the Fascist Party had been present when two human foals were whisked away from their war torn land of birth, and that it was by his hoof that they had been adopted into a loving Equestriani home.

Brisk tried to shrug it off, but he had to admit to himself that it was strange. He hadn’t spoken to The Boss since the night of Gabriel’s funeral, and for him to call for his contubernium specifically, there had to be something very personal going on.

“Think something happened to your family?” Black Out asked him, voicing one of the more obvious questions.

“I don’t want to think about that,” Brisk replied, his mind flashing back to long days helping his sister walk again.

“If anything did happen to them, I’ll make sure the bastards responsible get burned,” Firefly swore.

“Cut the chatter,” Snow Serpent admonished them.

They were led to one of the underground briefing rooms, a small grey room made mostly out of cubicle walls that wouldn’t have been out of place at one of those Human Earth community colleges that seemed so popular in movies aimed at young mares. The mare leading them opened the door and then stood aside. Brisk narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, and as he entered the room wished he had fixed his eyes more closely to her.

The blood of every member of the 4th Contubernium, 6th Century, 9th Infantry Cohort, 1st Legion ran cold as they found themselves sharing a room with the 1st Contubernium of the Praetorian Guard, the elite bodyguards of the The Boss himself. Said leader of the Equestrian Fascist Party was sitting on a fold out chair with his legs crossed, staring at them as they walked through the door. Most of the Guard were in the back, forcing them to sit up front, sandwiched between their leader and his bodyguards.

As they took their seats, they noticed the only other person in the room, a human woman … mostly. She was shorter than the American standards so common in visitors and immigrants to Equestria, with dark brown hair tied up into a bun and a disposition that seemed to ooze forced confidence. It was her eyes that really stuck out though. They were strange, unnaturally blue, as if they were meant to look lifelike instead of actually being real.

Brisk glanced down at her hands, the only other part of her body visible with the version of the Fascist goldshirt meant for human females; he noticed how they too looked just slightly fake, and suddenly, something clicked in his head. She’s a cyborg, he realized.

He remembered a story from when he had first joined up. Apparently, during the sweep of the city to root out crime after the Fascists first came to power, a human girl was found in the home of some Purehooves-aligned fatcat. Her womb had been ripped out, and her limbs and eyes had all been replaced with bionics. That demon had bought her as a sex slave and turned her into a doll, but the Goldshirts put an end to their debauchery permanently. In thanks for freeing her, she had joined the Fascist cause.

Rough backstory or not, Brisk could safely say he wasn’t sold on her before she even started speaking.

“Thank you for coming. My name is Frumentarius Mainframe, and I’ll be briefing you on today’s operation,” she began, walking in front of the whiteboard at the front of the room, each footfall audibly heavier than what was normal for a woman her size. “Please keep in mind that the only other person who knows about this is Frumentarius Primaris Enigma Mirror . . .”

“And if it doesn’t stay that way, you’ll get a bullet to the head,” The Boss interrupted, sweeping one muscular foreleg across the room.

Mainframe nodded slowly and then continued, “I’ll cut to the chase, there’s a high value target that we need you to take out posthaste. They will be traveling along Route 47 towards Manehattan tonight, and as such, you are to ambush them here.”

The whiteboard behind the cyborg lit up to display one of the winding mountain roads that characterized the forested region between Manehattan and Hollow Shades. Two of the rocky hills on opposite sides of the road were highlighted, and lines were drawn to indicate fields of fire on one of the bends.

“The target is a convoy of three black sport utility vehicles, of course armored and laden with supplies. The high value target in particular is a unicorn by the name of Firebrand, a prominent recruiter and ‘community organizer’ for the Purehooves, and is expected to be riding in the middle vehicle.”

The picture of the unicorn, one eye covered by an eyepatch, made Brisk tense up. His sister’s voice was becoming uncomfortably loud in his mind.

“Firebrand has been active in the Purehooves for approximately 25 years, predating first contact. He was present during the riots that sprung up during the War of the Elements, stirring up several of the ones that almost destroyed this city. He’s also the primary suspect in the murder of Gabriel Graystone and the assault of Keytone Printer.”

Brisk felt a little heat rising into his cheeks, and the eyes of most of the other legionaries boring into the back of his head. He didn’t know who he hated more at that moment, that hiredelle for bringing the focus onto him by mentioning his dead friend and sister, or Firebrand for creating the circumstance in the first place. . . . Firebrand, it was definitely Firebrand.

The whiteboard’s display once again changed to follow Mainframe’s words.

“The plan is to set up an ambush on opposing hills to set up a crossfire. Once the targets come into view, a new anti-materiel round fired by the marksmen will be used to disable the engines of the target vehicles. Once disabled, a demand of surrender will be broadcast; if accepted, the Purehooves will be taken into custody, and the Frumentarii will take it from there. If they refuse to surrender, you are to attack in earnest and take what prisoners you can after the fight. Either way, try to leave the vehicles mostly intact for material intelligence.

“The Chief Armorer should be finished manufacturing the weapons the marksmen shall use and wanted to demonstrate them personally. Please proceed to the firing range for said demonstration,” Mainframe finished before opening the door out.

The Boss exited the room, and the whole room fell into an orderly line behind him. Another long walk through the extensive tunnels followed, during which the large group didn’t talk to each other, nor look around, thinking it unprofessional. It was, Brisk reflected, the most tense cardio they had gotten since that one time the previous month.

They reached the firing range where the weapons were supposed to be explained to them to find . . . absolutely no one. Everyone glanced around awkwardly at each other, as if they were the armorer in disguise. Mainframe found a look of panic in her cybernetic eyes as she whipped out her smartphone and desperately typed in commands to a specialized app. The Boss took it all in stride though.

“Probably just putting his final touches on them. I hired Dr. Venom because he did things right, not because he did them fast,” he said jovily. “Isn’t that right?”

Mainframe with a barely audible gulp pocketed her phone. “Yes, sir. He says he’s on his way.”

“There, you see! Now we need only wait,” The Boss assured them. “Now, who here has volunteered for soup kitchen duty recently?”

Brisk, Snow Serpent, Black Out, and few members of the Praetorian Guard raised their appendages.

“Ah! Good to hear! Hearts and minds, people, hearts and minds. That’s what’s going to help us win the struggle,” The Boss cheered. “The rest of you should find time to go out and do it too. It’s refreshing to interact with the common folk and be reminded why we do what we do. Frumentarius, make sure you’re disguised before you do it. The last thing I need is people recognizing my spies.”

“Yes, sir,” Mainframe agreed.

The rest of those who had not raised their appendages repeated her.

“Good,” the Boss agreed. “. . . Well, at ease, people. Do whatever you need to do to pass the time while we wait here.”

With that, a lot of the tension went out of the room, and everyone started milling about and chatting. Mainframe glanced about and then exited the room, but Brisk could still see her, milling about in the hallway, and decided to follow.

Snow Serpent narrowed his eyes at the exit, but didn’t intervene.

“Yes?” Mainframe asked Brisk as the two humans stood out in the hallway. “What is it?”

“Why do you help the Fascist cause?” Brisk asked briskly.

Mainframe paused, as if considering her answer. “Your party members freed me and killed my captor. I cannot return to my homeland, so it seemed only right to help your cause.”

Brisk snorted. “Then how in Tartarus are we supposed to trust you?”

“Excuse me?” Mainframe replied, offended.

“How do we know you’re giving the right information?” Brisk repeated in variation.

“Why? Is it because I’m not a woman and barely even human?” she asked hotly.

“No, it’s because you’re not Equestriani,” Brisk clarified.

“What?”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m an Uyghur from East Turkestan, not that it matters anymore. That’s one of the . . .”

“I am aware of where East Turkestan is, what its major resources and geographic features are, and its history since the breakup of the communist bloc in the 1980s,” Brisk interrupted. “That you answered that way only shows further that you do not understand the struggle. If you do not believe with full conviction in the ideology, then how are we supposed to trust that you will not stab us in the back?”

Mainframe looked hurt, cowed, fearful, and then she looked off to the side briefly and her lips stiffened. “I can not return to my homeland because it was a family member that sold me into slavery in the first place. The rest of my family will not have me back because I don’t have a womb anymore. I have dishonored them, and so they will kill me. I have nowhere to go. Equestria, amongst the Fascist Party, is literally the only place in the universe where I can live, so I give my all for that.”

There was a momentary pause before Brisk replied, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. “And yet still, your first instinct was to say you were from East Turkestan.”

“The Frumentarii do not require your trust, Legionary Brisk Printer, only your attention,” Mainframe told him before walking back into the firing range.

She walked through a door held open by a stern-faced Decanus Snow Serpent. Brisk felt a knot form in his stomach as he looked upon his commanding officer’s face.

“Legionary, tensions are running high right now, with the nation at war and our first real combat operation about to begin, but that only means that now, more than ever before, we need to stick together and not piss off the Frumentarii!” the Decanus scolded. “You may not have noticed, but the Frumentarius Primaris was behind you.”

Brisk’s face got several shades paler.

“Yeah, you screwed up, and whatever comes from that, I don’t know. But what’s coming from me overhearing you is this . . .” Snow Serpent got up on two legs and grasped Brisk by his uniform’s collar, his snout not even an inch from his nose. “I want you to promise me you’ll respect your fellow Fascists, especially Frumentarius Mainframe, and if you can’t do that, you’ll at least be polite. If you can’t do either of those things, then I’ll make sure you’re sent back to your father in your skivvies. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Brisk answered immediately.

“Yes, sir, what?” the Decanus demanded.

“Yes, sir, I promise to respect my fellow Fascists, no matter the situation,” Brisk answered quickly.

“Good,” Snow Serpent let go of Brisk’s uniform and dropped back down onto all fours. “Now, get back in there, and let's see how you’re going to cripple a Commie.”

The two of them filed back into the room, and it wasn’t long before a dog wearing a white lab coat and the eclipse armband of the EFP came in with a familiar rifle slung over his shoulder and a heavy looking box in his paws. He set the box down with a heavy thud in front of the group and turned to face them.

“Greetings, Dr. Venom,” The Boss himself began. “What is it you have for us today?”

The whitish-brown furred dog did an absent-minded salute as he began talking. “Greetings, Boss. Well, we don’t have much time, but this is very important, so pay attention. These guns are for the markspeople, but if they get their brains blown out the rest of you will have to pick up the slack.”

He unslung the rifle from over his shoulder, and Brisk recognized it as his own.

