A Day in Stalliongrad

Chapters

Worry Not, The Detective Arrived
You Tell Me Magic Ain’t Science and Expect Me To Buy It?
Das Waffeleisengespräch
*Sniff* In The *Sniff* Supermarket *Sniff* Of Ideology – Choosing Your Blood Group
You Have None Of The Answers, Switch Your Feelings On.
This Hits Harder Than The Fun Police’s Batons
A Cruel Mare’s Friendship Thesis
Going Postal
Come Live With Me
Steel Stallion And His Big Spoon
An Actual Degree In Medicine
Radio – Freedom Through the Waves
The Wildcard
Another Day, Another Success
Goodbye Old Me – You Knew Too Much and Killed The Surprise
You've Got to Crack A Few Billion* Eggs to Make an Omelette *Adjusted to Inflation

Worry Not, The Detective Arrived

Why would you want to see a cadaver? Is this some macabre desire? There must clearly be something wrong with you; however, you already came to that conclusion.

Muscle memory told you to take the money with you. Trusting it, you take the bag along.

Oh, and keys.

You exit the apartment. Everything seems cracked. The elevator has a big out-of-order sign. You walk down the stairways. Exiting the apartment-complex, you observe the urbanism – it is dreary despite the sunshine, the dust of the industrial part of the city carries in, covering all; passerby walk along the street, not noticing your existence, only occasionally glancing at the happenings at the perimeter; wind rushes by and with the cacophony of the city’s voices create an orchestra of urban life.

You notice the car that woke you up. These machines must be very noisy.

Motor carriages: They are new, they are expensive, they are a luxury good. This means that in Equestria they are a privilege of the rich; in Stalliongrad they are government property and therefore the privilege of the bureaucrats. The police here are one of the few that can so easily travel.

You go to the police tape, seeing the two again you greet them; they seem to be done with their questioning of the locals, “shouldn’t there be more police officers?”

Their looks are bored. They seem to be desensitized to these things. They aren’t bothered by the covered corpse. Snowy answers from the other side of the tape, “ever since they split the police work from the military we have been understaffed. We’re just watching until central sends someone to take the body.”

Hoax stands near the body. In your peripheral you see her staring at Snowy.

“Can you lift the cover?” you ask.

“No, we have regulations, this is a crime scene not an exhibition.”

“But I can help.”

She raises an eyebrow.

You think for a short moment, “you see this,” you point at your flank, “ I didn’t get this cutie mark for no reason. I was the best detective in my hometown.”

It is a lie – or maybe it isn’t – you don’t know what it means or where you got it.

Clearly, you were the best detective. You could find every string and thread from the normally unseen to the nichest creeks.

Or maybe you just liked to look at fabric.

Nonetheless it appears to be working.

“Snowy, you shouldn’t,” Hoax chimes in, seeing her partner be convinced by this simple line of reasoning.

Mulling it shortly over, Snowy answers, “there isn’t much damage that could be done. And if it helps us, why not? Lift it.”

Hoax obeys her superior and lifts the cover.

Dead, empty eyes stare at the void, a horn protrudes out of her forehead like Snowy’s, the facial features stuck in eternal sadness, livor mortis and rigor mortis already set in, slowed down only by the cold, and something of a burn mark stains the place where her heart should have been. It is at the second stage of death. The death occurred 6 hours ago, maybe sooner.

Her hair is long and unkempt even before she died. Her coat has the same shade of green as you do.

What a weird coincidence.

“It appears to be a clear case of a magical attack. Do you second this?”

You eye her up, down, and up. And despite the distance – you dare not enter the threshold.

There is something on the neck. These aren’t normal marks.

Don’t tell her about it. If they figure out, she died by other means, you could incriminate yourself. And who knows? Maybe you did kill her.

If you tell them and aid them, you could look less suspicious.

“The neck. Could you push away a little of the fur?” you ask.

Hoax – now curious at what you are seeing – does so. There are deep bruises. “This lividity wasn’t caused by livor mortis.” You say.

The terms flow through you.

“Why would some creature strangle a corpse?” says the irresponsible police officer.

Hoax chimes in, “to distract us.”

“Yes,” you say, “the shot could’ve been added postmortem.”

“We probably have a magically capable and a magically uncapable creature.” Hoax says.

You continue. “They wanted to hide the fact that she died by non-magical means by a non-magical creature. The actual murderer got a unicorn to shoot her.”

“But it could still be just one creature.” Snowy adds. “Perhaps it was an act of frustration or anger. Or just a deal gone wrong.”

This time Hoax is on your side. “It would be an interesting strategy. This could be exactly the thing they want us to believe. The horned creature could long have left. The other one would stay unsuspected.”

“These things are rarely this dramatic. The evidence isn’t conclusive enough. We still need to find out her identity and have a proper autopsy.”

Many murders are never solved. It’s likely that this could be one of them.

“She probably was killed here. Based on the blood loss it would have been noticeable if she were moved. Though the rain washed it away, thus she could have been murdered somewhere else. Although that wouldn’t make sense – normally, you’d want to move a corpse away from the city, not into it. Either they wanted to have the corpse be visible or they had no other choice. And looking at her state of decay, she couldn’t have died longer than two days ago. It most likely happened at night when it is less likely to be noticed. She also doesn’t have broken bones or bruises; so, she wasn’t thrown out of one of the apartment buildings.”

More could be figured out with a proper autopsy. And without her identity, there is only so much you can do.

If only you could get you hooves on that corpse.

They both look at you. A moment passes. “That’s quite an analysis. Hoax, please, cover her up.”

She does as told. The dismal appearance of the dead that besmirched the land of the living is gone. The pressure of sadness is lifted off your shoulders.

“Say, what is your profession, mister Thread?” Snowy asks.

Suspicion. You should divert the topic.

No, wait that’s a perfect opportunity.

“Oh, yeah. About that. Are you folks currently hiring?”

“You want to join the citizen’s militia?”

“Yes, it sounds very cool. Also, those uniforms –” You wink at her. Use slang. “ –fresh.”

Why did you wink at her? That was weird. Don’t do that again. It doesn’t mean anything and makes you look foolish.

Yeah, baby, make her see how chill you are.

It goes over her head, “tovarish, it isn’t ‘cool’. It is mostly paperwork. And clothing shouldn’t decide your future. But nothing is stopping you to be on our side, you’d have to talk to our chief for that.”

Just imagine. The uniform. The action. You could carry a gun. You can be a police hero and protect the world from wrongdoings.

“You know what, I am going to do exactly that. Where’s the police station?”

She tells you.

The Royal Guard: Mutiny, deserter, criminals, rats, enemies from the outside. Why should one separate the police and the military in the peaceful Equestria? It’s not like there will be an invasion any time soon. While Equestria lagged behind with the rest of the world in this aspect; the royal guard was nothing more than a glorified, militarized police force. As it turns out one needs to do more than sending the occasional guard to a dispute gone awry. The danger is larger. It comes from outward; no repeat of the Cantrelot Wedding. It comes from inward. Why are you whispering? You needn’t whisper if you had nothing to hide. You have nothing illegal to hide, do you? You aren’t planning anything, are you? Not like the traitors in Princessyn. And they called themselves Royal Guard?! Yeah, sure they call themselves the ‘Citizen’s Militia’ or ‘the Red Army’ now. But do you know what they really are? Traitors. Terrorists. Every last one of them.

On the other hoof, you really like the uniform and the hat. Besides, being a revolutionary is in. Haven’t you heard? Heard from whom? Don’t worry about it. Being loyal is out, and betraying your nation, your race, and fighting for ideals are all the rage now.

The ponies are hungry, after all. And what is friendship worth if you can’t feed yourself?

For now, your mind can’t come up with anything useful. You have to bite your lips. Before you give in to the urge to go on a tirade about *the things* your mind fed you, you exit the scene.

You give your goodbyes to the two; there isn’t much else for you, and you still have date. Snowy turns away, looking at Hoax. Going away, you keep listening in.

“Hoax, do you want to do something afterwards, after the workday? How about some coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

You Tell Me Magic Ain’t Science and Expect Me To Buy It?

You walk inside the inner precincts of Stalliongrad city, the goddess of gray. The monotonous coloration is interrupted by the colorful denizens and propaganda.

You stop to look at one of those posters.

UNITED WE STAND AGAINST EXPLOTATION!

Ponies of all kinds look into an unknown distance, holding red flags.

You look onto the next poster.

To have more, you must produce more.

A hoof is pressed down on a book.

To produce more, you must know more.

It seems to be a part of an anti-illiteracy campaign.

Who is so gullible? As if it would encourage any creature of anything. You certainly are not convinced.

You are gullible.

No, you’re not.

You are not immune to propaganda. If becoming immune to propaganda were as easy as saying, ‘I’m not gullible,’ they wouldn’t bother producing it, companies wouldn’t put in countless amounts of resources into advertisement, and political parties wouldn’t propagate theirs. It is sublime. It works, that’s why they do it.

So, what? If you want to stay unmanipulated, should you blindfold yourself whenever you go outside? Become a hermit? Participating in society sounds like a chore if your brain is constantly bombarded.

Maybe you should read a book or two. That Knowledge could help you stay resilient.

You look at the poster again.

… Damnit.

The adventure continues. You walk the streets; the amount of passerby sinks until you barely meet any creature. You come to the realization you have no idea where you are going.

You are lost.

You are alone.

Not just physically alone.

Yes, completely alone, isolated – segregated from every creature. No consciousness will ever truly meet yours. Alone and forgotten even by yourself. What do you plan to do? What do you want?

That ‘date’, of course, is a lead. But do you really mean it? Do you want to follow it? It is something that was planned – by yourself – you knew you were going to follow it. Why shouldn’t you?

This creature could help you figure yourself out. Do you want that? They are clearly connected to your past. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have known of them.

You want to search for your past? You forgot for a reason, and it must be a very good reason.

Lost in your thoughts, you stumble into a pony. You falter, she is unmoved. “Oh, my knight.” A sanguine mare – you must be very distracted – appears in front of you, an earth pony.

“Uh?” you exclaim eloquently.

“It’s so nice to see you vis-à-vis. I sensed that you’re in a little dilemma, so I came to help, my gent Lost.”

Does she know you? “Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize me, my little detective?” she says, you look at her, she is severely scarred, bordering disfiguration – she’s beautiful. “I’m the first you were acquainted with, I’m in the air you breathe, in your lungs, pores, and every second thought.”

She is showing her dominance, throwing you off. A primal urge likes it. She stands there like an unmovable object, making you aware of your mediocre size.

Your mental dices give ones. You are unable to react.

“I’m sorry, mommy, I mean mommy, I mean mommy, I mean miss. What?” You are very close to a catatonic breakdown.

“I am Stalliongrad. I want you, Lost, to join my fellow protectors.”

“What? Protectors?” If she *is* the city then, “you mean like Hoax and Snowy?”

“Yes, oh, those hopeless lovers.” She is close to you. “You are searching for meaning. Let me tell you one thing, I am old, I saw many try to find meaning on their own, or in the end of a bottle. It never worked out. But I am here for you, I will give you meaning, and you will become one of mine; swear fealty to me, my dear.”

You take up a charming pose– in your mind ‘charming’ but seeing her expression, it only shows for a second, confusion, it is anything but. “Oh, I can do all sorts of things. Swear fealty, sure. Anything you want, miss. Though, I have to ask, what exactly do you want from me?”

The mare simply smiles – she gets close, touches you, throws her forearm on your shoulders. “Many of my brothers and sisters have their own champions, and intellectuals. I have my own, however better more than less. You are no intellectual. But a nonconformist wildcard. I need you to work for me.”

“Do you know me? Are you, like, a spirit?” If she is, she must know. “What happened. What did I—”

“Don’t. You need priorities.” Her priorities. “Either you can be crying over the past or finding meaning in me. Clean out your room and keep what you like.”

Joining the police and working for something grander than yourself. Isn’t that what everycreature wants? And the uniform. You straighten your mane – the strands of hair jump back to their chaotic position. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get to look prober. I’ll help. Join the police Insignia. I’ll look so slick.”

“You are not doing it for it for the uniform.” It was a simple statement of fact.

You deflate. Of course, you only do it for the uniform. Anything more meaningful makes you more vulnerable. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask. Simply follow my veins, my arteries, follow the trams they will lead you to my heart.” Now she is very close to you. “Love you.”

She kisses you, forcing your eyes to close. Wet lips. Heartbeat. When your eyes open again, she is gone.

It is official, you have brain damage.

Are you sure, this world has magic, why shouldn’t a city have a ponification?

Really?

Oh, well, at least you have funny brain damage.

‘Funny brain damage’, what does that even mean?

Hallucinations are much less bad than a coma, paraplegia, or dying.

That’s true. But how are you even assured that she is fake? Magic can do many inexplicable things.

Willful ignorance: If it makes you feel better pretend as if. It doesn’t matter if she is real or not.

You continue your journey. Reaching a tram station, there, plastered on one lamppost is a timetable with a map next to it.

Wait, do you need something for the tram?

No, public transport is gratis.

Nice.

It may be free, but it turned up fifteen minutes too late. You didn’t get a seat and you are squished together in a multitude of creatures. They are strangers, yet you don’t care. The tram conductor drives the tram with paternal pride. There are ponies with wings that use public transport.

Flying is banned in downtown areas.

A larger concern for you is the creature you are currently sharing the same square decimeter with.

Leather wings, very tired, dark coat, and very attractive.

Ask him what he is. Ask him for his number.

Don’t, the tram is an inopportune place for that.

Better yet, give him a wink and an air kiss. You need to know what he is, and what he packs.

Stop, you don’t even know if you like stallions. Contain your metaphysical detective and your libido, you can find out what he is at a later date.

Look at him, he has sunglasses. That’s badass, he’s *cool*. Now is your chance to ask him out. What will the chance be that you meet him again? It is *very* small.

You barely win at containing your tongue, the tram eventually arrives at your goal.

After exiting it, you are greeted to the scenery of a huge plaza. On the other side of the plaza is a giant construction underway. Looking at a nearby clock, you arrived at about the right time. You leave the concourse part of the square in search of a café. It doesn’t take long until you do.

Then you see her. A cutie mark of an eye on a globe. It couldn’t be more ominous. She sits alone, calmly drinking her coffee.

Well-kept hair, beautiful eyes, nice posture, a very threatening impression; ask for her number.

An aura of misery surrounds her.

If you ever were gay, she de-gayed you in this instant moment.

Wait, are you really gay or not gay, ungay? No, you are something even better. You are super gay. Only the hyper gay can love all.

Turn around, she is nothing but trouble.

Satisfied with your inner conundrum, you take no time to prepare yourself, you approach her and ask, “do we know each other?”

Author's Note

Hi, I'm back from killing Henry Kissinger with my bare hands.
Jokes aside, this story has ratings with one third dislikes. So, I'm going to ask, why? I can't deduce from dislikes alone what I'm doing wrong.
You can dislike it from its very premise, which is completely understandable. I can only guess and that doesn't help much.
Is it the grammar, the prose, the characters, or story that's the problem? Did I mislead too much with the description? Was it the first Author's note?

Das Waffeleisengespräch

The tram, walkways, an alley, and some stairs, the way back home feels short. It probably was, you had long conversations with two *interesting* mares. That would skew anycreature’s senses of time. Automaticity took over as you walk the streets again, your surroundings became a blur. Orange illuminations belighted the streets of your mistress.

The door is closed behind you, now you are safe in your own four walls. Again, you are alone.

You didn’t eat anything. The cake was forgotten in your conversation with the mare, which you dearly regret now. The kitchen has been untouched ever since you woke up. It would be best to eat before you end the day and sleep.

With that goal, you set out. Passing through your small living room, you reach the door. You open it. You enter it. Clicking on the light, you observe.

Why are you in this room?

What was your plan again?

You’ll surely remember. Your brain will surely power up soon. You loosen the grab on the handle. Tighten it again. And loosen it.

…

Still nothing, there is nothing going on in that melon of yours.

Hippocampus, status report, what happened?

It doesn’t know, the frontal lobe is clueless as well. The temporal lobe reports ‘Shit’s fucked’. The whole nervous system knows it wants something, just not what. A whole nation suffering presque vu. It’s like the Aquileian parliament during the revolution in there. Supposedly they all know that they want the same thing. Everycreature is speaking their own language, the griffons are making rude gestures with their talons that the ponies don’t understand.

You should go back into the living room, that could help. With that you close the door and sit down, thinking.

There it is: you wanted to make yourself some food.

With renewed determination you stand up, walk towards the kitchen, open the door and…

Why are you in this room?

You forgot what you forgot. The room has cabinets, utensils, pots, a fridge, some folding chairs against the wall but nothing that tells you what your mission was. On there is a table that can be folded out. A sort of sleepiness must be diluting your thoughts. The room is so small, that when you fold it out, you’re barely able to walk much less work. Your sense and ideas get washed away in the tornado that is your consciousness.

The representatives are filibustering. A pony has decided to hold a speech consisting of him drinking wine for five hours on the podium.

The solution must be to tame it. You lay down in the middle of the kitchen and stare at the ceiling.

Everything is silent. The thick, concrete walls don’t let any sound waves through. A light, it is above, is so loud, it throbs in your ears. Time twists and turns. Unreality becomes the norm as you close your eyes.

“Psst, hey, colt.”

You open them. You’re still in the kitchen, nothing has changed.

“Hey.”

The voice, it comes from the appliances, you look towards them.

“Do you need help?”

It is the waffle iron. “Why are you talking to me?”

“You looked a little lost.”

“I haven’t been trying to not be Lost. Honestly, I like being Lost.” No, actually you don’t like being yourself. Why are you lying to a waffle iron?

“You know what I mean, Lost Red Thread.”

“Well, in that case, yes, I need a little help. I wanted to go into this room, but I completely forgot why.” Clearly there must be some otherworldly force at play in your kitchen. “This kitchen must be cursed.”

“This kitchen isn’t cursed. I have seen its history. It is old, older than me, like this whole building, it changed appearances and owners, but it is still the same.”

“So, you have seen some stuff. Was it build before the revolution?”

“Revolution? I didn’t see any of that. I am completely imprisoned in these confines.”

“But then, what did you see?”

“I saw many things. But not as what I am now. Now, I am nothing but a conglomeration of horror stories.”

“Why?”

“What is the price of forming iron, wood, or stone into a ‘product’? You have to rip into the magnificent planet and deform its parts into something unrecognizable. Countless process helped to create me. Some creature mined the minerals in a far of country, a child in a factory lost limb to produce me, countless transportations of my individual parts brought me hither and thither, and this is not counting the production of the products that allowed my creation. Stories you’ll never need to be aware of. ”

That waffle iron is overly dramatic.

“Oh. Child labor, really? Can my imagination not be a bit more creative? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“I am old. Here in Stalliongrad or Equestria it may be true. But in Griffonia or Nova Griffonia? How do you expect the warlords to finance themselves? Good ol’ exported iron.”

“You must have come with the apartment.” Since when did waffle irons get a sense for politics?

Stalliongradian trade: Stalliongradian foreign trade is nonexistent. Outside a few exceptions, nothing gets imported, nothing gets exported, legally speaking. This old piece of machinery was made pre-revolution, meaning that the metal was imported to Equestria, they don’t want to sully their nature with industrialization, a luxury that Stalliongrad can’t afford. The result of Stalliongrad’s isolation is shortages and scarcity of resources. The Equestrians point at those shortages as clear failures of communism; the communists see it as an acceptable sactifice. The Stalliongradian isolation is not a result of unwillingness to trade but because every other country either hates communism or ignores its existence.

Even if you wanted, you can’t buy labor law violating products here.

You can’t hold back, you need to ask. “Wait, do you know what I did yesterday, or at all in the past?”

“The door was closed.”

“Dammit. Waffle iron, could you at least tell me what I am doing here?”

“A mare and stallion got together, and they created you, that’s why you’re here. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“What?” Did it just insult you? “Me? Disgusting? You give me all that shit about exploitation, then you call my conception disgusting!? It’s not. Sex is cool.” You think, but you first need to figure out what that mystical concept of ‘sex’ is.

“I don’t mean sex, I mean *hetero* sex. It is sickening to think a creature would want to put another on this world. It is even more ugly to see flesh in flesh, like macabre puzzle accidentally created by nature.”

Don’t think about it as normal. Why should you care about what this mysterious *normal* is. No, it’s about what you want.

“I just want to have fun. I want somecreature to comfort me, to hug me, to –“

“You’ll only get disappointment. If you want any of that, you need to know what you want.”

“I don’t care. I am super hyper-uber-gay. Male, female, pony, or whatever a changeling is. As long as it is an adult and consents, it doesn’t matter. That’s what’s normal.” The waffle iron derailed the conversation, and you don’t have the energy to debate a heterophobe kitchen device. “I want to know why I’m in this kitchen.”

“Probably to fulfill the purpose of a kitchen.”

And what is that? What are you supposed to do in a kitchen?

You make food.

“Make food… ooh. Thank you, waffle iron. I hope you don’t have anything against being used.”

“What if I do? Would you feel bad? Does my history make my usage sad?”

“Well, I am pretty sure you’re just a hallucination. And even if you what you told me is real, it’s too late. I should make the best out of you.”

