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.

“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.”

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.