Follow the Worms

by argomiam

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Equestria at War, Dark, Alternate Universe, Drama, Original Character, Tragedy, Profanity, Violence, Sex, Narcotics
Length: 50611

The Changeling occupation of Equestria has birthed many a vile populist, but the Worms are a celebration of everything wrong in a post-friendship world.

This story takes place within the universe of Equestria at War, and is inspired by the Pink Floyd album, The Wall.

1023. Ten years from the fall of Canterlot, and just one year from the decennial of the Changeling occupation of Equestria.

Tyrant, fool, supremacist -- the Worm. The pony that rebuilds from the rot of Equestria, bringing an ideology that was scoffed at in the Equestria of old.

But Equestria is not the same anymore. Years of Changeling occupation has embittered the ponies, and their strict rule and strange demands have safely put an end to the Harmonic experiment.

Stop Light is just one pony offering solutions for a new world amongst many, but after such catastrophe and loss, the ever-militant worms are seeming more and more necessary. Sure, it's not ideal, but friendship's hard when you're staring into the barrel of a rifle. Besides, he asks the question nobody else is willing to:

Would you like to see Equestria rule again?

Please be aware that this contains some nasty views, and less than kind ponies.

Published 2024-01-09 17:40:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-02-28 16:35:50 UTC

1 – Don’t Slouch

There were a great many things Stop Light hated in this world. He hated changelings, and their failing occupation; he hated the unicorns that sneered and stuck up their noses, and the pegasi that were ever so compliant in holding that order up. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure which of these he hated more. Sure, in his mind, the changelings were certainly the immediate threat, yes... but they didn’t quite have the same history of spitting on the earth ponies. It was something he’d have to think about more later, bringing a thermos full of tea to his lips and sipping.

Without warning, the car rumbled to an ungraceful halt. The earth pony rolled his eyes at the unicorn driving -- he had almost spilt tea on his blazer. Typical, really. But, it was no matter, for one day he would be in charge and he’d have somepony proper driving him around, not some damn fool hornhead taking him between pubs, most definitely. He opened the door, also something he believed he wouldn’t have to do in time, and got out of the car without so much as a ‘thank you’.

They were a unicorn, after all. A thousand years of nobility was payment enough as far as he was concerned.

The taxi was already paid for, courtesy of his organisation. Now that was real friendship. Its driver, however, would certainly be brought up at the table.

The building in front of him had history. It was the place he’d met most of his work colleagues. Since those early party days, the building was a lot busier; changelings had replaced seats that were once filled by ponies since lost to the Great War (or vanished away to some labour camp), and a whole bunch more ponies had come to drink themselves into a stupor to escape the boring monotony of changeling-occupied Bales.

But Light was not here for drinks, despite his love for the occasional cider, or two... or six. He was here for his friends, the lovingly dubbed Worms. He hadn't looked long before he found them sat together at a table for four with an extra little table quickly pushed together on the end to seat two additional guests. That brought a slight frown to Light’s face. He figured he could guess why they were there, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. He stopped and made his way to the bathroom.

He stood by the mirror for some time, combing his mane furiously and perfecting every little button, making sure the collar popped out a little, that the jacket sat right on his shoulders and his shirt tucked in nicely.

It wasn't an unhealthy obsession with appearance. He had to look good. Image was everything.

“But I’m just saying, Starlight and Trixie?” The hushed voice of his friend, Proper Gander, was the first he heard. “They both have horns. It’s ridiculous. I say we do our own thing. We can align ourselves with them, sure, but let’s not pretend we have any love for their group. They’ll dismiss us right away like they have for the past… thousand years. This is our chance now.”

Light thought back to his question. The changelings, despite everything, had certainly prepared the right conditions for their ideology to take root. Perhaps credit could be given for that.

He pulled up his seat, saved for him, and looked about the table, particularly eying up the two new guests, one an earth pony themselves, and the other a rather uncomfortable looking pegasi. Choosing to ignore them, he cleared his throat to speak.

“Which one of you hired me a hornhead to drive me here? Buckers.” The table went silent, a few smirks appearing. The two guests, however, did not seem to find his language quite as amusing, with the pegasi awkwardly fidgeting and the pony to her side frowning silently.

“So, why are you two here then?” Light finally addressed the guests, or, more specifically, just the earth pony of the two. “Best get this over with, your friend’s already looking like she’s about to run.” He nodded over to the pegasus at last, saying ‘friend’ as if it hurt to get the word out of his throat.

Lucky cleared her throat, Coin gesturing for her to take the stage.

She knew there was a fat chance of getting any help from ponies like them, but the uprising was imminent. More and more ponies were getting ready to rise every day, and with a group that held, regrettably, a good number of loyal and oh-so-militant ponies, differences had to be set aside.

The Worms were not the largest of political organisations in this new Equestria, but they were certainly one that poor changeling management had allowed to flourish. Nationalist, supremacist, and with an awful good amount of explanations on why Equestria had gone through everything it had, it was the perfect group for the dejected and down-trodden.

Partly why their speeches had done so well in pubs.

Particularly, earth ponies loved Stop Light. He was passionate, he was brave, he blamed everycreature with nothing but praises to sing about the earth ponies – he could most certainly incite a crowd. He was everything everypony needed in this post-friendship world.

They had actually amassed quite a following, particularly down closer to Appleloosa and with the veterans. He definitely had his critics, but it hardly mattered. The changeling military governor of the area actually looked at him quite fondly. He kept unicorns and pegasi in check, and as far as the changelings were concerned, he was working well with them. He never seemed to talk ill of the changelings, not in his public speeches anyway, and The Worm himself was quite cordial with military-police across the country, known to be a good help in certain cases.

The truth couldn’t be any further from this, however. He loathed the changelings, just as he loathed the unicorns, and the pegasi, and the nightmare-loving thestrals. However, they were good for him. Rallying after the love harvests had proven to be greatly effective, and their marches had always seemed to ‘coincidentally’ follow wherever the changelings were harvesting. Of course, marching when everypony was the most susceptible to anger certainly came with its fair share of brawls, but The Worms had never shied away from that.

“Well, firstly… we appreciate your hospitality,” She glared at the group, staring daggers at Light in particular. Her voice dropped suddenly, looking around the room. “We ask your help in assisting Equestria. I’ll leave a card as we leave. My name’s Lucky Break, my friend…”

“Coin Toss. Hope to work with you all.” the earth pony nodded, with a practised diplomatic smile.

Stop Light looked across the table, surveying the looks on everypony’s faces. Between them was Proper Gander, a short, snide pony in charge of writing and designing the party’s materials. Roly Poly sat to his left, and Walkie Talkie to the left of her, the former the pony that organised party events and the latter being the pony that ran their paramilitary. All earth ponies, of course.

They had all been quiet since the proposal. Coin Toss had begun eyeing their friend nervously, a little concerned for their well-being. Lucky, on the other hand, looked like she was about to bolt, wings flicking and twitching nervously.

Light was almost content in leaving them in suspense, but Gander clearly thought differently, taking a deep breath and leaning in with a proposition of his own.

“Would you like to see Equestria rule again? That’s what we always said.”

There was a collective nod from the table, causing the two outsiders to give a cautious glance at each other.

“All you have to do is follow the Worms,” continued Walkie. “Still bothered by the name. I’m running what is basically an army, and you’re having me call it The Worms.”

“It’s not an army, Walkie.” corrected Roly.

“Regardless. They’re well-organised, well-dressed, well-disciplined, and you’re having me call them Worms? It’s unbecoming, frankly.”

“You’re starting to sound like a unicorn, Walkie.” smirked Light, who finished his stein of cider in almost record time. “Better temper that ego.” He gave a few taps to his temple.

It was a joke, but it was hard to tell what was a joke around Light. He had this strange, condescending air to him that made discerning sarcasm difficult. It gave Lucky a strange feeling; it was half-joke, half-threat. Was this really how far down the E.L.F were stooping?

“Well,” she continued, seeing it as her time to speak. “To get things back on track...” she eyed around the room. The changelings were leaving, which was always good. Still, with the amount of collaborators they’d cumulated over their years-long occupation, it was always wise to lower your tone either way. “We have cells all over the East, and we’re reaching out westwards. Glimmer calls it an all-ponies front now. Regardless of your politics, we need you to stand with us, if not for the good of everyone, for the good of your home.”

“Cut the harmonist, do-goody-good bullshit, please.”

That was certainly not half-joke. Light looked bored, and especially annoyed he didn’t have another drink in his hooves. He was not the sort of pony you wanted bored – he seemed almost itching for a fight. He was not a big pony; he was tall, his back legs touched the floor from his stool where nopony else’s did, but he was scrawny and looked slightly gaunt. However, the difference came in the fact he had no concern of the honorability of letting somepony else fight in his place.

“We’re not trying to push politics here, I apologise if that was the impres-” Coin spoke, but was promptly cut off by Light with a hoof to the table, clearly needing no more apology.

“Look, you don’t like us. Your... faction, if you want to call it that, fears our policy, but you still need us, much like how the princesses needed those Marksist freaks in Severyana. I get it, uneasy alliance. However, I love this nation much more than you do, frankly. I will assist any cause to liberate it - however, I need guarantees, especially working with... unicorns.”

The rest of the Worms nodded, murmurs of agreement flying and glasses shifting along the table.

“I don’t want to meet Trixie, or Starlight, mind you. Both are fiends of their own, I have no love for them or anypony that supports them. I need guarantees, however, that my group will be given political protections and will not receive an attempt to snuff us out as soon as one of your stuck up mages parks their flank in Canterlot.” Light spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster, readjusting his ‘party uniform’ (no more than a matching colour scheme of jacket, shirt and pants) to make himself seem more nonchalant. “I know your kind. We’ve had enough magocracies.”

A threat. The atmosphere of the table turned icy. Light had this nasty glare on his face, but never directed it towards the earth pony of the two.

“Very well.” Coin nodded to her rebel pal. “We’ll certainly bring up what you’re asking for.”

“No, dear,” Light shook his head after the uncomfortable comment, staring daggers at the two. “I need a guarantee. I will not be stopped just for the mistake of showing a kindness. We will assist, as a separate entity. We will have our own command, we will have our own forces, we will not be forced to bend to the will of a unicorn.”

He leaned past Gander, who shifted uncomfortably, even for a member of his standing and views. He made sure the two were looking into his eyes. Gander winced, but never tried to stop him. He knew well enough that Light didn't back down when he started with this – he was far too proud.

“Unicorns will not rule me. Not after the changelings. I am my own pony, I control fate now. This is my time. This is MY time.” He slammed his hoof down on the table. “I will not return to another foul order, never another thousand years of humiliation. I will rip apart the foundations of every system they’ve laid down.”

He was practically frothing at the mouth with rage. Lucky leaned back, wings fluttering as they prepared a dash whilst Coin eyed her, a little betrayed by their willingness to abandon him if things got mean.

“They adore me. They ADORE me out there. Do you hear me? They ADORE me.” the leader repeated. “Bucking CHARIOT PONY. CHARIOT PONY AND A SYMPATHISER THAT BENDS THE KNEE TO ANY FREAK PLAYING MAGICIAN!” Spit was actually flying from his mouth as he spoke.

“Sir, please.” Gander tried calming him, without results. Gander could only press his hooves to his face and pretend he wasn’t there.

“Sir! Not now!” Roly joined.

“What’s the matter with you, sunshine?” He raised an accusatory hoof at their winged guest, who was currently preoccupied shifting in her place. “Failed to become an athlete? Couldn’t complete the winged sprint quick enough to become a wonder bolt?!”

Talkie stood up. He was a tall stallion, physically imposing. He was the pony responsible for orchestrating most of the ‘accidental’ beatings that occurred at any of their marches. He simply walked calmly over to Light and sat him down with a quiet “hmph”.

Light was silent, grabbing a napkin and wiping his mouth. The rest of the Worms were silent, Gander quietly in disappointment at the fact Light would listen to Talkie but not him.

The two sat very uncomfortably. Lucky actually looked quite hurt by the outburst, swallowing hard and looking down at their glass. Their friend looked to them with a reassuring nod, a quiet sort of ‘don’t listen’.

The bar was silent, even the other tables were looking now. There was only the dull buzz of the lamps that illuminated the building dimly. It felt as if there was a lump in the leader’s throat. He straightened his jacket and collar, silently steadying his breath.

“My apologies.” he finally murmured. “It appears that I got rather carried away.”

Gander looked across the room, almost embarrassed if it weren’t for the unnerving frequency that his superior exploded like this. Usually, it was quite useful. Folks in this age loved a passionate orator, and he could really whip a crowd into a frenzy, but in times like this? He doubted the E.L.F would even consider helping them any more. Worse still, he worried they’d actually be against them, and that was the nightmare scenario. He felt himself shrinking in his seat. Hay, how he just wished he was back at the headquarters with his typewriter.

“We apologise. We’re quite a passionate group, for a passionate time.” Gander had automatically moved to damage-control, which was becoming alarmingly regular. “We’re still looking to be very cooperative with your group. If anything comes up, you have our forces. Still, if you would, please look into formalising the requirements we’ve set. I hope it causes you no trouble.” Gander smiled genuinely and nodded to the two, defusing the situation fairly effectively.

“Riiight.” Lucky frowned, still quite hurt. She tapped her companion on the shoulder, prompting the other to pass a card over. Her wings had stopped twitching now.

“Well. We’ll be in contact. Mutual friends will… uhm…” The rebel searched for the right word, tapping her hoof against the table in concentration, not trying to overstep wherever she could. “In touch. They’ll give you ord-”

“Requests.” Lucky interjected suddenly, already frightened enough without this pony agitating them further.

“Right, yes. Requests. Sorry.”

“You should be.” Light replied, getting a gentle kick from Talkie under the table. “Anyway, I think that about concludes this.” Light smiled warmly, and offered his hoof to the two. The two hesitantly gave in and shook it, sealing… whatever deal they had made, it was beyond them, but any excuse to get out of this situation was decent enough.

“Yep, off you go. On your bikes.” Light shooed them out with a snarky grin and turned back to the rest of his table, clearly satisfied enough with how much grief he had given them. “Bunch of fucking hornheads is what they are. One of them was a damn earth pony too. What a crying shame.”

Roly and Gander were silent, more reflecting on the disaster of a meeting that they’d hosted. Talkie, however, was nodding solemnly.

“Terrible, really. They’ve forgotten where they came from. That’s the fate of all Manehattan urbanites, I’m afraid.” Despite his position and appearance, the paramilitary leader had a surprisingly eloquent accent.

“And that state the Protectress leads! Dreadful!” Gander joined suddenly, lavishing any opportunity to truly express his distaste for the eastern protectorate.

“Not only that,” Talkie continued. “The class of people over there. It’s astonishing. They’re all communists out there. It’s no surprise that they’re all like that, it’s more unicorn than pony over there, what did you always say about communism, Light?”

“Oh, I always said it was a damn unicorn ideology. Pure and simple, really. The lot of them, they all hate work. Damn unicorns. Never worked a bucking day in their lives. Not one of them, that is. It’s a degenerate ideology for them and them alone, and it damn-well fits. No work? Equal pay? Oh, I’m sure they’d all bucking love that, whilst sending us down to the mines so they can afford to prance around their pretty little… modern bloody…”

“Oh yes, it’s all very clear, they simply hate working for anything more than themselves-”

“DON’T FUCKING CUT ME OFF! Pegasympathiser! I saw the way you looked at those two! Don’t you start parroting me!”

“Light, Light, I wasn’t, I meant no offense, you know that’s not true…” Gander held his hooves up, keeping them close to his chest. Talkie seemed almost amused.

“...hmph. Well, anyway, they're bloody worker’s-rights-paradise-no-work-factories, where they get pampered at every corner, and we’re covered in coal dust with lungs full of poison. You know damn well they’ll then come up with their own little magic spell to move a bag of dirt and pretend they’re the hard-working heroes. No good, communist, backstabbing unicorns."

Gander sat back straight, staring longingly into the bottom of his glass. It was a rough day. Light, despite everything, had his absolute adoration, and it crushed him to be so jarringly reminded of his flaws. He had lived a fairly quiet life of normalcy before finding the orator speaking at a bar he frequented, and ever since that it felt like his life had been entirely uprooted, and he was confused if it was in a good way or otherwise. It had been much more satisfying than his prior job as a typist, but he had this lingering feeling that he was just far too impressionable in his beliefs. But no, he had kept his devotion to Stop Light’s Worms; even when his friends left him in disgust after realising he was part of a supremacist group; even when his coltfriend had told him he couldn’t stand his new slogans. All this had to have meant something!

And so he stayed. Rubbing his cheeks, reeling from a telling off for the stallion he had halted his old life to follow, promising himself that dawn will come one day, and Light would be the pony he had convinced himself so fervently to be. Those doubts were being pushed from his head, replaced by the usual nationalistic awe of their soon-to-be ‘great leader’.

Sometimes he wished he could be like Talkie, and just not have to worry about such issues. Talkie was a thug before, and a thug afterwards. He had unquestionable loyalty, not that any in the party’s leadership harboured hopes that there were any questions flying through that mind to begin with. He was more of the party’s dragon than anything else – a face to give those who resented the party, or the idealist troop they gathered to fill his ranks. He was without a doubt a genius in many regards, but he was just so very… vapid, the sort of pony that could be convinced one plus one is three if you said it with enough charisma.

The table’s silence was interrupted by the clunking of glasses against the table, a signal the next round was here. Finally, Gander thought, he would have something to do with his hooves.

Author's Note

yayayay first chapter i am so joyous

2 – Lit Cigarettes

March 19th, 1023.

“No, I prefer transparency,” spoke the stallion. Gander was sat beside him, typing away any slogans Light had put out for his next piece of party propaganda they’d surely plaster all over the streets of Bales. “I’m not one of those republican goons over in Griffonia, it’d be boring and unoriginal to say we support harmony, and a minimum wage, and kindness for all, and whatever other political slogans they regurgitate for followers. I want my members to know what they’re getting into, rather than setting up some excuse to call an emergency and declare myself the Marshal-Director of Equestria, or whatever. I need loyal subjects, not flip-floppy socialists that half-heartedly agree with my policies out of convenience.”

Gander nodded, considering all this. Light took another drag of his cigarette, adding to the stench of the already smoke-filled room. He wandered in and out of the balcony, taking more puffs inside than out, much to the frustration of his colleague.

They were on the fifth floor of the apartment building that since became the party headquarters. The changelings had sold it them for cheap, and since then they’d been working towards making it somewhat habitable.

Near ten years of abandonment following the Great War hadn’t done it any good. It smelled vaguely of mold, the wallpaper peeled at the tips, and they couldn’t get the boiler to turn off, leaving the building this consistent stuffy temperature that meant windows had to be left over and bills had to be obnoxiously high. Light had very little concern for the aesthetic of the room, nor the potential health consequences — his head swam with new plans, new speeches, new audiences to convert to the only truth.

“Transparency is the goal. I want to let them now that they’ll be cutting grass with scissors if the great leader decides it, and they’ll do it with a smile on their face, you know?” Light grinned, gesturing grandly at the ceiling and flicking the glowing cigarette butt onto the floor. “Besides, that factory owner will love that. Loyalty, and all that. Throw in a few words at dinner, or something.”

“Great leader? Ugly couple of words.” Gander sighed, keys still clacking at the typewriter. “Listen, Light, I love your work, but this is no way to get new supporters. We need to ease them in a bit more. Play to their fears. We want them to know we’re their only help against the communists that’ll, well… I don’t know, hang them in the streets, or the unicorns that’ll send them to the pits.”

“I am doing that, Gander.” He groaned, staring at the ceiling and already fumbling through his pockets for another cigarette, chasing that little buzz. He had long since gotten too high a tolerance to the stuff to get another nicotine rush.

“Light.” He pleaded. “I’m just trying to make you look better. Maybe when you’re ‘great leader’, we can start saying all these things, but we’re still consolidating power here-“

“Is that sarcasm, Gander?” He took his first lungful of smoke after fiddling with the lighter for some time, exhaling right in his face. The humour was lost on Gander.

“I’m asthmatic, Light.” He asserted, sternly.

“I’m strengthening your lungs, that’s all mental. Can’t be saying you have asthma next time you meet up with that damnable pegasus boy again.” He giggled at his own joke.

“Stop bringing that up. He was lovely, he was hard-working, and he was different. There’s just no need.” And with this, the two were silent. One continued their obnoxious smoke break, the other typed away at the keys.

With almost every passing day, it felt like Gander’s resolve was being tested, like Light was probing him for weakness. Sometimes he got into a panic thinking Light had noticed his doubts, but in the end, he was good enough at convincing himself that he trusted him with the world.

His thoughts strayed back to his ex. It was a rare topic in his mind these days, a lingering, back-of-the-mind thought that occasionally floated up from the depths, with great disappointment in himself for it. He loved that pegasus son-of-a-bitch, and it stood in his brain as a last bastion of doubt, a creeping regret for the supremacist ideology he had since so lovingly adopted. He slid the carriage of the typewriter back, staring at his work so far.

Absolute rubbish.

Drivel. Pure and simple. Bastardised slogans, conflicting policies. It was like a parody of Beakolini’s fascism. This was it. This was what he left his boyfriend for. This was what he left behind his life for. He looked up at Light, sat on the table next to him.

“…do you know what happens when unicorns and their cronies rule, Gander? The Dread League happens, that’s what. That’s unicorn rule. And it’ll only be years before Trixie and her weird friend starts that too.”