“So, my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“That is very depressing coming from a waffle iron.”

And you do. The waffle iron didn’t say anything afterwards. Luckily, you have a basic inventory. With your limited resources, you make waffles, the recipe was like an instinct to you, with a side of a can of beans, yoghurt that is about expire, and carrots.

You eat on your bed. After finishing, with the last iotas of strength you clean your dishes, lazily throwing them into the cupboard in an unorganized mess. Going back into the bed, you put on your cover that smells as bad as you.

You are like a bohemian. A bohemian, yes, that sounds nice. The individuality of it. It makes your skin crawl.

Fantasizing about becoming a bohemian, your perception of the world around you weakens. Your eyes close, you start to snooze.

Sniff In The Sniff Supermarket Sniff Of Ideology – Choosing Your Blood Group

Author's Note

An author doubting their own work is cliché. However, this chapter is questionable. If I made this professionally, I probably would’ve removed it. But alas, I put a little effort into it, thus your eyes will be graced by an horrible understanding of politics, which I disavowed before I even wrote this chapter. At least my watching of JREG and my chronic online-ness gave me a perfect framework that Lost views the world through.

Also sorry about any wait. I was too busy playing high-brow, intellectually challenging games and listening to calming music. As a side mission I also had to learn for computer science, law, and economy science.

I have reached the peak of comedy. I say the opposite of what I mean.

Laugh.

Sniff In The Sniff Supermarket Sniff Of Ideology – Choosing Your Blood Group

“Wake up, you don’t get to laze around all day. Time is money.” Somecreature screeches into your ear.

You groggily open your lids. The light reflecting from the mare before you is golden, it reaches your iris and receptors. The signal is sent from your eyes to your brain. It processes the new information.

A horn and wings.

Alicorns: This is the end. You are at her mercy.

“AAAAH.” Muscle memory, long since forgotten, reawaken. You throw your blanket. Her face gets covered. A thrust. You’re off the bed. Stand up. Stand up. Gallop. Momentum. The door. Distance’s short.

A force. You’re off your feet. Your tail is grabbed. “Eww, you should clean that.” She is holding you in her magic. The blanket is off her. “Now listen, THIS is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“Please, don’t hurt me.” You whimper.

“Why would I do that? That sounds mighty unprofitable. You see, I am an entrepreneur. And I think we can make a deal to bring us both revenue!” You look at the large, insane mare, her smile is wide and friendly. On her flank is the currency symbol of the bit.

“Liberalism, you need to work on your propaganda.” Another Alicorn, she is red. A cutie mark of a horseshoe and a hammer is plastered on her flank.

“Communism, you classist, it isn’t propaganda, it’s advertisement.”

“Whatever you call your solicitation, kulak, it isn’t working. Drop him.”

The golden mare frowns but does so. You face connects to the floor. Before you can recover Communism stands before you, grabs you with a hoof and uprights you. “What do you want?” you say with your little breath.

“Listen, comrade, we need you to choose. You need to believe.”

“Believe in what?”

“Believe in ME.” Another alicorn. It is getting crowded inside your small bedroom. The new brown, uniformed mare with a bundle of sticks and an ax as a cutie mark marches forth. She observes your room. “This a pathetic stature.” Communism, as she gets pushed aside, looks at the new mare with pure, unadulterated hatred. The authoritative alicorn who is clearly hated by another standing in front of you doesn’t alleviate your fear. “Straighten your back and legs, look around and see the filth you’re living. Your forebearers and family would be ashamed, you should be ashamed of yourself. It is simply not right to wallow in your filth.”

Fearing her authority, you obey her commands. Joints that are long unused to be in this position pop as you straighten yourself.

“Fascism,” the red mare uses the name as an insult “, go die in a ditch, my sensitive flower. He doesn’t need your call for tradition. He needs collective and communal help. Look at him,” the three alicorns look at you, they are talking about your bedroom, this is the worst attention you ever got “,he is mentally unwell. Society needs to help him.”

“Pah, society,” the golden mare says, “there is no such things as society. He is an individual and as an individual he needs to clean his room. Maybe after that, he can interact with that mystical ‘society’.” She looks at you “Do you really want to live off other’s wealth? Do you want taxes to save you, like a leech?”

No, of course you don’t want to be a parasite.

“You know,” oh, no, not even The Powers That Be could save you now, another alicorn, she is laying in your bed, “I kind of agree with Communism. Though I wouldn’t approve with her wording. What he needs are friends.” She is lilac. A picture of six crystals adorns her flank.

Well, having friends would also be very nice.

“Harmony, you’re teaching him to be weak.” Fascism says, “You don’t need friends. There are no things like friends. There are only subordinates and competitors. And you don’t want to be subordinate, do you?

No. Why would you?

“Look at Liberalism. She is doing it right.” You do, the other mares do as well to see what she is getting at, the golden mare “She is rich, very rich. Fellow pony, do you think she did it through friendship? She didn’t. Every bit she earned is covered in blood.”

“It isn’t. I meet all my clientele and workers on equal hoofing.”

Communism rolls her eyes “Sure you do.”

Fascism laughs. “Look, she is so good at this façade of civility and freedom.” She looks at you, “I, we, don’t need these pitiful things.”

“Enough,” Harmony intervenes “let us not point hooves at each other. Dear Lost, if you want to solve your problems you need to simply talk about it. If we talk our differences out and find a compromise, we will surely solve our problems.”

“You can’t eat words.” Communism spits at Harmony’s words “Comrade, you already met my daughter. You even swore your loyalty to, my daughter. It is not a far cry to start believing in me.”

This attention and bickering from these alicorns are slowly draining you.

“Your daughter?!” Harmony stands from your bed, her anger focused on Communism “You stole her from me!”

Communism shows a smug grin “She came to me, willingly. You have only yourself to blame.”

The lilac alicorn pushes the others aside, coming way too close to you “Stop with this silly soldiering.” You unrelaxingly relax your posture “Dear Lost, you need to believe in harmony. Equestria has been living with it for milenias and it’s doing well. Friendship and magic are blossoming. It is working. There is no reason for you to believe something that disrupts it. The princesses are on their thrones. Everything is normal. Even the communist will see how childish they are being. What happened in Princessyn is nothing more than a misunderstanding and mismanagement.”

You finally found your voice “D-do I have to believe in one of y-you?”

“Yes.” They all answer in unison.

“I-is there no other option?”

“There is also Nihilism,” Liberalism says “,but she didn’t see the point in coming.”

Thankfully. Another alicorn would have driven you to insanity, however that wouldn’t have changed much. “Is believing in Stalliongrad not enough?” you say.

“Yes, absolutely, it’s enough. There is nothing greater than looking out for one’s fellows, protecting one’s own home.” Fascism says “It’s important that you preserve it. But that isn’t enough. You must take what once was lost. I saw Stalliongrad. She is scarred, beaten, and bloodied. Do you know what caused it?”

You shake your head.

“Change did. I know, you don’t remember the good ol’ times, but it was simply better. Young ponies still could afford to feed a whole family, the tribes didn’t hate each other, every creature was in their own little place. ”

The other three look at each other in a ‘what is she talking about?’ look.

“Good luck in your mission of turning back time.” Liberalism speaks up “The past, his past, is nothing he should return to. He should learn from it.”

“Then he should do it better with a straight back, a clean room, and looking forward.”

Communism sneers “Scumbag, no he shouldn’t. He should not only learn from it; he should eliminate the contradictions that caused them.”

“Why should he now?” Harmony says “Isn’t the right-now not enough? He already drank himself out of addiction. No bit of chemical desire flared up in his brain since he woke up.”

This is getting really creepy. Not only are they talking about you like you are a child whose behavior needs to be corrected, they know things they shouldn’t.

You already know why.

“You don’t exist!” you exclaim loudly to the bickering mares “I don’t have to do anything. Why should some vague ideologies have alicornifications? This is a joke. Just let me be.”

“Oh, we don’t exist?” Harmony says to you “I appear very real to me. If a vague concept as love or friendship have alicorns, then why shouldn’t communism, liberalism, fascism, or Harmony?”

“Then why are you in the bedroom of a random pony?”

“Because you are available. We always need new followers to believe in us to keep us alive.” Communism says. “It is not the king that makes the slaves into the slaves, but the slaves that make the king into the king .”

“Not only that, but you also need to understand the world for what it is, and learn how to survive and thrive in it.” Liberalism says.

“Yes, thrive and dominate. This rock on which you’re living in is unforgiving, and like any rock it will crush you if you’re not careful.” Fascism says.

You can’t choose. How should you choose ‘the right’ ideology; you cannot even remember your own parents’ names or your own birthday. That is a high task.

“Ok ok ok. I will choose,” you say, “eventually. I still need to learn … everything. Please, give me some time. I-I just can’t right now.”

“That is reasonable.” Harmony says, looking at the other three who nod with reluctance.

“You should choose a patron sooner than later.” Fascism says, kicking your door open and leaving.

“Farewell, dear.” Harmony says leaving through the door. You hope that it isn’t damaged.

“See ya later, cowpony. Also, clean your room and take a shower,” Hey! You already took a shower yesterday “,you won’t be doing any venturing when you smell like piss.” And she’s gone.

“Comrade, as the proletariat we are all on the same boat; we watch out for each other.” She walks out.

Finally, the calm returns to your room. You are alone once again, and this time you are happy about it. Dispute, arguments, and conflicts sucked every single tad of strength in you. Yet you have to continue. The sheets still need to be cleaned, you still need to get a job, and you still need to continue living. What a bother.

You Have None Of The Answers, Switch Your Feelings On.

You figured out that the apartment complex has a communal laundry room. It is small, but currently only used by you. The laundry is stuffed by means of force. The witchery of correctly cleaning your dirty bedding needs figuring. This infernal machine has too many settings and you don’t want to ruin your bedding, or the machine.

Most garments have laundry symbols on the care tags.

Pulling out your bedding, you try to search for the tag. It’s gone. Deeply taking a breath in frustration, you put the laundry back in. Looking at the levers, knobs and buttons you feel overwhelmed. Rounds per minute, temperature, rinse, pre-wash, degausser, dry time, decurser – for cursed clothing. User friendliness is a foreign term. Brain, give you another idea!

The neighbors should know.

That sounds embarrassing. There should be another way. If only there was a device with which you could easily access vast amounts of knowledge. You could go down to the library, then there would be no witnesses to your incompetence. There should be a book about laundry for dummies. The only you would bother are faceless books that can’t talk back, the author won’t know of your unknowledge.

No, that would take too much time. Do you really want to bother other creatures?

Is there another choice?

Wait! You should stop caring whatever creatures think about you.

Or maybe that is important?

They probably wouldn’t be bothered that much. If they say no or even laugh that is the worst that could happen.

Ok, you got it. Squash your adrenalin hormones. You can do it.

You walk towards a door. Behind it, the unknown social being, the bane of introverts, lives.

You knock.

A scrawny teenager earth pony opens the door.

It’s Saturday, she doesn’t need to go anywhere today.

“Need something?” It just got worse. “You’re the new guy.” She quickly figures out.

Quick, you have to show the youth that you’re one of them. Show them that you’re *cool*.

You don’t need to act on every thought.

“Yo, yes I’m the new bloke, I’m Lost, and I am in a pickle, it would be very groovy and rad if you could help me out.”

“What?” You already failed in your mission of not being embarrassing.

“Uhm, I meant to say, hi, I’m Lost Thread, I just have a quick question…” you look at her flank “…s.”

“Sure, I can help. I’m Double Helix” as expected there is a double helix on her flank “What is it?”

“Do you know how the washing machine works?”

“You don’t know? Okay? You just turn the knob.”

“I know that, but I wanna know to what I should do.”

“How do you not know how to clean your things? You’re old enough be my father, you should know that.” She is telling the truth.

Show to her that you’re the *cool* kind of old. Like an old person that can take a joke.

“Hey, I am not an old-timer, you whippersnapper.” You say in obviously joking manner.

She received the joke well, a small smile “Whatever, oldster. I have time, I’ll just show you.”

“Thanks.”

With that you two go to the laundry room.

“Have you already put in the powder?” you nod, “What do you want to wash?”

“My bedstuff.”

She looks at you confusedly “There is already a setting for bedclothes.”

Indeed, now you see it too: the knob has a setting for ‘bedclothes’.

This is worse than your worst-case scenario. Honestly, now is the perfect moment to disappear from the face of the planet. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It happens to everycreature, don’t think about it.” She is trying to be polite. Internally, she is laughing “Well, that’s my part done. Bye, mister Thread.”

You nonetheless collect your bearings, “Double, wait, I still have some questions.”

“Mmm?”

“You are a science pony, aren’t you?”

“You could say that. I am making my doctorate.” She says with proudness in her voice.

As she should.

“Okay, cool, so, I have some sciencey questions for.”

“Shoot.”

“There is the magic of friendship, love, and, you know, stuff.”

“Yeah, what about it? I don’t think I can help you much in that. Magic isn’t my field.”

“I’m coming to it. What even is magic? How can vague concepts like harmony become magic? Or does magic become harmony?”

She ponders for a moment to find the right words, “That isn’t something anycreature knows. What magic even consist of is an eternally ongoing debate. Maybe the magic of harmony came into being by itself, and then created harmony. Or maybe creatures became harmonious and created the magic of harmony. I personally stay scientific about it, there isn’t enough evidence to support either theory.”

This isn’t satisfactory. You want answers now. “Some of those magics have representations, don’t they?”

“Yes, they have. Though even that is debated. We don’t know if they only subsist of it or are it. Twilight for example became the princess of friendship. We don’t know if friendship chose her, if it even can do that, or if she simply assumed the title and uses the magic.”

“Okay, let’s assume that different kinds of magics started to exist because we started to believe in them. Could then something like communism also become a magic, and therefore have an alicorn? And if the other theory is correct, wouldn’t that mean that an alicorn of communism would be needed first for communism to even to exist?”

Thankfully, she doesn’t laugh at your crazed ideas, and thinks about it. After a short while she responds, “I have no idea.” She shortly looks into empty space, “I’m interested. I’ll research about it, maybe I’ll come up with some sort of an answer.” She finished, “It was nice talking to you, I still have some studying to do.”

Say thank you.

“Thanks for your time.”

“No problem.”

This Hits Harder Than The Fun Police’s Batons

The washing machine is now running. You make use of that time. Your main goal of the day is getting a job. Therefore, your destination is the police headquarters. Everything you could need is onhoof on you: your resumé, yourself, and a pen that’s almost empty.

Now you are standing in an empty alleyway. You hope to meet Her again. Questions need to be answered. And you wait. And wait. And … wait.

Nothing comes. She surely is busy. A fear swells in you; you fear that your meeting was once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, a chemical reaction in your brain gone awry. You need validation. A simple nod would be enough, something to tell you that what you are doing is correct. You need somecreature to point you in a direction, somecreature to tell you that everything is ok, somecreature that hugs you, somecreature that dominates and …….

You have issues.

Probably a mix of mommy and daddy issues. No, even worse, you have created something far worse. You have an issue that is so indescribable it will baffle psychologists for decades to come.

Unlikely.

True, you aren’t that special. Why would existence even grand you a special disorder. No, you just have a kink.

This line of thinking will lead to nowhere. Get going.

You exit the alleyway to go on with your way. You hope that you meet Stalliongrad again, soon.

You created her to fulfill those issues.

Who cares? She is real. Your meaning, your purpose is real. Even then, Stalliongrad as a concept still exists, you will protect it. This isn’t going to stop you.

Unto your new job!

You enter the police office. Behind a desk sits a mare. She is bored.

“Hi, I am Red Thread,” you say, getting straight to the point, “I’m here to apply for a job.”

The deskmare raises an eyebrow. ‘Really,’ she must think, ‘this disheveled stallion wants to become a police officer? He looks like an eyesore.’

“Hello, mister Thread,” she says, “that’s good to hear. It’s always nice to have a new colleague.” She shuffles some papers around, like she is searching for something for which she has displaced on the mess on her table, before remembering where she put it. “Wait,” she swivels around in her chair and picks up papers from a cabinet, “just fill this up. I will call comrade chief, you’ll be making a interview with her.”

You nod, taking the papers. While you’re filling them out, the clock on the wall ticks louder than your heart beats.

The wait had been long. Luckily, you didn’t have anything planned today. Standing before a door, you breathe in. Body, mind, and soul now need cooperate for at least an hour, which is a feat you have yet to accomplish.

You should have combed yourself.

Too late, now.

You enter the room of the police chief. Unlike your expectations, she is not a donut-eating, fat cop, but a very average looking, light brown pegasus.

“Lost, I assume?” she asks.

You nod.

“You’re lucky today is an uneventful day. There was nothing on my schedule, so, I was able to squeeze this interview in. And I am going to be frank, we need new recruits,” she continues, standing up from her office desk, “my name is Alan.”

She offers her hoof. You shake it.

Alan? Who would name their filly Alan?

This is a very silly name.

Alan sees your reaction. In an automatic response she says, “I’m aware it’s unusual. But my parents are unusual people.” People? It’s like she’s reading from a script. The question of her name was thrown at her often; she’s used to it. “I would never disavow it.” She goes back to her chair. “Now, this isn’t about me, it’s about you. Please, sit down.” She points to the chair opposite to her.

It is the same kind of chair as hers, a relatively comfortable, blue one. This has a meaning.

There is not much meaning. She either doesn’t see her conversation partner as beneath her, or there simply isn’t a big choice of chairs.

You sit down, now facing her.

“Now, Thread, this isn’t the first time I have heard your name.” What have you done now?! “Today some high apparatchik told me that a Thread wanted to join my department. She gave me a recommendation of you.”

It’s that mare from the café.

You should invent a nickname, ‘that mare’ is not saying that much.

Yes, call her, ‘Spooky Leftist’.

Good enough. This Spooky is attempting to have you in her hooves. She is trying to intimate you, and she has the means to, even figuring out from your name alone where you live. Ask Alan about her. But why would she? You are just a small fish in the grand scheme of things? Why is she interested in you? Or does she do it to every government worker? Did she follow you?

“Mister Thread, are you well? You have been staring for a while?”

“I’m sorry. Who did recommend me?”

“Don’t know, didn’t tell me.” Dammit! “It would be useless anyway. Those secret service mares don’t easily babble out things, it’s in their jobs.” She interrupts herself, eyeing you. “Stallions, of course, too.”

Secret intelligence service!? What did you get yourself in? “I think I am in trouble.”

Alan raises an eyebrow, “well, what did you do?”

“I don’t know. I asked questions? I refused a bribe?”

“That isn’t a crime. I am sure we could simply talk it out, given that you have done nothing wrong. Those damn bureaucrats are in their own little ivory tower, they often forget what is happening in reality. Possibly you accidentally got caught in their eyes. It’s a chore to work with the party officials. When you need to talk to them, go to me.”

Her way of talking to them, it hints she doesn’t care that much about politics. Nevertheless, because of her position, she has to deal with the party.

“Why would you help me?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Her vendetta towards the nomenklatura is a fine addition. Any excuse for her is enough to stick it to them.

“I don’t care for their recommendations. You could get the chairstallion himself to vow for you and I wouldn’t care. I’ll judge you myself.” She flips through your resumé. “This says you were in the royal guard.” She says with an eyebrow, “from Equestrian soldier, to clerk, then to Stalliongradian police officer that is a big shift. Why?”

Wait, now, think about it. Give a sensible answer. You want the job, be reasonable, do it as any other rational being would; lie at your interview. Remember, every good lie is laced with truth.

“I was different back then, made some bad life decisions. Now, I just want to give my life some meaning, and serving Stalliongrad would be a good opportunity to do that.” Too much truth.

“Mmhmm. It’s a good thing, with your background we could shorten your training.”

“I don’t remember much of my training.” In fact, none of it.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that hard.” She says before mumbling to herself, “you could help with our gender quotient.”

The what?

Gender: Communists. It’s always the marksits, isn’t it? One of their progressive positions is gender abolishment. Because of that, most institutions are encouraged to hire in opposite of their gender norms. The police seem to have a bias to mares, that’s why they would be encouraged to hire stallions. The same goes for tribes and races. Though there does not seem to be a tribe-bias in the newly created police. The proportion of earth pony scientists in Stalliongrad is higher than in Equestria.

“So, you would hire me because of a quota?”

“No, of course not. Having some incompetent creature here wouldn’t make up for it.” She starts to write in her papers.

Maybe you could play up your cutie mark. Tell her some niceties.

“Does my cutie mark play a role?”

“No. I won’t even think about it. Those damn bureaucrats would have my head otherwise.” She looks at another pile of papers beside her. “Though I tend to agree with them on that one. You don’t need a cutie mark to do a good job. You do a good job if you do a good job. I see ponies like Gamer Jockey as a cautionary tale, not an inspiring one.”

Gamer Jockey: She is cutie mark obsession. The love for video games, arcade games, and board games was for the world to see on her flank. She believed it was her destiny. Her desire drove her to what she is now. She is renowned for her self-destroying and impossible act. She turned herself into a videogame console. It is still believed she still ‘lives’ and doesn’t regret her choice. However, nothing has been heard about her for a while. Her unhinged act garnered her name renown around the pony world, an urban legend.