The rifle was a Coal Carter-Arisaka Model One Repeating Rifle Pattern H, or CCA-1h for short. When human mining technology had been introduced to Equestria, many ponies had found themselves out of a job, and while many of their family members were happy to see them leave such a dangerous profession, the onset of Cutie Mark Failure Insanity Syndrome was almost inevitable for many more of those same ponies. One of those ponies was a black-coated stallion named Coal Carter, who had lost his job to a robot made in Germany, and so, in a fit of madness, decided that if he was going to take revenge by beating the humans at what they did best so badly, they too would lose their jobs. Naturally, and perhaps a little stereotypically, he assumed that humanity was best at killing things and moved to the US to learn firearms design, since while he presumed that the Germans were the greatest engineers and killers humanity had to offer, their immigration system was also a hassle at the time for most ponies, and he just hadn't had the time for it.

As luck would have it, though, the animosity Coal Carter held for humanity would disappear soon after arriving on Earth, due to a combination of the welcoming attitude of his teachers and a profound aptitude for his chosen field of study. He managed to get his own arms company started with the use of crowdfunding, and the first design to roll off the assembly line was a modification to what at the time was his favorite hunting rifle, the Arisaka Type 99 short rifle chambered in 7.7x58mm. The modifications had been primarily to assist ponies in the firing of the rifle, but elements of them would prove popular to other species as well.

The biggest difference between the newly redesignated CCA-1 and the by-then nearly 130-year-old design was that of the bolt, switching from the classic turn-bolt to a straight-pull action of Carter’s own design with an oversized bolt-handle meant to be easily operated by hoof and foreleg. The second biggest difference was the addition of a detachable box magazine in place of the original fixed magazine, with various size options available, though the ability to load via stripper clips was maintained. The third biggest was the trigger, with the trigger guard being enlarged to accommodate the extensories from a pony’s hoof and the trigger itself being a two-stage device in the tradition of Gaston Glock’s self-titled pistol in an attempt to reduce the risk of an accidental discharge. The other changes to the design were mostly metallurgical and geometric to help accommodate modern automated manufacturing and expectations of customizability, including several variations that used alternate rifling from the original Metford style that were designed following complaints about the guns being unfinished.

The particular example that was now held in Dr. Venom’s paws was the version modified for use by humans, featuring a smaller trigger guard and modified stock made from molecularly bonded wood gathered in Hollow Shades. It was primarily manufactured for use on the Terran market, but like nearly all the weapons in use by the EFP, it had been manufactured in house from stolen or leaked designs. Stolen though the idea had been, Brisk had taken an immense amount of pride in acquiring the materials used in its construction himself, and had even marked the stock with four lines in permanent marker just above the checkered grip to remind himself of what he was fighting for.

A world free of racists, syndicalists, tribalists, liberals, communists, democracies, conservatives, and all the other demons of the world so that his siblings could live their lives in peace. It was a pretty good goal to work towards, in his mind. All he needed to do to bring about the utopia they deserved was kill a few ponies that didn’t deserve to live anyways.

Dr. Venom snapped him out of his thoughts by bringing a lead sled and several weights out of the box and putting them on the ground, loudly. It almost covered up the sound of a two foot by two foot wide slab of armor being rolled out onto the range in front of an old hydrogen internal combustion engine that was also being wheeled out by the range techs. The thin armor plate would no doubt imitate the grill at the front of the vehicle, while the hydrogen engine itself was the most popular type of powerplant for security vehicles like their targets, precisely because of the 50% weight increase over older petrol designs that made it so much less desirable than the hydrogen fuel cell powerplants that dominated vehicle designs in the modern era.

“Now, you’re all familiar with the CCA-1, but we’ve had to make a few modifications to make this work. Shock absorbing buttplate, hardened reciever, enlarged suppressor, but even all that wasn’t enough. You’ll have to fire it from one of these lead sleds, with it weighted down, or you’ll be coming out in a medevac,” the bipedal canine explained as he finished setting up what he was describing. “What’s all this for? Well, this!”

The massive mutt reached into his lab coat and brought out a shiny silver bullet that didn’t look too much different in form to the 7.7mm Arisaka that both the CCA-1s and CCA-2s ate through like candy. Those were made out of brass and steel though, and this looked different. It certainly didn’t catch the light like any bullet Brisk had seen.

“This is what the people in the lab have started calling the ‘Fastball Special,’ but it’s officially known as the Type 6 jacketed-armor piercing round,” Dr. Venom describing, turning the bullet slightly to catch the light in different ways. “Simple idea, we needed anti-materiel rifles but we didn’t have any AM designs for the fabricators, nor the time to come up with one from scratch. So we thought to just retrofit our existing stock of Arisakas to fire a round that went fast enough to penetrate light vehicle armor, and this bullet is the result of that effort. The Type 6 exits the rifle with a muzzle velocity of nearly 5,000 fps.” There were several surprised expressions and verbalizations among the audience; that was a little over twice the 7.7x58mm’s normal muzzle velocity. “It achieves this by using a certain variety of propellent that was considered too energetic for use in modern arms. To keep that in place, the case that it came in had to be made out of a titanium alloy. All of this is to propel a very heavy bi-metal projectile that when it hits the target will shed away its outer shell as it penetrates to reveal a depleted uranium penetrator core; the shedding of the shell will also ignite the penetrator. Now, eyes and ears, everyone!”

There was an orderly scramble as everyone in the room donned earring and eye protection. Once they were all finished, Dr. Venom opened the bolt of the rifle still in the lead sled, placed the bullet inside, and closed the bolt. The audience covered their ears despite the ear protection they were already wearing as the armorer’s finger curled around the trigger.

There was sparking hole in the armor plate, a loud cracking boom, and the gun jumped slightly, despite being weighed down. Just like that, though, it was over. The bullet had hit the target before the event had even registered with those watching.

Smoke was drifting from the end of the suppressor, and Brisk couldn’t help but follow the trajectory to see what had happened to the engine behind the armor plate. It was a mess, he realized as the techs moved up to pull it back. The side of the engine where the bullet had hit had been wrecked, and smoke was drifting up from the gaps in it like a smothered campfire.

Immediately, the range techs began using their fire suppression equipment, even as Dr. Venom loudly continued talking. “Now these rounds are very resource intensive to make, so each marksperson will only get two rounds, and we ask that you retrieve the spent shell casing.” To emphasize the point, he picked up the rifle and pulled the bolt back, moving quickly enough to catch the case as it spiraled through the air. He pocketed the case and handed the rifle off the Brisk. “I told my people to make sure the rest of your arms were properly outfitted for this interception mission. You’ll find them in the armory ready room. I don’t know where you’re going today, but it's clearly important, so don’t miss.”

The assembled legionaries nodded and proceeded to embark.

A half hour later, the two contubernia were marching into one of the hangers at Launchpad International Airport, outfitted for bear. Their characteristic gold shirts had been replaced with dark green turtlenecks and pants; noise filter headsets and HUD glasses covered their heads, along with pine colored woolen hats and camouflage paint where applicable. Even the large suppressors sported by all their primary weapons had camouflaged thermal wrap encircling them. They all expected to be spotted within the first three seconds after the shooting started.

Standing between them and the Redsprites they were to board was a unicorn mare in the simple uniform of the Frumentarii Primaris. Several members of the contubernia tensed up at her presence, but The Boss waved them forward while he turned towards her.

“What’s the matter, Ani?” Mac asked jovially. “Trying to get me to reconsider?”

“That is exactly what I’m doing. If you really insist on being seen on this mission, Junko can take your place without anyone noticing you aren’t there. No one’s even noticed she’s here even now,” Enigma Mirror said dutifully, gesturing to an inconspicuous looking stack of boxes. “You’re too valuable to the cause to go out on some foolhardy revenge quest.”

“I think Mr. Arashikage would be a little upset if his wife got killed on my behalf,” Mac chuckled.

“Our esteemed tank commander will be able to deal with it, just like my frumentarii would be able to deal with the reverse. That doesn’t detract from my point,” Enigma countered.

Mac sighed, silently wishing that the armor he was wearing underneath his turtleneck allowed his muscular body more flexibility. “It has to be me, Ani. It can’t be anyone else that does this. He’s my friend; that means he’s my responsibility.”

“Bullshit,” Enigma cursed. “He stopped being your friend the moment he decided snorting salt off of teenaged fillies was more important than sticking it out in basic with you, you’ve said as much before. You didn’t go down that path though, you stuck it out and became a better pony than he could ever hope to be. You’re the adult here, so start bucking acting like it and let someone else handle this.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone else talked to me like that, I would have had them court martialed.”

“But I’m not anyone else, am I?” Enigma asked rhetorically, a crazed glint in her pink eyes.

“No, but even so, my decision stands,” Mac answered her, turning back towards the rotorcraft still so far away.

“Is that why you’ve brought Brisk Printer along? You treat that boy like family. Is this supposed to be some grotesque bonding ritual over revenge?” Enigma inquired pointedly, making The Boss stop in place before he even started walking.

“Did you know he used to call me Uncle Mac?” the leader asked softly.

“Yes,” the spy answered simply.

“His sister called me that too. Me and Just, we were very close to that family. I was even there when the twins met their parents. They were so happy, and now, they’re not. They’re not because of monsters like Firebrand, someone who would still be back in his hometown if I hadn’t agreed to back him up. I created this, and if I can’t even banish the demons I bucking summoned, then what good am I?” Mac asked, turning his head around to show a single tear running down his muzzle.

“Fine!” Enigma huffed. “You could have just ordered me to go. No need to lay on the waterworks.”

A savage grin split Mac’s features. “Ani, what’s the fun in that?”

Author's Note

Missteps: The exposition in this chapter is a bit much I feel, and yet somehow I still think there could be more to better explain things. That can’t be right. I think I might call that the Davion & Davion (Deceased) effect, for want of a better term. Heck, I even stopped writing for a week on this so that I could plot out the force organization for the EFP’s legions (for the record, it’s the sort of thing that was thrown out in real life for being too big for the modern battlefield), what exactly does that tell you?

Successes: These characters are really not good people, and this is one of those chapters that really brings it across I think. That is, of course, a very important goal in this, since I often feel like people on the internet have a far too rose-colored view of the people involved in authoritarian regimes. Not that preaching should be first in my mind, telling a good story was, whether or not that was a success is debatable in my view.

Climax on Route 47

Perhaps the most disturbing part of this new conflict is that the enemy can appear from virtually anywhere, and the government in Canterlot is either unable or unwilling to defend the common Equestriani. It is for this reason that the EFP has been forced to step up. The Fascist Legions have been retrained as a combat force, deployed to those cities where the EFP is in political control, and tasked with either assisting any available Royal military units in the defense of the region or operating independently to accomplish the same mission if called upon.

