Groom Hornwell's 2022

My name is Red and I work at the Stablo’s Press building. My job is simple but it has a catch. You can write all you want about fake data, for example, the number of horseshoes that has been produced by the draught-ponies or the new territories that have been annexed to Equestria. But, if you commit the mistake to make it appear that it is all a lie, you are probably going to get arrested, as if you were a member of the opposition against Twilight Sparkle’s government.

I live in Canterlot. I’m lucky to say that. It’s probably the safest and prettiest place of all in these war times. In the streets you’ll see lines and lines of unicorns and others, waiting for their entrance to factories, to do who knows what. The reality is that we ponies here are desperate for a job so that we don’t get drafted.

I wake up thanks to the morning siren. There’s atleast one on a pole in every residential block.

Now getting food can be tricky. It’s discouraged to eat the grass on the ground because of the acid rain-clouds that are brought by griffon squads. The only viable option is the feed right tickets. In order to receive this ticket, you must prove that you have a job (see the importance). If you don’t have a function defined and are mildly healthy, you can say goodbye to your loved ones and get sent to the Griffonian or Zebrican front.

It doesn’t really matter if you are a unicorn, a pegasus or an earthie, atleast not for the government. I feel glad to be a unicorn because it really eases writing the newspaper. If I get drafted I’d probably be taught how to transform my horn into a laser gun that efficiently kills flying griffons.

I don’t have a family, nor a coltfriend. I have nopony to ever visit me if they lock me up in the Canterlot’s Dungeons. This prison is underground the east side of the city and it's connected to a network of caves in the same mountain where Canterlot is supported.

Every day, on my trot to work, and then waiting in a too long line to enter the Press, I see crying dams, whether saying good bye to their drafted children or getting out of the dungeons after visiting them.

By title, I’m a draught-pony, but my function is one of the most ponitical. Journalism. I think that the only reason they gave me this job is the fact that I have never been seen with non-ponies and there’s no record of it at all. But, since I have no family, meaning nothing to lose, I’ll probably never be promoted to boss or get into a high-risk confidential position.

When the line finally advances, I get into the press building. The inside is too white and boring. There is a strong smell of sweat, and I seem to be the only one to forget there are no windows when I try desperately to find one.

Another siren, this time with a different tone, marks the start of duty. Me and my hundred colleagues find our places to work.

Celestia, give me patience for this eleven hours shift. I’ll never get used to this routine.