That One Time Anonymous Conquered Equestria

Chapters

Chapter The First
Chapter The Second
Chapter The Third

Chapter The First

Anonymous. The very name is a scream in the night, a blood-stained mattress, an uncanny valley. The legends say that he emerged from murk. Suit and tie like black tar, shirt crisp white like fresh-picked bones, shoes polished like… polished shoes. Ponies fear him. Monsters cower in his presence. Even the great Everfree was said to recoil when first he walked its gnarled paths.

Gryphon legends tell of a creature, this hoo-man, that lived long ago. It was at once a sorcerer, a warrior, and a most scoundrelous rogue. It ravaged Equus for millennia, erected iron towers around which all died, and then vanished. When hoo-man returns, they say, it will be as a king from regency.

Anonymous visited Gryphonstone once. No pony has heard from the gryphons since.

Actually, that was last week. Now, as Canterlot’s ponies busy themselves shopping, eating, and playing, they know their lives are a myopic flit between empty activities. They know they’re living in diversion, trying to forget. Even the princesses, they say, are sequestered behind castle walls, afraid of the creature stalking their lands.

But time is short.

Patrols pursuing sightings have, one by one, gone missing. Detachments deployed to fortify capital defenses return routed. Special operations teams ordered after the creature’s head all report: It is impossible. It is unstoppable. We are doomed.

Celestia knows these are Equestria’s final days. She has seen it in her sleep. She’s spent years preparing Twilight Sparkle and her friends, in the vain hope they could stop it. Maybe… If she had more time… But no. As she looks over her balcony, toward her realm’s horizon, she knows powerlessness.

Metal against marble—a guard approaches her. “Your majesty,” he says, voice a quiet tremor, “the outer walls have gone silent.”

Celestia remains an impassive monolith; the goddess her subjects expect in dire times. But, though the guard, too absorbed in his own fear, is unaware, she is shaking.

Beyond her divine gaze, walking Canterlot’s streets as a murderer toward a cornered victim, Anonymous thumbs his device. A sell-fone he calls it. He is annoyed; something he’s felt often since arriving in Equestria. Here, too, atop a mountain, he has no signal. One option remains: the castle. The gilded structure has taunted him for miles from a distance. Equestria’s highest point, not counting the inaccessible cloud cities.

As he travels the main thoroughfare, ponies duck, dive, and flee. Before, he would call to them, attempt to calm them, try petting. But, despite the similarity between their spoken language and English, his words were ignored. Now he has accepted their terror. He chuckles as a mint green unicorn trips over her hooves mid-scramble. To him, it’s cute. To them, it’s the apocalypse.

He arrives at the city’s interior wall. He is unaware of the many eyes, two of them royal, observing his approach. When he reaches the portcullis, the guards fighting the seldom-used and rusted lever responsible for sealing it are facing away.

“Hello,” Anonymous calls. “What’re you guys doing?”

“Seek shelter, civilian” one says between grunts, metal-shoed hooves dragging along the ground as he pushes against the antiquated contraption. “The castle will not fall so long as the royal guard stand.”

“Hear, hear!” The other says, applying oil to the rusted gear.

“If you say so,” Anonymous says. He passes beneath the portcullis and squats behind them. “Need help?”

“Your assistance is not required,” the first guard grunts.

Anonymous hums. He rubs his chin and knits his brows. Then, like lightening in a dry shrub, an idea sparks his mind. He understands the guards’ folly. He stands, a proud figure, reaches past the first guard—who, surprised, halts his strained pushing—grips the handle, and pulls.

The portcullis slams shut; a cacophony that echoes through the courtyard.

The guards are stunned speechless. And when they turn toward him, they are just stunned.

“You’re welcome,” Anonymous says and waves. And then he continues, possessing all the cheer of a child ripping butterfly wings. He fooled them, and now he has trapped them. One of the guards weeps; a silent sound, and a wish for hearth, home, and mother.

But a hope remains, and she knows she is Equestria’s last. Vengeance eternal, she readies her guard—Equestria’s most elite.

Anonymous, the fiend, the end of days, crosses the courtyard. Though still incapable of calls, his sell-fone has an indispensable function: he snaps pictures of the courtyard’s varied topiary, statues, and fountains, flash enabled. Equestria, after all—this magnificent civilization, unrivaled by any other known across the five seas—is home to the greatest artists, scientists, and philosophers. Its culture is a beacon to the world, and a reminder that reason, the superficial manipulation of the forms of thought, requires no wisdom.

Like a raven upon a field mouse, princess Luna, that scion, that Empress of the Night, death’s most beloved mistress, lands upon an empty pedestal, splintering it to the base. She casts her hate filled gaze upon the intruder, the breathing nightmare who dared invade her home.

Anonymous stops, sell-fone up, eyes wide. Luna is majestic. Her coat, soft blue like the night sky; her mane, a whirling cloud like the cosmos; her eyes, a deep crystal lake. He snaps a picture of her too.

“Hear me, creature,” Luna’s voice is like heaven itself speaking, “thou art a plague upon this kingdom, and we will tolerate thine presence no longer! Night Guard!”

As though emerging from shadow, bat ponies, mares and stallions, coats mixed from grey to eggshell white, clad in armor like onyx, surround Anonymous, wings raised, fangs bared, and shod in bladed horseshoes. A few hiss, others bray, but all come to attention when Luna lifts her hoof.

“Attack pattern alpha. Fly!” Luna says. The night guard obeys; they stab forward, a dark pincer, a noose around their target. But before impact, they break or fly past. Their ring becomes a swarm of leathery wings, clanking metal, and shrieks. Luna smiles. Attack pattern alpha is meant to confuse the target, and this, team Umbra, is the best at it.

“Neat,” Anonymous says, posture relaxed, smiling like a circus patron.

Luna holds her hoof aloft. Their target, still awed, is even more disoriented than she hoped. She readies like a commander steadying a disciplined line. She imagines how she’ll brag to her sister that her night guard handled easily what the solar guard has botched every occasion. And when a passing breeze shifts a degree to the north, she drops her hoof.

Team Umbra parts upward, each at a sharp angle, and then banks toward their target, killing intent palpable, hooves back, claws deployed, eyes slits.

Anonymous lifts his sell-fone toward a mare and snaps a picture.

“Hiss!” The flash disorients her. She crashes sidelong into the next pony in formation, who tumbles forward and over Anonymous, and collides with his antipodal teammate, who, entangled, crashes as well, and… Well, the attack splinters. When the hissing, clattering armor, yelling, neighing, and ground-rocking thuds have subsided, one, confused, cream-colored batpony mare remains airborne. The others are strewn about the courtyard like corpses felled by an overaggressive tilt-a-whirl. The remaining bat pony lands too and chitters apologetically.

