You wouldn’t know it by looking, but the young man sitting at the only functional terminal in the university library was someone extraordinary. Sure, he looked like any college student, in his worn out hoodie, faded jeans, hiking boots, alongside a small pile of snacks to maintain his brain and the energy drink with far more sugar and caffeine than was necessary. He could have writing a term paper, doing research for an essay, or studying up for an exam. (He was in fact doing all three, for your information.) He would pass for any college kid in the nation- if it weren’t for the rifle propped up besides his overstuffed backpack.

The rifle is of little consequence, but having it with him here, in this space, might have some consequence. It could have been an FN SCAR, an AR-15, M1 Garand, an H&K G36, Kalashnikov 47, or any number of combat rifles used the world over. That detail is actually not important. Neither is the fact that there was no round in the chamber and the magazine was empty. And no, there were no bodies strewn across the ground. In spite of the fact the library was as quiet as a tomb, there were no corpses here. No, just a boy, verging on adulthood, listening to some confusion of audio whilst looking up the pertinent points of the Battle of Waterloo.

No, the rifle has no real bearing about what happens next, but having it here, in a place of learning? It says something, doesn;t it? Like why would a school allow their students to open carry on campus? What librarian would even think of letting in a student with a tool of destruction like that? All in good time my friends, all in good time. In the meanwhile, our focus shifts over to the just shy of retirement head librarian, who is moving along the rows of computers in the computer lab, making sure all of the unoccupied units are powered down and ready for the morning. She is in a cloak of fine silk, first green with gold piping, with the emblem of an open book and quill emblazoned on the shoulders. She turns to the sound of a sneeze and sees our young man still hard at work.

“I think that will be enough for today, Mister Ambrose,” The Head Librarian speaks, “if you have any more of those Monsters you’re so fond of, you’ll have more caffeine than you have red blood cells.”

“Sorry, Archivist Habershaw,” the young man, Mr. Ambrose says, “I’m saving now.”

“Good,” Archivist Habershaw replies, “and please tell me your Deathdealer is safe.”

“It should be,” Mr. Ambrose says, doing a press check of the chamber and clearing the mag, “eeyup, unloaded. Though I bet the Primus Legate is going to lay me out on my keister if he finds out.”

“The Primus Legate has no power here,” Mrs. Habershaw says, “if I told him once, I told him a few thousand times, no loaded weapons in my Repository! The scrolls and P-HATs are rife with highly sensitive information and one accidental discharge could damage an ancient treaty or Matron’s Edict. We can’t have that now, eh?”

“No, Archivist,” Mr. Ambrose replies, “Eddie is still in shock after the other day in World History.”

Archivist Habershaw nods, saying, “I swear, Daniel McAllister is trying to forge this institute into a war college.”

“Well, Danny did grow up in Ireland during the era in which the IRA was the height of its power. Some habits, and memories, never die.”

“Hrumph,” The Archivist grumbles, “in case he has forgotten, but Ireland is a long way from here and the IRA is now a footnote in history. His war with the British Parliament, while not completely settled, is at least at truce.”

“I’ll- try telling him that,” Mr. AMbrose said, sweeping his snacks, his long empty Monster can, the spiral bound notebook with his class notes in it, and his pens, into his backpack, “thanks for letting me stay so late. The connection in my dorm is lousy. I have a six month waiting list with House Hephaestus to get it fixed. I’m really hoping it isn’t a service provider issue. I was sure we got that sorted out.”

“When it comes to The Mundanes, anything goes, really,” Archivist Habershaw states, “it is a pleasure to have hosted such a scholar of the world and the arcane with me this night, Mr. Ambrose.”

“Why thank you,” Mr. Ambrose says, blushing, “well, goodnight!”

“Fair night to you,” she says, powering down the now vacant terminal.

Mr. Ambrose walks away, through the stacks of books, past the circulation desk, into the lobby, then outside. The cool air greets him, sending a shiver down his spine. The Sunshine Belt Boy hasn’t acclimated to the weather in this state as of yet. Even the summer heat feels too cool for him. Pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, Mr. Ambrose marches from the library towards the campus dorms. Shouldering his backpack, and the rifle he was carrying, he strode across the campus green. The school has no security contingent. Members of House Praetorian roam the school after class hours are over, keeping the peace and preventing crimes from happening on campus. There is also a rather sophisticated drone system in place to patrol all the nooks and crannies of the campus grounds with built-in infrared cameras, x-ray filters, stun bolt batteries, and a semi-autonomous artificial intelligence, run by the campus computer network mainframe.

