Dusk of a Better Day

by biglomeg

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Sad, Original Character
Length: 5471

A disillusioned party official of the Socialist Union of Equestria makes a speech.

The Socialist Union of Equestria has finally achieved the dream long spoken of by its visionaries. Nearly all of the world lies under the banner of socialism, and the few enemies that remain weaken with every moment. The day of ultimate victory is inevitable.

But things have changed. Something is rotten within the Revolution. And a mare from the days when it was confined to humble Stalliongrad has figured out what.

So, she writes a letter. She makes a speech. And she faces the consequences.

---

Written for the second Equestria at War writing contest.

Published 2019-04-22 03:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-04-22 03:40:01 UTC

The Letter

My friend,

I write to you because I am about to do something incredibly illogical. It will probably end in my death or disappearance. You must know why.

Five weeks ago, I was in New Mareland to witness the third anniversary of its liberation. My presence wasn't voluntary, but a political obligation. Nonetheless, I determined to enjoy my time there in spite of my circumstance. The celebration failed to engage me beyond brief admiration, and nearly every other avenue of entertainment would have appeared undignified. So, I did something that had been itching at the back of my mind for several months.

I asked to see the ruins of New Manehatten.

Owing to my reputation as a loyal party member, my request was granted with little protest. I was ushered off to the edge of the city, where the radiation had faded entirely and I could still see the scope of the destruction.

The explosion had ripped almost everything to shreds. You may have seen pictures, but until you are standing at the precipice of such desolation, you cannot truly know it. The remains of skyscrapers lie slumped against the ground, among the scattered debris of smaller buildings. Bits of rebar jutting into the air, intermingled with chunks of concrete. A city not just crushed, but pulverized.

This was the symbol of our dominance, of the pervasive and inevitable nature of the Revolution. It was something to be rejoiced.

But I didn't rejoice. I was horrified.

My mind ran wild with images and sounds, the roaring of the shockwave, the searing heat, the crumbling buildings and quaking earth. The cataclysm that we had wrought upon New Mareland, as a vapid and sadistic god would. And all the innocent ponies. Stallions, mares, foals, and all of them without a single crime to their name. Workers, the very same ponies that we were meant to save and protect from the clutches of exploitation. Burned, vaporized, and by our hooves.

That moment changed me. It made me truly think for the first time in years. It made me realize just how bad things had gotten.

Everything since that day has been in an entirely new light. I have seen the current path for what it is, and I am absolutely revolted.

When I first joined the Revolution, when it was limited only to Stalliongrad, surrounded by those who would quench the flames of rebellion, I was certain in my place. When we crushed the opposition that had once seemed an invincible beast, the future was cast in daylight. And when I went to the shattered remains of New Manehatten, I was sure that things would continue as they had.

Yet they did not. In the midst of such glory, the very image of our supremacy and power, I could feel nothing but abject horror and sadness. Is this the cost of the socialist dream? The destruction of our former cities, the murder of ponies that were once our fellow citizens? New Mareland could have been pacified and integrated easily, and instead, in our rage, we chose to eviscerate them in the harshest terms possible. They may wear masks of delight when we are present, but I have no doubt that nearly every pony there harbors in their heart a passionate hatred for what we have done and what we represent. Not because of our beliefs, but because of our actions. Because of New Manhatten.

I fear for what horrid retribution will come to the River Federation once we finish consuming the rest of Griffonia.

The most crushing part of it all is that we cannot even maintain our own peace. The inner political debate of our country has become nothing more than an agonizingly drawn out shouting match. Socialism has been splintered into a hundred different copies, each only slightly different from the next, yet loathing all the others all the same. It has ruined our alliances, both within and without. I remember, quite clearly, that just two years ago we were not just allies with the griffons, but brothers and sisters. I remember how we worked together, resolute in our goal, warm-hearted and certain that the future would be bright for both of us. Now, when they differ even slightly from our policy, they become imposters, and must be punished immediately and unflinchingly. The radios run wild with proclamations of griffon savagery, idiocy, and monarchist sympathies. Our greatest friends have transformed into our most despised enemies overnight, and war is a convincing prospect.

Why? Why this choking hatred and lust for conflict? Is the socialist movement not one of love and companionship? Not just for our own, but for all creatures of the world? Why do we prepare to run red the streets with griffon blood when we agree on all but the most minute details? Why?