“Uh, oops,” Anonymous, that villain of villains, says.

Luna stands awed. Her best forces are broken, routed like mere recruits. She scans the courtyard, the injured and disoriented bodies, like a proud general devastated by a failed up-hill charge. She must retreat. Her darting eyes find Anonymous, who, idly scratching his cheek, is watching. Luna takes a step back, but her hoof meets open air. She tumbles from her pedestal, and hits the ground.

Luna’s head buzzes a moment, and then stills. And then she feels it—what must have sent her sister’s most elite retreating in terror. The helplessness, the vulnerability, death’s imminence.

Anonymous is standing over her. “Hey, you alright? Man, you ponies must have some vendetta against gravity.”

It is then she knows she has to flee. Capture is unthinkable, unacceptable. Celestia will need her; they will hold the throne room together. She channels magic, holds her breath, and flashes from the courtyard.

“That’s new,” Anonymous says, looking around. “Are all these horses trained stage performers?” He looks at his device. It still reads zero bars. He holds it up and sighs. The courtyard is insufficient. He turns to the castle’s large, ornate doors.

Inside, Celestia paces before her throne. She is alone; she’s dismissed the guards and castle staff. If she’s fated to fall, she’s resolved that her ponies have another day.

Luna appears—a bright flash and a ripple, hallmarks of hasty teleportation. She is on her back still, and her breathing is labored. Celestia hurries to her sister’s side and helps her stand.

“I have failed, sister,” Luna says, avoiding Celestia’s eyes.

“I know,” Celestia says. In her heart she weeps, but she steadies her expression, adopts the smile she wore for Luna when they were young, when the days blinded and the nights chilled.

But the look long ago lost its comfort for Luna. She sees it seldom these days, but its meaning is unmistakable: despair alone remains.

Despair is at that moment walking the castle halls, examining the nightshade adorned wall sconces, inhaling the light, buttery aroma of a pancake breakfast left to stale on the dining hall table. Despair waves his sell-fone high. The screen reflects many hues, light dyed by the hall’s stain glass murals. And when Despair reaches the throne room, doors shut, but unlocked—for surly nothing so simple as a lock can stop one so powerful—he pauses and knocks.

Celestia gives her sister one more look; reassurance, maybe, or maybe she wants to remember her face. And then she faces the door, defiant. “Enter!”

Anonymous pushes his way into the throne room. There are dual seats at the far end, like sun and moon, and dual princesses, one for each celestial body. The polished marble is like a god’s painted smile, and everywhere gold trim and satin embroidery fleck the corners of pillars, cloth, curtain, and carpet.

Anonymous stops, paces from Celestia and Luna. He points to his sell-fone. “Hey, you guys have reception in here? I’ve been all over the place and can’t find a bar to save my life.”

Celestia lifts her eyebrow and examines the rectangular device. She suspects it’s some kind of mirror—the intricacies of human technology beyond her comprehension. It’s not just a mirror, but a two-way mirror. She levels her horn. “You have cut a swath of destruction through my country, yet you expect aid? Have you no remorse?”

“Remorse?” Anonymous asks, eyes to his screen. “For what?”

Celestia and Luna share concerned looks. In other situations, with other enemies, perhaps they would have tried talking, tried to understand. Twilight’s methods, such as they were, have saved Equestria multiple times. But they know, by force of oracle and premonition, how today ends. Still, Luna has one remaining question.

“What is this ‘reception’ you speak of?”

Anonymous looks up. His expression reads disbelief, as though Luna has asked him whether a blue ball was indeed blue. “Cellphone reception,” he says. “You know, a signal?”

Again, Celestia and Luna share confusion. Celestia speaks this time, cautious and diplomatic, as though addressing foreign dignitaries. “And if we can provide you with this ‘signal’, you’ll leave?”

Anonymous shrugs. An honest gesture. In truth, a signal is the least of his concerns, and in the coming days and weeks, the greater of these will become apparent, though none in the room know this. But for now, his expression, his indecisive movement, kindles Celestia’s hope. Luna, however, trusts far less. She speaks next, and does so wearing her classical role as high inquisitor—a position long abolished, but a spirit still nourished in the younger sister.

“And when you receive this signal,” Luna steps forward, “just what will you do with it?”

Again, Anonymous looks at her as though the answer is obvious. “Call someone. Tell them to come get me.”

Luna’s eyes become like blue saucers. “There are… more of you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t there be?”

“And you intend to bring them here?” Celestia asks. That hope, barely sparked, wholly unnourished, dies.

“Obviously,” Anonymous says, then lifts his sell-fone once more.

‘Obviously’. Know it or not, it was an apt word. Many things become obvious to the sisters then, but none more than this: Even if his implied intention to leave is true, others of his kind in Equestria is unacceptable. The sisters nod to each other, then lift their horns.

“I am sorry it has come to this,” Celestia says, magic gathering in her horn.

“I am not,” Luna says, widening her stance.

Anonymous, devil of devils, stands amazed. He’s witnessed unicorns’ power before, but this is the closest he’s been. Their magic swirls and blends, like dancing blue and gold fire. They come together inches before the sisters. Celestia lowers her head slightly. She feels genuine sorrow that she’s forced to wield her magic this way, but her abiding concern for her realm overpowers compunction.

And then, together, the sisters release their energy. Like a great tide, it rushes forward and over Anonymous, the floor, and the door behind. A sound like churning stone in an echo chamber splinters their ears and shatters the windows. But they persist; even as marble peels away like scraped tissue paper and the door behind their target leaves its hinges.

And when their power fades and the debris is settling—leaving dull ringing and the occasional clatter of some toppling, obliterated fixture, and a smell like an empty pan left unattended on a flame—the sisters wait, cautious but optimistic.

“Could he… have avoided it?” Luna says, gasping.

“Not unless he is as adept at teleportation as you,” Celestia replies. She relaxes and lifts her shimmering mane. She narrows her eyes, and then dread strikes.

As the dust settles, first a shadow, and then an outline, and then a whole figure remains. Anonymous stands, unscathed. Behind him, splaying like refracted rays, is a widening strip of undamaged floor, as though the devastation—scarred marble and stone, torn and burning carpet, crumbling wall and doorway—hit him as a stream of water might a knife’s blade. He is scratching his cheek, looking impressed, though confused.

“That was really cool,” he says, then waves away some lingering dust. “But what did it do?”

The sisters’ jaws are agape. Their shock evolves different ways. Celestia’s becomes despair; an abiding feeling all is lost. But Luna, she is not cowed easily. It was she, after all, who banished the Crystal Empire after Sombra’s victory; she who had pushed the gryphons across the sea; she who had dared try unite diarchy into a universal monarchy.

