Within, Withoutby KvATChaptersChapter 1: Under the Cradle of Manehattan's DreamChapter 2: Under the Throes of the Empress’ MightChapter 3: Under the Cover of WarChapter 4: Under the Grip of Changeling Martial LawChapter 5: Under the Protection of the ProtectressChapter 1: Under the Cradle of Manehattan's DreamManehattan. Land of Opportunity. Where the Friendship Statue stood tall in her everpresent rusty green, slowly withering away in reckless abandon. Ironic, really. Friendship statue. Here, in Manehattan? A place where money reigns king and labour sweat is worth five bits a liter? Hah, nonsense. All the city’s worth to me was the dumpsters. Half-eaten burgers, rotting bananas, and the occasional candy. The big cardboard boxes ponies threw away after they got whatever appliances previously stored inside them. Ponies would sneer and curse me for “dirtying their block”. I would blow them the raspberry and move on, maybe snag their trash, complete with the bin, in the process. What would they do, wrestle me? Hah, they’d sooner bathe in dirt than touch a single strand of my coat. Friendship, in such a city? Unimaginable, even before the mobilization. The moonlit night shone dimmer than even the darkest night from five years ago. Walking around really gave you the perspective of size. How big, yet how small. 2 kilometers across, yet only three whole factories. Dark, sooty smoke billowing from their chimney pipes. A young chimney sweep stood above one of them, inhaling the stuff daily, selling a liter of sweat per day. There was a time where factories such as those weren’t prominent. Only houses and apartments, shops, restaurants. Places one went to spend money on, sometimes without anything in return. Tall office blocks, business headquarters, and more, all erected to accommodate the enlarging pursuit of capitalist profits. Money drove the city around, and ponies worked for them. Selling things, expertise, and experience. From the most barebones essentials to vanity items worth nothing but their brands. Now, all of them gone. Swept by the urgent needs of national defense. My eyes spied one of such shops. A rowshop by the name of Rarity For You. Once a place of dresses and suits, fine tailorings, and uppity ponies, now abandoned and trashed, left to rot. Ponnequins laying under a thick layer of dust. A fellow bum sleeping inside it. The war needed none of them. All they cared about were weapons. Ponies to build their factories, ponies to stamp them, and ponies to wield them. They have no need for restaurants, bars, entertainment areas. The last shop in the row, right there barely holding on. Flickering neon lights, slowly losing to the depth of darkness engulfing the entire block. Once they’re down, so does the entire row. Probably replaced with yet another weapons factory later on. Not all failed, however. Some thrived. Those who are lucky, who are smart, and who are clever. Industrialization meant the increasing need for ponies who are well-versed in such crafts. Those who have cutie marks in engineering. Those who worked hard enough to understand the language of gears, thaumatronics, and exhaust fumes. Those who paved the road they walked in the blood, sweat, and tears of others, decorated with their own riches and money. Only they rose up above everypony else. Those who refused to adapt fell. The war needed no nobility, no riches, no fame nor fortune. The war needed fetlock grease, muscle, and toil. Those who were at the top, and refused to walk down a single stair, ended up falling down to the bottom. One of such, I saw. A terribly thin pony with a white coat, now greyed as much as my own from all the dust. When you see a formerly famous pony by the name of Coloratura dumpster diving, you know that society has flipped it’s lid. Her former glory had ended. Some would say that she was stupid for trying too hard in preserving the dying entertainment industry. I’d say she’s a strong-willed mare, that she survived for this long out in the streets, refusing to die under the terms of society. I always wondered how many else who suffered the same fate as her? Drowning in the dust of rapidly accelerating civilization, forced to walk the dirty road by their own hooves. Coloratura went with a satisfied smile over her haul. Few blocks more, and she jumped into her own home: a rusty shell of a tank parked in a dark slimy alleyway. They’re nothing but failed marks of successful progress, one of many brown dots littering the once colourful city. The same tank I saw running down the street a few years back, in a parade of mechanical and military might, rousing the masses to work and toil, to build and invent, everything to end the war by Hearth’s Warming. Instead, the more they toil, the more they fought, the harder the enemies fought back. How long was it, ever since the Changeling Army attacked? Two, four, eight years? It never did matter, for the formula is if the war started X years ago, it was X years too long. Magic of Friendship, Peace and Prosperity, Love and Tolerate. All those old slogans were replaced with new ones. For the Princesses and Equestria, Keep Calm and Carry On, Work is Liberating. Why pursue friendship if nopony wants to be friends? Why pursue love if there’s nopony to love? Why fight for Equestria if it never provides? Why even work if you’re not worth hiring? A figure shot past me, galloping while they spread bundles of paper, screaming “Extra! Extra! Canterlot has fallen!” News at 2 a.m, on a Thursday? For the other ponies, it would be a cause for concern. Hah, sucks for them. Contrary to them, concern never was in my dictionary. Not ever since that accident in the weather factory. Lost both wings, and now here we are. Not enough money to do, have, or try anything, so I don’t. You can’t lose what you never have. Another group of ponies passed by. These ones rode on a carriage of thick steel, moving by itself by means of conjuncted technologies, internal combustion and thaumaturgy. A big truck followed, carrying another dozen ponies on it’s back. Loud engine thumping as it rolled on, gears creaking as the transmission struggled to operate. Machines, ponies, civilization. Fundamentally they never did differ. Just an orderly set of instructed movements governed by restrictive laws. Pour a tiny sprinkle of war, and they would follow the winds of change. For better or worse. More often than not, ponies ended up suffering anyways. Ever since the war, ponies all around complained for the lack of food, lack of rest, lack of safety. The war committee groaned when the military requested more weapons. Bosses groaned as quotas were increased. Workers groaned when the bosses announced the news. All of them would regroup in a seedy bar somewhere deep within the arterial alleyways of Manehattan, drinking themselves away, hopefully to death. Great source of information, but the real treasure laid in their garbage bins. Half-eaten food, half-drunk booze, the whole buffet. Ponies of society cheered inside the bar, forgetting the horrible reality they were thrusted into, even for just a single night. I cheered outside, happy for my loot for the night. Borders moved as infantries pushed against each other. Frontlines weaved and flowed as one side advanced. Guns shoot faster as inventive engineering evolved. Tanks thicken as they hold more weight. Plans adapted as it met combat. Machines complexed as systems bloated in quality. The dumpster? An everlasting constant in this ever flowing world. My everlasting constant. Chapter 2: Under the Throes of the Empress’ MightManehattan. Land of Industrial Progress. Where the coals burn and the factories stamps. Where tanks rolled along the main street, trucks and artillery peppered somewhere along and around. Fanfare howled as the sergeants played their marching tune, singing songs of intense battle and triumphant victory. Rows of ponies, flanking both sides of the street in an organized line of space, bellowing in an exhilarated fervor, hungry for an end to the toil they endured. Though more often than not, their screams were dishonest. False excitement, roused by the few planted individuals specifically to incite a heat in the cold and gloomy atmosphere. In the middle, uniformed ponies with guns on their side, stomping in militaristic order. Their faces stoic, and their muscles trained. Deep down, they were either fanatical, afraid, or tired. None of them were soldiers by choice, only by reason and circumstances. I watched as the parade rolled along, my high vantage point atop an abandoned store proving a boon as I could see the central figure still miles away. High atop a big moving pedestal hosting a single obsidian throne, the aesthetics greatly matching the one pony standing above. Her smirk leaked of arrogance, as her mouth spewed a great big fiery speech. Promises of peace, a calm aftermath beyond the raging storm of war. An era of lasting peace, not unlike what we had up to several years prior. Guarantees of a prosperous new era, where will live like kings and eat like princesses. All they needed? A drop of your blood, a trickle of your sweat, and a bead of your tears. Suffice to say, those figures were grossly underestimated. “Forward unto Dawn”, except for all we knew it might already be dusk. She eventually rolled along, in front of me. “Her Royal General” Daybreaker, or whatever she titled herself on that particular whim. We caught glimpse of each other, and she frowned for a split second. A non-functioning member of society? In her temporary capital of the valiantly defending Solar Empire? Unthinkable. Despicable. But reality never matched anypony’s visions, not even hers. Ever since Princess Celestia ascended, if that’s even the correct word, she cranked up the exhausted remains of Equestria up to eleven. More factories, more industry, more military. More bombs, more weapons, more tanks. More everything. Her efforts proved useful at first, as the changeling advances were halted, or at least that’s what the news