She is done scribbling.

“I have to ask you some more mandatory questions. It is not only on me who decides if I can hire you. We’ll simply work through them.”

You nod.

“First question: A colleague is getting harassed by a group of creatures. They make fun of her cutie mark, they are namecalling her. What do you do?”

Fight the bullies. Don’t be a coward, make them fear you, let them regret their life-decision of becoming bullies.

Talk the problems out, and if that doesn't work, get an authority figure.

“I’d first try to talk to them and, if it continues, ask a superior.”

She nods, scribbling notes, nothing in her expression shows approval or disapproval. The questions continue, your higher thoughts slowly shut down. The answers come out a la autopilot. They, the questions, are insulting. Here you are, an adult capable of higher thought, and all you have to do is give self-evident answers to questions a kindergartner could answer.

These questions are like a sieve. They separate the truly stupid from the semi-competent and above.

The torture eventually ends.

“You’ll get no disagreement by me. You can join,” you smile, “but,” your smile falters, “you’ll still need to do some checkups. And I still need to get this,” she points at the papers, “sent.”

Oh, no, checkups. How could a druggie like you pass them?

“In fact, if you excuse me.” She takes the rotary phone on her desk, turns in a number. The callee picks up, and before you can blink the conversation is finished. “Great, we can give you one tomorrow.”

Oh, buck, “ great, “ you say with gritted teeth.

Unaware of your inner turmoil she tells you the address, “now, this’ll be all. G’day.”

You leave. A hope was building inside of you, maybe you could meet Hoax and Snowy again. Sadly, there was no trace of them.

They are probably on duty.

Author's Note

There aren’t any humans in this story.

A Cruel Mare’s Friendship Thesis

There was one last thing on your schedule: Your next date with Spooky Leftist. Here, after journeyed the same paths, she sits on the same chair at the same table.

“Good evening, Thread. It’s nice to see that you decided to come,” says she, like she is not behaving like a creepy stalker. “I even bought you another cake, since you have forgotten the last one.”

To the other side of her on the table does stand the cherry cake. Don’t, it’s poisoned, she is conniving some sort of evil plan! She is making you to her marionette.

“Can you stop!” You almost scream out, “I don’t want to be a part of your weird skullduggery.” She blinks, you bring the other patrons’ attention to you. “For all I know, this cake is probably poisoned. What do you want from me? It’s not like I can give you anything.”

“Why would I poison your cake?”

She would, indeed, not gain anything from that.

“That’s not the point!”

“Thread, I am just helping you.”

She is not only ‘helping’ you, is she?

“You are trying to control me.”

She mulls over it, taking sip from her coffee to get some thinking-time. “Yes.”

She just admitted it. That was too easy.

“Now, please, sit.”

You grumpily do so – the patrons became disinterested – you even started to eat the cake. Through the day you haven’t eaten anything.

She starts to talk: “I was born in prerevolutionary times.” She did not need to point out that fact. You can see her crow’s-feet. “My family and I lived, because we were lower nobility, in a well-off house.”

“Lower nobility? I thought you are a communist.”

“I’m coming to that. As a part of the petty rich I had lots of time on my hoofs. I used that time with reading, simply out of curiosity I read Marks. Of course, I didn’t believe that much of it at the beginning, I was comfortable, I didn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck. However, time flied, contradictions amassed, and things got worse for many. I had friend who were directly affected. This radicalized me. Long story short. I chose the right side of history.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“To chitchat.”

“Don’t you have those friends to do that with?”

“They are dead.” She says akin to a completely normal fact.

Sentimentality: Dead. They are all dead. One starved, the other was shot on the barricades, they all dropped like flies, suicide, drug-abuse, disease. The remaining others chose the wrong side, they might as well be dead. She was useless in preventing any of it. Hatred festered. The friends created in times in which they all believed in fairytales faded away. Today, only work and comrades remain.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s in the past. It’s better that I work in the now.” She says. There was a pause, you continued to slowly eat the cake. She takes out a cigarette.

‘This is too much emotional labor’ she thinks.

This cake is really good. She was lying when she said it’s ‘alright’. This, right here, is gourmet. “You know,” you say with food in your mouth, “the cake’s good.”

She asks, waving the cig, “I hope this doesn’t bother you.”

You reply, “I’m kind of recovering from…” what exactly? Alcohol, definitely, there must be more, “…many things.”

She sighs, putting the cig back into her pocket. “Anyhow,” she continues, “since I was on the right side, I was allowed to keep the large house of my family, without the servants, obviously. That doesn’t mean I own the house; no creature here does own theirs nowadays. And I am not allowed to live in it alone, I couldn’t anyways, it’s too big. That’s why my nephew, my only relative that I have any contact with, lives with me.”

Think logically. Why would she be telling you all this.

She could be lying again. But there is nothing to gain for her by doing that. So, that’s unlikely.

She isn’t just chitchatting. Something else perhaps? She is getting to very touchy and emotional topics…

“Are you trying to befriend me?” you ask.

“If you want to be blunt about it.”

She wouldn’t *just* try to befriend you. She doesn’t seem like a person to make many friends.

“Are you kidding?!” you call out, “Are you for real?” All this, only to talk to you? A random idiot?

“What do you mean? You are the first in a while to just casually converse with me. It reminded me I need friends. In my field it’s not a good idea to befriend my colleagues. ”

“You don’t get friends by pseudo-blackmailing and bribing them!”

“I don’t understand. The bribe – oh, what do the youths call it nowadays? – ah, yes it was a vibe check.”

You were about to respond. But that’s hindered. A bright flash. A creature falls from the sky. The rest of your cake gets squished. The table buckles, before the creature falls of it. The other patrons jump at the sudden, loud arrival, you didn’t fare better. Spooky Leftist wasn’t faced even as she got covered by coffee and cake matter. The creature got the worst, covered with bruises that were there before its arrival. On its landing, a fork stuck into the creature.

“What’s that?!” you ask.

“A griffon.” She explains factually.

Author's Note

Side notes
Homeownership: Obviously, people in real life communist states owned their own homes. In fact, communist and ex-communist states tend to have higher homeownership rates. It's a bit more "utopian" in this socialist pony state.

Going Postal

*Ring* *Ring* *Ring*

I barely contain myself from smashing that little piece of trash into smithereens. Clocks are not expensive, but I don’t want to stress my budget. I turn it off. Standing up, the thick covers are lazily thrown aside. Sounds of rumbling escape my throat.

Another day in the frontier.

Why can’t I just continue sleeping?! Bloody mornings.

The kitchen greets my caffeine-deprived eyes. I turn on the kettle. I have to drink my instant coffee on my way to work. While the water starts to boil, I open a cabin, taking out a cup.

I could sleep sooner. However, I wouldn’t survive that, with no free time, no housekeeping, no socializing – though there isn’t much of that to begin with.

There is not enough time.

Dull light enters the kitchen through the windows.

My roommate comes in. I live in a shared company apartment; I couldn't afford it otherwise. Gold, West & Co. Ltd. does offer the luxury of running water for their workers, which is a mighty blessing. “Morning, Lionheart. Is there still hot water?”

I nod, not one for many words, as I put on my postal uniform, a Gold, West & Co. Ltd.’s uniform. Pretty much everything in this district is made by the company. At least it’s warm enough to keep away the north’s cold which bites through the feathers. I open the door.

He makes his tea. The lucky bastard works three hours less per day and gets paid the same as I. Well, not everygriff’s parents could afford high school. “Fabel,” I say, “don’t forget, you are cooking today.”

“I won’t.” He’s surely a nice griff, I simply never get the opportunity to talk with him that often. “See ya later, Lionheart.” Always so calm. He has a kind smile, a genuine one.

“Yeah, bye.”

Today I have distribution duty. I swear, if another guard dog tries to bite my ass, I’m going to wring its neck, cook, and eat it.

My quota is right on its way on getting fulfilled. The weather is at its usual, cool, slightly windy conditions, another blessing. The mail needs to be delivered no matter how dangerous flying might become. And I have the displeasure of having the uppity snob district, inhabited by middle management, which means they have their houses on high, hard-to-reach places, which on the other talon gives me the pleasure of them not talking to me. I hate suburbia.

“Here’s your package.” I hold out the clipboard. They sign. Finally, the last one for the shift. With no further exchange of words, I leave.

The path from here to the post office leads through the city center. No moment to dawdle remains. My schedule was rationalized to its most efficient.

There is not enough time.

I hate the city center. It is one of the few places not completely dominated by a single magnates. This may be nice for the economy or whatever. Except Talon Gunworks Inc., but they are practically omnipresent.

“Experience the new feather oil, experience true fragrance.”

“The Kitchen GUN™®©. Clean your kitchen with one easy bullet.”

“We won’t lie, let’s get right to the matter. This is advertisement: Buy our motor carriage.” By the gods, I could never afford one of these things.

I am untouched, baby, and I am all yours.
Underneath is a picture of … a burger on red velvet?

This place is not good for my sensibilities. Ignoring it and focusing on my task, I continue to my goal.

Oh, for gods’ sake. A vendor, he’s blocking my way “Hey, might you, good sir,” A fake smile “,be interested in –“

“I DON’T CARE! Get out of my way or I’ll cave in your skull with your garbage!”

He did back up. Everygriff, everycreature in this city – this world is a godsdamned, dirty imbecile! It’s … I …

I just want my bloody peace.

I bite into my cheap sandwich. It is filled with some kind of meat; I don’t dare to look at the ingredients list. Nonetheless, I haven’t eaten the whole day – it tastes like ambrosia.

A griffiness enters the break room.

Oh, no. It’s HER, the most bootlicking, cock-sucking creature in existent, the supervisor. When one does step a little away from her standards it’s off to the gallows. Figuratively, of course. Though, it could be literally, a poor, jobless griffon might as well be dead.

“Ah, Lionheart,” she read it off my name tag. The same fake smile as every other griffin “, how is your day?”

“It’s fine, just like any other.” She once cut somegriff’s pay because they took too much time in the shitter. She doesn’t care. I have it easy, there is always a bush in reach while I work. It’s all about efficiency for her; she even gets rewarded for it.

“Right? A calm day is a day where nothing wrong happens.” Shut up, stop talking to me, stop taking away my break time. “Of course, if something wrong happens, just tell me. We are like a family after all, here in Gold, West & Co.”

“Will do.”

“Great!” She probably trades with souls as a side business.

Her topics to fraternalize herself have run out – she walks out of the breakroom, her quick check-up being fulfilled. “By the way, be careful. I think there is a storm brewing outside.” And she’s gone.

A sigh escapes me. Telling me to be careful won’t make the weather any better. She deserves to be buried alive.

Another griffoness emerges from her hiding place. She made the smart decision and hid herself before the supervisor arrived.

We great each other. She doesn’t smile, it’s genuine, a breath of fresh air.

“Mildred,” talking with her at least isn’t a chore, “how did you sense her coming?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell you. It’s just a feeling you’ll get eventually. The quieting chatter is usually the biggest giveaway.”

“Yeah.”

“Should we do something about it?”

“What? About Her?”

“Yes, exactly. This is getting ludicrous; we should tell some higher up about it.” The higher ups hired her in the first place.

“That’s naïve.” We can’t do anything. What should we do? Create a union? Technically, we are already in a trade union, but it rarely does anything. I cannot remember it doing anything ever. They are pocketed by the corporations, even if nogriff can prove it. “Don’t be ridiculous.” And if it is possible, I wouldn’t want to risk it.

“But –“ SHIT. The time. My break is gone. I quickly stuff the sandwich into my beak. Just a few more hours, then I’m done.

As employees of Gold, West & Co. Ltd. we are offered payment in either common currency or the company’s own currency. Most take the company’s money. With this cash, products of Gold, West & Co. Ltd. in Gold, West & Co. Ltd. stores are cheaper. That’s why I have a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. pen, a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. uniform, and live in a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. house. I was rocked in a Gold, West & Co. Ltd. crib. I take Gold, West & Co. Ltd. medicine, and I will land in a company coffin.

When my parents came here in the promise of a stable, new frontier they signed a contract. That contract had much fine print.

When I grew up, they stopped bothering, the fine print was no longer fine. I still signed. A talon speaks louder than ink on paper, anyway. The other companies are the same, just in a different flavor, so, I chose the devil I knew. No griffon in the frontier is a citizen of any country. But citizenship and employment here may as well be the same.

Now, I am considering my loyalties. Gold, West & Co. Ltd. CAN STICK THEIR BLOODY MAIL UP THEIR–

*Rumble*

That whore was right. A storm is here. It’s wet, it’s windy, and it’s throwing me around like I’m nothing. My clothes and outer feathers are drenched. I’m freezing. The gods show their uncaringness towards me. Now, there is thunder. I hate them. I hate the weather. They never showed love towards me. I return the favor.

A mighty draft almost knocks me off my feet. I look up, towards the next house. There is no safe passage. I have to fly. The shitty mailbag is more watertight than my clothing. The packages are unharmed. With small trepidation – being afraid costs too much time – I push upwards.

A crackle. The air’s electrifying. Despite the dampness my feathers stand up.

Another crackle. It turns to loud murmur. I’m halfway there. The wind is flowing rightwards, leftwards, forwards, backwards, upwards, and downwards. Upwards I go. A lighting, going downwards, meeting me in the center.

A lighting strike’s main discharge lasts about 30 microseconds. In that short time the environment is set alight, mine darkens.

I hate this city, I hate everycreature inside it, I hate the overworked nurse who is tending to me, I hate this hospital, I hate the indifferent doctor.

The pain, the pain stopped bothering me. In fact, I have never been calmer. I don’t have to work tomorrow. Yeah, sure I am inside a corporate hospital – dirt is tastier than their food – but the bed is comfortable (enough), and, yes, I may go in debt a little, and, yes, I may have trouble breathing, and, yes, way too many bones are broken, and, yes, I am almost deaf on one ear, and, yes, I suffer from frostbite, but that is okay. Because it was a work accident, I got a decent discount for my treatment.

“You have a visitor.” The nurse says, “it’s the griffon that brought you in.” I wasn’t conscious after the strike. Might as well thank them. “Should I bring him in?“

“Yeah”

Opening the door, the griffon steps in. “Hey, Lionheart, are you feeling well?”

“Fabel?”

“I noticed you weren’t coming home, and I know you usually don’t do that, at least not without making it a big thing. I was worried, so, I asked at your workplace. And after they told me they haven’t heard of you, I searched for you.” He says, “along your route, I found a bush with smoke coming from it. And ya know…”

I never thought of him as a worried kind. Did he actually care? Maybe he simply was worried about my share of the apartment payment. Does he want a favor? He can’t just *help*. That would be ridiculous. “Why? I won’t be able to pay rent.”

“What do you mean why? Don’t worry about rent, I’ll cover yours until you’re fine.”

What is wrong with him? Is he just oblivious? “But …”

“Shut up, doom-and-gloom.” He says with amusement, “I’m only looking out for you. Speaking of, how are ya?”

“Shit.”

“At least, you didn’t get a head injury. I wouldn’t have believed another answer.”

That slightly moved the corners of my mouth. “You’re sure you aren’t secretly a pony?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so…” naïve, childish, innocent, “cute.”

He looks at me wide-eyed. Why?

Oh, I just realized what I said wrong word I said what I said I didn’t mean that I mean yes he is cute but not no I mean I like him but not in that way –

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, taking it with humor and ripping me from my thoughts. “I am going to come back tomorrow. Maybe bring some games to kill the boredom. See ya.”

Fabel did come back, and then he came back again, again, and again, making my hospital stay sufferable. He took time out of his days to make me happy.

Today we are playing some card game whose rules I only learned because it’s the only game he brought. The game is not fun.

He is sitting on the ground; we’re putting the cards precariously on the side of the bed. The hospital fucks didn’t have any spare chairs or tables. “Fabel,” I say, “you don’t have to sit there.”

“Hmm?”

“Hop on the bed.”

“Ok,” he didn’t even bat an eye, jumping on the bed, watching to not rebreak my bone. The bed is small, therefore pressing us together – it is cozy. He laid opposite of me; only the card’s backsides were visible. We continue to play, laying the cards on my lap. It is still unsteady but a little better.

I lost the first games because he was accustomed to the rules of the game. However, after I got the hang of it the victories become more equally distributed. The defeats didn’t anger me, it is only a stupid card game.

Fabel, he helped me, beyond any reason. He continues to do so. Why? Would I? …

No. Shame, disgrace, fills me; I am self-centered, wrathful, unlike him. He shouldn’t have cared for me. If all cared for themselves, then all would be cared for.

“Fabel,” I have to say it, I don’t know why, but I must be honest to him.

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Done what?”

“Help you. I wouldn’t have searched for you. I wouldn’t have met you every day.”

“Would you now?” Is all he asks.

Would I? After all he has done for me? “Yes.” But would I help him because I’m a sympathetic griff or because I like him? Probably the latter. I’m not happy about it. It is what it is.

He simply nodded. My words didn’t disgust him. Wordlessly, we continue, despite my words he still likes me. He really is ponylike.

He is cute.

Then, after the – I didn’t count how many rounds we played – the door opens. A griffiness enters. Bitch didn’t even knock.

Immediately, I see, based on the formal attire, she is a salesgriff. “Good day, griffs. I am sent by the company. Are you Lionheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I am here for some official work…” She continues talking about how she is checking that I am *actually* unable to work. Then she forces me to fill out forms, while Fabel awkwardly sits by me. “We also noticed that you haven’t given a written testament. Your accident brought this to our attention. You should rectify it in case your next accident is more fatal.”

Her eyes then swivel between us, “oh, I see, I walked in here on some private get-together. Fitting, you see, the company is supportive of all minorities.” Of course, they are, as long as they have money. “Therefore, we offer gay funerals.”

Something in me broke. Blood pumps into my head. My face goes red in a whirlwind of emotions. “By the gods, GET THE EVERLOVING FUCK OUT BEFORE I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!” I scream. I take the lamp at my bedside table, threatening to throw it.

She quickly escaped.

“Lion, she was only doing her job.” Fabel says.

Looking at him, my racing heart slows down. “I know.” But my anger overturned my sympathy.

“Home sweet home.” Fabel says. We walked together from the hospital to the apartment.

We’re back at the flat. It is as I remembered. Time passed but the world did not turn.

Yet again I stand to do the same thing. Luckily, I didn’t build hope for my rest to be permanent – I would only have found disappointment. Rest will come when I’m dead.

It is what it is.

“Should I make something?” he asks, pointing at the kitchen.

“No,” I say, I don’t want to feel completely useless, “sit down,” being a dependent is not the best for my self-worth.

“K, sir.” He mock-salutes at my authoritative language.

I roll my eyes. I get going at the meal – I’m sure there is a fancy word for what I’m preparing, even though I’m simply throwing anything that I found in the kitchen together.

Casserole, that’s what it is. I’m not a good cook, I know enough one needs to know to survive. It suffices.

After I finish, I lay everything on the shaky table. It has been a long time since we ate together – it was on the first days we lived together – I found it weird like we were dating, and I stopped. But now, it seems fine.

“Lion, have you ever thought about doing something about your anger issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“How you screamed at the griffess or the nurse isn’t normal.” I also screamed at him, the nurse, almost forgot that.

“It is normal. Some only understand the language of violence, It’s the griffon way. I know that the griffons in your office smear honey on their words, but behind their words is nothing different from what I am saying. I just say the truth outright.”

“Maybe… but the table begs to differ.”

It was some time ago, two days before I was hospitalized, I was searching for a pen underneath the table. I hit my head, in a moment of rage I threw it out of the window. “I see your point.” I look at the ad-hoc-repaired table. “But it is who I am.”

“No creature is uncorrectable.”

“Yeah, sure.” I say spitefully “We have our natures. We can’t change that.”

“It’s not in your nature to be angry. You can change to the better.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, really?” he stands up. What is he getting at? Abruptly, he puts his two forelegs around me, his face is aside mine. Our bodies are rubbing at eachother. “How do you feel?”

“Uhm…” confused, “normal.”

“Would you have felt the same if I did this to you some months ago?”

“I would have punched you.”

“Then our relationship changed. If you can change the way you think about me, then you can change the way you think about other things and yourself.”

Can I? … “I can try. “

“Fabel, what are you reading?”

“The Friendship Journal.”

“You read pony – … honestly, that explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Want to go out?”

It is a rare day, a holiday. Some national holiday, not one I care about. The thing I care about is the free day I have because of it.

“Sure, where do ya wanna go?”

We could walk through the city. But it’s stressful and not something I want to ruin our free day with. They all want me to spend my money I don’t have, to buy shit I don’t want, to impress those around me who I despise.

We could go to the park. No, the tolls are too high.

How about a bar? Again, they only want my money and give me poison to forget how shitty that transaction is.

Now, I have an idea. “I have a place with nice view I haven’t visited for a while.”

A modern ruin. I haven’t been in one of those places since … I was a chick, I think. I can’t remember, I have been stuck in monotony for so long time started to distort. It is a calming experience, seeing things that once were, maybe they were better, or maybe not. Most likely not.

I fly over the fence with the big ‘do not enter’ signs, “Heart, is that really a good idea?”

