A Playback

Chapters

Last Days
An Order of Blues
Second Sun
Free and Strong
A Thousand Weeks
Eternal Morning

Last Days

All focus is on the visitor's bag left open on the interrogating table.

Lie detector tests, blood samples, and facial recognition programs showered the poor creature, but no falsity was found.

Weapons were confiscated upon entry into the crossing station, ammunition the border guards must've only been lightly familiar with.The hippogriffs were proud creatures, but under some self-proclaimed "technocratic-revanchist regime," it sought for efficient ways to maim beyond the fracturing of one’s will to live. That "outdated" pistol outclasses its counterparts others see on the belts and buckles of the ponies at the threshold of the Southern Territories, north of which lay civilization, though of the stuffy, criminal Klugetown kind.

It's cramped in the office of the station's commander. Outside, storms flooded the windows with a destructive dance of droplets to the crack of infantile lightning. The boat on which the traveler went to the weather station-border hub has vanished, not that it can move through mountains.

The earth pony commander himself, a burly specimen with a beret, Eye Wall, takes up a computer and plays the records of the visitor’s entrance into the border crossing. He closes the visitor's bag while the footage repeats. "Should've expected someone like you to be more talkative.Tell me, bribing us with this thing? You do know the statement you are making with trying to push this past customs, don’t you?"

"It's not a bribe, but something that needs to be said. It's not a threat to you. I can broadcast the fallout to the world, if you'd like."

Eye Wall sighs as he unzips the bag once more, keeping it hidden from its owner. "It's much to sift through, just to see if they're the real article. The Arisian League and what came after… those sea-birds with a chip on their withers, bombing the yetis 'cause of a king who's been dead for decades… you're too thorough, too bold coming in like this, to be one of their double agents."

The visitor nods, letting the commander scour through the bag's contents in a sober stupor.

The lack of rain deafens Cauliflower against the four confines of her prison cell. She tried beating her clawprint-locked cuffs against the door, but the guards left welling scars on her cheeks, beat her with the butt of their humming guns. It’s the same hum that lines the corners of her walls, of neon tubes that lulled the earth pony to sleep.

Bandits, masked and all they are, though it’s in sleek metal clothes, with face-censoring visors, save for the beaks protruding out of their glass heads. They pinned her to the ground, forced her to eat dirt singed by lasers "to get a taste of the local cooking," shoved her into the back of a warehouse, stripped her clean from all protection and devices, rolled her into her cell.

The lingo flies over her head, whether spoken calmly or through muffled screams, but the terms sound military enough. A retreat, with how desperate they are in asking for back-up. When all is silent, the hum alone shrouds her again. It is at least cold in here, if barren.

Tinny steps grace her ears. Pressurized air hisses out from the room beside her. Scurried steps, probably hoofsteps, preclude the shouts of someone brand new. The door slides open to let a beak enter her vision. Clad in nothing but local Arisian clothes, though they don’t do a good job hiding the square bulges of armor underneath, her griffon savior points a metal tube at her. A duffle bag and a keycard is in the another claw.

"Your name?" he asks.

His face conjures up documents and briefings back home, back with her ragtag team (if it can even be called a team) of researchers and online reporters. The information about him oozes something ruthless. There’ve been others like him in his line of work, but he’s their star, the poster child, the name her contacts despise with good reason.

"You’re… Gerwin, are you?" she asks, her courage all steeled up. "The Redactor?"

"Old nickname, miss, but yes. Come with me." He beckons with his claw which is tight on what is a gun but not one she can put her hoof on mentally. His wings spread out to throw a bag at her. "Your belongings. Your wrist screen's in there; must be hot stuff. The rest of your friends are out in the foyer. Head up north until you reach the Sea of Clouds’ Demilitarized Region. Some border guards are corrupt, but that’s where bribes come in. Come on, miss, don’t look at me like that." He snaps his claws, and she wakes up more in the head. "You want to live or not? I won’t be alone in a minute."

Her hoof' grabbed, she stumbles against her legs over a dozen wires and tiles polished to a fault. More tubes and neon lights daze her, afterimages assaulting her foggy state.

"Where are we?" she asks, but the warble of a noisy crowd is shot into her ears as she’s shoved into the mass of sweaty and desperate creatures, hooves and claws and coats giving her warmth as the lights blind everything else from view.

They give Gerwin a sharp, eternal shadow. "Down the watchtower you all go! You’re not safe here! Back-up's on the way, and they're not for you! Head up north, get to the border!"

The clank of a lever is pulled, and the weight beneath her vanishes, to the nightmarish pumping of her veins.

The fall was great, though some "levitation field" cushioned the impact, from what the others are saying in the confusion of landing. The swarm of ex-prisoners flee on a sluggish stampede, leaving Cauliflower coughing, breathing dirt and dust, bruised but not battered. Stairs under a spotlight catch her eyes, blotting out the sky. She will not leave her target be, even if the watchtower does indeed rival the Manehattan skyscrapers in height.

Hurled insults and jeers from her escapees, she weathers, barely making out the rest of the staired hallway in a weird stack of cubes and pyramids and beeping static yet not-so-static pages stuck on the walls. Monitors vomit out text and code she doesn't understand, and she smells smoke, fire, electronics burning and malfunctioning, alarm bells ringing without a clear end.

"Hey!"

She skids, tries to stop; she bumps into his beak. The voice is Gerwin's, and his rough demeanor asserts itself when he rubs his cracked beak with one claw, keeps her at gunpoint with the other. Her heart pounds like an erratic drummer. He can shoot her dead now, sure, but that claw—something primal awakens, whispering about prey being backed in a corner against a predator at his peak.

To resist the urge to scream then run then get shot, she widens her vision. A little suitcase lies behind him, already open. Numbers on small monitors flash beside a pair of crystals that are definitely magic; runes and spells are etched into its metal innards.

"What is that?!" Cauliflower yells to buy time.

"Ultra-explosive." The gun stays aimed at her, but he walks backwards to pat the briefcase there. A sense of pride, something she can relate to, hopefully. "Crystals harvested right here. They contain polar opposite magics, triggered by signals like radio. All it takes is those crystals to slam against each other, then you have a violent chain reaction worth a dozen kilotons."

He presses a switch on the gun. It winds up, thrums red-hot; the chamber spins as if about to run her over. "Why are you still here? Do you have friends I should know about?" Gray eyes bore into her, scooping the fear out of her chest.

She digs into her bag, on reflex, to pull out laminated IDs. "Cauliflower Shrew, reporter from EQNX. I'm here to cover the ongoing Arisian Civil War."

"Unprepared," he judges. "Your pistol makes it clear you're from Equestria. They're way behind. I don't care. Griffonstone, the zebras, ponies like you—they all want to jump in and get what we have. Particle beams, super batteries, modular villages, bombs good enough to serve up whole cities. All that, and they send you in with armor any private here can fry?"

But she just stares back at him, wordless, trying to bore into his eyes as revenge. Tough guys belittled her before, not just because she's been short her whole life. Doesn't help that non-Equestrians call her cutesy because of her non-threatening colors.

But the droning crystal bomb stands out to her ears. Such raw power, contained in a single briefcase, and Gerwin's here smiling like a smug jerk, like it's no big deal. "Call me naive," she begins, back-talking tough, "but I’m here to give the Equestrians and the rest of the world the truth."

The gun stays steady on her. "How would you protect yourself?"

"You scavenge guns, why can't I? You can show me a soldier you’ve killed, can’t you?" she bluffs.

"First time hearing that from a pony reporter." He puts one digit of his claw away from the gun. It hasn't budged from its target. "This place was made for hippogriffs, but I'm sure there’s a spare vest for smaller creatures. Any guns they have won't fit you; can't fit a hoof through a trigger guard."

"Give me duct tape and a screwdriver. I'll live," she replies with a huff. "I’ve seen enough fragmented reports from the former Arisian League that pony refugees here have to improvise."

Another digit moves away from the gun, though the trigger travels a crushing centimeter. "Well-versed. Doesn’t mean you’ve practiced."

She takes a step closer to master the fear of a gun pointed at her head once more. "I've been in smaller conflicts, though I never got captured myself until now. My pistol's served me well in deterring brigands and terrorists."

"Deterrence is worth nothing here." He flips another switch and the gun hums and spins up another gear, its glow casting blood red across the hall.

She asks her heart to stop beating so violently.

"What’s your plan here? If it weren't for me, you'd rot here or get shot for trespassing. Do you expect to walk into the offices of the Romanticist-Royals to interview their queen so easily?"

"Yes," she replies without hesitation, with all the bravery she infuse into her speech.

He aims the gun over her shoulder for a split-second. "You're honest, at least. The Royals aren't so merciful. You're a reporter; they'll shoot you on sight."

"Not without security, security that you can provide."

"I’d have to account for you. Why would I accept carrying a burden around?"

She unzips her bag, takes out a couple envelopes from belongings, aware of a phantom muzzle planted against her skull eager to burn her brains out. Though Gerwin swipes the documents fast, she keeps the smile on her face, keeps her body composed.

Meetings about the intricacies of authorizations, of keeping her mouth mum over orders from on high, of all this cajoling about “something needing to be done for the sake of them all!”—everything will pay off, for she has leverage over the murderer, finally.

"Gerwin, I’ve come with an offer from both Equestria and the greater Convocation of Creatures for your services."

A fire lights up rocks and slate nestled deep in an open cavern where virgin stone juts out of a grassy cliff. The flames boil a bubbling stew under Gerwin's sharp eyes, darting between dinner and the entrance. A claw has never been far from his weapon.

But it burns in her head, that mushroom of an explosion, the aftermath its own skyscraper of smoke and fire that took ages to extinguish. So far away from that old watchtower, told to look back and to behold from the speeding truck they stole, destruction on a massive scale, far-reaching to punish her with its warmth, to blow upon the trees and make them sway, plucking a choice few to fly and be ecological angels of death to resident critters and not-so-innocent bystanders.