With one flap she is upon him. She lifts her head, horn alight, then levels a beam like a laser into his face. Its energy sparks and screams; its force and focus superheat her horn… And it deflects harmlessly off his forehead like scattered light.

Luna stills her horn and lands. Her face reads like a children’s storybook: shock, terror, and the half-resisted urge to pee oneself. “How?” she asks, maybe to him, maybe her sister, maybe herself. “How could our magic have failed?”

“Magic?” Anonymous asks. He’s admiring Luna up close now; much closer than he’s been allowed to get to other ponies. They all ran before he had the opportunity. He puts his forefinger and thumb to his chin, eyes sharp. “It’s easy,” he says. “I don’t believe in that stuff.” Because that’s how that works.

And so Equestria falls.

Days later, debris is being removed, structure being repaired, new doors hauled inside. Order is restored where days ago there was panic. The castle staff have returned. Guards are again at their posts, and the portcullis lever has a new sign indicating in which direction it’s to be pulled. Inside, much of the marble floor, either too scarred for refurbish or destroyed entirely, is being replaced. The red velvet carpet leading into the throne room is absent—out for replacement too, as the previous carpet was incinerated.

And in the throne room itself, lined up on either side, guards stand, spears high, eyes forward, in salute of their new emperor.

Where there were two thrones, there is now one. And on that throne sits Anonymous, eyes on his screen, head tiara topped (his crown still in production). He holds his phone aloft and looses a wistful sigh, longing for the days of 4G or even the fabled 5.

“I don’t think this fits quite as well as I’d hoped,” Celestia says.

“Hush, sister,” Luna says. “The vanquished must not speak freely.”

On either side, necks chained, are Luna and Celestia, former rulers of Equestria, current “good girls”.

Anonymous looks at his screen… And then his face lights. For once, the dark one is overjoyed. He stands, a triumphant move, and lifts his fist. For today, the greatest of all, one that here forward will be marked by celebration—that will forever more be a national holiday in Equestria—he has discovered one bar! Oh, but what gods could know, in all their creation, that such a simple thing, over all the fragile beauty of revealed being, could inspire the highest praise. No, further, that all of sublimity, and even the Idea itself, could smile on that occasion upon such a simple man, at a humble pass.

The princesses watch him weep joyful tears, and even his guard’s presence fails to perturb his boundless satisfaction. Because, for these moments, men write endless verse, whether song or prose or poem, and sculpt, and paint, and film cheesy indie movies. Because, for these moments, for that brief period when lover and beloved unite, mortal is transported into eternity, and all of creation bows before the majesty of the Event.

And then his phone dies.

Author's Note

Probably the end. Maybe.

Chapter The Second

It’s a strange thing, rulership. The fabled sword of Damocles, the precarious perch of one’s position and of the entire realm, is just the largest burden. It’s the trifles—the policy luncheons, the rolling meetings, the public events—that overwhelm rulers. And, of course, there’s the opposition. There are nobles and aristocrats, the class of usurpers; officers and militia, the class of glory seekers; and merchants and tradesmen, the class of malcontents.

And not one member of one of these knows how to charge a phone.

So, the prince of darkness, that scoundrel upon the stolen throne, that unfortunate mook in the sharp suit, Anonymous, gathers his court for an important quest, one rivaling the Holy Grail form his world. They are to find a charger, or at least something that serves the same end.

Celestia, good girl number one, is wary of the Emperor’s plan. After all, she argues, there are more pressing matters. The court is the ruler’s immediate circle; a web of confidants and advisors who, like extensions of his limbs, carry the functions of government across the land. Should they be preoccupied, there could be disorder. Provinces and populations would have no recourse, no communication with the sovereign. Anarchy could break loose, and the state’s delicate order, ever a hair from the edge, could topple. There could even be…

A coup.

As happened anyway, Celestia’s administrative acumen notwithstanding.

But the Emperor is nonplussed. He and good girl number two (ever a servant of duty, Luna took quickly to her new role) plan the Grand Expedition.

For the truth is, as it ever was, that Anonymous has no interest in governing. Once he’d proven immune to magic, the two sisters, sure they were in the presence of some unstoppable fiend, surrendered. Their surrender was unbidden. In fact, it was another day before Anonymous realized they were serious. He promptly refused the title, but was by then in too deep. The government had collapsed. Most of Canterlot’s ministers, sure the two sisters were dead, had abandoned their posts and, if not fled the city, at least hid, sure mass executions were coming. But Anonymous, ever the clever sort, didn’t know horses were even capable of government.

The conundrum is that pony society has stood for so long. How has some becrowned fool, say with a black coat and stupid looking, red-tipped horn, not simply marched into the throne room unopposed prior to this?

But these thoughts are far from Anonymous’ mind. More immediate is his cellphone’s hunger, and more still Luna’s brushies; for if she goes without, she gets cranky.

So, upon his Iron Throne, brush in hand, Luna’s forelegs splayed across his lap, and Celestia a few cautious feet away, Anonymous receives his briefing from Spitfire, commander of Equestria’s air forces. Ever loyal, and carrying out, like the government’s other, few, still functioning organs, the abdication degree, her firm allegiance and eternal services are bound now to the Dark Lord.

“And that,” Spitfire says, smacking her diagram of the Canterlot catacombs hard enough that the easel wobbles, “is how we get the Rings of Brontes. More than enough juice to power your, uh, thing, for the next thousand moons.”

“An intriguing plan,” Luna says, tail bobbing lazily every brushstroke. “Though deploying so many resources for one lead is surly folly. We must distribute our attention, so as to increase our chances of success.”

Anonymous rubs his chin and nods. It’s an imperious nod: one possessing great confidence; one of a man capable of leading armies, of felling great warriors; one of someone who tuned out five minutes into the presentation. “What do you think?” He asks Celestia.

“Equestria is doomed,” she says.

“Then it’s agreed!” Anonymous bellows. “Gather your forces, Spitty ol’ girl. Half will support the third division as it searches the mysterious Everfree Forest.” He wiggles his fingers for dramatic effect. “And the other half will look for those rings with the fourth division.”

“A sensible proposal,” Luna says.

“Yes, sir,” Spitfire salutes.

Once she’s left, easel under wing, Anonymous stands, confident his problem’s one stretch from solution. He casts his imperial gaze across the throne room and decrees:

“It’s time for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Celestia asks. “Right now? You have a meeting in five minutes, and after that there’s—”

“Tut, tut,” Anonymous says, lifting a finger. “Don’t you worry your pretty mane about all that. I’ve got top men on it.”

“Who?” Celestia lifts her brow.

“Top. Men.”

But by men, he means mares. And by mares, he means the curious mailmare who’d brought the post that morning, Derpy Hooves. Some might say it was a poor choice. Why, after all, would a pony whose entire world is stamps and packages know how to govern? But that would be a dumb question, and those who propose it dumb for asking.

