FoE: Festering Virtues

I woke up in a tangle of reeking sheets. My coat was matted by blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids, there were strangers to either side of me, and everything hurt.

Still, I marveled at how good I felt. The hurt was the ache of well used muscle, without the sharp pain of injury. I could barely remain still, I wanted to get on the ground and do 100 pushups. My mind was racing, I felt like I could do anything and I wanted to do everything.

But first priority…

I slowly and carefully got out of the bed, taking care not to disturb my bedmates. The room was impressively opulent. The decorations and furniture were in good repair, and obviously designed for the enjoyment of the occupants; recessed mood lighting hinted without revealing, the bedding was thick and laundered, and the bedroom’s far wall was made of glass. It overlooked the field, roughly half way up the stadium’s seating.

Huh, always thought that a penthouse was on the top floor. I shrugged and continued looking for the bathroom, idly musing on nothing. The bathroom was installed in an adjourning, abet converted, penthouse. A large number of showers and more mood lighting; it looked like it was more of a continuation of the previous room rather than an actual bathroom, with the service of dealing with bodily functions grudgingly tacked on later, a solitary toilet hidden in the corner. The glass had been painted over with a reflective coat of paint, creating a giant mirror. Not usually something that I would enjoy, but I didn’t think I would be nearly as against it as normal. After last night, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

I used the toilet, then started running the shower. Fairly high pressure meant that it was probably from a public water main, which probably meant radioactive, but that’s not too much of a worry. Biggest issue with radioactive water was drinking, thanks to the alpha emitters.

I got in and luxuriated in the lukewarm water. Guess there’s not enough extra power to keep the water heater at running. I mused. Assuming that these were the VIP quarters, that implied that either the emergency generators were less functional than the numerous lights indicated, or a lot of power was going somewhere else. Or the “Colonel” just likes colder showers. I thought, trying out Occam’s Razor.

Chuckling, I stood up on my hind legs and let the water run down my front, when I had a flash of déjà vu. What the fucking hell did I do last night? I took that sip from that water fountain and… it was like somepony else was in control of my body. I didn’t care about anything, I didn’t want anything, until I got that shot and… I gagged, suddenly feeling sick.
I fought and ripped and tore and killed. I felt my bones shatter and couldn’t care less. I stumbled out of the shower, and fell on the ground, my blood running cold. I looked at the pony in the mirror. That’s not me. That can’t be me.

I unsteadily got to my feet and walked forward, until a hoof was pressed against the mirror. Before, it was easy to tell that I wasn’t supposed to be in this body, or at least that it had been created from what used to be me. Every flaw was accentuated, every scar emphasized. The bump where I had snapped my leg. The scar from when I had fallen from the rafters in the barn. A couple bad burns. After the enhancement process, they grew just like everything else. Stretched across more flesh.

Now, I couldn’t prove that the pony in front of me had a history at all.

He was perfect, uniform. Muscles you could use for an anatomy chat. Stronger, more powerful, better than any pony, especially me, should ever be. This was… something that was most emphatically not me.

the regeneration... I had eaten dozens of kilos of food last night, gotten an injection of who knows what, and passed out for hours. Not necessarily healthy, but that seemed to be the trifecta. Still, the few things that proved, to me at least, that I was Red Tree rather than an enhanced raider was gone.

Almost in a trance, I stood up on my hind legs again, planning on putting a hoof through the mirror and following it to the ground. I pulled back, and pivoted, but when my muscles tensed to throw the punch, a flash of pain jumped through my leg and my stomach churned with the remembered feeling of what I had done to it last night, this time without the chemical fugue.

I vomited, and fell on the ground, and curled up in a ball.
Just sobbing.

After what felt like hours, Melody appeared, standing over me with a syringe levitated nearby. She offered it to me, the same chemicals that had made the horrors I had gone through irrelevant.

I wanted it. I wanted not to hurt, not to think about what I was going through, so badly.

But… well, it didn’t entirely stop the hurt, did it? When I tried to be smart, my head throbbed as if thinking robbed me of the drug’s protection.

It wasn’t that the chemicals weren’t a solution. They certainly were, in both senses of the word. And the afterglow of the regeneration was addictive in and of itself, probably enough to live for it alone. If I just wanted to enjoy myself, in a chemically induced delusion, overcoming everything around me with sheer force and confidence, well, that was certainly an option.