Some angry crystals in a suitcase. These were all it took to send dust into her eyes from miles away. A crater was born from such a simple cradle.

"All gone," he said back then as they sat—or she sat, while he stood up, watching for intruders with eagle eyes, nigh invisible hovertrucks coming out of the bushes to ram them dead. "Or not. They’ll just get it back in a jiffy. It's what the modular stuff is for. Get a cart in, it unpacks in minutes, defense systems online ASAP."

The ting of a ladle, with a hearty sniff of delicious air, wafts her to their meal. With nimble motions, his claws and wings served the both of them bowls of tomato-mushroom-onion stew. Steam lifts itself from their food beside confidential letters signed and stamped by big-cheese authorities with enough pull to rain down entire armies upon the land.

"Smuggling weapons into the Reconstruction Authority when they make landfall, to weaken the rest of the combatants. When the situation can be contained, I’ll help round up the leaders for an arrest or a mass assassination. A committee by the CC takes control from there. That's what it is. I'll be let go, no charges or trials, as long as I never step paw down here ever again. They'll say I escaped."

"Mm-hmm. All with the throne restored, by the way," she adds. "Which is its own problem since Queen Silverstream never had children, but—"

"It’s fast."

She halts mid-sip. "What?"

Making itself known on his beak is a goofy grin. "Fast way to profit. We've got five sides now. The new client has connections to dozens of countries. A nice exit strategy. I can finally move on to private security."

She rolls her eyes. His cocky expression, the shake of his head, how he drank up half the bowl and wiped it with his naked claw—"You’re all the same, don’t you know that?"

"Maybe," he teases. "You're a journalist. Document one of my transactions. I’m sure the ponies over there would like a shock story."

He taps the gun in his holster, and Cauliflower gulps, only for the soup in her throat to get stuck. She coughs in a violent fit, breathing only deathly soup, tries to keep her eye on the fire-lit Gerwin while tiny pain blinds her.

Could've been shot with her eyes closed.

Snug against a dozen trees, Cauliflower swivels her gaze, performing lookout duty with Gerwin dozing off on a makeshift bed.

The campfire crackles as the night grows old. Faint flickering orange casts itself upon tables and boxes of arranged weapons and equipment. She asked questions, but a wagging claw and a shh! answered her: their newness, their exotic ammunition that aren't bullets but miniaturized batteries or glowing crystals or plain old missiles can equip a small army that can still get the whole world hunting you down to start a world war.

The leaves ruffle.

She shoots up from resting; her adrenaline races. "Who’s there?" Her hyper-aware eye catches no one.

"Lone wolf, huh?"

She whips herself around. Any balaclava-wearing creature who can just sneak by is no slouch, no safe haven.

"Wrong, ma'am," replies Cauliflower, feeling for her gun. "I’m… well-guarded."

"Don’t know what you’re packing. From where I'm standing," continues the intruder—with her squad stepping out of the woodwork, crunching leaves and twigs, hooves wrapped around their rifles—"it's not enough. Heard of a griffon called Gerwin?"

None of the muzzles are aimed at her. Not yet. She pretends to dismiss the danger with a wave. Get tough. "Oh, Gerwin? He's my bodyguard, actually."

"Really?" The lead mare walks close, the business end of her wood-metal rifle coming near. "I’d like to meet him, show him a piece of—"

A click from behind.

Cauli's head smashes onto the dirt, soil and rock crush her, cold steel digs through her mane and into her skin, she can only catch her breath, keep her breathing steady. No sudden movements.

"Heh, good one, Termie!" shouts the ringleader. Her blackened fabric face drops to Cauliflower's level, sideways, her eyes a brilliant white against her disguise. "Now, ma'am, thanks for telling me you're a VIP! 'Bodyguard'! Pah! If you can shoot, you don't need a bodyguard… you can shoot, can’t you, ma'am?"

Mom, Dad—school near Rainbow Falls, but home is so far away. Cauliflower quakes, quivers, praying and putting her hooves together to blind herself. Prayers devolve into silent mumbles, pleading to the gods, to her captors, for mercy. If there's no mercy, she wishes for a fast end with no pain and suffering.

"Get off her."

Gerwin's voice of gravel lights a fire, yanks the cold steel from her head. The click of guns aiming, not firing, rouse her, pinning a groggy Gerwin who yawns against certain doom.

"Ladies," he continues in a smoother tone, "you're new clients, I presume?"

The squad's head spits on the ground. "You're kidding me. You're foalsitting this no-life?"

"So you're new clients."

"New to these parts, not new to this career." She doesn't take her mask off. It's something Cauliflower inspects with trembling when the rifle-wielding honcho faces her down. "You didn't say anything about your mare, though."

"My assistant's a greenhorn. Give her the same mercy I'm giving you." That bright and dangerous hum hits her ears again. "As if I’m going to sell a gun to someone who’s afraid of me and is willing to kill an innocent mare with no remorse. Behave yourselves. Come with me. Get her up."

The rest of the black-clad group obey him, heaving her back to standing and almost to falling again. After regaining balance, Cauliflower follows Gerwin first, trotting by his side. Every other second, he keeps an eye on these roving clients who scan the bushes and trees, likely for traps and camouflaged gunners.

Gerwin changes up his tune to that of a salescreature once they arrive at his table of goods. He swoops in close to examine the squad's inventory. "Bolt-action, the Grand N-A. Griffonstone-made. This still won't do. What exactly do you need?"

The leader—whose Cauliflower learned over the squad’s talking was just Slab—narrows her irritated eyes. "Better weapons?"

Gerwin recoils. "Define ‘better weapons.' Big shiny lasers and explosives are big tourist tickets, but lots of buyers can't explain why they want them. Just bigger and better… it makes them psychotic." He widens the divide between potential customers on by the campfire and finished goods in his crates and bags. "Why can’t your rifles do the job? Rest of the world's about your level. Worst-case scenario, you can always buy legit surplus from Equestria. They’ll still do the job.”

"We’re planning to hire ourselves out here," Slab replies. Cauliflower sees her underlings congratulating each other for having made it this far. "Contract by contract. But that requires your expertise. You know the lay of the land. Maybe a dash of your… explosive deals?"

He sighs, semi-circling his crackling campfire. "You're coin-diggers. Fine. You wanna see the whole shtick? Come, come…"

Balaclava'd faces have their eyes glimmer like little moons in the flame-dispersed darkness, served on the side by the metal shimmer of guns on display, like herding ghosts in the flesh towards unheard-of would-be tales of destruction.

"I need you to be serious about this," Gerwin continues, sounding final in his terms. "Soldiers of fortune aren’t what you see in Applewood. I won't have you gunning around nilly-willy. I'd like to have my customers not die before their second transaction. If we can have a good relationship, I get my money, you get your guns, as long as you live. But you don't seem strapped for cash; you can't buy everything you want. I’d rather customize my offers to suit your needs. Your long-term plans, too." He takes a matte briefcase out on the table, snaps the latches free but doesn't open it. "What's your reason here? Raid and pillage?"

"Yeah," Slab says, nodding with vigor.

Cauliflower's throat stops to retch. Not too far from Klugetown, the mafia still holds strong. She barely made it out of a botched sting operation, but the interviews afterwards, of smuggled creatures treated like chattel, bring chills still.

"Listen, cupcake," Gerwin says, "most of the villages are rushed out of the country. Your loot's with the armies now. Go to the border zones. All four sides get harassed by them. There’s tax collection, armed and dangerous, enough to make your money’s worth there. Just don't get on a griff's bad side; they'll glass you dirty."

He bangs the briefcase open, slapping Slab with the wind of his wing, showing her up close a disassembled tube-like thing that resembles a rifle. "You won't survive without me. You’ll need an extended tutorial."

So Cauliflower listens to his series of practiced lectures, watching him explain each of the guns in detail and the concept of lasers and phasers—powerful misnomers, since they rely on crystal arrays amplifying light, but these harmless mini-flashlights given enchantments… Gerwin soon gives them a demonstration. A dozen dummy targets burn alive with a single tap of a pistol—standard issue, no added magic. It can be set to stun or kill, and the ammo batteries' many "flavors" widen the eyes of their beholders—to spread fires, to blind permanently, to slice limbs, to send poison spells like a super-competent unicorn.

But light and crystals have their limits. Stashed away are ordnance and cannons folded into easily stackable cubes. Unassuming storage crates roll out into portable rail-mortars large enough to house modern-day artillery shells, powered by magically boosted magnets. The destructive power to level a small village from miles away, and with such ease—

Cauliflower’s head spins. The thwang of a laser hits its target, setting a mannequin aflame. The crunchy crackle of the wisps and licks do not soothe her as Gerwin exposits on every bit, twirling gun parts around in his claw, listing numbers and calibers and spells. Her voice recorder is on, yet Slab and her team write down notes, hungrier for the dirty details than Cauliflower herself.

"A platter of small arms, then?" Gerwin finally says. The deal is then closed, cash and collateral given to him in fat, bulging sacks. The tinkle of coins echoes as she lies in a cot long after Slab's crew left with rejoicing.

Coins and guns rolled inside their stolen pick-up over historical cobblestone roads. Their destination: The Forgotten Hills, the seat of power of the Romanticist-Royal Front, the furthest north of the four fighting factions.

"Why’d you still wanna interview that pretender queen?" he said before the trip started. They had been packing up food and drink from an abandoned village. The bedsheets were still unkempt; no time had been made to warn the residents.

"They need to have their voices heard," she replied, half of it a trained answer extracted from an equinitarian textbook based on Princess Twilight’s Friendship Journal. A box of frozen vegetables gets shoved into the truck's back. "It's easy to dismiss them as madmares, but they had to start somewhere. There had to be some twisted logic to the whole thing. I could've gone down the same road, calling out for bloody revenge on a national level, enslaving others if I just put my mind into it."