Luna follows Anonymous out of the throne room. Celestia, forlorn and begrudging, soon follows too. They are unaware—for none are psychic, though Luna does enter others’ minds at night, and Celestia does get premonitions at awkward times (once, while in the privy, she foresaw the collapse of the ceiling to water damage; there was quite the mess to clean up after she’d fallen from her seat)—that the expeditions have already floundered. The Everfree, after all, commands its airspace too, and appreciates intruders no more for flying. And Brontes’ rings are an artifact from the obviously fallacious Daring Do novels. Obviously.

But failures far from mind are hardly failures; they’re as yet uninterpreted events. And if one is clever—or maybe it’s unscrupulous—any event can be spun as a success.

Take Anonymous’ ham and cheese sandwich for instance. When he’s gathered his ingredients, layered his four-cheese blend, and added, plucked from his suit jacket, his personal brand Hot Sawce! (trademark pending), one can say “but there’s no ham on that sandwich”. Average thinking is so constrained. Instead, rethink what “ham” means. That’s right: Havarti, aged cheddar, and mozzarella. And the fourth? It’s just cheese. Some random, unnamed cheese. Therefore, ham and cheese sandwich.

But that’s the kind of flexible thinking, maverick-like maneuvering, duplicitous flip-flopping, that separates ruling Chad Anons from the Virgin princesses.

And as Celestia watches, put off by Anonymous’ unique flavor combination, and confused by her sister’s apparent indifference, she is reminded of an Old Ponish saying:

While mares must weather

the harshest of storms

The ice cares not

To it, it is warm

Though it sounds better in Old Ponish, and has a better rhyme scheme too. She intuits then what is, to some degree, the case. Luna’s passivity is a product of what the elder sister has always suspected: this desultory rule is how the younger saw Equestria’s previous government too. The fitful decrees, the nobility’s rampant corruption, delegating the entire realm’s defense to six civilian mares, only one of whom has military experience—for Luna, the current state of affairs is little different from the former. And at least Anonymous puts the military to use, and much of the nobility has fled to their estates.

And so Celestia mopes while Anonymous regales Luna on his cellphone’s capabilities. Luna asks the occasional clarifying question: what is the internet? How does one chat by snapping? Why would anyone throw a book at another’s face? Is this “ree” a kind of war cry? At least she immediately understood the last of these.

But before Anonymous can give his crash course on bants, the chancellor of the Equestrian Assembly, head of Their Majesties’ Government, Equestria’s third most powerful pony before the fall, Fluttershy’s Mom, enters the kitchen. She approaches the Emperor.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Shy says.

Anonymous turns toward her, arm raised mid-theatrics. “Oh, hey. Uhh… ?”

“Yes, Chancellor Shy? How may we help you?” Celestia steps forward, compelled by a thousand years’ habit, a trained and ingrained instinct to take charge. Also, the first time Anonymous had met her, he’d thought Mrs. Shy was the gardener.

“Yes, um, well… Your majesty,” she says to the Dark King, “the assembly anticipates your State of the Realms address.”

Celestia takes a rattled breath, as though stabbed in the lung. “That’s right! The State of the Realms is tonight. All of Equestria will be awaiting word of your legislative, domestic, and foreign policy agendas for the coming year.”

Mrs. Shy nods. “Yes, and we’re all eager to know the,” she swallows, “new administration’s policies.”

Anonymous, Beelzebub’s own, horror of horrors, The One Who Would Bleed Every Land, kneels before Mrs. Shy. She flinches and squeezes her eyes shut, and then squeaks a desperate squeak, certain of her end.

“Aren’t you just the most adorable little thing?” Anonymous says, stroking her mane. “Even got little thick rimmed glasses.”

Now, this behavior toward a sitting chancellor is unheard of, and least of all toward Chancellor Shy. Her direct, honest, tough leadership style earned her the nickname “Green Mum” in the assembly. She is known to speak her mind, to be principled and unyielding. Even the princesses, it is said, revered her as their voice. So, this kind of behavior, as it is against every norm and protocol, demands appropriate response.

She giggles and pushes at his arm with her hoof. “S-stop. Your Majesty, please!”

“Who’s a good girl, huh?” Anonymous says.

“Ahem.” Luna lifts her nose. “I believe the title ‘good girl’ belongs to my sister and I.”

“Oh, right,” Anonymous says. He removes his hand from Mrs. Shy’s mane.

She sighs, relieved. “Your Majesty, the speech?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know. You give it.” Anonymous says, then takes another bite of his sandwich.

Celestia clears her throat. “That won’t do, your Imperial Highness. As head of state, you must give the address yourself. It’s one of the few functions of government you can’t get out of.” She looks aside. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Gotta step up to the plate, huh?” Anonymous asks, shaking his sandwich for emphasis. “Alright, guess I’ll do it. Not like I’ve got anything else going on tonight.”

He does, in fact, have other things going on that night. But he’s forgotten them already. The yaks are known for patience though, and border disputes resolve themselves. Natural boundaries and such.

Mrs. Shy, reliable public servant she is, takes both pad and quill from beneath her wing and props herself upon the marble countertop. “If you’d like, your majesty, dictate your speech to me. I can edit a final copy for you.”

“Good idea, cutesnoot,” Anonymous says past his last bite of sandwich. He swallows. “Ahem. I was born on a Tuesday…”

What follows is the most brilliant, insightful, confusing speech ever given on Equestrian soil. Mrs. Shy, nose near the uncapped Hot Sawce! bottle, weeps; Luna swells with patriotic pride, or maybe from her cheese allergy; and even Celestia is gasping for air by his penultimate paragraph.

It turns out that last cheese was a very spicy pepper jack.

And when Anonymous, that King Slayer, that Lord of Want, that fashionable mad lad, finishes his speech, all present are stomping their hooves.

“Magnificent!” Luna says.

“Remarkable,” Celestia shouts.

“I ran out of ink mid-way through, but my running mascara was enough to finish,” Mrs. Shy says, further smearing her makeup when she wipes her tears with her wing.

“Yeah, I do a pretty good horse impression,” Anonymous says. “You should hear my dog, too.” He looks at the clock on the wall: Half-past squiggle. Equestrian writing is not like English, possibly because two-thirds of Equestrians write with their mouths. “But it’ll have to wait,” he continues. “I’ve got to get back to the throne room for my debriefing.”

And with a sweep of his cape—because he’s wearing a cape now—Anonymous leaves the kitchen, good girls one and two close behind. When he arrives at his golden seat, his Imperial Perch, and sits, Derpy is waiting, one wall-eye on a clipboard, the other toward some unspeakable future.