This night, the Praetorian patrols were working the north side of the campus. There had been a small string of incidents involving a peeping tom or somesuch. Mr. Ambrose didn’t expect to meeting with any of the patrols anytime soon, So sure he was of this prospect, that the arrival of a phalanx of Praetorian caused Mr. Ambrose some alarm. An inspection tour? This late?

“Oy, boyo!” came a call from within the phalanx, “stand and deliver.”

“I am the Grand Archmage of House Endymion,” Mr. Ambrose stated, “I’m returning to my dorm to set aside my class work and grab my car keys. That’s if ya’ll don’t mind.”

“Aye, I mind,” said the voice again, “especially if’n yer about the green with an unloaded rifle.”

“Dammit, Danny!” Mr. Ambrose screamed, “this isn’t the middle of Lebanon! Or a bad day in Baghdad! This is middle America! Unless you’re expecting a whole squadron of Adjudicators to come rumbling through the campus just this minute, you’ll let me pass.”

A figure removed itself from the phalanx, passing into a street lamp that hung over the lane separating the green. The figure was clad in black with crimson piping, consisting of an army jack, army pants, army boots, and an ammo belt filled with pouches. A canteen was hung off a belt loop on his right, his left hand holding the strap of a Steyer AUG carbine. Orange hair and green eyes were set in a face still pudgy with baby fat, but there was no mistaking the five o’clock shadow of a red beard framing his jaw. Danny McAllister was on parade today.

“Aye, I would Grand Archmage, me boyo,” Danny said, “if’n ye present yer arms.”

Mr. Ambrose smiled and proceeded to thrust his arms.

“See? These are my arms,” he said.

Danny frowned, “Wrong arms, boyo.”

“Right,” Mr. Ambrose said, lowering said appendages and grabbing the strap of the weapon he was hoisting. With a quick flourish, the Death Dealer Rifle was in a ready-fire position in his hands, safety off, fire selection switch set to three shot burst, flashlight and laser on the accessory rail ignited.

“Not bad, not bad,” Danny said, looking over the hooded young man, “yer form is amazin’, Stevie, me boy! How in all the hells ye ain’t a Praetorian, I can never kiln to.”

Holstering his weapon, Steve answers, “My equilibrium is too great. Most House Praetorian members are at eight percent neutrality. I have no neutrality. You should know this by now.”

“Aye, aye,” Danny laments, “should’na interrogated the Grand Archmage. I’m bettin’ I’ll be answerin’ to yer girl err long.”

“Franky is not my girl,” Steve growls, “she is one my War Mages, nothing more. I admit, she’s far too close for comfort with me, but she’s- egregiously tenacious in that regard. It would require me taking up a lover for her to back off. Even that isn’t fully assured.”

“The lover? Or Franky backing off?” Danny asked.

“Either,” Steve replied, “now, if you don't mind, campus cafeteria is closed and I am rather famished. Slim Jims don’t go nearly as far for me as they may someone else and I want to go into town for fast food.”

“Not that place with kimchi…” Danny sighed.

“No, it’s a submarine shop. They’re still open this late, but not for much longer,” Steve answered, “if I hurry, I can get there before they close.”

“Alright, alright, off with ye then,” Danny retorts, “Ares watch over ye.”

“Hectate keep you safe,” Steve replies, and bounds away.

He was finally at a distance from the Praetorian Phalanx, so he drew upon the winds and sped forward to the dorms. House Endymion, being one of the Academy’s Pillars, has a distinct decor to it's facade. Each dorm for each House does, but the dormitory for a Pillared House has a distinct look all it’s own. It resembles a Victorian mansion, with marble stoop, brass doorknobs, pine shutters over the windows, and silver lamps running down the walkway. The doors are wood inlaid with platinum with the House sigil upon them, waxing and waning crescent moons below the star, Sirius. Yet, it’s exterior is vastly different from it's interior.

Once past the doors, one would find themselves in a labyrinthine complex of shifting walls, perplexing stairwells, and elevators that turned along a tightly fitted shaft akin to a lock’s tumbler system. And everywhere there was space to be had, there was the highest of high tech: hard light displays, touch screen panels, 3D holographic imagery that interacted with passersby. To really navigate this place, one needed to be either a member of House Endymion or lead by a member, otherwise, you were doomed to walk forever lost in The Manse Arcane’s halls.