Gander squinted, almost in shock of the mention at the mention of the infamous state. He couldn’t help but laugh a little. The doubts subsided for now. The clacking of keys continued, that was a damn good talking point. He could most certainly use that.

“That’s what I like to hear!” Light smirked, quite impressed with his own ability to generate wildly racist statements, if he did say so himself. “The sound of hard work. This is why us ponies get so much more done than the unicorns, and the pegasi. No wonder they’ve always used us.”

Gander nodded in agreement, a smile creeping along his face. This was usable, this was very usable. There were more than enough scared ponies out there that needed a hand through these dark times. They were all too eager to fill those shoes, and a lot of ponies were just as eager to let them. Since their love harvest rallies, a stroke of his own genius, party membership had soared. They’d even gotten a good number of pegasi for Talkie’s forces. He was sure he’d even get a few unicorns too, had Light not gone to the effort of personally denying the membership requests of every single unicorn that mailed it in.

A thought came to him, somewhat randomly amidst his frenzied writing. “Light? Do you remember that rally we did in… oh, where was it… probably here, actually. With the-“

“I’ve done a lot of rallies in Bales,” Light interrupted, breathing out another puff of the grey smoke this room was so very familiar with. “Which one?”

“I can’t remember specifics. It was a few years back now? When we first started doing the love rallies. There was a unicorn in the audience.”

Something almost glistened in Light’s eye as the memory came back, and he started clapping.

“Oh hay! I do remember!” He burst out laughing. “Oh, oh dear, oh dear me…”

Gander couldn’t help but chuckle as well. Seeing Light laugh outside of being drunk to a stupor was increasingly uncommon. He couldn’t help but well with pride. “Yeah, and you went and pointed and screamed ‘WHO LET THIS HORNHEAD INTO THE ROOM?!’”

“Oh, oh dear! The look on their face when the guards came up to him! I think he tried to cast a spell or something!” Light had a surprisingly bright laugh, something belonging to a much happier time. He was wiping tears from his eyes, almost on the floor, slamming his fist against the table.

The memory was fond to him, despite how… ever-so-slightly malevolent as it would be to the average pony. This was just the new reality of the world, after all. Cruelty was just a pony showing a back bone these days.

Gander covered his mouth, grinning ear to ear in amusement. He had seen the whole situation go down from his seat, and it had been a glorious celebration of their violent inhospitality for the unicorns. Justice, in some strange, twisted sense. Though, he wasn’t sure of the fate of the unicorn afterwards. He had, unfortunately, seen very little of it from his cushioned box to the side of the rally. The unicorn had disappeared into a frenzy of flying hooves and hurled jeers.

Gander looked to Light, seemingly in sudden concentration. Words entered his mouth, but never left them. He looked back at the typewriter.

The time isn’t right. Not now, not yet.

But when would it be right? What even was right? He felt strange around Light. Vaguely uncomfortable, extremely belittled before him, but his admiration for his boss was overwhelming. He always had a strange look about him, the type Gander recognised as one of a pony needing to be saved. It took him longer than he would’ve liked to draw his eyes away, stowing that thought away into another tiny box in the vast compartments of his mind.

Suddenly, the work seemed much more bland. He just wanted to go out now. It had been... how long? Six hours of Light talking his ears off? Not that he cared much, but a pony still had to eat, and the longer this continued, the smaller and smaller that sandwich he had for lunch was feeling.

“I’d love for it to happen again. When’s our next rally?” Light giggled, tapping his hooves against the floor giddily.

“Uhm... wow, I don’t know for sure. Ask Roly. From what she’s told me, I’m pretty sure they ran into a lot of trouble getting new venues. I think she’s working on ratting out some owner of a stadium to the changelings because they wouldn’t let her in. Not sure, again, ask her.”

“Thought you two didn’t talk?” He perked his ears up. He was always one for drama.

“Damn it, Light, you don't have to kick your hooves like that." He rolled his eyes, taking the time to check his watch. He supposed he could waste a few more minutes.

"We don’t,” Gander affirmed. “I hate her guts. I just take work more seriously than any relations. Regardless of my… personal thoughts, she’s a very useful party member. I won’t go into it any further, I’m not one to talk behind a pony’s back.”

Nopony irritated Gander more than Roly Poly. She was a stuck up, obnoxious socialite that took the word ‘party’ more literally than figuratively, mingling with high society more than she did any of her actual jobs.

But, he had to admit, Roly was the only one like him in the party. She had been a catering planner before, planning little local events like weddings or street celebrations (often in celebration of the changelings, a fact she had only brought up to him in a drunken haze), and had found the new world of politics so fascinating and vicious. She fell into the drunken narratives of the Worm, and had left behind a modest life for it, a fact she remembers mostly in melancholic memories on long train journeys. Like him, she had her doubts, but that was not a topic of conversation to bond over. It was a no-go.

She did get work done when she needed to, he supposed. Her incessant need to present at every party had built her quite the network of high-profile individuals that had been quite a boon for the party. Collaborators, industrialists, general businessponies across Equestria. Much to his fury, her general being there at these high society events had likely secured the party more funds than any of the tireless campaigning and slogans Gander had generated. They all found it quite quaint that a fascist was present at their fancy events, and her face alone gave the party a much more refined nature to them.

And that was the way the world worked. Gander could work day and night to propose all the great things the party would do for their wealthy investors, lower labour costs, increase productivity, but at the end of the day, the fascists were still seen by them as the communists of the middle-class. By having a pony up with them, showing them just how fancy the party is, and all the good times it’ll bring... it simply worked better. The ice between them melted.

Maybe that was his next piece of work. Really suck up to the rich, draw them in.

Light cocked his head, giving a knowing, suspicious look -- the sort you gave a pony after asking if they’d taken the last cookie when their mouth is covered in crumbs. “Your job is to talk about ponies behind their back. But, fair enough, I suppose. I mean, I like her. She gets results, and she makes me look very good.” He smiled, fixing his mane in some glam way and offering a cigarette from his pack. "And I like looking good. Go on, have one."

Gander had to stop himself from almost asking how he thought of him. It made his blood boil to hear Light talk about Roly like that.

Who did she think she was? Probably trying her best to curry favour from him right now.

But the jealousy had to be managed. Regardless of Light’s opinions on Roly, he was sure he was higher up on the invaluableness scale. He certainly wasn’t a big smoker, but he supposed this was the best break he was going to get until Light either went to bed or got drunk. He took the protruding cigarette and held it in his hoof, finally getting out of his seat.

“Where are you going?” Light looked at him as if he had just professed his love for unicorns, completely baffled.

“Outside, Light. I’m going to the balcony. I don’t want to smoke next to my work.” He knew there were times when Light preferred his own way to common sense, but he was adamant. He wanted his damn break.

“Bah,” Light waved his hoof dismissively. “Nonsense. But I suppose I could join you, as a favour.” He cocked his head and grinned, standing up from the table he was perched on

“Ever so benevolent of you.” Gander nodded with a slight smile, trotting over to the door.

“Like usual. You shouldn’t be so surprised.” He followed, discarding another cigarette butt along his way, adding to the little trail he’d since painted across the floor in ashy tobacco, creating a surprisingly detailed mosaic of high-traffic areas across the derelict wood flooring.

Maybe, Gander thought, he’d even feel benevolent enough to go as far as to light his cigarette for him.

The stars sparkled dimly over the light-polluted city, the moon bathing the line of stone brick houses in a pale glow. Tobacco was not Gander’s favourite smell, but it was one he had gotten much more comfortable with, especially with the lit one in his hoof and the increasing amount of time he spent with Light. The faint nicotine buzz was actually fairly pleasant in the spring air, it wasn’t bringing the usual headache that came with smoking for him.

“You reckon Luna’s still out there?” Gander turned to his friend, who was sitting in a little deck chair. He, however, was far more content in leaning against the railing at the city below.

Bales was not a terrifyingly modern city with rising skyscrapers, like Manehattan. Nor was it deeply traditional, with pointy-spired castles like Canterlot. It was a quaint little industrial middle-ground. In most ways, the city was shaped by industry. Stone brick homes lined streets made for carriages. There was a grand train station that buzzed with activity even at the later hours, bringing changeling soldiers in and out where once it brought iron and textiles. If it weren’t for the electronic light and assorted marvels of a modern world, it would be safe to assume it was a tenth century city.

“Honestly? Couldn’t care less if her or her sister was out there.” Light shrugged, standing up and leaning on a bit of railing nearby. “They’re not returning after all this. Their world has ended. It’s our time now.”

Gander nodded, holding the cigarette dangling over the edge. He looked over to him, stood by his side. “I can agree with that. I can’t help but feel sorry for them sometimes.”

“You can’t help them being ignorant.” He took another quiet drag. “They’re a symbol for what was, and probably, what was meant to be. But it's not our fault for being realists, Gander. We can’t let ourselves be put down because we’re choosing to see from reality rather than the dreams of ponies fifteen years ago. The world changes.”

“That it does.” Gander took an inhale himself, feeling the smoke bite at his throat. He would’ve coughed if he kept it in any longer, but he couldn’t be doing that in front of Light. “But do you ever dream it would’ve been that way?”

“No.” Light answered bluntly. “And neither should you. It might’ve been nice for a while. But then the next war comes, and the same thing happens over and over again. We can’t pray for war to be over, because for as long as the griffons, or the changelings, or the unicorns, or anyone that doesn't pray with us, what's it worth? Once Equestria rules again, and rules absolutely, then we will never have…” He gestured grandly. “This. We will never have this again.”

“I suppose.” He sniffled, taking a few more drags. “But what about you, Light? I never get to ask about you. Are you happy with what we’ve done?”

This question clearly baffled him, his head lay on top of his hooves on the railing, looking to Gander. He thought about it, and Gander could tell he was seriously thinking about it. Not reciting a slogan, not drawing upon some wealth of supremacist campaigning – just thinking for himself.

“No, Gander. I’m not happy.”

Gander frowned, nodding his head. He understood, of course, but it was still a jolt to hear real honesty from someone so deeply out of touch with his own wellbeing. “How come?”

“I don’t know. Because I’m mad. And I will be until everything’s right. I don’t think I can be content. When I’m content, it’s all over, and it’s not over, not yet.”

“Oh, Light.” He shook his head, tossing his cigarette over the balcony. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy along the way. You need to let yourself have those moments. It’s the only thing we’re living for.”

Light responded by offering him a new one silently. He placed it between his lips, and Light shielded it from the wind with his hoof, bringing a flame to the end until it glowed a dim amber. There were no more words exchanged, just the quiet puffing of black smoke over the dark horizon. Gander allowed himself a suppressed smile.

Such a gentle gesture, from someone so vehemently reckless.

3 – High Society, Low Ponies

March 28th, 1023.

Fine dining was something to be appreciated, in Roly Poly’s eyes. It was a show of elegance, a good place to meet good, respectable ponies. It was hardly the nobility that she had known from times spent amongst the unicorns in Canterlot when she was a filly, but there were some very high profile individuals present, something she took quite a lot of pride in, having organised the whole event.

It had been an extension of the Party’s gratitude, more a fancy “be there or be square” for the rich and powerful — other than unicorns, of course. Collaborators mingled with businessponies and party officials, and in the centre was always Roly Poly, in her beautiful flowing dress. She had to admit, she was enjoying the high life. It was so disconnected from the normal mundaneness of the average pony, or even elements of her own party. She loved the charm of handsome aristocrats, and the-

Eugh.

A figure dashed Roly’s daydream. With brown uniform pants, and a terribly out-of-place blue necktie, it was most certainly him.

Gander. Buck.

She almost tried to hide her head, to fade into the crowd. Unfortunately, her decadent blue dress was working against her. Along came the Party’s very own ghost-writer.

“Poly.” It almost made her cringe reflexively. He knew she hated when he called her her second name. “I’m glad you could finally go to the effort of inviting me.” He said, a slight dagger in his tone.

“Likewise, I’m glad you came.” An obvious lie. “Though you know why I don’t invite you frequently, Gander, let’s not be unreasonable.”

“Oh? I do?” He snickered. “First I’m hearing of this.”

“Gander…” Her eyes darted around the room, scanning for anypony watching them. Other than the brief flirtatious glances she got from the young and trust-fund-equipped, they were in the clear. She stood up, fixed her posture, and took her wine glass with her, smiling at any that looked to her. She gestured to a pony across the room, about late-twenties, give or take, and dressed in a dazzling black suit and the pin of a collaborator, moving her hoof in a way that’d indicate she was just going to be a moment. She hurried off, and Gander was left awkwardly following, completely oblivious to ballroom custom.

She stopped in a corner, out of the way and behind a grandiose marble pillar.

“Listen, Gander. I never meant any offence to you. I know your standing on these parties, and… well, me, but-” She sighed exasperatedly. “You’re not proper. Not proper enough for these ponies, anyway. I am. I’m not trying to,” She waved a hoof around for effect. “Run you out of a job, or steal favour from you. This is just a delicate operation. These ponies are jumpy, they are snarky, and they have no care for anything other than excess and decadence.”

Gander was realising why she brought him away from the party now. He nodded his head, still not fully convinced. “Right.”

“Right? Gander, I’m being civil with you. You’re here, and that’s good. They need a reminder of who’s running these parties and why. That’s been my job so far, and I do a damn good job of it, if I do say so myself. But, simply put, I can’t allow you and, uhm,” She cleared her throat, weighing in her head whether or not she should continue, “Respectfully, Light neither, to run around these parties screaming buzzwords and how the communists are ‘really going to kill you’.”

Gander grimaced a little, remembering one of their first more formal parties. Light had talked the bartender into giving him ‘a little more’ than what was typically allocated for an hour’s worth of drink. The result was a wine-sodden shirt, and a rant at the podium about the dynamics between unicorns and Marksism. Not the perfect night.

“You see,” Roly continued, “These ponies are quite delicate. They don’t like the shouting and the jeers that your typical followers love. These are investors, our real source of income. Party donations are crumbs compared to the money these ponies have behind them. So, we have to appease. And I know full well you, Light and Talkie are not ones to appease.”

“Well…” Gander shuffled uncomfortably. “If they’re delicate, as you say, they have no place in the party.” His voice was full of feigned confidence, but it slowly tapered off towards the end, half due to Roly’s unamused look and half due to the fact he caught himself being Light’s mouthpiece.

Roly peered out to the crowd behind the pillar, observing the party-goers and their, in Gander’s opinion, strange mannerisms. She looked back at him, her face changing from one of polite amusement to stone-hearted seriousness. “Gander. Wash your face. Then your hands. Then fix your tie and your shoelaces. Your collar isn’t right at the back, and your jacket’s a mess. Celestia’s sake, Gander, I don’t need to be mothering you. And your breath stinks – fix it. I have deals I need to make.” She placed a mint in his hoof.

And with that, her face was back to its usual cheery disposition. She trotted back to her table, as if nothing had happened. Gander was left absolutely stunned, smelling his breath with a hoof over his mouth and popping the mint in before going to the bathroom to do as instructed.

Standing by the mirror of the fanciest bathroom he had ever seen, Gander got to work fixing just about everything told, and, despite the scrupulous care put into his outfit, everything she had listed needed fixing. Perhaps not all too obvious, but incorrect regardless, the exact sort of thing ponies of this class would notice and laugh behind their backs at.

What miserable ponies. Haven’t they anything better to do?

With a final comb of his hair, and the miraculous avoidance of any other ponies in his almost ten minute makeover, he set out to return, now full of a new anxiety he didn’t know he had until ten seconds prior.

He sat down beside Roly, who had quickly become the only bastion of familiarity in the room. The rest were all alien to him. Different ponies, wildly different backgrounds to him, different class, different tone of voice, different culture. He didn't even know how to talk to them. He was out of his depth. Or, at least, he felt like he was.

A voice brought him back to present. "Gaaander. This is my friend, Red Gemstone. Red Gemstone, this is Proper Gander." Roly had returned with another smarmy, stuck-up looking businesspony. The businesspony, now labelled in his head as Red Gemstone, gave this strange, slightly off-putting grin that you could just tell was forced.

"I've heard a lot of good things about you, Mr. Gander!" Gemstone beamed, sticking his hoof out. For a long second, Gander felt his brain working overtime at what the gesture meant, before he finally clocked it and shook the businesspony's hoof.

"Ah, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gemstone." He nodded courteously. "I've always got time for our Party's most wonderful benefactors. What brings you here, hey?"

Roly flashed a genuine smile for a moment. The two were actually talking, and Gander was actually being fairly respectful.

"Well I wouldn't miss an event like this for the world, thanks to our lovely host." He nodded to Roly, who placed a hoof over her chest in a brief 'I'm flattered.' "I attend all these events. I'm a big fan of the Party and what it's promising, as I always did say to Roly here. I'm looking to work with you, you see. I can get you quite a significant backing, I have good ties to industry. And a proper headquarters for your police, eh?"

Gander smiled graciously. He wouldn't mind a better headquarters for himself, too. Of course, the pegasus in front of him was the scum of Equestria, willing to backstab whoever it took to come out on top. But he could notice his air of superiority. He noticed the way he seemed so eager to join, like he thought he could keep them on a leash if he did get his way.

Oh, how he would not let him get his way. The ideas in his head almost made him salivate with power. When they were in charge, especially with how Light was talking, some winged aristocrat would be nowhere near on the same grounds to try to negotiate with him.

Thoughts were put aside, nodding his head and shrugging his shoulders. "That would be grand." He smiled warmly. "Any help for our police is another step to make Equestria a better place, for all of us." He put a particular strain on us, gesturing to the three of them, unsure whether or not to add a wink for effect. No, that'd be too much.

Roly winced. There was no need to highlight the obvious part. Gemstone, however, kept in his charade, laughing slightly. "All the ponies of Equestria, of course." He corrected. "I think you're doing a real good for the common pony. Anypony ensuring the proper etiquette of teaching what a mistake Marksism is to the common is a force worth celebration in my eyes. They do need to be nudged right."

Gander couldn't help but feel his blood boil. He knew this was the sort of pony he had to deal with, but something within him really hadn't let the comment sit right with him.

It wasn't to do with his own views, of course – it was core party dogma. This wasn't the way they treated ponies, they cared for the good of all. They weren't tools. They weren't. Or so he justified in his own mind.

This wasn't the belief he adopted.

But the smile didn't falter. Just another polite nod in this ultra-wealthy song-and-dance. "Yes. It's terrible how unicorn beliefs still infiltrate the minds of so many. We're doing our part guiding them away from its allure."

"Me personally?" Gemstone chimed. "I don't even understand the allure. It promises... what, no work?" He laughed. Roly joined. "See, that's the rot of it all. Work is what gives ponies spirit. Nothing lifts the soul like it. Of all the medications in the world, there's nothing like work."

"Oh, absolutely." Roly added. "Working hard has gotten me through so many rough spots in life. Marksism truly is the poison of the working class."

"Couldn't have put it better." Gander waved his hoof. "That's what it's all about really. Guiding the misguided out of horrible ideologies like that. Things that'll only harm them."

"As you should. Ponies like that, ah... they have to be pushed in the right direction. It's not their fault for buying into it, they were just indoctrinated into some false beliefs."

Every word from the pegasus's mouth made him feel more and more queasy. This was not right. He was on the good side. He considered excusing himself from the conversation, but he knew he had to stick around.

It's alright. It's okay. It's just one deal with the devil.

"Of course." Gander managed to get out. He was well and truly panicking now, and he had no idea why. The stares from across the room, whether accidental or otherwise, were something he was so acutely aware of now.

He didn't believe his ideology was bad. So why was a pony like this so eager to join? Light would have them shot. Damn pegasi. Probably an agent of subversion – sent to test him.

Roly seemed to notice his discomfort through the way he was moving. She looked to Gemstone, smiling. "Well, we hope to work with you some day!"

"The feeling's mutual. Very excited to be a part of a group really making some history." Gemstone replied, seemingly oblivious. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gander. We'll be in contact, eh?" He stuck out his hoof again, which Gander more swiftly shook this time.

"Of course, of course." He put on his best feigned smile. "Would be wonderful having you a part of this."

Gemstone smiled. "Now, if you don't mind, I've been eying up those hors d'oeuvres for a while now. Give me a shout at any time if you need me."

Roly waved politely. Gander just smiled.

Still grinning, Roly spoke under her breath, through bared teeth. "Gander. With me. Now."

Oh.

Gander downed the rest of his wine, then followed apologetically. They were back behind the pillar.

"What is wrong with you, Gander? What is actually wrong with you?" She unloaded, letting the facade drop. "I ask you to make a deal with a pegasus, right? A pegasus that already wants to join us. And that was the best you could muster?" She threw her front hooves into the air. "O-o-o-o-of c-c-co-course..." She stuttered, mockingly.

"I didn't stutter, what are you talking about?" Gander retorted defensively, unsure whether he had stuttered or not.

"I asked you to make a deal with a pegasus. A pegasus that is in the process of already backing us. I did not ask you to convert bucking Celestia to our cause." She leaned in. "I don't like any of these ponies either, Gander, but the simple truth is that you have to put that aside."

"But these aren't party values. These aren't what-"

Roly cut him off with a hoof. "Maybe not. Maybe Light will nationalise all their assets. Maybe he'll just have them all shot. I don't care, I don't bother myself with it. I'm making deals with them regardless, because that money is critical at a time like this. So suck it up and start making deals."

"These ponies are everything outside my morals!" Gander did his best to muster a whispered shout. "We shouldn't be offering them any deals!"