But… I hesitated. The only thing I felt like I was remotely good at was remembering and relating random facts; organization and memory. This chemical would eventually steal that from me. Or, if I chose to continue remembering, it wouldn’t allow me to avoid the pain, the one thing that really tempted me.

At the time, it definitely felt like cutting off my nose to spite my face, but I rebelled at the thought of giving up what made me special to avoid a little pain or falling into an imperfect drug induced nirvana.

Slowly, I got to my hooves, looked Melody in the eyes, and said “I’ve dealt with worse.” before turning back to the showers to deal with the vomit.

I caught Melody’s open mouth stare of confusion in the mirror, which slowly coalesced into a look of horror.

***

After I felt clean and got back out of the shower, Melody was still standing there, though she had two boxes now. One was filled with my issued raider gear, the other was the stuff I had brought with me.

“Ooh, snack-cake,” I said, the childish exclamation contrasting oddly with my new voice. I gobbled one in a single bite.

Melody’s mildly concerned stare shifted into a mask of worry. Guess sudden emotional shifts are terrifying in chemically leashed monsters who could feasibly use their own broken leg to bludgeon somepony to death and not care. I debated seeing how far I could go, but somehow that wasn’t as appealing as it ought to have been. Might have been her ability to call an army to kill me.

I decided to grab the rest of my stuff without causing Melody more worry. She seemed cautious, but less concerned when I finished putting on the raider gear. Looking through the stuff from home, most of the tools had been designed for bigger ponies, which meant an uncomfortably small rather than unusable. The only thing that was unusable was the blanket.
It used to comfortably cover most of my body, but now barely could cover my back. I thought for a few moments, then decided to fold it in half twice and tie the blue and yellow cloth into a neckerchief. The rest of the box went into my saddle bags.

“Congratulations...” Melody said, trailing off into a few seconds of silence.

“For what?”

“Winning the arena, of course.” she said as if it should be obvious. “It means that, you get promoted from experiment to soldier, and you get to meet with the Colonel himself!”

She looked expectant, as if I should jump for joy at the honor. I didn’t. She sighed and led us out the door.

After a few moments later, she coughed. “To be honest, I bet that you would win. Experiments only get a full dose of regeneration brew if they win, so the longer they’re out there, the more injuries build up. Officer track also get to keep higher brain functions, so the odds were very much in your favor, assuming that you had built up enough muscle mass.”

Melody prattled on as we walked down the hallway, passing by what appeared to be a mixture of administrative rooms and VIP housing. I swear I heard the twins arguing as we walked past a closed door, their rhyming making it somewhat easy to pinpoint them. The hallway itself was not very busy, though a number of heavily armed raiders, soldiers I suppose, with shiny metal bars pinned somewhere visible, strode with purpose from room to room.

At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors, with the words “Princess Suite” on a plaque nearby. Melody opened the door and we both entered.

It looked more like a club than anything else. Purple lighting, which caused clothing to glow, ringed the room, gradually shifting to white towards the center, where throne-like chair and a large desk with a map stood under bright white spotlights with yellow highlights. Various soldiers ringed the room, relaxing at tables with cards, bringing documents to the center, or chatting in small huddles. Polite and quiet ponies, normal sized, walked from the bar to soldiers as they signaled, bearing large drinks.

We couldn’t see who was in the throne until we crossed most of the room. It was a pegasus ghoul, in formal military wear, silver oak leafs on his lapels, and a name tag that said “Wingsworth.” He looked neater than most of the ghouls I encountered, no skin flakes or random scraggles of hair, and it looked like he took care to keep his uniform impeccable. At his hip was a silver pistol, some sort of revolver. But what struck me most was how intensely he stared at the map. He barely blinked, and only turned away when a new document was placed in front of him. A couple unicorns stood nearby, making notes and striding off as he requested various papers.

His desk overlooked the stadium, where the experiments were once again pulling rocks. We approached, standing off to the side until one of the assistants motioned us forward. She whispered to the ghoul, who blinked and looked up at us.

After a few seconds, he nodded and started speaking in a raspy, abet cultured voice. “Hello Miss Grey, how is our newest lieutenant doing?”

Lieutenant? I thought, moderately confused.

“Very good sir, Currently adapting to the drug load, so he might be… erratic." She responded deferentially. "But fully ready to fight!” She added on hurriedly.

“Excellent. Report to operations for his first mission. I will be following his career with interest.” The ghoul turned away from me and moved a colored token on the table.