"You’re not getting any additional pay from this, I reckon," Gerwin talked past her as he closed the back and headed for the steering wheel. "EQNX won’t do you any favors if you’re burping out the same drivel other networks got."

"EQNX is indie. We're not like Baltimare or Canterlot. It's just me, Date Line, and a few runners who can hit up the Equestrian government and the Convocation. We don’t rake lots of bits, but bits are not the point."

"Only three notepads and the truth," he replied. "What about the creatures watching the news about lasers falling from the sky? They’ll emote all they want. You give viewers too much credit. Unless this is a front and you’re an intel mare for the CC."

She repeats the conversation internally when towers catch her sight, sporting massive turrets, anti-air or anti-tank, that can pockmark the sky. Utilitarian straight lines clash with the treasure they guard, a trimmed and proper manor surrounded by hedges and pruned shrubbery, where visor-blinded guards stare Gerwin's vehicle down from every balcony and parapet. Medieval banners strain themselves in the wind, where a triangle of crowns embrace a hippogriff-seapony couple. They are caught in static, madly in love with each other.

They chaperon her through winding metal corridors, emptying her pockets to find nothing incriminatin. She’s hoved past marble Arisian statues of the old royal lineage—Novo and Skystar Silverstream, long dead in quick succession. Servants in silver robes polish these statues mid-flight, then ask their visitor a tornado of questions, if Cauliflower is indeed comfortable here and if she's interested in a stew of alcohol and crumpets.

With Gerwin staying behind to sell directly to the tower patrol, Cauliflower is escorted into the throne room. Stained-glass windows reign beside air-conditioning units and modern ventilation, yet two more servants fan the self-proclaimed heir to a plastic chair-shaped excuse of a throne. An enlarged golden ring is her lowly crown.

Queen Horizon feeds on grapes and wine; with a stack of paperwork just done, she washes her claws in a bowl of soap mixed with more wine. "Your mercenary friend told me about an interview. Let's not waste time."

Several metal halls and guards pushing Cauliflower around later, the two are locked in an ornate study. Bookshelves block any audio from leaking out. Two overhead cameras render them moot.

"Humility," Queen Horizon Sun says against Cauliflower’s fast written scribbles, the interview well underway. "It's a characteristic of a good monarch. Why else would I sit in a plastic chair?"

"Uh, yes, sure," mumbles Cauliflower. Cups of coffee, served by retainers, wobble with each wild gesticulation from Horizon, her claw cutting through the air like a sword. "What’d you say was—?"

"It’s obvious, isn’t it? What the trouble is? The rabble think they want everything, but no, they don't! We were fine with Silverstream, Skystar, Novo, and everyone else! They had to ruin everything with all their nonsense of yetis and species… I shouldn’t be here with all of this mumbo-jumbo gizmo-techmo!"

Cauliflower gulps. She grips the pen in her hoof, voice recorder still on. The raging queen can be contained yet. "Surely, they're your people no matter who they are. You may say that many of them were misled by ideas of anti-yeti vengeance—’

"My people?!" She pounded her chest, her crown falling askew. "They stabbed my aunt, left Silverstream out to bleed just so they can go in and get the yetis out! The gall to coup us all! It’s an excuse, an incompetent excuse! They will pay, I guarantee it!"

"What do you propose to stop this?" Cauliflower asks right away, not giving Horizon time to think. "Other than securing peace, of course, and the basic gist of you being on the throne."

"I’m afraid you’re being rather daft, Miss Newsmare!" She opens her claws to grasp the skies, if she can. Subduing her fervor and passion, her clamed voice resumes itself: "I will grant Aris the reforms they truly need, after this whole reconstruction business, initially through heavily armed guards and curfews. Those who resisted our rule need to be taught a lesson about rabble-rousing, of course."

"Hmm. How do you source the weaponry for this undertaking?"

"Source? Why, we make it ourselves! Reverse-engineering is a wonderful thing, my dear. Those Alliance cowards like to shoot from afar, but the moment we get to their nests, we'll tear them down, study everything, cut their masters down. See, am I a relic, as they say?"

Cauliflower blinks blankly. "No, but Your Highness—"

"It’s Your Majesty—"

"—Your Majesty, why continue this course of action? The way you encourage your citizens—"

"They divide the hippogriffs and seaponies, get them to fight amongst themselves!" The queen leans back in her leather chair, crossing her forelegs. She takes her dropped crown back, angling it just right to dazzle Cauliflower in the eyes, and the smirk on her face says she knows it. "You let these others stay around, they’ll get legitimacy... to shoot themselves in the hoof before they shoot everyone else! Hippogriffs fighting hippogriffs… I'm here to wrest peace into their hearts. They've suffered long enough, and dare I say…!"

The rant continues for the next half-hour. Cauliflower goes home with a bunch of notes, a hollow heart, and a hoof on her old gun. The taste of crumpets rests sour, tinged with Horizon's rambling diatribe.

"You're gonna be fine, Cauli," the voice on the other end of the screen says—a stallion with the blues of denim pants, denim uniform, and electronic chips in his ears. Nondescript is his cubic workplace of desk, computer, and refreshments, though the finer details are scratched and corrupted by a weak connection that has to traverse an entire continent.

"Debatable, Date Line," Cauliflower speaks to her wrist screen, resting by the campfire again, all out in the middle of the woods a second time. "I’ve got Gerwin by me."

"Tell him I said hi," and Gerwin pops up by her side.

"Woah, woah!" And Date Line half-falls out of his chair, having a cup fall on his face. After picking himself back up, "Come on! Don’t scare me like that."

"Rumors around me spread far?" Gerwin comments between low chuckles.

His forehooves fidget against each other, dancing on the desk. It's an adorable sight, made more so by the fuzziness of her screen. Cauliflower resists blushing.

"I believe her," Date Line begins, "when she says you’re not holding her hostage. You're strapped, and you haven't killed her yet, so I trust you, too. A little. I just hope you have her best interests, that’s all."

Gerwin stretches his pinions out. "Our interests overlap."

"So be it." To Cauliflower, his visage blurring and cutting out, "Just be careful, okay? Keep your data safe. Remember to not transmit—"

"—any data because there might be tappers, I know." A list of instructions and warnings were hammered in her brain over and over. Field journalism has been a dying breed, she understands, but route recitation has remained a chore from grade school to the farthest depths of the world.

When the call ends, gruesome tubes stuck or welded together are dropped onto the grass before her. Probably scrapped together, it’s like a school project with Hearth's Warming lights tacked onto it.

"You’re in a warzone," Gerwin says. His figure towers over her lying body. He is no slouch. "Big guns are required."

"Thanks for your generosity, mister—" she flicks the gun away, having it roll over "—but I can do just fine with my piece." But Slab's swaggering rifle-toters can mince her into chopped meat. She suppresses the very idea of it.

"May I take a look at your pistol, then?"

That forces her to sit up straight, wide alert, trying to trap him with just her eyesight as she hoofed her weapon over. From the heights of north-eastern Equestria and across the world, it’s never left her side. "No shooting me."

"If I wanted to shoot you, I'd have done so already."

With her gun under his control, claws scramble themselves in organized fashion over the entire piece, erratically tapping over every part. He unloads the magazine, opens the chamber, peaks inside. A comment is made about it being dirty, but it's otherwise in order. Not much wear and tear, he claims.

"You’re gonna have to shoot this, too, sister. Deterrence won't be enough. I told you that already." And he wiggles his claw over the trigger.

Scenarios run in her head about bullets scraping by, letting out blood. She had self-defense lessons, learned how to shoot, but she was never given a rifle or anything more than basic body armor. She wasn’t a soldier: she’s here to tell the news and tell it straight.

"Gerwin, I just can’t handle it… psychologically. I can’t participate in this. I can give you aid, but—"

"Pah! You can. You can pull the trigger. It's just a matter of when," he ends with a snarl, which he placates with a walk towards the campfire. Only now does the smell of his cooking come clear to her; her barrel growls. "Can't stay the night on an empty stomach. Eat up."

An Order of Blues

The door opens to allow three of Eye Wall’s guards to carry the visitor’s bags after another round of verification. "Sir," says one of them, "Canterlot's replied. We've got the real deal."

Eye Wall's stare pins his visitor down, letting his lackeys plop the bag back on the table.

Half-baked soundproofing material cannot mask the storm's incessant knocking on their walls. Attacks were had back then already from the southern chaos; hippogriffs at times charge at them in the night, bent on exterminating the "foreign devils," though never-ending inclement weather tends to roadblock any serious offensive within the region.

"Terrifying," Eye Wall can only say. "This is dangerous. It’s certainly a volatile bribe, if you wanted to go that way. Don't think the princess will step down to greet you or pat you on the back for it, though."

He shoves the bag, lets it slide to the visitor's side.

"Deliver this safely. In case we do not receive word from you, we’ll pick up the pieces and try to send it forward.

"I’ll arrange for you to be transported to Equestria under pretenses for… you know, given what's happened in that hippogriff circus down there. The press and the courts will be after you. Don’t do anything stupid for a week, and you should be in Canterlot. Request an audience with the princess to present your side of the story. What you do after that… I’m not your mom." He holds his hooves up to absolve himself from responsibility.

So the commander offers a hoofshake and an agreement.

The visitor considers.

"Here, Cauliflower. Pull it down."

A grunt comes by as Cauliflower pulls down a crate from a truck the length of a cypress tree.

The gentle splash of the ocean coast, under a brightening twilight violet, drags in bobbing boats. Convoys slowly swim, engraved with numbers and gridded inverted triangles, of utopia touching down on the world—emblems of the Convocation of Creatures, transparent helmets letting enemies see the face of the creatures, mostly ponies, in full.