“I spoke to the councilors like you asked,” Derpy says. “They seemed really nice at first. They even gave me muffins!”

“That’s wonderful, er… Dinky, is it?” Celestia says, sitting upright on her comfy pillow. It’s pink laced, embossed beneath with a hoof-stitched sun. “But what about the realm? I’m sure news of Canterlot’s fall has sparked panic. Did they mention the situation in the regional capitals?”

“No, they didn’t say anything like that,” Derpy says, ears dropping.

“Then surely they have spoken of civil defense,” Luna says. “News of our defeat will no doubt inspire Equestria’s enemies to action.”

“Um… well, no. They didn’t talk about that either.”

“Did they get my letter?” Anonymous asks.

Derpy perks. “Yes, sir! They said your,” she squints at her clipboard, “sell-you-la-ray towers are all approved. They were really excited about them, too.”

Anonymous slaps his hands together. “Great. Oh man, you hoof monsters are gonna love this. Coast to coast coverage, and the best connection outside of Seattle.”

How this is to work when ponies lack even a public switched telephone network is a mystery to all but Anonymous himself. Or, to be precise, since even the concept of a telephone is foreign to Equestria, even this mystery, qua mystery, is an unknown.

But the Emperor knows. He lifts an imperial arm, imperial finger extended, and points toward the imperial ceiling imperiously. “Mark me,” he says, “No filly, colt, or mare will go without coverage again. I decree a new day is dawning for horse world—”

“Equus,” Celestia says.

“Gesundheit. And from here on, whether native or visitor, all will have access to the fastest 4G LTE network ever!” His cape billows. For years to come scholars will argue about this royal breeze’s origins.

“That’s great, your majesty!” Derpy says, flapping happily. “Everypony will be really excited to hear that tonight.”

“Oh? And did the council say what they expect of the Emperor?” Celestia asks.

“No, they just did a lot of complaining. They said some really nasty stuff about me too…”

“Like what?” Anonymous asks, flopping into his seat.

Derpy lowers her head. “I don’t remember everything, but it was pretty mean.” Then she perks up again. “But don’t worry! I told them they were wrong and that you had confidence in me!”

“Good for you, Derps,” Anonymous says, nodding. He’s proud of her—as he should be. Standing up for oneself is a hard thing, and to do so in a principled way is the mark of a noble soul. And doubtless when the janitorial staff find the bodies, they will remark to themselves “here, beneath this table, smeared across these walls, and stuffed into the waste paper basket, noble hooves did work”.

And so, that afternoon’s business attended, Anonymous prepares for his speech. Good girls one and two coach him on the finer points of statecraft: Always pretend to know what you’re doing, say “Machiavellian” and “realpolitik” when you mean caprice and indifference, and for every cited expert opinion, there is an equal and opposite expert opinion with which to make your case.

“But most of all, have fun,” Celestia says while adjusting his tie.

And later, by the time of the speech, the entire assembly is abuzz. Rumor, quick bugger it is, brings word of a big announcement; a drastic policy change, perhaps, or a declaration of some slew of irrelevant national holidays. Either way, everyone anticipates big things.

Anonymous is equal parts anticipation and anxiety. Taking helm of an equine nation is a beach upon which no man has before floundered.

And when the time comes, Anonymous’ arrival, flanked by Celestia and Luna, is announced by Chancellor Shy. He enters the Great Hall of Herds, a magnificent chamber with hundreds of seats arranged like an amphitheater around a central dais, to stomping hooves and braying. As he walks, shoulders back, head high, through the aisle, he waves to and bumps hooves with lawmakers from across Equestria. Some crowd and push, others buck and cajole—all eager to see the Emperor. Others still, those of the older generation and from the reform faction, watch him like he’s worms in their oats.

As Anonymous nears the chamber’s center, one young mare squeezes from a near row. She’s a timid, gentle looking thing with a pink mane and fuchsia coat, oddly wearing a trabea. Anonymous approaches her and kneels.

“Ohmygawd, you’re so adorable,” he says and pets her mane. The mare averts her gaze and blushes. And then her eyes widen and she scowls. She turns toward The Immortal Emperor, reaches into her tunic, and withdraws a dagger.

“Sic sempra… Sic siempe… Sic… Screw it. Die!” She plunges her dagger into him.

Someone else screams, “They’re trying to kill the Emperor!”

And then it’s chaos.

A stallion tackles the assailant. The riled assembly breaks into open hoof-to-hoof struggle. Horns bolts fly; the fray becomes a blinding, confusing whir. Bangs, moans, shouts—the hall is a war zone. It’s a struggle more intense than the Storm King’s invasion produced. They should have sent the politicians to fight his forces. No matter who won, Equestria would have benefited.

And through it all, Anonymous lies, face up, on the carpet. Red stains his suit. His stares blankly at the great, vaulted ceiling. A century from now, a great painter, descendant of Fleet Admiral Rainbow Dash, will recreate this scene. It will become one of Equestria’s greatest artworks and a national treasure.

Celestia and Luna, deaf to the anarchy, look mournfully down at him.

Celestia speaks, voice crisp, ethereal, over the cacophonous chamber, “A tragedy and triumph in equal measure.”

Luna shakes her head. “He was a strange, great, terrible creature, sister.”

They share reverent silence.

Then Luna says, “So… should we toss him in the trash pit or…?”

Anonymous gasps, startling both sisters. He coughs; a rattling sound, like fingers dragged against a phlegm-covered grate. He puts his hand against the red patch on his suit, observes it, and frowns.

“You live?” Celestia says. Her voice mixes surprise disappointment, an inflection that would later earn her a “good girl demerit”, putting Luna firmly in the lead.

Withdraws his bottle of Hot Sawce! from his suit jacket. It’s shattered, leaking its pungent contents on the carpet. Then he stands. He looks across the chamber. Ponies are rolling, kicking, biting, and bludgeoning each other with staplers. His eyes shine, glorious and terrible, like a distant, approaching flame in a dry forest. He lifts his arms, dark, red-flecked pillars, and says,

“STOP!”

Except the voice isn’t his. It comes from the chamber’s entrance. There, in her military jacket, medals displayed, is Spitfire. Her voice announces marching hooves and clinking armor. The fourth division fills the assembly. Four guardsmares form a protective square around Anonymous, Luna, and Celestia while others units restrain agitated delegates.

Spitfire enters the chamber. She approaches Anonymous, the Blight of Civilization, evil in a fitted suit, and lowers her head. “We found it,” she says, then from beneath her wing pulls a blindingly bright ring. She offers it to Anonymous. It’s palm-sized and cool to the touch, though radiating warm light.

“Oh, cool,” Anonymous says. For he knows, as do good girls one and two, and Spitfire herself, that with such power, the world is his. That with a thought, or even a misdirected intention, he can level cities, annihilate species, and cleanse the realm itself of the unfit.

