Push and Shove

The evening air is cool, too chilled for personal comfort, crisp and sharp.

Not cold, but a hair's width away from being entirely unpleasant. The coat of a pony does well to insulate, but the breeze, the draft can still penetrate the outer defenses. Luna should soon be dominating the night sky, painting a tapestry above the sleeping bodies of Equus, then retreating to her chamber to patrol the dreamscape.

She herself has had trouble sleeping of late, not that she would betray that to her sister. Princess Celestia hums softly to herself and glances over to the window, pouring out onto the balcony and giving way to the most breathtaking vista of Canterlot. How intriguing their lives must be, how normal, the ponies of her city. Each with their own story, beginning and ending with resounding notes of normalcy.

How she wishes she had the same comfort; heavy is the crown.

Celestia sits relaxed upon her chair, a wooden thing, simple and easy. A far cry from the troubling emissary of The Griffon Kingdom on his way to the suite. Her experiences with Ambassador Greatbeak had often been verbal sparring matches, diplomatic chessboards with which she fought many battles, but Greatbeak was not a good sportspony.

Often, Celestia was left with the impression that Greatbeak found her company a nuisance at best. He did well to disguise his emotions and his facial expressions, but the movements of his body were not so practiced. The best cards players in Equestria could not hide their intentions, nor their feelings from her gaze.

Despite the utility of the skill, she found the application to be a frustrating process.

Princess Celestia stands with a knock at the door, a calm and graceful rise. Guards usher within Ambassador Greatbeak, a retired general of the Imperial Claw, now an old and unfortunately familiar face. His long plumes of feathers have grayed with age, the old lion coat now faded and brittle, papery and frail. His beak is indeed quite great, the long dull yellow taut and firm in a mask of neutrality. His striking golden eyes remain vigilant and sharp, even in his age.

He nods to her Guardsponies, then looks to her. He says nothing, but Celestia predicts the outcome of this conversation will be similar to others shared. She beckons him in.

"Good evening, Ambassador," she says warmly, bowing her head.

"Good evening, Princess Celestia." Little wiggle room for warmth in the old generals speech, curt and formal. His voice has a quiet sharpness, like a blade drawn from a scabbard.

He walks in, his claws tapping against the polished sandstone flooring. Celestia glides back down to her chair, adjusting items upon the table. She takes the teakettle and heats it with her magic, inspecting the ambassador as she does so. He fidgets about in his chair, plush with deep red cushions, built to seat a king in relentless comfort.

A king he is not.

"Tea?"

"Yes, please," Greatbeak nods slowly.

It's been a few hours since the shots stopped. Every now and then, something will thud against the security door. I'm sitting against it, trying not to fall asleep. The plexiglass is covered in a layer of... something. Viscera. I don't want to attempt looking through it. I don't know if anyone made it on the other side. I've stopped crying. I can't bring myself to cry anymore. The power came back on briefly, went out again about five minutes later.

I've thought about shooting myself. I don't want to turn into one of those things, but I also don't have the constitution to put an end to it. At least, not here. Not alone. What time is it? The watch is cracked, I must've hit it against something in the struggle. It's still ticking. 4 PM. I must've fallen asleep at some point. I guess adrenaline can only take you so far when nothing's happening. I shift my weight and feel something in my pocket. I fish it out and I see Bootstrap's... Pete's silver crucifix. The strangest sense of déjà vu descends over me.

Why?

Enough is enough. The sound of my own voice in my head and I can't remember. I can't remember what I was thinking about. But I remember that I have to get out of here.

The nuke should have gone off by now, at least, according to what the facility manual stated regarding full containment breach. That means that either the situation is under control, or no one is around to activate it. Maybe that's what I'll do with the time I have left, before they find me. If I'm right, I'm somewhere in the East Wing of Gamma. I might still be able to make it out. But what does that mean? What does life mean when most everyone is SCP-2480-3? Whatever. It means nothing until I can find a map, and the evacuation route is on the other side of this door. I stand sluggishly and push forward. I guess that's all I can do. I stuff the crucifix back into my pocket.

I dig through cabinets and drawers, searching for anything of use. I think this wing of Gamma was devoted to SCP-940 files, considering all of the documentation I'm finding about this spider. It's frustrating and I hate spiders. I'm going cubicle to cubicle, none of the terminals are powered and none of the desks have anything of importance on them. I pull out drawers and throw them to the ground to keep everything in-sight. I manage to find a water dispenser and some paper cups, so at least thirst isn't an issue at the moment.