"All these ponies want is cheap unicorn labour." She sounded exasperated. "Scummy? Oh yes, absolutely. But think on the long term. There's going to be a hell of a lot of unicorns when we're in charge, and it's not like many of them work productive careers. Trust me when I say this, Gander, but if the unicorns got their own way, they would have no qualms doing the exact same for us. I didn't expect to have to lecture you on values you yourself typed up."

He frowned, placing his hoof over his face and considering her words. She was right, obviously. The unicorns would have no issues sending him to a mine if they won out. But still, something about it all disturbed him – it wasn't right, deep in his core – he wasn't the executioner. His throat started to tighten. Was this what he was writing about all along? Auctioning ponies off? It couldn't have been.

He had such grand dreams when he joined. Such wonderful ideas for his new perfect Equestria, free of the wrongs of old. Now the doubts were creeping in again, as they did so many times before. Was this the right choice? Was this truly what Equestria wanted, or, more selfishly, what he wanted?

But it was too late. Too late to back out now. Too late to trust any of those doubts. All he could do was double-down.

"You're right, of course. I just got strong... proto-unicorn feelings about that individual."

"Proto-unicorn." She repeated, getting a feel for the phrase. "Oh, I like that word. But of course I'm right. Now are you ready to show your face again? You're not typically one to let Light down." She jived, pointing a hoof into his chest. She knew Gander’s opinions on Light, how he saw him as some being destined for Equestria’s salvation. “I notice the way you look at him. I don't judge, the heart wants what it wants, but really?”

"Shut. Up." He said through clenched teeth.

No, she didn’t know. What a cretin.

"Good. Now that's over with, I don't expect to have to draw you out here again. They'll talk about it if I do." She put her cheery persona back on. "Right then! Do enjoy more of the wine. It's from Strawberry, you'll adore it."

He returned to his table, and, to his relief, his wine glass had been refilled in his absence. He just took a quiet moment to reflect a little.

The guests at his table clearly didn't think the same.

"Oh, I do love how they managed to procure the good stuff, don't you, Smoke?" A mare across to the left from him had been chatting to a pony with a brown coat and a ridiculously gaudy outfit, top-hat and monocle and all. It looked like the 10th century had gifted him over. That being said, he definitely looked as though he'd witnessed the 10th century. Or maybe the whole of it. He couldn't help but listen to what such stereotypical figures spoke about.

The pony, who the seating arrangement had revealed was called Cigar Smoke, laughed. "Ah yes! It's rare to come by these days! Oh, the changelings do tax it so, and even then, with all the stuff in Griffonia? Absolute rubbish! It's tore the industry asunder, I do tell you. That Grover boy, rah." He swirled wine around his cup, letting it aerate. "Absolute menace." He had a voice that could only be described as wealthy.

"Ah, yes. Though, I suppose he has made it easier to have a vacation over there, wouldn't you say?" The mare responded.

"Vacation, Tiara? Over in Griffonia?" He laughed. "Absolute rubbish, lass! Nothing to see over there, nothing but socialism there anymore. That Grover boy. Tainted by the Republicans, I do say. Filled him with damnable lies about how a nation should be run. He's all soft now, won't stand up for the businesses, the real money makers. And their economy has gone flat with it." He took a long sip of wine, judging it mentally. "Yes, no chance you'd catch me dead vacationing there. Hippogriffia was my destination of choice, though I wouldn't recommend it now. Zebrica's gone to tartarus. It's only here that has any beauty anymore."

He raised the wine glass to Gander, who was silently snacking. "And to you, my friend! In making Equestria great!" He toasted. Gander quickly returned the gesture.

"In making Equestria great." He responded with a smile. Oh, it pained him to converse with such out-of-touch ponies. The stallion before him had probably never known hardship in his, by the looks of things, hundred year life.

He just wanted to go home. He wanted to take this damned uniform off and leave this strange performance.

The three shared the toast, Gander speaking up again. "And might I add, a toast to Stop Light."

"Oh, yes! Cheers!" Tiara beamed, taking a sip of her wine. "Oh, delightful. Really delightful. Isn't this all just grand? It's been so rare having a proper party like this since the Ch-"

Smoke cut her off with a nasty glare, visible to even Gander. He almost felt like he should be quiet too.

"Let's not badmouth our wonderful benefactors..." Smoke spoke hushed. "But, Mr. Gander, if I may ask, where is Mr. Light? We do so love his speeches, don't we, Tiara?"

Tiara nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, he's wonderful. It's lovely seeing such a passionate pony speaking what needs to be said. Unicorn rule has gone on long enough!"

"It has, truly. Look at this crowd! When I was but a colt, it was only Canterlot able to put on displays like this. I remember, I always wanted to go to a show. Now I own the theatres around here, and hopefully, with the way the Party for Grand Equestrian Restoration are looking to change things, I hope to run many more!" Smoke laughed, drinking more of his wine. "I must invite you to one of them, Mr. Gander. I'll have my writers make a play in this Party's honour when the time comes."

"Oh, that would wonderful, Mr. Smoke." Gander clasped his hooves together. "But I can't wait for it. We're hoping that time should come quite soon, with the way the winds are blowing. But, to answer your question, Light isn't feeling all that well tonight, I'm afraid."

"Ah, shame about Light. Grand to hear that it'll be soon though, but I must ask," Smoke leaned in. "I've heard... rumours, if you will, that that will involve a lot of, how do you say..." He held his hooves up, looking like he was about to start boxing. "Fisticuffs, if you will. All I ask is that whenever that time comes, you give me notice. I've been looking to have a little vacation with my most exquisite wife, and it'd be terrible if any of that interfered."

Gander smiled, having to stop himself. Coward. Fiend. So many words he could use to describe such a person. He almost wished Walkie Talkie was here. He wished he was more powerful. He wished he could have such a despicable individual lined up against the wall. "Ah, of course. You're well informed! Well, we would hate to start anything, but..." He shrugged. "Sometimes things need to be solved and you can't talk them out. We promise, regardless of whatever happens, your interests will be protected."

All in time. All in time. That was the only thing he felt like he ever thought any more. When was time? When could he finally call the damn shots?!

Roly returned, and with her was Red Gemstone again. She gestured for Gander to come with them. Gander waved to the two ponies, which in turn bid their farewells.

"Gander, I was just having a chat with our lovely benefactor." She grinned. Gander could tell it was genuine. She was onto something. "Would you like to propose it, Gemstone?"

"Ah, of course, Roly." Gander was a bit disturbed with the first-name basis between the two. "Well, I'd love to work with you. But, I have just a tiny request. You see, my workers. Lovely individuals, but they're so easily swayed. They've had these... strange ideas, thinking they know what's good for themselves." He waved his hoof. "I know, I know. Silly. But, I had a team figure it all out, and we've found there's a little Marksist group in the area. Underground, no doubt you've heard of them with your... contacts."

How did he know about that? How much was Roly talking, stars?

"So, I just want you to fix that for me. They've had all these... rabble-rousing ponies come and spread their seditious ideals. I just pray something did fix it. That'd certainly free up my wallet a little." He winked.

Well, at the very least, Talkie would love this. Light too, most likely. Hay, it would earn him a fair bit of favour. He let a proper smile creep across his face.

"Ahh. Well, we can't be having that." Gander nodded, understandingly. "I'll have a few words. See what I can do."

The industrialist before him smiled – despite how in the air it was about whether these smiles were practiced or just some genuinely jolly pony, he could discern that his machinations coming to life clearly brought him some satisfaction. "Wonderful. I'll be in touch. Do tell me the cost of any operations. I'll be sure to throw in a pretty penny."

Well, he'd look forward to hearing about the after-action report from all this, that would certainly be something.

The night stretched on not much longer. Many returned home in the later hours, but by midnight, the two hosts were left, apart from the occasional young dandy that had had one too many off mother's watch, in relative solace, chewing over the things they'd heard and plans they'd made collectively. It was a highly successful night, all in all. It had a good turnout, everypony seemed quite happy, and they'd secured a good amount of funds they could later use. Everything added up, in the end.

"Roly?" Gander slumped in his seat. He'd been there, on edge, anxious as a foal, for the better part of four hours now. It was safe to say he was exhausted.

"Gander?" She replied, waiting for his question. She seemed a lot more put together, a fact which Gander envied somewhat. Six hours of managing what was, for him, the worst of the worst was no easy task. He had a newfound respect for her.

"I think I understand why you don't invite the rest of us now."

"I could tell." She replied, plainly. She was never a big drinker at events like this, which was surprising considering she out-drank even Walkie, who had almost half-a-foot on her – half-a-foot more pony the alcohol had to run through. Still, she enjoyed the occasional glass. Now, however? She was practically taking anything half-drank and downing it herself.

"You're not a bad speaker, Gander. You dealt with Red quite well."

"Hold on, hold on." Gander cut her off, now more than a few glasses in himself. "The first names. How come you keep using his first name? How come he keeps using your first name?"

"We've known each other a while, Gander." She snorted. "And if you're inferring what I think you are; firstly, gross; secondly, no I have not."

"That's not what I was inferring, but thank you for getting it out of the way." He leaned back. "This wine is damn good."

"It's not from Strawberry. I lied. Griffonian wine is shocking. That's why everyone enjoyed it."

"It's not? But you were telling everyone-"

"Strawberry has more prestige to it. Besides, nopony knows the difference, despite what they may say. This is just... a particularly fine Strawberry wine."

"So where's it actually from? Wingbardy?"

"Prance?" She shrugged. "I don't know. Nor care. I just thought it tasted better myself. It's somewhere in Equestria."

Gander actually laughed, just about the first genuine laugh of a whole night of faking them. "Why the hay would you lie about that, you dunce?"

"Well, it's more prestige, isn't it?" She slouched back herself, finishing another collected glass and setting it aside to the amounting hill of glasses on their table they'd had collectively.

"I guess." He held a glass in his hooves, holding it to his eye and looking through it. "I just don't get what the point was. We can afford the actual thing."

"Forty bottles at a hundred bits per bottle? Four thousand bits on wine, Gander? We're not made of money." She exclaimed, hiccuping with how fast she had spoken. "What are you gonna do, sick Light on me?" She made an exaggerated frown, leaning over the table at him.

"Stop it, Roly." He smiled slightly. "The way you talk about him with me makes it sound like we're a married couple."

She smirked, finding her opportunity to jab at him again. "Is that not what you want?"

"Stars, Roly, no. I just admire him. That's all." He crossed his hooves. Maybe? He wasn't sure. Never thought about it very deeply. But that moment on the balcony had to mean something.

"Right." She said, already pouring herself the last of another bottle. "Admire him you certainly do."

The hangover would not be forgiving in the morning.

5 – Roll The Sound Effects...

April 8th, 1023

A day had passed since his march. As far as he was concerned, it was successful. He'd stirred up fights, he'd gathered new supporters. His speech outside of the town hall had been absolutely tremendous, if he had to commend his own work. Yes, as he saw it, there was nopony out there like him.

He took another sip of cider. His stomach hurt. He didn't really remember which drink he was on. It was somewhere from number four to number seven. What's it worth, anyway? Anything to clog the dam of comprehensible thought.

As soon as he drank, his fears melted away. The doubts subsided, just for that brief, blissful handful of hours. All those whatting voices, always questioning him, faded into air. He was, for a time, truly confident. And that made him feel absolutely omnipotent.

Questions. Why did they always question him? Why couldn't they just let him do what was right? But nopony trusted him. He'd always been trodden all over. There was another sip, lazing about his sofa, staring at nothing. He had told himself he'd write this evening; he'd been meaning to write for some time. But seven o'clock came, and so did the drinks.

Alcohol induced a warm sense of confusion within him. The bottle wasn't his crutch, per se. He could quit whenever he wanted – for sure. A cigarette hung limply within his ashtray, and he couldn't help but watch it burn. He was sure there was a clever metaphor within that somewhere, something he could really show Gander, something that’d make him admire him, but at this point, he wasn't one to care.

He was the tortured artist of the time. The misunderstood. The dregs of society. And yet he had gotten so far, and there was damn well credit due for that. It wasn't that attention-crazed Gander, or that maniac Talkie. It was him. It was all about him.

But self-reflection wasn't one of his strengths. From his perspective, everything the worms had done was orchestrated as part of this grand plan he had, one that would flourish and reveal itself in time. The plan wasn’t anything written, nor anything so much as in his head. The plan simply revealed itself to him from time to time; fragments of almost prophetic wisdom awakening in his head whenever the gears slowly clicked into place.

Thus was the grand dream of the Worm themself. Any criticism of him wouldn’t be listened to, any praise would echo through his head. Nopony was like him – he reiterated. It was him and him alone that would carry Equestria out of the dark and bring it into the sun. It would be him that would carry out his divine retribution for all the wrongs inflicted unto him, for he was the only one that could save everypony.

And everything done unto him, he would repay in kind. All the cruelty he had known, all the running he had to do. There, one sunny day, he would be triumphant, and he would be content. And all of the darkness, all of the misery he knew would simply disappear. Like a phantom being avenged, and returning to the incorporeal.

He’d heard nothing from the others today. Typical. Backstabbing bucking proto-unicorns, the lot of them. Except Gander. Gander was quite tolerable, to him anyway. He wasn’t sure why, completely. As much as he loved stirring drama and keeping everypony on their hooves, he couldn’t play favourites with them all. That being said, Gander was, by a long shot, his favourite. He was a miserable pony by most regards. Slimy, wiry, willing to do whatever to slip to the top unnoticed, but in a strange way – a way he’d much rather not put much thought to – Gander reminded him of himself.

And there was a sort of subconscious pity he felt within him. A strange need to elevate the pony, to save him from the wrongs he himself had known in life.

Regardless. The half burnt cigarette was picked up, without any grace or dexterity. Miserable. Alone. Sprawled out on a sofa, drunken out his mind, staring lifelessly at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He was a mess, but Light could never notice that. Light was never one to have the capacity to look within himself even that little.

And so he just waited, like he did every other night. Waiting for something. Waiting for the day he would finally allow himself to step out the pit of misery he was so adamant in lying in. Nopony could reach him now.

But, in a sense, he was happy. Not content – not anywhere near it. But, happy. He was happy it was finally seemingly working out in his favour, that the ball was finally rolling the way that he wanted it to. He had control. He had a voice, and he had admiration, and he had the power to call shots – the power to do unto others as they had done unto him. It was one of his turns now, and like a sick game of snooker, he’d do everything in his power to make sure it stayed his turn.

And there was no remorse. Not one morsel of it in his mind. It’d long since been blocked off, long since replaced with the ever-lingering belief that everypony was out to do wrong to him. And if they wanted to do wrong to him, clearly they wanted to do wrong to everypony else. Clearly, the problem was never him.

Another sip. He could almost feel himself sobering up for a second.

The cold embrace of reality was not something he could meet yet. Not yet. He still had time.

He stumbled up, gripping onto the edge of the sofa, his vision a slow blur of shapes and colours at the rate he’d been drinking. He almost kicked over the bottle of little blue pills he’d left on the floor.

Speeches would come so easily right now.

Thoughts flittered about his head, none of which he could catch. Wincing as the electric light flickered on, he managed a swift glance at the clock hanging over his wall.

3:19. Had it really been that long? His brow furrowed, his face scrunching up as he made the long walk to the bathroom mirror. Two hooves were placed either side of the sink, hanging on to it for dear life, his one shred of stability when his head span like this.

Even with all the substances coursing through his bloodstream, the inevitable couldn’t be kept down. Oh, he’d tried to suppress it. He’d done near everything in his power to stop thinking about it, but the black cloak of sorrow lingered still.

A darkness looming over him.

He turned the tap, giving his face – and most of his collar – a splash of cold water. That familiar sense of dread had started to creep over him again. Gone was the grandiosity, now just disdain for the pony staring back at him in the mirror. His mane was stringy and oily from the way he had been lying for the last few hours, and no matter how he tried, no matter what he did with a comb, it never seemed to fix it. He had blood on his hooves now, blood he couldn't wash. This was only the beginning.

He thought he was stronger than this. They were a unicorn. It shouldn’t affect him. A marksist unicorn at that – two of the things he himself had vilified. But there was no sense of justice he felt, no part of the plan revealed. But his only prayer was that it would get easier, that the next would give him that sense of justice. His mind was so muddled, he could hardly discern thought from thought. It was like swimming in a pool of nothing but raw emotion.

The comb dropped to the floor with a clatter. That pony in the mirror started looking awfully unfamiliar – ugly, even. There was a slight sense of numbness for a moment, before evolving into a pulsing feeling in his vision. He stumbled back into the kitchen, his hooves hardly coordinating with his brain as every slight obstacle became a mountain to avoid. He felt the need to vomit, his mouth filling with saliva. But he would keep it down, like always.

His home didn’t feel his. He would’ve been angry, were it not for the overwhelming despair setting over his mind. His hooves searched for an object where his eyesight was failing, sliding over surfaces and causing numerous clatters.

Through his head, then out of it. Echoes to nothing.

He was terrified.

Finally, the object of his desire revealed itself. A telephone. He picked up the hoofset, frantically spinning the dial, facing the almost insurmountable challenge of dialling eight numbers. His head spun faster. The tremors had started to set in.

Two, two, five. Six, oh, seven, seven, three. He could memorise it even with his mind warring with him like this.

The phone rang. He held it to his ear, expectantly. He prayed the line would pick up. He needed it to.

“Hello, call for Proper Gander, how can I help?" The electronic voice answered, crackling strangely.

“Gander, Gander.” He spoke quick, perhaps too quick, panic evident in his voice. “You’ve got to come here. Y-You’ve got to save me. I need you, Gander. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to come help me.” His words were broken up by shallow, shaky breaths, stumbling and tripping over his own tongue.

There was a response from the phone, but all the words melded together. He swore he could hear a clack as the hoofset was placed down, but he wasn't sure. No matter how he tried, he couldn't decipher the noises. He almost considered putting the phone down, but he couldn't now. He had to make sense of it. He had to, he just wasn't trying hard enough. There was little hope left. He needed one more go. One more.

“Light?” There was finally a response, suddenly crystal clear. There wasn’t any audible concern in the voice. It spoke as if it was a reminder. "What are you doing, Light?"

Something dawned on him. Something cruel, but fair. He took a deep breath, the terror washing over him. “I know what you’re about to say.”

“I’m not here to save you, Light.” The voice calmly explained.

“You... didn’t pick up the phone.” His voice was nothing more than a weak croak.

“No, Light. I didn’t.”

“The line went dead, didn't it?” He seemed more defeated than scared at this point.

“Yeah. I’m not here to fix things for you, Light.” The voice calmly responded. There was a soothingness to it. It spoke slowly, with purpose.

Tears started trickling down his face, his gaze fixed on the carpet and his expression firm. “Please…”

“Oh, Light.” His friend replied. “I can’t keep picking you up.”

“Just… just once more. Please. I’m trying to do the right thing. Please.” His tone was pleading, but it barely came out as any more than whisper. “You’re the only one that believes in me.”

“I don’t believe in you, Light.” It plainly responded, just a hint of sympathy. “They died by your will only.”

His throat clamped, barely able to force the words out, “I didn’t want them to die.”

“I know.” It cooed. “But you didn’t want a lot of this. You’ve let it all happen now. Face it. There's no point running from what you've done anymore. You're too far in.”

The box was closing on him. The walls had seemed to crumble, the sky around him flickering and warping. There would’ve been the slightest sense of nostalgia, if it weren’t for the terror. He felt the bite of the wind against his skin, the slow falling of snow. He was unsure where he was, but it was familiar, some abstract scene from his childhood. A river running black in the night thrashed at the canal, and the unguarded drop seemed so very, very long. The trickling feeling of dread had opened like a floodgate. There was no posturing that could help him now. Nopony to fight his battles for him. He couldn’t even move. Not even his legs would listen now.

So he did the only thing he felt he could.

“May I… stay on call? With you?”

“If you’d like.” It replied. The soothing voice was his only life vest in this dark place.

“Thank you, Gander.” He sat down by the phone, curled up as best as a pony could, earpiece still held to his ear, his breath rattly. He sniffled, and he wiped his nose with his hoof. “Am I dying?”

“No. I don’t think you deserve such a tragic ending.”

"...okay." He whimpered.

And when his mind drifted to the dark, he did not know if the darkness brought sleep or the gentle long night. A little ray of moonshine through a crack in the blinds was all he was left with.

And his mind went silent at last.

He was woken from that long quiet by a pounding noise, some sound straight out of Tartarus. His ears rang, his eyelids stuck together as he tried to open them, as if resisting his choice. Some foreign light burnt into his retinas, even behind his eyelids. He had no recollection of anything he’d done, but the mess told the story well enough. The phone was tucked tight in his hooves, with its coiled wire wrapped around his leg.

His body jolted again as that same sound returned. Shouting.

The last thing he’d remembered from the night was the fear that it was all over.

Now, it felt more like that would’ve been a mercy.

“LIGHT!” More yells, not helping out with the mind-splitting headache he had. He could feel his body being shaken gently, and was powerless to stop it.

A grovel. That was the only accurate description of the alien sound that exited his mouth. He didn't even know the day. Time was the last thing his reeling mind could grasp.

Gander stood there above him, all dressed, presentable, and notably terrified looking. Light, however, was only in a stained shirt, lying sorrily in a puddle of his own sweat. He looked to Gander, who had apparently invited himself into his home already.