“They won’t put guards in an abandoned place like this.”

“I don’t mean – okay, I also mean this. Isn’t this very unsafe?”

I don’t know why they closed down, they have taken anything of worth, no machinery remains, and anything else is scavenged by now. Only a hollow industrial complex stands there with its steel skeleton and chimneys. “Not if you’re careful.”

He still hesitates.

I sigh, “I’ll watch out.”

This was enough for him – he trusts me – he gives a quick look into every direction, before following along. “I wonder what they made here.”

“Don’t know.” There isn’t much left to tell us. I figure this whole industrial complex is now a part of some real estate speculation scheme. They have no reason to bulldoze these ruins, it would only cost them money.

I find overgrown train tracks. Walking along them, we find a large room, must have been storage. Most of the structures oxidized, what isn’t gray turned brown, and the rest is overgrown.

We don’t linger long in the dark structures; I have my eyes elsewhere. “Do ya like this?” he asks, “it’s a bit … depressing.”

“Yeah. We are completely unbothered here.”

Fabel disagrees, he didn’t voice it, instead we approached a – “is that a piano?” A whole upright piano stood in our way.

“Yeah.” Maybe they produced music instruments here? No, they wouldn’t need giant chimneys for that. Likelier somegriff wanted to throw out their piano. Why they did it here will stay a mystery.

Nature wasn’t kind to the instrument. Its wood is soft, some keys are missing, the strings must have rusted by now. “I can play piano, but I don’t think …” he presses the d-key. When the soaked hammer hits the string, it falls apart – the wood splinters, the strings snap, and the keyboard falls off the main body. Fabel looks disappointed, but it was what he expected. “Maybe later.” He is looking at the pile, pondering.

I came here to show him something and have calm day—this is getting too melancholic. I point at a platform at the chimney. “Let’s meet up there.”

It takes no time until we fly to the platform. I go to the side with lee and sit down.

Ever since they privatized the weather, it became less and less common that a griffon, pegasus, or any flying creature could just take a cloud. If I stand on the wrong cloud, I could be shot, they are property after all.

It isn’t a thing anymore, to just ‘sit down’.

This is the best next thing. No griff cares about this place, and from here I have a beautiful view on the city. “It looks nice.” He says. I nod, sitting down. “Oh, ya wanted to chill here? Ya could have said that sooner, we could have brought a picnic, this is a nice view.”

“Next time.” I say.

He sits down next to me.

I could see history in the city. Though most of the very old buildings don’t stand anymore, some still stand in the poorer districts in need of renovation. Glass buildings were erected in the east, business district. The riffraff like us lives in the midst of that.

It is all surrounded by the suburb, the richer the less densely populated.

He unconsciously leans against me.

That is it.

I have all the time in the world right now.

I don’t need more.

“See you later, Fabel.” I give him a hug. Life became a bit more bearable after my hospital visit. Though, I have to toil the same work, I at least have something to look forward to at the end of a shift. Hanging out with creatures I like is pleasanter than I thought.

“See ya’, Lion.”

Another day, another dime.

The streets are as I remembered them, I wasn’t gone for that long, a few advertisements may be different, I don’t pay it much attention.

I enter the post office, the enormous establishment, distributing packages and mail since mail existed as a concept. Some griffons are too lazy to walk or fly, making my life just a bit worse.

Having entered the green – it’s actually white, but moss grew on it –structure, I walk to my day’s assignment.

“Lionheart,” swiveling my head around I see the speaker, I get stopped in my track. It’s the foregriffiness, “for you,” she presses an envelope into my talon.

I don’t make any guesses about what it could be, before ripping it, wordlessly, open – ignoring the griffiness, who tries to discern the letter’s insides. The contents meet my eyes.

The words flux around each other, the nicely worded message does not serve its substance any better, in fact this honeying makes it only worse. I crumple the letter.

I breathe in. Think about it. Anger will not bring me any further. Talk it out. Take his advice. Yes, I’m sure if I show them my point-of-view, it’ll turn out fine. Breathe out. It wouldn’t to discuss it with the supervisor, she doesn’t have the authority to make those calls. No. Those who do are higher up. I simply need to talk with the one whose signature is on the paper.

Feeling aloof, I ask, “where’s the boss?”

I am in the higher floors of the establishment, a place the likes of I rarely get to see. Ignoring any formality and pretending I belong here, which can bring one into many places, I beeline to the fat fuck’s office.

I enter it. There she sits. Of course, she isn’t *THE* owner of Gold, West & Co. Ltd., she is one of the many shareholders who has taken responsibility for the department, -- there is no *one* boss. She is probably just somegriff’s faildaughter.

I slam the letter on the desk.

“What’s this?” asks she.

“Something you should reconsider, miss.” I say.

“You were fired. I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Not your PROBLEM!? You’re the department head.”

“Calm down, or I will call security.” She says with indifference – she hears these sorts of complains daily. “Do you think I know everything that is going on? I don’t know what sorts of calculations personnel management made, or what you did.”

The red flood reaches my head. My life – it’s all I have known – I have to uproot everything – I have debt – Do other companies even take griffins that were fired? “I did nothing wrong,” my voice cracks similar to teenager’s pubescent voice-cracks. I take breaths between my words. “I did everything as ordered.”

“Listen, maybe you missed a rota, a quota, too often, maybe you aren’t efficient enough, maybe we rationalized your position away because we automized some work, or maybe it simply is a bug in the bureaucratic machinery of our company. In the end, it’s none of your business, you signed the contract – the company has the freedom to fire you at any time.”

I don’t know her name, she doesn’t even know mine, yet I want to give her a barrage of insults that have never been uttered. I stop trusting my tongue to say anything. She doesn’t pay me much attention.

“Hey, if you’re lucky you can be rehired.” She says, “and if you’re upset you can buy an apology.”

Another scrub it won’t go off it will not my feathers coat my talons painted red the porcelain the floor the everything knock screams no no no they are here it is too late I flee go flee into beyond the yonder the wooden floor then the gravel streets griffons follow me they hunt me they have weapons deadly weapons she deserved I regret not it they will use them I fly others see me shock the blood damned am I hate them I hate every last one of them a tackle no longer in the air assailant I struggle against them

– An old radio commercial –

“A dream only for one, two bucks and ninety-nine. Feel depressed, melancholic, self-deprecating, or *static*? Freedom in the Frontier can become lonely. Adventure lays in every creek. When we settle down, we lose a part of our selves. But don’t worry. We have a shortcut.

Feel woeful? Then go to the bottle-o and catch alcohol.

You want a good life? Coming right up, we have the hookup.

Feel lonely? There’s a number you can call.

A waffle iron, a needed companion in the kitchen. Or a radio that’ll feed you the day’s tales.

Self-fulfillment? Need self-worth? We are sure to have it, from the secrets to heaven to dolly dolls for the chicks.

Just call 5555-*static* or visit any of our stores.

*static*

Visit our stores and you can convince yourself. Have look. Now, new, and different Pollyanna.”

“Oooh.”

“With a delightful new, really real feature – ingeniously engineered with magic: a voice. It’s like she’s really here!”

“Aaah, wow.”

“Pollyanna, say hi to our dear listeners.”

“How’s it going? Listeners.”

“Great. Tell us about yourself.“

“I like to play. Do you like to play too.”

“Wow. Isn’t this wonderful?! Endless amusement for the small ones. Only as long supply lasts.”

May pose a choking hazard. Don’t put it in the reach of under 3-year-olds or magically capable children. Parental supervision is advised.
We take payments in cash, credit, debts, blood, organs, or firstborn.

Gray walls around me. There was no trial, nothing that can be called one – not one where I stood a chance. It was a circlejerk about how hard they wanted to fuck me. It all took about eight hours.

A heavy necklet tells all I am now the property of my former employers – they own the prison, as they owned the police, and the judge. It’s bad. A real cosmic fuck-you by the universe.

A factory-prison complex. They don’t dig holes for prisoner and let them rot. That wouldn’t be profitable enough. They want the scum of the planet to repay society. According to the other inmates I’ve had luck in disguise, the least of the worst; I work in the toy manufacturing – monotonous, boring, degrading, better than the alternatives. They should have thrown me in a ditch and call it a day. Justice is only served if it serves them or if they are directly affected.

Griffons do get out eventually. But then? Then what? When I leave, if ever, they didn’t tell me how long I’m stuck here, I’m going to land right back. No creature would hire or work with a criminal.

The sun has set today.

“Wanna suck dick?” asks my cellmate.

“Shut up, faggot.” I say.

The prisoners, they are all crooks. They didn’t differentiate by crime severity, from pickpocketers to outright psychos, everycreature is in the same cellblocks. No creature is to be trusted. I only need to stay out of their eyes. If only. It’s only a question of when some group wants to assert their authority. That I didn’t get to wash myself before coming here bought me some time.

“Hey, I’m not gay, you’re the faggot here,” he says, “and it’s not gay to get you dick sucked, it’s gay to suck dick.”

“That’s not how…” He should have some sense beaten into him… Oh, I shouldn’t bother, three fourths of the prison to my guesses can’t even read, “shut up.”

“I hear how you call a name in the nights, a guy’s one. Oh, aren’t you a loverchick?! What was his name? You …”

I ignore him.

I haven’t heard anything from Fabel. He doesn’t have to, really, doesn’t, no, absolutely not.

Why should he?

I’m now no better than those crooks.

I miss him.

It somehow came out what my crime is. Except from my coat during my entrance, I said nothing about it, nothing to announce it. I don’t know how they figured it out. It spread, like any gossip does, like wildfire.

That’s not the strangest part.

A group of griffs congratulated me, saying things like, ‘she had it coming’, after they heard who my victim was. Weird times.

I don’t care. I don’t care for what I did. I don’t care who supports it.

Caring costs too much energy. I can’t. I can’t anymore. Pretending to not have given up is already hard enough.

I only commit to the same movements at the assembly line. I have to screw on the head of some idiotic toy. Afterwards it is shot with magic by a big construct with a charged crystal to speak some prewritten lines.

A griff slips something into my coat. I pretend to not notice. While they pretend to not have done anything. Why are they bothering me? Let me crumble in peace.

After the last shift, I have enough privacy in my cell bed to look at the smuggle ware.

It’s a letter.

I quickly rip it open, reading it before the lights go out.

I hope this letter reaches you, Lionheart.

I had to bribe guards; I can only hope they do not go back on their words. This is not a guarantee. But if you are, hopefully, reading this then it worked. I thought about what I wanted to write you. I had no idea what I should tell you, still have none. I could preach to you and tell you what you did was wrong and immoral, but you already know that.

Lionheart, I miss you, I want you back. However, I don’t think that is possible. I know you do not like to honey words; I will respect that. We should not meet again. It would not be good for us for you to come back.

But I still believe in you. You can better yourself, you are not irredeemable. Though not in whatever Tartarus they stuck you in.

In the envelope is a one-use teleport shard. It isn’t charged, otherwise it wouldn’t have gone through detection. Please, go, make friends, and be a good gryphon.

I am sure you can find a way.

Love you,
Fabel.

PS The shard was the only one I could afford. It has a ‘bad destination’, but from where you are it can only go up.

I look into the envelope again in which I find the small crystal.

That simple-hearted, starry-eyed, immature oaf! Why would he do that?

My nose runs. The eyes water. I press the letter to my chest.

“Stop crying!”

Why would he do that? We were nothing but roommates! Friends. Acquaintances. Nothing more.

I cover my face with the small pillow, smothering any involuntary sobs. I am an adult! I shouldn’t be crying over this. Of course, he doesn’t want to see me; I’m a criminal. He’s still helping me. Despite my crimes. Despite me owing him so much already. Despite everything. It hurts.

“Shut up!”

And of course, he still helps me, he’s too naïve. It’s obvious. So, why am I crying? I want to see him again.I wish for his hugs.

Godsdammnit, I love him. I love that oaf. I want to repay him – it will never happen. I want to show him I love him – it will never happen.

I want to see him again.

“Let me sleep.”

“Crybaby!”

I miss him.

I will not spend more time in this hole than I must.

I formed a very simple plan that will help me charge the crystal: The gem that powers the assembly is not only full of that magic energy, it is overcharged. Technically against international regulation – not that they, the powers that be, care about that. I only need to bring the shard to it and place the shard upon it, and then hope it works.

The crystal, it must be real. I trust Fabel.

They won’t let every bum at the machinery, except of course if you pay the guards. That’s why I stole all the cigarettes from my cellmate, the currency of the prison. His hiding place was bad.

The prison guards can be categorized into two groups: The sadists, that want to inflict as much suffering as they are able to, and the uncaring. Luckily for me, the one specifically watching the machinery around the crystal only wanted to see the paycheck of the day and some cigarettes.

The whole assembly line is visible, the crystal not being the exception. I have to do it quick before any other griffon notices. When it’s charged it should be mission accomplished. After it is charged it shouldn’t matter if they see I will be gone. The other prisoners don’t care – no creature wants to be a snitch.

I put the plan in action.

During work an opportunity closes in. I wait until the traffic around the crystal is low enough.

The only guard remaining ‘conveniently’ looks away from my position. It doesn’t take long until I am in reach of the minimally secured crystal. I admit I don’t know much about magic – it should work, like starting a fire by putting wood on red, hot, glowing metal – magic is a form of energy after all.

I put the shard on the crystal.

It doesn’t work, the shard doesn’t start to glow.

“HEY, what are you doing over there!” a guard. My time’s up.

I am not going to surrender. “SUCK MY BALLS.” Not my most creative insults. Maybe if I make it leak, I could charge the shard. Does magic even leak? I don’t have the time. I take a random piece of metal. It’s used to unstuck clogs in the machine.

I hit the crystal.

Some of the guards take their weapons. It cracks.

Uhm, that’s good?

The crack widens. The guards stand still, fearing what could happen.

That’s better?

The crystal blindingly radiates, forcing my eyes to close.

A rainbow is flowing through the ceiling, falling against gravity. The whole prison is now finely decorated to resemble a kindergarten playground: The prison cells have ribbons, colorful curtains instead of bars; the whole machine is replaced with an oversized bubble blower; the gray concrete walls now consist of padded fabric, inconsistently colored in eye-burning technicolor; the prisoners and guards are worse of, cursed on their own way, the nearest to the epicenter have it worst.

The guards now wear military tunics, their weapons changed to muskets. The ones closer to the event have their skin and fur turned into plastic, making them look like toy soldiers. Some prisoners are now animals, others have reversed colors, while the rest seem to be ‘falling’ into different directions.

Did they fill the crystal with chaos magic?

”.siht did eH .rekcuf taht teG“

They take aim at me with their muskets. I quickly jump behind cover. The bullets ricochet at the obstacle. Against the walls. Smoke plumes, along with excessive amounts of confetti fill the air, worsening the visibility. They try to reload, fumbling around with their muskets. This buys me time.

I look at me. I am unaffected, hopefully. The shard glows brightly. It must be active. It must have absorbed the wave. How does it work?

“Как перезарядить мушкет?”

“¿Qué hablas? Dioses míos, hablad normal. No os entiendo.”

I pull it, I twist it, I press it – nothing works. I shy over my impromptu barricade of a pile of colorful cubes. The puppets, that were strewn around the floor, start to stand up. I don’t want to know what they are going to do. The prisoners, those who are able to, see this as their opportunity to revolt.

The guards are now completely distracted.

I go back to my shard. It must work somehow. “Please, get me out of here, to Fabel, anywhere.” It doesn’t react. I should have figured out how it works before all this.

I will not give up at this point. I am so close. The outside will be mine. I will find home. You, you bloody shard, will get me there!

A puppet crawls over the cubes. “Do you want to –“ I take the puppet by the head, and throw it against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

I look at the shard. Is this what it takes, you shit?!

I don’t contain myself from smashing that little piece of trash into smithereens. The magical artifact hits the floor, completely broken.

That’s what you deserve!

Wait. Oh, oops –

The pieces glow, making me blink.

I’m not putting the blame on Fabel. No absolutely not. I should’ve asked around about how those crystals work. Having to break them isn’t exactly something I would call intuitive design.

Oh whatever! I’m free! I did it. Free as a bird. Falling like a stone.

I should flab my win—

Ah—

A table slams into me. A fork stabs. I fall off the table.

“What’s that?!”

“A griffon.”

I look up. Ponies.

Pulling out the cutlery out of my chest. It wasn’t too deep in.

“Are you alright?” one of the two, the one with a messy mane, says.

“Yeah.” I say, not paying the ponies any mind, moving away from them. This little fall was nothing. I have gotten worse. I’m free. At the first steps my legs seize.

“Your name.” The mare asks. She is holding my legs in her magic. I haven’t seen ponies that often in my life, I barely even spoke to any pony before. Not many of them live in Nova Griffonia. I understand why. Who would, after all, live with gruff griffons instead of rainbow pony land if they had the choice?

“I’m sorry I interrupted your cutesy teatime, pony, but I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Hey, what’s wrong about being cutesy? Nice collar, by the way.” the stallion says with snark, the mare rolls her eyes. I look down. My necklet was turned a beautiful, multicolored flower wreath.

“Your name, now.” She keeps me still in place.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, could you tell me your number.” Did he just wink at me? I ignore him and focus on the mare.

“Or what, you lovey-dovey ponies? Going to hug me to death?”

“You better tell me what I asked you, or I will report your racist ass.”

“Report me to whom? The police? They don’t care.”

There is a pause. “There is teleporting magic on you. You aren’t from here, are you?”

I couldn’t have gotten that far.

I look around: I’m near an establishment, which’s standing near a large, open space with ponies walking about; gray, boring buildings surround the space; red banners with a hammer and a hoof iron are hanging on the buildings, infecting them like a disease; there’s a giant building with a pony’s statue atop of it pierces the earth.

I have the feeling I’m not in Nova anymore.

Author's Note

I had too much fun with this chapter. As inspiration I used the USA and (slightly) exaggerated it.

Come Live With Me

“Are you alright?” you ask. He removes the fork from him.

“Yeah.” Says he with rasp, while removing himself from the situation, unsuccessfully, as his leg is grabbed by Spooky’s magic.

He’s clearly trying to show toughness, as if nothing happened, while he is injured. You don’t shrug a stab by fork and a frontal fall off like nothing.

That’s *cool* and *badass*.

It’s self-destructive.

“Your name.” This mare, she gets straight to business.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your cutesy teatime, pony, but I don’t have to tell you anything.”

That’s not nice. You need a comeback “Hey, what’s wrong about being cutesy? Nice collar, by the way.” You really like the wreath. It gives of an interesting dichotomy of wannabe tough griffon and cutesy.

You know what it is. It is the perfect example of an uber-gay. Now is your chance – get him.

“Your name, now.”

“Oh, and while you’re at it, could you tell me your number.” You quickly add a wink.

Perfect, philanderer. Hey. Why is he ignoring you? You need a new plan.

This isn’t the right time.

It’s always the right time. All’s fair in love and war.

“Or what, you lovey-dovey ponies? Going to hug me to death?” A hug would be nice right now.

“You better tell me what I asked you, or I will report your racist ass.”

“Report me to whom? The police? They don’t care.”

The police would care. Using stereotypes, demeaning, disorderly conduct, and insulting creatures are crimes in Stalliongrad. She would also be committing a crime of holding him. Though considering her being the nearest authority figure and his breach of the peace, no creature would charge her.

There is a pause. “There is a lot of magic on you, teleporting magic mayhap. You aren’t from here, are you?”

There is confusion on his face. His head swivels to the left, the right, then he looks behind him.

His face is everything she needs to know. “You are coming with me.”

“Why should I do that?”

“I’m a public officer, and you are an undocumented immigrant, unless you show me otherwise, you are coming with me.”

With more force she takes his right talon, guiding him off the area. He, giving her a death glare, accepts his fate. Follow them this could be interesting.

Immigration: The communist party made a simple calculation – more workers means more proletariat means more power. Therefore, Stalliongrad has an immigration policy that can be summarized as ‘please, immigrate to us’. Getting a visa or citizenship is easy.
Getting out is harder.

This is boooooring. In some weird curiosity and schadenfreude, you were expecting him to get into some troubles. But no. He doesn’t even have to pay a fine or anything. She, in a show of unspectacular reasonableness, led him into the nearest townhall to get him documented. He too got down from his agitation and is now completely bored, having to answer questions to bureaucrats, even worse than your interview.

Stalliongrad loves its paperwork.

Spooky is also here, probably to prevent him from escaping. She is occasionally looking at you.

Inner Empire: The conversation with you had a goal. She wanted to thematically lead it to tell you something – still wants to. But she either doesn’t have the right words to convince you or doesn’t find the situation opportune.

Why are you still here? Well, maybe you could still get him. You, by overhearing him, got his name and where he came from.

“Do you have a residence?”

“For the third time, no.”

“I am sorry, sir, it is procedure, the other questions were for form 333-B and 342-A. We are now only at form 129-A-II. Do you have any family or acquaintances?”

“No.” He is supporting his head with his talon.”Bloody kill me.”

“Sir, you need to put in suicide from 15-A for that.”