I take a cup and fill it, sipping as I review the carnage of this formerly neat office space. I loop around a few times to see if there's anything I've missed. No maps to be found. Look's like everyone knew their way around. I try the door at the other end of the hall, past the offices, but it doesn't budge. I look at the scanner and realize that my ID was still attached to my coat down in Delta. I slump against the wall and rest my head against it, breathing deeply. Even if there were a way out of Gamma, maybe even outside, I can't get to it.

Then I see it. There, on the wall, there's a small crease. It's almost invisible in this lighting, but I see it. I feel the air is cooler in this corner. Sure enough, there's a draft by my fingers. I try to pry the wall-door open, but it won't budge. I can hear the humming of machinery within. Then I push, and it recedes into the wall slightly. It stays there. I pull on the wall again and it slides open, revealing a dimly lit maintenance hallway. It's almost pitch-black in here, but spaced service lights illuminate a walkway. I put my mask back on.

I turn back to face the security door and I see something move behind the plexiglass. My heart tightens.

"Alright," I murmur quietly, "let's do this."

Why does this feel so familiar? I've said this before... what's happening?

My legs push me forward and I walk into the maintenance corridor with my pistol raised. What was I on about?

Following the tunnels for ten minutes gets me back out to the cafeteria, access port. I'm walking over and around corpses. There's bodies everywhere. Some still move and twitch, even buried under other bodies, but I figure making any fuss about it is going to draw unwanted attention. Bullet casings all over the place, guts and grime on the walls, the doors. The floors are wet. Blood, and lots of water. Was there a fire? I creep into kitchen and see someone standing there. They are facing away from me, twitching uncontrollably. I hear a painful gagging sound from the corner, and I see another figure pulling handfuls of... something, from a corpse. It slaps the handfuls against it's mouth and burbles incoherently.

I see a bottle of vodka on the counter, flanked by two glasses. Fire is good for putting these things down, right? What...

I'm backing up when I knock a soap dispenser off the wall. It clatters against the floor and makes the loudest sound I've ever heard, and it seems they've heard it too. The one in the corner looks at me like a frightened animal and chitters. The standing one doesn't turn around, it's head lulls back and distends down to it's lower back, looking at me upside-down.

It's McKay... McKay. I'm sorry.

All hell breaks loose.

The blend is from a Zebrican tribe, specifically requested for the fine smoky grape undertones, a rich presence with a pleasant tang. The aftertaste is better than the sip, a rare quality in tea, and a rarer blend she has yet to find. Greatbeak may not appreciate the sentiment and the thought behind the selection, but she will. Princess Celestia pours her tea into two teacups, ornately crafted, gold inlays and striking white porcelain.

"Canterlot is quite nice at this time of day, cooler. Not quite like Griffonstone, but nice," Greatbeak says with measured cadence.

"Indeed. Our weather teams work hard to ensure a comfortable climate," Celestia agrees.

"Hm."

She sets the two teacups gently down upon their trays and pushes his across the table with her magic. It slides and stops near his hands, a well-practiced maneuver over many, many centuries. It appears the theatrics do not register to Greatbeak. His tongue taps the top of his beak.

"You seem troubled, Greatbeak," Celestia says quietly.

Greakbeak pushes his saucer to the side with a talon, eyeing the Princess.

"I am," he begins with a similar volume, "deeply troubled."

Here it comes.

"Griffonstone needs to expand and we need your support in the matter. We need the territory to the East, Sugar Maple Grove," his tone grows more demanding as he finishes. A challenge of sorts.

"You forget, Ambassador, that Cobblerock is under protection of the Crown," Celestia says, then sips her tea, carefully watching his face.

In the most miniscule of motions, the feathers distort and shift, before once again blending into the mask.

"I will be upfront, I don't like this politics shit, and I don't like asking for things I know I won't get. I must ask that you cede some territory. The Empire needs it. Our farms are not producing enough for the winter, our hunters struggle to find good meat. The best we can do now is plan for the next."

Celestia sets her teacup down carefully and rotates the cup until the handle's shadow is cast over the side. She looks back to Greatbeak.

"I will not go back on my oath to the ponies of Cobblerock, Greatbeak. I can provide some of our harvest to alleviate the strain on your Empire, however," she says smoothly.