said. Eventually, “more of everything” also included fatigue, exhaustion, and unrest. For every truck rolled out of the factory line, every gun stamped, every soldier minted, a pony dies from overwork, hunger, illness, or all three. One of them collapsed right in the middle of the parade, a previously stoic and supposedly hardened soldier. The exact same bum I saw sleeping inside the ruins of that Rarity shop so long ago. Yes, the draft encompassed all. No exceptions. That is, unless you’re so physically unfit that you’re not even worth the meager amounts of food required to sustain you and your training. At least I got myself a small pistol, like few else expelled from the draft. How thoughtful of her indeed. The military band marched on, leaving in its wake an empty street. Pavings disturbed by heavy tracked vehicles, further muddled by the stompings of hooves. Walking across the same street chafed my hooves a bit, but horseshoes, once essential and cheap, were now an expensive rarity. The few smithies selling them were in exclusive contract with the crown. Soldier slippers, horseshoes, and the few custom jobs for whatever tools they needed repairing. Paid in stale rations and food stamps. That would’ve destroyed their business if the black market didn’t operate with stamps as currency. You know what else operated under food stamps? The prison. Never been there personally, but with where the city leads, it might as well be. No, nevermind. Even the prison doesn’t tax their inmates. Here? Just look at that. A random, two-story apartment block, black with soot from industrial smoke. A couple royal guards, armour gleaming with painted gold, guns strapped on their sides, bucking the doors down. Several ponies inside, all crying with various levels of panic and terror. One of them shot in the flank. More crying and screaming. All of the guards entered, one positioning herself on the door, face stoic and brave with a permanent glare. Must be somepony higher up the system, as her body rippled with well-fed muscles. From the inside were shattering porcelain, screams of both adults and foals, several more gunshots, and eventually... silence. Nopony around but me, the sole oneself under the gaze of that guardsmare. She had her gun aimed at me, but she knew better than to shoot. Hopefully. Fortunately, she did know better. Her colleagues went out with a sack of something, possibly bits and rations, in hoof. They left without so much as a double take. Passing the house, a wailing cry could be heard. Several windows broken, a sofa overturned. I didn’t look twice. Nopony ever did. The group entered another apartment block. The same song and dance, over and over again. Some gave up no resistance, some ended in a shootout. I turned to another street, leaving the shootout behind. Society’s problem, not mine. They said everything was done for the sake of the war, to eventually ensure victory, and send the changelings back where they belong. Under Solar rule, everypony either desperately wanted to believe that it would end, or they would rather have the changelings enter. Kill them. End the suffering. None saw changelings as saviours, neither saw Daybreaker as one. Same side of a different coin is the same nonetheless. No hope under the rolling swarm. No hope under the falling sun. Within the barracks, a different story rang from behind the barbed walls. Cheers of soldiers, guards, and other ponies in barest contact with the military, laughing and singing along as they filled their bellies in reckless abandon. The naive, juvenile, and fanatical. Green soldiers, worth nothing but cannon fodders. All tools of propaganda to entice the few undrafted to join into the military. In another block, the same setting. Same buildings, same barracks, same equipment. Different atmosphere. All of these ones had seen combat. Seasoned soldiers, veterans, frontline survivors. One of them smoked outside their tent, facing outwards a fenced gate. I passed him, and we locked gazes. I nodded, he nodded. Stallion in his later days, several scars ran through his face. Nondescript cream decorated with mane as black as mine. Yellow teeth chewing a cig. He looked considerably cleaner than I ever had been for years, but his tired eyes told me the reverse reigned true inside. A life dirtied by lead and blood, one I had ever dared to dream only once. Gunshots, bombs, hurt, sickness, death. Things nopony should ever be allowed to see. Still, our mute conversation told plenty of stories. An exchange of experience, mutual envy of each other’s conditions. The army was his constant. Days passing without sleep, only to shoot a few bullets and retreat under the barrage of bombs and aerial suppressive fire. Sleeping with increasingly different ponies in an increasingly cramped and musty space. Cleaning a gun he would fire less and less. Now that the changelings stood behind the city gates, he would either empty his supply or never fire another shot. The streets were my constant. Digging through trash for another change of finding my fill. Sleeping in rotting cardboard boxes in a damp and dirty alleyway. Constant moving around, avoiding maggot buildup. The permanence of my dumpster wouldn’t change, but the ponies, or maybe changelings who threw trash into them eventually will. As we both said in roaring silence: mutual envy. He offered me his fag, and I took a single drag. The cheap tobacco left a creamy aftertaste, one I savoured not to waste. I nodded, he nodded. We moved on, walking our separate ways. Chapter 3: Under the Cover of WarPheeeew… Boom. Pheeeew… Boom *Pheeeew…* *BOOM* That one was closer, a bit too close for comfort. Bombs, all around. Kilograms and tonnes of explosive material, condensed into a single metallic shell, exploding upon contact. Inventive bunch, the changelings. Whistling bombs, whistling planes. Psychological warfare, fit to crush spirits before they crush bodies. Earth shook as they detonated in a display of suicidal anger, as if it feared those who made them. Artillery fired from afar, demolishing structures and buildings with reckless abandon. Sometimes they would fire in tight clusters, sometimes random and far between. One of them even had their own carriage, pulled by a truck driven by a borderline suicidal soldier, bearing the golden insignia of Solar forces. The fighting lasted for days. The black rolling swarm arrived from the East, where Solar forces entrenched themselves, all guns pointing outwards, ready to take on the bugs. Early birds evacuated via the East. The ports and open seas changelings never managed to drag their miniscule navy through. The middle birds flew by whatever few cargo planes heading out to Griffonia, New Mareland, or wherever else they saw fit to try and survive the siege. Late birds stayed. Not to fight and defend, not to work and stamp guns, for industries were all bombed to death. Their purpose was calculated, statistical, and numerical. Acceptable losses. Daybreaker ordered them to stay, as a wicked incitement of desperation, boosting morale of her soldiers and guards not from glory or victory, but from the urgency of defending. Death of civilians shouldered on them, as their responsibility. Still, the tide rolled on, eliminating everything along its path. What was once a bustling city of gleaming glam, now reduced to a rubble of grey ash, trampled by war machines of both sides as their guns blazed, bullets and shells travelling to and fro, aiming for each other in a morbid dance of death. Such is the theatre of war, a performance I got to watch in front row seats. Without any valuable belongings, evacuation was foal’s play. Just pick up a gun and go, blend in with the tide of retreating soldiers. They favoured fighters more than cripples, after all, and my disguise earned me a single packet of ration. Better than anything I remembered eating, but terrible for those whose snouts stood taller than their own ranks. Her Royal Empress-General Daybreaker galloped along in the air without rest, with pillars of plasma-hot beam pulled straight from the sun moving back and forth under her whims, melting any daring changelings in her city. Even at night, her own reserve of magic proved more than disastrously lethal for the changelings. Still, the word ‘rolling tide’ was used for a reason. Solar forces were akin to a strong, unmoving dam wall. Stout and tough, forever bracing against impact. A tide however, fills a certain space and over it. The tide splashed against the wall, and more often than not trickles of them would push through. Changelings however, were better than water at fighting. These trickled ones shot from behind, into the soft backs of the dam. It eventually cracked. Spider webs all over, and eventually it chipped. A single chip led to bigger chips, and the whole structure collapsed in a heap of rubble. I separated from the army into a lavish building. A noble would use the finest and toughest materials available for their ego-fueling piece of display structure, and it showed. The shop stood at half-mast, one slab of concrete standing proud and tall against its flattened neighbors. One set of soldiers replaced by the next. Changelings, in all their holey glory, marched along the street, paying no second glances against the only building in a kilometer-wide radius. Actually, they did. Several changelings looked around for exactly ten seconds and decided a field hospital was in order. The structure was adapted, and the injured flooded in. A day later, they flooded out. Never a single glance spared for the collapsing second floor. Not once did a changeling visit my humble hideout. Good for me, I liked it better alone anyways. The tide of war moved along, as everything in the world should be. A single pony behind enemy lines. What do you call someone who isn’t exactly an ally but not really an enemy, but targeted by both anyways? Perhaps I was a bit too hasty in saying that the tide moved. If a wave crashed, drops of water scattered themselves