It's what she hones in on as the back-breaking work of carrying crates as heavy as a town hall stress her earth pony muscles. Gerwin has it easy, showing up the CC forces with a sales pitch of his supplies. A too early breakfast does not keep her stomach from churning; hours ago, he challenged her, "Selling guns, Miss Shrew, what’s the difference?"

"What’s the difference?! You’re helping them kill people!"

"Just an industry. I do my research, see demand and supply, give you my USP. Why buy from me and not the other guys? Once I answer that, we arrange a meet-up, exchange goods and money, we leave. Unless, of course, you want to scandalize the local bakery for doing the same thing."

A thud resounds when a huge steel crate falls to the ground. "Seen one of these bad boys?" Gerwin declares to a couple half-mocking, half-curious soldiers. A press of the button, and the world is sent a-shaking. Behind him, the truck’s cargo transforms, planting itself into the ground, drills spinning into the air and digging deep, cranes emerging to sort an assembly line that spits out more cranes and machines. Walls slide out from the underground, cubes and triangles and hexagons hanging onto each other like tiny molecules. From soil and metal and boxes has risen this automated construction depot, something that would’ve taken weeks if not months for manual labor to accomplish.

The explosion and its searing heat from days ago paled slowly. A watchtower like that, perhaps, can be reborn in hours. It's what Gerwin claimed.

"All these and more," he resumes, rubbing his claws, already receiving offers like at an auction, "as long as we uphold the deal and you don’t mess around with the locals. With this, you can withstand most things the belligerents will throw at you." His leer meshes well with the surprise of CC soldiers, already affirming with foal-like curiosity.

Cauliflower keeps her head down with another crate to unpack, voice recorder on at all times.

Inside another truck, they descend yet another hill, following the jagged lines of a rocky coast. A border zone is up next, says Gerwin, "so prepare. Things can get ugly. They know me. Just turn down any recording devices."

"Why would I do that?," she replies. Her wrist screen is turned on to archive their crossing.

"Wanna have that confiscated?” And have your life’s work jeapordized?

"Everyone deserves to see this," she insists, raising her tone against the casual laser-slinger. "Creatures around the world must understand what’s going on here. Once they see signs of this under their own roofs, the lack of security they feel, how separated their families are, they can stop it in their homes before everything blows up in a full-court mess."

Gerwin keeps quiet while the truck stops right before the gate. Its walls, escalating high and girded with more turrets to zap down any fliers, reach out to the east and west, without end. Rough accents and thuggish hats demand her ID and papers and money and guns and food and water before Gerwin glares at them, threatening them with a bag that separates him from her, containing the revealing size and weight of an ultra-explosive.

"Why are you here with her?" inquires a nasal accent, his partner the bulky rotating barrel of a gun powerful enough to cut down rocks like butter. She can feel the heat radiating from here, for one.

"Assistant," Gerwin replies. "She's—"

A head falls, the windshield cracks. Hums blast, red bright infernos everywhere—

Hooves scurry for the trigger, pressing and pressing, the cracks of bullets flying wild to maim her hearing. A claw grabs her face, smashes her down to the floor.

The truck bumps and spirals. Glass splinters, and liquid touches her cheeks, flows down her tongue. Red lights blare over a sputtering, staccato humming. A robot voice malfunctions, chants emergency measures. Her face against the pedal, a paw slamming it down. Fire or bile roller-coasters off her throat—

Sharpness slams her back to the chair. Gerwin's beak breathes too close. The claw on her chest immobilizes her on the passenger seat. "Hold! Stay!"

The forested road ahead is a soup of afterimages, of sunlight or fire visions attacking her. Smoke trails and screaming whistles soar overhead, launching from the mountains and the sea.

She can nod as fast as she can until everything clears.

A folder is thrown her way. She takes it up.

A table is spread out under the sunset, advertising more of what Gerwin scrounged up from old boxes, abandoned outposts, and the occasional strong-clawing of a bunch of villagers-turned-ransackers.

"Flashbang," Gerwin said just minutes ago, letting her feel the tube with her hooves. "Doesn't hurt permanently. Usually. This overwhelms the senses, blinds and deafens you. Gives the enemy enough time to apprehend you."

The folder hides documents and notes, detailing the other factions from Gerwin's point of view, not that they provide insights different from what her preceding journalists can unearth, of Romanticists and Integrated Syndics and Restorationists, whoever. Creatures have been packing their bags for northward salvation regardless.

Beside these lay pictures and renditions of propaganda posters. Under a label worded Yeti-Aris Union, a hand and a claw grip each other in a show of camaraderie. The text says as much: Say NO to a race’s total annihilation! Yetis and Hippogriffs are strong together! Be a better creature! Join the Yeti-Aris Union!

An hour and dozens of kilometers later, by the piers, warehouses glimmer in the dark. Patrol boats and patrol trucks and patrol drones oversee lines of yetis hauling materials onto solid ground, cargo ships spewing out their workload by the container. Obedience is demanded by painted lines—anyone taking a misstep is, in a literal sense, stepping out of line.

Gerwin excuses himself, mutters about a shipment of weapons from the Yeti Islands. Cauliflower shouting after him, only to gather the attention of everyone, both foregriffs and the yetis, who she now sees are following lines painted on the ground, never stepping out of their confines.

The foregriffs seem approachable without getting shot at, but they keep ordering the unusual creatures around. A quota must be fulfilled, they say. “Please do not bother me.” The next are the yetis, but more foregriffs bar her with batons and guns. If she gets past them, the chain-link fences will be formidable obstruction that just cutting a hole through won't do.

She reaches for her notebook, unwilling to let the minutes slip by unproductive.

"So, you’re the one?"

Metal shackles her, a claw cranks her mouth wide. Everything dulls into black.

"Wake up."

Her eyes adjust to the flashlight. Buzzing atmospheric lights expose a beak. By a table, several bags and crates. Manuals, batteries, the acrid scent of medicine and alcohol.

The one thing she can register in her what-addled mind is a name from a dossier, its crude mockery embossed on a nameplate.

"Gullibles like you, I’ve met." His words fall out of his tongue like non-stop rain. "You know my name—" Copperbreeze, First Partner of the Union "—so spare me your sympathies. I know what you want to ask. I’ll spare you from boring me.

"Yeti-Aris Union. Do you know forgiveness is better than revenge? Whistler and Bulb Laser were no Novos nor Silverstreams when they led the League. No reconciliation was sought with the Storm King’s remnants. The islands of the yetis would always breed hate and war to kill off the next generation, they said. That’s why they mobilized so much, forced our best and brightest into R&D camps, innovate at gunpoint—but you know that. Those who came before you told you that. They went here first, asked me, published it. Not all wanted to survive alone. They came back home. Some chose to stay. I don’t know their fates. I hope you stay, but I understand if you don’t. It’s a hard life here."

Something for her to say, but his sip of water is too short to let her speak.

"We believe in forgiveness and reconciliation, but we also understand justice. Those who’ve had a claw in the Storm King’s atrocities, we work to exhaustion, but there’s always light at the end of the tunnel. The rest, we trade with, trade to, trade as barter, I think. You are lucky I was here visiting Port Sealaw; your predecessors had to take a boat ride to the islands when I was away there, which we already rule. Some call it oppression, what we do there; I think it's removing Storm King idolatry, and I don’t care what the world thinks. We feed hippogriffs and we also feed yetis who understand what they’ve done.

"It is easy to say this while we sit away from the fighting. Not so easy when you make hard decisions. I see death, I command death. I have no time to sulk, but I still feel bad about it. So I asked Equestria. They gave me an answer: self-motivation books from pony writers. It helped me get over death. Send them my thanks; I have a list of authors here. Take the paper.

"Before you leave, I note you’re underequipped. Gerwin told me of your arrival before he came. He said you have a modern gun, but you don't seem to have it. Maybe you refused, maybe he forgot. We are good partners. If he trusts you, I trust you maybe. Buy his stuff, the best in the market. Shoo, we're busy. I have operations to begin. The Integrateds aren't too pleased with our incursions. Please show that in your byline."

Things slip out of her teeth and tongue, her own parrying efforts to understand as slumber threatens—

I tried to get something out of him, but… I wonder why I didn’t answer, didn’t butt in.

"Drugs."

She explodes in a scream. "You don’t just sneak up on ponies like that, Gerwin!"

His laugh echoes throughout the coastal copse. Sand and pebbles rattle around in the frogs of her hooves. Their beds and tent live deeper among the trunks and critters.

Getting here involved a spotty recollection. Fragments turn up, of being taken into a truck, of a handler telling her to keep awake, of a listless fog rolling into her head. Gerwin’s word is all that is had: she was taken to him, then they left without incident save for a sleepy mare.

Gerwin gives her a weak kick on the withers. "Keep your wits up. Arms are my forte; medicine, not so much. I can only guess on you from second-claw experience. Different biologies. Copperbreeze wanted you glazed, not remembering anything. Got you knocked out cold twice."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks for telling me you found my body about to hurled into the sea by a couple drunk sailors," she mutters. "I should be able to remember—"

"You got what the voice recorder needed. Which you left behind out there, but you turned on before they noticed a thing." He takes out her wrist screen from the bag he holds. "Muscle memory’s hard to beat. Good thing I'm good friends with the locals and told them to treat you nicely. Like not doing anything with your screen."

"I bet you bribed Copper with a hundred missiles to torture innocents with."

"Not that cruel," he mutters. "You don’t do torture with missiles." Pulling her up, though her back aches and her bones crunch; she lies like dead on grass like a pre-agriculture ancestor. "Not every big cheese is worth the sound bite."

The fire crumples like paper, endlessly, hypnotic to a fault. Under the stars, while bats and fireflies roam their favorite haunts from branch to branch, Cauliflower stares at the night sky, letting the healing come to her.

Around her lie a shrinking number of crates and bags. Gerwin said that sales go up and down; by the time they make it to the Integrated Syndics, he says, they will unearth a motherlode. Until then, they nap or lie in wait, letting desperate stragglers and escapers come over to trade for a chance at self-defense.