I suppose that I have lost faith. I suppose that would make me an enemy of the Revolution. I suppose, then, that I will embrace that title. The Revolution that I supported was just, honest, and moral. Its goal was not conquest or self preservation, but to banish the cruel abuses of a world that did not care for the working pony. Yet, I find that what I have helped create is a brother to the monarchistic callousness of old, living only for itself and grinding the common pony beneath iron hooves.

I do not know when it happened. I do not know how or why. All I can say is that, somewhere after its inception, socialism as an institution was led astray. It became just another way of crushing, terrifying, and ruling the ponies of a nation. It sickens me that I did not see this sooner, that I was too absorbed in my own fervor to notice when it all went so horribly wrong.

The image of eternal war and self destruction before me is not acceptable, and I refuse to take part in it any longer. It is against our nature to be so heartless and blind. If we are willing to sink to these depths, how much further will we plunge? How long before we become a regime as terrifying and bitter as the worst monarchy of old?

I cannot stand by anymore. I must act.

My resistance will not be physical. Even now I know that I could not bring myself to hurt my misguided comrades. They are innocent in this; it is their ideology that I must combat. However foolish it may be, I will attempt diplomacy. Not among the leadership, for they are well set in their ways, but among the true ponies of the Revolution.

I may not survive. I may be imprisoned, tortured, or killed. These are dark days indeed, and I find myself struggling to trust in mercy to prevail. Nonetheless, I cannot remain a slave to this mockery of socialism. I must make myself heard, even if it is at the cost of my life. There is no other way.

In three days time, soon after you have read this letter, I will head to Stalliongrad. I will stand directly outside of the Palace of the Soviets, and I will speak to anypony who will hear. My speech has already been prepared to the utmost of my ability. I will talk of true socialism, the values that we seem to have lost sight of, and how it is our duty to reclaim them.

I will then be detained, forced out of sight, most probably beaten, and interrogated. What follows is unknown to me, and I suppose that is for the best. A vague future is one easily ignored, and I must focus on delivering my message. I know that something unpleasant will happen to me, and that is all the information that I need.

One of two things are likely after that. I will either appear, roughly a week later, to renounce my thoughts and actions, or I will never appear at all. If it is the first, do not pity me, for I will have broken and betrayed myself. In that case, I am worthy of nothing but scorn. If I am never seen again, then I will have remained firm until the very conclusion. Perhaps I will meet my end, but at least I will keep my honor.

If you are concerned for yourself, do not be. You, my family, and all others who have befriended me over the years will not be dragged into whatever investigation follows. Should I fail, harm will only come to me. To implicate anypony other than myself would be to invalidate the underbearing laws of the Union. We have sunken low, but not that low. I am sure of it.

I ask that you not agonize over me, nor attempt to stop me. You cannot change my mind, and in any case, it will be too late to try once you receive this letter. I am surely a fool for doing this, but what the heart wills cannot be avoided. The revolutionaries of old didn't have the support of those above them either. They succeeded through the power of their vision, through the righteousness of their ideals and the good of the common pony. Maybe I can do the same.

Should this be my final letter, I wish nothing but the best for you. May your future be bright, and may you come unscathed through whatever is to come in these darkening days.

Regards, Natalya

The Speech

Excerpt from The Fall, published in 1043 by anonymous author.

Natalya Mavrikyovna Portnova was a rather young mare, especially considering her position. I cannot recall her exact age, but she certainly appeared to be in her early thirties, a foal in comparison to the aging former generals and politicians that had infected the upper echelons of power. I had seen her before her speech, in the endless military parades that frequented Stalliongrad, and the difference between her and those of similar ranking was uncanny. There was still an innate vigor to her movements, something that most of her crusty eyed, decrepit colleagues failed utterly to mimic. It seemed almost as though she had retained some sort of spirit, something that had been forgotten in the political drudgery of the post-changeling world. I always took it for simple youthful optimism, nothing more than a slightly delayed manifestation of the pervasive, sometimes irrational dedication of the college partisan.