Steven’s dorm room resided on the top floor; he has no room mate. Besides the now empty Archmage suite across from his, Steve has the whole floor to himself. His suite is mostly tidy, discounting the game console in the center of the room and it's various accessories heaped around it. Otherwise, it is a very homely but inviting room. Steve dumps his backpack and Deathdealer upon his bed; he would need neither of these to go into town. His keys and his smartphone are in the desk situated on the southern wall, where a large plate glass window resides. He powers on the phone, sees a few messages he will need to answer later, and some notifications from Reddit, Instagram, and Tumblr. Distractions for the coming weekend, which he welcomes.

Exiting from his suite, he was about to close the door when a hand clamps on his shoulder. A voice then asks, “Where are you going in such a hurry?” Spinning around with stave in hand and a curse at the ready, Steve is not amused to see War Mage Francesca Martini standing there, giggling like a fool. This was, much to Steve’s consternation, Franky’s favorite way to flirt. Why she flirted with him and not with other members of their house confused him to no end. Franky was a buxom young woman, tall enough to be a fashion model, with bright blonde hair and clear blue eyes. An American bombshell, in other words and so not Steven’s type.

“Maker fuck me raw, Franky,” Steve growled, drawing the curse back and shifting his stave back into his pocket dimension, “must you always be on?”

“But of course!” Franky beams, “It’s who I am, it’s what I do!”

“Right,” Steve dismisses, “well if you don't mind-”

“Hold on there, hot stuff,” Franky interrupts, “where are you going this time of night?”

“Out,” Steve answers simply, “and I don’t remember making you one of my War Mages so you can interrogate me.”

“Maybe not, but it does beggar the question of why you don’t have someone badger you from time to time,” Franky stated.

“I have the Matron for that,” Steve replied, “and the occasional Archivist. I’m not some arrogant toerag, you know? I may be the second most powerful mage on campus but I am no egotist.”

“Sure, whatever,” Franky said, then asked, “where are you going?”

Growling once more, Steve answered, “I’m heading into town. I’m hungry and I want a submarine. And maybe some ice cream.”

“Ah, I see,” Franky said, “gotta keep that girlish figure of yours, huh?”

“See, this is why I try to stay the hell away from you,” Steve groused, “you’re flirtatious and insulting in kind. Now move, I need to get to the garage.”

“The garage?” Franky asked, “Doesn’t House Mason lock all the doors this time of night? Why don't you just run it?”

“Run it?” Steve grouses, “yeah, sure, a quick 200 mile an hour jaunt into town down Old Trottingham Road. Then I can make an attempt to explain to the state troopers why I was moving that fast without a vehicle. Then, I get the dubious pleasure of wiping their memories of the last hour or so and type out a report about the use of magic outside campus. Yeah, whatever could go wrong there?!”

“Okay, okay,” Franky relents, “be lazy and take your car. It’s not like I’m burning a candle for you or something.”

“Oh, you’re burning a candle alright,” Steven mused as he brushed past Franky, “the kind that is scented and made with gold flecks in the wax. May the wick burn down to a stub before you and I become a thing.”

Back down the corridors of the Manse Arcane, then into the basement where the garage access was located and into the brightly lit motor pool of personal vehicles The Academy had. If a student was old enough to drive, they could store a vehicle of any type down here and House Mason would tune it up or kit it out for any occasion. Steve's vehicle of choice was not some ritzy luxury car or swanky SUV. He preferred a more utilitarian form of transport. Tucked under a silver tarp weighted down by tungsten cubes was a Chevrolet Avalanche, custom tuned for performance. The old gas engine had been replaced by a far more efficient hydrogen cell power plant. All the analog gauges in the instrument panel were replaced with hard light holographic displays and the stereo system now had 7.1 surround sound, ambient acoustical enhancement, and one booming subwoofer installed under the center console.

It’s paint was once a faded automotive black, but Steve had it replaced with midnight blue with platinum accents. A substrate of finely spun tungsten, carbon, silicon, and titanium plates were added to the frame that, while making the vehicle heavier, also provided some much needed armor playing. A decal on the rear window and along the back of the tailgate referred to this machine as The Hammer of the Gods. If Steven so choose to do so, he could crank the sound system to its peak and roll down any of the main drags of Canterlot with an overwhelming blast of bass. Also, it’s where he stashed his signature weapon, the grand mastercraft warhammer, Mjolnir. (Yes, that Mjolnir.)

A House Mason machinist saw him striding toward the truck and began gathering the tarp off of it. Steve gave an appreciative nod to the machinist, clicking on his alarm fob to disengage the security system. He stepped into the vehicle, loaded his phone into the cradle that both charged it and accessed the unit's internal storage. The same machinist that took off the tarp had emerged at Steve’s driver side window.

“A little late for a ride, ain’t it Grand Archmage?”