One in soot-stained cloths and broken feathers came in, desperate for a discount from the good Gerwin. He asked her why; it was to leave. The price was upped, dangling over her head as an aura of degenerate despair overwhelmed her until she was bawling on the grass, debasing herself for his mercy. Only then was a rifle, a pistol, and a few grenades parted from his claw at a slight discount.

She was sent away crying and thanking him. She was then shouted away.

Cauliflower has to sit up. Tapping the wrist screen on, she activates the microphone. Gerwin lies asleep on the other side of the camp. Clearing her throat, she begins.

Much is disgusting about Yeti-Aris. If the Romanticist leadership can be seen as hypocrites, the Union's is much worse. They advocate for the liberation of every creature from the shackles of retribution, yet from what I see—and what no one else has taken footage of until now, I believe—the yetis themselves are hit the hardest by their alleged emancipation. I do not know what happens in the yetis’ homelands, but the little I hear does not paint a good picture.

My time was short by my host's design. I had not expected that he would induce in me a daze to short-circuit the interview and keep it sanitized. However, I can infer from the warehouses, ports, and small villages on the coastlines, how they were all said to be populated by mostly yetis, that a tiny minority class of hippogriffs are their masters. I felt their masters’ sadism when I heard their jeers of vengeance for the Storm King's sins to be paid for over a dozen lifetimes.

There’s a pregnant pause. She rubs her screen to think. I feel like I shouldn't be here sometimes. I was too far-removed from the events down south when the Storm King rampaged through the lands, but I could not imagine what level of hatred, what level of vengeance, necessitates such a blood-boiling yet cold-blooded system of vilifying an entire species.

It is a slow-action poison, and it's contagious. The yetis will feel justified to rise up, enslave their masters, conduct worse sins. A dozen lifetimes’ worth of punishment for the hippogriffs and their own crimes is what they’ll feel they need. Then, the hippogriffs will retaliate. Who will stop who? Who will give up their pride? I will speak more on this when I—

A sun rises. The stars are plunged into a crimson burst.

A gale smashes itself against her scalding skin, bends the trees to skin it from its leaves and branches. A roused Gerwin shoutsorders, but the world writhes with fields aflame bowing before a blinding pillar of conflagrating energy.

Instinct drives her hoof up, her wrist screen on, half-smacking it—"Hello, Date Line, are you getting this?!"

NO CONTACT ACCESSED

The trees cover her. Gerwin is screaming into her ear to get to cover.

By the trees, she waits. The tremors in her bones do not take their leave. Hours or minutes later, Gerwin offers medicine. She gladly inhales or drinks. It is hard to believe it is midnight when a second sun visited her with a sample of death.

Her screen outputs nothing.

Second Sun

The typhoon is a fury against the station’s weather instruments, but under a ginormous canopy, a little hovertruck already floats, unmoved by the storm’s advances, stolen from a recent border attack. It’s armored to the brim, with narrow edges for windows.

Under the threat of being wounded by their standard issue weapons, the cuffed stranger is taken inside.

The windows provide little light. The pitter-patter of the rain against is a muffled yet infinite pattern of random drums attempting to soothe everyone to sleep, to varying degrees of success. Clean whites and silvers dominate the aesthetic, with guards watching their pseudo-prisoner and the accompanying bag closely.

Before the day ends, a request is made to open said bag. The request is granted. Finally, it is not the gentle drums of rain against metal but clutching what lies past zippers and latches—only then, does sleep arrive.

In the nadir of slumber, the storms stop. The Sea of Clouds is passed.

It’s a miracle that she survived, she repeats to herself in her head and with her mouth. It’s to live long enough to be somewhere else, wedged between a dozen blocks of samey urban centers and high-rises, punctuated by a dozen plazas where statues look to the heavens, glorified machinists dealing with wires and holograms for greater independent automation.

She coughs at the smog and the glow of uncontained magics, ignoring the statues' plaques of platitudes after seeing the first few; she gives silent thanks to far-off Gerwin for gifting her an anti-rad suit for the visit.

Few citizens still mill around on monochrome gravel. Apartments stop at a uniform height; any bars or diners or soup kitchens take up the facades. Not a single short structure is in sight; everything imposes itself on her small stature. Trucks fetch crates of who knows what, all while police look down on them with nothing but guns and hulking hovertanks, their hungry power usage cracking and rehsaping the ground as they pass.

For the twentieth time, after another failed connection on her wrist screen, she accosts a bereted worker probably walking to work. She looks young like her, but smoky shadows hide her vitality, assuming she has any. Her sunken eyes look like they’ve dug a quarry out of her sockets.

"Mare on the street," Cauliflower asks, invading the other's beak with a microphone to make the interview obvious. "What do you think of the circumstances here?"

She keeps walking. She doesn't turn her head around. "Great, really."

"What do you mean by that?" Cauliflower keeps up the pace. She overtakes her interviewee, thankful again, this time for some exercise.

"You know, great. That's the word."

"What’s going on here?"

"A lot; we make a lot. We make much food and arms. I like to thank my supervisor."

"What do you think of the Integrateds' rule?"

She shrugs, passing under a streetlamp. A camera hangs underneath; over it lies a balcony where a policegriff watches, speaking something to his wrist. Her interviewee has already scurried away.

The curfew sirens ring, cuing the policegriff to descend, perhaps ask the strange interrogating visitor questions, but Cauliflower also scurries off, thankful for a third time, this time that the exit gates loiter nearby.

When she finds herself on the passenger side once more, the truck soon going past the Syndics' gates, a hail of rockets twinkle in the sky, speeding past them, into the walls of the crumbling nation. Holes and weapons fall, the emblem of a descending mountain omnipresent on their clothes.

Gerwin’s face is implacable. His driving is undisturbed. "Don't look back," he says. "They can see you."

So she doesn't, keeping her eyes forward against the mass of soldiers wading through from the trees, unable to pry the ache out of her nostrils or her brain that the Reconstruction Authority bear arms here, too.

"We’re not gonna meet them?"

"Not her, maybe," he says as they enter another forest. A withering complex of empty apartments should lie up ahead. The topic turned to the last side, The Popular Alliance of Restorationists, led by none other than someone calling herself Miss Aris. "Not fond of diplomatic approaches. Best you can get is a call from her. We rest here, then at Burning Light village, we'll meet with her flunkies."

"I can still ask her constituents."

"What’s left of her constituents? Brain rot all souped up on wrath." A sharp left turn is made; Cauliflower bumps her head hard against the galss; she holds on tight to her seat. "The Storm King’s been dead for decades now. Stop beating a dead horse. They keep doing it."

At that, she cringes, though it’s not the first time this trip. Earlier, she spotted banners of the Storm King's face drawn crudely, contrasted too much by blazing headlights. Red slashes split his smiling face.

"You’re a reporter on the frontlines. Won’t be worth it if you get squelched. You're lucky your screen works offline. Do not think of letting me speak for you if you die. Who will trust me? I know my reputation, and I am sure the international community is not so keen on me. Now, what will you do about them? I hear of the Reconstruction Authority… my contacts grow less. They’re a fifth side or four-point-five. The RA buy too many guns from me. I refused once. The Romanticists—those who still like me—tell me the fighting stopped on their side."

Date Line hasn't responded. No one has, ever since the connection seems to be severed. And now—"The Convocation? You're… you're selling weapons to them?"

"The RA, not the Convocation themselves. They’re detached, maybe enough to go rouge.”

"They’re… but I was—"

“I’m not blaming you. I make mistakes, you make mistakes. Some mistakes end with more creatures dead. You learn to live with that." He stops the truck in the middle of a knoll. ""We’ll set something up. Instant soup’s fine. You don’t mind pork flavor, no?"

In a poor state wishing poor taste to wash her worries away, she’s led out into the little rain that’s going on. The windshield surely didn't show any signs of droplets.

Up the stairs, they set up shop beside a dozen pillars past worn-out first floor patios flooded with gunk. A back-up generator has its flip switched to bring light into the empty quarters, the fridge turning on and the window’s defenses glowing bright with defensive magic proofed against lasers and bullets.

A few minutes later, dinner smells good for Cauliflower, which is soup cooked over a stove, made from instant powder. Gerwin didn't tell her about the noodles, so it's a welcome surprise, watching the little long things float around like cute animals. It may be dirty to compare them to worms, but worms, too, look adorable, with how small and wiggly they are. Tonight, she gets to eat cute food, a cold comfort from the siege just hours ago.

She takes a sip. Bland and watery, but a hint of onion is there to be savored.

In her chest, pain blooms.

She's off her chair, she hits the floor, dust and metal rub her eyes, a dozen scorches assault her. The hearing-nothingness makes way for, "Cauliflower! Get down!" Her table vibrates, she grips it for stability. Windows blast open, shards fly open, liquid flies open from her own body, something bleeds. There is a ringing when she is carried; she feels him taking her over, planting her underneath cover—the same table where suitcases that can fall on her for safekeeping.

"Stay here!"

She sucks in a batch of breath, grabbing it like she's never had oxygen in a thousand years. Under a table, clutching the bits of bricks and the table for safety. Likely an ambush is ongoing, definitely with the word gotten out that she's on the loose, a loose cannon journalist on a crusade to expose their evil deeds.

Amid the crumbling building comes rumbling from outside, muffled voices and orders. She clutches the pistol in her holster.

"Maglev arties!" yells Gerwin, all his coolness vanishing. "They think we’re Syndics! Stop! Innocent civilian here!"

Hums blast against the wall, blowing against her hiding body, scraping her inches across the floor. Scorch marks against the concrete, where blood is found there.

"Miss Aris, it’s me!"