When I first saw her in the morning of February 19th, 1022, drawn by the sound of passionate oration, she was more energetic and determined than ever. It was only then that I truly got the sense that it was more than just political gain or pride or any number of the other trappings of government that drove her. The words that she spoke held a tone that was, at the time, practically foreign; untainted moral obligation. The kind of talk that was abundant in the earliest days of the Revolution.

It was a bizarre, fleeting idea, and one that I was too cynical to give much consideration at the time, but I allowed myself to wonder if, just maybe, the wheel of power could still turn. Perhaps the dangerous, practically subversive things she said might be worth notice. Maybe she was right.

Unfortunately, any documents pertaining to the speech were quickly confiscated by the authorities. They likely reside in one of thousands of classified storage sites now, safely under the protection of the government. The chances that they will ever see the light of day are slim to none.

However, I am not willing to let her message slide into the embers of history. What Natalya said that day concerns us now more than ever, and it must be allowed its proper recognition.

So, through the efforts of others present that day, as well as the sifting of my own memory, I have attempted to recreate her speech. I will admit that what I have pieced together may not be entirely accurate. I would venture to say, however, that it is as close as reasonably possible.

Perhaps now, in a world seemingly open to change for the first time in decades, she will be taken seriously.

Comrades. I come today not to talk of glory or triumph. I am not here to represent the establishment. My place in this moment is not among your rulers, but among you. There will be no manipulation, no posturing or demands, for I tire of that foul breed of debate. I ask only that you consider what I have to say.

I have supported the Revolution from its inception. It is something that I have accepted into my heart, as I am sure many of you have. The Cause is, quite simply, an integral part of me. So it is that I do not say the following lightly: it is time that we reevaluate the world that we have built. We must set aside all conflict, all internal bickering and debate, to take a thorough, critical look at modern Socialism. Because something within the very being of this nation has gone foul.

The picture that has been painted for you, of assured victory and enduring rationality, is but a facade. Reality cannot coexist with what is so often regurgitated by our vaunted leaders. The horrible truth, the thing that those in power will do everything to conceal, is that we, as a society and as a nation, have fallen.

It is most evident in the structure of our country, once the shining image of efficiency, now reduced to a pathetic collection of loosely bound decay. To attempt to make sense of the intertwining, intricate mess that is our modern legal system is an exercise in futility. A thousand different proclamations, none of them made with the consultation of the others, have conspired to create an unintelligible, lethargic, barely functional amalgamation that regularly collapses into madness. Our economy survives only through its sheer mass, and even then forever dangles on the precipice of catastrophe. Every sector of our nation, from agriculture to education, is in tatters.

And a look into the mysterious, clandestine world of our national decision making process is more than enough to demonstrate why.

Witness any political meeting in the Union, and behold as each and every composed official in the room transforms into a raging, murderous banshee. I have watched in awe as debates over the minutiae of land distribution become outright brawls that leave ponies hospitalized. I have seen a respected politician, who I will not name, fall into a fit of screeching, explosive hatred over a quite frankly juvenile insult from one of their peers. There is no progress, there is no order, only a thousand different opinions hurled forth by ponies who are meant to be the most collected, serene minds in the land. And it isn't even their fault. The issue at hoof is not that our officials are insane, equicidal maniacs, it is that the system that they are within is so inundated with tension that there is simply no other way. The heights of power are in a perpetual state of motion, over the yearly harvests, over the military quotas, and most of all, over the enemy.

But who is the enemy? You will be told by the government that it is the very concept of evil, or greed, or opposition to Socialism. We are to believe that every single battle that has been fought since the creation of the Union was in the name of pure saintly decency. By their account, every crushed nation was entirely devoted to the spread of darkness, depravity, and regression.

Needless to say, this is rather dishonest. At best, it is a cowardly attempt to sidestep the question. At worst, it is a complete lie. Whatever the case, it does not suit our purposes.

The most obvious answer would be the River Federation. Indeed, they are the last remaining haven for Harmonistic thought that currently exists. Would the natural conclusion not be that they are our enemies? In fact, why are our soldiers not advancing for Rijekograd as we speak?

The reason is quite simple. They are a threat. An actual, tangible threat. Their military is strong, their position defensible, their population fervent. That could be overcome, however, if not for their weaponry. Under their command is an arsenal of magical armaments that our most intelligent scientists cannot hope to understand, a nigh infinite supply of heavy artillery, and, most of all, their very own, highly successful nuclear program. Were we to attack them, the ensuing exchange of ordinance could very well make victory phyrric in the worst possible way.