His feathers are ruffled. He takes in a deep breath. His face shows utter defeat. “Never mind that. Do you know where I could get any place to stay at.” The cake-destroyer’s feathers are semi-well preened, despite being a complete mess. You look him up and down like a cake. Damn. Those muscles”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” the office worker mare digs something up from a filling cabinet, “here. With that you can file for a dwelling.”

“Uhm, ok?” He fills it out. After he is done, she takes it away.

“It will take about a week or more.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

You see this face. It is one of a tired creature and now he has to sleep on the concrete floor of the city. Or maybe you could help him out, let the golden rule speak. Now is your time, you step to Lionheart. Show him how eleemosynary you are. This your chance to get him.

What does ‘get him’ even mean? Do you even have a plan?

Honestly, you have no idea what it means, something about being uber-gay – you’ll figure it out as you go.

“You can crash at my place.”

“We don’t know each other.”

“I’m Lost Red Thread. Now we know each other, how about you crash at my place.”

He stares incredulously at you. A moment passes, it takes him some time.

Griffons are more solitary, especially those from Nova Griffonia. One does not simply invite some creature into one’s home nor be charitable to others without something in return. He’s processing the culture shock.

“You ponies are actually like that.”

What does he mean?

Spooky is looking at you as if you have slighted her. Before you can leave, she approaches you, “how about we see each other tomorrow again.”

“I can’t,” finally, an excuse, “ I have an appointment around the time.”

“Then the day after tomorrow.”

He accepted your offer, there was no real choice for him.

Until the time that his arduous pencil pushing came to an end, the sun set. The walk is not long. There were no small amounts of him grumbling to himself. Occasionally he looks around, clearly uncomfortable.

A thought is circling in his head, something bothering him, grumbling is his way of processing. You would never grumble, you don’t need to, you have the voices. While griffons live here, they are a minority, as a Nova Griffonian he would need to acclimate to that fact.

“Something bothering you.”

“No.” That’s a blatant lie.

“Why did you even travel here? Couldn’t you have used like a train, or flown, wouldn’t that have been safer,” and cheaper, “and cheaper.”

He pauses. “Why did you so easily invite me in?” He is diverting the topic. His right, he doesn’t have to tell you.

Because you don’t have any friends.

Because it is the right thing to do, to help a creature in need.

“Well, why not?”

Lionheart sighs. “For all you know… you could… be inviting a murderer.”

“That didn’t cross my mind. Normally, I expect the best from others. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”

“You ponies,” he stops midway, taking a break to think, you too stop, “are you all naïve like that?”

“From your rant I thought you already have an answer to that.”

“How would you react when a creature immobilizes you?”

“I don’t know, probably with less prejudice. I don’t know if all ponies are like that, you shouldn’t be asking me that. I mean if we are all like that, then that what you would consider naïve would be normal for me.”

He sighs. “You are better creatures. I’m just a bum, and you just invite me in your home without even thinking about it. I only know one griffon who would do something like that.”

He is distraught.

You need comforting words, an answer.

“He is right, ponies are friendlier, more sociable, and charitable. It is inherent to them, it’s in their nature. From the time they grazed the meadows, it was a biological need. He is a predator. What else could you expect from him? Other than a thief and an isolate.”

“You have thousand times more in common with a griffon, a changeling, or this self-proclaimed lumpenproletariat than you will ever have with the ruling class. His material conditions created him. He can become a comrade and he can change, nothing is unchangeable, not even his ‘nature’. The working class needs to show solidarity.”

“These answers seem awfully fascistic and communistic. What if I want to say something else? I want to comfort him, not give him a lesson in politics.” You ask, mumbling.

Yes, either say something fascist or communist, or you won’t get any ass.

Lionheart looks around. “Who are you talking to?”

“Lionheart, you aren’t inherently bad, and griffons aren’t. We are more communal because we were taught to. You can be too.” You say, “we are comrades, no matter if griffon or pony.”

“Oh, gods, you are commie.”

“Not really. Maybe? I’m not sure myself, the voices are giving me weird suggestions.” He looks oddly at you, “But honestly, you are in a communist state. Did you really expect to not meet communists?”

His eyes swerve towards a mosaic picture on an apartment wall behind you, portraying a pony holding a hammer and hoof iron, a red star is around the hammer and iron. “Yeah, fair – whatever. Just don’t bother me with that nonsense.”

You continue to walk, his inner instability still raging on.

You won’t be able to help him with that, he can only do that by himself by opening himself up.

Exactly, open him. Open him like a can opener, see what makes a griffin tick.

You open the door to the apartment. “This is my quaint home.” You proclaim with false confidence.

Lionheart sees through it, “it’s impoverished.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad.”

He as a counterpoint points at the tapestry that is slowly peeling off the wall. “It’s okay, I’m used to worse.” He says, staving off your fears. He smells the air. “Did you burn something?”

“Yes.” The smell is persistent. “Make yourself at home.”

“Where do I sleep?”

“At the…” wait, you don’t have couch, “… with me.”

The door was ajar, the bed visible. “I’m not going to sleep with you in this small bed.”

“Oh,” slightly saddened you say, “oh well I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, you won’t.” He says, “this is your apartment, your home.”

“Oh, no, really, it’s nothing. You are my guest.”

“It’s your bed. Don’t you have any common sense?”

No.

No.

“No.” you snicker at your bohemianess. “In fact, if you sleep on the floor, I will too.”

Actually, it’s not that bohemian. Cuddling is culturally appropr—

Shut up, nerd.

He is at a crossroad. He doesn’t want to deprive you of the right to your bed. And he definitely doesn’t want to sleep on the floor. “If this gets uncomfortable it’s your own fault.”

Steel Stallion And His Big Spoon

“I hate this.”

“Why? It’s comfortable, you’re so fluffy.”

In the night a battle ensued. While the two of you were sleeping, you fought over the cover, which he won. As an act of unconscious revenge, you wrapped yourself around him to rescue any warmth.

“Don’t you have a job?”

“Nah. I have a doctor’s appointment today… eventually.”

“Get off me.”

You let yourself roll off the bed, letting yourself fall on the ground. You stand up on your four legs.

“Do you have any coffee?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Oh gods, your kitchen is a fucking mess.”

“By the way, I think we might starve.”

“What?”

“Yeah, monetarily I have nothing I can use, except if you are willing to go through banking system and exchange currencies.” You find your small sac.

“Why do you have foreign currency? Why would you even trust me with your money?” You both move to the living room. It holds enough room, making possible to respect each other’s personal space.

“I don’t have time for that. I’m currently in an application process for the police. Oh, you should also apply for work, or do you plan to leave soon?”

This gives him a moment to pause. He looks into the distance outside the window, thinking. “I don’t think I have many options.”

“Don’t worry about that. They are always hiring, everywhere, the whole time, they are very desperate. Case in point, I have a severe case of amnesia, and I’m sure they’ll still take me.”

“You have what?”

“Everything before ereyesterday, gone, nada.”

He leans in the chair, the only chair in the living room, in slight confusion, before shrugging and deciding it isn’t that weird to other things he has seen, “… I wish, I could do that.”

Huh?

“Starting new, with no baggage. I would sell my wings for that.”

Quick, lighten the mood.

“Personally, I would give this experience a five out of ten. I forgot what I forgot, so I can’t complain. But no matter how bad it must be, you have to have memories that you want to keep.”

No visible reaction from him. You failed. He walks towards the door.

“Maybe. I’ll try to exchange the money and look for work.” He halts at the door as he grabs the doorknob with too much force. “And, Lost, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, you could see it as returning the favor. You crash by my place, and you go through the tartarus that is the Stalliongradian banking system for me.”

You are once again on the streets of your mistress. And you are really hungry. If you had any self-esteem, you would be ashamed about things you are going to do. Luckily, just like how Stalliongrad abolished private property, you abolished your self-worth a long time ago, if it even existed in the first place.

“Comrade, listen to me. These sandwiches are bourgeois and aristocratic. White bread is completely inefficient and was used mostly nobility. It doesn’t satiate as much and doesn’t have the nutrients like whole-wheat. Now, if you could give m—wait, where are you going?”

That didn’t work. Your communist charisma isn’t that cracked up to what you thought it would be. Slowly meandering your path to your checkup, you still have plenty of time, you let your worries wash over you – you have no food, nor will get through that doctor appointment. And then in one of your times of need, when you’re in those rare moments of lonesomeness in this busy city.

“O Lost, a little lost again?” The red mare frowns at her accidental joke.

“Stalliongrad,” you throw yourself in front of her, “I wanted to see, I can’t serve you; I will absolutely fail my checkup. I probably still have trace amounts of whatever stuff I took, and I haven’t worked out in years.”

She smiles upon you, padding your head, “do not worry over it. It will be fine.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry.”

“Uhm, well, do you know where I could get some free food.”

“Hunger, an old enemy of mine. Back in the days when I freshly got my independence, I struggled with it too. No, hunger is a too light word. It was starvation and famine.”

The great famine: Oh, if only Caramel Marks left a tutorial, a manual, or anything. Perhaps if she had more time. Sadly, she did not, and her writing, interrupted by her bohemian ways and drunkenness, met her ultimate career stopper, death. So, without anything to go by the party wondered after the revolution, ‘how do we do a communism?’. And in their eyes, they had the farms, owned by the kulaks. Clearly, farms should be owned by those who toil on it. They collectivized them at a very bad time, which combined with a lack of trained pegasi, bad weather, and the sudden autarky of Stalliongrad and therefore lack of Equestrian import caused the worst famines seen on this continent. It is still present in the minds and the zeitgeist of the Stalliongradians.

“But this is in the past. I can’t undo it. My point is my dear heralds, the party, is not known for its unity. One of the factions created a soup kitchen to boost their popularity and set themselves apart during these times. It made only a small dent, but it worked. No creature knows where they got the food from, nor did they care. Most likely stole it from Equestria or produced it themselves with some luck. The soup kitchen still stands even if it is not that needed anymore.”

“Where is that kitchen?”

She tells you. “They don’t have the best track record. However, the worst they’ll do is advertise their town.”

The soup kitchen. It isn’t anything noteworthy.

Wait a minute. This building is too unnoteworthy. It is as if they went out of their way to make the most average building conceivable.

Why should that be a problem?

Oh, is that a kitty? Pet the kitty.

Ignore the cat.

You reach out for the kitty in an attempt to pet it. It hisses at you and walks away. You just wanted to pet it. What is wrong with that? It makes you sad. The cat does not like you.

Don’t take it personally, it is a cat, an animal.

Yes, it’s just a cat, an animal. Kick it. Revenge.

Ignore it.

Finally, you leave the cat alone and walk to the entrance. Without any anxiousness, you enter it.

You see it relatively abandoned, it is kept clean, and a counter is ponied by one pure bright-plue pegasus. You can see it before your eyes: lines of ponies, a breadline, waiting and hoping to have something to eat, and no knowing if they’ll get something. It is lonely, crushingly so; hope it stays that way.

The pegasus awakens from his daydreaming upon seeing you enter. A wide smile plasters his face. He jumps over the counter. In elatedness he embraces you with his forelegs.

“Thank you, finally, another creature. Barely any creature comes to visit me, and I’m completely lonely. I have been solitary confinement since FOREVER.”

With that socialite behavior his ‘forever’ means three days at most. He would crack under any longer time period.

“Couldn’t you go out?”

“Somecreature has to watch over the building.”

He is still hugging you. Don’t let him stop, this feels nice.

“Oh, sorry,” he retracts his hug. Damnit. “I’m Warm Ray, what brings you to visit our humble abode? Do you want us to host an event, a marriage, or birthday perhaps? ”

You introduce yourself, and ask, “isn’t this a soup kitchen?”

“It is, but we had to do some reinventing after no creature’s starving anymore. Now we organize events, parties and events.”

“For free?”

“Of course. Not every creature has the room, money, time, nerves for a good party. And our friends love making parties. Currently there isn’t anything to do, and some creature needs to watch over the building. We choose me for that.”

He refers to this ‘we’. Press him on it.

“Who’s this we?”

“WE.” He turns, letting you see his cutie mark, an equal sign, as if it would explain anything.

“I don’t get it.”

“Really? Isn’t that common knowledge? Have you never heard of Our Town, Starlight?”

“I wouldn’t know, I suffer from amnesia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We are Equalists from Our Town. We are the real communists. We share everything, food, work, toothbrushes, beds, and all. We are a community, and every neighbor is a friend.”

Equalism: Ask a raving anti-communist what communism is. The chance is high that they barely even know what it is, and they’ll give you a perverted version of it whereby no creature has any individuality. Take this explanation and wear it proudly as a badge: now, you have an Equalist. They all have the same cutie mark.

“Cool.” You say *cooly* “Are you stuck here?”

“It isn’t always so empty here, and we rotate work. We try to avoid division of labor as much as we can.”

Get straight to the point.

“Do you have any food?” you ask.

“OF COURSE! We—I can cook something up for us, I also haven’t eaten anything .” The lone Equalist heads to the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, you follow.

The kitchen is overequipped and too large for two meals. You should offer to help, you can cook, you need to show him how good you are at cutting vegetables.

Also, it seems rude to sit idly by, while he cooks for you two.

“I can help.”

“You are a guest.”

“But I want to.” You call out almost childishly.

He pauses, looks at you weirdly at your display, “then cut these.”

You two sit at a table in the main hall. Looking around gives you shivers. This place is supposed to be filled with life, friendship, and comradery. Only you two inhabit this vast empty space now. While you munch, the sound reverberates. The outside city sounds that always accompany you are unheard; the walls are too thick.

At least, Warm offers companionship, which keeps any eerie feelings from creeping in. You understand Warm Ray’s initial reaction.

The food is okay.

You should start small talk, that’s what normal creatures do.

While you are eating you strike up conversation.

“Warm, do you have family?”

“The whole Town is our family. But I understand what you mean. I don’t have kids or anything like that, and I left my old family. You?”

“Maybe.” you point at your head, he nods in understanding, “and honestly, I don’t want to find out. What brought you to become an Equalist? Why even leave your old family?”

His ears fold against his head, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

This piques your interest, achieving the opposite of what he wanted. Ask him, crack him open.

Don’t pressure him, it would be mean and hurtful.

Be inconspicuous about it. Give him the option to say nothing.

“Bad memories?”Help him. Forcefully. You need to fix his emotions by squeezing them out off him.

He nods. “I wish I could just leave the past behind. Leave it completely behind like you did.”

This is the second time you heard this. You should keep record of it, it won’t be the last time. Weird how many creatures hate their past. “Have you talked about your problems with your friends?”

He stays silent. He didn’t.

Weird, that is very unlike an Equalist.

That’s a perfect attacking point. It’s time for an amateur therapy session. “You don’t have to talk about your past. But if you want to accept it and process it, it could help if you talk about it.”

Partially true, every creature has their own coping mechanism.

He thinks about it, biting his lip. During his thinking you take another bite out of the food. It could use more salt.

“Is it okay if I give a confessional?” Your gamble worked out.

“Of course, you can unload any emotional stuff. I won’t ridicule you.” You escalate the gamble. “But are you sure you want to talk with a stranger about this.”

“Then let’s be friends.” His demeanor makes a complete turn, he stands on his seat with his hindlegs offering you one forehoof.

“This isn’t like an offer to join your cult?”

“We aren’t a cult.” That’s what every cultist says. “And, no, just friendship offer—” YES! Another friend.

“Yay!” you ignore his hoof, going over the table in excitement, standing on your hindlegs, and giving him a hug, “friends.”

A terrible realization: Quadrupeds aren’t supposed to stand on two legs.

You approach the hug with too much swiftness, which threw you off balance. In panic, you try to save yourself. You grab Warm Ray harder. This didn’t work, instead he falls with you, almost taking the table and everything on it along. His eyes widen in shock.

Impact. The force of gravity distributes itself through your flesh and bones. You take the brunt of the fall. “Sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs it off, “don’t worry I’m fine. Are you?” You both scramble back up, sitting next to each other at the table.

“I am.” You calm down. You’re slightly bruised.

“Look, nothing happened.” His attitude changes again, as he remembers the original topic. “Well, here goes nothing.” He takes a short pause thinking how to start his story. “I think it started when I left my parents’ house, when I was a small colt, without a cutie mark or anything to my name. My parents…” he pauses, “I was rebellious and I don’t think I could just return. As a street urchin I had to earn money somehow, and I wasn’t willing to be a thief at this point. I took to gambling, and that’s where I won my cutie mark. I was good at it. I think my cutie mark increased my luck; they do have effects like that.”

Gambling: Gambling laws vary from region to region in Equestria. In some cities he could be committing a crime, in others, like Las Pegasus, he could gamble his whole wealth away. Severyana was infested with gambling, that’s why luck-based games are loathed in Stalliongrad nowadays.

You ask, “and where were you at that time? Was it illegal?”

He nods, “my life’s calling was a crime. I wandered Equestria, saw some corners of it. Even in places where gambling was legal, it didn’t protect me from unscrupulous ponies. After getting beat up in an alley for the umpteenth time for having too much – the house always wins after all – I started to resent it. I hated my life’s calling and whatever that decided it. It was hard to find any real job with it, I didn’t want to work with the casinos, and street gaming isn’t a reliable way of earning money—others didn’t employ me because of my cutie mark, they saw the stupid dice and … you know.” He looks down at the food, boringly poking it.

“And then you found Our Town eventually?”

“They were still recovering from Starlight’s betrayal, the one against her own cause. They changed a lot; they don’t have this brainwashing thing and all that insane crap. They are friendly, invited me in, accepting no matter what, and one thing led to another, the community grew on me. When I properly joined, I was glad I no longer had to see my old cutie mark. It was like a restart.” His voice raised at the end.

“This doesn’t sound so bad. You’ve found a commune, and you’re happy to live with them. Happy end, and all that. Why didn’t you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know. I think I want it to be a true restart.”

That is impossible.

“Warm,” you look him directly in the eyes, “you can forget, but the past’s effects are still there. I can attest to that. My body, for example, my body is an absolute state, even if I can’t remember how I did, and who knows who I left behind.”

“Lost, do—” what is that? You see a clock on the wall. And it strikes – oh no. You quickly stand up.

“Oh, I am sorry, Warm. I have an appointment.” Thank him for the food. “Thanks for the food.”

“Lost, will you visit me again?” You are a friend after all.

“Of course, I’ll see you.”

Author's Note

An Actual Degree In Medicine

A waiting room. You reached the appointment on time. The hospital is less of a hospital and more like a medical super complex, containing medical practices of every kind from the hoof to the neurological. It was a bit hard to navigate, but you eventually found your goal. A charcoal-black earth pony mare sits alongside you, waiting, like you, to be called.

You had to ask multiple ponies to navigate this labyrinthian building. You have announced your presence and are now waiting.

Take a magazin. Don’t make eye contact. Behave and stay silent.

Oh, look a mare. “Hello,” you say. Use your whole name, show her your elegance, “my name is Lost Red Thread.”

“Hi.” She answers abruptly. She looks outside out of the window.

“What’s your name?”

She frowns. You are annoying her.

“Chimney Sweep.”

“That’s a nice name. It’s funny how our names work, isn’t it? Let me guess, you work as chimney sweep.”

“Yes.” She sighs.

“My name is just a cosmic joke. Maybe I can work as a detective, because of the Red Thread thing, and. That’s why I’m here, to get my health attested for my job. Why are you here?”

“Lung cancer.”

In slight confusion you look around, needing to figure why she’s here. You look and see the signs and see the ‘oncology practice’ next to the ‘Work safety and health practice’.

They must be sharing the same waiting room.

“Oh, sorry.” There is crushing silence.

Like a godsend, a call comes from the secretary, “Mister Thread.”

“Oh, that‘s me, good luck with your treatment, Chimney.”

“Thanks,” she responds automatically in a low tone.

The room you are in has an examination bed, that you’re currently sitting on, posters on the wall that show of the inner workings of the body’s different parts, equipment that you don’t even have names for, and a desk with notes and stationery. The hoofwriting on these notes is unreadably bad.

“Móra na maidine duit, so, yer Thread? I’m doctor Four-leaf Clover.”

Incomprehensible.

She likely said ‘hello’.

“Hi, doc.”

The pegasus is carrying a clipboard, with … things written on it – you have no clue. “Let’s get straight to the point. I’ve been asked to give ye a full examination: that means yer going to have a blood pressure, blood test, we’re gonna put you on a treadmill, check yer breathing, rectal exam, –” you stop listening as she continues her long list.

And she continues and doesn’t stop. That is too much for a normal examination.

“Doctor Clover, isn’t that bit excessive?”

“I agree with ye there, mate. But if they ask me for a full examination and want my go, I’m gonna make a full examination. I’m not gonna take any chances. If ye die of a heart attack in a stressful situation, that’d be no good for any of us: for me because I shouldn’t’ve allowed in the first place, the police because they’d’ve bother with the inopportune death of an officer, ‘n you because ye’d be dead.”

Most important state jobs require you to have a fifty percent chance of reaching your pension.

“Couldn’t a unicorn cast like an analyzing spell?”

“Yes, however they only see surface level damages or foreign bodies. If ye got a deformity or tumor, they would be a part of the body. The spells don’t detect ‘em.”

This will take a long time.