"Yeah, you," a crack of a voice bellows out. From Cauliflower's under-the-table vantage point, a drone flies off from a fresh hole in the wall. The screen turns on, and she can barely see a face flickering on it. "I don’t know what you're planning to do with having the Convocation intervene, but I didn’t know they’d be bringing in little Gerwins like you! Of course, you’re old and stubborn, and I can cultivate these merc newbies to be more loyal than you. We can't have remorse turning you astray when total annihilation is at claw."

"It's by design," Gerwin replies, rock steady. "You can tell that to everyone else. I have… a plan I'll discuss with you. It involves the Reconstruction Authority and everyone else. I'll round you up, every one of you. Consider it my last deal. I will leave after."

Gerwin's out of the place, just like that. Her only contact stands too far for help. There's been no talk of a plan. Questions threaten to spill from her muzzle. She taps the wrist screen, lets it open up and record. NO CONTACT ACCESSED slides through like ticker tape. She swears to herself to write down the rest later.

Aris chuckles, her laughter hollowed out by tinny speakers. "Since when were you leaving?"

"Since today. Further details, I'll tell you when I make up my mind."

"You’ve been playing all sides, birdie." In spite of her mechanical, artificial drone nature, Miss Aris waltzed around in the air; it is life to an otherwise gray automaton. "I should’ve seen it earlier. Even that pro-yeti… wimp?"

"It's good business to keep all you fighting. It's gun-running 101. I can't go all in on an eventual loser."

"Hmph. So bold to the face of retaliation. Yet… hmm, you have something else in mind. Why would you tell me all this if you know it will paint you in a bad light? Hmph." The drone swivels, tinting itself red on the screen. "Very well, you and your mare under the sheets will be safe until then. As for the Convocation… we shall continue it elsewhere, hm?"

Silent nods, from a head and a drone, then they leave. Through the gaping hole in the wall, Cauliflower sees another side, another army—the telltale helmets of the Convocation or their Authority, bearing those humming lasers and phasers, having evolved into triangle-laden warriors that can be mistaken for the Alliance themselves, judging by Gerwin's past descriptions of their "soldier caste."

It is not long until the fighting erupts again, the distant throes and klaxons of another earthquake to cut another patch of ground in two kilometers away. Only then can she stand up on her wobbling hooves, on the ground of dust and dirt and broken windows and blood dripping down her mouth. Columns shrivel up in front of leaked magic from once-glowing window.

"You’ve done more than enough," he says to her, gliding his way to her, panting and clipping a battery out of his gun. The room's debris is in smolders. "I can arrange a transport with the contacts I've got left. You’ll be headed back up north, through the Sea of Clouds."

"Not yet," she says. Cauliflower stands up, careful not to break the table she half-stands on for support. "What plans do you have for Aris? The whole region? I want to cover the full story, get all the records I can make."

"Records of what? How much are you going to risk your life out here for a couple of news stories? How will you survive long enough, even with me, to stay here for a few more days then survive long enough to report to Equestria? Will you get any connection here, for one?"

Something boils within her; something wicked comes. "I’ve made it out of worse scrapes before!"

"Gambler’s fallacy," he says. The hum of his gun goes with a click of the claw. "There’s always the one hit where you go unlucky."

The notion lies preposterous. Here she is, at the precipice of a major Equestrian and creature-ist development for the rest of the world. There may be no more refugees to interview, very few civilians to talk to—

Cold steel looks at her hard. It whirs and hums, charging up.

That fear snakes up her heart, out of her eyeballs, out of her mind. That fear tells her of death at the claws of her former protector.

"Take a walk outside, Miss Cauliflower. You can use some relaxing."

Another click to charge the gun up one more gear.

Her hooves stumbles outside, into chunks of concrete, gripping her saddlebags until they're numb and blue and she yearns for bleeding, crashing into a bush.

Past the truck, past the dirt roads, past the Storm King's likeness, away from the clearing of towers that watch her flee with her tail behind her legs, a spiritual deluge damages her sense of direction.

Whipped by hard rain, Cauliflower finds cover by a little tree, then an emptied tent.

Creatures lie dead inside. There's no bloating; must've died just hours ago. No bullet wounds; brains must've been laser- or phaser-fried. From their clothes and their packages, she scavenges scrapes of biscuits and water along with a raincoat.

She sits, drying herself off from the twilight rain. Her sight adjusts to the site around her: the rain against her, the craters she sits before, the splinters of metal and wood, abandoned guns—all smashed, any extra ammunition all down the drain, batteries having long conked out in the drenching, earsplitting downpour, the perfect scenario for another ambush.

Her breathing gets livid as she picks up a splinter of metal, then a bit of cloth. Dried blood ran down from it once; the rain hasn’t washed everything away. Whose blood, she can never find out. A name, a face, gone in a second she couldn't attend.

"You say hi to them," told Gerwin some days back, halfway to the Syndics' gated borders.

"Greet dead bodies?" she replied in horror. That horror had been running on empty as of late, what with the griff's nonchalant chatter about tragedies rubbing off on her. It was unnerving, feeling it creep up on her.

Gerwin snickered. "You were in conflict zones before. Don't tell me you haven't seen a dead body."

There rippled in her history white flowers and a whirlwind of visits, heralded by a single funeral. "I've seen my aunt… in a casket."

"You told her things, didn't you? Told her dead body some hopes and dreams?"

She'd said them, touched the picture of Aunt Echo's serene face from her glory days. They were horribly cliché. I will miss you…

"Yes, you did," Gerwin continued. "What'd you do with the bodies you saw before? The Problems over in The Griffish Isles, that assassination attempt on the dragon lord… you were there, you saw dead creatures. What did you do?"

A tragedy stayed bottled up in her insides. Other creatures, no blood relations, no friendship forged, not a single word spoken save for orders or screams.

Outposts sought her out once in the Isles long ago, curious to see her reaction to a sergeant limped over a chair.

"This one's Pacer. I just got past training, and… hey, it was Nightmare Night. So I'm out there, stranded, and I got old Pacer with me. The griffons there got a couple Equestrian turncoats. He has the bright idea… 'Why don't we scare them?' That's what he did. Got a paper bag lying around, got a marker. Won't you believe it?" He poked the dead stallion on the face, with a stick. "Scared 'em straight. 'Trick or treat!' Stole their food before they got the chance to send the alarm. Yeah… Nightmare Night's just next month, Pacer! What's your next brilliant idea?"

Gerwin snapped her out of the reverie then. Harsh words were said about staying alert in case she could see cover up his blind spots.

The speechless faces in the tent call out to her, of a happening untold. Or the sense of it, a common thread or gist that led her here soaked in water, knee-deep in a dissipating land.

She taps her screen once more. Under a tent, the saving of her voice records as well footage of the dead. Her voice is calculated, planned, waterfalling out of her tongue.

"I’ve been with the leader of the Integrated Syndicals, Ebbing Lane. It turns out that most of the initial reports were true, that she’s a pony… but she’s also scared, burdened with her own cause falling apart. She and everyone else… she knows what she has is crumbling. They want her head, but after that, it won't matter. Not too much, at least. I've seen an attack as we were leaving… the RA going at them, blatantly disobeying Convocation orders… at least I hope that's the truth... it's disgusting either way.

"But her… I saw her passion, although it ebbs. For ideas and beliefs, there may be tons of arguments, but on the ground, she musters the will to hold on while her aides and her colleagues and her laborers tells her to surrender, to not cause anymore… revenge… I… I don’t know. It’s not something… I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes…"

The footage will yield the peaceful faces when played back. Only now does the earthy smell of rain make way for the stink their bodies let fester.

"Not much to lose now. It seems like I won't be getting the usual chats over tea anytime soon. If you’re hearing this and you're not some washed out mercenary, I've survived. I've won. I implore you, every single one of you, to act… somehow, some way. How? I don't know. But something must be done… let them rebuild in peace. As for me, I'll be staying here. Gerwin has something. He'll tell me the details. I might be here for a few more hours or a few more days. Or weeks.

"Oh, right… it'll all be done when you're seeing this, so good luck out there. Or good luck, me."

Free and Strong

Gerwin sits, waiting down, arranging a list of numbers and codes.

It's all Cauliflower sees through a window, kept dry by the raincoat from the camp to. She rushes in through the whole, amid cracking concrete and the wetness of her covered hooves.

"Why now?" asks an annoyed Gerwin, his voice just now echoing through the chamber-like room.

She unzips her raincoat, hangs it by the great pyramid of ultra-explosives under the table. "I can’t do this on my own. I was sent here to help coordinate the downfall of the civil war with the CC, and it failed. I don't know if it's just the Authority or if the Convocation's also leaving me dry or if they just can't connect to me… but with you, I can stand a chance at setting a few things right."

Gerwin nods, brushing his gun up. "At least you’re not spitting out a spiel on friendship."

"Swell!" She beams, caressing him on the neck. "Thanks for reminding me."

"I prefer you kill me."

"Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!" she says, nuzzling him a second before retreating. It's awkward for the uninitiated, but in Equestria, it's a reassuring display of camaraderie. "It’s… we both want this to end. And sure, I messed up with the Convocation—"

"None of that here. You didn’t know better. I'll take the blame, too. I was hoping they'd wear the others out. I jumped the gun. Now, they've become the others."

Cauliflower threw her not-so-dry hooves up in the air, splashing Gerwin's face, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Fine, we all messed up, but we can be friends still. There has to be a way out."

"There is." Against the background of the rain pouring outside, he flattens a map, beckons her to study it. It only makes the flickering lights above much more noticeable. "I’ve already sent letters to everyone, including the Convocation. A delegation will be sent to a neutral site several klicks up north. It's an old bunker surrounded by forests." He kicks the cache of bombs underneath. She clutches her heart; she is not dead yet. "These'll be planted in the forests. It will make a ring of fire, wall them in. These are different; they're dirty, modified—crystal unicorn slaves, raided and bred, died to make them. The radiation will take decades to clean up. They won’t bring in anti-rad suits; if they did, it still won't be enough to protect everyone."