everywhere. Behind me was no different. A lone changeling, aiming his rifle. Bad shooting stance, off-mark sight, and an open bolt handle. It was my first time seeing a changeling up close. Holed limbs, partially obscured by his tattered uniform. Insectoid transparent wings. Black carapaced outer exoskeleton. Rifle trigger held in his mouth, two white fangs overlapping them. Blue, pupil-less eyes, edges slightly reddened. Wet trail on his cheeks, gleaming by the morning sun. Green, inexperienced, amateur. Scared. Both sides have equal weights in ballasts, and it showed. A veteran wouldn’t aim at an enemy whose back leaned in front of the only exit path. This guy did. The changeling army was quite well-fed. The remains of their rations made up for a great breakfast experience. Although the young changeling didn’t kill me, he did kill the mood with his incessant barking in another language I couldn’t quite understand. I pointed at myself and said my name. “June Malaprop.” I pointed at him and he cocked his head. It took me three times before he responded. “Steviosol Vesalova.” Vesalova, common name for Vesalipolis residents. Heard them a few times. A tank rolled behind me, out on the streets, caring for naught but it’s destination. The building shook. Ash fell from the ceilings. Steviosol’s grip faltered for a second, looking at the passing tank, tempted to charge past me. Another tank rolled by, another piece of ceiling fell. Straight onto his head. Poor guy. Several more tanks rolled by. My gun dropped with the piece of ceiling below it. Muzzle pointing towards the changeling, as if instructing, ordering on what to do. Gun in teeth, bullet loaded, ready to shoot. I aimed at the downed junior. An easy target. Justified and reasonable. Rightfully mine. My first kill… The gun loaded. My aim hung steady. Sights on his head. Tongue on the trigger. Just push, and bam, he’s dead. ...maybe not. Shooting means choosing a side. Choosing a side means joining the war. Not my war, not my problem. The war had entered the city proper. Thousands of deaths. Millions of bullets shot. Billions in damage. During retreat, a soldier chanted “I don’t wanna die” over and over. A stray bullet entered his head, silencing his prayers. Why the war spared me, I have no idea. Do wars favour those who don’t mind dying? Fate? Destiny? Luck? What about him? Was he supposed to die? Or did fate decide that he should encounter me and my decision, instead of a royal guard? Fate favoured the lucky and the enduring. Those who stared at shifting landscapes and paid no mind, accepted war for what it was. Maybe both of us were the luckiest of all. Nopony deserves to know War, not even a single hello to the bad horse that he is. Maybe no changelings too? In his saddlebags were ammo, food, several vials with hearts on them, and a book. Not my interest. The saddlebags were comfy though. A pack of cigarettes? Better. A lighter? Jackpot. Yet another tank slowly coasted into eyesight. Big and boxy, noticeably thicker and newer than the others. It stopped in front of the building, a hatch opening from the inside. A changeling exited with a spray can, drawing a kilroy on the wall. He noticed Steviosol, and the tank left with them. The world has no need for this grounded pegasus. Not even the changelings. Upstairs I went, sorting food and water with lungfuls of smoke. Enough for several days. Funny how wartime fed me better than peacetime. Chapter 4: Under the Grip of Changeling Martial LawManehattan. City of chaos. Where changeling military reigned supreme, everypony bowed down to each and every changeling passing by, and hoped the daily Love Tax rotation caught everypony else but oneself. At least, that was what they wanted. Daybreaker left for New Mareland, with all few of her loyal royal guards. With one gone, came the other. Chrysalis stood over the city for a whole five hours, until the sad withering skyline lost her crown jewel. The once-proud, rearing statue of Lady Friendship, representing what little of it Manehattan had left, crumbled into the river, per the changeling queen’s request. In her place to sweep the dust down under the rug made of pony coats was Protectress Lilac. Protectress. Hah, the changelings, funny bunch. Ponies left to rot by the stupid sun tried to fight for themselves. Against an army that successfully pushed against the edgier version of Nightmare Moon, however? Noble, but futile. The supposed “protector” squashed indiscriminately without mercy. Though, changelings fared no better. Their entire army composed the rolling tide. With the wave over, the waters slowly stilled. Garrisons distributed, and Equestrian lands scoured for resistance pockets. The tide disbanded, and without the force of a wave, what good are still waters to fight against even a thin layer of plank? The theatre got repurposed as a circus, but my front row seat remained. Manehattan became nothing but a stage show. Battered ponies too tired to fight readily accepting their changeling overlords. Inexperienced changelings too few to rule over an entire city trying their best to look intimidating with their guns and tanks, loaded with nary but a single bullet each. One intimidation tactic they did successfully was draining ponies to near death with their ability to harvest love. Hype the execution down, force ponies to watch, put several undesirables high up a pedestal, and suck the love out of them. Pretend the weightlifting was easy while in fact it strained their wits down to shreds, and you’d have obedient ponies lining up to meager ration stalls for dried hay way past expiry date. Guess who had the privilege of standing high above on the pedestal? Yours truly. The crowd winced as the changeling behind me pulled a part of my soul away. Nerves blaring, screaming danger and murder, as what little of my supposed “love” seeped away from my being. Couldn’t walk for days on end, but the look of utter disgust on that changeling who fed on me made the long-lasting burning within my spine worth every second of it. Oh, the pony they used as demonstration slipped into heavy love-drain exhaustion? Give him a rest in the military barracks, place an ice pack, slap a band-aid, and on he goes, good as new. At least they gave me a heart-shaped band-aid. Hated the green colour though. Specifically because it was changeling green. The same colour infesting every nook and cranny of Manehattan. Formerly colourful, with every shade of colour within visible light meticulously painted in extravagance, now all black and dark green and dreary. If ponies escaped the changeling invasion by a skin of their teeth, nothing escaped the true invasion of drab sickly slime green. Green fridge boxes. Green dumpsters and trash cans. Green buildings, factories, everything. All green. Disgusting. Is there anything not green? Well, there’s Lilac’s Administrative Office. Painted with teal, matching the shade of her eyes and mane. A place as drab and dreary as any other new changeling structures hastily made to accomodate the urgent need of information headquarters. Not for me. Awesome place, really. I mean, a dry alleyway right beside it, a broken van parked right in it, and trash bins full of upper class changeling’s junk. More than what I could hope for. Also met the first changeling bum I’d seen. Shooed him away, for whoever claimed the place first reigned king over it. His existence worried none, both changelings and ponies, but me. Why? Poor changeling conditions meant even poorer pony conditions. Poor conditions led to less wasteful practices. Less wasteful practices led to less trash. Less trash would be the end of me. Working ponies were fed specifically to continue working. Non-working ponies would be captured, shoved into a prison camp, and forced to work. Actually physically unfit ponies? Left alone. Move out, rot, die? They don’t care. Changelings suffered the same fate, funnily enough. New, aspiring bums die in a week, not knowing where to look, where to forage, where to live, and where to dumpster dive. Old bums like me survive by differentiating between a rock hill painted green and actual pastures. Green traps include the canneries, industrial areas, and food stamping posts. Actual dumpsters worth diving sat near military barracks. Young aspiring changelings, ready to take on the job, collect love, and to quote one of them, “make mom proud.” Wasteful with food, careless with equipment. Some foal, or should I say nymph, they turned out to be. More often than not the young ones were moved into open plains and small villages, in groups of two or three. Definitely not the lives advertised, but sucks for them. A pair of unicorns passed by, almost eerie in timing as they agreed on my private mutterings. Their matching purple starry cape fluttered by the breeze. Following me, they turned into my alleyway. Doing spy work, espionage, or whatchamacallit. Disappointed by me being a homeless bum instead of a fellow spy or a changeling collaborator. The name Trixie seemed familiar, but the name Starlight rang no bells. Both whispered to each other of some plans. Desires of counter-occupation, liberation, and freedom of ponies once more. Build underground weapons factories, call Griffonian allies, find and contact Princess Twilight. Eradication of changelings from all of Equestria. You know, the works. Something I had to just snort on, leaving them self-conscious of sitting on my boxes. War can be black and white, but specieses are not. Never will be. A nationwide supply problem sparked a war like never before. Stupid leaders called for stupid decisions, and with a spark, the fire ignited. But under the blazing black or orange flames laid burnt charcoals of the same grey colour. Where’s that Magic of Friendship they so desperately tried to spread now? Ponies talk big of not judging a single entity based on hearsay, but see their leaders making bad decisions and now all changelings became the evil boogeyponies that haunts foals’ bedrooms, sucking