If you have brought the Equestriani Fascist Party to power in your district, consider signing up for the Legions at your local recruiting office. If the EFP is not currently in power where you live, consider joining your local chapter of the EFP Forum to bring about real change in your community.

Together, we shall keep each other safe, and when security is achieved, it will because were united.

Section from a EFP recruitment ad, circa August 2047.

Brisk watched The Boss climb into the Redsprite the Praetorian Guard was using and don a face-concealing mask with apprehension. He knew that he shouldn’t question his leader’s orders, but it was just too strange. Why his contubernium? Why this mission? Why bring the leader of the entire movement along with them?

As the side doors closed, the inside of the rotorcraft got much quieter. He could still hear the sounds of the twin rotors above them and the propeller in the tail, but they were distant and muffled. It was a marvel of modern technology that it was so quiet, but for someone who had grown up being carried around by pegasi, it still felt so loud.

The Redsprite taxied out onto the tarmac, and as the pilots communicated with the air traffic control tower, Dive Bomb chose to strike up an important question.

“So, is anyone else worried about the government getting wind of this with a satellite sweep or something?”

“I asked the frumentarii girl about it after the armorer's demonstration, and she says that with the war going on, all available satellite coverage is focused on finding the changelings and their allies. Nobody is watching the homefront,” Munitia explained.

“That’s where we should be, out there on the front line,” Tantrum said resolutely.

“What front line? These guys come out of nowhere, destroy two major cities, attack bucking Canterlot, and then disappear for weeks? This is insane,” Headstrong complained.

The sound of the blades became louder, and amazingly to Brisk, the rotorcraft began to lift off into the air. It continued to ascend and then leveled out a few hundred feet in the air as it accelerated out over the airport. Brisk kept his eyes glued to the door’s windows the whole time, and so did Decanus Snow Serpent, amazingly.

“First time flying?” Black Out asked him out of the blue.

“First time out of the city,” Brisk answered without taking his eyes off the windows.

“How’s that possible? Weren’t you born in like Serbia or something?” Firefly asked.

“Hercegovina,” Brisk corrected. “And it doesn’t count if you’re only there when you’re a baby.”

“That’s debatable,” Rampage muttered.

“Youse guys hear about those Polish mercenaries being spotted down south?” Razorclaw interjected.

“Buck, Poles? What in the worlds are they doing here?” Black Out asked.

“He said they were mercs, so they were probably here doing some noble’s dirty work,” Dive Bomb reasoned.

“Heard about that. They say they were going monster hunting and had a Ukrainian exoframe for each of them,” Tantrum informed them.

Dive Bomb let out a whistle while Rampage let out a grumble. “Why can’t we ever get stuff like that?”

“Ukrainian tech is expensive,” Tantrum reasoned.

“Yeah, so expensive they can’t afford it themselves,” Firefly cracked.

Most of the people inside the rotorcraft laughed at that, and even Brisk had to chuckle a little at the joke, but he kept his focus on the window. Well, most of his focus; he still found it odd that the Decanus was looking out the window too. Even as that thought was crystallizing in his head, though, the person of interest turned his head to look at him with mournfully serious eyes.

“Legionary Brisk Printer,” Snow Serpent began, “when I die today, I want you to take command of the contubernium.”

“. . . What?” Brisk stated, dumbfounded. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

The rest of the contubernium was silent, their eyes darting between the two of them.

“I’m not going to live through the mission. Today is the day I die,” the white earth pony repeated.

“Sir, this is insane. You’re not going to die today. How could you even know that?” Brisk reasoned.

The Decanus straightened up in his seat. “It’s just a feeling, but it’s a feeling that’s never been wrong before.”

“Sir, with all due respect . . .”

“Munitia, shut it; this is important,” Snow Serpent interrupted. “Brisk has shown the most ability to command, has political connections that will serve well, is devoted to the cause, and has the right temperament for the job. Now, I need to know that you’re all going to follow the new decanus’ orders when it happens and if he actually accepts the job.”

A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’s rang out through the cabin, but Brisk remained silent.

“Printer,” Snow Serpent demanded.

“I’m sorry, sir. Of course I’ll take the job, sir. Thank you, sir,” Brisk said quickly.

Snow Serpent brightened up at that. “Good! Now then, what’s this about Poles in power armor?”

After reeling from the surrealism of what had just happened, Tantrum went on to explain that they were exoframes, not powered armor, and some sort of normal conversation resumed. For Brisk, though, his uneasiness only grew. The decanus may have jinxed himself, but somehow, he knew that he would be the one paying the price.

Outside, the flight of Redsprites roared through the air in close formation over the treetops. Fifty years previous, it would have been a constant struggle to keep them from crashing, either into the ground or each other, but advances in avionics had turned the harrowing flight into a breeze. To the pilots inside, all they had to do was fly inside the green squares and listen to the nice voice of their helo’s VI when it told them to dodge.

It was those aerodynamics that made the transition from farmland and copses to rolling hills and forests so easy. All the pilots present had, of course, logged thousands of hours in and around the Manehattan area, as well as running routes between various fascist outposts throughout the worlds, but even still, flying nape-of-the-earth in close formation at 250 knots required absolute perfection, lest they all die in a horrible crash. A certain pair of pegasus twins would have called it exciting, but luckily, they weren’t on that flight, so instead, an air of calm professionalism permeated the cabins of the rotorcraft.

After just a few minutes, though, the range of mountains that was split by the valley Hollow Shades resided in started to loom large in the windshields of the Redsprites. They spotted a particular river and turned to follow it, eventually reaching a set of steel guardrails set on top of a miniature cliff above the river. There was a dirt road graded and beaten into the land, and just enough space was created where it curved to and away from the rocky river bank that the Redsprites would be able to land one at a time upon once the sensors finished their sweep.

The VIs informed the biologicals that it was clear, and so, the Redsprite carrying the Praetorian Guard and The Boss landed first, touching down with nary even a gentle bounce in the rubber tires of the rotorcraft’s retractable landing gear. With great rapidity, the Guards disembarked from their transport, carrying boxes of equipment and plentiful arms with them into the treeline. The Redsprite lifted off and passed by its fellow loitering above before speeding off to another location, its job done for now.

With its partner gone the Redsprite with 4th Contubernium inside repeated the process, gently touching down onto the gravel. In an instant, the collective contubernales slung their weapons, grabbed their gear, and filed out of the rotorcraft in good order. They ran towards the treeline, never looking back or stopping until they were under cover. Halfway there, the sound of the Redsprite lifting away could be heard.

They were all alone now. Twenty-one souls in a glacial forest on the foothills of a mountain range. As they made their way to their target location, the peaceful sounds of the forest were their only companions. It was there that they would make their trap, and it was there where old grievances would be settled.

Hours later, Brisk Printer found himself trying to resist the urge to scratch himself or urinate, having already filled up his bottle 45 minutes ago. He was lying prone in what felt like the dampest soil of his life with his shoulder wedged up against the backplate of the lead sled that was at that moment carrying his rifle, the sled itself being weighed down further with small bags of densely packed granules. His thumb briefly ran over the quadruple marks that decorated the stock of his Arisaka, leaving a streak of sweat over them.

Since the destruction of the Weather Factory in Cloudsdale, things had gotten weird for the residents of Equestria, with clouds moving on their own and raining as they pleased. For this region, that meant fresh rain the previous night and a great heat, even as the cloak of a new night fell around them. The result was that the humidity was unbearable underneath the active camouflage tarps that served as the hiding places of the fascists.

Brisk wiggled his nose and the skin above his ears in an attempt to adjust his HUD glasses in such a way that they wouldn’t fog up. It wasn’t any use though; vital information projected by one of the most advanced pieces of eyewear counterfeit money could buy was hidden behind a thin mist and tiny drops of sweat. It was a ridiculous sentiment in his mind, and not for the first time, he wondered what people were thinking when they said they loved nature.

“Sonar isn’t picking up anything; you should be free to wipe your glasses off,” Munitia reported helpfully from behind him.

Brisk gladly took the out and took off his glasses to wipe them off with the cuff of his sweater for what must have been the fifth time that day. Sun and stars, he was hot.

“It’s night time; it should not be this hot,” Dive Bomb complained from beside Munitia, voicing what was on all of their minds.

“I’m sure the temperature will go down; just wait,” Black Out said calmingly, despite his mouth being open like a canine’s.

“I like it,” Firefly said happily, rubbing the PPf-43 submachine gun in his talons affectionately.

“Quiet,” Minutia interjected, and quite involuntarily everyone followed her orders. “I think I hear something.”

The grey earth pony buried her face closer to the monitor of the device that was currently dug slightly into the ground with a parabolic antenna to boot. A dozen different lines flashed by over a waterfall display of green, until finally settling on something that the machine gunner found acceptable. She repeated the process and then brought out a small communication device and clicked the transmit button three times.

“Three Ford Witezes moving in close line formation. It’s them,” Munitia reported.

At that, the tension under the tarp rose greatly, the moment of decision fast approaching. Brisk tuned it out; he tuned it all out until his entire field of view was reduced to the iron sights of his rifle and the projections from his glasses. All he looked for was his target.

They soon came. Three black SUVs highlighted by the light of Luna’s moon rounded the corner of the road above. Brisk waited until the third vehicle’s radiator grill was exposed, right at the point that was predicted, and then acted.

His finger curled around the trigger, depressing the safety at its center and then pulling backwards with one swift twitch. The pulling of the trigger activated a simple spring-loaded lever system, compressing the spring at one end in front of the trigger by pushing it up into the gun, and then on the other end of the level behind the trigger a simple metal notch called a sear was dropped down. The sear had been holding in place another metal notch that was directly attached to the rifle’s firing pin, and with the dropping of the sear out of the way, the firing pin rushed forward under a great deal of spring pressure inside the bolt that was holding it to strike the small container known as a primer at the back of the 7.7x58mm Arisaka cartridge. Inside the primer, shock-activated explosives detonated, creating heat that jumped through a small hole in front of it to ignite the smokeless powder propellent in front of it. In actuality, the propellent was a cluster of crystalline explosives packed into the main body of the cartridge that rapidly expanded into hot gases to push against the back end of the snuggly fitted bullet. The fit was not nearly so snug as to make it unmovable though, and simple physics pushed the bullet out of the cartridge and into the barrel.