His eyes bore into hers, demanding something out of her. You have a different part to play, little pony, just you wait, is his expression.

"A bomb will be hidden in the bunker first, then the meeting begins. Then I cut off the heads of this dragon. Who will Equestria declare war on when it's over? Any of the hippogriffs? Anyone that isn’t pro-Equestria or pro-Convocation is already in exile. We’d be killing off all their belligerents beforeclaw. As for the CC, tell EQNX about what happened once you get a stable connection. If they’re all compromised, take it up to Princess Twilight."

He taps on the ring of greenery circling the bunker. "They’ll have scouts. We'll be there ahead of them, but you go ahead of me to plant just the one ultra. I will take care of the forest and the rest of the bombs. Don't be afraid if they show up. Show them the bomb in the bunker. There's a manual; study it for the sales pitch. Try to sell it to them, make it the best thing since sliced bread. If you can't, tell them to wait for me.

"You... I will introduce you to everyone. Someone, maybe Miss Aris, will demand that this should be between us, that you shouldn't be here. I will tell you to leave on your own—without me, you wouldn't survive a day. Run, run as fast as you can until you're past the forest. After that, run north, never stop. The armies will be in chaos after the bombs go off. You still have your ID. Keep your records with you. Here—" he throws a duffel at her, crushing her with all the metal components within "—and use this to bribe anyone or raise an alarm. Threaten them, be willing to set it up if necessary. Show you’re serious and that your word is as good as stone. If the north is blocked, make your way down the river. Refugees sometimes left by boats; a few should be lying around." For the first time, his sneering demeanor is comforting, his movements slower and deliberate. "Just follow the plan, you'll be fine."

Cauliflower swallows something blank. The plan is a mouthful, with much to sift through. Great is her escape if she makes it. "But what's your escape plan?"

Gerwin leans on the table, and in another place, he may be about to ask the bartender for a drink. "None."

She keeps her mouth zipped shut as his cracked beak curves into yet another sneer. His eyes ride a self-destructive crash course, propelled by deathly magics. Gone so soon? So careless?

"The plan, Miss Cauliflower Shrew, relies on someone staying behind. I've tried getting them to grind each other out. There's always a village, a town, somegriff caught in the crossfire. Now, the Authority provided me a re-assessment, that all that's left are the fighters, the takers. No one's gullible enough to let me live. Given the stakes, I—"

A hug, she leaps into. She can feel his surprise, squeezing him tight, unable to let go. It is nonsense to grieve for one of death's many merchants, but her hot tears protest. There is a creature here—we who are about to die. Everything at her disposal to prevent it flow into nothing, into her skill with the trigger or the telling lack of it.

For life to be snuffed out so easily, so willingly—a way out—

There is patting on her withers. His claw strokes gently her mane. A beak brushes her withers, in one nuzzle. "Appreciate this, but why?"

A litany of underdone eulogies chimes in on her. She can only choke out, "I'd… like to make your last moments worth it. With a friend…"

Out from the rubble, despite all the shelling, their dented truck zooms forth.

Over the next few days, they tour through the border zones. Nothing is fired except in Gerwin's impromptu training grounds. Many merry bands flock to his mini-storehouses of laser weapons in a clearance sale, scooping up roving bands of militias from rest of the world up north, smaller independent "companies" willing to cash out big time for top Arisian action. Coins, slaves, land rights, nobility titles exchange appendages in a show that induces Cauliflower to vomit. There's much blackmail, so many scoops that the world must be force-fed. If only she can stick needles around her viewers' eyes to let them observe the lack of equinity in these buyers haggling like they're discussing potatoes and tomatoes at the market.

Yet, in the middle, she remains by his side, no longer sleeping on opposite ends of the camp but by him, beside him. Nothing's romantic about it, but she clings onto him when she can, when appropriate, when it makes him snap at her a little less, when his comments decrease into a zero and the silence—she hopes—asks him to ruminate, to introspect. Or at least to consider her as another soul. We're in this together, cheesy as it is to say it out loud.

After the last transaction, the engine purrs wild to scare off chirping birds, becoming the monotonous background music to her final ride. The magic in her hooves lets her feel the roots there, though the truck doesn't really touch the ground—still flourishing, abundant with their fruit and flowers, while the thrum of the hover truck drones on as some life's heartbeat against an explosive premeditated massacre.

"Take 'em out."

So she does once they're out of the truck and at the edge of the clearing, pulling out tons of duffle bags and putting it in a cart. From her position, she sees a tiny concrete trapezoid, like a bad geometry lesson stranded in the grass.

A duffle is thrown her way, which she catches, expecting it. "Plant this inside. You have your pistol ready. Need a laser? Bullets don't have a stun mode."

With a great nod, she heads out, journeying to the bunker, ignoring his offer for a better gun.

Inside, she closes the vault door on her. Whoever furnished the interior had no great mind for the arts. The musty scents of concrete and steel makes her sneeze. Several generators hum, of the cold fusion design. Shelves of canned food lie behind tiny rooms, and a table. Its bloodstains tell of its recent history being an outpost, a hiding spot for infantry in a pinch. Crates underneath it burst with batteries, laser ammunition, a bounty not for her "ancient" pistol.

She unslings the bag, opens a pocket for the manual, then unlatches the rest of the briefcase.$

Leaves sway when Gerwin unzips his case across the other side of the clearing.

Inside, the crystals themselves are put in transparent glass boxes, enchanted to not break unless given the signal to do so, just like with the newer models, but the mess of wires, the manual indicators and numbers replacing streamlined screens, indicates its age. The only modern thing about it is a screen smack dab in the center, crudely showing no countdown yet.

He lets go of the cart behind him, carrying the rest of the bombs. The gun in his holster is never a few inches away from his claw.

A snap echoes.

His gun's held high, scanning everywhere, charged up and humming to scare any and all away.

Over the growing rumble of fast rotating crystals, he watches his six.

The trappings of arcane and complicated instructions are just obstacles to be overcome. Multiple keys are held, wires with tweezers are disentangled, buttons are pressed in strange and roundabout orders. She bites the manual to turn page after page. A frequency is maintained in a little radio to broadcast a code, luckily something her wrist screen can be attached to. All it needs is a signal to send, and it will keep counting down while the crystals spin to destabilize the magics within.

Muffled echoes ring outside. It strikes her, freezes her. Every nerve screams at her to take flight.

A creak turns from the entrance. A blade of sunlight grows on the wall.

A quarter of the batch is done. The cart gets lighter with each set-up ultra. Everything memorized by reading and practice, he watches the crystals, sets the frequencies, shuts the case tight when the timer starts. A few hours, though of course, it's irrelevant when his signal will override his own preparations.

More snaps; the leaves blow in. He licks a claw and puts it up against the air: a windy day. It doesn't stop picking up.

Light flashes near a road, too distant to make out in the corner of his eyes. Into the trees' shadows he crouches, poring over the abnormal activity.

Incoming lights against a dark canopy. They turn off. His feathers and fur blend with dirt and trunks. Not that the approaching convoy is close enough to see the griffon if he were standing in broad daylight, asking them to give up their cargo with nothing but his bare claws.

She quivers between all table legs, her heart hammering against her ribs trapped to the floor. Uninhabited dust breaks into her nose as the sun's rays and the air outside are let in, the intruders' shadows looming large.

Her nose goes funny, itching. She inhales her would-be sneeze.

The barrel of a gun makes an appearance, then a lone scout trots in. She wears no recognizable uniform: all black in balaclava, bulking with squarish power armor underneath, its outer edges protruding out of the legholes.

"Boyos, look at this baby!" shouts a now-familiar Slab.

More hooves find purchase inside, Slab's crew but blessed with the latest in lasers and phasers, singing a tune with their artificial hums. One can't help but unload and reload his magazine on repeat, loving the sound of its strange mechanisms.

"It’s beautiful," she says, beholding the ultra-explosive still open and left unattended.

"Yeah, no sell from the old griff, right?" says Termie, or so Cauliflower thinks it's him.

"Not by a long shot. Hm. Manual's here on the floor. No patrol?"

"Might've missed snipers."

"Should've shot us by now. You, Tack, everyone else, guard the outside and report. Termie, stay with me. We'll see what else's here."

Other hooves grab most things. Canned food and boxes go down, Tack's name being called to pull them in a cart. Termie lights things up: crates being moved, and garbage bins and the cold fusion reactor being inspected, the light filtering into the table growing. Hooves approach the table, opening the caches over exclamations of being loaded for life.

She holds onto her pistol, ready to aim. The metal of it hurts. Aiming, practicing what to do, pulling the trigger—there's no secret vents, no secret hole to hide under. Imprisoned by a table, there is aflame the hope that they will just pass her over.

"So, I was wondering if that Aris girl is gonna be here anytime—"

His face pushes the last crate away.

The end of a laser gun raised straight at her face.

Her heart snaps, curls into the precious redeeming steel of the trigger.

"Hello, Cauliflower?"

He taps on his wrist screen. No transmission is received. The rumbling of the truck he strains for, the first scouts coming.

Red text pops up. NO CONTACT ACCESSED.

He flies, dodges trees, glides in favorable winds to only clamber to the clearing then the bunker whose door is ajar with a cart Cauliflower never brought.

He scan for watchers, intruders. None outside, hiding in the bushes or elsewhere around the clearing.

Gerwin hunkers down behind the door. Only quiet reports to his ears. Grasping the door's edge, he peeks inside, gun ahead of his beak.

Half a dozen hippogriffs all splayed out. Not dead; their bloodshot eyes condemn him. He clacks his beak to catch their attention; they reply with mumbling, unable to move around fallen canned goods. It's the signs of being stunned.

At the back, holes riddle the ultra-explosive. Broken are the glass boxes, and the crystal shards have been poured out, their glow done away with, rendering their dirty enchantments inert.