“Light! Light!" He yelled. "Are you okay? Is everything alright? You wouldn't answer me, I let myself in, I—" He looked upset. Or angry. It was hard to tell with Gander. "You called me. Why?"

“...I don’t think I did.” He lied, feeling his chest pound. In truth, he had no idea what he had said, but he had woken up with a telephone in his hoof and a dreadful feeling. The white-hot sensation burning through his mind wouldn't subside.

“The operators told me. I’m subscribed to an answering service, Light. You left me a message at four AM last night, according to them. And you were crying, and talking about dying, and how you’re trying to do the right thing. What the buck, Light?”

Light couldn’t meet his gaze, staring at his own hooves ashamedly as he unwrapped himself from the wires. Gander sighed exasperatedly, wandering around, before finally stopping. The whole house was a tragic mess. Things had been thrown to the floor desperately, looking like some creature straight out of the Everfree had just ran around the place. Glass was shattered, pretty flowers lay dying on the floor, ripped out of their pots untimely.

Gander had picked up a little bottle of pills. Oxycodone.

“Light.” He shook them. They made no noise. “How many did you take?”

He swallowed hard, still unable to meet his eyes.

“I didn’t take any last night.”

It was a poor lie, but in this state, he had no idea what else to do. His senses were all lit up, it felt like his whole mind was on fire. He wasn't even sure why, but he felt a vague sense of happiness seeing the pony before him. A trust that had been restored, but by what means he was yet to tell. Something to reveal itself in the future, just like everything else seemed to.

“How many did you take, Light?!” he repeated, his voice full of urgency.

No use in lying now. It was admittance of weakness, of the strength he lacked to even so much as make it through the day.

There was a long pause. “Three,” he finally answered, like a foal being told off for stealing.

Please, stop the noise. His mind ran back to Father, breaking every mental barrier he had suppressed those old memories with. How he used to cry to Mother after the war started. He hardly remembered the face, just the pained look he'd get every time he'd look at the newspaper. How he used to talk about it like the whole world was ending. He never saw it that way. He was so eager to detach himself from his parents, the traitors and cowards.

Maybe, for a second, he understood. Maybe it had.

“What? And how much did you drink?!” He gestured to the litter of bottles around the house.

“...yeah, three,” he repeated, a dull tone to his voice.

“Three bottles?” he asked, confirming the number. There was such vivid disappointment on his face.

“...six.” Light corrected, doubling his previous figure.

“Six bucking bottles. Sweet Celestia, Light.” Gander paced around the room, messing with his mane nervously. Gander had a habit of pacing when he was upset, and even with his brain lit-up like this, he could still tell just how upset he was.

“I was fine.” He tried massaging his temples in hopes it would somehow liberate him of his headache. “I just… I have pain. In my… i-in my…” He tried to find an excuse. It evaded him in the end.

The noise needed to stop. The world needed to stop for him. He was so very tired. He couldn't even muster the will to be angry. He just lay there, pathetically. The sounds of the city still continued around him, everypony still continuing as usual, even despite his suffering. How could they?

“You are NOT fine, Light.” Gander pointed accusingly, noticing that glassy look in Light's eyes. “You are far from fine. We’re about to launch the most important operation of our lives, Light. Of anypony’s lives!” He shouted, finally standing up to him. Not now. He couldn't manage it now. Any other time, he'd scream right back at him. Maybe he should've. How dare he step out of line, in fact.

“Gander... you have no idea how much pressure I am under right now," he slurred.

“No. I don't have any idea. You won’t ever bucking tell me,” he retorted, snappily.

“You wouldn’t get it. You’re too soft to understand. Too unburdened by it.”

Gander turned his head, inhaling sharply, drawing breath through his nose, then out with his mouth. He was hurt by that, he could tell. “I know you don’t mean that, so I’ll give you the chance to apologise now.”

“I’m not bucking apologising to you. I'm sorry." His mind was all foggy. The floor was still spinning.

Gander sighed. Light had called his bluff. “Fine. Fine. I’m sorry. I just…” He rubbed his face. “I’m tired, Light. Everypony needs you right now. And you keep just pissing it away. And now this? What were you thinking?"

Light had gone pale, looking like he was holding in bile. Why did he keep speaking? Why did he keep questioning him? His mind kept racing, every anxiety rearing its ugly head in one swoop. It was too much.

“You are the most brilliant pony I have ever met. In my life.” Gander continued. “I don’t know anypony that could make this work like you have. I have… undying respect for you, Light. But stop making me regret it.”

Light tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn't allow it. He sat down, unable to stand any longer than those few moments with his shaky legs. And then his friend’s words processed.

He just wept.

Guilt, half for everything he'd done, half for exposing himself. He’d shown weakness, in the most absolute way possible. Gander sat down with him, in some sort of betrayed silence.

“It won’t happen again,” Light mumbled. “It was a moment of weakness. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Gander nodded, seemingly satisfied with how genuine the answer was. And the look he gave him. It was something between pity, fear and anger. All of it spelled out his disappointment.

Out of nowhere came the tears. Gander, for all the fury that read on his face, just cried, wrapping his hooves around him, drawing him into a tight embrace.

“Alright... just, stop with it all," he begged, "the drinking, the drugs, whatever. I’ll get someone to clean this pigsty up, just… stay with me. At least until then. I just... I can’t quite trust you here right now.” There was that feigned sense of strength. Light could always detect it from him. It almost sickened him a little, but everything did right now.

For once, he dropped it. Light nodded. It was high time he broke free from it all. The disillusionment, the doubts – it all came with it, all for the chase of that temporary rush of happiness.

Not even happiness. Numbness.

“...okay.” And that was the best he could muster right now. Just a weak, broken mumble, melting into the hug.

It helped. More than he'd ever like to admit, it really helped. His trembling body appreciated the warmth.

He heard a long, drawn out sigh. Forgiveness, maybe. Pensiveness, almost certainly.

“Go clean yourself up.” Gander broke the embrace, maybe earlier than Light would've liked. It was like a blanket being wrenched from him.

He nodded, standing up with his friend’s assistance. Never had he felt more ashamed of himself than now. Worse moments had surely come up through his life, but this was a different sort of shame. He’d betrayed his own ideals, everything he’d worked towards, all in a mindless, reckless stupor. His mind was brought back to the jeers, to the phantoms of his past, to everything he had rallied to cast down. There was still something to cling onto, though. Everything he had done, all the times he had been pushed to new lows.

And that was just it.

No, he deserved better. He deserved to be happy. If there was anypony that deserved it, it was him.

His eyes darted across the room. He could still taste something foul in his mouth, the bitter taste of alcohol oxidising within, the remnant of chemicals still surging through his blood unchecked. But it hadn’t bested him.

He was immortal. He was alive because he had purpose. Because he had a plan nopony else had.

Destiny had saved him. It had taken his hoof and walked him here, guided him to this place, and destiny would indeed be made. The shadowed path had been walked, and he had emerged unscathed. His body reeled and ached, but he was fine, and that was because something greater had allowed him to be.

Renewal. That was what it was. This was salvation; the creation of a martyr. Swirling in the cosmos, falling in and out of it all. This was proof his resolve was ironclad. And even though the doubts ate at his core, the future was all too visible now – it was his: the world was his.

The grandiosity of it all was almost intoxicating. He allowed himself a laugh.

“Gander,” He sported a genuine smile. “I’ve been saved. We were destined to save Equestria.”

Confusion, sputtering, into a beaming smile. The blossom of emotion, all dawning upon Gander. “W-what?” He laughed.

“I… I mean it. It’s so clear,” he added. “I knew it before, I just… I couldn’t say it.”

But there was still more to say. He knew it. His turn again.

"I love you." The words just poured out naturally. It just felt right.

There was the briefest moment of horror as Light realised what he said.

But it dawned on Gander’s face, clear as day, eyes lighting up like the first crack of dawn. He seemed to finally realise the gravity of what he was saying. Light expected it back; he expected a smile, an ‘I love you’. Gander seemed taken aback, stuttering back a little less assuredly. In the end, he wasn’t one for words; his embrace returned, and there the two lay.

Lovers. For the briefest of moments, there was nothing else. Just warmth.

A world, falling into love, forever and ever. Love only he could bring. That was what he was going to bring; that was what had eluded him all this time.

His heart fluttered and hammered, like the strongest of rushes. Something still ate at him, something broken in this moment within. Fear, maybe. Of loss, perhaps. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was cruel – something he shouldn't be messing around with – the worst of mockeries.

“Stars,” giggled Gander, squeezing him. “Pulled this shit and then you tell me you love me. Really wanted to take me on a rollercoaster today, didn’t you?”

Light permitted himself just a little laugh. “Well, aren’t you gonna say it back?”

“Of course I am, dunce. I’ve loved you for bucking years.” He nuzzled against him, shuffling around in his arms into a more comfy spot. “And at least two of them I’d been meaning to say it for. You’re a damn difficult pony to find the right time for, you know that?”

He felt the head of the pony he had just confessed his love to rest against his shoulder, their hearts intertwined. Gander sighed contently, some big dumb grin on his face.

It was all unfamiliar. A longing feeling gnawed at his brain, almost a pensiveness. A realisation: this could have saved him before, but it didn’t. It had waited until its time, the hand of destiny had, maybe, guided him.

The world of the lover. The Worms were the cruellest of enforcers, but their will was love.

Not his utopia; their utopia.

A hoof brushed his cheek, bringing an unfamiliar sensation to his body. Tenderness, care. The love of a pony, love that he could never give himself. This was what he deserved.

But he hadn’t a gesture to return. He had a plan.

Author's Note

bit more of a challenge to write this than usual. it's heavier than i'd usually feel comfortable writing, but i hope it came out good :)

6 – Everypony In Their Right Place?

April 13th, 1023.

Light,

In respect to your recent behaviour of the most immoral, despicable and un-ponylike character, there is no possible way I could refer to you by any title, be it sir, Mr., or saviour, as you so desperately wish to be referred to.

You have done everything to set back ponies and their pursuit of happiness. If you had even one modicum of self-awareness, you would take a deep view inwards and realise that the havoc you wreak has done nothing but harm, destabilise and uproot the lives of the innocent pony.

The deepest pits of Tartarus shall soon beckon to you, and I implore you, to take your way out before the consequences do indeed catch up.

We know of all your wrong-doing, and we hold no qualms against revealing all of your reprehensible acts to public journals. This is your undoing. You are nothing but a thug and a plagiariser of ideology, and not even the grimmest minds of fascist thought would even dare to stoop to the lows you so frequently dance with. If your mind dares explore the notion that the leaders of old would support your ideals, I urge you to think long and hard about it, though that would likely be the first time such a despicable creature like yourself has. Equinity has never before endured such a terrible character as yourself.

This is not a letter of hatred, this is a promise that we will tear you down. Your malice and misery cannot be put up with any longer, for if it were, all good ponies not yet tainted by your poisonous thought will be damned to a world at your helm.

You are a tyrant and a priest of deceit, and it shall soon be revealed to all this is indeed the real you. You will find attached transcripts of your disgusting conversations, and images that paint your debauchery. You are undone. Equus shall be rid of fascists like you. It is the only way the future can shine just a little brighter.

The equestrian public, the ponies you hail yourself to stand for, the so-called "oppressed masses", will know you not for the grandiose picture that you have made for yourself, but for the real you. The disgusting, amoral, you.

Destiny always wins, Light, and this here is yours. This shall be the only legacy you know. Your only hope is to disappear and pray that you will have none. There is no other path for you to walk. We see through your disguise, traitor.

The letter creased, its reader snorting. It was placed back inside its envelope, and passed back to the changeling at the table.

"So," Anthearea closed the envelope, tucking it back into her medal-speckled jacket, before shovelling another forkful into her mouth. "What did you think? I believe the prose is quite colourful."

The letter had made its way across the table. It was laughs all around, Gander having some critiques of his own. Light, however, was quite on edge. As the letter slid across the table, he couldn't help but feel a little sick. Obviously, it was just a slander piece. But it was a V.O.P.S. slander letter, and against him, no less. That was nerve-racking. It meant they had him in their scope, and that was an ever so rude reminder of his mortality.

Anthearea was an impressive changeling. Well-decorated, years of service to the Heer and almost a decade as the military-governor of Bales. She was, in essence, the holiest of holies, as far as regional changeling control was concerned; that warranted an appropriate amount of care around words.

"I like how they pretend to be ponies," Light shrugged, playing off his continuing discomfort. He took another bite of his meal, wiping his face with his hoof ungracefully. "I think it's cute that they got some drone to play pretend just for me."

"Ehh." Their guest shrugged. "It was a suggestion, from them to me. Obviously, I have the final say in matters like these. They tend to not be too insistent when it comes to collaborators, and I made sure to put in a good word for such a fine band of ponies." She laughed, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh, thank goodness for that." Roly giggled. "What ever would we do without you?"

"Die, most likely." Anthearea responded, dryly. "Not to be rude, of course. Other governors just simply wouldn't have allowed you the privileges I do."

"How benevolent our Lady is." Light sipped his wine.

"Watch your words, Light," she joked. "I can still tell V.O.P.S. you're an actual threat."

Light held his hooves up in mock surrender. Gander kicked him from under the table, giving a reconciliatory smile to him almost as quickly. Light ignored it.

"And V.O.P.S. would not be happy with what you lot are doing!" she exclaimed, readjusting her medals. "I mean, the unicorn stuff? They love that. But the whole... you know, 'send the changeling bastards home again'? Not so much."

It was like the air became solid. Gander looked up from his food in horror, mouth agape in the sudden realisation of just what he had let happen. Light could see from the corner of his eye how Roly's hoof had dropped to her open bag, reaching inside for something he hardly had to guess.

She spoke with a suspicious nonchalance that disturbed Light quite deeply. It was the sort of tone you took up when downplaying your own achievements to look humble, not the sort you'd adopt when revealing somepony's treachery.

"Oh, relax, would you?" Anthearea continued eating, clearly unbothered by the whole unveiling of a plot. "The thing I was most bothered about was that you called me a bastard," she spoke between chews. "The rest? I mean... officially, if it were to be revealed, I would have to put you all to death. No words of favour I have could save you there."

None of the ponies spoke. Light sat up in his chair, raising an eyebrow hesitantly. They all exchanged worried glances with each other, but not Light. Light's eyes seemed fixed on the changeling's. All those possibilities ran through his head now. Six years, without so much of a word, and suddenly she came into his home and revealed this so calmly. A chill ran through his spine. Blackmail, perhaps?

"I've got limited time away from the ear of Vesaliopolis' finest, you must understand. All I'm suggesting is that someling may know a little about the Heer, and might know Vesaliopolis has directed most its forces up over in Nova Griffonia and Stalliongrad dealing with troublemakers."

Gander didn't seem to relax, clutching onto his butterknife like it would, in the event of attack, save his life. Roly and Light glanced at each other, daring to share a slight smile. The tension lightened just a little, enough for conversation again.

It wasn't the best idea to trust Anthearea, thought Light. It was dangerous, but then again, what wasn't when you were planning things of this nature? Equestria certainly wouldn't be restored alone.

A gilded lighter opened from across the table. Its owner placed an ornate looking box from across the table, opening it and taking a cigar. “I assume I’m alright to smoke?” asked the changeling, to everyone's relief it was not a handgun, or some warrant for all of their executions.

“By all means,” Light replied, reminded of his own cravings. “Was just thinking the same myself.”

"Wonderful." She smiled, taking a small tool from the box and clipping the end of the cigar. It was a strange process to watch, seeing someone willingly cut off a portion, but Light had very little expertise on the matter. He stuck to cigarettes. "Care for one?" she asked around the table.

There was a murmur of polite 'no's from across the table, to which the changeling shrugged at. "More for myself. Surprised you didn't take up the offer, Light. It's quite a bit more of a hit. Did you know cigarettes originally came from the collected clippings of cigars that the poor would collect? I think that's quite a funny story. I'd much rather be smoking the original thing."

Light gave her an odd glance. "You talk about the shittest things."

"Light," Gander reprimanded.

"Right. No. Governor," he started. "You claim you know these... things we're doing, right?"

"Gathering a party with the intent of sedition," she responded calmly, with a quick puff-puff-puff of her cigar, a cloud of richly scented smoke hanging over the table. "Yes, indeed. Don't worry though, I'm not V.O.P.S., for whatever that's worth."

"Right. Okay, you come into my home." Light soon found himself the target of a glare from beside him, given this was in fact Gander's home. "You have a wonderful meal with us, then you drop these claims. What do you want?"

"Light, my dearest friend." She chortled, still enraptured by her cigar. "I didn't mean to offend. I only wanted to inform you I know what you're doing. I could've had agents arrest you a long time ago."

"So what are you doing?" he repeated. "We've known each other... what, better part of six years now?"

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, pointing the cigar at him. "So you're my friend, and I watch over my friends. You've shown me kindness, you've been entertaining, I see it fit to show it back. That's what all those ideas of friendship were about, right?"

Gander had a look on his face that spelt out he was expecting the worst of Light, like he was bracing himself for an oncoming lecture. He shifted nervously toward Light, obviously not comfortable letting him have one of his discussions at what seemed to be such a delicate moment. But, he kept his lips sealed.

"Friendship's a tired ideology, Anthearea. Old Equestrian thought. New time, new thought."

"Post-friendship, then," she raised her wine glass. "See? I do listen to your speeches. You're a very good orator. Passionate! Willing to tell ponies what they need to listen to, and that's admirable, because they damn well do need to listen."

"Temper."

"Right. Sorry," she smiled, continuing. "And I think that you're a capable candidate to have a real position in Equestria's future. And lord knows, it will have a future." She laughed, swirling the wine around the glass.

The group shared another suspicious glance. This was a very jarring statement to hear from a member of the Heer – a governor, and a respected one at that. Light was the first to draw the nerve to give her a puzzled look, the sort that beckoned to continue.

"It's been ten years, everypony. We're not making any progress, but everyling agrees with that – I simply choose to act on that thought. So when Equestria finally, oh..." She added jazz hooves, speaking with the tone of a practiced story-teller. "Rises from the ashes like a phoenix, well, a 'ling needs her place on the right side of history."

There was silence, the silence of collective thought between the three worms. It took the better part of a few seconds before Light finally got his bearings, nodding, a sly smile creeping across his muzzle.

"So... you want in?" Roly spoke.

"One could say that." She finished her wine, already well into pouring her third glass. "I get so very bored, Light. So little to be done, so many angry changelings to appease. Frankly, it's unbecoming. Mind you, I miss fighting."

Like an old mare reminiscing of the glory days of once-were, she reclined into her seat.

"Damn it, Anthearea." Light spoke giddily. "Where've you been all this time? Maybe some good changelings really do exist, eh?" He pressed a shoulder into Gander's side, who winced.

The military governor of Bales for near ten years, and she only waved a chitinous hoof in dismissal. "I'd like to think I have powers at hand that you'd be intrigued in. That being said, my ambitions are far grander than foot soldier for pony fascists."

There was the catch, at last. Light sat up, cigarette already in hoof ready to add to the grey haze that loomed overhead. For all his distrust of the changelings, he considered the governor a personal friend. Few in the Heer would ever be as... tolerant of his 'campaigning' as her. She certainly had his attention.

"Go on."

"Well, senior leadership might be nice. A general again, I'd think, or whatever's the equivalent in whatever you call this. I've thrown ten years of my life down the drain to barely maintain order in a failing state, I think I deserve something a bit more grand than what is effectively police sergeant of Bales." She had a discernibly care-free look upon her face, one difficult to gauge just how care-free it really was.

"I just... I don't get it," Gander finally spoke. "Ten years, plus whatever you spent in the Heer, perfectly loyal to your Queen, and now you just want to help us?"

Light couldn't scold him for being suspicious, it was reasonable enough in his eyes. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little annoyed that he'd interrupt like this now.

"I wouldn't call it 'perfect loyalty'. I let you run around, as the letter says, wreaking havoc wherever you wanted. For a good while, too."

"Point enough," Light intervened. "Realistically, if we want to live on through what's to come, we need more ponies. And I can tell you full well, Anthearea," He pointed, "that I have no love for changelings, but only in the same way you probably have no love for us."

Gander threw his hooves in the air in a show of defeat. "Whatever."

"Gander?" Light stared at him. Hard. "Who do you think you are acting like that?"

"What?" His response came in the form of an accused look, confused and slightly hurt. "Am I not allowed a say in all this?"

"To be honest – not really," he flippantly replied. "It's my party, and I'm not having you acting like this!"

"Right. Well, I apologise." Gander was still frowning, a little unsure about what he had done that had provoked him like this. He still wore a look of 'I'm right and you know it', but subdued it with another bite of his food.

Anthearea just watched, still rather occupied with the cigar in her hooves. She seemed fairly entertained by the outburst, looking more as if she was watching a play than her two friends getting into a mild shouting match.

Light straightened up, looking over at Roly, who was half-way into pouring her most recent of a number of glasses of wine that he had lost track of. Between four and six, he decided. Untroubled, he looked over to the governor, "Apologies. Gander isn't terribly trusting. Can't blame the lad, though."

She nodded with a look of indifference, finishing off her food. "I understand, honestly. If I were you, I wouldn't trust me either."

Light gave a smile, something which only seemed to bother Gander further as he watched from the side, still reeling from another random telling-off from a pony that said he loved him. Light seemed somewhere between oblivious and unbothered by this.

"No, but I can vouch for her, honestly," Light added, turning to Gander. "Lot of times they saved us from V.O.P.S. it would seem. Not to mention, those em-pees at all our marches haven't exactly been out of love for keeping order, have they?"