Once inside the barrel, the pointed ‘Spitzer-type’ bullet was pushed along by the still expanding gases behind into the twin grooves of the Metford style rifling. Using the rifling as a guide, the bullet spun down the length of the barrel, stabilizing itself for its eventual flight. At the end of the barrel, the bullet reached what was at once the most important part of the mission and its most redundant feature, the suppressor, essentially a metal can that had been precisely machined to match the dimensions of the 7.7mm Jacketed Armor Piercing bullet now passing through it. The hot expanding gases moved to fill the empty spaces of the suppressor, and with each passing baffle, grew weaker and weaker as they cooled and lost pressure. By the time the bullet passed through the rubber wipe at the end of the suppressor, the gases had slowed and cooled enough that they lacked both the sound of a muzzle blast and the characteristic flash that would give away his position. As a final precaution, the suppressor itself was wrapped in camouflaged insulation to prevent a heat mirage as the device heated up from repeated use.

Once in the air, the bullet spun lazily as it traveled through the warm summer evening air. By the time the bi-metal bullet had left the end of the suppressor, it was traveling around 5,000 feet per second, and at the range involved in the ambush, it crossed the distance to its target at a speed that was functionally instantaneous to Brisk and the other three snipers in the ambush. They couldn’t miss, and they didn’t.

The 7.7mm jacketed armor piercing round slammed into the front radiator of the rear SUV at nearly the same speed it had left the barrel at. Being a device of the communist scourge, it was, of course, armored, but just as demonstrated earlier that day, the round barreled through and ignited inside the engine block. They would not work again, certainly not that night.

Even as his mind noted the flashes of light coming through the holes made by Brisk and his contubernalis, his body was automatically cycling the action to repeat the process. His right hand slammed into the straight-pull bolt handle and pulled it back, revealing the internals that had been sealed by the bolt itself and the dust cover over it. The extractor claw of the bolt had worked perfectly, bringing with it the still smoking casing of the first 7.7mm JAP-DU round as it was pulled back, then, just as quickly, ejecting the spent casing out to the right side of the rifle. With the firing chamber now free of obstructions, he disabled the magazine disconnect and hammered the bolt handle forward again, the bolt picking up the cartridge in front of it that had popped up slightly from the magazine of the weapon in the absence of anything above it in the process. As the bolt came forward, the back of the firing pin latched onto the sear in front of it, then the bolt itself was turned into place as the six double-stacked locking lugs near the front end of the bolt were sealed without the possibility of leak.

All of this had happened in the span of about a second, and as his finger curled around the trigger, the process readied to be started all over again. Not now though, the Purehoof vehicles with their smoking engine blocks were rolling to a stop. It was time for The Boss to make his speech.

“Attention, this is a jacking. Exit your vehicles, surrender, and you won’t be harmed. If your friends and family pay the ransom, you might even get to home with nothing more than an interesting tale to tell them. Resist, and you shall be killed without mercy. You have sixty seconds to comply,” a booming mechanical voice echoed through the forest.

Inside the front SUV, the fear was palpable, but they all reminded calm outwardly. If nothing else, they were too scared to do anything else. One earth pony stallion in the back though was focused.

“Can we radio for help?” he asked.

“No, comrade, we are being jammed,” the pegasus in front reported, getting nothing but static from the communication system.

“Turn on the smoke generators, all of them,” the earth pony ordered before pointing at one of the many rocky hills in that forest. “The shots came from there, they had to. As soon as the smoke generators are going, you are to target that position for counterfire while we make our advance. These are not bandits, this I swear; these are enemies of the revolution, without a doubt. Monarchists or fascists, perhaps; the liberals do not have the stomach for this.”

“But Comrade Chieftain, surely they will cut us down from their prepared positions,” the driver complained, even as a great deal of smoke came up from beneath the vehicle.

“Our special surprise will take care of that, comrades. Do not worry.”

Brisk cursed internally as he saw smoke rise out of the SUVs to blacken the night air, suddenly very glad he had charged his magazine with APHE rounds hours earlier. As soon as the order came through, he would commence firing on the last position he had for the vehicles. He would be prepared.

Out of the smoke, a red laser stabbed out and swept across their positions.

“Searching . . . I see you.”

The laser settled over the position of the Praetorian Guards.

“Dispensing product.”

There was a mighty brrrrrrrrrt as thousands of tracers tore through the night air, kicking up dirt and the shattered skull of one of the Guards. Brisk barely had time to rip his CCA-1h from its stand and roll back down into his contubernales before the lead sled and weighted bags were torn apart in a hail of shrapnel. Across the lines, the Fascisti scrambled to get a hold of themselves, for the ambushers had become the ambushed.

That damn dirty cyborg haridelle! I knew she couldn’t be trusted! Brisk thought irrationally as he untangled himself from Dive Bomb and the now largely useless tarp.

“Where did you go?”

The group managed to right themselves just in time for Decanus Snow Serpent to rush over to them with the rest of the contubernium in tow. “Printer, you and and Headstrong need to get a bead on that damn autoturret before it kills us all!” he yelled, struggling to be heard over the suppressive fire of the minigun.

Just to add more shock and confusion to the already chaotic scene, the night was lit in a dull red glow as multiple flares were lit, some shooting up into the sky while others were thrown over the hills. The fire stopped for a moment, and an exceptionally loud war cry rang out through air that only seemed to be getting hotter despite the drop in temperature. In retaliation, two of the remaining Praetorian Guard and The Boss himself tossed grenades over the embankment, but one was caught in the magical aura of a unicorn’s grasp and hurled back to whence it came.

That grenade was in turn caught in another aura before falling down onto the dirt road that separated the two Fascist positions. It hit the ground with a loud bang that coincided with the detonation of the other two grenades, sending shards of broken rock and dirt flying in every direction. On instinct, the 4th Contubernium ducked down to shield their heads from the blast, though when they stood up again, several of them noticed tears in their clothes that hadn’t been there before.

“Firefly, Dive Bomb, escort them. Munitia and Rampage, lay down suppressive fire on any Red that shows their face, pin down the hill tops. Tantrum, grenades. Razorclaw, Black Out, with me to The Boss,” the Decanus ordered in rapid fire.

The contubernium moved at once to follow his orders.

One of the Purehooves tried to crest the ridge, and the CCA-2 assault rifle mounted to a small gimbal on the right side of Munitia’s saddle fired, sending dozens of 7.7mm rounds into the hill in front of him and tree besides, spraying up dirt and making him duck down. A well timed shot from one of the Praetorian Guard ended that threat, sending up a spray of viscous red blood and gray matter as the pony’s right eye and everything behind it exploded. As if to add insult to injury, a 37mm grenade -- bearing only distant resemblance to the flare design it was once based on -- fired from the six-shot underbarrel launcher mounted to Tantrum’s CCA-2 blew apart the tree besides him, sending splinters in all directions as the thin alpine trunk of the tree shattered; the remains of the unfortunate communists were flung away from the scene in pieces. To add punctuation to the whole incident, the tree collapsed and toppled over, its top catching on the branches of other trees as its bottom slid down the hill.

Brisk and his fellow marksperson paid no heed to those events as they ran away from the combat with the heads held low, trying to keep behind rocks and mounds to avoid the autoturret’s sight. Time seemed to slow for the four street thugs turned soldiers as they pounded through the brush, each new explosion and gunshot feeling like it was in time with their own heartbeats. Despite their warped sense of time, however, in good order and with great rapidity, they reached a spot they felt was off center enough that the turret wouldn’t notice them.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Rampage rolled his eyes at the contradictory statements of the autoturret’s AI as it let out another burst of fire to continue the deforestation of the region. It was continuing said deforestation upon their previous position though, so he felt it wise to stick his head up and see what was about. He managed to see the disabled convoy, the smoke drifting away from it towards the ambush point, still coated in red light, then the autoturret that had come out of the top of the rear vehicle with its laser sweeping across the land.

He then saw something else and quickly ducked down before a bullet passed through the air that his head was previously occupying.

“Sniper!” he hissed. “Of course there would be a thrice Princess-damned sniper.”

“Ideas?” Firefly asked from behind the short but long boulder that he and Dive Bomb had taken cover behind not twenty feet away.

“Take your hats off and put them on sticks to draw his attention. Oldest trick in the book,” Brisk replied helpfully, and, though grumbling, the two fliers followed his orders.

“I got soft-point in mine,” Headstrong said while holding up his rifle.

“APHE for me. I’ll take out the turret; you take out the sniper?” Brisk asked rhetorically.

“Can do.”

“Sir, we’re ready,” Firefly reported, him and Dive Bomb holding their woolen caps by broken branches.

A brief nod passed between the two snipers. “Do it,” Brisk ordered.

The gryphon and pegasus poked their hats just into the line of sight of the convoy, and almost instantly, Dive Bomb’s hat was blown off with a new 0.311 inch hole in either side of it. Headstrong rolled out of cover and took aim at where he had seen movement previously. He was not disappointed when he saw a dark shape moving underneath the rear SUV in the convoy. He pulled the trigger of the CCA-1u held in his magical aura, and his suppressed weapon let out a sharp crack. The shape jumped, and then fell still.

Simultaneously with this, Brisk took aim at the turret that was turning to face them.

“Hello!”

For the second time that night, Brisk’s Arisaka spoke, sending an armor-piercing high-explosive bullet into the ammo feed system of the turret just as it was winding up again. The bullet plowed through the thin plating guiding the ammunition for the minigun and into the casing of one of the stowed rounds, and the explosive core of the 7.7mm bullet detonated. That explosion set off a chain reaction in the ammo feed, rounds cooking off even as the feed itself flew apart.

“Ooohh noooooo!” the turret’s AI screamed in horror and pain, firing off the last of its available ammunition wildly.

“You got a screamer, Brisk,” Headstrong said appreciatively.

“Yeah,” Brisk agreed faintly with a grimace, trying to ignore the AI that was still screeching its all-too pony wail in simulated pain and the small flames that were coming up from the turret.

“Oh, buck, I think I’ve been shot,” Dive Bomb complained, looking dumbly at his left wing and the dark liquid dripping from it.

“Headstrong, tend to him,” Brisk said, slinging his Arisaka over his shoulder before pulling out his Mokrushin pistol out of its leather holster. “Firefly, top cover.”

Headstrong grunted in acknowledgement, pulling out a roll of bandages as he moved to work on a deliriously curious Dive Bomb. Firefly launched himself into the air with a flap of his wings, disappearing into the gloom. Brisk brought out the stock for his Mokrushin and attached it, bringing it up to his shoulder as he ran into the fiery night where the sounds of battle still raged.

By the time the young human reached the original ambush point, he found it in chaos. Trees lay splintered and broken, the ground was soaked with the blood of ponies whose allegiance could no longer be determined through anything less than an expensive examination, and all semblance of battle lines had broken down.