“I know, Archie, but I didn’t want to hit up a vending machine for dinner,” Steven answered, “and I’ve had enough Slim Jims tonight to stop up an elephant. Well, a carnivorous elephant.”

“Been there, done that,” Archie the Machinist said, “I’ll get the doors for you.”

“Thanks, Archie,” Steve said, “keep the lights on for me?”

“Well, they’ll be on, but not for you,” Archie answered, “rush job came in an hour ago. The General Surgeon is having issues with his Malibu. Something shimmying in his front tires, I don’t know. Head Machinist is giving it a once over, just to be sure.”

“Kevin is a friend of mine,” Steve said, “he isn’t one to make idle complaints about his car. He usually chalks it up to his driving if nothing else. If he says it shimmys, nine times of ten, he’s right.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Archie said, “anyway, we’ll be here till after midnight or so. You’re not Cinderella on us, are ya?”

“Nah, just a quick jaunt into Canter for some sandwich and cream. Pick you up anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Archie replied, “Momma made cannolis today. My level of Vitamin Mozzarella has exceeded all known safety standards.”

“Alright, alright, how about I pick up some Coke or something for you guys?” Steve asked, “if you all are going to be after the Witching Hour, I bet ya’ll could use the caffeine.”

“I’ll let Head know,” Archie says, “she’ll appreciate some gogo juice with what we have going on.”

“True that,” Steve said and started up his Avalanche, “catch ya later, Archie!”

Steve waved to his Machinist friend and drove out the now open Garage doors into the night.

Sunset Shimmer was bored. No, scratch that, she was very, very bored. It was eleven twenty three at night and her shift ended at two in the morning. She had wiped down the tables, refilled the soda fountain of soda and ice, refilled the napkin dispensers, cleaned the floor, mopped the bathrooms and taken out all the trash. She already had her federally mandated meal of the night, a veggie sandwich with some provolone cheese. She probably could gulp down another Sprite, but her bladder was filled to capacity. She didn’t think that was a good option in her condition. The condition of needing to empty her bladder.

Her good friend Rainbow Dash was singing some annoying pop song and frying up bacon (an inside joke of her group of friends,) while cutting open bread loafs for future/potential customers. The third member of the graveyard shift losers club here at Dive! Dive! Submarines* was one Chastity White, who was currently occupying the employee water closet. She had a convenience store burrito before her shift and now she was plagued with Montezuma’s Revenge. The reserved but professional girl was the glue that kept Rainbow’s health nut enthusiasm and Sunset’s teenaged ennui from turning the shop into a smoldering ruin. Granted, all three girls needed this job; living in Canterlot City was not cheap and Sunset needed to put gas in her motorcycle. From where she lived, getting to school and back was not a proposition to be undertaken on foot.

Sunset also had a data plan bill to pay and Dive! Dive! Submarines was willing to pay her. It was just minimum wage, but $11.50 an hour was pretty good pay for a niche sandwich shop. And they had some of the best breads in town, so there was that. The added benefit of being hired along with one of her friends meant that boredom was hard pressed to be found. That was until they got the late evening shift and then, Hello Ennui, my old friend. Now they were getting paid to handle and close the shop all their own. Thankfully, it was just on the weekends and since Friday night technically was a weekend, here they were.

Sunset was ruminating on how different the economies of this world compared to Equestria, when her station’s security camera recorded a vehicle in the drive through. A spruced up truck, of all things. It fit the overhang of the drive through but just barely. It would be a small miracle if the driver could use the mike on the menu. She gave a slight signal to Rainbow Dash, who stopped what she was doing to arrange her station for the making of sandwiches. The SUnset depressed the button on her portal mike box to speak to the driver.

“Ahoy, Captain!” Sunset said, feigning a chipper attitude, “And welcome to Dive! Dive Submarines (And More!) How may I take your order?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll take a meatball marinara sub, a Napoleon Complex**, a medium Pepsi, and a bag of Cheddar Ruffles, please.”

“That’s a meatball marinara, a Napoleon Complex, a medium Pepsi, and a bag of Cheddar Ruffles? Will there be anything else, Captain?”

“Is your malt machine still working tonight?” the customer asked.

“Indeed it is, Captain!” Sunset replied, “what flavor would you like?”

“Mocha, please,” the driver stated, “and make it large.”

“Aye, aye!” Sunset said, relaying the order to her Point of Sale machine and ringing up the total, “That will be $13.59, Captain. Please drive to the window.”

“Aye!”