Gander half-heartedly shrugged, more or less resigned on his position of the issue now. "I suppose."

"Besides," she smirked, preparing to transition to her big deal. "I can make sure the garrisons are strangely lighter than usual, even though the stockpiles here are so very rich." This prompted a sly smirk, eyes darting across the table. "You've secured some deals with the industrialists, I trust? You could find yourself in very fortunate circumstances, by some strange chance."

The wink wasn't necessary, but it was certainly added.

Light didn't know what to say, turning to look at his two senior officials with a grin. "We got to take our opportunities, everypony."

Roly raised her eyebrows, sufficiently impressed. "I'm no big participant in this whole war bidding, but if it can make our situation any less desperate." Gander gave a shrug, and a sort of once-wrong-but-acknowledging smile.

"Settled then. Well, I have no qualms offering such a helping hoof a place here. By all means. General, you said you wanted to be?" He looked over to Roly. "Oh, Roly. How irritated with that will Walkie be?"

"Quite possibly very." She spoke up, at last, also finally taking up Anthearea's offer of a cigar with a click of a borrowed lighter.

"Bucking good then. He's in charge of... some other type of soldier. I don't know. The bastard deserves it. Trigger-jumpy idiot."

"Can't you get rid of him? If you don't like him, of course." Anthearea asked, much to Gander's continuing horror. Light knew that look, knew he thought it was unfair that the changeling hadn't even been officially accepted into the party and yet was already offering the removal of another senior member. He supposed it was a fair overstep, and glared accordingly. The governor held their hooves up, dropping the issue.

“Well, back to the matter at hoof. Roly, that Diamond you know. You say he’s willing to put his full backing behind all this?”

Roly gave a smirk, finally able to express her expertise. “Of course. I’ve been chatting to him a lot about it. He knows what’s coming, and well, his words, ‘war is a profitable matter’. I’m not so sure about his stance on all of it, but he has doubts about a labour shortage when it does come.”

Anthearea looked up, a slight glimmer of unfounded hatred in her eyes as she exhaled a puff of smoke. “Lots of unicorns in Bales.”

That was more like it. That was the sort of enthusiasm Light liked to hear from his followers. Oh, how he salivated at the prospect. Power was now almost a tangible concept, and it felt good. He sat back, revelling in the glory of his own work, the cigarette burning down and nipping at his hooves slightly. Still, some semblance of politeness had prevented him from flicking it onto the floor, and so it was deposited into the ashtray.

“Perfect. Love your thinking, Anthearea. Get them out that damn library and into some actual work for once. Tartarus, they’re not gonna like it, but I reckon there’s enough spirit to get Equestria back.”

“Absolutely,” Gander added. “From what we’re looking at, party membership has soared. We’ve got a good four hundred thousand ponies actively supporting us, and it’s only going to get higher when the ‘greatest struggle’ kicks off. Truthfully, statisticians are hard to come by, so I’ve only got a small team working on any proper projections, but it’s looking good from what we’ve gotten so far.”

“Statistician does sound like a unicorn field, to be fair.”

“Not much we can do there, unless you plan to drop some new policy.”

“I’ve got a lot to do right now, it’s not at the top of my list, honestly. I’ve got my future policy all right in the old brain bank,” He tapped his head. “Real change to implement. Ah, trust me, everypony. Or, well, everycreature?” He waved a hoof, not liking the way it rolled off his tongue. “No, everypony. You’re a pony in my eyes, Anthearea.”

“Flattered you think so highly of me,” she snickered.

“But nevermind. And Gander? I got some real good material I need to talk over with you. Good stuff, promise. I can see it plastered all over Bales already.”

Gander took a sip of wine, smiling at him. “Good, good. We’ll go over it later, I’ll do what I can.”

“Good. Don’t keep you around to sit and look pretty.”

Gander laughed, pleasantly surprised by the rare half-compliment. “I can do both well enough.”

“Enough of that,” Roly groaned jokingly. “You’ll have all the time in the world to chew each other's faces off later. Deary me.”

Light winked at Gander, who now flashed a suppressed smile giddily. Probably, Light discerned, finally content with the attention.

“No, but seriously. That, ‘would you like to see Equestria rule again’ business? Nothing on what I have planned now. Oh, they’ll eat it up, I tell you. I’ve already got it all mapped out in my head. I’m gonna ask ‘em, right, ‘You want to see the fruits of harmony? Go and see them; let the changelings answer your question.’ They’ll love it.”

Gander nodded his head, going along with it. “Alright, I can work with that, that’s good. But, go and see what? Are we saying the changelings are a product of harmony?”

“No, you idiot. I’m saying harmony’s why they’re ruling over us.”

Gander straightened. “Oh, right. No, I get it now. Just trying to iron it out.”

“Well, my friends,” Anthearea announced, “I should be on my way. I wouldn’t like to keep my acquaintances waiting. It would seem like I’m about to have a lot to do.” There was a prideful smile across her face. From what Light could tell, it was genuine – it seemed like they really did have a desire to get away from the burden of governance. With a clack, her little box of cigars was closed, being stuffed back into a small bag at her side.

It was a shame, in a way. She had been a good governor. It had only been through the exceedingly lucky circumstance of her appointment that decade ago that had allowed the worms to survive and balloon into the behemoth of a fascist group that it had. Whilst it still was a long way from the mass-scale adoration of the E.L.F, and the drivel they were promising of life somehow ‘returning’ to the way it was before the Great War.

Nonsense, absolute rubbish. Besides, Light liked the way things were twisting. Equestria had needed a catalyst, some little blip in its history to give the push it needed to finally change things.

But not just change them – change them in his design.

“It’s been wonderful having you over, governor.” Light got to his hooves, ready to bid them farewell on the walk to the doorway. Gander, the ever-loyal pony he was, stood quickly to do the same.

Roly stood, walking over to the changeling, and giving them a quick hug, a gesture that Anthearea hesitantly returned.

“Oh, do come again soon, Anthea, you’re wonderful company. Do get home safe!” she trilled.

“Thank you, thank you.” Anthearea stood, making her way to the door, shortly followed by Light and Gander. As she set a hoof out of the door, she turned, lowering her voice to a hush. “I didn’t want to say it at the table, since I know Roly wouldn’t like it, but my final… request, if you will.”

There was a serious look upon her face, the kind that that conveyed urgency. “Get Talkie under control. Now. He’s a dangerous stallion, Light. V.O.P.S. doesn’t like him very well.”

With that, and without waiting for a word more in response, she left for the car that was waiting for her.

7 – ...Action!

May 1st, 1023.

Jelly Donut didn’t consider themselves a very violent pony. They were quite laid-back, in their mind. The first rays of a summer sun were shining on him, bringing a long-unfamiliar warmth after a cold spring and beckoning him to open his eyes. A river ran nearby, rich and regal, reflected light shimmering daintily in the morning air. It was a long time since he’d been out in any field whatsoever, and that made these sights all the more wondrous. He was a city pony, he always had been – it hadn’t been until his nineteenth birthday that he had seen a cow, outside of books and pictures. It was strange, almost a little quaint.

It was a shame he was carrying twenty pounds of explosives. That ruined the moment a little.

As he sat up from his impromptu observation post consisting of a blanket, a radio, a pair of binoculars and a particularly tall tree, he noticed his travel buddy perched way up in the branches, binoculars already in use. Shaking off the fatigue, he grabbed the rifle by his side and allowed himself a yawn.

It was going to be a long day – just like the last.

It’d been a long journey out of Bales. Fortunately, most of the work in evading any changelings was long planned before his involvement. The hardest part so far had been lugging around the satchel containing their payload, but he had gotten through it by imagining it as a particularly violent bag of flour. No, the worst was yet to come.

Judging by their last late-evening interaction, they reckoned they were about two miles west of the railroad, give or take. Not a massive journey by any means, but one extended a fair bit by the need for stealth; the last ten years of Changeling rule had shown they weren’t too fond of high explosives in their railroads.

He was dressed plainly, which made sense. No amount of dress-up would convince anyling he was a part of the Heer, not with his bright yellow coat. Though, he had to admit, it was a welcome change from a stuffy kit, especially on a day like this where Celestia’s sun wasn’t feeling quite as forgiving as usual.

He blinked, weaning himself out from his slumber, before picking up the satchel that had so quickly become the centre of his world. The familiar strain as he lifted it from the floor took the last of the sleepiness from him, turning his head up to his tree-borne buddy.

“Oi, Comet! You see anything?”

There was a twitch from up above and a rustle of leaves. “Not seen anything for a long time. Couple of hours ago, saw an armoured car. Not much else. They’re moving someplace else, methinks,” Trail replied simply.

“That’s what I love to hear. So, all this stuff? I just place it on the track?”

“Naw, on that little bit in the middle of the metal rail. You know how it kinda goes in then goes out again? You put it in the thinner bit.”

The answer perplexed him somewhat. It was a decent sized charge. He didn’t have too great a mental visualisation of a railway track, but it didn’t seem like something that’d fit too well.

“You sure? Isn’t it a bit big for that?”

“It’ll fit,” she said, without much thought. “It’s one of those squishy bombs.”

Their vivid detail of the charge was mostly lost on him. “Squishy…?”

“Yeah. You kinda just smush it a bit until it fits. It’s not metal or nothin’.”

He nodded his head, not entirely convinced that he could squeeze any more information on the subject out of her.

The answer satisfied him for the most part – get to their little segment of track, ‘smush’ the bomb in, then get the hell out. Simple.

He trusted her. Comet Trail was a smart pony, despite what first impressions might have some ponies believe. She was reserved, a little energetic, but fervently loyal in her dedication to the Worms. She was a part of his unit in Staff Chief Talkie’s Equestrian Guard, and the two had been nigh inseparable. If there was anypony he trusted his life with, it would be her.

All he had to do now was get over and hope there wasn’t some fifty ton steel beast with him in its sight. It was risky, especially in daylight like this, but the information he had been given said that there’d be a big armoured train coming through soon enough. It scared him a little, especially with how massive the changeling trains had gotten over this month. Surely, big enough to resist just a satchel’s worth of explosive. If anything, he hoped it would at least twist up the tracks enough that it’d be thrown off.

They’d chosen a spot just a little bit off a big stone bridge constructed who knows how long ago, something he’d felt a little ashamed of. It was his country – his real country’s – history, and a part of him was upset about the idea of disturbing such a rarely idyllic scene. However, it was what had to be done. The changelings certainly hadn’t won out by respecting the landscape, and the last decade was proof that if there was any chance of a brighter day, they had to push down their reservations.

So, the plan. He ruminated over it, running it through again and again until he was quite sick of the details. He checked a little pocket watch tucked into his breast pocket – 8:23am. More than enough time if they set off soon.

“Alright, Comet, we should get heading out. We’re not getting paid by the hour.”

There was the faintest murmur from above, as Comet began their slow descent from branch to branch. It was a fairly impressive feat, if he had to be honest, they seemed to navigate the tree as if it was familiar, nimbly descending where he would likely fall. With a quiet thud, Comet was firmly on the ground, looking much more tired than him. Her fault if she hadn’t slept.

“So,” she said resignedly.

“We’re moving up. Gotta make it a little ahead of time. Don’t want to lose this.”

“Fair ‘nuff. I would’ve said give it twenty more minutes. I don’t like the idea of leaving it around for that long. What if it’s delayed?”

“What if it’s early?” Donut countered harshly, “I don’t wanna take any chances. Those schedules aren’t accurate. I’ve worked in railyards like this.”

Comet nodded her head in acknowledgement, accepting his point. She grunted, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. “‘Righty. Let’s get moving.”

Uneventful and annoying was the only way to describe the trek. Despite all its beauty, the land was harsh and dreary. Mud tugged at their hooves as they walked, even in the spots where it looked tame. The two barely exchanged words, mostly out of the dread of their possible fates if any number of things went wrong. The fuze might not work, the ‘lings might spot the bomb straps, or spot them on their journey. A tank a mile out from across the river might rain down all Tartarus upon them.

Anything could go wrong. And anything that did meant doom.

This type of moment was new to Donut. A flood of doubts poured through his brain, loyalties tested in places he thought he was absolute in. But the Hero Commander Stop Light's mantras held firm. In the midst of all that dread came some strange sort of hope, excitement even. They were to be the matches – and these charges would light the whole damn continent on fire.

Trot, trot, trot. Through land that felt like it was resisting their very presence, they continued on. A mile in, and every step forward brought the line clearer into view, danger ramping up exponentially. They weren’t supposed to be here, nopony was.

“Watch your step,” Donut looked over. “It’s only gonna get steeper from here. Last thing I want is your damn wire cutters at the bottom of the lake.”

“Not a lake. S’a river,” she giggled, crunching on some tasteless oat bar from one of her pockets.

“It’s got water and it runs. Who cares?”

“Lakes don’t run nowhere,” she snickered.

“You get my damn point!” he exclaimed, keeping his voice down. “Keep your head down now, or I’ll make you carry this thing.”

She quietened down, still contentedly chewing up her bland snack. On the whole, she seemed disconcertingly unbothered by their situation, bobbing her head and quietly humming to herself. Here they were, two ponies that had never seen combat up against the might of the changeling war machine. They were foot soldiers, trained only by a paramilitary known for little more than street fights. It was daunting, to put it lightly, and here she was, humming as if she had tanks to back. Truthfully, it annoyed him a little, especially as his mind raced and his eyes scanned the horizon for even the slightest flicker of anything, of chitin or steel, that could spell both their ends.

But, this was more important than himself. He was finally a part of it all, like his mother before him, ready to deal back the hate this state had given him. He could see the links of the fence before him now, his hooves itching to open the pack and get him out of here.

Comet seemed to feel the same now. The humming had stopped. A look of serious determination replaced the once jolly face she wore. She preemptively reached a hoof to her side, readying the wire cutters as the two clambered up the steep slope, rearing their heads over in a first view of the track for about ten minutes.

Another quick scan, another deep breath. Cresting the top of the slope, Comet quickly dashed forward, bringing the bolt cutters in front of her and snipping away at the linked fence that kept them from the tracks. Donut kept his rifle ready, having to remind himself to keep his breath steady. No room for error now.

The wire cutting took longer than they’d both like to admit. Comet was uttering profanities under her breath as she snipped, the fence rattling as the tension in it released link by link. Every rattle was just another reminder of how quickly things could go bad. Comet cursed again, louder this time, as she realised the hole she’d cut was still too small to fit her body through. More cuts, more rattles.

The paranoia was setting in. Every tree seemed like it had figures next to it, every shadow like it was cast by the Heer. It was silent, eerily so, devoid of presence other than a single box car that lay open and abandoned on a stretch of track that was long since put out of use. His rifle stayed up, his bated breath remained.

A ringing noise. The circle of steel wire fell to the ground gently, cast aside. Comet made her way through gently, followed swiftly after by Donut. There was a sudden resistance, something pulling back on him. His bag had been caught by one of the exposed links, and a precious few moments were spent freeing him. For the briefest of moments, it was agony. If there was any time he could’ve been shot, it was now, caught like a parasprite in a jar, but no shot did come. There was only more silence, silence he almost wished was replaced by noise.

“Right, right!” he called out, “Bucking make sure noling shoots at me!”

It was Comet’s turn to stand guard. Her rifle was unslung, the boltcutters hastily packed away. “You’re alright, just get goin’!”

Get going? He was working his flank off.

The satchel was thrown onto the floor with a prayer it didn’t explode then and there. He’d never worked with explosives properly before, didn’t know what to expect. He removed it’s content, and sure enough, he found two bricks of a strange, orange-yellowish substance. He removed them, hastily dropping down and packing them into the rails. To his surprise, the blocks did actually smush.

For a moment, there was nothing but sheer concentration. No ideological test, no fear of disappointing – just intense concentration, and the ever-so-slight fear of death. The fuze was placed in, and the straps tightened around the explosives, roughly two feet apart (eye-balled) and with a detonator set to ignite when crushed. He only began to get up when—

BANG.

The shot came from close.

His first thought was to drop. His whole body tensed, his mind racing once again. He scanned for a shooter wherever he could. He only saw Comet.

She drew the bolt back, a little wisp of smoke exiting the barrel of the rifle. He stared wide-eyed at her. She looked back at him, horrified.

But there was no time to think. Fight or flight kicked in.

“GO! GO!” she screamed out, bolting for the little hole in the fence and cutting herself on the exposed metal during her clumsy escape. Donut followed, hesitating for a minute to look back, to get a grasp on the threat.

A changeling lay dying on the track, terrified and alone, cigarette burning out on the hard stone beside him. They were only tens of metres away, slumped against the rail car, clutching a hole in their side, groans and sputtered coughs audible even from here.

They didn’t wear the Heer’s uniform. They didn’t have a rifle to clutch in their last moments. Nothing but a wrench and a work cap.

Donut almost stopped. Almost. Some gut-wrenching feeling bubbled in his stomach, threatening to bring up its contents. All he could do was run, gripping the empty satchel and legging it for an escape, half to bring himself to safety, half to force himself to stop witnessing the changeling’s penultimate moments.

He made his way through the fence, coat brushing against the metal. He made his way down the bank, almost losing his footing and barreling straight into the water. He just ran, and ran, and ran, chasing after the other pony, adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream and pushing aside anything but the primal urge to survive. He ran until his hooves couldn’t carry him further, and walked after that, making his tired way back to their observation post.

It was only there, panting and coughing, regaining anything left of his stamina, that the guilt set in.

“I didn’t…” Comet began to explain, losing the words quickly. To say she looked upset with herself seemed an understatement, but he could see her resolve for the cause fighting with it.

“I— I know.” Donut nodded, voice wavering, staring at his hooves as if unconvinced by his own words. “Did what we had to do.”

He tried his best not to look at her, throwing the rifle down onto the grass. He walked up to the now so very familiar tree, taking the binoculars from a low branch and looking through them

He sort of wished some armoured car had come over and investigated at the tracks. Wished that someling would find that changeling where they were. But there was nothing. Not one semblance of movement.

For once, the repeated doctrine of the worms had left him. He hadn’t seen an enemy, or an oppressor. Just a scared pony with bug-like eyes and chitinous skin. He cursed himself, silently. It was justified. This was the reality of what was to come, but that didn’t help when he was the one to do it.

Time passed, but neither dared to speak. Comet sat joylessly, taking the last bite of her food as if it pained her to get it down. Donut understood. He hadn’t been the one to take the shot, and he felt horrible – he couldn’t imagine what it would be like for her. Still, the half-hearted reassurances had worked their way through slowly, convincing him this was a good deed in the end. Without a word, he offered her the rest of his daisy sandwich, which she took with a gracious smile. He didn't have the stomach to eat it himself.

He got up, noticing a pillar of smoke upon the horizon. Comet rose with him, seemingly alerted by his suddenness. He clambered for the binoculars, and, like told, a train rolled along, puffing out billows of burnt diesel as it raced along the countryside.

He could see… eleven carriages, maybe twelve? It was hard to tell from this distance, even with the binoculars as aid. At the front was what looked like some huge rectangle of steel plate, and at the back protruded gun barrels, the size of which he had never seen before. He passed the binoculars over, holding his breath as it hurtled towards the end of the bridge where two small bombs lay.

Would it be enough? He looked to Comet, hoping for some confidence from her. She just gasped.

“Tanks,” she muttered quietly. “It’s transporting tanks.”

It rattled over the bridge, drawing in like some grim countdown.

An explosion rocked it. They saw the pillar of dirt and debris flying into the air first, before the distant boom of the charge. They were only small bombs, but it ripped up track and earth alike.

It tumbled, it twisted and jolted, ruined metal scraping across stone, throwing train-cars before it into a lurch as they passed over the mangled track. Car slammed into car, only their momentum carrying them forward as the heavy front carriage’s links snapped in the explosion. One by one, the dominoes all fell, rocking violently onto their sides, smashing over stone and fence and sliding gracelessly down the bank and into the watery depths. Only the front remained, unbothered by the explosion, still chugging along as if unphased.

There were no cheers. Just mumbled acknowledgement it was over, watching the spit of disturbed water and settling of dirt. The first step of the Greatest Struggle.

Comet was fiddling with the radio. There was nothing but static for a while, before she tuned it to the right frequency, just in time for the start of the speech.

"Fillies and gentlecolts," the radio crackled, the familiar voice of the Hero Commander replacing the silence as she dialled up the volume. "This is history! Is it not our destiny, as the greatest nation this world has ever known, to take back what has always belonged to us? We have waited long, long years, SLAVING AWAY to the oppressors! Never again, NEVER AGAIN! We are the strongest of nations, the wisest of creatures! We allowed ourselves to be deluded by dreams of peace, but this is its product! This is what Harmony brought for us! This is what the unicorns and their GRANDIOSITY gave us!

"We have fought behind the shadows, but today that cloak is lifted! Today the Changeling shall mark forever as the day that their whole world burned! But everypony owes their duties to the nation that has loved them since birth, everypony owes their lives to the struggle that shall not be extinguished!

"Everypony has a duty to their home! Everypony has a duty to post-friendship! There is no way we can allow even another second of the cruelty they have known for us! We are stronger than them! We are GREATER than them! Everycreature that sneered at us shall know the hate we have endured!

"Rise up, Equestria! RISE! The Equestrian Liberation Front shall never fail! All of history smiles upon us at this turning point! The Equestrian Liberation Front beckons you, everypony across the world, to fight for what was lost! Fight for everything you hold dear!"

And with that, the radio fell silent.