“So, it’s like a battery, right?” He asks.

“What’s a battery?” Spitfire says.

They share a confused look.

So, the assembly is brought to order, though Anonymous skips his speech.

That night, the would-be assassins’ seventeen conspirators are rounded up and executed. They die singing the diarchy’s praises and cursing the usurper. Anonymous, after trying for an hour and by various means—rubbing it against the screen, tapping the two together, leaving the two next to each other with romantic music—to send energy from the Ring of Brontes into his phone, gives up and brews another batch of his world famous Hot Sawce!™.

Also that night, Celestia, succumbing to curiosity, takes her turn for brushies. They’re great.

And, oh yeah, Twilight showed up. She seems agitated.

Probably should have mentioned that sooner.

Chapter The Third

Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship, doubted her ears when she heard the royal sisters had been overthrown. She doubted her eyes when she saw Canterlot refugees stream past Ponyville, and she doubted her nose when she smelled something spicy cooking in the Canterlot Castle kitchen (Celestia is notoriously sensitive to spice), but reason is the one faculty she never doubts, and there are only a few reasons Celestia would wear a collar.

Frankly, Twilight likes none of them, but that the sisters were indeed overthrown is most palatable.

As Celestia stirs her tea, Twilight’s face cycles emotions—a flit between incomprehension and disbelief. The first predominates. In the last few minutes, Twilight has asked her mentor to restate, both slowly and quickly, in short and in long form, the past week’s events several times. She believes perhaps that somewhere in the seventh recounting she’ll pick up a detail, a silver lining, missed in the first six. Or maybe, as Celestia suspects, she’s delaying her impending “Twilighting”.

But as Celestia finishes her seventh retelling, including events she was absent for (how did she know what happened with the guards outside the castle gates?), Twilight’s fraying mane and twitching eye signal the next stage of grief.

“A dream!” Twilight eurekas. “This is obviously just a dream. Ha, ha.” She waves her hoof dismissively. “Any moment now Luna will come tell me all about my fears and to stop worrying, and then we’ll spend the rest of the night discussing celestial mechanics.”

Luna burst through Celestia’s chamber door. “Good news, sister! Oh, Twilight Sparkle. Hello.”

“See?” Twilight says, lifting her nose smugly like the last filly standing at a spelling bee. She still holds the title for most consecutive wins at eight.

Luna trots to Celestia’s cozy tea table and sits on the free cushion between her and Twilight. “I have received twice thine ‘good girl points’ and am now firmly in the running for the ear scritching card.” She leans in. “Pray, what is a ‘scritch’?”

“Haha, very funny, Luna,” Twilight says, rolling her eyes. “Now come on, quit playing along with dream Celestia and take me to your planetarium.”

Luna tilts her head. “I can assure you; this is no dream.”

Twilight snorts, though that curious twitch is back, and, with it, nervous wing adjustments. “Alright, joke’s gone on long enough now, I…” She looks at Luna’s face—a mix of apologetic and curious—and her smile wilts.

Celestia takes a sip. “Next stage…”

“You did WHAT?!” Twilight stands, forehooves on table, nostrils flaring. “How could you just give up? I mean, granted, I know that’s what you do every time there’s a crisis, but at least you usually warn us first!”

“Settle down, Twilight,” Celestia says, lowering her teacup. “Let me explain.”

Twilight looks for a moment as though “settling” is the last thing she’s going to do. With anyone else, that might have been the case. Telling someone to “settle down” is the best way to make them angrier. But when she meets Celestia’s cool, calm eyes, she seals her lips and returns to her cushion.

“We did resist,” Celestia says. “You would be quite proud of us, truthfully.”

“I even summoned team Umbra. No modest measure.” Luna adds.

“But, in the end, we felt this was the best way to avoid unnecessary destruction.” Sensing Twilight’s coming interruption, Celestia lifts her hoof. “And, before you repeat yourself, there’s a reason we didn’t call you.”

“But why? The girls and I could have been here. We could have stopped this!”

Luna and Celestia share a brief glance. Then Celestia says, “We feel it’s better to wait this one out.”

“Huh?” Twilight says. “Wait for what, exactly?”

The door slams open. There, dark suit freshly dry-cleaned, an aura of despair around him, stands the Unholy Prince, the Baron of Sorrows, the Rock of Perdition, Anonymous. He enters, and the room seems to chill, as though a great host of lost souls scream in his wake. He pauses, casting a baleful eye across the assembled, and then centers his attention on Twilight. He speaks, and his words freeze Twilight from tail to ears.

“Oh, cool, a purple one.”

He puts the metal tray he’s carrying on the table. “I made oatmeal cookies!”

Celestia’s horn lights and she shuts the door to spare her warm room the castle draft.

“Most glorious of treats!” Luna says. She shoves one into her mouth.

“Careful, they’re still hot,” Anonymous says, sitting beside her.

“An they’reh gooyeh,” Luna chew-talks.

Twilight is of two minds. On the one hand, she feels as though she ought to concisely argue the problems with this state of affairs. But on the other, she thinks that is too tame a reaction. She is a princess now, and her first duty is to the realm. Besides, this is too weird for her tastes. She makes her stand.

“Has everypony gone crazy?” Twilight yells. “Equestria has been conquered! Our society is in ruins!” She pauses and frowns. “Well, admittedly, not really. Actually, nopony outside of Canterlot seems to have noticed, but that’s beside the point!” She points at Anonymous. “The throne is effectively vacant and you’re here having snacks with this… thing?” She looks at him. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he says, then bites into a cookie. “Who are you, by the way?”

“Forgive my manners,” Celestia says. “Anonymous, this is Twilight Sparkle, my friend and former student.” She sits up, looking proud. “And, might I say, the smartest pony in all Equestria.”

Anonymous’ eyebrow perks “Smartest?”

“Fret not, Twilight Sparkle,” Luna says, levitating another cookie. “Despite appearances, we have learned Anonymous has but one preoccupation.”

“And that is?”

Anonymous’ face sharpens, like the liquid testosterone pumping through his veins has gone from regular to high octane. He stands, face in shadows, fists clenched, and cape swaying. Scholars suspect the swaying cape is an aggressive signal in hoo-man males, evolved to scare away potential rivals and attract mates. He lifts his voice; a low rumble like trembling earth.

“If you’re as smart as they say, come with me,” he says. Then, with swift, exaggerated motion, he turns and leaves the room.

Twilight looks at the sisters. Both are wordlessly watching the door. Luna’s half-eaten cookie drops a few crumbs and Celestia’s tea has cooled.

“Uh… What was that about?” Twilight asks.

Celestia smiles at her faithful student; something she misses calling her. “Perhaps he can answer your questions. We will wait here.”