“Do you have anything you want to ask? I find that my soldiers can be a little overwhelmed following their first promotion.” He said, most of his attention on the papers again.

I thought for a few seconds, then mentally shrugged. “Why does everypony call you a colonel when the insignia is a lieutenant colonel?”

The space around us went silent, and the other ponies started edging away. Lieutenant Colonel Wingsworth gave his full attention to me for the first time. “Military family?” He asked, his face clouding.

“My grandfather.”

“Understood. I’ll be making a note of that.” He made a mark on a scrap of paper.

I waited for a few more seconds, but the ghoul refused to say anything more, turning back to his map. Melody grabbed me and hurried us out of the room, as amused and sadistic smiles followed.

“Why did you ask that? He hates it when ponies correct him!”

“It wasn’t a correction, it was just a question.”

“It had the same shape as a correction, even if it was phrased as a question. Look, you need to read the situation better.”

“How? You told me nothing, and he asked for any questions. All I know about the guy is that he’s a ghoul, was in the military, and is presumably in charge of this group. Speaking of which, what the hell do you call yourselves?”

“… suddenly, I am vividly reminded why ponies don’t like escort duties. Look, let’s get to somewhere safe and I’ll try to explain a few things. Just keep quiet while we’re at Command.”

“Righty-o” I said in an annoying sing song voice. Melody sighed.

A few minutes later, several floors up in the newscasters box, we stopped at a door with the sign “Command” located next to “Signal,” “Logistics,” “Medical,” and “Sustainment.” I cocked my head, trying to make sense of the grouping.

“Ok, I get why all the others are necessary, but what is the difference between ‘Sustainment’ and ‘Logistics?’”

“Logistics deals with weapons and repairs. Sustainment deals with food, water, and other stuff necessary for survival.”

“… that seems like it could get confusing.”

“Not really, they use a lot of the same assets and ponies.”

“… that seems like it would be more confusing. But alright.”

“Look, normally Sustainment moves stuff ahead of time, while Logistics deals with issues as they come up. So, Logistics has priority over Sustainment.”

“… I’ll take your word for it.”

“The Colonel believes that this is the most efficient method to ensure resupply in the event of a large battle.”

I shrugged, and silently disagreed.

“Anything else you want to argue about?” Melody asked, facehoofing in exasperation.

“Probably. Nothing comes to mind though.”

“You are a bit of a smart ass for somepony I risked my life for.” I declined to start arguing again. “Alright, please keep quiet.” She knocked, and a bulky soldier opened the door. She glared suspiciously, before letting us in.

Command was centered around a larger version of the map upstairs, marking out various settlements and places of interest, along with their believed danger and allegiance. Thankfully, there was a large key on the wall, as no soldier could be expected to remember anything that complex.

I craned a bit to see what these nutjobs were focused on and was happy that the family farm was denoted as non-hostile, not friendly, but also not dangerous. Should keep them out of trouble. It looked like most hostile areas were around Ponyland, the old capital, and the Mob's stronghold.

Melody was talking with yet another administrative pony. I wasn’t necessarily surprised, but I was getting the distinct feeling that there was a certain amount of species based segregation. Wonder what they would do if they got a pegasus. Or if a pegasus could even fly after going through the enhancement process. Mass grows much faster than size, so they’d need some extremely targeted brews. Or maybe the zebras would add a couple more wings rather than growing the ones they already had…

“Hey. Hey… HEY!” Melody shouted into my ear.

“Er… what?” I said, suddenly jolted out of a weird train of thought.

“I have your orders. We’re supposed to head 50 km due west and make contact with a patrol looking for Stable.”

Remembering the no speaking request, I nodded and started out the door.

Melody rapidly ran to get ahead of me, and said “Alright, we’re supposed to report to the loading docks, where you’ll be assigned a wagon to bring to the patrol. They’re apparently low on flamer fuel and medical supplies.”

“Meaning that they can’t regenerate?”

Melody flipped through the file, “Probably slower and weaker than normal. They’re low not out. Looks like it's more battle chems than actual aid.”

“Are you coming along?”

“I’ve been assigned to evaluate you and adjust dosage as necessary. So, yes.”

“Lead the way.”

***

A few hours later, after a lengthy holdup as Sustainment and Logistics coordinated their supplies, I was back on the road, abet in a harness pulling a wagon with an annoying, though not heartless enough to forcibly inject brain controlling drugs, bureaucrat.