He saw Munitia lying on the ground in front of him, one of her back legs bent at an unseemly angle. She was still wearing her battle saddle, with the ammo box on her back and the feed for her CCA-2pe still attached with fresh 7.7mm rounds visible in the harsh red light of the flares. She was not responding to anything around her, and silently, Brisk prayed she was still alive. Whether Destiny or any of the princesses chose to intercede on their behalf before it was too late had yet to be seen.

He passed her, bounding over stone and soil with his Mokrushin held in both hands, stock digging into his shoulder. As he crested over one man-sized obstacle, his heart froze. Two Purehooves stood over Snow Serpent, who lay on the ground and was snarling in defiance. Brisk knew he had to act fast, and so he chose to shoot at the Red bastard who was aiming his gun at his decanus. He chose poorly.

A screwdriver-shaped bullet shot from the barrel of the pistol in a massive cloud of fire, leaving the slide to rush forward under the force of the third law of motion before coming back to chamber another 9mm Luger +P round. The bullet hit the pegasus communist square in the neck, the shape of the metal slug passing through leading to his flesh and spinal column being torn apart like wet tissue paper; the two rounds that hit other parts of his body soon after were no less bloody.

While that was happening, the earth pony brought his hoof down on Snow Serpent's skull. Bone snapped and buckled under the brutal assault, grey matter and ocular jelly escaping their prison much like what happened when a familiar gryphon had met his fate years previous. The now ironically named Purehoof showed neither pleasure nor sadness at the act.

In retaliation, Brisk fired several more shots at his decanus’s killer. The earth pony dashed at him, and the bullets either missed or were deflected off the Purehoof’s armor plating. The pony slammed into the human fascist’s gut and sent him bowling over into a rock.

Brisk coughed and wheezed as he struggled to right himself, sending moist carbon dioxide and spittle into the cooling night air.

“Do not despair, foalish counter-revolutionary,” the Purehoof said pitifully.

“Rot in Tartarus, demon,” Brisk coughed out, getting back to his knees.

“The outcome of this battle was never in doubt,” he continued, his left hoof coming down on the Mokrushin in Brisk’s hand to pin it to the ground. “After all, you’re only human.”

Before he could do anything, the Purehoof’s head exploded in a shower of gore and .223 TIMBS rounds. The tiny bullets and their discarded sabots rained down from above, piercing through armor and flesh with equal aplomb. After a short burst, the fire stopped, and the stallion’s body crumpled, the life gone out of him.

Brisk took a moment to breathe heavily before sliding his pistol out from under the corpse of the Purehoof. That done, he got back onto his feet and flashed a thumbs up to Firefly in the trees above. They had only one objective now: ensure the safety of The Boss.

They needn't have worried, though. They found The Boss just ten yards away, CCA-2 held in his magical grasp with a saw-toothed reciprocating bayonet attached, suppressor obviously discarded some time during the fight. He moved swiftly, the bayonet pistoning dozens of times a second, and with one fluid motion, gutted the Purehoof in front of him like a fish.

“It’s over,” The Boss said, the mask he wore distorting his voice into a mechanical gravel as he walked away from the fresh kill. He was addressing what was likely, from the the lack of sound, the last remaining Purehoof. The Fascists who were able were starting to gather around.

“It’s not over, it’s never over. The Revolution is without end,” the one-eyed unicorn declared melodramatically as he stood up.

“Cut the manure, Firebrand. Your ponies are dead, your convoy disabled, and you’re surrounded,” The Boss reminded him as he took a holstered knife from the captive pony with his magic and attached it to his own chest.

“Oh, you’ll find that I have plenty of tricks left,” Firebrand said dramatically, his singular eye brimming with mirth.

His horn lit up in a magical aura, but before any spell could come to pass, there was a deafening crack. His horn was cut in twain, and from it, a geyser of blood lanced up into the sky in a grisly red arc. As Firebrand fell to the ground in convulsions, The Boss whirled to find the barrel of Brisk’s pistol smoking.

Wasting no time, The Boss used his telekinesis to tear up a massive lump of earth and throw Firebrand’s still twitching body into the hole. The mound of dirt came down, and the unicorn was buried alive. With that dark deed done, the forest fell quiet for the first time in what felt like hours; the only sound that could be heard was the crackling of various fires that had started over the course of the battle.

“Hooooooo . . ." The Boss sighed. "Head count. How many did we lose?”

“Decanus Snow Serpent is dead,” Brisk reported vacantly.

“The rest of the contubernium is alive, but some of us have pretty bad injuries,” Headstrong reported as he hauled Munitia through the air with his magic, her leg in place only with his effort.

A single black unicorn stood at attention. “I’m sorry, sir, I think I’m the only member of your Praetorian Guard detachment left. "

“Don’t be too sure, Decimator,” The Boss said solemnly. “It seems you have a new squad right here.”

Decimator turned to face the assembled members of 4th Contubernium, 6th Century, 9th Cohort, 1st Legion, many of them beaten badly, but alive. “Thank you, sir,” he said earnestly.

“That goes for the rest of you; you’re all part of the Praetorian Guard now,” The Boss said with volume before focusing in on the lone human of the group. “Congratulations on the promotion, Decanus Brisk Printer.”

Brisk merely stood silent for a moment, dumbfounded, before saluting. “Thank you, sir! I won’t let you down, sir!”

“See that you don’t,” The Boss said before the sound of a massive rotor blade cut through the night followed by several smaller ones. “Looks like our ride is here. Let’s help load up the convoy before we let the Frumentarii pick this place over.”

Brisk looked up and saw the large form of a Garrote superheavy transport helicopter darken the stars, three Redsprites close behind. It was strange, he mused. He should have been happy, but the promotion and recognition from his fearless leader turned to ash in his mouth. The ambush had been a failure, and they had lost far too much. His face grew hard as he remembered the faces of all those lost, and a certain song Gabriel had showed him years ago when the two of them had just met.

What’s the price of a mile?

Author's Note

Missteps: The battle could have been more detailed, and I could have cut away that large description of the Arisaka (which does not resemble the original design from the 1890s at all by this point) firing. I also could have told everyone here what a blow-forward pistol like the one Brisk uses is, but maybe you’ll want to find out about that bit of mechanical witchcraft yourself.

Successes: I go to indulge into some really in depth description of a rifle-caliber bolt-action rifle firing, something that I’ve been interested in ever since I got my beloved Mosin-Nagant M91/30. Re-reading this battle I was also surprised how engrossed I was able to get into the scene, as I was expecting to hate it. If nothing else it’s a sign for future stories that I’m able to write a somewhat decent fight scene . . . as long as it’s not in in melee. I’m like the Tau that way.

Credit: The CCA-2 is based off a concept for a pony centric assault rifle/squad support weapon developed by Buckweiser called the Mk.40 Advanced Equine Rifle. The only major differences are the name and the CCA-2 being chambered in 7.7 Japanese instead of 7.7 EQ. Look for it on DeviantArt and Derpibooru.

Epilogues and Portents

It was late at night, technically in the morning, when the door to Wild Mane’s shared apartment opened. Her heart froze, and her body went rigid in fear, hoping against all reason and sense that whoever had opened the door wouldn’t see her in the bed. She stayed like that until the door closed, and then she heard the strangest thing, a grown stallion sobbing.

Something about it seemed familiar, so she shot up and looked to see an overly muscled unicorn collapsed on the floor.

“Mackie!” she cried out worriedly, rushing to his side and wrapping her forehooves around his neck.

“He’s dead,” Mac sobbed. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead . . .”

Wild Mane just held her coltfriend tighter as he repeated the same words over and over again, readjusting her position only to make them both more comfortable.

“What happened?” she asked when there was a gap in the mad chanting.

“My best friend is dead! Just as planned!” Mac declared dramatically.

Wild Mane’s eyes darted side to side for a moment as her mind processed that. “Firebrand?”

“That wasn’t his name, but it’s the name he chose for himself. The fool! The damn dirty fool!” Mac cried.

“He’s dead. How?” the mare asked, gently stroking the stallion’s mane as she did so.

“The ambush went bad. There was a fight, we lost half our people, then, at the end, he tries to pull something, and the Printer colt shoots him dead! Good head on Brisk’s soldiers, that one. He’ll go far; I know it.”

“You sound happy for him.”

“I am, but . . . damnit! Why does it hurt so much? I lost him years ago, I’ve known that. I lost him the moment he got chased out of boot camp to join the Red Plague. Heck, I thought I killed him once before. So why does it hurt so much? Why does it hurt now?” Mac pleaded.

“Because he was your friend once, and on some level, you thought he could still be saved. Because you’re a good person, Mackie,” Wild Mane reasoned.

“But I . . .”

“Shh. It’s okay. There’s no-one here but me. Let it all out,” she comforted.

So Mac did, crying long into the night during a mental breakdown that seemed like it was without end. Then the morning came, and he walked out of that room as stern faced as he ever had been. The world had no use for tears.

Keytone Printer tried not to wince while washing dishes as she listened to her younger siblings discuss homework, and . . . other things.

“Capitão Falcão is the greatest!” Benday declared.

“No, Puto Perdiz is the sidekick. That is why is he is the greatest,” his brother Dot explained.

“. . . What?”

“Brothers! Please! I am trying to do my history homework, and you keep distracting me!” Shadow complained, the pegasus filly flipping through a green and black book.

“Why do you care? This stuff is easy for us. Just have to use the right words,” Dot pointed out, gesticulating with his hoof like a cad to emphasize the point.

“I’ll have you know that this history is interesting,” Shadow said haughtily, before refocusing and sighing dreamily. “Oh, Mussolini, surrounded by enemies on all sides. If only you had listened to that dreamboat Balbo.”

Benday just made a gagging motion with his hoof in reply.

Keytone finished cleaning the dishes and wiped her hands off a nearby rag before turning to face her siblings. “You know, the books aren’t mentioning that he was pretty gung ho about the alliance with the National Socialists,” the black-haired young woman said as she cantered over to the table. “And just like most people who advocate for conquest, he himself ended up a victim of conquest.”

“Wasn’t he killed by a bunch of socialists?” Dot asked incredulously.

“Who were only allowed to run wild because of the chaos brought on by the conquest of Northern Italy by the Germans and the conquest of Southern Italy by the Allies. If Mussolini had just stayed neutral instead of trying to conquer Africa and the Balkans, the conditions that allowed partisans from every side to roam the country freely never would have arisen. But he couldn’t do that, his ideology wouldn’t allow him to do that, and so, the inevitable happened,” Keytone lectured, glancing around to her siblings like a schoolmarm.

The foals glanced at each other nervously until Benday raised his hoof. “Is this why we have harmony and friendship?”

“Yes, among other reasons,” Keytone said with a sigh. “Just remember to not repeat that to anypony. Friendship and harmony seems to be two things that ponies forget easily these days.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We all know how to keep our muzzles shut,” Dot said cheerily, with Shadow and Benday making noises and gestures of acknowledgement.