The fear of atomic annihilation, for now, calms any excitement that our generals may be possessed of. All talk of some hypothetical grand invasion aside, the Riverlands will not be ours in the near future. For all intents and purposes, we do not oppose each other yet.

So again, I ask, who is the enemy, at this very moment?

It sickens me to say that it is none other than the Griffon States.

The griffon situation may be the most baffling element of this chaos. We sent soldiers by the thousands to assist them in their victory, and when the time came for us to face the Diarchy, they did the same. Ponies and griffons joined together, fought side by side for what they knew was right. It was the first true union of species in this new wartorn era, and it seemed like it would last forever.

But it didn't. Somehow, somewhere along the line, we became the bitterest of foes. Anypony with any political presence whatsoever can tell you that we are just a hair's breadth away from total mobilization into their heartlands. Five years ago, a griffon traveler would be welcomed into any city. Now, they would be shot.

But why? We share the same vision! We fought and died for each other, for the common good!

I will tell you why. It is because, nestled deep within the their lands, there lies a massive wealth of crystal, iron, and oil. It is because exactly three insignificant stipulations concerning their factories differ slightly from ours. But most of all, it is because they aren't us. Their territory may lie under Socialist law, but it isn't ours. And now, with most of the outstanding threats defeated, there is room for a new, profitable enemy.

The Socialist movement has been perverted into a mechanism of war and profit, sustaining itself on an endless procession of threats, invasions, and annexations. The griffons are simply the next victims of that mechanism. As long as things stay the way they are, the fighting will never end. Once the Griffon States have been subjugated, the crosshairs will fall on the River Federation. And once they are gone, the only option left will be within. At the risk of doomsaying, I do not believe it to be impossible that a cleansing of the Union's very population is in our future. The cycle is without bounds or morals; it is an animal unto itself. And when it begins to starve, it will grow desperate.

Perhaps I sound delusional. Perhaps I appear as insane as some would have you believe. But consider the current situation. You have heard of the arrests, the mysterious disappearances and eternal departures to Zebrica. Undoubtedly, you will see another today. Ponies who intend to remain free do not dare say the forbidden words, “I am not content.” It has become accepted in near unanimity, that those who speak out will be punished, and that such things are to be expected. What would have been a heinous violation of equine rights has become so deeply rooted in society that nopony bats an eye. And some may be fine with that. It is tempting, even for me, to simply lie back and allow the future to come as it will. To break the status quo is to cleave away from the herd, from protection and warmth. Fear is indeed a powerful shackle, and to head into the night alone stimulates a terror like no other. In the face of that, to submit to the flow of events is understandable.

But I will not. Not any longer. I did not support a dictatorship. I did not support a cruel and mindless machine that uses the blood of those who should be our allies to fuel the fires of its horribly warped concept of progress. I did not support nuclear terror, nor conquest, nor intolerance, nor the cold, bitter-hearted abomination that our administration has become. Neither did you. And yet, just that lies before us, taunting us, daring us to challenge it.

The blame might be heaped upon General Secretary Serov. He is most certainly the most obvious agent of our current situation. The invasions, the bombings and acts of suppression, all of them can be traced back to his desk. But I do not feel secure in naming a single pony as some manner of ultimate enemy. Serov may have architected the descent of the Union, but he never would have even had a hope of doing so if not for the failures of those around him. The responsibility extends to his staff, to the generals that silently carry out his orders and the politicians that repeat his vision every waking moment. And I am ashamed to say that it extends to me as well

For years, I played my part magnificently. I gladly attended meetings that devolved into shouting matches within minutes. I spoke to great crowds of ponies, and deceived them with pre-conceived speeches and state sponsored drivel. I argued that the expansion should continue, that it was our solemn duty to become ever more aggressive until there was not an inch of land not under our banner. And I was happy to do it, because I thought that I was on the side of good. My eyes were closed to the horror that was wrought on those who we “liberated”.

It was only five weeks ago that I awoke, and saw the rot in full.

If you must have evidence of what we have become, then look no further than what remains of New Manehatten. Once, it was home to thousands of hard working, innocent ponies. Now, all that it holds is rubble, radiation, and despair. The bones of foals lie there, pulverized and cold. “Collateral damage,” as the General Secretary so eloquently puts it.