their love when they least suspect? An entire species built the way they were, unable to change their nature, and it just so happened that ponies were their entire lifeline of existence. What happened to Love and Tolerate? What happened to pursuing peace and reaching a mutual understanding? “Heh, foolish.” Those words escaped my mouth, an accidental expression of opinion which the two certainly did not like. The two mares turned with absolute disappointment and anger, before leaving with a twirl of Trixie’s cape. Even as they walked away, those eyes were unmistakable. Disgustion. Disdain. Contempt. Not even to the changelings, but to their fellow pony. Confront idealists with reality and their confident visage crumbles. Hypocrites, the load of them. Another individual entered my alleyway, a janitor changeling from the building. She sneered a look, huffed in exhaustion, dumped the trash, and moved back inside. Honest disgust for my bad odour, and most-likely foul-tasting love. A tiny bit of pity for my living condition. Hunger, which retreated upon the sight of my being. She left a big bucket of water, a bar of soap, and a stern instruction to bathe. Probably only to not have me stink the entire block. Not of care, or concern. Only selfish reasons. Still, free hygiene care. Who am I to refuse? Chapter 5: Under the Protection of the ProtectressManehattan. City of hope and progress. Where changelings realized that to have ponies with love meant pampering them on a reasonable scale. Ponies to changelings are what cows are to ponies. Cattle, sapient commodity. Only more delicate, soft, and prone to breakdowns. The war really didn’t help with that, but with passing years and great effort by the Protectress to do as her namesake told, ponies eventually somewhat warmed up to the idea of a mutual coexistence. Boosting interspecies relationship was the invention of painless love extraction methods, which substance would be processed for both changelings and ponies alike. Food for one, legal recreational drug for the other. True, not all the efforts came from ponies fighting for their freedom. The protectress, Lilac, ensured ponies get recompense, repaired living conditions, and a return to Manehattan’s former status quo of bling and glam. She kinda had to, else her position as Protectress meant her head will be the first to go as ponies recovered and readied a liberation movement. For the first time in years, Manehattan became the land of opportunity it once were. For both ponies, and changelings too. Coexistence took a toll on both parties, and it showed. As I walked down the refurbished streets, changelings sneered at the ponies, angry on how they had to rely on such uppity creatures. Ponies sneered back, angry at their supposed captors sucking the souls out of them. Few decided working together meant betterment for both, but few was all it took for the protectorate to begin it’s rise as a country better than both Equestria and Changeling Lands combined. The adults traded glares, but the foals and nymphs played without a care. No politics, no speciesism. No memories of past wars, for they won’t remember what they never saw nor told. Once diminishing Magic of Friendship, alive once more, in a place least expected. A pair of them approached my lanky self with candies in hoof, and bright smiles on their faces. Eager to share, ready to compromise. Even to an aging stallion like me. Manehattan hadn’t grown into its former glory, but it needed none of it. For children’s laughter in sunny open spaces, adults swallowed their pride and strapped on their boots. A resurgence like no other. Manehattan Economic Miracle. Commemorating the miracle was a new statue, built to replace the former Lady Friendship. A pony and a changeling, lifting a torch, under a beautiful green robe. A symbol of a new future of understanding and cooperation. One such example was the revamped Love Tax. Tax in nothing but name, really. Love became a commodity, given by ponies, paid and processed by changelings, consumed by both. Huge competitive markets emerged from both public and private sectors. Increasingly satisfied ponies led to tastier love, which led to well-fed changelings. Those changelings would work and satisfy ponies more, and the cycle continues. Even for a waste of society like me, they would open soup kitchens for the weak, disabled, and unfit to contribute. Segregation between the two species wasn’t an unusual sight, but neither complained. Better that way, than forcing an unstable equality between two disparate sets of beings. Love became a prominent additive in the rising New Manehattanite cuisine. Wisps of their unique, sixth taste sensation caressed my mouth as I took another gulp of the free soup graciously ladled by a young changeling. Her bright smile with two cute little fangs shyly peeking out of her lips lifted the taste even more. Shame she already has a lover, but even I knew when to quit. Finished from lunch, I walked back to my humble abode: the same broken van I had lived in for years on end, the same alleyway I saw everytime I woke up, the same grumpy janitor entering from the backdoor by the crack of dawn. The thing about hygiene was that you never knew how sorely you missed it, until you eventually got it back. Thank that janitor for my habit of cleaning the van and the alleyway every Saturday. The building itself became an outpost, an administrative building. As with the rest of Manehattan, gone was the obnoxiously undergroundly changeling architecture and colouration, replaced with a mix of superior changeling tastes and superior pony design expertise. No longer did the protectress walk alone with a single jumpy changeling as guard. Now both ponies and changelings stood right beside her, serving their duty as guardians to the de facto leader of New Manehattan. One of them stood in all his stoicness, withered eyes spacing out into the unknown. Even as he was relieved of the day’s duty, his only instinct would be to grab a smoke and puff it out on the sidewalk. Old habits die hard, even as the cigarettes became actual cigars and tobacco pipes. Might have to do with his cutie mark, but I beg to differ. I nodded, and he nodded. We took a smoke together in all our glorious silence, before he went home. I followed, if only to steal myself a bath. He never did seem to mind. During the walk, he wasn’t the only being I recognized. Life came full circle, with some rising back into the stars, and some slumping down into the dumps. The changeling junior, Steviosol, stood tall and proud, guarding a banking building, his trusty rifle in hoof. A stage performer and her wagon, displaying colourful magic to entertain and amaze both adults and foals alike. Good to see Trixie having her life back. Some weren’t so lucky. Coloratura stayed out of her pop business ever since her slump. Never saw her since that one time way back when. An actual bum searched through Cigar’s trash, familiar light fuschia mare under a familiar purple starry cape, now weathered and torn. She reacted with anger upon my gaze, and stormed off with a gait fit for nobleponies. A wise pony said you can judge how advanced a civilization really is by its trash. Considering the trash that bum took was used thaumatronics and last night’s leftovers, I’d say Manehattan became quite the well-off city it had used to be. I entered the house, took a bath, and left. After sharing a smoke, of course. No words said, only nods and understanding. Walking back to my van, I spied a mom-and-pops shop. Before, I would’ve gone straight for the trash bins, but I learned that I could skip the process entirely. Entering, an elderly changeling couple way past their prime greeted me with a serene smile only found in loving parents. They had expired food they couldn’t return, and I took them for myself. In the end, it was still dumpster diving. An act I knew and loved, the only thing I’ve ever mastered, streamlined so efficiently that even the “dumpster” part became arbitrary. My everlasting constant in this newly-minted Manehattan, so far removed from its original. In my world, nothing ever did change. Only me, and the dumpsters. The streets, the alleyways, and the one gun I had took care of ever since that time during the war. And perhaps the smoker stallion. The world, however, changed. Swept my own world away from me. No more damp alleyways with slimy dumpsters I had to dig through for a piece of moldy bread. No more sleeping in cardboard boxes under fierce storms. No more uncertainty of war society had felt for X-years too long. Looking back at the old couple, and the help wanted sign by the door, it was apparent that the world changed around them, sweeping their own world as well. The way granny changeling limped as her hips sagged. How grandpa changeling would switch between three different glasses, constantly flicking his gaze to a family portrait with all heads crossed but theirs. The both of us, victims of war. Not of the theatres, not of the fighting, but of the mundanes. The results of war no one ever took time to analyze. The deeper nuances of the homefronts, the little changes in a happy ending that everyone forgot to ever look. My world, the unhappy corner I stuck my guns in, just because it was familiar. Their world, a failing shop too traditional for the changing times, most likely kept because they had no choice. But I do have a choice, don’t I? A small step towards a greater change, and maybe easing a bit of their pain as well. Might it be the time? After all this time? At my age? I looked once more. Staying for too long made them anxious. Expecting me to take the step, take the offer, take the job. Improve their situation. Waiting. Hoping. Grandpa flicked his graying pupilless eyes once more to the portrait. Maybe it was indeed time for me to get up my rump and join society once more. A small change for me, a giant leap for my world. “May I apply for the job?” I asked. Their faces lit with joy, reversing their ages by several decades as they taught me the tools of their trade. This is it. For the better or worse... ...maybe it's the former, for once.