The closest sub shop in Canterlot was just off Old Trottingham Road and down a length of commercial property often called the Livery by Canterlot locals. It was not the furthest removed district in town, but was a haven for the high schoolers of Canterlot High. Steve didn’t find himself down here often. He had been in accelerated learning since he started at Imperial Academy and at age sixteen was looking at receiving his doctorate in history and political sciences. (Or at least, that was what his course of study was on paper, to satisfy the state and federal lawmakers. His real course was the Path Arcane, of which he graduated quite some time ago. But I digress…)

He didn’t think he would fit in with average high schoolers, let alone anyone in his age range. Beyond his prodigious intellect, he was also plagued by Asperger's Syndrome, a high functioning form of autism. The land of teenagers was a realm of landmines in the form of sarcasm laced barbs, fashion trends, and odd assortment of auditory chaos. Steve was a fish out of water in that territory, since he preferred a more sedate lifestyle than most of his peers. (A fact that irked Franky Martini to no end.) He had hoped age would rectify that, but he was now certain he was mistaken.

Now driving into the drive-thru of the one sandwich shop close to the Academy, Steve stopped at the line that indicated where he should. The menu was lit up but grungy due to sun blasted glass and melted plastic, plus a build up of dead moth carcasses. He could still read the options available, but he did need to engage his mage senses to do so with any ease. The microphone looked like it was state of the art in 1958; it didn’t resemble the kind of sound capture systems the Academy had available. So, with a subtle nudge of magic, Steve connected directly to the primary sound-to-electricity coil of the mike to speak with the operator of the drive through. When he placed his order and was told his total, he drove up to the window prescribed.

A little more power to his mage senses told Steve that there were three people on duty tonight at Dive! Dive! Submarine (And More!) sandwich shop. ALl females, his senses informed him, all around his age. Looking past the smeared glass of the window, he saw a rather cute girl with golden skin, a mop of fiery hair streaked with gold, and wearing the sailor suit and cap of the shop’s chosen theme. Like most any other fast food worker in this age of plague, she had a flu mask on over her mouth and nose. When she slid the window back to take his payment, he saw a break glimpse of her eyes, which borne her boredom even if she did have a smile on her face behind the mask. He placed his debit card in the tray she provided and withdrew back inside. She returned a few moments later with his card and a receipt, both of which he took. The debit card went back into his wallet, the receipt went into his glove box.

After a few minutes, the Matchstick Girl came back with his order in a cellophane bag. She thanked him (in the customary goodbye of the shop’s theme, “Come back aboard, Captain!”) He placed this bag into the passenger seat of his truck and began to drive off. Yet, something nagged at his senses… Once more deploying his mage senses to maximum power and range, he felt no hostile forces in range- but he did detect arcane sources in the vicinity. Peering back towards the shop, he saw that two of the girls in the shop (the ginger and an unseen girl working the sandwich counter,) had powerful arcane sources. Albeit, they operated on a different wavelength than the magic he was used to using. A fourth school of magic? He asked himself. An investigation would need to be started but that would be a problem for Future Steven, as Present Steven was drooling over the salami picante of his Napoleon Complex.

“Huh,” Sunset breathed, watching the once stopped “Hammer of the Gods” roll out of the parking lot.

“What?” Rainbow Dash asked.

“Did you feel something? Just now?” Sunset said.

“Nope. Well, I don’t think so,” Rainbow replied.

“Hmm, might have been nothing,” Sunset mused, as the employee bathroom opened to a very embarrassed Chastity.

“Oh, thanks Sunny for covering the drive!” Chastity said, “this is so unbecoming of me. Note to self, no more food from the corner store!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Rainbow cheered.

“Same,” Sunset added, “and if you’ll excuse me, I need to tinkle in the toilet before I tinkle in my pants.”

“TMI, SUNNNY! TMI!” Rainbow shouted.

Author's Note

*Dive! Dive! Submarines (And More!) is a nautical theme restaurant. Most fo the main menu items are named after great sea battles of the modern era or after great naval captains and/or admirals. The uniform for this establishment is a seaman's watch cap, and a modified sailor's uniform (so as to differ from the American Naval Dress Uniform Standard or something,) with boys in pleated slacks and girls in skirts.
**The Napoleon Complex is a foot long submarine with Black Forest Ham, Pepperoni, Salami, and two strips of turkey bacon, with your choice of cheese, dressings, and veggies. Steve orders his with Honey Mustard, Miracle Whip, lettuce, tomato, pickles, red onions, and green peppers and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. He has melted provolone added to it, as well.

You can thank shortskirtsandexplosions for giving me the impetus for this story as well sas the visage of his oc, Chastity White. (Who will be as much a flaming lesbian in this story as she is in 'Ma'am, this is a Wendy's'.")