Talking would pass the time quicker. Hey, you should ask her for some stories. Doctors always have insane patients.Surely, this mare won’t have cancer.

The doctor takes out a sphygmomanometer. “Doctor Clover, do you have any stories to tell, like any interesting clients.”

“I’m not allowed to share any personal information. Foreleg, please.”

Then anonymize.

You give her your arm; she puts on the apparatus. “You don’t have to tell me their names, just the stories. It would pass the awkward silence. Or like what’s your normal workday.”

She thinks shortly, pumping the sphygmomanometer and then promptly shrugging. “Recently, we had this mare come in. She had the biggest, I mean melon-sized teats, like really large tits, enormous titties, she was almost dragging them on the floor, those gazongas –”

“I get it doc.”

She quickly writes your blood pressure down. “Euhm, yeah, anyway. I love being a doctor. I save lives, save creatures from debilitating diseases, ‘n I think there is nothing better to do with my time. But I have to admit, ” She stands up and takes off the apparatus and walks to the closet to get a syringe. “Eventually ye get to a boring daily rhythm where ye’ve to tell patients not to eat glue ‘n that they should come in before it’s too late because ‘no it won’t fix itself’. I’ve fondle too many balls ‘n tits in my lifetime. Like the mare, she’s the culmination of that. She was lactating without pregnancy because of a hormonal problem.

She didn’t know that. For a reason beyond me, she ignored it until it hurt too much. It’s alright now, we milked her, ‘n let me tell ye, we milked a lot. Not much behind it, she just needs to milk herself once in a while. I don’t blame the patients. They simply don’t know better… sometimes.”

She is lying. She likes ‘em titties.

You barely noticed that she took your blood. She is holding a cup, pointing to a small, curtained area.

“I need ye to piss in this cup.” But she is too invested in her storytelling by now as you go to the curtain. “Let me tell ye, the strangest story I have was whne we had the police come in with a mare. She was fighting and all, so we had to restrain her. It was very clear that she was on something.

Nothing too unusual for us. Those cases happen. Ye make sure they don’t keel over and then ye wait until it flushes out of their system.

We ran the usual test. Ye have to trust me, those tests are trustworthy, we even ran them thrice because it was impossible. She was on everything.”

You give her the pisscup. “What do you mean everything?”

She sees the almost brown liquid. She puts it away. “Ye should drink more water. We need to go to another room.” You two leave the room and walk through the hallway, it’s a long one. “What else should I mean with everything? She took every drug we can test for: heroin, alcohol, THC, literal fluid love, nicotine, meth, fentanyl, salt, bath salt, acepromazine, methylphenidate, paprika, etcetera. We had no idea how she was still alive. But that isn’t the strangest thing. We had her put in a secure room. I have to note, she wasn’t a unicorn or changeling or had anything with her, just an earth pony. If she left the room, let me tell you, we’d have noticed.”

You two reach the room. She puts electrodes on you.

“Sine é.” She says after she’s done, “’n ye can guess what happened next. She disappeared. None of the staff knows what happened, we didn’t get her name, that was a dead-end, it was like she turned into thin air. ‘n that’s it. That’s the whole story. Well, ‘xcept she had strange clothes, making it stranger. Go on the treadmill ‘n put on the mask.”

You do as she tells you, stepping onto the contraption. You breath through a tube.

“When I was a small, wee twit, I haven’t made my doctorate, and when I was just a nurse, pre-revolution, we had a very gruesome case. Now, run as fast as ye can. Take deep breaths.”

You start to run on the treadmill. She pays it half a mind.

“A pegasus entered our hospital. It was turbulent times, accidents happened more frequently, and they were brutal. Well, we didn’t even notice it was a pegasus at first, the wings were gone. That’s how bad it was. Ye could see the muscle tissue in her face ‘n in left foreleg moving. Pretty much everything else on her left and partially her right side had burns, second, third, ‘n fourth degree. That’s enough.”

You slow down, your out of breath, gasping quickly. You could swear you could taste the iron of your blood. Your mouth is a desert.

“Ye should do more sport.”She gives you a side-eye. “The pegasus entered our hospital completely calm, dropping blood on the floor. Calmly, she walked to our secretary ‘n says ‘I need medical attention’. Ye can see the muscles of her eye moving. She literally grinded her left face away, ‘n the friction of the air ‘n ground gave her burns, she was probably in shock.

That moment did burn itself in my brain. Miraculously, she survived, we saved her, somehow.” She takes out a rubber glove and wears it. “We were even able to reattach her wings, we found one on a roof and the other on the street. But she was never able to fly again. Nonetheless, overall, it was a happy end. Better than dead.

Now, turn around.”

Oh no. The clove covers her whole forearm.

The prostate exam.

You need to escape. Jump out of the window, kick her, anything, just to spare you the embarrassment.

“Oh, I still remember these times, they sucked. Today’s a utopia compared to our pre-revolution. Lift your tail.”

She is going to stick her hoof – no worse her whole foreleg – in your ass, and she will talk about politics while doing it. You aren’t even old enough for that.

“Wait, am I not too young for prostate cancer? Shouldn’t another male do it?”

“Yer employer requires all stallions to have been searched for any potential tumors. Also, yer thinking of a misconception only zebras have a potential of getting prostate cancer after fifty. Ponies don’t have that luck. Yer ass has to be searched after your fourties. And do ye want to wait for a male doctor, or just have it behind ye?”

Stay put and do as she tells. Trust the expert.

You lift your tail, and she inserts.

“Anyways, of course, our hospital isn’t perfect. We still have shortages of certain medicines that we had in pre-revolution times because of our isolation from Equestria.”

“Why are you –”

“Ye prefer awkward silence, mate?”

You don’t. “Keep talking.”

“In the ol’ times we were pretty much on a permanent skeleton crew, the hospital CEO wanted to make a profit after all. Almost all problems back then were traced to our lack of personnel. We were constantly stressed. ‘n we couldn’t even fight back. Like what could we’ve done? Strike? If we stop working creatures die.”

You feel violated. She seems to be satisfied with her search of your rectum, pulls out, takes off the clove, and throws it into the bin.

“Yer healthy.” She looks at her notes, “Oh, it’ll do. To the next room, we’re gonna get an x-ray. Have ye heard of this new potion that is going around? decrementum or something like that. I can’t quite remember the name.”

“No.”

“It’s a very regulated potion ‘n per regulation is mixed with other potions, so that it doesn’t kill the drinker. I have no idea how my two patients got that stuff. Not that they’ll ever tell me. Ye know how it is, where there is will there is a way, ‘n where there is horniness there is too much will and too little brain. Enter the chamber, mate, ‘n stand still.”

You enter the radiology chamber. There are hoofs and arrows painted on the floor to direct you. You really could use something to drink right now.

It’s time to get bombarded with radioactivity.

Clover hides behind a bunker-like construction out of lead. It hums, then quickly stops again before you even processed it. Doctor Clover leaves the bunker.

“While this develops, let’s go back.” You two now walk back to the room of origin, “now where was I? Okay, so, this mare enters, looking healthy, however walking a bit weird. She explains her situation. Or better said, she tries to, being embarrassed ‘n unclear what her problem is. She says something about trying to be more experimental ‘n trying things out. We figured it out pretty quickly – there’re too many cases where ponies get dick-shaped things ‘accidentally’ inserted and stuck.

When we figured it out, I tell you, in the medical community we say to this situation ‘this’s bonkers, why did you think this was a good idea?’ As it turns out, they somehow got some of that decrementum stuff. The stuff that shrinks creatures temporarily. She, in attempt to fulfil her fetishy kink, shrank her partner. Her partner is all for it. To put it short, she couldn’t get her partner out, so, we had to do it. The worst is not that, despite the embarrassment, despite the discomfort, despite the unholy amount of surgical crowbarring ‘n lube, when I asked them to not do that again, they said ‘don’t worry, we’ll be more careful next time.’” She ends that with tiredness in her voice.

Laughing at other’s misfortune and weirdness isn’t good. You can’t help but snicker a little.

“Mate, that’s not funny. That’s fecking strange.”

Quickly defending yourself. “Doctor, I don’t see what the problem is. They are adults.”

“Yeah, yeah, if they wouldn’t waste my time.”

You reach her office – you think it’s her office—you have no idea how a hospital operates.

“One last thing.” She opens another locker, pulling out scissors and another cub. Before she even tells you, she pulls out a string og hair from your shoulder region making you flinch. “I’m gonna bring the samples to analysis. Wait here.”

Why do they need your hair?

They already have your bodily fluids. They are going to make you cry for your tears next.

You’re still very much parched. “Do you have something to drink?”

“Yeah, sure.” And she leaves, before quickly coming back “,here.”

You take the glass, and drink it, “thanks for the – strawberry milkshake? It’s, uhm, good.” It is in fact very good.

Why would a hospital have milkshakes?

“Yeah, it is. It’s interesting how the body works, mate, ain’t it?! She did have a strawberry cutie mark.”

Radio – Freedom Through the Waves

“Yer results are in. I don’t see what could hinder you to work. A little alcohol in yer bloodstream, not unusual for a pony around here. Though ye have a strangely hefty magnesium deficiency. Here is a prescription for some magnesium. Otherwise, drink more water, and yer good to go.” She gives you a slip of paper. Her writing is barely readable.

“I guess it’s true what they say about doctor’s hoofwriting.”

She rolls her eyes, “ye can go now. I’m gonna send my clearance.”

Wait, shouldn’t she have found some of the traces of the drugs you took? A false negative? Can’t they find the trace amounts? Something else?

“Clover, are you sure you haven’t found anything else?”

“As sure as I can be. Why?”

Spill your ‘secrets’. She won’t tell, she has to consider doctor-patient confidentiality, and you shouldn’t sacrifice your health.

Do you know how much it would suck to find another more boring job?

“I have amnesia. I took some weird drug and drank alcohol, I forgot everything.”

“Everything? Did ye forget anything afterwards? After your stunt.”

You didn’t

“Uhm, no, I’m very sure.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Some days.” Two to be exact.

“Then it’s temporary. And ye can’t forget ‘everything’. That’s a slight exaggeration, ye seem to clear for that. And it wouldn’t hinder you to work. Though I question yer actions. Why are ye taking random drugs?” she shrugs, “It doesn’t matter, I’m just here to check if yer healthy enough, which ye are. The retrograde amnesia should get better. If it doesn’t, call me. Or better yet, find a general practitioner.”

That’s a relief, though you wish the memories would come sooner.

Doctors can be wrong.

“Ye can go, now. I have other patients. And stop taking random drugs.”

Wait, this is a good chance to increase your contacts.

“Oh, one last thing, Clover. Can I have your private number?”

“No. As much as I like my work, I also want some peace and quiet. I am not yer family physician.”

“I am not asking to have to have a twenty-four seven doctor.” Though you could use that. “I’m asking you to be a friend.”

“We have a doctor-patient relationship, it should stay that way.”

There is no reason for those kinds of relationships to be incompatible. She takes her job serious. Argue with her on a medical basis.

In the back of your mind, hidden in old recesses, you find your own knowledge of basic social science and biology. We do need friends.

“But that makes it even more important to be friends,” she raises an eyebrow, “your goal as a doctor is to keep your patients healthy through any means. And because we are social creatures, social contact and friendship are the best ways to protect from stress related and mental illnesses. You can keep yourself healthy.”

“I mean, technically …” she thinks about it for a short time, she looks at you, seeing that you won’t relent, “ah, sure, if it makes you go. Here ye go.” She writes it down, readable enough for you to see the numbers, she sees your expression, “also, my writing is one of the better ones.”

With spring in your step, you leave the hospital. Happy with the result and your package of magnesium – the building had an apothecary. You are almost able to forget that you got violated in there.

What to do now? You have the rest of the day off. You were told to come to the station tomorrow.

You could: get a hobby; laze the time away in your home; make more friends; figure out what communism is; wash your dishes; walk around aimlessly; ponder your existence; talk with Lionheart – he should, hopefully, be done with exchanging the money.

Lazing around sounds good.

You should be more productive.

Exactly, optimize. Laze around with Lionheart.

You return to your home. He isn’t here. Did he run off with your money? Though the loss wouldn’t be that bad because, honestly, you wouldn’t have bothered to exchange the money. The betrayal is worse – you were hoping for a friend, and you were trying to ‘get him’.

Your mind is still working on figuring out what you mean by that.

You look around your living room. You keep calling it a living room, it’s more of a reading and working room with a window.

Wait, you have a radio. You should turn it on. It stands there in the corner. It’s a small, meager radio, but it should fulfill its purpose. You twist the knobs and hope it functions. Can you get Equestrian channels here?

You hear the first channel:

It’s playing classical music; it’s lead by a cello.

You switch.

“—from ten to twelve o’clock a slight shower has been scheduled –” the weather. How boring.

You switch again.

“—she is in a glass labyrinth, crossing new lines, old demons behind, in front of her new ones. She is trapped like a rat.” What is happening there? “It is not the feeling to be a part of a twisted experiment that makes feel insignificant. An experiment has a purpose and observers. But there is nothing. –“

It’s probably a radio drama.

That makes sense. You switch the channel.

And that’s propaganda music.

You continue your radio adventure.

“Okay, okay. Listen, homies.” The young mare in the radio audibly inhales from a cigarette – judging from her voice it isn’t filled with tobacco. “I, and my friend, had our usual movie night yesterday. Usually, I would give you recommendation because the movies we usually cover here are either actually good, or so bad that it’s funny. But that one, it is … it is just bad. Okay, homies, I understand making movies is hard. I wouldn’t understand any of that, I am a radio host who barely puts any effort into my work and talks about media. And you, kids, you are largely teenagers if my stats are right, are still listening for some reason.”

You cannot turn to the next channel. Now, you need to know why the youth listens to this.

“Anyways, what I am saying is, when you work on anything like a movie, a painting, a book, or learning an instrument, no matter if you’re good at it, when you put effort into it, it is noticeable. And with enough time, effort, and love to what you do, you’ll become good at it. Now, in the movie ‘Holidays in trouble’ – it’s always the holiday movies, weird – you can clearly see the only thing the creator cared for was getting your cash out of your purse. If the creator, Cony Catcher, is listening, they probably aren’t because they’re Equestrian: stop making shameful cash grabs. – oh, we have a caller.”

That’s probably it: it’s a charismatic host that offers basic life advice, which is quite desirable for youth with lacking social environment.

Maybe you’re overthinking it. It’s just nice listening to some creature, especially now that you’re alone. Perhaps it’s the media analysis that’s ‘in’?

Really now? Are you developing a parasocial relationship?

“We hear you, caller, welcome to ‘The Horse Show’. How about you introduce yourself and tell us want you want to tell us.” She inhales through the cig.

“Hi, I’m,” you can barely hear laughter in the background, “an expert in a very scientific and very serious field. You are the only other I trust you to spread the truth.”

“It’s nice that you trust me, but I am just a radio host.”

“Well, the truth is, I have a whole unified theory, I am an ufologist, yes, it’s real, I have hands, …” chortle could be heard from the caller.

“Not again!”

“… the communist party is putting chemicals in the water that is turning everypony gay.” She quickly says before a cut off sound can be heard.

“That’s the fifth time this week. I swear, I have to stop taking live calls if that keeps happening. Buck, homies, they’re going to shred my license if I keep having conspiracies spread through my channel, even as a prank, no matter how much fans I have with the Pioneers. No, they are not putting any chemicals into the water. Thankfully, they are normally supportive with art. Isn’t avant-garde great? Like, I even got a tax deduction for my weed as a work expense. I told them it was an artistic decision, which’s true.” She inhales again. “Taxes, never heard of her...”

A knock on the door wakes you from this radio show. You quickly turn it off. Opening the door, you see Lionheart. He looks miserable, holding a flower bouquet.

“It feels like the damn bank took ten years out of my life. Here for you.” He gives you the flowers and the money, gruffly, with a straight face, leaving you with conflicting messages.

That has interesting connotations.

He bought it with YOUR money, without your permission.

“Thanks,” you say, “so, your mission was successful. Did you buy yourself something?”

“Yes, I hope that’s okay with you. I haven’t eaten anything since…” he’s taken aback by his thought, “…well, the day before yesterday, if you even could call that garbage food.”

That’s reasonable.

This thief took YOUR money.

He must have been doing something else. It’s unlikely that –

You look outside and see the moon rising.

– he needed twelve hours to exchange.

“No problem. Anything else?”

“Why do you care?” He enters the living room.

Griffon isolationism. Pressure him to get your knowledge. “Well, you do live with me.”

He ponders it for a moment. “I got a job. I went with the devil I knew.”

“That’s great.” You casually start eating the flowers. They taste delicious. “What devil?”

“The postal service.”

“Why go back if you don’t like it.”

He doesn’t say anything.

All creatures fear change. Taking away some creature’s bedrock quick scares them. He’s trying to find something with familiarity.

“I hope it works out for you, Lionheart.”

“Thanks.”

The Wildcard

A new day, a new start. Surely, nothing whacky will happen today and it will be a completely positive experience.

Even Lionheart is less grumpy, he stopped complaining about the sleeping conditions. And now, you two are engaging in small-talk in the kitchen over way too strong tea.

“Stalliongradian radio is really weird. They’re definitely being experimental. How’s radio where you come from?” you ask.

“Couldn’t really tell you, I avoided it. It’s largely advertisement. It pissed me off.”

“A griffon, that’s what you mean with ‘you don’t care who you pick’.” Says the waffle iron. Only you hear it, supporting the fact that it’s happening in your head. “You got yourself some exotic creature.”

“Shut up.”

Lionheart is confused than anything else, looking around if you saw something he didn’t.

“Not you Lionheart.”

“I have been thinking.” Says the waffle iron, “there isn’t much else I could do other than think.”

You should go, before it bothers you too much.

Throw that kitchen appliance out off the window.

That would make you look insane, and it would be wasteful.

“I have to go,” you say, standing up and squeezing through the kitchen, “oh, and when you move out, I’m gifting you the waffle iron. Bye.”

“Okay?”

There you stand, in front of the police station. You are going to join the citizen’s militia, and before you process it, you stand before Alan once again.

“Hi, Alan, how’s it going?”

“Fine. Now, there’s one last formality before we’re going to start. You have to remember, you’re going to be a cadet, nothing more. That means no weapon, no arrests, no fines, you aren’t even going to look at a citizen in a mean way, until you are trained. You are going to the academy, bi-weekly, understood?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Now, where is it?” she searches for something in her desk, “say, do you prefer any religious texts?”

Why would she need to know that?

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good, because I only have the constitution, that should be enough. Put your hoof on it.”

It’s an oath.

“Speak after me: I swear, to be loyal to my socialist homeland, Stalliongrad and its government at all times, to keep official and state secrets, and to strictly obey laws and instructions.”

It’s time for you to go full commie.

You repeat, “I swear, to be loyal to my socialist homeland, Stalliongrad and its government at all times, to keep official and state secrets, and to strictly obey laws and instructions.”

These things don’t actually mean anything. The only influence they have are in your head. There are some rare magical oaths. But they are frowned upon because the vagueness can have all sorts of effects.

“I will unswervingly strive to fulfill my official duties conscientiously, honestly, courageously, vigilantly and with discipline.”

But it still fells like you are fully committing to something you can’t take back.

“I will unswervingly strive to fulfill my official duties conscientiously, honestly, courageously, vigilantly and with discipline.”

But on the other hoof, it is exactly what you want. Now you are fully aligned with Stalliongrad.

“I swear, that I will, without reservation, under risk of my life protect the socialist social, state and legal order, the socialist property, the personality, the rights and the personal property of the citizens against felonious attacks.”

You hope you can remember all that.

Without missing a beat. The brain has holes, yet it can catch when needed.

“If I nevertheless break this, my solemn oath, I shall be confronted with the punishment of the laws of our republic.”

Very average when it comes to oaths.

“If I nevertheless break this, my solemn oath, I shall be confronted with the punishment of the laws of our republic.”

“That’s that.” She puts the book back into the drawer, “now, you can’t work alone of course. We usually work in groups of two. But we add the cadets to the groups for training.”

You jump in anticipation, “can I go along with Snowy and Hoax.”

“You know those two? I guess that’s doable. I had someone else in mind. You need to wait until they’re here. And here’s the uniform.”

You look so cool. A cool and sleek colt. Your foreleg flattens your hair; the strands spring back to their original, chaotic position.

Though you feel the uniforms aren’t designed with stallions in mind, only as an afterthought. The neck and crotch region are a bit too tight. Worth it, nonetheless.

A uniform exudes authority. It manipulates the thought of the wearer as it does the perceiver.

You wait there, in the office space, unsure of what to do with yourself. To the right are holding cells, to the left a radio station behind soundproof walls and door. Otherwise, everything else is unnoteworthy.

Except maybe the big-ass red flag on the wall with communist insignia. It is signatured by various ponies.

“Hi, tovarish, nice to see you again.” Snowy greets, “Alan told us everything. I didn’t expect to meet you again, especially as a colleague. We’re ready to go.”

Hoax is grumpy, “I barely remember you,” the same as you saw her the first time.

“I love you too.” You say in the most genuine tone you can muster.