Whatever doubts that resided in their minds, the two cheered, almost jumping with excitement. The day's regrets seemed to fade away, replaced by frantic joy that, finally, the time had come. Donut rushed over and hugged her.

"It's happening!" he cried, "It's really happening!"

She laughed, hugging him back. "For Equestria!"

Author's Note

For Equestria!

8 – Just A Passing Phase

~~1st~~ ~~3rd~~ May, 1023.
2nd?

The new headquarters of the Equestrian Liberation Front was a flurry of activity. Everything had to be moved down underground, avoiding the bombs that threatened the city in the limited time they had. It wouldn’t be long before the changelings reared their ugly head and shifted their focus onto them. The news had only been good so far though, and that was something to hold onto. They’d been taken completely by surprise. Rail lines across Marechester and as far west as Acornage had been cut by resistance members heeding the call, and hegemon reinforcements from the east either found themselves bogged down fighting the griffons, or cut off by Manehattanite resistance cells.

The call to arms had been well received, all things considered. Apparently, much to his amusement, there’d been a lot of confusion in Manehattan when E.L.F. cells had realised it was Light calling the shots, and not the two unicorns primarily responsible for the building up of the eastern resistance. Good news to him.

This was just another gambit. Just another play, another turn. He’d stolen everything they’d built from right under their noses, and they couldn’t even claim he had – he had done everything they had told him to do, there was no decree that he couldn’t simply start it up for him.

But the relief of hearing about a few angry unicorns half-a-way’s across Equestria was short-lived. They’d found themselves terribly unprepared for the crafting of an actual state. This was no longer merely politics, posturing and putting pieces in the right place; this was actual statecraft now. Ponies all over were waiting for his word, and his alone. Whilst he did revel in it for a while, the joy had quickly vanished like it so often did with these kinds of things. Statecraft was supposed to be more… 'Great Leader'.

It most certainly was not supposed to be listening to complaints, going to meetings and writing actual legislation and policy for things he had no interest in.

He straightened his tie, finishing off another cigarette. That was the last in the pack. He had gone through it over the course of a few hours. It was as good a time as any to make his way out of his office and through the veritable maze of bureaucracy his new headquarters had turned into. He was rather impressed, given this was all something he had done, that he himself had caused, but it was all so very frantic. Everyone was so focused on the whole war, war, fighting, that he had started to feel almost a little bored. It sickened him to his stomach knowing this was how fickle his soon-to-be subjects were. He had gone from the glorious centre of attention, the glowing beacon of liberation everywhere, to what felt to him like a side-piece in his own nation.

But, he reasoned, the dissatisfaction would never cease until that glorious day did come where his moves had all been played, and the game was finally finished. This was only the set-up, the grand opening for his triumphant checkmate. Still, it was all so drab.

Doors opened, ponies stood by to salute their Commander and liberator, and Light silently made his way to the office of Proper Gander. He wore his face purposefully, a display of seriousness and pseudo-regality before his subordinates. He was a compassionate leader, but not a kind-hearted doormat open to all the inquiries of the concerned about how a damn war would affect their families. Stars, the answer was obvious: of course it wouldn’t be nice; this was just the reality of war, and through war there would be a better peace, better than one anypony with a horn on their head had ever guaranteed through a deceitful smile. He had begun to hold a sort of contempt for all these sobbing ponies, so anxious and cowardly. He’d sacrificed things, why shouldn’t they too?

The door opened without a knock, and in came Light. There was a clacking of hooves as its inhabitant stood up suddenly, clearly alarmed by the unexpected entrance.

“Relax, Gander. It’s me.”

His Leader of Communications smiled warmly, trotting giddily towards the door as if it was the only good thing that had come of the day. Light shut the door behind him, opening his forelegs for a brief embrace.

“It is business, I’m afraid,” he continued, before the pony could even utter a greeting. “How’s the effort been going? The thestrals, Gander, have they done anything yet? Please, please, don’t tell me all that campaigning with them lot meant nothing.”

Gander sighed, clearing his throat and backing away a couple of steps to look him in the eye. “It’s… it’s too early to tell, Light,” he mumbled apologetically. “We’re sure they’ll do something, but news from those parts isn’t… hasty.” He exhaled, hard, playing with a strand of hair at the back of his well-kept mane.

“Yes? And? It’s been a day. I sent a radio broadcast, I didn’t exactly ask a griff to mail my revolution by hand. What’s taking them so long? Chrysalis clearly heard it! Stars, I already have tanks up my flank, how haven’t they?”

“Well,” He shrugged, some powerless yet sorry look on his face. “You know…” his voice suddenly cracked.

“No! I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!” Light exclaimed. “I didn’t come here to be sappy, Gander, I own Equestria, I want to know why they’re betraying me!”

There was silence between the two, only a nervous look being offered. Gander shuffled a little further forward, offering his hoof out. “Light, dear, I think betrayal is a strong word, they might just be unprepared—“

Light groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

Gander deflated, his posture slumping in the slightest way. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just thought—“

Light held up a hoof, silencing him. His stare began to soften, a frown creeping across his face. For a second, the hurt look on his face almost made him take it back, rethink what he said. Almost.

“Not here. It’s strange. Don’t do it.”

He nodded back slowly, still looking unsure about the full meaning of what he had said, or if it had even meant anything. Regret was a little too harsh a word, but it certainly wasn’t appreciative. “Sorry, Light,” he corrected.

“Don’t worry about it. Just get the message to them, would you?”

“Of course, of course. I’m doing everything I can, I promise.”

It was the sort of placating voice someone adopted in trying to talk another down, when the only percieved alternative they saw was the other getting violent.

Light felt his stomach churn in an unfamiliar way, staring at the pony that had just seconds ago called him dear, now backing away from him like he was about to swing a hoof. He chewed at the air uneasily, averting his gaze to the floor. Was it shame? Guilt that this was what he thought of him?

It was… offensive.

He would never do that. Or at least, he supposed he wasn’t the sort of pony to be like that. No, not a violent pony at all. Well, not where it wasn’t justified anyway. Everything he did had reasoning. Lots of it, in fact. It was all planned. And surely, Gander knew that.

So why was he acting like this – acting like he was this kind of pony?

His brain steamed through the potential outcomes of this brief interaction, leaving him with nothing but more quiet dread, dread that this was all doomed, that he shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.

In his perspective, Gander was just a little stupid – emotionally charged, attention-seeking, somewhat of a yes man – but he did care about him.

Part of that sickened him, just a bit. Some deep, core part of him detested that, and was showing its twisted self yet again.

Of course he was acting like this, everypony always did. And every day, he felt himself succumb to those thoughts yet again, that nagging whisper in his ear that everypony had always done him wrong, and nothing he could do would ever change them.

He caught himself in his silence, looking up to meet Gander’s slightly fearful gaze.

“I’m… sorry,” he sputtered, unable to shake the feeling that he had to force the words out. It felt so foalish, so appeasing. Still, he coughed out more, “You’re trying. That’s all that matters, s’pose.”

Gander nodded, still looking quite ashamed of himself. The apology did draw the slightest, tired smile. “Thanks, Light. I am trying. You can trust in that.”

Gander drew in, giving him a warm embrace. A little more intimate, a little less awkward. He could hear Gander’s heartbeat against his own. It made him feel a little ill.

They were so close. But closeness was becoming such a chore. He’d done enough now, he’d said enough. He’d made his statement, felt bad and made up. It was over now, and he was free to walk away. But he couldn’t muster up the heart to break the hug. Gander was a good pony, he just had to remind himself of that sometimes. He was just so reliant, so needy.

Some part of him envied it, that he had the ability to ask for help. Another part hated the pony's inability to be fine on his own. Always in need of somepony. Was he just the latest in a series of ponies Gander had latched onto for some temporary reprise from the loneliness? There'd certainly been a pegasus before him, he knew that much.

Finally, Gander seemed content enough to break the hug, kicking one of his hind legs gleefully, pressing his head into his chest in some unfamiliar, slightly uncomfortable gesture. Gander began to laugh, something quickly shared by Light. Gander had that effect. Every now and then, he did make him feel genuinely content. He could make a room feel lighter, diffuse tension like nopony else.

But, he was realising, he was not like him.

He was not one to let himself feel content for too long. It was a fleeting glimpse, something at the end of the tunnel, one that would end as soon as the conversation ended.

But it was still a feeling. Still a good feeling. He could work with that.

His head was always a jumble, a puzzle that never seemed to click, only ever revealing small fragments of the big picture. But around him? It just clicked sometimes. Emotions not only became a little more tangible, but a little more validated.

So, as he turned his head, just as his hoof touched the door handle, he felt an actual smile creep along his face. It was so strange, so alien. A bittersweet, foal-like joy. For the brief moment it filled him, the world seemed so very hopeful.

“Gander?” He turned back, just at the door. He gave a slight grin. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Always the one to plan, Gander seemed to brighten and let out a quiet giggle. It seemed to him like Light was finally opening up, like he’d finally warmed up to him, felt safe enough to take a little more initiative. He shook his head excitedly. “Oooh! No, no. Nothing going on tonight. Why? What are you suggesting? Ooh, is this a date?”

For Light, that was one too many questions, especially before he’d even gotten the chance to speak. “Well, I thought we could just spend some time together. I’ll cook something nice. We’ve just always been working recently, think it’d be nice to unwind.”

Gander smiled, getting back behind his office desk and striking the day in the calendar. “I think so too.”

Light tugged at his collar, fixing some unnoticeable twist in his necktie under it. “Great. I’ll come over to yours. Mine’s still a mess.”

“Good idea, honestly. If I were to be truthful, I think it’s best to stay over until it’s all clean. I’m usually a mess whenever I’m surrounded by one, you know? Maybe you’re the same. Just to be safe.”

Considering his options turned out to be more difficult than he thought. He could be right, and he did actually quite enjoy his company. That, and it was nice not waking up in an empty home. At the very least, it stopped him drinking so frequently, but it was also a big social investment, one he wasn’t sure he could follow through with. What if he got angry? What then? Where would he get his privacy? Commitments were just far too difficult.

“Sure. That’d be nice,” he spoke, warmly, before his thoughts had a chance to catch up with his words. There was an almost immediate pang of guilt, or annoyance, or some other emotion he wasn’t entirely sure of, that he’d gotten himself tied up in yet another thing he wouldn’t be sure he’d want to do in the future.

But Gander was smiling, and he did have a lovely smile. That was what mattered, right?

Selflessness, or at least his idea of selflessness, was so novel and exciting. He had to stop second guessing himself, he made his own choices. A good leader always had to make commitments, even if they weren’t necessarily in their favour.

That was a good enough justification.

“Alright, wonderful. I’ll see you tonight. Eight any good?”

“Eight would be wonderful, Light,” he trilled.

He gave a polite nod, trotting back out of the open door, closing it with a gentle creek of its hinges. In just a moment, he had gone from a room he felt quite comfortable in, to a dimly lit concrete corridor, one that smelled slightly of damp and without wallpaper in sight to make it feel any less like what it was – a bunker. His hooves rested against the hard floor, allowing himself just the tiniest of breaks before his ever-continuing dance of running around asking for everything from everypony.

Along came the moment he had dreaded the most. His hooves carried him down the corridor like a prisoner on his final walk to the gallows.

Walkie Talkie, Staff Chief of the recently-renamed Equestrian National Defenders, a now separate entity from the also recently-made Equestrian National Army. It was a planned move, a demotion in all ways but name. It had stripped a lot of power from the pony, placing him in a more substitute role before the army, headed by one of their former subordinates, Rocky Road, a pleasant enough pony, and the recently turned rebel Anthearea.

The notion of being ‘outranked’ by a changeling had certainly not sat well, according to the others. Roly Poly, always one to stir the pot, was one of the only ponies in the party in his good graces, and that meant she heard everything. The things he’d been saying about Gander alone was enough to make him want to get rid of him, but at the end of the day, Walkie was there when nopony else was. Sure, he had some of the more needlessly violent and disgustingly extreme views of the party, but he’d always been absolutely loyal to his ideals, he’d always done his job well. It was this, he supposed, that was probably the reason he’d taken it so hard. It seemed he had worked under the misapprehension that when this war did come about, he’d be some grand field marshal, decorated head to toe in ribbons.

It had not been this way.

The medals were easy enough to satisfy. Walkie was one of the most decorated ponies perhaps ever, and that was simply because he asked nicely. But he was certainly no field marshal.

He was a glorified chief of military police at this point, a purposeful strategy to shove him to the side. He’d not noticed all of it, but he had noticed the decreasing number of opportunities he had been given. He was a bad pony, but a great friend – an early supporter, somepony he simply couldn’t get rid of, despite pleas from the changeling. Anthearea and Walkie had a lot of animosity for each other, and he wasn’t particularly sure why, or that he wanted to get to the bottom of it. The reasoning that ‘Walkie had said some nasty things about changelings’ was decent enough. His absurd points that changelings were 'direct evolutionary descendants of unicorns and their hedonism' likely didn't help either.

Light sighed, grating his teeth as he reached the end of the corridor. Two mares and a lost looking stallion, all the bureaucratic fodder that this bunker now homed, had bumped into him on his way, and it had already shortened his nerve enough. He was not looking forward to any test Walkie might have in place.

The door opened, and closed.

Walkie was on the phone, holding a hoof up to ask for a moment, before arguing loudly. It was like he didn’t even care that Light, of all ponies, was in the room!

“What do you mean? What d'you mean?!” he shouted over the phone. “If the unicorns are giving you chat, general, I say get rid of them! They’re lucky Light,” He nodded to his guest, acknowledging his presence, “...hasn’t had them all shot yet. Hold for a second.” He placed the phone down, looking up at Light. He talked fast, with a lot of purpose and a refined but gravelly voice. “Perfect timing, Light. The unicorns down Library Street are resisting. I say we send them straight to the factories if they’re not willing to fight for Equestria. Make them fight in another way. They’re with us or they’re betraying us, am I right?” He pointed to Light with a smile, like Light would love this suggestion.

He spoke like he was trying to bombard Light verbally. It was a barrage of words sent as quickly as possible, like he was trying to get it through to him with the least possible amount of resistance – like he was able to call the shots.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Light answered, curtly. “We don’t want the rest of the country to hate us. A lot of them are iffy about us. Let’s not give them that push to the other side yet.”

“What?” Talkie screwed his eyes, still resting his hoof on the phone’s hoofset impatiently. “What are you saying? They’re unicorns, Light. We don’t like them. You don’t like them! You’ve not gone soft, ‘ave ye?”

“Tone.”

“No, don’t give me all that, Light. I don’t know what Proper’s gone and drilled into your skull, or that damn changeling for that matter, yeah, but this is our chance now. You better not waste it.”

Light backed away at the sudden defiance, Walkie grinning at him slyly. Seeing no objection, he continued. “Listen, we’re all friends here. But you need to start making decisions that show you’re not a pushover. Start making them Marksists know that we won’t put up with their proto-unicorn ideologies anymore. Put it all to the flame.” He placed a handgun on the desk, leaning in, voice darkening. “They’re really gonna kill ‘ya, you know. That Trixie and her weird friend – they’re gonna kill ‘ya.” He slammed the desk with his hoof for effect.

He couldn’t find the right words to respond, as much as he needed to. He was shocked, angry. How dare he speak to him like this? Who did he think he was? He thought of stripping him of all his fancy medals right where he was.

“I am capable of protecting myself, Walkie. In fact, that’s your job, so I’d say get on that. I know you’re upset I haven’t been taking it far enough right now, but we’re just asserting ourselves. We can’t polarise everypony yet. Not in our resources, not in our favour.”

“Not in our resources?” Walkie laughed. “We’re in control of more and more of Equestria every day – and Equestria is a rich land. You wouldn’t even believe the sort of wealth it hides. The unicorns never even touched it, too focused on all that friendship. Fuckin’ kill ‘em, is what I say. Up against the wall.”

The last part was to be ignored. Light knew Walkie, knew his beliefs were amongst the more radical of the party. Still, it was quite shocking to hear that, somewhere in his mind, he truly believed that it was the right course of action. “And since when did you become a prospector, Staff Chief?”

He waved his hoof. “I’m a stallion of many talents. Keeping myself in the loop is my job. I can’t just react, I have to be faster. Not a prospector, ‘Hero Commander’, just an opportunist. When are you changing that title, by the way? It’s not great.”

“You know, Walkie, you have some lip,” he scolded. “What makes you think—”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“What?”

“I’m not. You’re just a pony, Light. I love your ideals, I’m loyal to it. But scared of you?” He swirled a spoon around his teacup. “Don’t get it confused.”

Light was feeling more and more uncomfortable. The handgun on the desk certainly wasn’t helping. It would take no time for him to grab it, and that could be it. That would be it.

“I’m not implementing what you’re asking me. I’ve made myself clear.” His voice wavered, but he was standing his ground.

Walkie nodded, looking over to the pistol. He clearly considered something, and he made that look clear. But, he instead grabbed the hoofset, giving Light a dirty look.

“Scratch what I said. Light’s given me a direct order. We’ve to be… kind to them.”

He nodded to the voice over the phone. Light tried his best to listen in to the chat, but the words were inaudible beyond an electronic mutter. Still, he knew exactly who it was. It was Guardian General Plot Twist, one of Walkie’s little appointed cronies. He’d never interacted with the general, outside of formal events, but he knew he was cut from the usual Equestrian Guard cloth. Thuggish, fiendishly loyal, and more than aching for a chance to stick it to the unicorn.

“Yes, yes.” He nodded. “I know, but it’s Light’s word. Says he doesn’t want us to anger anypony yet.” There was another nod, now ignoring Light, spinning around in his favourite chair. “Yes, he says we’ll have our time. We need more ponies on our side before we start asserting ourselves.”

There wasn’t a clear reaction to this. His first thought was to ask what he meant by all this, but this confusion soon turned to anger. This wasn’t just a disagreement, this was a taunt.

He was threatening him. He had a bucking gun out. This was about two steps from a coup.

“Of course, of course.” He smiled. “Good luck, general. Equestria is proud of you.” He hung up the phone, looking back at Light with a cocky smirk. “Whey. There, did what you asked me.”

Light had to suppress the urge to bare his teeth at him. He supposed now was a delicate time, words might be the preferable choice. Something inside him really wasn’t sitting right with that, though. He didn’t need this conflict, but he’d come so far, done so much. He wasn’t about to be treated like he was when he was a nopony.

He was important now. Walkie was replaceable.

He was not.

“...thank you, Walkie.” he spat, through a venomous stare.

“Don’t mention it.” He reclined, kicking his hooves back and letting himself relax, clearly quite pleased with himself.

Light was not feeling so nonchalant. This wasn’t an issue of statecraft, politics, or anything – no, this was a personal matter now. And at a point where the future of Equus as a whole was so very dependent on his word, now wasn’t the time he could just leave issues be.

Everypony had to be in their right place now. And Walkie most certainly wasn’t.

There was no way a pony with such a lack of any sort of self-control, or brain, for that matter, would barge him around. This was a matter of pride now, it was on the line. This couldn’t be allowed to slide, lest he become a laughing stock.

This would not be stolen from him at such a critical point. Walkie was not capable of even half of the things he could do.

“Listen, Light. No hard feelings, I just don’t think you’re taking this far enough. We’ve gone far, don’t reel it in. If we do, what’s it worth? What was it all for?”

He hated that he even considered the words, but in a strange sense, it was true. They had gone far. If he played on the side of moderation, what was it for?

“Look,” he continued, clearly happy to share his own doctrine. “When something is as wounded as Equestria is… it gets, mmm, infected. And when a wound gets gangrene," He shrugged indifferently. "You just have to cut your losses. You don’t try to nurse it back to health, because it can’t get back to health.”

“I… I understand what you’re saying. It’s just not helpful yet.”

“It’s not a matter of what’s helpful, Light, it’s about what is bucking necessary. Equestria bucking burnt; we didn’t light that fire, but we're responsible for picking shit up out those ashes. Soot isn’t going to help us.”

“Can you just quit it with the BUCKING metaphor?!”

“Don’t tell me you’re a bucking pragmatist too now,” he groaned. “What the buck has Gander done with you?”

The kettle boiled over. Walkie didn’t seem to realise.

“Light, I’ll be honest with you. The masses are too stupid for you. You can’t lead them like this, they don’t understand you like I do. You’re not some hornhead, they’ll really do you in.”

Light slammed his forelegs into the desk. The force made Walkie jump back, almost falling out the seat he was in. That earth pony magic was coming to life. There was a confused shout, but Light had already started clearing the desk, throwing the gun to the floor.

It was never loaded.

Too late to reconsider that now. A pang of humiliation ran through him, but this only fuelled the fury he had whipped himself into. He was already over the desk in a clumsy vault, grabbing the Staff Chief’s collar.

He was wiry, not the fighting type at first glance, but he’d been in his fair share of brawls. He knew what to do.

“Don’t fucking talk about him like that!” he shrieked. “You’re nothing! This party was good before you joined and it’ll be good when you’re gone too! Don’t you act like you have anything on me!”

He could taste blood in his mouth before he felt the blow. Walkie had swung right back at his muzzle, knocking him off and sending his jaw reeling into the air from the impact. Blood trickled down his nostril, little droplets spilling onto his favourite white shirt. He howled, crying out expletives, clutching onto his face in pain.

Another blind kick, another clatter of objects crashing as they were removed from their high place. Walkie’s chair had buckled and bent back more than it was supposed to, now in another corner of the room, safe but wounded from the fight.