Chapter 1: Under the Cradle of Manehattan's DreamManehattan. Land of Opportunity. Where the Friendship Statue stood tall in her everpresent rusty green, slowly withering away in reckless abandon. Ironic, really. Friendship statue. Here, in Manehattan? A place where money reigns king and labour sweat is worth five bits a liter? Hah, nonsense. All the city’s worth to me was the dumpsters. Half-eaten burgers, rotting bananas, and the occasional candy. The big cardboard boxes ponies threw away after they got whatever appliances previously stored inside them. Ponies would sneer and curse me for “dirtying their block”. I would blow them the raspberry and move on, maybe snag their trash, complete with the bin, in the process. What would they do, wrestle me? Hah, they’d sooner bathe in dirt than touch a single strand of my coat. Friendship, in such a city? Unimaginable, even before the mobilization. The moonlit night shone dimmer than even the darkest night from five years ago. Walking around really gave you the perspective of size. How big, yet how small. 2 kilometers across, yet only three whole factories. Dark, sooty smoke billowing from their chimney pipes. A young chimney sweep stood above one of them, inhaling the stuff daily, selling a liter of sweat per day. There was a time where factories such as those weren’t prominent. Only houses and apartments, shops, restaurants. Places one went to spend money on, sometimes without anything in return. Tall office blocks, business headquarters, and more, all erected to accommodate the enlarging pursuit of capitalist profits. Money drove the city around, and ponies worked for them. Selling things, expertise, and experience. From the most barebones essentials to vanity items worth nothing but their brands. Now, all of them gone. Swept by the urgent needs of national defense. My eyes spied one of such shops. A rowshop by the name of Rarity For You. Once a place of dresses and suits, fine tailorings, and uppity ponies, now abandoned and trashed, left to rot. Ponnequins laying under a thick layer of dust. A fellow bum sleeping inside it. The war needed none of them. All they cared about were weapons. Ponies to build their factories, ponies to stamp them, and ponies to wield them. They have no need for restaurants, bars, entertainment areas. The last shop in the row, right there barely holding on. Flickering neon lights, slowly losing to the depth of darkness engulfing the entire block. Once they’re down, so does the entire row. Probably replaced with yet another weapons factory later on. Not all failed, however. Some thrived. Those who are lucky, who are smart, and who are clever. Industrialization meant the increasing need for ponies who are well-versed in such crafts. Those who have cutie marks in engineering. Those who worked hard enough to understand the language of gears, thaumatronics, and exhaust fumes. Those who paved the road they walked in the blood, sweat, and tears of others, decorated with their own riches and money. Only they rose up above everypony else. Those who refused to adapt fell. The war needed no nobility, no riches, no fame nor fortune. The war needed fetlock grease, muscle, and toil. Those who were at the top, and refused to walk down a single stair, ended up falling down to the bottom. One of such, I saw. A terribly thin pony with a white coat, now greyed as much as my own from all the dust. When you see a formerly famous pony by the name of Coloratura dumpster diving, you know that society has flipped it’s lid. Her former glory had ended. Some would say that she was stupid for trying too hard in preserving the dying entertainment industry. I’d say she’s a strong-willed mare, that she survived for this long out in the streets, refusing to die under the terms of society. I always wondered how many else who suffered the same fate as her? Drowning in the dust of rapidly accelerating civilization, forced to walk the dirty road by their own hooves. Coloratura went with a satisfied smile over her haul. Few blocks more, and she jumped into her own home: a rusty shell of a tank parked in a dark slimy alleyway. They’re nothing but failed marks of successful progress, one of many brown dots littering the once colourful city. The same tank I saw running down the street a few years back, in a parade of mechanical and military might, rousing the masses to work and toil, to build and invent, everything to end the war by Hearth’s Warming. Instead, the more they toil, the more they fought, the harder the enemies fought back. How long was it, ever since the Changeling Army attacked? Two, four, eight years? It never did matter, for the formula is if the war started X years ago, it was X years too long. Magic of Friendship, Peace and Prosperity, Love and Tolerate. All those old slogans were replaced with new ones. For the Princesses and Equestria, Keep Calm and Carry On, Work is Liberating. Why pursue friendship if nopony wants to be friends? Why pursue love if there’s nopony to love? Why fight for Equestria if it never provides? Why even work if you’re not worth hiring? A figure shot past me, galloping while they spread bundles of paper, screaming “Extra! Extra! Canterlot has fallen!” News at 2 a.m, on a Thursday? For the other ponies, it would be a cause for concern. Hah, sucks for them. Contrary to them, concern never was in my dictionary. Not ever since that accident in the weather factory. Lost both wings, and now here we are. Not enough money to do, have, or try anything, so I don’t. You can’t lose what you never have. Another group of ponies passed by. These ones rode on a carriage of thick steel, moving by itself by means of conjuncted technologies, internal combustion and thaumaturgy. A big truck followed, carrying another dozen ponies on it’s back. Loud engine thumping as it rolled on, gears creaking as the transmission struggled to operate. Machines, ponies, civilization. Fundamentally they never did differ. Just an orderly set of instructed movements governed by restrictive laws. Pour a tiny sprinkle of war, and they would follow the winds of change. For better or worse. More often than not, ponies ended up suffering anyways. Ever since the war, ponies all around complained for the lack of food, lack of rest, lack of safety. The war committee groaned when the military requested more weapons. Bosses groaned as quotas were increased. Workers groaned when the bosses announced the news. All of them would regroup in a seedy bar somewhere deep within the arterial alleyways of Manehattan, drinking themselves away, hopefully to death. Great source of information, but the real treasure laid in their garbage bins. Half-eaten food, half-drunk booze, the whole buffet. Ponies of society cheered inside the bar, forgetting the horrible reality they were thrusted into, even for just a single night. I cheered outside, happy for my loot for the night. Borders moved as infantries pushed against each other. Frontlines weaved and flowed as one side advanced. Guns shoot faster as inventive engineering evolved. Tanks thicken as they hold more weight. Plans adapted as it met combat. Machines complexed as systems bloated in quality. The dumpster? An everlasting constant in this ever flowing world. My everlasting constant.
Chapter 2: Under the Throes of the Empress’ MightManehattan. Land of Industrial Progress. Where the coals burn and the factories stamps. Where tanks rolled along the main street, trucks and artillery peppered somewhere along and around. Fanfare howled as the sergeants played their marching tune, singing songs of intense battle and triumphant victory. Rows of ponies, flanking both sides of the street in an organized line of space, bellowing in an exhilarated fervor, hungry for an end to the toil they endured. Though more often than not, their screams were dishonest. False excitement, roused by the few planted individuals specifically to incite a heat in the cold and gloomy atmosphere. In the middle, uniformed ponies with guns on their side, stomping in militaristic order. Their faces stoic, and their muscles trained. Deep down, they were either fanatical, afraid, or tired. None of them were soldiers by choice, only by reason and circumstances. I watched as the parade rolled along, my high vantage point atop an abandoned store proving a boon as I could see the central figure still miles away. High atop a big moving pedestal hosting a single obsidian throne, the aesthetics greatly matching the one pony standing above. Her smirk leaked of arrogance, as her mouth spewed a great big fiery speech. Promises of peace, a calm aftermath beyond the raging storm of war. An era of lasting peace, not unlike what we had up to several years prior. Guarantees of a prosperous new era, where will live like kings and eat like princesses. All they needed? A drop of your blood, a trickle of your sweat, and a bead of your tears. Suffice to say, those figures were grossly underestimated. “Forward unto Dawn”, except for all we knew it might already be dusk. She eventually rolled along, in front of me. “Her Royal General” Daybreaker, or whatever she titled herself on that particular whim. We caught glimpse of each other, and she frowned for a split second. A non-functioning member of society? In her temporary capital of the valiantly defending Solar Empire? Unthinkable. Despicable. But reality never matched anypony’s visions, not even hers. Ever since Princess Celestia ascended, if that’s even the correct word, she cranked up the exhausted remains of Equestria up to eleven. More factories, more industry, more military. More bombs, more weapons, more tanks. More everything. Her efforts proved useful at first, as the changeling advances were halted, or at least that’s what the news said. Eventually, “more of everything” also included fatigue, exhaustion, and unrest. For every truck rolled out of the factory