"You understand that King Galbeck won't accept it, your Highness. He's..." Greatbeak struggles to find the word.

"A stubborn old fool," Celestia finishes with a small smile.

The feathers of his neck rise imperceptibly, his claw tightening just a fraction. His eyes widen less than a centimeter. What was a mere observation has become a lance, striking at the heart of Griffon Pride.

"Do not speak of my King in that manner," he says tersely.

"Do you disagree? Galbeck has not-"

"I shan't besmirch his name, and I won't tolerate it of a pony!" Greatbeak shouts, his old voice breaking with passion, claw slammed down onto the table. The guard in the corner brandishes his gladius, the guard in the back charging his horn pre-emptively. He glares at her, an awful blade of a glare, and keeps his posture for a few moments. She nods to her guards to calm themselves.

"If you won't give it, we'll take it," he says, confidence draining, the bluff transparent.

Celestia's eyes light up and burn through him, down to the barest nub of his being. The challenge is open. He realizes quickly that he has treaded unfamiliar territory, that he has broken a core rule of the diplomats tenets. His eyes soften and his beak twists up, the mistake plain to see.

"I am sorry, Princess Celestia. I... have misspoken," he says quickly.

It is not enough and Celestia stands, chair thrown behind her.

The realm of dreams stretches on endlessly, a space shared by all creatures of Equus, a domain touched by the minds of mortals and built of their fears and aspirations. The work of the Lunar Princess was something she took very seriously, and during her banishment to the moon, the nightmares ran rampant throughout the minds of the sleeping. The cold comfort of the dream realm brought relief to Princess Luna, a reprieve from the stresses of the day and the trials of the waking hours. The nobles, the management of the Lunar Guard, the slow trickling of responsibilities from Princess Celestia's work-load.

This was where she felt the most at peace, but one nightmare echoes across the fabric of the domain, rippling outwards and pooling into the dreams of others. Princess Luna frowned. She had seen such nightmares before, but the sheer terror of this event exploded outward into a cacophony of anxious rumblings and fearful whispers. She had never seen one of this scale...

Save for Liam Webb.

Liam did not dream as the rest of ponykind did. Their dreams were vivid, bright orbs floating above their sleeping forms, obscured in the fog of the dream world. They radiated calm blues and panicked purples, while the griffons alternated between yellows and oranges, and the dragons kept golden and green. Their dreams often incorporated the more primal, aggressive nature of their species, the thrill of the hunt and the rush of combat. She often strayed from these dreams for fear of the psychic backlash that often resulted in the taming of those thoughts.

Liam's is a deep red, bright tendrils wrapped around it like vines, constricting and pulsing ominously in the space before him. Never before had she seen anything like this, these strange formations about a dreamer. Luna's heart thudded deep within her chest at the sight. The pulses it released sent tremors outwards, spilling some of that red into the dreams of nearby sleepers. She calms their dreams and approached Liam's orb. As she draws nearer, she feels another pulse wash over her, dread and terror sinking down to the bone. She shivers and shakes away the sensation.

His form writhes in the fog below, sprawled about and taken by his nightmares. She could try to dispel the terror from outside the dream, to calm the storm, but she felt a strangely familiar presence about his orb. Something dark, hungry and terrible, something she knew like a ghost of a memory.

She sets a hoof against the orb and the tendrils slither away from her touch, but flare in brightness and intensity, almost in agitation. They squirm and writhe and she swallows nervously.

Steeling herself for things to come, she inhales shakily, then enters the whirlwind.

The orb expands over her as she enters the dream, waves of red energy pooling and whizzing past her. The sensation is abrasive and uncomfortable, but not until she crosses the threshold does it become too much. Luna nearly doubles over as the waves of fear and stress pour over her. A patchwork tapestry of memories formed about ahead, details missing and blurred lines of areas without Liam's sight. The stench of bodies and the oppressive heat of the complex floats about her. She sees him, running through the hallways of this strange building, shapeless horrors in pursuit, terrible screeches resounding behind him.

"Liam!"

As the words leave her mouth, she feels an oppressive weight settle upon her shoulders, her forelegs rooted and her hindlegs straining under the strange pressure. She gasps instinctively and cranes her head to look over at this force. A shadow moves across the wall and she shudders uncontrollably as it retreats into the floor.