“What the buck are you doing?!” Walkie cried out. “You’re bucking mad, you’ve always been mad!” He began backing away, distancing himself from the seemingly frenzied pony. His one traded blow had clearly been enough for him.

The pain stung and throbbed, a constant reminder from his body that his face had been bruised up badly. There was just a sniffle from him, lacking the composure to do anything else.

Walkie could have struck him then. He was pretty much open, a little dazed. No blow came. He wiped his bloodied nose with his hoof, staining his coat sleeve with a streak of red. But Walkie was already backed away like a frightened foal.

What was he doing? That washed over him like a wave at high tide, what was he actually doing here? He was utterly confused with his own logic, what did he gain with this? Why did he keep doing this?

Walkie clearly had no desire to keep on hitting him, stood in a defensive pose, seeming like he was ready for a tackle. The whole reasoning for everything he himself just did was so lost on Light. It felt like all the adrenaline and cortisol had just vanished into thin air.

“Sorry,” Light panted, holding onto the desk. “I just… you wound me up.”

Walkie nodded, the tension diffusing from his stance, spitting onto a patch of floor besides himself. “Good to see you’ll still stand up for yourself, ‘least.”

He laughed, trying to lift the desk back up. “I’m sorry about all your stuff.”

“Ehh, fuck it. Not moved in properly anyway. Might wanna patch your nose. I messed it up a bit.” He smiled confidently.

“Might wanna fix your… everything. Bird-brain pony.”

“Buck you,” Walkie laughed, “Bucking Tartarus, Light, you’ve got one hell of a kick, you sure you’re not Guard material?”

“Like I’d want to serve under you, asshole.” He pulled up a chair, collapsing into it. “I’ve got such better things to live up to.”

“Fair, fair. Just a proposal if you ever get bored of leading the glorious revolution,” He smirked, still holding onto his gut and letting out a pained exhale, letting himself sit down. “So, did you come here to beat me half to death, or did you have something to say?”

Light let out a long ‘uuuf’, letting himself gather his breath and the few thoughts that remained after the adrenaline cleared all he had previously. “You know, I can’t remember. Give me a second.”

“Idiot.” Walkie joked.

“This idiot’ll tell you to jump off a cliff and you’ll damn well listen. Buck off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Go on, think about it. Need some time myself.”

“Right, I think I was going to ask something,” he said. “Tartarus, you really did buck up my nose. Thanks a lot. I’m going on a date later.”

“With Gander?” Walkie inquired, genuinely curious. The details on the private life of the Commander were rare, after all.

“No, with Celestia, of course. Obviously it’s Gander!” He threw up his hooves. “Who else would it be?”

“Get on topic, Light,” he groaned.

He nodded, still sniffling through the bubbles of blood. “Right. I need to know your plans for cutting through to the east. Lot of land we have to cover in a very short amount of time.”

“Oooooh.” Walkie smiled, clearly happy he had been entrusted with this. Any responsibility given to him was a responsibility Anthearea wasn’t getting. “There’s more of Equestria rising up every moment. Recruitment has actually become a problem purely ‘cause there are just so many ponies signing up, we don’t have enough guns. Regardless, we’ll probably get enough in that whole resource zone that we can pretty quickly bridge it and cut off whatever jaegers the Queen of Bugs has set up there. It’s good stuff. We have a good chance at all this, Light. A very good chance.”

Light flashed a genuine grin, clapping his front hooves together. “That is good news. That is damn good news.”

“Oh, you’d love it. Training is, of course, necessary. We’re finding it easier, though. Most our recruits are ex-military. That whole army that ‘ling is running for you? From what I’ve heard, it’s a mad dash to get guns in their hooves. No matter how many ponies they have, they can’t just send them against tanks and be done with it. It’s gonna be bloody, Light. I can promise you that. This’ll be like the Great War all over—”

“No it won’t,” Light cut him off. “It’s gonna mean something this time.”

There was a hard stare cast over him. Not just a look of disapproval, a look of shame.

“I served in that army, Light. Ammo-bearer, three years. You do not disrespect my army like that. That was the only time in Equestria’s history it meant something.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t. We lost because we were weak, we were shameful, and nopony was willing to fight for their own damn kind. That was the unicorns. They lost us that war. They were too stuck-up, too scared to fight with us. That’s the reason I joined you, Light. So we don’t have that again. So watch your mouth talking about that. I loved that army more than I’ll ever love anypony.”

“Right, I know. I know, Walkie. But that world is gone, the shit that lives on? Belongs to us now. So we’re making it matter, you know?”

Light had served too. Supposedly. Supposedly, the records of his service were lost after they all burnt when the changelings terror-bombed Equestria all those years ago. He’d served in the mountains, escaping prisoner of war treatment by hiding away until it was safe – or so he claimed.

Either way, he had the same wounds. Everypony did. The blemish on the grand nation’s history was a burden they all bore.

“I suppose that’s it?” Walkie inquired, trying to get some time alone to fix himself up.

“Yeah. I’ll be calling a meeting tomorrow. General staff. Everypony’s gonna be there, you included. We need to straighten things out before tanks roll out.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Now I know you have some ill opinions of Anthearea, but she’s got a list of what was taken from the changelings. It’s a lot of stuff, from what I’ve heard. Proper anti-tank weaponry and all.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” He winced on hearing the changeling’s name. “Right, I’ll play nice for ya’. Just let me be for now. Get yourself cleaned up. Don’t have a spare shirt on me, but I would recommend it.”

The two existed in silence for a mere moment, reeling from the hurt they’d inflicted upon each other. Two seconds, but it felt much longer. Still, there was little hate that existed between the two of them. Mostly one-sided, and more bitterness than any sort of real hatred. Just a simmering annoyance at a lack of respect.

Light stood up, taking a sharp breath as the pain flared up in response to the sudden movement. No goodbyes were exchanged, just a silent nod of the head between the two. He could hear Walkie curse him out for breaking his best chair, but he was already past the door frame.

He was a mess, and he looked it, but he knew all this. At least this time it was a mess he had caused, a mess he controlled. At the end of the day, what were a few bruises? No bruise could compare to the scar of victory – that would be far more meaningful than any old wound.

It was the most important scar anypony could get. The only mark that meant anything, not like the stupid cutie mark he’d covered daily, but that wasn’t out of shame, of course. Just a subversion of destiny.

The clock struck eight.

Light grabbed a pair of pants that had been left on the floor from the night before, frantically trying to force his legs through as he quickly pulled them up. They weren’t going anywhere that required dressing, but it was always nice to look fancy, even if the fancy clothing in question had creases running all along it from being crumpled on the floor and discarded the night before. His best shirt was currently hanging on the clothesline outside, and whilst he wasn’t terribly picky about its condition, wearing a moist shirt was not an attractive idea.

The closet doors flung open, hangers dropping to the ground as he began his aimless search. A flurry of ‘no’s, ‘eugh’s and ‘hmm’s left his mouth, eventually settling on one of the countless black linen shirts that filled his wardrobe.

He got it onto his back, putting it on and quickly realising it was inside-out. Could a day get any worse? Time was still marching on despite his quarrel with inanimate objects, and Gander was likely already waiting. If only he hadn’t had to interact with so many up-and-coming party members in the office, then he might’ve had time. The twenty minute couch-slump also might not have helped either, but that was well-deserved, so he couldn’t beat himself up too much for it.

He grabbed a comb, doing his mane a little more as he continued his five minutes of getting ready. Eight o’ three.

Damn, he was good at rushing things.

He checked the mirror on his way out the door, grabbing the watch beside it and putting it on. He looked good. Good as far as he could tell, anyway. There were a few bruises on his face, a more than noticeable one under his left eye, but oh well, he supposed it wasn’t terrible. He’d gone out looking much worse for speeches.

He did also typically have a makeup team when he was doing speeches, and an hour to prepare, but what difference does it make?

The door slammed shut, the wind picking up and blowing around his ‘perfectly’ combed mane. Buck. A curse silently left his lips, he’d forgotten to put product into it, making him look like some bleeding heart. Oh well, Gander wouldn’t care.

It was strange outside. The atmosphere was so different. The usual hustle and bustle of the city was completely starved out by the blanket of fear the threat of changeling bombers had cast. People still walked the street, but they didn’t walk the same way. They hurried around, checking the side streets as they passed them. There were no evening strolls, there was no whistling. The city never stopped, but it already seemed so choked of joy.

But that wasn’t his fault. This was all an inevitability, one he had to force. The world spun on as usual.

Besides, he told himself he’d try to take a break from thinking about work – just for the few hours he’d spend over. Little events like this had to be rationed, the joy they brought savoured.

He got into his vehicle, feeling the engine hum as it set off on the cobbled road, now more thankful than ever that he bought the nicer model with the better suspension – a luxury he deserved, after all.

The journey over was uneventful. Other than a cart being pulled by a pegasus that he had some choice words for and a few military trucks, there wasn’t really anything else on the road on his whole trip there. Traffic was light out of the city and into the countryside. As he left his car and felt his hooves on solid ground again, he checked the time once more. Thirty minutes late.

It was unavoidable, really, or so he told himself. There was no way he could’ve gotten here any earlier. He was already thinking of excuses for his tardiness as he made his way to the door, he could complain about non-existent traffic, or say there was an emergency… the problem was that Gander was so in the loop that few of them would actually work.

Still, honesty was the last choice on the list.

Two knocks, so he knew it was him. The door opened almost immediate, the pony at the door immediately throwing his forelegs around him and hugging tight. “Light, you made it!”

“Yeah,” He hesitantly hugged him back. “Sorry, I just had to pick up a call. Lasted forever. It was Walkie.”

“Oh,” Gander grimaced, not the biggest fan of Walkie there was, “What was he saying?” He took a moment to place a book on the table by the door, before clasping his hooves around his face. “Oh my goodness, Light, what happened?!”

“What?” he responded, looking absolutely bewildered.

“Did someone try to kill you? Your eye! Oh dear me, come in, come in.”

“Oooooh…” He entered, putting his sunglasses down on the drawer beside the entrance. “No, no. Walkie and I just had a disagreement. It was nothing severe, don’t worry. He was just getting really lippy.”

“So he BEAT you? Light, are you kidding? What?!”

“Well, I kicked first, I suppose.”

“Sweet Celestia, why?!”

“Oh, don’t mention that fool around me. She is not a god, don’t treat her like one. Bucking false idols.”

Gander scowled at him, clearly taking this a little more seriously. “Are you going to tell me, or keep deflecting?”

“Tartarus, Gander, fine. You know all that stuff with the library? I’ve just not been impressed with it all. It doesn’t sit right. Him and his damned generals keep rallying all their troops ‘round it, and they seem more concerned with threatening the ponies that live there than actually doing their jobs,” he vented, entering the door and continuing as he hung his long coat up. “He keeps saying these… absolutely appalling things. Listen, I don’t like them either, but the shit he says? Send them all to the mines— kill them all? Gander, it makes me… it makes me feel like the bad guy, you know?” Frustration filled his voice, then changing to despair, before finally settling on an almost pleading tone. A tone that wanted to be reminded he wasn’t – that needed that reassurance.

“Light…” he comforted, “You’re not the bad guy. Everypony knows that.”

“I… I know, but this is everypony I associate with. They all have these views, I don’t! It’s… I don’t get why its attracted all this. I’m not killing them. I’m just… you know, we’ve suffered! It’s time to flip that, that’s all. Give the state back to those who built it, just…”

“You are a fascist, Light. And fascism encompasses these sorts of views.”

Light groaned. He wasn’t in the mood for this sort of discussion. It was tiring, it was the same sort of thing he did all day. It was a little comforting to be talking about it with someone who would blindly defend him, but still, it all felt the same. It was work – the exact thing he came to avoid.

He slid past Gander through the hallway. “Yeah, whatever. You have any cider?”

Gander frowned, nodding his head. “Wait until after dinner. Deary me—What about some wine? We could have some wine with our food, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, wine’s good. Anything with a buzz,” he murmured, continuing past Gander and into the living room. He parked his flank on the couch, staring at the TV. He almost instinctively picked up the Lazy Bones controller, but the wire was caught on something and he didn’t feel like untangling it. Whatever, there was nothing on anyway. It was a fair assumption to make that the Changelings weren’t too bothered about providing entertainment, however propagandised, to an infant rebel state.

Gander followed along, peeking his head through the doorway. “You want an apple?”

“We're rationing, Gander. I don’t want a snack.”

“I thought you said rationing doesn’t apply to us?” Gander stuck his head back through the door frame.

“Well, yeah. But it's the principle, you know?”

Gander shrugged, disappearing back into the hallway again. Light could hear a faint hum as he trotted around the house, quietening as he walked into the kitchen and picking back up as he left. Clearly some ponies were in higher spirits than others, but that was okay. Gander didn’t have quite the same responsibilities as the Hero Commander himself, so obviously he wouldn’t be as stressed.

He picked up the newspaper on the coffee table, folding it along its crease and reading the first page. Drivel. He wasn’t even sure why Gander had this here – it was his own damn paper. The headline read ‘REVOLUTION CALLED! ALL PONIES TO SERVE AS EQUESTRIA RETURNS’, the rest of it being the average patriotic propaganda spew that they fed to the masses.

In a strange way though, it was quite entertaining to read – mostly because he already knew everything going on in its entirety, not just the carefully procured published fact.

‘All Ponies Front’. Nonsense. Maybe for Anthearea and her army, but Walkie was more tied up in figuring out whether he should be shooting at Marksists or the Heer. Everything felt so much less grand than it should. It was nothing like the Great War, none of the colourful banners across Bales thanking their soldiers like in 1012. It was so very dull. Equestria had become so choked of any of the joy the Changelings hadn’t already bottled up and taken to Vesaliopolis that he was surprised there was any celebration at all. It all felt so very gladiatorial – just cheers for the sake of blood and revenge.

Where had the feeling gone?

He got about halfway down some column about recruitment stats before Gander returned, sitting down right next to him, budging up into his side and almost pressing his muzzle right into the paper.

“What’re ‘ya reading?” Gander looked over at him, inserting himself into Light's view.

“Oh, some boring rubbish,” he joked, looking over at its writer with a tired smile. “Who even wrote this stuff?”

His response was a weak punch in his foreleg and a roll of his eyes. “Quiet, you. I’ll slander you in my next piece if you’re not careful.”

“Ooh, lovers drama. That’ll get sales.” He chuckled, before noticing something. Gander's eyes were grey. Only now, this close, had he actually noticed anything about his eyes. He couldn't even remember what he thought it was before, but certainly not this silver-y colour. He relaxed a little, still keeping a fairly strong gaze. He really wasn't sure how to feel in this sort of situation. Part of him felt as if he should feel love for the pony, another felt guilty that he wasn't.

Gander broke eye contact, likely getting nervous under his now intense stare. “Believe you me it will,” Gander giggled. “Been a while since we had royal drama. Sure somepony will go wild for it.”

‘Royal’? What was that even supposed to mean?

The inference that he was just like the Princesses did not bring the sort of amusement Gander was looking for, ignoring the comment and continuing to read the column until he folded the paper crosswise, placing it back on the table.

He kicked his hindlegs up, resting them on the coffee table, getting a scathing look from Gander that forced him to sit properly.

“Take off your shoes too, whilst you’re at it. I don’t even know why you wear them. You always look so formal, I can’t imagine it’s very comfy,” Gander giggled, poking one of the cufflinks. “It’s only my company, Light, you’re alright.”

He shrugged. “I like dressing well.”

The truth couldn’t be further from it. Of course, Gander was right; he didn’t have to look so formal all the time, especially when all this ‘date’ entailed was a visit to Gander’s home. The material always itched, too, especially around his collar.

“Besides,” he continued, getting a little defensive after that guilty feeling, “What’s the problem? Am I not allowed to look nice?”

The pony next to him gave him a confused look, shaking his head quickly. “Noo! You look dashing, it's just not required, that’s all. I don’t mind. You've impressed me enough, mister.”

“Well, that’s great to hear, Gander. Unfortunately, I do mind, so why don’t you mind your own business?”

Gander sighed, leaning back against Light with the back of his head pushing into his shoulder. “Whateverrrr. Oh, you should see the new kitchen I got installed! It looks grand, honest, the ponies you sent did such a good job with it. I mean, the thing’s massive, it’s bigger than my old apartment!”

Light shrugged, still rubbing at his own collar. Truthfully, he only really needed to wear pants out of some strange mental requirement that nopony was allowed to see his cutie mark. The shirt was only really there because wearing just pants seemed silly.

Still, he was quite proud of himself that despite the minor disagreement that, admittedly, he had caused, he hadn’t lashed out much yet – something that surprised him, especially on a bad day like this. That wasn’t his usual modus operandi.

Feeling like a saint, he stood up, Gander grabbing his front hoof and near enough dragging him across the carpet into his new kitchen.

He had to admit, it did look good. It was state of the art stuff, he’d ensured no costs were spared. It did feel just a little aristocratic, and he did feel a pang of guilt staring at the all new kitchen appliances that’d likely see four or five uses in their product lifetime – especially considering he’d already thrown the continent into a revolution of his own design – but the look on Gander’s face was priceless. He was as giddy as a colt in a candy shop, and that was worth it, maybe.

He walked along the new tiling, eying some strange looking mixer-of-sorts. “What’s this do?”

“I’d have to read the manual. I don’t know, but it looks incredible!” Gander beamed, physically unable to smile any wider than he already was.

“Huh. Interesting,” He paced about, starting to notice more and more where that two-hundred-thousand bit hole in the treasury that had disappeared under the guise of ‘employee bonuses’ had really gone.

“Cost a pretty penny, but it's so worth it. I even have a wine cellar now! It just makes me feel so fancy, I love it!” Gander was practically jumping up and down, pointing to the door to the cellar. “Wanna take a look?”

“Fancy’s certainly a word for it, yeah.” He opened the door, sticking his head through and peering down the dark wood staircase at the racks of wine bottles neatly stacked. “You know, the fact those are all angled down isn’t gonna help when they inevitably start bombing us.”

“It’s champone, Light. It has to be angled like that if you wanna keep it a while, otherwise it’ll blow up, no bombs required.”

He rolled his eyes again, finding that just a little too upper class for his own taste. What had he done? He’d just picked out the next set of elites. It seemed no matter what he did, some element of it would always be working to do the exact opposite of whatever he tried.

Whatever. At least he’d picked the new aristocracy out by hoof. At the very worst, it would still be better than how it was, and any improvement made his life better, and by extension everypony else’s.

Something ate at him. That peculiar sense of procrastination, that you should be doing something, and you’re shooting yourself in the foot putting it off; a lack of productivity. His reeling mind had been so locked on overdrive, constantly stressing about what to do next, constantly stimulated from all the lights, coffee, ‘crucial’ meetings, reports, situation updates…

And now he had stopped. And like it never even happened at all, he had to act so very normal. Looking at the newly renovated kitchen, smiling and giving hugs, kicking his hooves up and watching a nice television. Like slamming on the brakes.

What was going on? In, out, in, out. Two different ponies, and he always had to balance it. He almost felt mocked in his mind; was something amiss? Was this not what he signed up for? Questions that he knew the answer to, but felt so very annoyed at himself for feeling.

Beautiful house, nice coltfriend, television with seven channels.

Tank manufacturing requirements, the management of a genocidal political army, three sets of wildly different powers and factions vying to take all power from his movement.

It was hard to say that either was a persona anymore. They were both intrinsically him, tied to him, belonging to him, parts of his personality he played up in the hopes different ponies would appreciate them more. Sometimes it just felt like he needed to collapse. How many circuses was he performing in? Like Equestria’s little clown, right up next, performing after the Sun Deity.

Of course he wasn’t well received! He wasn’t a bucking god! He didn’t manipulate the world to his will, but why was that a sin? For leadership, must it be required a pony must be the lord of some outlandish mystical concept?

And here he was, acting again. Or maybe it was how he usually was, but he was so damn stressed all the time that it hardly made a difference. His actual, at home self has been so dulled and discarded by years of working, putting on his show, coming home and drinking to the point of sleep. Here, on the top stair of some ridiculous wine cellar, the exhaustion finally seemed to catch up with him, in one incorporeal kick in the side.

His voice came as a spit first. He was allowed to be angry. He needed to be. He worked his flank off, he took the heavy mantle of leadership off of a goddess, and nopony ever showed their appreciation. All the progress he ever saw was all monetary, all wasted away in expensive pursuits of joy. There was never any more smiling, never any feeling that he could have saved his younger self from everything he went through if only he had been in charge at the time.

Just protest. Protest because he dared take over after the princesses abandoned them.

What a sick joke.

It was jealousy. But he had a right to be jealous. He had a right, after all this, to really enjoy some appreciation after everything he had done for everypony.

And Gander. That frivolous, new-money—

It still felt wrong to badmouth him, even in his mind. But so many emotions ran through, it was hard to catch all of them. He was just so easy to blame for his troubles. He was linked to so many of the issues.

But it was irrational, and he knew it was. He so easily went to blame Gander when he felt upset, but usually as soon as they talked for a little, he seemed to feel all content with it, like all the issues had been put to bed. He did care a lot about him, after all. He respected him a lot more than most.

His eyes darted across the room. The argument-to-be sat on his tongue, and was swallowed down like a bad meal.

“Lovely, Gander,” he faintly croaked. “This all looks great.”

“I know, doesn’t it just? Oh, it’s wonderful. Really never thought I’d ever be living like this.”