line, every gun stamped, every soldier minted, a pony dies from overwork, hunger, illness, or all three. One of them collapsed right in the middle of the parade, a previously stoic and supposedly hardened soldier. The exact same bum I saw sleeping inside the ruins of that Rarity shop so long ago. Yes, the draft encompassed all. No exceptions. That is, unless you’re so physically unfit that you’re not even worth the meager amounts of food required to sustain you and your training. At least I got myself a small pistol, like few else expelled from the draft. How thoughtful of her indeed. The military band marched on, leaving in its wake an empty street. Pavings disturbed by heavy tracked vehicles, further muddled by the stompings of hooves. Walking across the same street chafed my hooves a bit, but horseshoes, once essential and cheap, were now an expensive rarity. The few smithies selling them were in exclusive contract with the crown. Soldier slippers, horseshoes, and the few custom jobs for whatever tools they needed repairing. Paid in stale rations and food stamps. That would’ve destroyed their business if the black market didn’t operate with stamps as currency. You know what else operated under food stamps? The prison. Never been there personally, but with where the city leads, it might as well be. No, nevermind. Even the prison doesn’t tax their inmates. Here? Just look at that. A random, two-story apartment block, black with soot from industrial smoke. A couple royal guards, armour gleaming with painted gold, guns strapped on their sides, bucking the doors down. Several ponies inside, all crying with various levels of panic and terror. One of them shot in the flank. More crying and screaming. All of the guards entered, one positioning herself on the door, face stoic and brave with a permanent glare. Must be somepony higher up the system, as her body rippled with well-fed muscles. From the inside were shattering porcelain, screams of both adults and foals, several more gunshots, and eventually... silence. Nopony around but me, the sole oneself under the gaze of that guardsmare. She had her gun aimed at me, but she knew better than to shoot. Hopefully. Fortunately, she did know better. Her colleagues went out with a sack of something, possibly bits and rations, in hoof. They left without so much as a double take. Passing the house, a wailing cry could be heard. Several windows broken, a sofa overturned. I didn’t look twice. Nopony ever did. The group entered another apartment block. The same song and dance, over and over again. Some gave up no resistance, some ended in a shootout. I turned to another street, leaving the shootout behind. Society’s problem, not mine. They said everything was done for the sake of the war, to eventually ensure victory, and send the changelings back where they belong. Under Solar rule, everypony either desperately wanted to believe that it would end, or they would rather have the changelings enter. Kill them. End the suffering. None saw changelings as saviours, neither saw Daybreaker as one. Same side of a different coin is the same nonetheless. No hope under the rolling swarm. No hope under the falling sun. Within the barracks, a different story rang from behind the barbed walls. Cheers of soldiers, guards, and other ponies in barest contact with the military, laughing and singing along as they filled their bellies in reckless abandon. The naive, juvenile, and fanatical. Green soldiers, worth nothing but cannon fodders. All tools of propaganda to entice the few undrafted to join into the military. In another block, the same setting. Same buildings, same barracks, same equipment. Different atmosphere. All of these ones had seen combat. Seasoned soldiers, veterans, frontline survivors. One of them smoked outside their tent, facing outwards a fenced gate. I passed him, and we locked gazes. I nodded, he nodded. Stallion in his later days, several scars ran through his face. Nondescript cream decorated with mane as black as mine. Yellow teeth chewing a cig. He looked considerably cleaner than I ever had been for years, but his tired eyes told me the reverse reigned true inside. A life dirtied by lead and blood, one I had ever dared to dream only once. Gunshots, bombs, hurt, sickness, death. Things nopony should ever be allowed to see. Still, our mute conversation told plenty of stories. An exchange of experience, mutual envy of each other’s conditions. The army was his constant. Days passing without sleep, only to shoot a few bullets and retreat under the barrage of bombs and aerial suppressive fire. Sleeping with increasingly different ponies in an increasingly cramped and musty space. Cleaning a gun he would fire less and less. Now that the changelings stood behind the city gates, he would either empty his supply or never fire another shot. The streets were my constant. Digging through trash for another change of finding my fill. Sleeping in rotting cardboard boxes in a damp and dirty alleyway. Constant moving around, avoiding maggot buildup. The permanence of my dumpster wouldn’t change, but the ponies, or maybe changelings who threw trash into them eventually will. As we both said in roaring silence: mutual envy. He offered me his fag, and I took a single drag. The cheap tobacco left a creamy aftertaste, one I savoured not to waste. I nodded, he nodded. We moved on, walking our separate ways.
Chapter 3: Under the Cover of WarPheeeew… Boom. Pheeeew… Boom *Pheeeew…* *BOOM* That one was closer, a bit too close for comfort. Bombs, all around. Kilograms and tonnes of explosive material, condensed into a single metallic shell, exploding upon contact. Inventive bunch, the changelings. Whistling bombs, whistling planes. Psychological warfare, fit to crush spirits before they crush bodies. Earth shook as they detonated in a display of suicidal anger, as if it feared those who made them. Artillery fired from afar, demolishing structures and buildings with reckless abandon. Sometimes they would fire in tight clusters, sometimes random and far between. One of them even had their own carriage, pulled by a truck driven by a borderline suicidal soldier, bearing the golden insignia of Solar forces. The fighting lasted for days. The black rolling swarm arrived from the East, where Solar forces entrenched themselves, all guns pointing outwards, ready to take on the bugs. Early birds evacuated via the East. The ports and open seas changelings never managed to drag their miniscule navy through. The middle birds flew by whatever few cargo planes heading out to Griffonia, New Mareland, or wherever else they saw fit to try and survive the siege. Late birds stayed. Not to fight and defend, not to work and stamp guns, for industries were all bombed to death. Their purpose was calculated, statistical, and numerical. Acceptable losses. Daybreaker ordered them to stay, as a wicked incitement of desperation, boosting morale of her soldiers and guards not from glory or victory, but from the urgency of defending. Death of civilians shouldered on them, as their responsibility. Still, the tide rolled on, eliminating everything along its path. What was once a bustling city of gleaming glam, now reduced to a rubble of grey ash, trampled by war machines of both sides as their guns blazed, bullets and shells travelling to and fro, aiming for each other in a morbid dance of death. Such is the theatre of war, a performance I got to watch in front row seats. Without any valuable belongings, evacuation was foal’s play. Just pick up a gun and go, blend in with the tide of retreating soldiers. They favoured fighters more than cripples, after all, and my disguise earned me a single packet of ration. Better than anything I remembered eating, but terrible for those whose snouts stood taller than their own ranks. Her Royal Empress-General Daybreaker galloped along in the air without rest, with pillars of plasma-hot beam pulled straight from the sun moving back and forth under her whims, melting any daring changelings in her city. Even at night, her own reserve of magic proved more than disastrously lethal for the changelings. Still, the word ‘rolling tide’ was used for a reason. Solar forces were akin to a strong, unmoving dam wall. Stout and tough, forever bracing against impact. A tide however, fills a certain space and over it. The tide splashed against the wall, and more often than not trickles of them would push through. Changelings however, were better than water at fighting. These trickled ones shot from behind, into the soft backs of the dam. It eventually cracked. Spider webs all over, and eventually it chipped. A single chip led to bigger chips, and the whole structure collapsed in a heap of rubble. I separated from the army into a lavish building. A noble would use the finest and toughest materials available for their ego-fueling piece of display structure, and it showed. The shop stood at half-mast, one slab of concrete standing proud and tall against its flattened neighbors. One set of soldiers replaced by the next. Changelings, in all their holey glory, marched along the street, paying no second glances against the only building in a kilometer-wide radius. Actually, they did. Several changelings looked around for exactly ten seconds and decided a field hospital was in order. The structure was adapted, and the injured flooded in. A day later, they flooded out. Never a single glance spared for the collapsing second floor. Not once did a changeling visit my humble hideout. Good for me, I liked it better alone anyways. The tide of war moved along, as everything in the world should be. A single pony behind enemy lines. What do you call someone who isn’t exactly an ally but not really an enemy, but targeted by both anyways? Perhaps I was a bit too hasty in saying that the tide moved. If a wave crashed, drops of water scattered themselves everywhere. Behind me was no different. A lone changeling, aiming his rifle. Bad shooting stance, off-mark sight, and an open bolt