There was a time when the ponies who ordered that nuclear strike would be branded as war criminals. Now they are given medals, appearances in universities, and statues carved by the world's greatest sculptors.

This is not the Revolution. This is cruelty made manifest. This is destruction and death. This is evil. And it must be stopped.

Serov does not deserve to be punished. In the end, he truly seems to only wish for what is best for us all. But he cannot be allowed to continue putting his flawed vision into action. If we are ever to recover, he must be removed from office, and his policies struck from the books of law. Those who have supported and enabled him must be brought down from their positions, and their replacements must be both competent and moral. There can be no half measures. Only a complete renovation of our government will lead us back to the light.

It will be a long, punishing journey. But there is no other option.

Look around you. Look to the monuments, to the very platform on which I stand. Look to the heart of Equestrian Socialism. Look to the very beginning of our salvation, and ask yourself if the founders of Stalliongrad envisioned a world in which innocents are vaporized in nuclear hellfire by the thousands. Ask yourself if they were looking to create a world of conflict, misery, and political madness. Ask yourself if, were Steel Stallion alive today, would he be proud of what we have created? And should your answer be that he wouldn't, then ask yourself if you are willing to let what is happening continue.

Ask yourself if you will simply lie complacent under the yoke of this mockery of Socialism. Ask yourself if we are to become no better than the immoral beasts who gorged themselves on the blood of the Equestrian worker a mere six years ago. If, in this new world, the principles that make us equine are to be consigned to history. Ask yourself if that is progress.

Ask yourself if, when the time has come for you to make a stand, you will shrink away from duty, too terrified and stubborn to act! Ask yourself how much you will take, how far you will fold, before you cannot continue any longer!

Of course, I cannot force you to do anything. It will be your choice alone, whether to go on with your lives or take your place alongside me. Those of you who fear retribution, or still hold hope for the Union as it stands now, may return home. I will not bother you further. If, however, you see the injustice being worked upon this world, the potential being wasted even as I speak, and feel your heart light aflame with passion and resolve, then come! A better day is within our grasp, if only we should take it!

Tell everypony you can that there is still beauty on the horizon. Tell them that we will march together to that horizon, hoof in hoof. Gather those of like mind and then, when your numbers are too large to ever be supressed or ignored, demand exactly what you deserve!

Cry to the heavens, “No! I will not let this be!” Tell the world in unison, as one, that you refuse to slide into darkness like so many others! Scream that this bastion of light shall never fade! That now and forevermore, Socialism, true, honest Socialism, will live!

It will never be known if she had finished, because it was at this point that the stallions of the law intervened. They appeared like a malevolent spirit, a seething rush of drab brown tearing through the assembled ponies and up the steps of the Palace. In an instant they had wrestled Natalya to the ground, barking a jumble of barely intelligible orders at us to the general effect of “stay back.” We stood in mild awe as they clumsily tugged her down the street, then out of sight. In the silence that followed, not one of us left.

After an eternity, one of them returned, brandishing a megaphone in his hoof as he glared with a kind of stern contempt. We were told that what we had just seen were the ravings of a mare recently gone mad, with certifiable evidence to prove it. Considering the circumstances it would be pertinent to dismiss anything we had heard. The embarassing display that we had just witnessed was to be forgotten immediately. If it wasn't, there would be “severe consequences”.

That ended it. The crowd that had amassed disappeared instantly. It was as if nothing had even happened. There was not a face that held an ounce of emotion, not a single particle of care or recognition. The spell had been broken in an instant, a single crushing moment that turned everything that had been said into dust. It was grotesque, the ease with which we forgot and moved on. All too happy to maintain the status quo.

Natalya was right about many things. There was one part, though, that she stumbled over. She had far, far too much faith in equine nature. What she couldn't understand is that rebellions aren't fueled by resolve, honor, or inherent good. Rebellions are fueled by desperation. It was starvation that drove the Revolution, not some vague urge to make things somehow more moral. Until a pony is directly harmed by an injustice, they will gleefully turn it a blind eye. As long as they got their grain, nopony in that crowd would move a muscle.