By fallen boxes and crates, hushed breaths run ragged. He flies gingerly over pony bodies. Underneath the table, blood runs by someone's tongue. Open eyes plead at him for safety. They plead for his salvation.

First aid info rushes up his head. He holds the mare up. "How are you feeling? I have—"

"I don’t know…"

Claws shake her limping body. "What do you mean you don’t know?!"

That smile of hers does haunt. "I… I was a good distraction, wasn’t I?" The bullets shot through; no surprise explosion in the bunker today. By her side, both her old pistol and one of his laser guns for sale. Termie's holster is empty. "What about the deal?"

Her body is heavy, now draped across his back. He takes her bag, checks what's inside. "I’m taking you home."

"But I didn’t get to do anything!"

He stomps to the vault's opening, then winds it shut. "All records are in the bag, correct?" He keeps the codes close, the nuclear bags still somewhere around the ring. Still, one more duffel is by him. He lets the weight of both bags drop on him, gaining speed.

A laser flies by.

Shouts sound out his location. The rumble of convoys twisting their turrets at him, troops falling out of the back—he lets fly half a dozen lasers, explosion- and fire-enchanted. Trees fall, flames spreads like from a flamethrower, and he flees, ducks low, looks back. She hasn't fallen off

Floating bikes go by him, sporting monograms of the vengeful Miss Aris and her Alliance. Shots later, one last grenade, a countermeasure goes under him to mess with their missiles, a squadron disappears behind the river.

Heat catches him, budges him off course—a hoof slips, and turning around on himself, he puts Cauliflower back on his back. He slides in the air, veering for control. Her body slips once more; a wing keeps her steady when a fatal orange tint sneaks into his sights.

Out of the woods, stressed wings drag him down a river to follow. Downhill, ever falling as another explosion rocks the forest, bathing in nuclear warmth.

It is after half an hour of flying that he can tumble down. Fresh water tickles his ears, and he drinks mightily from the stream. He goads her to drink, but not take in too much, too fast.

Her wrist screen glows, its audiovisual snowy noise clearing up. "Hello? H—lo, C—ower! This is Da—ine! We're getting w—d from the CC that—what… what's h—ing over there?! We—n try— to get a word in, but conn—tion's—"

NO CONTACT ACCESSED

Everything sputters. Her eyes flutter. She coughs. Her groans hush themselves. He lets her drink from the river without end.

A Thousand Weeks

Watchtowers swing spotlights frantic to the symphony of repetitive explosion. The roar of maglev artillery and missiles overhead sizzle against a placid, uncaring sunset. Whole fields and bases are set ablaze, turrets and base systems re-arm themselves while plasma and phasers pound them into scrap, only for fallen towers to be resurrected in another place.

Away from the racket, he hides in a hole he dug for himself and her. A rush of boots and armor sometimes pass by. They make a camp, temporary, judging by filtered chatter, but they always leave after an hour, never staying, forever hunting. He lets himself rest in his slot of soil, held up by nothing more than sticks and stakes and a thick cover of grass and soil.

With him is her. Always, water is given to her, and the little food he has, too, in this blistering hot hole. He slaps her across the face when the coast is clear, checking for signs.

The sun blinds him. Words, gibberish, form into coherent orders and interrogation at gunpoint. He feels his enemy's gun, yanks him into the whole. He beats his neck with a magazine, chokes him out. His whole face is a gateway to vital organs: eyes can go dark, lungs can suffocate, a bullet to the head…

Groggy, dragging himself and her overboard, he leaves his hiding spot where his foe lay, breathing but knocked out. No cadre of officers asking him to politely give himself up to a considerate firing squad or to be dissected as capital punishment. It's just him and the balaclava pony. He checks the neck: it still moves, blood still pumps. Termie the unicorn is alive, if not exactly well.

The trees call for their fallen comrade. They proclaim that Gerwin is here. Cannons of deforesting hovertanks, charging up their munitions, bar the way up north.

Taking her body and her duffle up, Gerwin sets his wings oceanward.

"Come in, come in," Gerwin says, speaking to Cauliflower’s screen.

The lights flash red. NO CONTACT ACCESSED.

Midnight waters run eternal. They lap against his ears, against his fragile hull. Their slow waves can rock anyone to sleep. No rocks or islands, no stops for him to rest at. A sentry may catch up to him. He stays awake.

Clouds form. They block the stars' way. The rays of the moon turn hazy. As the water sloshes, the bag slides with the turning of his vessel, rolling over when the waves rise like living mountains. He puts a stop to the bag, keeping it still in his grip.

He sits and waits, keeping it away from him but never from tipping over.

The horizon is endless, alone with her.

The best he can tell from his stargazing is that it's two AM. Mists have come and gone. The rain beats lightly on him, a gentle breeze that he can doze off to, to carry all worries away. The sloshing ocean leaves him alone.

Sleep eludes his grasp. The stars have moved on. Her raincoat protects him from more rain and a bad cold.

He spots the bag. With aching forelegs, he tugs at the zipper.

Covered by some of his clothes, she lies there. The discs cover her legs, one installed into her wrist screen. He takes one and installs it in her wrist screen. The records are conveniently labeled: home videos, EQNX trips, vacations, transcribed letters. An ID, some photos in her wallet of her family. Graduation photos, her first company photo at the EQNX news firm.

His screen starts up. A mental playlist arranges itself as he studies each disc.

"Hey! Look at this!"

Pink Hearth's Warming streamers and balloons flood the workplace. EQNX labels are plastered everywhere. All members cram themselves into the makeshift cafeteria, with brownies, chocolate, cake, and apple pies available under the glow of festive lights.

Carols are sung, but she sings with precision, more so than most ponies. In the makeshift choir, she is the one deemed heavenly. The others congratulate her with cheers and hugs.

Date Line taps her with a kiss on the cheek.

~~~

Banjo strumming, quite cheeky, plays from a radio as Date Line leads her into EQNX.

"It's seen worse days, I tell ya! We've got Scalding Seltzer here to give you the cameras and recorders and other equipment, and Cold Copy handles our contacts. She's got some friends from Canterlot, Griffonstone, even a couple Convocation officials. They can trust us for independent and reliable reporting."

A tour is given, and it's a humble place. It's not even three rooms: there's the workroom, where several computers and wires knot themselves silly, and there's the break room, with a microwave and a coffee machine on the same table they eat at.

"Stuff here's third-hoof, fourth-hoof," he says, laughing all the way after. "But trust us, it's the stuff of freedom here."

Cauliflower laughs back at him. She turns the camera around, and there she is on the screen, waving her hoof crazy. Bright-eyed is she. A cute pink bow tie completes her appearance.

~~~

A dozen tassel caps flood the skies, and everything is rushed there, shaking and breathing. The world turns dark as there is much crying and blubbering.

"You made it, sweetie!" "I'm so proud of you!" Mother and father, probably. Whimperings and tears drown out anything sensible

The video catches only the tail end of a speech. There's much waving and hugging, of friends and professors. Drinks are shared, cheers are sent, and the clip ends with a zoom into the sunset. Some text flashes right before it cuts out, reading, UNIVERSITY COMPLETE! NEXT MISSION: JOB TIME!

~~~

A sprinkle of tears fall as she stands before the camera. A show for the Internet, for a vlog maybe. The metadata in the corner speaks the title, BEING_REAL. Posters hang high over the younger Cauliflower, of colt bands and infographics about the world beyond Equestria, colored in red and casualties.

There is a script there, trying to repeat. Names are said. Some past puppy love is spurned. She plays the blame game, both with others and herself.

She falls apart, bawls over the table. She forgets to turn the camera off.

~~~

A filly plays with the world and her toys. Her parents interview her, asking her many questions, and she smiles and cheers. She keeps asking Why.Why? Why, why? It does make her parents laugh nervously. It is because that is the way it is. She replies, Why is it the way that it is? Not in so many words, but she keeps asking. They tell her to stop asking, and she is gently led back to her bed.

And within, her mother is delighted over the crib, seeing a filly all looking at her. The parents swap cameras, playing with her, letting her fly in their hooves, but it's fast after midnight, and they can't stay awake forever. Cauliflower, finally tired from a day of love, is put to bed a second time. Mother and Father kiss her on the cheek.

The last second shows her sound asleep.

The metadata says that the file has been converted a dozen times just to have it play back here.

Battered in the stormy twilight, another vessel rages at him. "This is DS Sentry of the Sea of Clouds Demilitarized Region! State your purpose here, and deactivate all weapon systems on your vessel!"

"Name's Gerwin! You want me, huh? Here I am! I’m leaving the—!"

"Stand down! We will take you over to Weather Station Crossing Five. Any sudden movements will be met with extreme prejudice!"

Eternal Morning

"Happy birthday, Cauliflower!" her father shouted.

The filly gallops and squeals, running to him. She bumps her head against his leg again and again, but she keeps squealing. After failing to defeat it, she settles for a hug.

Her mother gallops over to scoop her up, throwing her up and letting her fall back to her hooves. Cauliflower screams in joy.

"Hey, Root, hold the camera! I wanna be in!"

The bars of the truck are struck, and Gerwin has to look up from Cauliflower's wrist screen. "Klugetown's up!" barks the driver. "Get ready for the Equestrian delegates."

Gerwin closes the recording and puts it back in the bag. Opened one more time, it yields to him a visage of her, pure as ever. Her eyes are now closed; her muzzle is turned up in an immortal smile.

On orders to hurry up, he closes the bag. For the first time throughout the trip, he locks the latches tight.

Hot desert sands attack him from outside. Silhouettes waver like mirages; before them, the faint outlines of buildings rise. Uniforms of Klugetown authorities—and Canterlot's Royal Guard—dazzle him as they approach, wading through the sand.

Clutching the bag, he drops outside, ready to report the truth under a naked, honest morning.