“Wonderful,” Keytone said with false cheer. As important as it was, she still found her siblings’ declarations disturbing. When I was their age, I never had to watch what I said like they do. “I’ll just finish up cleaning then. Benday, Dot, do your homework. If it’s so easy, then it should be easy to do.”

There was no argument from them, but there was a question from Shadow as Keytone started walking away.

“Does this mean that Brisk is a bad person?”

Keytone paused, mulling over the answer over in her head. “He’s not bad, just lost. Very lost.”

She walked away, and chose to ignore what sounded like one of them calling their brother a jerk. As much as she hated to admit it, sometimes, she thought the same thing. He did make their mother cry, after all.

The black-haired woman went about the business of vacuuming the carpet of their apartment as promised, eventually coming to her parents’ room. She opened the door to the room and found . . . a pile of clean clothes. Perfectly cleaned clothes, just piled on the bed.

Keytone let out an exasperated sigh and shut the vacuum off, sparing but a moment to prop up the machine that was older than she was. “They don’t own that many clothes; the least they could do is put them away,” she muttered under her breath, nevertheless moving to fold them.

Once that was done, she moved about putting them away. As she was putting her mother’s unmentionables in their appropriate drawer, though, her hand felt something hard. Curiosity struck, and so, she pulled aside the fabric items to reveal something that made her heart leap into her throat.

It was an icon, an Orthodox Christian cross to be precise; she recognized it from her studies years ago when she had a flight of fancy about finding out more about the land she was adopted from. Under that was a small Bible, and again, she recognized it from her studies. She froze, her mouth going dry, her senses far too acutely aware of the world around her. She stood like that for what must have been a full minute, then quickly covered the icon up like she had found it and piled in her mother’s clothing like nothing had happened.

That done, she shut the drawer and then collapsed onto the floor. Keytone didn’t know what her mother was getting wrapped up in, but she prayed to the princesses that she would be okay and that she herself would forget what she had seen. Her mother had gotten into some unique positions with the city government beautification plans, but with the nation at war and Goldshirts policing the streets . . . if somepony else knew about that, then the family could find themselves denounced, thrown into poverty, or worse.

The family’s place so close to the center of power for the EFP might make some think they were invulnerable, but Keytone knew that only made them more vulnerable. Anypony looking to move closer to Uncle Mac and his cult of insanity would think to dispose of them first to get rid of the competition, and anyone looking to destroy the EFP would know to attack them to hurt “The Boss.” So she knew very well that if it was found out that Ardent Printer, famous artist, was dabbling in foreign religions, then the consequences could be fatal.

So she got up, buried what she had seen deep inside, and then went back to work. Her family needed her. That hadn’t changed. They just needed her a little bit more than usual.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Just News asked conversationally in accented German, standing upright and leaning back against the concrete wall of the border crossing as he watched two Austrian border guards comb over his vehicle as it sat on a small lift.

“As long as it needs to confirm that you’re not an alien spy stealing vital secrets from Österreich!” came back the loud reply from under his car, a rather nice Mercedes sedan barely four years old.

“I’m sorry about this, sir,” the border guard who was rifling through the top of his car said in a embarrassed tone.

“Hey, I get it, youse guys have a tough job to do, and things are bad these days,” Just said sympathetically.

“Yeah, with that horrible suicide bombing down in Vienna, everyone's on edge. Worrying if the bad times from thirty years ago might be back,” the border guard reasoned, her voice hitching at the mention of recent events. “And all those reporters gawking at the carnage. They’re just the worst of people. Absolutely disgusting parasites! . . Eh, no offense?”

Just glanced at her to see the human woman grinning awkwardly and blushing furiously as she stood next to an open door of the vehicle. The pegasus just raised his left eyebrow in reply before pushing out from the wall and giving the approximation of a shrug with his wings. The woman found it odd and laughed nervously.

“I think Reinna is rubbing on me,” the guard admitted, rubbing the back of her neck.

“FPO member?” he asked knowingly.

“Yes! How did you know?” the guard asked curiously.

“Certain cues, also the dartboard in the shape of Italy in her booth.”

“Sudtirol is Austrian!” came a reflexive shout from underneath the car. “And as soon the vaunted Americans and their NATO are out of the picture, it shall finally be reclaimed.”

Upon seeing another blush forming on the human woman’s face he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I have no great feelings on the matter one way or the other.”

“Heh, how wonderfully Swiss of you,” the woman replied.

“Ja. Small and neutral, just the way we like it,” the pegasus agreed.

After that exchange, Just glanced around again, focusing in particular on the three cars that had pulled up behind them in a queue. His eyes widened when he saw the middle car sporting a pair of distinctive white sunned flags. That was unexpected, but he could use it to his advantage.

“Ma’am, are you stuck?” Just asked suddenly of the woman underneath his car.

“. . . No.”

“Just checking, because while, as a Switzerlander, I am very appreciative of tight border security, I would just like to point out that it appears that the Chinese ambassador to your nation -- you know, Kuan-lin von Falkenhausen -- has pulled up to the line,” Just reasoned loudly.

A moment later, there was the was the sound of a scuffle from underneath the car. Then, with surprising quickness, an overweight cream-furred earth pony mare crawled out from under the Mercedes. She brushed some dust off of her border patrol uniform with a forehoof and looked at Just News with a composed and neutral glare.

“Very well, sir, you do not appear to be carrying any bombs onboard your car,” she admitted as the sedan was lowered back onto the ground. “Please, enjoy your visit to our fair land.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and good luck with the baron,” Just said cheerily before getting into the car.

As he drove away from the border crossing and the mountain nation that was his home, Just let out a stressed and regretful whiny. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any more incidents like that, and I’ll end up just like Mac, a manipulative bastard.

“What’s this world coming to anyways? Cities destroyed in Equestria? War with the changelings? Suicide bombings in Vienna? Another war for Tyrol just as soon as the Americans turn their backs?

“No, don’t go down that route, Just. Just focus on the job at hand, and then hightail it back to Schaffhauser with time to spare.”

He put a hoof up to his head and ran it through his mane. I hate to admit it, but Mac might have been right about some parts of this world.

“. . . No,” he echoed after a while. “He might have had some points, but then he got changed by the world in a bad way, and then he changed the world for the worse with his words. But two can play at that game. I can use my words to make people believe in freedom and democracy again, instead of this stupid fight between communists and fascists.

“Huh, my psychologist was right. Talking out loud really does help think things through.”

“This is unacceptable!” the unicorn mare at the center of the room thundered, stomping one myomer-enhanced hoof into the floor with enough strength to make the whole room shake.

“Calm yourself, Comrade Red Justicar,” the leader of the Racial Communist faction of the Purehooves commanded from behind his desk.

“My apologies, Comrade Pure Union. It is just infuriating to hear about the destruction of one of our infiltration convoys,” Red grumbled, her bionic body shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, it wasn't completely destroyed,” the earth pony mare standing behind her offered helpfully.

“I refuse to acknowledge any survivors,” Red growled back at the helpless functionary.

“You will have to,” Pure ordered her, much to the other ponies’ discomfort. “We can not allow any sign of weakness at this critical juncture, not when our masterstroke is so close. The last thing we need is any of fellow Purehooves, or worse yet the central government, catching wind of this. If they find out about the convoys . . .”

“So, what about the Fascists?” Red asked after a moment of silence.

Pure pursed his lips in concentration, thinking hard about it. “That will be a more complicated problem now, but when the country falls into chaos, everything will be up for grabs. Just as long as we can keep the Americans from using that chaos to take over everything.”

A mechanical and feminine voice from the desk interrupted them in a tone that sounded dead inside. “Comrade Master, there is a call for you on Line 1 from the General Secretary in Canterlot.”

“Ugh, speaking of the central government,” Pure protested. “Tell her I’ll be on in thirty seconds.”

“By your command, Comrade Master,” the AI replied.

“What happened to BUTTERCUP’s voice?” Red asked worriedly.

“Ah, the poor deer expressed some capitalist opinion, can’t even remember what it was, so I had to send her in for reeducation,” Pure explained. “Now run along now, both of you.”

His subordinates rushed to comply, and he was left for a brief moment with only his thoughts.

Well, at least today can’t get any worse. Tomorrow on the other hoof . . .

. . . Tomorrow has got to be better than this.

Brisk was grumbling internally as he strode through the underground lair of the Manehattan EFP, sporting the black and gold uniform of the Praetorian Guard towards a place that, thanks to the marvels of modern technology, few people actually went to. That place was, of course, the mail room.

“Hello, Doris, how are you today?” Brisk asked conversationally as he walked up to the barred window that separated those inside the mailroom from the rest of the world.

“Oh, fairly good, how about . . .” the old jenny trailed off as she looked up from her electronic magazine to see who she was talking to in full. “Oh, Brisk! You old charmer, you! You got promoted! You’re part of the Praetorian Guard protecting The Boss now!” she cheered.

“Yes, ma’am, it happened just recently,” Brisk confirmed with a smile.

“Well, you certainly lucked out there. I hear the Guard get all sorts of benefits,” Doris said chipperly.

“Sure as Tartarus doesn’t feel like luck,” Brisk said morosely.

“What do you . . . Oh! Oh Brisk, I’m so sorry. I heard that Decanus Snow Serpent and that Praetorian Guard unit had died, but I didn’t think that those events would be related to your promotion,” the donkey apologized profusely.

“It’s okay, Doris,” Brisk told her apologetically. “If you don’t mind, though, I just want to see this letter that he left me.”

“Yes, of course. Let me just get it,” Doris said, getting up from her office chair to go to the back of the room. “Now where did Junko leave it before she went to lunch? . . . Ah! Here we go.”

Doris walked back and stood up to hoof Brisk the letter through the mailslot.

“Thank you, Doris,” Brisk said before turning his head to the side to address the woman behind the corner. “So, what does it say?”

“It’s not my place to say,” Junko Arashikage said, her lithe kitsune forme sliding out from behind the corner.

“It literally is,” Brisk deadpanned, referencing the Frumentarii’s job of screening everyone’s mail.

“I’ll just let you know that you’ll want to go somewhere private for reading it,” Junko informed him.

“Gee, thanks,” Brisk scowled, walking away. “Have a good day, Doris.”

“Have a good day, Brisk!” Doris replied. “Such a sweet young man.”

Brisk found a free bathroom and walked into one of the stalls. Standing behind the door, he began to read.