Twilight looks again into the dark hall. Hesitantly, she leaves her seat and follows Anonymous beyond the threshold.

She catches up to the Emperor as he’s passing through the dining room. Large, clerestory windows cast a faint, moonlit glow across the dining table, reflecting dully off porcelain plates and silverware.

Twilight trails behind him, keeping enough distance that, in the case of an emergency, she has time to teleport. As they turn into the aft hall—the hall of portraits as it is known because of the depictions of great ponies lining its walls—Twilight decides to probe for information, ever driven by the spirit of inquiry.

“So… where are you from?” She asks as they pass a portrait of Starswirl. Starswirl himself is in the Crystal Empire with Sunburst unraveling The Mystery of the Missing Stars. But that’s a different story.

Anonymous remains silent, eyes forward. Twilight lowers her ears and decides on a different approach. “A lot of ponies are afraid of you, but the princesses don’t seem to think you’re dangerous. Why is that?”

Again, Anonymous is silent. They walk by a dramatic painting of Discord. The Lord of Chaos’ eyes follow them, though neither notice. He was going to sow madness that week, but he had a mane appointment, and by the time he’d returned, Anonymous was already in power, so he decided to reschedule.

Twilight’s neck prickles; she’s frustrated and a little anxious. She tries a final approach, this time trotting in close as they cross into Canterlot Tower. “You know Equestria is not easy to govern. Don’t you think you should let Celestia and Luna take charge again? They’re really the experts.”

But again, he ignores her. Twilight stops, exasperated, several paces behind Anonymous, who himself halts before the ornate purple and pink doors previously housing the Elements of Harmony. She’s angry and amazed. Her initial impression of Anonymous, as an imposing but bumbling creature, was wrong. Here, in this tall, stolid figure, she finds cold resistance. She wonders what mysteries he holds, what secrets he keeps. Could the princesses be wrong in their assessment? And should she worry about what he’s going to show her? Wings out, horn up, she slowly approaches the door too. Now, she thinks, she is truly in the presence of the one they call “Emperor”.

Anonymous, meanwhile, bobs his head lightly to the song playing on his iPod Touch. He’s listening to Megadeath. He can’t help his boomer tastes in metal. He reaches into his pocket and pauses the song. “This is it,” he says. He puts his hand to the door and feels around, then sticks his finger in the horn slot. He wiggles and turns it and pulls it out when he feels the lock clamp down, and then the door parts. “There,” he says, wiping his finger on a handkerchief.

Twilight squints as the doors open. The interior is bright; bright enough to light the tower chamber like the morning sun.

“Oh, yeah. Don’t mind the light show. Ring thing kept getting worse, so I threw it in here,” Anonymous says, putting on sunglasses.

“Is that…” Twilight’s mind works fast. “A ring of Brontes?” Her heart does the pony-samba. “You got an actual ring of Brontes?”

“Oh yeah, that’s what they called it,” Anonymous says. “But that’s not actually what I wanted to—”

“And you brought it here?” Twilight’s yells.

“Uh, yeah…?” Anonymous turns toward her. “But only because it was too bright to keep under my pillow.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“Uh… yeah?” He’s lying. Were it a bit larger, he would wear it like a fashionable, glowing bracelet, and stated as much. Twilight has little time to avert the coming catastrophe—in fact, precious few moments remain for all in Canterlot—so she doesn’t exposit further. Before continuing, however, it is important to understand what a ring of Brontes is.

Forged in the first era, before pony kind was cast from Dream Valley, the four rings of Brontes are said to have powered homes, villages, and the sun itself. Or maybe received their power from the sun; Old Ponish produces strange ambiguities. They absorb ambient magic, and the more they’ve absorbed, the brighter they glow. This isn’t a problem where ponies, preternaturally magical beings, are not in abundance—like, for instance, catacombs. But were a ring, say, in the middle of the most magically charged city on the continent…

But, luckily, that’s not the case. The Crystal Empire is far to the north. They’re only in the second most magically charged city.

No one knows what happens when a ring is “full” because the places rings show up tend to disappear in cataclysmic explosions, leaving only the rings themselves, faintly glowing, and shadows scorched into the earth. Scholars are unsure if these things are related.

Anonymous, that Great Profaner, that Living Thrasymachus, that Mephistophelian Maverick, was educated on these dangers. Spitfire herself, ever cautious in all endeavors, warned the Emperor he needed to keep the ring in continuous use to avoid overcharging. She failed, however, to mention how to use the ring. To be fair to her, she is a Pegasus. Magic isn’t her domain.

By the way, while you were reading this disquisition, Twilight Sparkle grabbed the ring and ran. She’s past the courtyard now, and hurrying through Canterlot’s streets. Ponies everywhere take notice. It’s as though the sun itself is galloping through the city. That would, of course, be silly. Were the sun galloping through the city, there would be no city. But give it a little time; there might not be one soon anyway.

Anonymous runs behind her, gripping his phone. “Wait, I need that maybe!”

Twilight can hear him, but she’s tunnel-visioned. Running and breathing are her only remaining mental processes. Luckily, sight won’t distract her either. She can’t see past the miniature supernova clutched between her teeth. She’s navigating Canterlot’s streets by memory alone—an impressive feat, only overshadowed by her remarkable courage.

As she rounds another corner, she remembers that tile 274,343 is loose and skips it, and then pauses, remembering it’s the 33rd annual dog migration. She avoids an old schnauzer—a dog almost as blind as she is thanks to a combination of cataracts and unkempt fur. Unlike the other hounds, panicked by the absolute unit (solar luminosity to be precise) barreling toward them, the schnauzer hobbles along unperturbed. Twilight estimates the doggo-line’s width, based on measurements she did officiating the year before, backs a few paces, and leaps.

She clears the hound train like a pro. Granted, she can fly, but if she were thinking straight right now, she’d likely just teleport too. And it’s probably better she did neither; the ring has begun vibrating between her teeth, and while no one can say for sure what that means, it’s doubtlessly an omen. Any additional magic, say from flight or teleportation, could tip it from unstable to critical.

Anonymous passes the line of dogs too, though he lacks grace. He plows through, sending small woofers left and right.

Certain the Emperor means it harm, the old schnauzer whimpers, whines, barks, and then sinks its teeth firmly in his butt. The Emperor knows true pain then; the kind described by shooting victims and women giving birth without anesthetic. The kind spoken of by patients when they rate “ten” on pain charts. The old dog drags along behind him like an aggrieved mailbox from a joyrider’s back bumper. It is only love of his phone, and the promise of its functioning again—a promise Twilight’s theft threatens—that bid him soldier on.