handle. It was my first time seeing a changeling up close. Holed limbs, partially obscured by his tattered uniform. Insectoid transparent wings. Black carapaced outer exoskeleton. Rifle trigger held in his mouth, two white fangs overlapping them. Blue, pupil-less eyes, edges slightly reddened. Wet trail on his cheeks, gleaming by the morning sun. Green, inexperienced, amateur. Scared. Both sides have equal weights in ballasts, and it showed. A veteran wouldn’t aim at an enemy whose back leaned in front of the only exit path. This guy did. The changeling army was quite well-fed. The remains of their rations made up for a great breakfast experience. Although the young changeling didn’t kill me, he did kill the mood with his incessant barking in another language I couldn’t quite understand. I pointed at myself and said my name. “June Malaprop.” I pointed at him and he cocked his head. It took me three times before he responded. “Steviosol Vesalova.” Vesalova, common name for Vesalipolis residents. Heard them a few times. A tank rolled behind me, out on the streets, caring for naught but it’s destination. The building shook. Ash fell from the ceilings. Steviosol’s grip faltered for a second, looking at the passing tank, tempted to charge past me. Another tank rolled by, another piece of ceiling fell. Straight onto his head. Poor guy. Several more tanks rolled by. My gun dropped with the piece of ceiling below it. Muzzle pointing towards the changeling, as if instructing, ordering on what to do. Gun in teeth, bullet loaded, ready to shoot. I aimed at the downed junior. An easy target. Justified and reasonable. Rightfully mine. My first kill… The gun loaded. My aim hung steady. Sights on his head. Tongue on the trigger. Just push, and bam, he’s dead. ...maybe not. Shooting means choosing a side. Choosing a side means joining the war. Not my war, not my problem. The war had entered the city proper. Thousands of deaths. Millions of bullets shot. Billions in damage. During retreat, a soldier chanted “I don’t wanna die” over and over. A stray bullet entered his head, silencing his prayers. Why the war spared me, I have no idea. Do wars favour those who don’t mind dying? Fate? Destiny? Luck? What about him? Was he supposed to die? Or did fate decide that he should encounter me and my decision, instead of a royal guard? Fate favoured the lucky and the enduring. Those who stared at shifting landscapes and paid no mind, accepted war for what it was. Maybe both of us were the luckiest of all. Nopony deserves to know War, not even a single hello to the bad horse that he is. Maybe no changelings too? In his saddlebags were ammo, food, several vials with hearts on them, and a book. Not my interest. The saddlebags were comfy though. A pack of cigarettes? Better. A lighter? Jackpot. Yet another tank slowly coasted into eyesight. Big and boxy, noticeably thicker and newer than the others. It stopped in front of the building, a hatch opening from the inside. A changeling exited with a spray can, drawing a kilroy on the wall. He noticed Steviosol, and the tank left with them. The world has no need for this grounded pegasus. Not even the changelings. Upstairs I went, sorting food and water with lungfuls of smoke. Enough for several days. Funny how wartime fed me better than peacetime.
Chapter 4: Under the Grip of Changeling Martial LawManehattan. City of chaos. Where changeling military reigned supreme, everypony bowed down to each and every changeling passing by, and hoped the daily Love Tax rotation caught everypony else but oneself. At least, that was what they wanted. Daybreaker left for New Mareland, with all few of her loyal royal guards. With one gone, came the other. Chrysalis stood over the city for a whole five hours, until the sad withering skyline lost her crown jewel. The once-proud, rearing statue of Lady Friendship, representing what little of it Manehattan had left, crumbled into the river, per the changeling queen’s request. In her place to sweep the dust down under the rug made of pony coats was Protectress Lilac. Protectress. Hah, the changelings, funny bunch. Ponies left to rot by the stupid sun tried to fight for themselves. Against an army that successfully pushed against the edgier version of Nightmare Moon, however? Noble, but futile. The supposed “protector” squashed indiscriminately without mercy. Though, changelings fared no better. Their entire army composed the rolling tide. With the wave over, the waters slowly stilled. Garrisons distributed, and Equestrian lands scoured for resistance pockets. The tide disbanded, and without the force of a wave, what good are still waters to fight against even a thin layer of plank? The theatre got repurposed as a circus, but my front row seat remained. Manehattan became nothing but a stage show. Battered ponies too tired to fight readily accepting their changeling overlords. Inexperienced changelings too few to rule over an entire city trying their best to look intimidating with their guns and tanks, loaded with nary but a single bullet each. One intimidation tactic they did successfully was draining ponies to near death with their ability to harvest love. Hype the execution down, force ponies to watch, put several undesirables high up a pedestal, and suck the love out of them. Pretend the weightlifting was easy while in fact it strained their wits down to shreds, and you’d have obedient ponies lining up to meager ration stalls for dried hay way past expiry date. Guess who had the privilege of standing high above on the pedestal? Yours truly. The crowd winced as the changeling behind me pulled a part of my soul away. Nerves blaring, screaming danger and murder, as what little of my supposed “love” seeped away from my being. Couldn’t walk for days on end, but the look of utter disgust on that changeling who fed on me made the long-lasting burning within my spine worth every second of it. Oh, the pony they used as demonstration slipped into heavy love-drain exhaustion? Give him a rest in the military barracks, place an ice pack, slap a band-aid, and on he goes, good as new. At least they gave me a heart-shaped band-aid. Hated the green colour though. Specifically because it was changeling green. The same colour infesting every nook and cranny of Manehattan. Formerly colourful, with every shade of colour within visible light meticulously painted in extravagance, now all black and dark green and dreary. If ponies escaped the changeling invasion by a skin of their teeth, nothing escaped the true invasion of drab sickly slime green. Green fridge boxes. Green dumpsters and trash cans. Green buildings, factories, everything. All green. Disgusting. Is there anything not green? Well, there’s Lilac’s Administrative Office. Painted with teal, matching the shade of her eyes and mane. A place as drab and dreary as any other new changeling structures hastily made to accomodate the urgent need of information headquarters. Not for me. Awesome place, really. I mean, a dry alleyway right beside it, a broken van parked right in it, and trash bins full of upper class changeling’s junk. More than what I could hope for. Also met the first changeling bum I’d seen. Shooed him away, for whoever claimed the place first reigned king over it. His existence worried none, both changelings and ponies, but me. Why? Poor changeling conditions meant even poorer pony conditions. Poor conditions led to less wasteful practices. Less wasteful practices led to less trash. Less trash would be the end of me. Working ponies were fed specifically to continue working. Non-working ponies would be captured, shoved into a prison camp, and forced to work. Actually physically unfit ponies? Left alone. Move out, rot, die? They don’t care. Changelings suffered the same fate, funnily enough. New, aspiring bums die in a week, not knowing where to look, where to forage, where to live, and where to dumpster dive. Old bums like me survive by differentiating between a rock hill painted green and actual pastures. Green traps include the canneries, industrial areas, and food stamping posts. Actual dumpsters worth diving sat near military barracks. Young aspiring changelings, ready to take on the job, collect love, and to quote one of them, “make mom proud.” Wasteful with food, careless with equipment. Some foal, or should I say nymph, they turned out to be. More often than not the young ones were moved into open plains and small villages, in groups of two or three. Definitely not the lives advertised, but sucks for them. A pair of unicorns passed by, almost eerie in timing as they agreed on my private mutterings. Their matching purple starry cape fluttered by the breeze. Following me, they turned into my alleyway. Doing spy work, espionage, or whatchamacallit. Disappointed by me being a homeless bum instead of a fellow spy or a changeling collaborator. The name Trixie seemed familiar, but the name Starlight rang no bells. Both whispered to each other of some plans. Desires of counter-occupation, liberation, and freedom of ponies once more. Build underground weapons factories, call Griffonian allies, find and contact Princess Twilight. Eradication of changelings from all of Equestria. You know, the works. Something I had to just snort on, leaving them self-conscious of sitting on my boxes. War can be black and white, but specieses are not. Never will be. A nationwide supply problem sparked a war like never before. Stupid leaders called for stupid decisions, and with a spark, the fire ignited. But under the blazing black or orange flames laid burnt charcoals of the same grey colour. Where’s that Magic of Friendship they so desperately tried to spread now? Ponies talk big of not judging a single entity based on hearsay, but see their leaders making bad decisions and now all changelings became the evil boogeyponies that haunts foals’ bedrooms, sucking their love when they least suspect? An entire species built the way they were, unable to change their nature, and it just so happened that ponies were their entire lifeline of existence. What happened to Love and Tolerate? What happened to pursuing peace and reaching a mutual understanding? “Heh, foolish.” Those words escaped my mouth, an accidental expression of opinion which the two certainly did not like. The two mares turned with absolute disappointment and anger, before leaving with a twirl of Trixie’s cape. Even as they walked away, those eyes were unmistakable. Disgustion. Disdain. Contempt. Not even to the changelings, but to their fellow pony. Confront idealists with reality and their confident visage crumbles. Hypocrites, the load of them. Another individual entered my alleyway, a janitor changeling from the building. She sneered a look, huffed in exhaustion, dumped the trash, and moved back inside. Honest disgust for my bad odour, and most-likely foul-tasting love. A tiny bit of pity for my living condition. Hunger, which retreated upon the sight of my being. She left a big bucket of water, a bar of soap, and a stern instruction to bathe. Probably only to not have me stink the entire block. Not of care, or concern. Only selfish reasons. Still, free hygiene care. Who am I to refuse?