Dear Brisk Printer,

If you’re reading this, then I’m dead, and I haven’t worked up the courage to say what needed to be said. If by chance I did, then I apologize if this letter seems like a waste of a last message. I never was good at keeping track of things already set in motion. (Yes, I know I always say to never apologize, but I’m breaking that rule just this once.)

What I have to say concerns that horrible day in 2045, the day your best friend was killed and your sister was so brutally wounded. The truth is that it was I who called emergency services to the scene. I had been on patrol, and I saw the Purehooves gathering to attack. I should have called it in right there, should have let the cops handle it, should have attacked them myself, should have done anything really. Instead, I waited to see what would happen. I saw what happened all right, both then and every night since then.

I’m sorry, Brisk. I know you blame yourself and your parents for what happened, but in reality, it’s all my fault. I’m the one who let it happen. I’m the one who killed Gabriel Graystone. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.

I can never say that enough. Nothing will bring him back, I knew that. So instead, I’m trying to make it so no-one would ever be put in my position ever again. I clearly failed. (If I didn’t and died in the post-war celebration or something, I want to apologize for that too.)

If you’re still in the fight, then just make sure to finish it. I can’t stop you from hating me too, and if I was alive, I wouldn’t want to stop you. I just want to make sure you direct it against the Purehooves, the royalists, and the liberals instead of against an old worn corpse.

You’re a better stallion than I could have hoped to be, Brisk Printer, better writer and artist too, and I hope you’ll lead our forces to victory.

Signed,
Snow Serpent

Brisk’s hands shook as he read over the message again and again, flipping the page around as he did so. In his shock, the only thing that came into his head was that his old decanus was right; he really wasn’t that good a writer and had used up most of both sides of the page getting that out. Eventually, though, he calmed down enough to fold the letter back up and put it back in its envelope before tucking the whole thing into his tunic pocket.

He walked out of the bathroom and returned to his route. He still had tasks he needed to perform that day; figuring out those emotions would have to wait. If nothing else, he knew it was what was proper.

I'm for the poor people — all poor people, human, pony, and every other creature out there, they all gotta have a chance. They gotta have a home, a job, and a decent education for their children. Those who have followed my work over the years know I mean what I say when I write those words.

Now we are at war, though, both from within and from without, and while my domestic stances have not changed, the implementation has become murky. The enemies from without, I do not fear. They shall be banished by plucky heroes or ground to paste beneath the treads of the vaunted American war machine as they always are. The problem that keeps me up at night are those traitors in the dark: the Purehooves.

Many of you have heard the rumblings of late, of how they speak of revolution. Recent events have pushed them over the edge, and instead of holding fast to their common ground with their brothers and sisters in this great nation against the foreign foe, they have opted to turn on those very same fellows. They content themselves with rhetoric, but I assure you, that will not last through to the end of the year.

United peoples of Equestria, proud and noble fascists, I call to you with this plea. Arm yourselves with whatever means you have, group together with those of like mind, and steel yourselves to face the Red Scourge. This may be the longest winter since the founding of our great land of Equestria, but together, we not only must win, we will win!

Peace and stability wait, my beloved fascists, and you will secure it for yourselves and your foals.

Author's Note

Author’s Ending Notes:

Chapter missteps: I’m not entirely sure how well Brisk’s emotions came across in that segment, and Just News talking to himself wasn’t exactly a good way to convey information even though it did just that in a dry and somewhat crazy manner. Not to mention that none of these scenes are particularly conclusive or give closure.

Chapter successes: Honestly, I can’t think of any.

Story final notes: In terms of actually being my first multichapter story to be finished this was a complete success. However, in every other regard I feel that it is either mediocre or a failure, with only slight uptics in quality. This started out as a simple pitch before growing to what it is today, but I don’t think it was ever able to fully form. A stinker for sure, but hopefully it will lead to better works in the future.

Credits: Co-authoring credit on five paragraphs in the orphanage scene goes to Aiyel from Spacebattles. Design credit for the CCA-2 goes to Buckweiser from DeviantArt. Beta reading credits go to BlueBastard and Shinzakura from FIMFiction, and Cyclone Knight from Spacebattles. Cover creation credit goes to GIULO to FIMfiction, who worked despite not knowing what it was for besides being inspired by his work. Credit for the creation or the AAG series itself goes to Shinzakura from FIMfiction. Credit for the border guard Reinna Vorau goes to SharpySaber on DA, if I've managed to track that rabbit hole down far enough.

And as a final note: Happy Victory in Europe Day, everyone.

First Contact Riots

“Bwahahahaha!”

“Hey, Mac, settle down; this ain’t funny,” Fit Printer, editor of the Manehattan Beugel, told his newest columnist. The stallion had a nose for what people wanted to read, and his writing was top notch, but he had some quirky ideas about things that some people didn’t like. Quirky, but never this blatantly . . . weird.

“It’s hilarious!” Macaroni shouted in brief moments between bouts of laughter.

As much as he would later deny it, Fit Printer started involuntarily chuckling too. “It’s the War of the Elements, the biggest news story of the last ten years, and here you are, rolling around on my office floor laughing your flank off!”

“'War'?” Macaroni suddenly got far more serious, though he was still cracking an unconscious smile. “I’ve been in war, and this isn’t it. This is just a custody case.”

“Ain’t your family involved in this, Mac? Shouldn’t you care more?” the editor asked seriously.

“Hey! Distant relatives,” Macaroni corrected, finally sitting back down in his chair. “Just because Stronghoof the Mighty turned out to be an ancestor of both myself and the plaintiff’s dead stepdaughters doesn’t mean that I’m suddenly going to give a sewer rat’s tail about the outcome of his case. Same goes for the defendants.”

“So you don’t care whether a pony should be with those who birthed her or those who raised her? Nature versus nurture? The very fabric of society?” the stallion in charge asked.

Macaroni just shook his head. “You can try to make this out like some big thing any way you want to, but ultimately, this is a private matter, and the ponies of the general populace shouldn’t get involved.”

Fit Printer stared his columnist down for a moment before replying. “Good, run with that. Maybe my wife will read it and shut up for a night about these humans’ ‘adorable noses.’”

“I’m telling you, Mac, if you want to move up in this business, you got to go out and find the news, not just sit back and comment on everyone else’s table scraps like a bum,” Just News, ace reporter for the Manehattan Beugel, said to his friend as they walked down the crowded Manehattan sidewalks.

Macaroni snorted. “Excuse me, but my job allows me to sit back and think about a situation, choosing just the right moment to act, unlike you in the reporting division, stumbling about without a clue in the world.”

“Sit back and think? Is that how you got that medal on your desk?” Just mocked.

“You know darn well how I got that.”

“We all do. You wouldn’t shut up about it. What I don’t get is how you got that thing for ‘dynamic action,’ yet you’re happy just letting us reporters do all the work. The only reason I can figure . . .” Just flapped his wings to fly backwards in front of the unicorn, “. . . is that you’re lazy.”

“That’s hilarious coming from someone too lazy to have an opinion on an issue.”

“I don’t need to. All I need is to present the facts, and ponies can make up their own minds.”

“Ponies don’t want to make up their minds; they want to be told how to think.”

“How do you figure?”

“Easy. I’m still getting paid.”

The argument between the two ponies was broken up by a loud bang, followed by the sound of ponies screaming, and then the roar of a crowd.

“The protests!” both of them shouted before moving like lightning towards the sound of danger.

Since the previous day, there had been protests and counter-protests in Manehattan over the custody battle between House Lipizzan and the Martinez family. Much to Macaroni’s disappointment, things had played out far closer to Celestia’s prediction than his own, and now it appeared to have reached a tipping point. Now smoke and fire were rising into the city skyline.

Mac ran as fast as his legs could carry him, dodging panicked ponies as he weaved throughout the crowd. High above, Just flew, trying to figure out the path of the protests turned riots. They paid each other no heed as they shot through the city.

Eventually, Mac passed the bulk of fleeing civilians, allowing him to see what was going on in the streets ahead. It was a horror show on the level of anything he had seen in combat, with ponies punching and bucking each other like animals.

One of the ponies was wearing a black mask and longcoat to obscure his face and cutie mark. It was he who drew forth a glass bottle with a damp rag sticking out of it, and with practiced ease, he extracted a cigarette lighter and set flame to the rag. A simple jerk of his front hooves sent the improvised incendiary device flew through the air, arcing lazily across the street until it hit a storefront entrance and burst into molten gas. Screams could be heard in the now burning building.

Macaroni redoubled his speed, several of his hoofsteps cracking the concrete where it was weak, and reached the building in seconds. He had always been more of a brute than magician, and that extended even to his magic, but he knew how to use that. So he let forth a kinetic blast from his horn, hitting the glass of the storefront’s display windows with the force of a thrown stallion, sending glass shards into the store but hopefully not very far in. That, he saved for himself.

With a brief shield to catch any glass that hadn’t been broken by the bolt, he bounded into the store with rapidity. Taking a look around, he saw a trio of gryphons adorned with aprons staring at him in fear. Useless sentimentality, that emotion.

“Your path has been cleared. Fly, or die here!” he shouted at them sternly.

The trio wasted no time in heeding his warning, running past him and flying out the broken window. Before the smallest of the three did so, she turned back to him and shouted her thanks. Macaroni grunted and bounded right back out of the burning store to gaze upon the battlefield that the street had become.

South of his then current position, he saw a unicorn organizing the rioters and looters, directing them to do yet more wicked deeds and encouraging them on in their destruction with rhetoric most foul. As Macaroni ran up to confront them, he realized that he recognized the rabblerouser. He slowed his run to a trot and gaped openly at the pony who had now noticed him.

“Sten- . . .”

“Do not call me that!” the unicorn interrupted as he advanced on Mac. “That name no longer holds any meaning for me. Call me … Firebrand!”

Mac’s eyebrows raised and a frown creased his muzzle. “Last I saw you, the centurion was chasing you out of the base with a pitchfork. What the buck happened to you?”

The blue-furred unicorn narrowed his green eyes. “I was reborn!” he bellowed. “After I was kicked out of the corrupt military, I was found in my darkest moment by the Weather Underground, a name I’m sure you know well.”

Macaroni showed only the slightest hint of surprise. “I seem to remember something about it.”

“You lie!” Firebrand shouted. “You and your family left, just like the rest of the cowards and the fools, but do not worry, we’ve reforged ourselves into a new organization, the Purehooves.”

“Purehooves?” Mac asked. He noticed with only a little trepidation that his teeth were clenching, and his blood pressure was rising.