As they reach the city’s outskirts, and despite his hitchhiker, Anonymous catches up. Here the buildings are further apart, and the outer wall hugs the cliffs beyond. This is the poor quarter, where roving earth pony gangs prey upon unsuspecting, innocent nobles, whose only crime was bidding up land prices with rampant speculation.

Near the city entrance, where the winding path down the mountain snakes through the main gate, Anonymous puts his foot down. In both senses.

“Hey!” he says as Twilight, less certain of this part of the city, trots cautiously for the gate. His lifts his finger high, then levels it at her in stern rebuke. “You should be wearing eye protection.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Oh, and give that back!”

“I hafh to get it away fhrom the shity,” Twilight says. The ring is humming now; a gentle song, like a banshee from the forest’s depths, or a million tormented souls wailing in harmony from the pit.

“You can’t!” Anonymous yells. “I need it… I think.”

“Tooh laeh,” Twilight says. “I’m goingh toh doh ith.” She trots out through the gate and makes her way to the cliff edge.

“No, don’t!” Anonymous yells, going after her.

“I will,” Twilight slurs.

“You can’t!” Anonymous protests.

“I can!” Twilight reaches the cliff edge.

“Don’t do it!” Anonymous catches up to her again.

“I’m doingh ith!” Twilight says. She lifts her muzzle.

“No!”

Anonymous tackles her. Everything seems to slow.

Twilight yelps. The ring flies, rotating like a tossed coin. Anonymous “oofs”, which in slow motion sounds like a protracted “ooo”. They’re off their feet and hooves respectively. Anonymous’ sunglasses fly from his face, and his cellphone from his hand. Twilight’s mane splays wild, displaced by wind and gravity.

And, by a miracle none but he can understand, the schnauzer attached to Anonymous’ butt, for the first time in three years, regains his sight.

As they hit the ground, Twilight watches the falling ring. She remembers her friends, her family, her mentor, and all of Equestria. She says a silent farewell, and a prayer to Harmony that Canterlot be spared. Anonymous, on the other hand, landing beside her inhales sharply as his phone falls. Not a high enough drop to crack the screen, but he knows the repair costs will be outrageous if it gets scratched.

But as the ring comes down, a second miracle happens. Some scholars say the two objects resonated. Others say it was mere fortune. A third group says the romantic music played for the objects the previous night did its job. But, whatever the cause, the ring collides with the cellphone.

And then there is a flash. It’s brighter than the headlights of an oncoming semitruck. That might be an understatement. And for seconds, or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, the entire world seems to go silent.

Twilight thinks she’s dead. Sure, of it in fact. Her vision is a blurred mess, so even with her eyes open, she’s sightless. But, slowly, they adjust. And though she’ll need glasses the rest of her life, the mountainside creeps into focus. And then she blinks.

“Wh… what happened?” She asks.

Anonymous stands. He brushes himself off.

There is a—still bright, but less so—glowing object on the ground. He picks it up.

“Phew,” he says. “No scratches.” He looks to Twilight. “It’s cool. It didn’t get damaged!”

“What?” Twilight says. She stands too, legs shaky, and looks at his hand. “What is that? What happened to the ring? Why are we still alive?” She pauses for a second, then looks at the Emperor, awed. “What did you do?”

Anonymous is staring at the dimming object—his phone—and holding the power button. “Come on baby…”

It remains dead.

“Damnit! Was glowing and everything.”

“What did you do?” Twilight asks more forcefully. “And what are you holding?”

“Huh? I thought you were supposed to be smart. It’s a cellphone. See?” He shows the device. Its glow has almost faded now, leaving only its smooth, metallic jacket and glossy screen.

“I… a what?” Twilight says. The pretty purple princess has so many questions. Most will never be answered.

Anonymous tisks and pockets it. “I swear, it’s like you ponies live in the stone ages or something. What is this, 98’?”

He stretches, then scratches his head. “Well, I’m beat. Let’s go back to the castle before Luna finishes all the cookies.” And then he begins walking.

Twilight is shocked. Too shocked for more questions. But when she notices his pace, she hurries to catch up. They walk for a while in silence; through the poor quarter, where ponies stand around confused as their rulers ascend, and then through the upper districts, where ponies do the same.

As her own confusion wears off, Twilight speaks: “You’re a strange creature.”

Anonymous is silent.

“At first I thought you were evil, and then I thought you were incompetent, but now I don’t know what to make of you.”

Anonymous nods his head.

She smiles. “I guess that means I should try to be your friend, to see what the princesses do in you. Maybe it won’t be so insufferable… At least for a little while.”

Anonymous flails his arms, doing an air drum solo, and “doh doh dosh dosh”es. Twilight is frightened.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

Anonymous doesn’t answer. Instead he yells—speaking over the music only he can hear—“So I was thinking of renaming this place Horselandia!”

“You WHAT?”

Meanwhile, at the Legion of Doom.

Grogar, first Emperor of Equestria (or Tambelon as he liked to call it), Enemy of Friendship, Father of all Monsters, observes our heroes through his magic orb… eye… thing.

“Fascinating,” he grumbles. “Very fascinating indeed. Get in here, you morons!”

“Do you really have to call us that?” Cozy Glow says, walking into the room. “It’s not very nice.”

“Or at the very least,” Queen Chrysalis says, entering behind Cozy, “distinguish between these morons and myself.”

“Oh please,” Lord Tirek says. “You, a queen without a hive, should spare us your arrogance.”

“I have a new hive, for your information. And they’re doing just fine.”

“How?” Cozy asks.

“How do you think?”

“…”

“Eww,” Cozy cringes.

“Silence! All of you!” Grogar says, slamming his hooves against the stone table at the center of his chamber. The three do as they’re told and Grogar clears his throat. “As you know, I’ve been observing Equestria’s new ruler for some time now…”

“That thing is still in charge,” Chrysalis asks. “How? Even King Sombra only ruled for an afternoon.”

“Yes, well, King Sombra was not immune to magic,” Grogar says. “But I believe I’ve found the secret to our little usurper’s power.” His orb glows, showing Anonymous’ cellphone absorbing the ring of Brontes.

“Intriguing,” Tirek says. “Those rings are legendary. No ordinary device, or creature even, could absorb that much magic at once.”

“Precisely,” Grogar says. “And that’s why we’re going to steal it!”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…” Cozy Glow says. “Princess Twilight is there, and Luna, and Celestia. And even if we can get past all of them…”

“’I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’” Grogar repeats her in falsetto, waving his hoof mockingly. “That’s what you sound like.”

Cozy Glow frowns.

“I’m in charge here and I say we’re going to take that device and be the undisputed masters of Equestria. Forever! Ahahahaha!”

Chrysalis joins him in his laugh, and then Tirek, and eventually Cozy Glow too.

And Luna did in fact eat all the oatmeal cookies.