I was no exception, I am ashamed to say. That afternoon I went home, slept soundly, and never once thought of Natalya. She had been a minor distraction, a deviation, yes, but one that didn't bear remembrance. The next time I recalled her would be years later, when the winter of 1025 passed but the times stayed hard. Only once the grain reserves evaporated, once I could easily pick out my ribs through my hide, once the militsiya started executing looters as foreign agents, did I remember that ill-fated mare who had stood atop the steps of the Palace of the Soviets and warned us of what was to be.

Of course, by then it was too late. We couldn't have done anything if we had tried. The next decade was the worst in our history, and all because we were too immersed in our beloved stagnation to listen to common sense.

The Consequences

INTERROGATION LOG #2653

SUSPECT WAS DETAINED ON CHARGES OF TREASON AND PUBLIC DISTURBANCE. OFFENSES INCLUDE SLANDER, ATTEMPTED INDUCEMENT OF INSURRECTION, FABRICATION OF EVIDENCE, AND MALICIOUS INTENT TOWARDS THE STATE. INTERROGATION TOOK PLACE ON FEBRUARY 20TH, 1022.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Suspect enters interrogation chamber. Notable lack of emotion.

INTERROGATOR: Do you know why you are here?

SUSPECT: No.

I: No?

S: No. I have committed no crime.

I: Let us not play games. You actively tried to undermine your own country. You are a traitor.

S: I have done nothing but speak my mind.

I: That is a lie. You are a puppet for some foreign devil.

Suspect appears confused.

S: What? No!

I: Yes. And you will tell us who gave you your orders.

S: I have associated myself with nopony outside of my country.

I: Stop lying. Confess.

S: I think I'll refrain from doing so.

I: Are you sure?

S: Very much so.

I: Then perhaps you wouldn't mind if we sought out your family for comment.

Suspect becomes distressed.

S: They didn't do anything wrong.

I: They failed to notify officials of your treasonous intent. That is a crime.

S: They had no way of knowing. I haven't seen them in months.

I: I don't know that.

S: Then check my travel logs.

I: No. You will confess to your harmonistic treachery now, or your family will join you in state custody. The prisons here can be extremely cruel. You wouldn't do that to them, would you?

Suspect begins to breath heavily. Several seconds pass without response.

S: You can't do this. You can't!

I: We can do many things.

S: The law-

I: Doesn't matter here. You have nothing, traitor. Confess.

Suspect speaks with a tone of desperation.

S: Can't you see what I'm fighting for?

I: Your evil, grotesque harmonism, yes. Confess.

S: No! No, damn you! I'm fighting for what we lost! I'm fighting for the true dream! Not this horrible tyranny that we live under now, but the socialism of hope! Of prosperity!

I: Confess.

S: Why won't you listen?!

I: There will be no discussion. I can make the call right now. Confess.

S: You're on the wrong side! I know you don't feel like it, but you are! You must understand!

I: Fine. It is done, then.

At this point, interrogator leaves room for eleven minutes. Suspect grows agitated, and begins to mutter to self. Upon return of interrogator, suspect is shaking.

S: D-did you-

I: You have one more chance. If you do not comply, it will be my personal pleasure to make sure that your parents find themselves working the glacial shelves. Confess.

Suspect is silent. Interrogator starts to leave.

S: N-no! Stop! Fine!

I: So you confess?

S: Yes. I-I was part of a harmonist plot to disrupt the union.

I: From who?

S: The River Federation.

I: Very good. You submit to any and all retribution that the state deems necessary?

S: Yes.

I: And you agree to publicly renounce all of the lies that you spread among the citizens of Stalliongrad.

S: I-

I: Be very careful of what you say next.

Suspect pauses, choked.

S: Yes.

Suspect begins to weep.

I: Say it again.

S: Y-yes.

I: With dignity, you sniveling moron.

S: Yes.

I: You aren't listening. Say it again, and say it well, or you will be punished.

S: Yes! I will! Alright?! I will! I-I will. I. I...

Suspect trails off, continuing to cry.

I: Is that all?

No response is given.

I: Thank you. This concludes the interrogation.

Interrogator leaves room.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NOTE: FURTHER INVESTIGATION INTO FAMILIAL TIES MAY BE PERTINENT, IF FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO PROVIDE PRECEDENT FOR SIMILAR INCIDENTS IN THE FUTURE.