She begins to cast a spell to calm the dream, to dispel the nightmare, but nothing happens. In fact, she finds that the pressure returns, pushing inward against her horn. His fears cannot be this powerful, can they? She outstretches her wings to brush past her horn when a gnawing, scraping feeling permeates about the edges of her mind. Luna's eyes widen in panic. It floods in before she can put up a defense, memories of her banishment, memories of her sister and the Elements of Harmony flash before her eyes.

The isolation, the despair, the hatred and the fury. The heart-wrenching sensations pushes Luna to her knees and she stifles a sob. Flashes of fangs, torn limbs, sinew and bone, blood and gore. Bile rises in her throat and she scrunches her eyes tight.

"P̴̞͘ř̵͉e̴͚͊y̵̬͗."

The word explodes over her skeleton, spoken in a deep and guttural language. She understands not the word, but the meaning, and it burns and sizzles against her skin. Her fur stands and her brow furrows in concentration. She cannot find the assailant, it seems everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Luuuunaaa-"

"Enough!" she screams, sending a powerful flash of magic from her horn, dispelling the presence in her mind.

Something is there with them, spirit or demon, something is here and it is hostile. Luna stands and wipes away her tears with her wingtips, anger burning in her heart, frustration and agony twisting up her features. Whatever resides within Liam's mind must be vanquished.

The patchwork disappears as Liam makes his way further down the hall, the floor and ceiling disappearing into blackness. The shapes of the horrid monsters lumbering after him twist and deform, turning to face her. Her breath stops as vaguely realized, misshapen and cruel eyes settle upon her.

The dream constructs should not be able to see her. They reach out.

Luna charges her horn with a snarl.

"No, you have not misspoken. You have been very clear."

The words seem to reverberate in his mind after they leave her lips. Her mane, colored and tranquil, has become a restrained storm. She steps around the table and her hooffalls seem to crash as they land. Her hard gaze bores deep, and the air seems to grow hotter.

A big mistake. Celestia casts a spell and the sounds of the outside disappear. A show of force is in order, a language that the old general will understand.

"Let me be clear and drop our diplomatic pretenses, you overgrown pigeon. Do you know who I am? What I am?"

Greatbeak goes to stand, but finds no assistance in his legs. His heart tightens. She approaches.

"On my whims, I move the Sun," the word is like cannonfire, felt in his very bones.

His mouth opens, but no words come. She stands before him like a goddess of fire.

"I push and pull upon that star like a teacup. I have seen more wars than any who have lived, strength unimaginable, toppled and crushed empires beneath my hoof. I have watched civilizations rise and fall, grow and die."

Greatbeak can do little but witness the onslaught, see the glow of her eyes and the blinding light of her horn. He cannot escape, he cannot run. He can do nothing but witness. Like a volcano, the flow and current of her speech burns and scathes, a torture of its own breed. He had heard of the Royal Canterlot voice, but he assumed it was an exaggerated shouting. This was something else entirely.

"Who are you, griffon, to stand before me? To listen to the words I speak unto the world? If I wished it, Griffonstone would be ash, your people vagrants. Your arrogance," she booms, "is not welcome here."

The bubble around them disappears. He could hear outside again. He could see her guards now, exposed from their hiding places. They watched on in shock, and they watch now. The light dims again, then candles are relit with a quick ignition by her horn. She speaks softly, towering above him now, face like volcanic rock.

"I understand your position. I empathize, I truly do," she says softly, like a blanket during a snowstorm.

"That being said, if you ever, ever speak like that of my little ponies again, I shall pluck every feather from your sorry hide and send you back to Griffonstone immediately. Do you understand?"

Her eyes betray her exact intentions to follow through on that threat.

"Do you understand me, Ambassador?"

"Yes, Princess Celestia," he says quietly.

"Good. Now you will pardon me for the tone that you have set for this conversation. Cobblerock is under my protection. Cobblerock will cede no land to the Griffon Empire. Sugar Maple Grove is mine. If any action is made against Cobblerock, I will consider it an attack on Equestrian soil. You will have grain sent to you by train in three weeks time, which you will accept or deny, dependent upon your common sense. No more and no less."

She dares him to object with her eyes.

"Very well," he says somberly.

He does not.

"On the matter of your Graymourne expedition, we shall send some members of the Lunar Guard to act as escorts and scouts, alongside some of our own researchers. Do you find that acceptable?"

His defiance surges.

"Does the answer I give matter?"