Chapter 5: Under the Protection of the ProtectressManehattan. City of hope and progress. Where changelings realized that to have ponies with love meant pampering them on a reasonable scale. Ponies to changelings are what cows are to ponies. Cattle, sapient commodity. Only more delicate, soft, and prone to breakdowns. The war really didn’t help with that, but with passing years and great effort by the Protectress to do as her namesake told, ponies eventually somewhat warmed up to the idea of a mutual coexistence. Boosting interspecies relationship was the invention of painless love extraction methods, which substance would be processed for both changelings and ponies alike. Food for one, legal recreational drug for the other. True, not all the efforts came from ponies fighting for their freedom. The protectress, Lilac, ensured ponies get recompense, repaired living conditions, and a return to Manehattan’s former status quo of bling and glam. She kinda had to, else her position as Protectress meant her head will be the first to go as ponies recovered and readied a liberation movement. For the first time in years, Manehattan became the land of opportunity it once were. For both ponies, and changelings too. Coexistence took a toll on both parties, and it showed. As I walked down the refurbished streets, changelings sneered at the ponies, angry on how they had to rely on such uppity creatures. Ponies sneered back, angry at their supposed captors sucking the souls out of them. Few decided working together meant betterment for both, but few was all it took for the protectorate to begin it’s rise as a country better than both Equestria and Changeling Lands combined. The adults traded glares, but the foals and nymphs played without a care. No politics, no speciesism. No memories of past wars, for they won’t remember what they never saw nor told. Once diminishing Magic of Friendship, alive once more, in a place least expected. A pair of them approached my lanky self with candies in hoof, and bright smiles on their faces. Eager to share, ready to compromise. Even to an aging stallion like me. Manehattan hadn’t grown into its former glory, but it needed none of it. For children’s laughter in sunny open spaces, adults swallowed their pride and strapped on their boots. A resurgence like no other. Manehattan Economic Miracle. Commemorating the miracle was a new statue, built to replace the former Lady Friendship. A pony and a changeling, lifting a torch, under a beautiful green robe. A symbol of a new future of understanding and cooperation. One such example was the revamped Love Tax. Tax in nothing but name, really. Love became a commodity, given by ponies, paid and processed by changelings, consumed by both. Huge competitive markets emerged from both public and private sectors. Increasingly satisfied ponies led to tastier love, which led to well-fed changelings. Those changelings would work and satisfy ponies more, and the cycle continues. Even for a waste of society like me, they would open soup kitchens for the weak, disabled, and unfit to contribute. Segregation between the two species wasn’t an unusual sight, but neither complained. Better that way, than forcing an unstable equality between two disparate sets of beings. Love became a prominent additive in the rising New Manehattanite cuisine. Wisps of their unique, sixth taste sensation caressed my mouth as I took another gulp of the free soup graciously ladled by a young changeling. Her bright smile with two cute little fangs shyly peeking out of her lips lifted the taste even more. Shame she already has a lover, but even I knew when to quit. Finished from lunch, I walked back to my humble abode: the same broken van I had lived in for years on end, the same alleyway I saw everytime I woke up, the same grumpy janitor entering from the backdoor by the crack of dawn. The thing about hygiene was that you never knew how sorely you missed it, until you eventually got it back. Thank that janitor for my habit of cleaning the van and the alleyway every Saturday. The building itself became an outpost, an administrative building. As with the rest of Manehattan, gone was the obnoxiously undergroundly changeling architecture and colouration, replaced with a mix of superior changeling tastes and superior pony design expertise. No longer did the protectress walk alone with a single jumpy changeling as guard. Now both ponies and changelings stood right beside her, serving their duty as guardians to the de facto leader of New Manehattan. One of them stood in all his stoicness, withered eyes spacing out into the unknown. Even as he was relieved of the day’s duty, his only instinct would be to grab a smoke and puff it out on the sidewalk. Old habits die hard, even as the cigarettes became actual cigars and tobacco pipes. Might have to do with his cutie mark, but I beg to differ. I nodded, and he nodded. We took a smoke together in all our glorious silence, before he went home. I followed, if only to steal myself a bath. He never did seem to mind. During the walk, he wasn’t the only being I recognized. Life came full circle, with some rising back into the stars, and some slumping down into the dumps. The changeling junior, Steviosol, stood tall and proud, guarding a banking building, his trusty rifle in hoof. A stage performer and her wagon, displaying colourful magic to entertain and amaze both adults and foals alike. Good to see Trixie having her life back. Some weren’t so lucky. Coloratura stayed out of her pop business ever since her slump. Never saw her since that one time way back when. An actual bum searched through Cigar’s trash, familiar light fuschia mare under a familiar purple starry cape, now weathered and torn. She reacted with anger upon my gaze, and stormed off with a gait fit for nobleponies. A wise pony said you can judge how advanced a civilization really is by its trash. Considering the trash that bum took was used thaumatronics and last night’s leftovers, I’d say Manehattan became quite the well-off city it had used to be. I entered the house, took a bath, and left. After sharing a smoke, of course. No words said, only nods and understanding. Walking back to my van, I spied a mom-and-pops shop. Before, I would’ve gone straight for the trash bins, but I learned that I could skip the process entirely. Entering, an elderly changeling couple way past their prime greeted me with a serene smile only found in loving parents. They had expired food they couldn’t return, and I took them for myself. In the end, it was still dumpster diving. An act I knew and loved, the only thing I’ve ever mastered, streamlined so efficiently that even the “dumpster” part became arbitrary. My everlasting constant in this newly-minted Manehattan, so far removed from its original. In my world, nothing ever did change. Only me, and the dumpsters. The streets, the alleyways, and the one gun I had took care of ever since that time during the war. And perhaps the smoker stallion. The world, however, changed. Swept my own world away from me. No more damp alleyways with slimy dumpsters I had to dig through for a piece of moldy bread. No more sleeping in cardboard boxes under fierce storms. No more uncertainty of war society had felt for X-years too long. Looking back at the old couple, and the help wanted sign by the door, it was apparent that the world changed around them, sweeping their own world as well. The way granny changeling limped as her hips sagged. How grandpa changeling would switch between three different glasses, constantly flicking his gaze to a family portrait with all heads crossed but theirs. The both of us, victims of war. Not of the theatres, not of the fighting, but of the mundanes. The results of war no one ever took time to analyze. The deeper nuances of the homefronts, the little changes in a happy ending that everyone forgot to ever look. My world, the unhappy corner I stuck my guns in, just because it was familiar. Their world, a failing shop too traditional for the changing times, most likely kept because they had no choice. But I do have a choice, don’t I? A small step towards a greater change, and maybe easing a bit of their pain as well. Might it be the time? After all this time? At my age? I looked once more. Staying for too long made them anxious. Expecting me to take the step, take the offer, take the job. Improve their situation. Waiting. Hoping. Grandpa flicked his graying pupilless eyes once more to the portrait. Maybe it was indeed time for me to get up my rump and join society once more. A small change for me, a giant leap for my world. “May I apply for the job?” I asked. Their faces lit with joy, reversing their ages by several decades as they taught me the tools of their trade. This is it. For the better or worse... ...maybe it's the former, for once.