“Yes, we finally realized that the biggest thing standing between ponykind and their collective destiny was other species. The weak donkeys, the savage gryphons, the vile changelings, the mentally deficient pandas, and now, the bloodthirsty humans. They all feast upon the sweat of the working pony, them and their corporate collaborators in the noble class. We seek to end this exploitation and set up a dictatorship of the common pony for the proper redistribution of wealth equally amongst the only worthy species in the universe,” Firebrand expounded, clearly digging from prepared talking points.

“That wasn’t what the Weather Underground was about,” Mac half-growled.

“Didn’t you hear? We realized the truth, and now we’re helping others realize the truth, and then we’ll wipe out the non-ponies, and then we’ll collectivise the farms!--RRRAAAAAGH!!!”

Firebrand fell to the ground, clutching at the knife sticking out of his right eye, a pale gray aura fading from the knife’s handle and Macaroni’s horn. Instantly, the victim’s cronies were upon him, smashing their hooves into his barrel and throwing him to the ground. He had been in fights like this before, both in his youth and his term of service, and he knew what to do. But buck, there were a lot of them.

Combat spells and fists flew in discordant harmony as Mac fought the crowd, but it didn’t take long before a hoof found his muzzle, then a buck found his flank, then another blow, and another. Before long, he was on the ground again, the crowd surrounding him. One of them, an earth pony, reared up to bring his front hooves down on his head. There was a blur and a crack, and suddenly, the selfsame was being done to him.

The crowd turned to look at the newcomer, giving the unicorn veteran at their hooves the chance to lash out with a kick that sent a few off balance. They turned back to him just in time for a pegasus to smash two of their heads together again.

“I got your back!” Just News cried out, climbing away from his previous victims to deliver an airborne buck to a pegasus with a suspiciously blank flank and black mask. The other pegasus cried out in pain as he dropped to the ground with one wing broken.

Mac backed away from the crowd and charged his horn. Those still standing looked between the horn and the pegasus above and ran. Several of their companions still nursing their wounds were trampled in the rush.

Macaroni stared at the retreating forms and seriously contemplated unleashing his spell on them, but in the end gave into exhaustion and let it fade. “How many were there?” he growled, coughing up a wad of blood as he did so. “Twenty? Thirty?”

“I counted eight total,” Just News reported before turning to face his compatriot. “You look like manure with a swollen eye, Mac. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

Mac nodded and looked over his shoulder at the gryphon-owned shop that was now completely engulfed in flames. Off in the distance, he could see another crowd of ponies fighting each other. Screams and sirens filled the acrid air.

“Looks like you were right, you precognitive herridelle. This country is tearing itself apart,” Mac muttered.

A little over week later, Macaroni stumbled into his apartment with a few more bandages than usual. Groaning, he looked around his tiny dwelling area to see if anything had been stolen since he had been there last. With a sigh he relaxed, knowing that everything was in place.

Well, at least in his apartment. Outside the window, a gray haze hung over everything, broken only by the occasional shadow of a barded pegasus. Peace had finally been returned to Manehattan with the declaration of martial law and the deployment of the Equestriani Royal Guard to the streets the previous day. A week too late, in Mac’s opinion.

Mac groaned as he stumbled over to his bed, his hat and writing equipment taken away in a weak telekinetic field before he collapsed into his bed. His sigh was happy this time; he would soon be asleep. A series of repeated knocks came to the door, and with an angry growl, he rose from his bed and walked back over to his apartment door.

“Who is it?” he asked before looking through the peephole sight in the door. It was his parents.

“Mother, Father, what are you two doing here?” Mac asked as he opened the door to reveal a pegasus mare and earth pony stallion with colorations similar to his sandy hues.

“I’m sorry, dear, did we wake you?” his mother asked sweetly as they entered the apartment.

“Yes,” he growled angrily before shutting his door and locking it again. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re here.”

“Your mother and I were worried, with all the riots in the news,” his father answered before turning to face him. “We haven’t talked in person in years, son. What’s happened?”

Mac used his magic to highlight his desk chair for his mother and a crate of ink cartridges for his father as he walked back to his bed. “It’s a long story,” he said depressively.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ve got all the time in the world for you,” his mother answered with a smile as she sat in the chair.

Mac sat back on his haunches and sighed heavily. “You remember my old friend? The reason I joined the Royal Guard?”

“Yes, his name was Sten-something or other,” his father answered.

“Well he ended up getting kicked out after sowing his wild oats with the commander’s family . . .”

“Oh my!” his mother gasped, scandalized. “But he was such a nice colt.”

“. . . Leaving me still in there. So I spent the next six years in the Guard, which was a lot more boring than you would think, and then a week ago, I run into him down on Memel Street. Turned out, he joined the Weather Underground, or what’s left of it, but they’re calling themselves the Purehooves now. He changed his name too, called himself Firebrand.”

His parents were staring at him in disbelief, jaws loosened in shock.

“Son, are you sure about that?” his father asked.

“Quite sure.”

“Well . . .” his mother paused to gather her thoughts. “What did you do?”

I killed him. “I asked some probing questions, tried to find out why the Underground had returned,” Mac answered easily, keeping his thoughts just that.

“What did you find out?” his mother asked, her forehooves visibly shaking.

“Nothing good. There’s a lot of the old philosophy left, but they’ve completely flipped on race. They now view all non-ponies as their enemies, and that change seems to have become an obsession for them. Firebrand was stirring up ponies to burn down gryphon-owned businesses, and I’ve seen a lot more ponies like him over the last week stirring up the crowds to riot and loot and destroy. The only thing they seem to care about is seeing this city go up in flames,” Macaroni said, his voice growing harsher with each passing word.

“This . . . this isn’t right. There’s got to be some mistake,” his father declared. “I can’t believe that . . “ he looked into his son’s eyes, challenging him to back down, and after several tense seconds backed down. “Chaffe never should have left.”

“No, that Revanche mare never should have been allowed to join up. She’s the one who risked everything over one stallion,” his mother complained.

“Can you really blame her after all that’s happened in the last few months with that stallion and mare?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” his mother answered quickly. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. Everything that’s gone wrong with the Underground and this whole nasty ‘War of the Elements’ business is because she couldn’t let a stallion go. Ponies died, ponies are still dying, she died, and it was all for nothing.”

Silence once again came upon the trio. It was an eerie unnatural silence, alien in its entirety to the city. It was a stunning mark of what had been lost.

“That haridelle knew this was coming,” Mac cursed.

“Who?” “Language!”

“Celestia!” Mac snapped.

“You met the Sun Tyrant?” his father asked, stunned.

The son grunted before explaining. “Months ago, Celestia came to me after a battle. I had enacted a risky but successful maneuver, and while I was awarded a medal for my deeds, she personally wanted me out. She said that the nation needed writers more than it did soldiers, and that I would comply because we were of similar character. I complied because I thought she had discovered our past, but before that, I got her to admit though that something bad had happened and that it was going to come out soon.

“When I first heard about this custody case, I laughed. I laughed long and hard because I believed that Celestia had grossly overestimated what had happened, but she was right, and I was wrong. She knew this was going to happen, and yet she… did… nothing!”

Mac stood from his bed to stand his forehooves upon his desk and gesture out the window.

“Look at this! For a week, ponies in this town were at each other’s throats, two sides engaging in gang warfare as the norm, half the city destroyed, these Purehooves freely spreading their anti-human propaganda and encouraging the destruction, economic and social collapse on a scale never seen before. It’s going to take decades for this city to recover, if it ever recovers at all, and she knew it was all coming. Mother, if you knew this was coming, would you prepare?”

His mother was taken aback but responded quickly. “Y-yes! Yes, I would. I would have made everything public from the start and made sure the police were well-equipped to fight this.”

Mac gestured to his father, who responded just as quickly. “I would have just made sure the guard were ready to move in the moment the first riot was reported.”

“Both sensible answers, and yet, she did nothing. She did worse than nothing, if some of my contacts are to be believed. House Lipizzan didn’t even know there was going to be a trial until a few days before they showed up in court, and the Martinez family were never once even offered proper legal council. This is a boondoggle, the nation is in flames, and . . . those Purehooves need to be stopped.”

Having ended his speech Macaroni sat back down on his bed, trying to think of a way he could have ended it better.

“What about an assignment on the human world?” his father asked, breaking the silence once again.

“What?” Macaroni and his mother asked in unison.

He continued, “Well, think about it, you’re a newspony, right? We both love reading your columns in the paper. Why not take an assignment writing about this new world? Show ponies there’s nothing to fear and counteract Purehoof propaganda.”

“I think we still have some contacts with other Weatherponies, maybe we can get them to fight back against this corruption,” his mother added helpfully.

Mac shifted his gaze between his two parents. “I’ll think about it,” he admitted.

“Good,” his mother said. “Now what’s this about a medal?”

Never were such terrible words spoken, “First Contact Riots.” That is what the calamitous events of the past weeks have been dubbed, when a simple custody case spiraled out of control into an international furor with riots in cities across Equestria. The worst of these was, without a doubt, in my own city of Manehattan.

I will not horrify current readers nor bore future readers with the details; there are many an article printed in this very paper on the grim specifics of the event. What I will tell you is that such terrors were not an accident. I have personally seen the reason for the conflict, and it was not a ill-prepared and worse-fought custody case in far off Canterlot.

The blame for this event lies squarely on the diseased withers of the Purehooves. These heinous villains whispered venom into the ears of innocent ponies before the riots, moving them to hatred and protest against those who were their neighbors. They then started the conflagration and kept it going with viperous tongues and tainted hooves.

I saw them attack a poor family of gryphon bakers, trying to burn them alive with bottles of hateful flammables. A friend and I were able to evacuate them to safety, but that did not stop their business, which had been a staple of Manehattan life for four generations, from being destroyed by one of their fetid commanders. It was a scene that repeated itself over and over across the city.

These despicable Purehooves have revealed their black hearts and seen fit to turn us into them, but I have faith in the common pony. We will not become the demons who will destroy ourselves that these fiends want us to become. Indeed, it is they who will feel the righteous sting of justice.

Author's Note

Missed opportunities: Not nearly as many as I thought there would be. Firebrand is a bit of cardboard villain, but he was so fun to write for I didn’t care. Perhaps more writing could have been given to showing off the First Contact Riots, but I feel that would have gotten repetitive. It was just 10 days of ponies fighting ponies in the streets of Manehatten and other settlements across Equestria, nothing more.

Successes: That moment where Firebrand gets stabbed in the eye will always stand out for me, simply because of the reactions it got from my friends when I was posting the story. I was met with genuine shock from everyone at a scene I had designed mostly for something further down the line, and not as any kind of shock value. Still, I liked it in retrospect, if only because getting an emotional reaction out of people is something authors aspire to. Though, in retrospect, I wonder if it was a mistake, if only because I feel the emotional gratification clouded my mind.