The departure had been pretty boring, to be honest. Soldiers not currently assigned to anything important did the dirty work of loading the carts. Melody making sure that everything was where it was supposed to be was probably the most interesting part.

“Wagon, axles, wheels, supply crate 1 able, 1 bravo, 1 charlie, 2 able, 3 able, 3 bravo...” She muttered to herself while levitating various boxes, ammo cans, and medical cases into place, carefully checking them off a list as she did so. After a few minutes of obsessive ordering, she reached the end of the first page of her list. “Long range antenna, short range, improvised antenna, spark battery, microphone, cables 1, 2, 3… 4, and 5. Why do I feel like I’m missing something?”

“Did you say radio?”

“RADIO!” She shouted, diving into the wagon, and fiddling with a locked compartment near the driver’s seat. “Ok, radio.”

The components flew into place as she keyed radio to the proper frequency. “Command, this is Mike Golf Actual 1, radio check, over.”

She listened intently, so I decided to look over the rest of the supplies with checklist she abandoned in her haste to check the radio.

“Ok, where did she leave off?” I muttered to myself, as Melody repeated her checks with somepony else, presumably further away or something.

“RT gun, check, MG gun, check, bomb collar, erm…” I looked at the explosive jewelry. It had been extended to the widest it could go, but seemed pretty undersized for a solder's neck. I looked closer. Seemed pretty simple. Egg sized chunk of C4 was centered on the unfortunate’s carotid artery, while a wire running around the collar created a deadman’s circuit.

Probably pretty sensitive to change, to keep ponies from looping more wire and breaking out that way. Hopefully not so sensitive that rain would cause it to explode. The bulky box next to the C4 hunk looked like some sort of radio receiver. Probably acted as a backup to the main deadman’s switch and allowed it to be remotely detonated. Pretty simple, but definitely effective if you don’t have a decent set of tools to measure current and keep it within range.

Melody noticed that I was examining the collar, and gently, but firmly pulled it away. Wrapped by her magic, she held it up to my neck for a second, then sighed, firmly closing it around my left forehoof. Guess bleeding out from losing a limb would be just as effective, even if it was messier and took longer . It wouldn’t close, slightly too big. I pulled my armor out of the way, but it was still wasn’t closing. Still, Melody attempted to force the catch closed, until her telekinesis failed, the glow bursting at the effort. She abandoned the radio and stomped on it to get the latch to close. It was sort of adorable, but concerning. Like a toddler laughing as they spray oil all over the room and are starting to eye the matches.

It snapped shut, and a light on the radio receiver pulsed green 3 times before sticking to a steady red.

“There.” Melody said satisfied, turning back to the checklist, while I continued examining the hoofcuff. It had been applied pretty randomly, so I guess Melody either didn’t know much about the collars or she assumed that it would blow my forehoof clean off. I was reasonably confident that I could tie a tourniquet well enough to survive amputation, but that’s not necessarily that reassuring when you need to walk for around a day to get home.

Melody startled me from my thoughts with the command “Alright, let’s move out.” as she held a harness open for me.

***

After a few hours of trudging, my wariness about talking to somepony who had the ability to remove my leg at will was overcome by boredom.

“So, why did you lie to the lieutenant colonel?” I asked, pulling the wagon over the well preserved highway.

“Excuse me?”

“Saying that I was getting used to the drugs.”

“Oh, well… I… didn’t think it would be good for your mental state.”

“That’s… vague.”

“Look, if you force the drug on somepony who doesn’t want it, it usually drives them insane, and they get scrapped. We can’t field soldiers who will kill everypony they see.”

“Better, but you still lied.”

“Look, I’m not a bad person, and that would have crossed a line.”

“Kidnapping ponies, mutating them, shutting down higher brain functions, and executing them if they disobey is fine. But not forcing them to take a drug? I mean, I’m grateful, but it seems inconsistent.”

“No, none of those are fine, but they’re… necessary. The 3rd Experimental Division has a good chance of restoring stability to Equestria.”

“By acting like raiders, kidnapping ponies, stealing supplies, and waging war against the closest thing Mane has to a government?”

“You can’t seriously consider the Mob to be a government.”

“I don’t, but they were pretty good at keeping raiders out of here.”

“We can do the same!”

“But in the meantime, the entire area is destabilized and it's only a couple more moons until the frosts start. After that, you raiding to support your conflict is going to leave ponies too short of time for winter.”

“Look, war is always hard on ponies. But we need to do it.”