Yeah, baby, it’s time to chew bubble gum, kick criminal ass, and be cool. You should buy sunglasses, just to show how fly you are.

It would make you look like you want to be desperately cool. It doesn’t actually make you cool.

“Yeah, time to fight crime with my new work wives.” You say in excitement, loudly. Some in the office look at you. Hoax rolls her eyes and looks away in fremdscham.

“You’re over-fantasizing it. The most that’ll happen is neighborly squabble, petty thievery, or some drunks that we have to pull out of the street.” She explains, “Hoax is the driver; she’s one of the few of us with a driving license.”

As much as you know this your first time driving a motor carriage. You’re giddy.

This is horror. Despite you being tightly strapped, fear makes you grip Snowy’s foreleg. Hoax is a maniac. You all three fit in the sofa-like front row seating: you at the right window; Snowy in the middle; and Hoax on the driver seat. The motor carriage wasn’t pulled from the aether; the original pulled carriage design plagues the current way of thinking.

There was radio call, to which Snowy responded. They were babbling nonsense at each other.

Looking at Hoax you can see it, mania. She is still beholding to the street laws. But this radio call was just the excuse she needed. With the police siren blaring, it’s like she got permission to let her deepest demons out.

Meanwhile, Snowy is teaching you, as one would a pupil, about the radio babble and what those code words mean. “… You don’t need to remember it now, but you should have it memorized eventually – can you stop gripping my arm, I can’t feel it anymore.”

At that point you reached your goal – you noticed it by the sudden stop and almost toppling over of the vehicle.

With shacking hooves, you let go off her. “Wha- what are we doing here?”

“Didn’t you listen? We’re here because some creature is vandalizing.” Says Hoax.

You should confront her about her harmful driving habits.

“Sorry, I was fearing for my life too much to listen.”

Hoax eyes you, “coward.”

“You get used to it.” says Snowy, “but, Hoax, maybe you can turn it down next time.”

“We have a job to do.”

She is deflecting. But true, you have to exit the car now.

Leaving it, you immediately see what you were called for. A smashed chest of drawers lays in pieces on the road.

It wasn’t destroyed on the road, it was thrown onto it, out of an apartment window – up there. There is only one open window, fifth floor.

“It was thrown out of the window.” You say.

“Figured as much.” Says Snowy, “let’s get talking to the one responsible. Tovarish, just stay on the sideline and observe how we peacefully deescalate a situation.”

The pieces are calling out for you, holding a mystery. “Just one sec, please,” you say, quickly making your way to the evidence.

They give you time to investigate. The piece of furniture was once quite beautiful, artisanal, with a coat of arms embellished on it.

It’s probably pre-revolutionary, its original owners must have left the country long ago. It changed hooves multiple times.

You look at the different knick-knacks. Nothing tells you anything. But then you spy a picture frame, the glass is broken. It shows a smiling family, looking at the back it wasn’t taken that long ago. One of the ponies seem familiar, a green unicorn in the middle of picture, the pegasus and yellow earth pony mare have to be her parents then.

If she seems familiar, you must have recently met her. You don’t know that many unicorns.

There are: Snowy Days, Spooky Leftist … you can count them with your hooves.

Maybe you don’t really know her.

“What’s taking you so long?” asks Hoax.

Wait, you know who it is, “the picture, it’s –"

The air stands still.

A shot rings out. You don’t know from where it comes or where it’s heading. You look up, trying to orient. Your instincts scream at you to hide, you only get a short glance at the shooter, a yellow earth pony. With a jump you collapse; your colleagues hide behind the vehicle.

“Lost, stay there!” Snowy’s authority creeps through your mind, pulling out her own gun, “I’m calling reinforcement.”

What wonderful first impressions for the job.

The shot came from above, from the same window.

“You’ll never get me commie bastards!” The shout also came from there, it’s a mare’s voice.

She said ‘me’, she is alone.

Snowy was wrong. Stick it to her, this is adrenaline pumping.

You’re in trouble.

It’s your time to shine.

This is highly dangerous.

Time to be a supercop.

Snowy carefully opens the car’s door and pulls out the radio.

“Hey, I can talk this out.” You say.

Take initiative.

Don’t.

Hoax, who overheard that, looks at you like you are a retard through the large door windows of the carriage.

You muster all the power you have into your voice. “We can resolve this peacefully, put the gun down.”

There is no response. Snowy looks at you with a frown, silently screaming at you to stop. She takes the wheel, “miss, we don’t want hurt you, we’re here to help.”

You are untrained. You have no authority.

“I can’t be helped; nothing can be helped.” She punctuates her statement with a wild shot at the car. “You can’t help.”

Stop, and think. She cannot or does not want to be reasonable. She wouldn’t have started a shooting otherwise. They are clearly warning shots, as they are way off any mark.

She is the mother of the green unicorn in the picture, the dead unicorn.

“It’s all senseless. I will choose when I die; I had enough.” She fruitlessly shoots again.

This doesn’t need police action; this needs a mental health expert. You are woefully underprepared.

Confront her directly, talk her out of it, before more police escalates it. You must go up close and personal – screaming will not convince her. “I’ll go up.” You say and pointing up. Your colleagues protest, but unable to stop you without going into the no-pony’s-land.

You walk up the stairs to the fifth floor. After you traversed the stairway, you stand next to the door, hiding behind the corner, at the edge of the doorframe. Out of habit you knock on the door. “Miss, please, there is no need for this.”

At this point your colleagues realize the prudent-ness of galloping up the stairs. They will pull you away.

She kicks the door of its hinges, luckily you are out of its way. She doesn’t look around the corner, thinking you also have a gun.

Don’t ask her to ‘calm down’, it won’t work. Propose an alternative. Better not to invoke her dead child.

“I can’t pretend to know what you are going through, but, please, if you put the weapon down, we can talk it out. If you don’t it’s only going to get worse.”

“There’s nothing we can talk about. I have nothing to lose, no worldly acclaim, no ambition.”

She is spewing doomist nonsense.

Before you can say anything, she rounds the corner. The gun pointed at you.

It’s an old carabine. It holds five rounds, one remaining. But you can see it in her eyes, she doesn’t want to do it.

You have only a few seconds remaining. The mare has completely lost it. Large eyebags, an unconcentrated look, starring at your fur.

At its color.

Hypnotized by it.

She looks like she is on drugs.

No, she is off her medicine; she suffers from sleep deprivation; she has the trauma of outliving her child: she is suffering from a psychosis-like mental illness.

You didn’t actually believe she would go *that* far. Dodge, she is close enough, take the gun. Do something!

That is too risky.

Instead, your legs become pudding. Your breathing becomes heavy. There’s nothing you can do. Even if you had a weapon, it couldn’t save you now. Your eyesight becomes blurry. You cry. Covering your hooves on your head, folding your ears.

This is all a bad idea.

You were too idealistic.

You’re sniveling on the floor. What were you thinking? Now, you are sobbing, crying, wailing in front of a crazed, enraged mare pointing a gun at you.

The mare looks at this display lowering her gun. She shows no visible reaction – frozen in place. “I’m sorry I’m so sorry,” you hear the mare drop the gun, “please,” she walks up to you, “stop.” Her voice rises in pitch.

Even if you wanted you could not; you’re in shock.

She quickly covers the distance, embracing you in a hug. “Don’t cry, I didn’t want to hurt any I – I hate the – the pills – don’t wanna forget,” her speech becomes increasingly incomprehensible.

Now she starts to cry. There is nothing wrong with two ponies in their midlife crying in each other’s hooves. You are too much in it – too much in shock – too much in squeezing your tear ducts, you hug her back wrapping your hooves around her neck.

Some moments pass, there is nothing said, and when your colleagues arrive, they take in the scene in front of them before Hoax confiscates the gun on the floor. Snowy approaches you two “how about we walk to the car,” otherwise I have to use force and hoofcuff you is what she doesn’t say, “and then we talk it out.”

You extract yourself from the yellow mare who’s guiltily looking at you then at the floor.

“Tovarish, I will show you how to fill out a huge report and hope Alan doesn’t read it. Are you alright?”

“Yes.” You see Hoax escorting the mare out, “uhm, what’s going to happen to her?”

“They’re probably going to send her to reeducation and rehabilitation.”

Stalliongradian justice: Like Stalliongrad’s sibling, Equestria, the justice system is heavily focused on rehabilitation. Stalliongrad does it in their own style – an emphasis on marksian education. And like her sibling, recidivism and rate of repeat offenders is low – around fifteen percent in both countries*. Interestingly, unlike its sibling, in Stalliongrad exists a death penalty for enemies of the state like leading figures of crime syndicates and leading oppressors which was seldom used in the past and now is mostly forgotten.
*It has to be noted, most studies in Equestria are taken in its center around Canterlot, not reflecting the rest of the country’s condition.

“Oh.”Moving along, you ruin your uniform with your snot.

Author's Note

Deleted paragraph

In the apartment standing opposite a unicorn opens her windows, “WHAT’S THIS RUCKUS?! I’M TRYING TO WORK HE—” another shot, hitting above her lets concrete dust settle on her, “sorry.” She quickly closes the windows.

Another Day, Another Success

“Aurum, wife of a veteran. That’s where she got the gun. Her husband died, her siblings, all of her family died due to diverse reason. Her family’s deaths worsened her mental health. When she was informed of her child’s murder, her last family member, she stopped taking her medication, she didn’t elaborate why.” Alan puts down the folder, “let’s hope she gets better. Sad bunch. But that’s not why you’re here. You made some very stupid decisions, on your first day, no less. You have no qualifications in de-escalation, something you would have learned in the academy. You should have stayed at the sidelines. Yet, you walked directly to a shooter and cried, and somehow succeeded. Why?”

You have no idea. Sitting there in Alan’s office, you feel like you’re standing in front of your disappointed parents. Snowy and Hoax beside you, probably to give out witness testimonies.

Truthfully, you were winging it and hoping you could talk it out.

And it worked. Not how you imagined it. But results speak for themselves, you peacefully deescalated the situation. You should be proud.

“I am sorry.” Not really. “I found out that her child died, and I thought I had an angle to talk it out.” You say, looking down and tipping your hooves at another.

“Let this be a warning for now. I’m lax. That’s probably why our citizen’s militia soviet voted me as precinct chief. Just, do as you’re commanded, understood, comrade?”

You salute.

Police don’t salute.

Alan approves of the gesture, you can feel Hoax roll her eyes.

You only got a slap on the knee. Your forgotten stories of unpunished police misconduct. It’s not that bad if happens to you.

“That’s that.” Alan says, “see you tomorrow.” You all three exit the office before you go last Alan stops you, “oh, wait. One small question. Sorry, for the sudden change of topic. I am getting desperate in finding someone. Do you play tabletop?”

The sudden whiplash of topics puts your brain on hold. “What?”

“Roleplay. I have been trying to get anyone to play with me. I asked the whole office. No one wants to play with me.”

Should you play games with your boss? That sounds painful – lame even. That’s pet behavior. However, your boss is actually tolerable, unlike most bosses.

There’s nothing to add.

“Sure.”

“Finally. Hey, if you could invite some more, we could actually play a game. I’m going to explain everything, don’t worry, I’ll do the work. You get the friends. ”

You two talked out to set a place and date later. You have her number. Finally, another friend to your collection – Your boss.

Prior to walking back homewards you converse with your work wives.

“Tovarish, what did she tell you? Did she give you a punishment after all?” asks Snowy.

“No, no. Hay, are you two interested in playing some roleplaying games.”

“Not this again. She already asked. We are not playing some kid’s game.” Says Hoax, “that’s completely unprofessional. Don’t tell me you are actually going to play with Alan.”

Snowy says, “I don’t think that’s for me.”

“First of all, it’s not a kid’s game.” You say. No it’s a very adulty game, for ponies with big, wrinkly brains.

Think. What does Hoax prioritize? How can you convince her?

She is a workhorse.

You can do the same thing you did with Four-leafed Clover. Then you can easily convince Snowy.

“Hoax, I understand the job is very important. And that’s exactly why we should play together.” You say, “We need to develop camaraderie. When all know each other better, we can all work more efficiently. And a game is the perfect way of doing that.”

The clocks turn in Hoax’s head “,fine, I can come.”

You continue, “and, Snowy, you only need to come once. If you don’t like it, you don’t need to continue. Just try it.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Hoax, your dear comrade is joining. You can do something together with Hoax.”

Her eyes widen, a little bit, but enough for her to catch your innuendo, “I can try it.”

“Nice. I’ll call when I find out a good place.”

“Lionheart, do you want to join a tabletop game.” He is hunched over the table.

He is writing something, deeply concentrating putting ink on paper.

Spy. Look what he is writing, see who is writing to, fill your desire for drama.

“Lionheart.”

“Huh? What?”

“Who are you writing to?”

“A friend.”

A friend? Does this mean he’s already taken? Woe is you. “Do you want to play tabletop.”

He turns towards you, not concentrating on the words coming from you, and shrugs, “sure.”

“Great!”

Buddy, why stop here? You can organize a whole crowd! AN ARMY. You are going to organize the biggest nerdfest in Stalliongrad.

“Lionheart, I am going to make some calls.”

“Are ye seriously calling me because ye want to play a children’s game?”

“Four, I’m sure we’re going to have fun. It’s just a neat way to make new acquaintances. And if you don’t like the game, you can at least say you tried it.

What’s the worst that could happen?”

She gives you a response you’re all too familiar with, initial disapproval. But after some murmuring on the other end of the line you hear, “Ye right.” She takes her time to think. “I’ll come.”

“Hey, Warm, care to play TTRPG with some other creatures.”

“I have no idea what a Tea Tee Arh Pee Gee is, but it sounds fun.”

There is one last creature remaining that you have to visit. You already left your apartment and let Lionheart write his poem, or whatever it is.

Now, onto old, new adventures. You need to meet up with Spooky. You don’t have her number – and she is forcing you – maybe? – she is giving you mixed messages. Either way, this is a good opportunity to ask her if she also wants to join.

You already have too many creatures invited. You don’t even know if it is a good idea to invite her. She and Alan wouldn’t mix, and she and Lionheart have bad history.

Oh, you’re sure they’ll be just fine. They are adults… actually you have no idea how old any of them are, but they are probably all adults.

Yes, they are.

Listen, no problem-o, boy-o. You continue the way through what could be described as a commercial district. It is much the same as an Equestrian one, sans the advertisement, and the lack of goods like bananas.

And now you have the mystical tokens to exchange for goods and services.

Your not so little eyes spy a scarf. Oh, it is not just any scarf – not a ‘it’s only purpose is to keep you warm’ scarfs.

It’s a *gay* shawl.

Weak ponies would look upon it and say it’s too colorful or get epileptic seizures. But not you. It is calling for you. You need to communicate to the world your gayness; you are the uber-gay, after all.

You need not fall into this commercial trap. What you are isn’t determined by a piece of clothing or your appearance.

Besides, it makes you look like a goofy clown.

You *are* a goofy clown. A gay, goofy clown-cop. Get that character-building piece of cloth, comrade. Even the communistiest communist falls trap to consumerism. Why should you be the exception?

Yeah, it’s time to fetishize the commodity.

You’re sold. Taking the scarf, your money and the body decoration exchange hooves. Now, you are the proud owner of one piece of garment.

You wear it.

Do you feel it? Yes, it is exactly that. You are practically oozing queerness.

You repeat the experience of visiting Spooky Lefty. The differences strike you immediately.

Her eyes are bloodshot; the hair is frazzled, a sign of stress; she is concentrating her attention to the coffee cup in her hooves, it is already cold, she is lost in thought unlike her usual aware behavior; she is tapping her hindlegs on the floor in a nervous tick; she clearly had a hard day– strings of her mane are sticking to her face.

In other words, she looks bad. Unkempt – she could be kindred.

She notices you. “Gteetingy, Lost.” Her eyes shortly pause at your scarf, but she decides not to comment.

“Hi.” You take a seat at her table. “Are you okay?”

She waves her hooves dismissively, “I had a normal workday.”

“Then I really fear what a normal workday looks for you.” You doubt that. “Technically, I had my first workday, from my viewpoint, and it isn’t exactly what I would consider normal … I hope. I really hope,” you are jinxing yourself, “forget what I said.”

“Oh, do, please, tell.”

She sees it as an opportunity to distract herself. “It wasn’t that spectacular.” You tap your hooves together. “There was this mare who shot around in a psychotic break. I then cried in front of her… it worked.” You throw her a charming pose.

“You also are not that much in a good shape. Such a confrontation can put mental pressure on you. Are you sure you do not need any help? Besides have you visited a hospital?”

It’s your turn to dismiss your problems, “my doctor friend said I’ll be fine.”

Your doctor said you’re good enough to work. Not that you’re fine.

A moment passes, none of you say anything. The café, the central plaza, it is all the same, a busy place with diversity of creatures walking by. It smells the same as any other place in the city. You should ask her for the game.

It doesn’t feel right to ask her now.

Eventually, she breaks, “Lost, can I tell you some things.”

Be the shoulder she can cry on.

That’s perfect, let her emotion dump on you. It will make her like you more. “Sure, shoot. What got you riled up.”

Despite her unreadable face, she seems thankful, she begins her story--

Author's Note

I wanted to bring this lax, little chapter out sooner, then I got hospitalized. My motivation was a bit lacking after that.

What I meant to write, I was busy crashing the stock market.

But now I can focus on the meaningful things on life, my little pony fanfiction. Because what more is there than to divert your energy and time, and distract yourself to a completely temporary, commercialized franchise, instead of using it for something material.

Also the next chapter is going to be big.

Goodbye Old Me – You Knew Too Much and Killed The Surprise

The screeching of a motor wakes you.

Lifting your head, you rub ash from your eyes. Beneath you is a chair, in front of you stands a wooden table that your head claimed as a pillow. Your bones, neck and back, hurt from sleeping in this uncomfortable position.

The faint smell of ash and ethanol reaches your nostrils.

A piece of paper presents itself atop the table. In an instinctive reaction you reach and read it.

“You are you. This is your home. You are alone. You are new here.

Café at Victory Square. 17:30. Cutie mark of an eye on a globe.”

You are you. Good to know. Though, you don’t know if it ever happens to be not the case.

It doesn’t.

The slowly dissipating fog in your thoughts thwart your attempts to cognize. You turn to less philosophical questions. Listening to and observing your surroundings, the distant voices above you, the tumultuous happenings of a city outside, your almost clean apartment, you see that this paper tells the truth.

You are alone. No family, friend, foe, nor roommate inhabits with you this small space you call home.

Who would forget something like that? Well, it’s you, of course. You did forget.

No, wait it wasn’t you, exactly. It was your past you. It was this duplicitous past version of yourself that scrambled your memories. And looking on the table, the instruments of this act become apparent – many empty bottles, an empty, heart-shaped bottle and an also empty, pill bottle. All are unlabeled. Bootleg, moonshine.

An assertion: you are an alcoholic, drug-addicted creature. But for an alcohol-dependent and drug-addicted creature you have a too bare, too clean room. Therefore, you are indeed new here, you recently moved in here and haven’t had the opportunity to trash your flat.

You look down. A small, wet circle covers the chair pillow you are sitting on – you peed yourself. A magnifying glass following a red string is stamped on your flank.

Cutie marks: No one really knows what cutie marks are. Opinions vary from meaningless tattoos to destiny defining symbols. Either way, all agree that they appear during a certain meaningful event in life.

You open a desk drawer. It squeaks as you open it, and the lifeblood of an office, paper and pens, show themselves. Taking a pen, you write ‘hello’on the paper. Directly comparing the two writing styles you conclude that you did write it. But the letters of the you-are-you-paper are squigglier. On the paper are small water droplet marks that soaked into the paper.

You knew you were going to be an amnesiac. At least, he/you could have been a bit more informative!

An assumption can be made from the little evidence.

The Rainy Day: It can’t be happening. Clearly, it was a misunderstanding, nothing bad, you’ll simply talk it out. It will return as it once was. Calm down, it will be all right, sit down, and take a drink, flood out your worries.

They did it. They were clearly at fault. Everything bad that happened to him, They were at fault, They caused him to drink. Or did he drink before the breakup? That doesn’t matter. It was Them why he’s feeling so bad now.

Okay, okay. Maybe he exaggerated. How about a compromise?! It doesn’t have to be perfect; he can convince Them, if he has the right words to say in the right order in the right tone, They have to take him back. If only They would take his calls.

Why bother? It won’t matter in the end either way. No matter who They are, he is going to leave Them in the past; for there is nothing more than sadness to be achieved in this unvisitable place. He hates Them. He loves Them. He has forgotten Their name. That’s what they deserve. Burn it all. He took a perfect day for it, the weather itself is downtrodden and pours, take a bender. Burn it. Take a hike, never come back to Their turf. Burn it. Take the memorabilia, the photos, the letters with empty promises. Burn it. Take that, whatever that is, a stranger gave it to you. It must be fun.

Forget the sad attempts to recover his life. The resumé? The notes? He knows he won’t listen to himself. But he still did it, just in case.

Your sudden lesson on why speedballing is bad aside, these things must have been good. Magical even. You feel like the next gust of wind could top you over and like you could carry the world’s weight.

Some really good stuff.