"No. If you wish to negotiate more, return tomorrow with more tact and decorum befitting an ambassador, otherwise you will make do with what stands now. Leave my sight," she finishes lowly.

He stands briskly and is out the door without any word. She exhales slowly and smiles at her guards with a motherly face, tinged with regret and shame.

"I am sorry you had to see all that."

"I'm just happy I didn't hear it, ma'am," Flash Sentry answers.

She quirks an eyebrow at him and he smiles sheepishly.

The walls are closing in, my heart is thudding in my chest and bodies are rising off the floor. Some reach for me, I'm too fast. One of them turns towards me on the ground and I kick it in the head while I'm running. I can see the burnt-out remnants of the Ethics Committee Boardroom down the hall to my left. There was a fire.

Left. I'm near my cubicle, down the hall to the right is Torrez' office. Bathrooms two doors down from that, security another down from them. They're behind me, not very fast, but fast enough. A lot of them are charred beyond recognition, mutated or otherwise hacked apart by bullets, but I can still see glimpses of people I know in some. I run down the hall and pass Torrez. Wait.

Torrez? She's sitting in the corner of her office with the door locked, but I can see her through the shutters. She has her eyes closed. Is she dead? I bang on her door with a closed fist and see no movement. Her ID card is hanging on her coat jacket. The moans and groans of the infected are getting closer. Fuck. Fuck! I punch through the glass with the bottom of the pistol. The glass tears into the flesh of my hand, along the back and bottom. I'd scream, but I've got no time. I clear what I can from the pane and jump through. I ripped the bottom of my trousers going through, but I'm in here now. I stuff my gun into the back of my waistband and I move over to her body to grab the ID card.

"Liam, hear us!"

What was that?

Before I can yank it off, her eyes open and she grabs my arm. She tries to bite me and I kick her back down to the ground. Her eyes are wide, and now that I'm close, I can see chunks of flesh missing from her leg. She swipes at me, but I'm faster. I kick her again, and again, and again. I lose myself for a moment, the intensity of it all. When I step back, her head is a puddle, hair matted and wet against the carpet.

I swallow weakly at the sight, throat dry and eyes misted.

"Sorry Torrez..."

One of them gets through the broken window. It flails and hits the ground. I grab Torrez' keycard and go through the door. One of them tries to grab me but I club it with the bottle. It falls to the side and I retreat. There's too many of them, and they're getting faster now. Hive-mind? Pheromones? There's no time to think about the science behind it, I need to get to the security office. If I'm right, the security office is connected to the North and South hallways, meaning I can take the North hall back to the evacuation route.

I get to the door and use the card. I get in and shut the door. I don't have to worry about them getting through the plexiglass. My hand hurts, bad. I rip my sleeve on my left arm and wrap it up, tying it as tight as I can against the skin. There's already a lot of blood on the floor; I'm leaking. It's going to hurt worse in a second, I'm going to pour the vodka on it. It has to be done. The sharp heat in my hand becomes molten when the first droplets hit my makeshift bandages. I have to stop myself from screaming. I'm sweating like crazy, shaking.

I sit down for a moment in one of the free swivel chairs and rest my head in my left hand. I set the bottle down, the pain is intense. I'm breathing too fast. I take the mask off and lean back into the chair. I look over to the plexiglass and see them staring at me, some are trying to break through. They can't seem to figure it out. A-plus for effort, you bastards. One of them turns away from the glass to look down the hall, then looks back to me. It's eyes are different, terrible and knowing. A mutant? Red and black. Melting, rotting, breaking, bleeding.

"Begone, Demon!" The words, the scream, it echoes throughout the floors and shakes the very foundations of reality. That voice... where have I heard that voice? My gun slips and falls to the floor, falling through it. The fear stays, the heart working away, but the pain withers away into nothingness. The room, the walls, all bleeding away.

She's there, in that darkness. Her dark blue coat and her billowing mane like a beacon in a void. I run to her, but my legs begin sinking in the black. I writhe and shout, punching at it, sinking further and further.

Her horn illuminates the darkness with a massive explosion of light, and behind her, I see Hell itself.

I scream out, and the darkness bleeds away in a flash of panic.

Author's Note

I have not edited this at all, so sorry if there's mistakes! Hope you all enjoy!
:D

EDIT: Comments, as always, are welcome here!

* EDIT 2: Original chapter ending has been moved to the beginning of the first chapter!