“Because stability under a military dictatorship that controls the population through drugs and an enhanced warrior class is so much better than the loose peace under the Mob?”

“You know too much for a farm pony.”

“We had 7 books and a lot of time during the winter.”

“All of them on political philosophy?”

“One was a griffin book discussing the various forms of government and the obligations the state has to the population. Really against the idea of leaders beholden to nobody.”

“In that case, what do you think of the princesses? They successfully ruled for thousands of years!”

I looked around at the desolate landscape, the charred skeletons of pine trees standing forlornly, occasional groups of skeletons, the rest wiped clean by the fire storms.

“Well, that only happened because of the Caesar, who was elected by the 13 tribes!” Melody was getting weirdly passionate about this.

I frowned, trying to remember the book.

“Though on first impression the zebra’s electoral system appears to provide a measure of control over their leader, this tends not to be true during times of war or other serious emergencies, as demonstrated in the last decade. The social divisions of the zebras, similar to the pony’s tendency to self segregate based on innate ability, means that the Caesar, as a military ruler, will have the support of the Achu, the Atoli, and the Roamani, out of martial obligation, while the remainder of the population will often seek to be, at worst, neutral to the Caesar’s demands. It is only when the Caesar leads the zebras as a whole to certain destruction that their position becomes threatened, and, due to the culture of deference to just authority, perhaps not even then. Upon full mobilization, there are only two events that will definitely end the Caesar’s reign, victory and retirement or assassination. The latter helps outsiders understand why Caesars tend to select the most brutal and aggressive zebras as Legates, since, as they gain full military control until a new Caesar is appointed, potential threats are dissuaded from unleashing more destruction and bloodshed.” I recited.

Melody gaped.

“What?”

“And you don’t know what a box seat is?” I flushed in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, but we didn’t have a dictionary.” I said in a huff, annoyed that I couldn’t stomp off.

***

A few hours, and a couple dozen kilometers, Melody stopped idly playing with the antennas and stiffened, hurriedly putting the radio headset back on. After a few seconds and a couple hurried replies over the net, she pulled out a map, a compass, and wrote down some numbers.

She sighted with the compass to a couple mountains in the distance, and drew on the map. She carefully examined the map and looked around. Shaking her head, she repeated the process a few more times before finally nodding.

“Red, turn due west in another kilometer, then head 500 meters. After that, go along the 192 heading for 200 meters, and then I’ll resight us and give you more directions.

I looked around, and saw a farmhouse about a kilometer and change away, to the left of the road.

“So, we’re going to that farmhouse?”

“How do you know we’re going there?”

“It's about a kilometer and a half away, to the left, which is west southwest.”

“But there’s that grove of trees, and that water tower, and that off ramp.”

“Oh, that’s what the curvy part of the road’s called? Err… The grove is too small and provides too little cover to be tactically significant, the water tower is probably too radioactive to have real value, if it's even still full, and the off ramp’s below a hill, so it’d be stupid to hide there. So, we’re heading to the farmhouse.”

“I see. Yes, you can go there.” She muttered to herself for a few seconds, annoyed.

I grunted as I pulled the wagon to a break in the concrete barriers and forced it up and over. It wasn’t that hard, even though I could see my legs shaking with effort to pull it through. Wonder if they messed with my adrenal system to get more strength at the expense of worse injuries. The radioactive dust was mildly annoying to drag the wagon through, but it really only had an effect if you breathed it in, or spent a long ass time standing there. Hooves, the most radiation resistant parts of the body, weren't in that much danger.

The farmhouse was pretty standard post war construction. One room, shooting ports rather than windows, made from whatever seemed like it would last the longest. In this case, cinder blocks from a ruined town nearby. Held together with mortar, so somepony knew a bit about construction and got lucky on a scavenging mission. Most of the time, ponies would just fill them with packed dirt and ancient wood.

More telling was the fact that the ground was cleared around the farmhouse, no cover or concealment for 100 meters.

Definitely somepony with a fair amount of tactical knowledge or common sense. This was reinforced by the cluster of soldiers standing at the edge of the cleared zone. As we approached, and Melody unhooked me from the wagon, we saw that the officer was dead, a new ventilation hole installed right through her brain stem.

“What happened?”

“They shot the El Tee.” One of the less dull eyed soldiers said, idly chewing on what looked like an explosive detonator. Judging from the partially healed scars radiating from his mouth, this wasn’t his first time chewing on one.