Opening another drawer, you see deeds finely put in it: residence of this flat, a passport, a membership card, a certificate of vaccination, and an identity card.

You take a closer look at it.

Citizenship of the Socialist Stalliongradian Republic
Surname: Thread
Given Name: Lost
Middle name: Red

Date of Birth: 05.12.990

Eye color: Brown
Race: Earth Pony

Residence: 5555 Stalliongrad City Like-Sketch Street 4d

That does help you a little bit … maybe? Still, you try to remember.

What does this even mean?

“Eye color: Brown” and “Date of Birth: 05.05.990”. At least you’re not completely hopeless. Your brain hasn’t been scrambled enough to forget such basic concepts as dates and color. Residence and names, too, are not unheard-of things. “Lost Red Thread” seems a bit too ironic for your tastes. You, after all, do feel lost. But you don’t have to hunt down your own name, you count it as a small blessing.

You read the upper words again.

In the deep labyrinth of the mind something new happens, you meet knowledge. Old pathways reconnect, electrical signals get send, and return with promising tidbits.

Stalliongrad: A place where the crimson flowed in rivers and is now waving it in the wind. It is a place where the desperate became idealists, who reviewed the world anew. They saw the injustices of their fellows, their suffering and hunger. While they, who themselves weren’t better off, watched the wealth of the well-to-do and believe that the wealth of one created the poverty of the other. With a struggle they declared they will suffer no master, no parasite, above them and no servant under them. Their fellows became comrades. Their exploiters fled south.
The experiment is in its cradle – much is still to be decided.

You shake your head. In any case, you have some encyclopedic knowledge. Its usefulness is eluding you, for now.

On the ID is a photo of you. Or you think it’s you. You look grim. Are you that unfun? You hope not.

It is likelier that you aren’t allowed to smile in ID photos.

Looking back at the words. You see ‘Earth pony’… Earth pony? Earth pony!?

…

Nope, it barely rings a bell. You look at your bright green hooves. Apparently, you are one.

Looking into the drawer once again you see a sticky note on a small pile of stapled papers. The sticky note reads, Do, eventually! On closer inspection, the paper stack is a resumé.

It is filled with surface level descriptions of your life. And it is uninteresting.

Two years in the royal guard was your first job. Why you joined or left or what the guard even is stay unknown. Otherwise, you were in places that don’t mean anything to you anymore, doing jobs that appear like useless, soul-grinding office work.

You put the card and resumé back into the drawer.

You stand up from the chair. On your fours, you trot towards a window and open it. You guessed right, it rained. The sun shines now and is drying the wet streets. Observing from a high floor you can see cranes in the distance, gray walls opposite to you, an apartment covered in propaganda posters that are too far away to discern, the street, it must be Like-Sketch Street, beneath you is relatively busy, a tramway goes through it, and creatures that also must be ponies, basing it on your ID card, walk through it. Some fly.

Simply looking out of the window is overstimulating.

The cold creeps in; you close it.

Walking back to your table, you take the bottle again. You stare at the drug containers. No emotion is invoked, no desire, and no memory. Blood rushes with fresh oxygen from your lungs to your brain. Synapses work.

You think harder.

The neurons give their best.

But nothing. The bottles will not share their stories.

You throw them into the bin, alongside the ash.

Your table seems utilitarian and evidently fireproof. At least your chair has a pillow, that you need to wash now, meaning you aren’t a complete cheapskate. These small things tell their own stories.

Or maybe *were* because you don’t know how harsh that memory-suicide came to be. Can a personality reset? You aren’t sure.

The need of a good cleaning makes itself clear. Not only for the room but also for yourself. Smelling yourself, you smell of ash and … you don’t even know. It reeks like a cocktail of bodily fluids and chemicals. Your nose screams at you in agony. Your eyes tear.

The apartment is small, it’s enough for you. You wander through the small space like a lost puppy. There is a bathroom next to your bedroom. The bed is a pitiful thing. Making a quick detour to the nightstand, interested in what might be in it, you open it.

There is a small bag. In there are coins. Not many coins.

Do they do something? Why would you collect coins?

On them things like “1 Bit”, “2 Bit”, and “5 Bit” are written.

…

Oh, it’s money. Wait, what does money do?

…

Your brain doesn’t answer. You only have the slight feeling that it’s important and that you need more of it. How would you even get more? Ah, yes, a job. Do you even have one?

You don’t have one. That would be explained by the resumé. Why else would you need one?

So, not only are you an alcoholic, amnesiac drug-addict, you are an unemployed, alcoholic, amnesiac drug-addict.

Despite the deluge of bad news; at least, you are not homeless.

Unemployment and homelessness: By the degree of the worker’s republic peace, bread, and roses are no longer privileges but rights. They take their promises very seriously. In fact, they take it so seriously that unemployment and homelessness are illegal – to a degree. Everyone is guaranteed housing as blocky and gray as it may be. It is at the very least sturdy. Work on the other hoof is not only guaranteed but required. With exceptions of the elderly – pensions are ensured and high –, the sick, those attending education, and the young. Discounting them, unemployment is at an official 1 percent. If you don’t find yourself in those categories, you should find employment. Otherwise, when you do not find one in a span of a month, the might of the state will get involved.
You are very lucky, most singles live in kommunalkas, communal housing, or flatshares. How you achieved this lays in the past.

Thanks, brain.

Sadly, you still haven’t gotten the answer to what money actually does. But you might as well give yourself the mission of finding a job to stop your criminal unemployment.

But that is a quest for the future you. Now, you will shower. You enter the bathroom. It is as basic as the rest of your apartment. White tiles. A shower. A faucet.

With a glance into your mirror a realization comes forth. The picture of you is a fable, a lie. Your bright, yellow mane is unkempt – messier than you find reasonable. The nose – at least you think it is one – is pulsing red.

Perhaps you hit your nose against a door, or you could have fallen. Or maybe the alcohol is still running through your system.

You dare not to touch it.

Your eyes. They are the most redeeming quality of your face – even that is not saying much. Surrounded by eyebags, that give you the likeness of a creature that hasn’t left their cave in years, and blood vessel, makes you nice-yellow eyes only presentable at a distance.

It is not going to get better if you stand there. You enter the shower.

You see a shampoo bottle that is *creatively* labeled “Shampoo” with its sensible warnings beneath the label.

You turn on the water. Heeding the warnings, you do not rub the shampoo into your eyes and despite its good smell you don’t eat it. Foam and bubbles form on your fur. The stink dissolves.

The water is warm. You take a small sip of the water and wash away the taste of yesterday. Then you take more and more. You haven’t drunk water for who knows long.

Should you even be drinking this water?

Stalliongradian water: It is drinkable, but it doesn’t taste good. At least not as good as the water the center of the princesses’ Equestria.

Princess? Equestria?

…

Sure hippocampus, go at your own pace.

You soak in the peacefulness of a calming shower.

And once you are starting to drift off, you get stirred back to the realm of the aware. A knock and a knock and a knock.

This could be important! You rush out of the shower, almost taking the curtain with you. With many successful attempts of not slipping, you eventually reach the door.

You take the handle.

You open it.

“Good day, sir, we would like toooooo…” She stares at you. She and her partner are wearing thick uniforms with rank insignia on their shoulders, with equally fluffy ushankas that both have red stars on them. Their appearance manifest authority over you and any creature that might stand in their way. You realize, to your detriment, they are creatures you don’t want to say ‘no’ to.

The one talking to you seems to have a higher rank. She seems flustered. Why? Do you also need to wear something? “Ahem. Sorry for interrupting your shower.” Oh! It’s because you’re wet. “I am Snowy Days, this is Hoax. We are here to investigate and would like to ask you some questions.”

Her partner, a winged pony with a stern expression on her, sniffs the air, “did something burn down?” she murmers.

Water is dripping from you. You look like you melted with your fur fully drenched. You smile. “Hi, officers. Yeah, sure. I don’t think I can help much. What is it about?”

“We are investigating a murder.” The leading mare with a horn protruding from her forehead says. “Did you happen to hear or notice anything yesternight.”

HOLY CRAP! Did your past self kill some creature? “I – uhm – you know, I was uhm. I was in my apartment all day, yesterday. Sorting out, you know, personal problems.”

“Don’t worry, sir, the victim died through magical means. Unless you are hiding some magical capabilities, you are not going to be a suspect.”

You nod.

“Was there nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“May I see your documentation.”

You nod with the same smile, it is a habitual smile, you realize. You don’t know if you are even allowed to say no. In your slightly rattled mind, you go through your apartment, dripping water everywhere. You take the whole pile of ID-stuff out of your drawer and hoof it to her.

The state’s might is upon your porch, don’t keep them waiting.

“Your ID would have been enough, mister … Thread. Now, why is your apartment smelling like a fire ravaged in there.”

“Ah, I was making stew. And well, you know how it is, I accidentally had a rag on the stove.”

She glances at the pile finely folded out with her magic. At the membership card she stops and gives a slight smile “I understand, tovarish.” She gives you your papers back. A notebook flies out of her pocket, she crosses out what is presumably you address and notes something on the side. “That is all, thank you for your time.”

Tovarish: In the times of the pre-industrial, the times of yore. The three tribes weren’t a unified group as they are now. Even the three tribes themselves were split, split, and split again in groups and sub-groups. This assortment of groups was marked with a diversity of languages.
The languages are dead now, a victim of unity. Only one prevailed. But remnants survive in the dialects. Tovarish is such a dialectical word. She called you comrade.

The membership-card. You didn’t look at it that closely. But now it seems important. You open it.

Stalliongrad Communist Party

What the buck is a communist?

“Wait, I have some questions.”

The two halt.

Stop, before you ask something stupid, you shouldn’t say something that could get you in trouble, and this whole ‘communist’ thing feels mighty controversial. Don’t ask that.

“What are you?”

The two look at each other confusedly. Snowy Days answers “We are police officer. We enforce laws.”

“Oh, good to know. That would have been my next question. No, I mean what are you?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Maybe? I am just asking what you are.”

“I am a unicorn?” a moment passes. “Are you trying to be racist?”

“No, no, no. I mean, ok, you are a unicorn, officer. What does that mean?”

“That I am – that I can do magic.”

“Is that all?”

“I think so?” She glances to Hoax as if to find an answer from her to your inane questions.

“So, if you were to suddenly stop being a unicorn, you would no longer be able to do the levitation stuff, is that really all? No deeper significance?”

“I would lose some conveniences. I guess, it wouldn’t affect me that much, I wouldn’t really care. But it is not something I think about much.” She shrugs “I know myself as me, not a unicorn.”

“And you? Hoax, was it? You are a …”

“Pegasus.” You can hear annoyance dripping from this word.

“What does being a pegasus mean to you? Would you want to be something else?”

“No, flying helps with my work. It’s easier to catch someone that way.”

“Only because of work? Isn’t there more to life?”

“It is enough for me.”

Now Snowy intervenes, she smirks. “Really, sergeant Hoax? There is more to life than work. Do you even have a private life or family? We have been working together for months. You never tell me about it.”

There is a certain look in Snowy’s eyes as she looks at Hoax. Worry, perhaps?

Hoax defends herself, “this is wholly unprofessional, lieutenant. I don’t see how that helps with our case.”

“Of course, it could. We live in a world where everything interacts with everything. EVERYTHING is connected.” You say, “why shouldn’t your personal life have connections with this?”

It is possible that everything conflicts with everything, that everything in the world is in constant motion, and in a way that it somehow connects these two things. But the probability that her personal life is somehow connected, logically, to a random case is small.

Do you even know what you are saying?

“Be it as it may, there is currently a corpse outside, that isn’t getting any better.” Says Hoax, “this is ridiculous. We still have work to do.”

“You’re right.” Snowy’s smile dissipates. She gives you quick look. “Goodbye, sir.”

“Wait, I still have one small question.” They turn back to you.

“Yes?”

“Uhm. Could I see the corpse?”

“If you don’t enter the perimeter, we won’t stop you. But,” she eyes you, weirded out by your odd inquiry,“ you should maybe dry yourself first. It’s cold outside.”

You nod and close the door. A puddle has formed beneath you. You move towards where one would reasonably have a towel.

Author's Note

I’d also like to thank Marx and Engels for inspiring me to make a My Little Pony fanfiction.

You've Got to Crack A Few Billion* Eggs to Make an Omelette *Adjusted to Inflation

„No, I don’t think so.”

Your hope for an easy answer vanishes. In turn it only overcomplicates your situation. “Sorry for bothering you, I thought you did.”

“Why?” she pauses to think, “did we share a school class?”

“No, I…” how do you talk yourself out of this now? “It was just a guess. You see I am on a kind of an adventure,” stop talking, you’re sounding insane, “I’m trying to figure out reality.”

“Uhm…” she blinks, “good luck then.”

You might as well get something else out of this conversation. “Is it ok, if I ask you some questions?”

“That would be alright.”

Asking questions about yourself would be useless. And asking questions about why you wanted to see her, or how you know she is here at this time would be counterproductive as well.

“What are you?”

“Don’t you mean ‘Who are you?’ I am Alerted Watch, by the way. You?”

An almost imperceivable change in posture, a strained plastic facial expression. She is restricting her behavior towards you: She is prepared.

“I am Thread, I think?”

“You sound very unsure of that.”

She is looking at you closer, inspecting you.

Be straightforward – what is the worst that could happen? “I lost my memories,” stop talking, you can’t just tell a stranger your whole life story, “I think I am suffering from brain damage.”

“That sounds serious. Have you visited a hospital?”

A hospital, that sounds a little too obvious. You should have thought of that sooner.

You shouldn’t show that you forgot something that obvious – divert the topic. “You haven’t answered my first question. What are you?”

“You mean to tell me you forgot what a pony is?”

“I already figured that one out today…” you say awkwardly.

Again, restrained amusement, “are you serious? Like actually serious? I am sorry, it is not every day I meet a complete blank slate.” She takes a sip from her coffee. “In that case, I am happy to help. Why not sit down?” She points at the opposite side of the tiny table again. You accept her offer and sit down.

Her posture relaxes. She recategorized you as a nonthreat. She realized you are too talkative and genuinely have no clue about anything.

“If you already figured out what a pony is, why are you asking?” she continues.

“As I said I am on an adventure.”

“So, you’re a Libertiner wannabe,” she says with slight humor.

Liberal Libertiner: The original, the master urban adventurer. Liberal Libertiner was a liberating symbol for the sex deprived. He seduced and broke hearts on every part of every hemisphere. He was celebrated as he was hated. This bundle of contradiction filled his life and death. He died in a gay sex orgy due to a freak erotic accident – It later turned out he was also a very big homophobe. His biography was a bestseller.

“Maybe not that kind of adventurer.” You say.

“Let’s hope not.” She smirks, “but to your question: I am red.”

“You define yourself through a color?” You look her up, “you seem very gray to me.”

“No, not red, I mean Red. A cadre. I am the red under the bed.”

You connect the dots. “Ah, so you’re one of those communist folks. Gotcha.” She nods.

She defines her personality through her ideology. Doesn’t sound very healthy.

“Then what is this place? Give me a summary. Can you help me understand this city?”

“To understand a place you need to know its history. A place, anything, doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. Stalliongrad isn’t inherently Red. We made it Red, Equestria unwillingly made it so. When it still was called princessyn, a part of Equestria, it was left to their own devices. We were poor and got poorer, while,” she is working herself up to a frenzy, remembering the times herself, “ the aristocrats and bourgeoisie got richer. A famine was the last straw. The pigs then wanted to keep us under their servitude; it became bloody. Now, we are independent. To put it shortly.”

Only she can trust her opinions

“What is Equestria; I also heard something of a princess? In fact, where is anything anywhere?”

“To the east, across a sea, is Griffonia. To make any statements about that place is frivolous, with their countless warlords, power changes frequently. Sometimes there is a little involvement from us.
To the north is New Griffonia: A super-liberal hellscape. To call it a nation would be a disservice. It is controlled by a handful of psychopathic capitalists. Honestly, we should just invade it and be done with it.
The East beyond the Crystal Empire is controlled by Chrysallis, a despotic changeling queen, controlling the very esprit de corps of the nation by her will.
And to the south is Equestria. A country stuck in the status quo. They preach about friendship and Harmony, then they only commit to these tenets if need be. A group of absolute rulers reign over it. The princesses, Celestia and Luna, raise the sun and the moon. Then there’s also the newer one, Twilight.
They are not evil. Though many comrades disagree on that, as though we could ever agree on anything. Those aristocrats are simply to stuck up on their ivory towers and too beholden on an outdated system. ”

“Where are we?”

“Did I not just answer that? Do you want to be more exact? We are in a café, near the construction site of the soviet’s palace, on a plaza, in the center of Stalliongrad, on the planet Equus.”

“No, I mean more like.” You wave your forehooves around “Where are we.”

“You mean existence? … reality?” Yeah sure – you yourself have no idea where you are going with these questions. You nod “That’s a pretty big question.” She takes the lasts gulps from her coffee, using the time to overthink. She takes joy answering these random questions. “Life is chaotic, a bit of a Discordian position. We make the best out of it.
And you?”

In another life she would have been a teacher.

“Still figuring it out. But I have those voices in my head, they help me out when I have no idea.” That sounded a bit insane.

“What?”

“Never mind.” You give her your best nonchalant posture, “I think the stress of today is simply getting to me. You know with the whole brain damage thing.”

“I understand, I know what stress can do to a creature. Don’t listen to the voices, okay? I am always happy to help and answer and help. ”

Listen to the voices.

Yes, listen to them. She doesn’t need voices in her head because she has her life in order, you don’t.

“Alerted, is the cake here good?”

When you called her name, her reaction is off. The plastic posture and behavior return.

“It’s alright.”

Now you have taken immense amounts of knowledge and you want to ask a very profound question: “Can I buy cake with money.”

With a slight smile and a raised eyebrow, she says, “last time I checked, yes.”

Without further ado you do. You walk towards the counter and a very bored pony greets you. As you do everything a customer is supposed to do a problem arrives.

“Sir, we don’t take Equestrian bits.”

Stalliongradian and Equestrian bits: To show their independence from Equestria Stalliongrad adopted a new currency, the Stalliongradian bit. It’s not easy to exchange the currencies.

Really? Now?

“Let me help you, Thread.” She pulls you from the counter, before you can protest, quickly paying for you. “Financially troubled? What do you work as?”

Your mouth moves before you think “I am going to be a servant of Stalliongrad, tomorrow, I’ll join the police.” Giving reasonable answers isn’t your style.

A shine in her eyes. “Why?”

“I thought some things through,” with the help of a hallucination, “I want to be an obedient defender to Stalliongrad. I know I am not the most suitable, but I think I can help others, Stalliongrad needs help, ” and give your life meaning, “and I, the bohemian,” you say overdramatically, “am gonna solve all crime, also I think the other cops seem nice.”

She giggles, “you are already doing a very poor job at being obedient.” She is very close to you. This is weird.

It’s not that weird. Ponies commonly get very close to each other.

Since when did you actively start to think about normal social convention?

She continues, “obedience is when you do something without thinking about it. When you brush your teeth in the morning without thinking why you do it, that’s obedience, not when you logically conclude to your actions. As a cop you are not a defender of justice or others, but a defender of the status quo. In a way, that’s something I am too. You’re not obedient, and that’s a problem. You’re going to do things that you don’t agree with. So, do you really want to become a dog for the state?”

She is right, police do follow orders above their own morals, in theory.

“Yes, I mean, no, I mean…” you think. You don’t have to follow orders; you can still commit to your own morals. No creature needs to know of it, of course, “I will do what’s right.”

”Oh really?” She digs in her pocket, “so, from public servant to future public servant in financial trouble. Let me help you out.” A little bundle of money floats by her.

A bribe.

Wow, you’re successful, quickly moving up in the world. You haven’t even joined the police force and are already getting bribed. Take it. Use it. Get wasted.

Don’t, landing in her debts sounds like a very bad idea.

“No, thanks.” You push it away.

An idea forms in your head – This mare is getting stranger and stranger, her reaction isn’t normal when you call out her name.

“Your name isn’t Alerted Watch, is it?”

Her posture becomes impossibly rigid. She cuts her losses. “Oh, aren’t you a detective, a changeling perhaps?”

“Miss, I have no idea what in the world a changeling is.” You don’t know what leads you to continue talking with her.

She probably holds corpses in her basement or something. She could be a psychopath. She has to be a psychopath. What normal citizen wears a cravat nowadays?

A lesser being would have said, ‘I don’t think it matters what my name is.’ But she is no lesser beings. Innuendos are a waste of time, instead she blankly says, “I am not going to tell you my name.”

You blink towards the cashier; he is tending to another customer.

He wouldn’t understand morse code either. Simply, walk away. It is too public for her to do anything.

“No. No. Completely … No. Bye.” You pull away from the creepy mare.

“Tomorrow same time, same place.”

That wasn’t a plea it is a command.

You’re interpreting too much into it.

You force yourself away from her. But before that. “Wait. One last thing.” She whispers into your ear, “don’t worry about your brain damage they are desperate for personnel. They take any creature these days. I’ll get in a good word for you.” What is good word from her entail? “Get well soon.”

With that you leave, without any cake.