“LT Red Tree, your first task is to get this farm’s owed taxes.” Melody said, fishing a note out of the dead officer’s armor and reading it. She looked at the body again, and quickly moved to place it between the house and herself.

“Right...” I said, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Most of the time, taxes were supposed to be a set percentage of what the farm produced. The Mob tended to be pretty lenient on what that actually entailed, since they mostly wanted caps rather than a couple hundred bushels of corn. First few times they collected taxes around the harvest, they crashed the price when they brought it all to market, planning on selling it in one day. Now, they mostly extracted it from the merchants who bought the food. Still, everypony was expected to give something. Meant an obligation was owed on both parties.

The outline of a plan formed in my head, and I decided to follow it before I chickened out. I pulled off my armor, and left my weapons on the ground, ignoring Melody’s increasingly frantic questions and shouts.

Down the front path, in the most open area of a kill zone, I strode, naked except for my neckerchief. I stopped about 50 meters away from the door, next to a piece of rebar hammered into the ground. Odds that’s a range marker? I thought, before banishing it and trying to remain confident. I planted my feet, took a deep, breath and “Do you mind if we have a quick chat?” I called out towards the house.

A pop, and a burning line ran across my muzzle. I strangled the impulse to run. Forward would get me shot, backwards would get me shot slightly later.

“Damn good shot, but I still want to talk.” I said, standing there, feeling the blood dripping down my face. I heard frantic whispering from inside the house. My limbs itched with unspent adrenaline, and my head was pounding, but I did my best not to let it show. My blank face involuntarily stretched into a sickly grin. The whispering got louder, punctuated with “He is going to eat us!” I tried to look as non-cannibalistic and threatening as possible.

What felt like hours later, but was probably a few minutes, the door opened and a young stallion peaked out, holding a hunting rifle. Certainly enough to punch right through my skull and helmet, if I had one.

“wha- what do you want?” He asked meekly.

“I just want to talk. Maybe have some tea.”

“Talk about what?” I sighed.

“Look, can I just come inside? I promise that I won’t attack, and I guarantee that it’ll be better for you if nobody else needs to hear.” The stallion looked dubious. “Look, I’m unarmed, and I’m fine with you keeping your weapons trained on my face the entire time.” He looked me up and down, taking in my absurd height and that I probably outweighed him by a factor of 4, but he nodded slowly.

“You’re with the raiders, aren’t you, though?”

“Not my choice, I can say that much.” I slowly walked inside, making sure that I didn’t make any sudden movements.

“Alright, but if you do anything, we’re shooting.”

Inside, we had a delightful conversation about obligations and the duties of government, and how they were on the wrong side of a war, not the ideological side, but a geographic side, sorry, I fully understand that you aren’t taking sides, and, well, I walked out with the next month’s tribute to the Mob.

“Is that all they had?” Melody demanded, craning her head to look through the solid cinder block.

I put down the bag of dried apples and said “No, but this is what they set aside for the next month’s taxes to the Mob, and I wasn’t about to try to raise taxes without a lot more backup than what you lot could give me.”

“Your orders said to take as much as possible.”

“And I took as much as possible. The issue is that possible here means almost nothing. These are subsistence farmers. They have almost nothing!”

“Every other raid I’ve been on has taken bushels of food.” I gaped at her.

“That’s not taxation, that’s killing a productive farm.”

“Come on, it's not as if they’ll starve from it.”

“In a couple months, maybe. Especially if you do it to everypony, and try to support a military unit on the countryside.”

“Look, it's our orders.”

“I never got that order. I was told to extract taxes, and I did. Next month’s taxes for the Mob.”

“Oh, it’s that little? That might be enough to satisfy command, then.” She trailed off obviously thinking. Eventually she nodded and levitated the bag over to the other soldier’s wagon, which started off back towards the stadium. “Why isn’t there much food here?”

“From what my dad’s said, most places live off scavenge, so if they get robbed and survive, it's not too much work to get food again. Here, we need to grow our food, and with the winter coming up, ponies really don’t want to part with much of it. If you wait until spring, you might be able to get more, but right now ponies are too scared about running out.”

“Oh, so the firestorms destroyed the stores?”

“And the Royal Food Reserves, and most of the household stocks. We really needed to restart from scratch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I make my reports.” Melody said, strapping me in. We started down the road.

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Intimidating Presence: Turns out that being absurdly huge scares ponies. You’re more likely to succeed in intimidation, and unlock special speech options.