There was a war going on. Soon enough, thousands of ponies would be sentenced to charge before the gun, but here they were, in a wine cellar. Hundreds of bits worth of merchant-bought wine.

It wasn’t a cold sweat, or a blank look. He just zoned out as Gander brought him down the stairs and started to explain the bottles he had procured from party funding. He didn’t really listen, the words were little more than disjointed sounds in his mind.

Imposter syndrome was an inevitable product of this sort of responsibility being put before you, but this was different. He was actually seeing what he was starting.

Was he sending ponies to their death for this? What future was he bringing? Gander had always been the most, dare he say, Marksist of the group – never felt comfortable around the aristocracy that Roly mingled with, never comfortable around whatever semblance of the admiralty that remained that Walkie hung around with.

But with one faint modicum of tangible power, this had been the first change observed. As much as he hated to blame Gander, if he of all ponies turned to this, what would the rest of them be like? Did they just not understand the world like him? Alone, cursed to consider things so much more deeply than everypony else.

He was still rattling on about something, and Light kept up with a few nods and one or two mumbles of agreement which seemed to satisfy Gander enough for him to continue. His mind wandered back to all those empty seats at pubs he used to frequent. Ponies once filled them. Just empty spaces now.

Before he could get another thought in, Gander linked hooves with him, dragging him along to look at something new. It was strangely pleasant, a warm feeling of appreciation at last, just his general presence being wanted. It pushed aside some of the more horrible thoughts, letting a small smile form on his lips.

“You know, it’s so nice you came over. I’ve been stressing out so much over work, it’s not been great. There’s so much to do and so little time. Guessing you feel the same?”

Light nodded, looking up at him with his weary eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. I just can’t explain it. It’s been relentless.”

“It looks it,” Gander said, “I mean, you’re already getting into brawls over it. Goodness me, Light, you haven’t done that for years.”

“You remember?” He perked up a little.

“Of course I do, idiot. How could I forget the time my dashing knight saved me from that unic—”

“Enough of that!” Light laughed, rolling his eyes. “You know he was just cruising for a bruising. Wasn’t cause of you.”

“Mhm.” Gander smiled, looking purposefully unconvinced. “Whatever you say. You did swoop in like some big hero though, can’t deny that.”

Light waved a hoof in the air, groaning. “You’re making me gag.”

Gander started giggling again, like some hidden joke had been made. “Uh huh. Now, come on, I need to show you the upstairs. Honestly, it’s just magical, I cannot believe how lovely it all looks.”

It was funny to think just a moment ago he felt so very dreadful. It was a strange, cyclical pattern of emotion. He’d get upset over something, he’d calm down, he’d get upset over the fact he was upset by it. It made every morning a gamble over whether he’d have a nice day or not.

Being held onto did provide some temporary relief, either way; though it was certainly easier to kiss the lover than to become one.

Just a little later, as the two sat down with meals on their plates, he felt that familiar pang of isolation crack through the barrier of his mind. It was silent, for the most part. The obvious pleasantries were exchanged, thank yous, some workplace gossip from Gander that Roly had told him about. It was the slightest bit disconcerting hearing about it, mostly in learning just how much the unofficial party spymaster knew of just about everypony. It was interesting, though – one day he might just offer an expansion of her responsibilities.

He was happy, but that discomforted him. He took a last bite of his food, looking up at Gander and mumbling an ‘mmm’. He wasn’t hungry. He had so many things to do, ponies to telephone, deals to make. Like a big exam coming up, it just felt like he wasn’t doing enough. He was here, when he should be elsewhere – that dulled his appetite just a touch.

“Gander?” He wiped the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief, not a typical habit, but one he adopted in Gander’s presence. “Do you think we have a chance?”

Gander tilted his head, still chewing on his food and hurriedly swallowing it down. “What do you mean? As in the—“

“The war. Do you think we might be alright?”

“I reckon so. There’s enough ponies out there, and it’s not like the changelings have been ironclad in their rule. The cracks have already shown.” He took a sip of his wine, lips curling into a frown as he pushed his plate away. “You said you wouldn’t bring this up. What’s on your mind?”

“I know, I know, but it’s a big thing. It’s stressing me out.” He stood up, taking both their plates into the kitchen.

Gander took their glasses of wine with him, following along. “I know. I can see that, to be honest. You carry a lot of tension.”

Light had no idea what that even meant, but he rolled with it. “Yeah,” he dumped the plates in the sink, fine with dealing with it all later. “Can we go upstairs? I do need to talk about it.”

Gander nodded, messing with a strand of his hair with his free hoof. “As long as I can take the wine with me.”

“Am I that boring?” He smiled weakly.

“Yeah. Terribly. I actually only stick around you for the money.” He got onto his hind legs, leaning back against the marble counter and sipping straight from the bottle, sticking his tongue out playfully.

Light snatched the bottle from his hooves, taking a long swig of it himself. “Yeah, and I’m only sticking around for your body.” he said in the dryest, most casual tone he could muster.

He got a roll of his eyes in response. Gander was looking away, but he could see he was smiling. He passed the wine bottle back. “But seriously, I do wanna talk.”

“Of course,” Gander shielded his eyes from him dramatically, looking over to him with a hoof over his mouth in pretend shock from the earlier comment. He snickered, trotting off amicably with another hum.

The bedroom too was certainly an improvement from the slightly dingy apartment Gander had once lived in. It was probably bigger than the original’s entire living area. Gander sat himself down on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs with the bottle of wine in his lap, obviously needing to be readily accessible.

This sort of luxury was still new to the fascist leader. He’d not had an uncomfortable life for a long time; even under the changelings, life as a collaborator was never a struggle for necessities. But now? They had been catapulted head-first into a life of incredible luxury. Gander had already adjusted well, just taking from the treasury at will because, simply put, who was going to stop him? Light had been much more moderate, but being a despot certainly had perks. The plush lounger he was sitting on was just one of them.

“So,” Gander uncorked the second bottle. “What’s on your mind?”

Light looked around, taking in the incredible excess that surrounded him. They were outside the city, fairly safe in isolation, but the black smog of industry that rose from the city was so clearly visible. Guns, bullets, explosives, all churned from those lines, ready to fuel a war he had called and be held by ponies he never even knew.

There was power in that – a lot of power. In an unexpected way, it sickened him to his stomach.

He’d never really thought about why he had done all this. It was always just a plan, just a need to get revenge, to carry out some sort of justice, but that had become so muddled over the eight years he had done this for. He hardly even remembered what the revenge was for sometimes.

“I just don’t know how to do this, Gander,” he admitted, taking a shaky breath. Opening up was not his strong suit. “I’m young. Or at least, relatively speaking I am—I mean, the leader before me was a deity. How am I supposed to be accepted after that? How am I supposed to be loved?”

Gander grimaced. “Celestia abandoned us. She’s no deity – with time, she’ll just be a memory.”

“A thousand years of rule won’t just turn into a memory,” he said. “She’ll always be that symbol. I’ll come and go – she won’t.”

Gander passed over the wine bottle, finally. There was a pause as he considered his words. “I don’t think so. She left us, Light. She literally abandoned us as soon as it got tough – in our darkest hour. For ten years, Light. This place hasn’t known her rule for a decade now. Ponies have grown up in that time. You’re young, true, but that means you have time too. And I’ll be damned if I don’t try and spin the best picture of you I can for them.”

Light held the bottle, already feeling a little tipsy. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.” Gander took his hoof.

He smiled a dejected smile, lips quickly downturning as his thoughts caught up with him. For once, he felt like he wasn't enough for a pony. “I wish I could be better,” Light added. “I mean, for your sake, more than anything.”

“Why? What do you mean by that?” Gander leaned in, frowning.

“I know I’m not a very good pony. I know I’m just waiting for a bad day to ruin this all. And part of me wants that—Part of me likes that, in a weird sort of way. It’s… stable. I know, if I ruin things, I’m in control at least… you know?”

Gander took a deep breath, studying the pony in front of him like it’d uncover some sort of hidden secret. His exhale was laboured, tired, half expecting of this. “You know, I’ll always be there to help. We can work on this. I’ll help you as best I can, promise.”

“I keep cutting myself off from help, you know that! I try my hardest, but nothing works—I-I’m scared, Gander, I can’t mess up anymore. I have to be strong all the time now, and… I’m not sure I am.”

He half needed Gander just to tell him to drop out of all this, despite everything. They’d made money, they could just disappear completely. If he’d asked him to leave the show, he would...

Gander took a deep breath, studying the pony in front of him like it’d uncover some sort of hidden secret. His exhale was laboured, tired, half expecting of this. “You know, I’ll always be there to help. We can work on this. I’ll help you as best I can, promise.” You’re the best leader Equestria’s ever had, we can’t stop now.”

...but he didn’t, and he never would.

“But I’m not sure I can!” he shouted, breaking the quiet of the room. He held his head in his hooves, his mane hanging dishevelled over his face. “How am I supposed to lead this hellhole?! It’s un-bucking-salvageable! I loved it, but that world is gone now!” He spoke through choked cries, desperate for a genuine answer.

Not some blind ego-boost about his abilities. Actual help.

Gander backed away a little. That guilt returned. He took the bottle of wine back, finishing an almost impressive third of the bottle in a few long swigs from the bottle.

“They have no love for me, Gander.” he mumbled, almost inaudibly. Gander shifted slowly, getting to his hooves and sitting next to him.

They shared a moment of silence, one only broken by a quiet embrace. It was his head on Gander’s shoulder this time.

9 – Who We Think We Are

~~7th~~ Definitely 5th May, 1023.

Like a moment where the brakes lock. Sliding is what it felt like. This was unavoidable; this was the culmination of his doing.

Eight years of work and its product, laid out neatly before his very eyes.

His eyes traced the envelope’s contents. Tanks had cut across from the south-east, and in a desperate manoeuvre to cut them off, General had levied more than a hoofful of terrified ponies to act as bait to stall for the advance eastwards. They’d lured the tanks into heavy anti-tank fire, but they’d taken far more casualties than expected.

The military staff had tried to placate Light, saying things along the same sort of manner as ‘they’re militia, you can’t expect much’ and ‘these are the sorts of casualties you must expect from facing a superior enemy’, but that hadn’t worked to its full intended effect on him.

His gaze fixed onto the numbers on the page. 7,235. In two days. That was a ridiculous number. 7,235 ponies, who were alive just a week ago, who had friends and families, who, just a week prior, lived in a nation ignorant to war.

He then traced his eyes across the file, towards the crudely attached image of the General. He didn't know most of his military staff. A lot of them had been gathered very recently, and this was just another pony in the flurry of new talent that his leaders had procured. They were a terribly average looking pony. A snappy looking stallion that looked like it had ordered its fair share of hard decisions in war, with a cane and a face that one could have only ever imagined belonged to a general.

This was everything the Equestrian Liberation Front meant; its natural byproduct. There had to be a reason behind it all, though. The bloody hoof of some cosmic destiny had decided that this had to be done.

He pushed the papers to the side. It didn’t matter. He’d done the maths himself.

It had been five hours since the battle ended. The newly appointed Chief of Staff, Rocky Road, had delivered the message to him by hand. Clearly, she had intended this to be seen as a great victory. After all, they’d left almost an entire tank division destroyed or disabled, at only the cost of some of their least experienced troops. Half of them didn’t even have modern rifles; it was actually quite miraculous they'd even halted the tanks, a testament to the strategic skill of the E.L.F.

But life was not a massive game of chess, and Light did not appreciate the fact that seven thousand pawns had been sacrificed for four hundred knights.

The Second Battle of the Hoofhills, is what it would be called. Second, because a first had happened ten years prior with almost the exact same situation. It was almost ironic.

Light sighed, clearing his desk and really forcing himself to ignore the urge to reach into the oak drawer at the bottom of it and open the grey flask kept inside. That flask was likely older than half the soldiers that had been fed to the gun over the last couple of days. Stars, these ponies must’ve only been foals when the Great War started. That was gut-wrenching. They’d barely even known the Equestria he longed for, outside of cloudy foalhood memories.

Still, he reminded himself, it was a war, and he was a leader – a strong leader. Getting himself worked up over this was folly, especially when the worst was yet to come. He leant over, his chair reclining back to accommodate his movement, and switched on the radio, tuning into the Equestrian broadcasting service. A mare read the news calmly, delivering propaganda as if it was as certain as the weather.

“...and now back to the Hoofhills. A great victory has been had today. Equestrian troops have managed to destroy a large number of Changeling armour, with a relatively low casualty rate. We thank all our brave troops that have given their lives in service of their nation. The front has also moved – the Second Army has continued their advance towards Manehattan thanks to the service of the Twelfth Division, expecting to connect our nation within a matter of days.

“In other news, the Hero Commander has decided on the postponement of the Pony Rights bill, with major public agreement in calling it a waste of resources at such a critical point. He assures it will be picked back up once the time is right. Tune in for his speech at five.

“And now, for our heroes on the production floor: has a friend been acting suspicious lately? Have they been spreading anti-state rumours? They may be an infiltrator. Report them to your foreman, or to your local National Party headquarters. Remember: freedom is a collaborative effort.”

He turned the radio off, just in time as it started playing yet another patriotic song. It had been the third news article dedicated to him that day, and the third he’d been labelled a hero. It was starting to become a bit grating. His ego loved it, of course, but it made him feel so unsure of his capability, living up to the expectations painted of him. He stood up, stretched his legs for the first time that day, and stared up at the clock behind him. 2:39. He had a while before his speech, but maybe a good hour before his team swept him up and started playing dress up with him to make him look the most imposing he could look.

He walked to the door, looking to get a head start, and, as expected, the moment his hoof touched the handle, two guards were stood waiting for him.

The increasing presence of security was not something that could go unnoticed. It felt like every time he moved, there was always at least two ponies flanking him, silently on patrol. It had been happening ever since his status as a figurehead grew, and despite its permanence, it had become something he had quickly learned to ignore.

He made his way to the canteen, giving a silent nod at the two black-cladden guards with unmoving faces that was quickly returned. His mind raced with what ifs, but chief amongst them was the question of his legacy. Every move he made, he built it up, and that would forever decide his place in history. It was a terrifying thought, especially being scrutinised so heavily. Every minute detail would go towards painting a picture of him that could very well last centuries after – after all, he was not a small figure in Equestrian history now.

The pony that stole the sun from Celestia, hopefully not the pony that flew too close to it.

The excitement of it had quickly withered and vanished, as was the fate of most joys these days, but it had its moments of greatness. His gambit, stealing the E.L.F. from the snot-nosed unicorns in Manehattan, had been immensely satisfying, and equally well rewarded. Within the space of a few weeks, he’d gone from a tiny entity in the grand scape of the political scene to a household name from Manehattan to Seaddle. Factories all over his domain blasted his words for all to hear, and despite the stoic demeanour he portrayed, the popularity was certainly appreciated.

For once in his life, he had a say – one everypony had to listen to. That was under his merit alone.

The sunglasses quickly switched from pocket to face, covering his sunken eyes. There was no need for them in a place like this, it was dingy and grey enough as was, but it did make him look cool. Very authoritarian, but that was the goal, was it not? He hadn’t brought a movement this far just to go ‘well, hey now, why don’t we have a senate?’ There was absolutely no need to dilute his ideas across a council of ponies that just didn’t get it.

And so it was. Across the vast network of grey corridors, the commander’s procession continued. Ponies darted to the side to make way, tired, coffee-sustained young bureaucrats taking every opportunity they could get to watch Light move from place to place.

This is what stardom felt like. Once upon a time, before all the mess had happened, he’d enjoyed a little bit of status as a local ‘celebrity’ for his singing.

He supposed this was similar, only that vocal training was going to something properly useful now, not wasted on some pitiful band with some even more pitiful, dopey-eyed ponies. This was real status.

Of course, most recollection of that old singing had vanished – mostly on purpose about seven years prior when he chose to try and detach himself from any connection to it. After all, nopony wants a supreme leader that also does a bit of karaoke on the side.

It made him wonder where those other ponies had gone off to. Dead, most likely. Last he heard of the drummer, Chilli Pepper, he’d been flown away onto some air base in the Great War. He remembered him being a flight sergeant; he used to send him letters all the time. Light never returned them, however, but he was sure he’d be able to find the envelopes in a drawer somewhere.

It’d make for some nostalgic reading one day: sitting in a villa in Prance, drinking champone and tipsily reading about the world of once-was. That’d have to wait, though.

For now, it was all about running around, putting out fires and starting an equal number more.

The canteen was filled with ponies, mostly the lower-ranking of the party. They chatted amongst themselves, an air of nervous excitement filling the room. One could even say everypony seemed quite hopeful, finally seeing a future coming for Equestria that was a bit brighter than the one they’d spent the last decade surviving. Heads turned as he made his entrance.

He was an imposing presence to most. Clad in the darkest outfit in the room, two armed soldiers following him closely, his face stern and eyes obscured. The only break from the uniformity was his white fur, covered up by a black trenchcoat head to tail, with equally dark, polished boots. He was a tall pony, hardly Celestia’s size, but more than tall enough to stick out in a crowd. All of this helped to sell the act of a stern, militaristic leader – an act he was happy to play, for it had propelled him from an angry worker speaking at local pubs to what was essentially Equestria’s newest prince.

It was a deeply monarchical society they lived in, at the end of the day. Despite his loathing for royalty, any autocrat he was going to be would be associated in the minds of the Equestrian as a new type of royal. Whether it was greater or lesser than the last was up for interpretation, and that was unnerving.

He could feel hundreds of eyes boring into him, a hush descending over the room. In only a moment more, it erupted into noise. The tens of ponies dining stood to get a look at their hero, stomping in jubilant applause. He waved a hoof, giving a warm smile to his subordinates.

It would’ve been easy to get caught up in it, bask in the shower of praise he was being offered. Anypony else would’ve, he was sure, but he was above such petty acts. Also, he was actually feeling pretty starved, and every moment he spent enjoying everypony’s adoration was a moment he could be eating. He got onto his hind legs, standing above the crowd and making an ‘X’ shape with his front hooves, holding it high, prompting the crowd to applaud even louder and some to even start repeating the gesture.

It was symbolic of... something. Honestly, he didn't know where it had come from. Breaking binds, maybe? Realistically, it just looked cool to him, and so he did it.

He couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t at least a little amusing. He had worked hard for moments like these, was it really all that vain to just enjoy it a little? Sure, he would admit, he was just a little vain, but it wasn’t vain to be the centre; it wasn’t his fault these ponies loved him so much. He’d earnt that, he’d worked for nearing on a decade to earn their adoration, that was just the product of his work.

He continued down the pathway that had quickly cleared for him, entering a private room where the holiest of holies for the party could eat in relative silence. To his surprise, Gemstone and Roly were already there, the only two other than Gander that tended to stay in the party’s headquarters. Anthearea and Walkie were both likely in separate camps miles from here, and double the miles from each other, and Gander preferred to get one of his lackeys to take the food to him so he could eat alone.

Six guards stood at the edges of the room, adding to the security. The room was a lot nicer than the other canteen, separated by a short corridor that two more guards stood in. The fear of infiltrators had already taken hold, and this room was just a result. It used to be an armoury, once upon a time, for a now defunct Equestrian military headquarters, as evidenced by the anti-air platform at the very top of the building, in the part that sprouted up out of the ground. It was nothing that would survive heavier shelling, or, stars-forbid, a thaumo-nuclear device, but it worked in keeping the bureaucracy safe from the bombs that had, rather eerily, not come yet.

The room stank of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, as did most rooms Gemstone frequented. They were a loud pegasus, but mostly kept to a few different rooms that made him easy enough to find whenever he was needed. For the most part, as the sole member of the Equestrian Economic Committee, his days were spent devising business strategy and just how in Tartarus he was supposed to get half an army’s worth of guns produced over the space of a few weeks, when stolen stockpiles would run dry.

Light did not like him, to put it mildly. For one, he was a pegasus, which, whilst better than a unicorn, gave him a distinctly sour taste in his mouth, especially when so much of the work cut out for him was managing his fellow pegasi and how they fit into their new society. It struck him as a bit slimy, the sort of pony to have no ideals they sticked to. However, it couldn’t be understated just how crucial he was. He was intelligent, full of ideas, and had the heavy industrial backing they had needed at such a critical stage. That didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to sit with him at lunch, though, high school clique mentality be damned.

The two soldiers at his side peeled off, standing by the entrance to the room. He took his sunglasses off, comfortable enough to end the charade, nodding friendly to the two ponies taking centre stage in the room. He served himself a small portion of food, eating quickly as he took his leave, stuffing his face whilst he had the short window of privacy. The two soldiers rejoined him, and they made their way to Gander’s office at the other side of the bunker.

For the most part, the bunker was repurposed with a focus on simplicity. It wasn’t supposed to be grand and luxurious, because that wasn’t what a good leader like Light should have. It was to be practical and fit for military use, because that was a core part of post-friendship. Luxuries only inspired laziness, and this was a habit Light thought he fell into far too frequently when left to his own devices, so he’d stripped the rooms he occupied bare of any possible distractions, other than the flask of spirits, kept for ‘sentimental’ value and refilled for ‘sentimental’ value.

Gander’s domain was not the same. Progressively, making the walk towards his sector of the headquarters, one could notice things getting gradually more expensive. Tiled flooring replaced wooden flooring, decorations became increasingly less bare, and, taking a step into the Department of Post-Friendship Education and Enlightenment, it was like a whole new building, complete with chandeliers, potted plants, paintings, banners, panelling, all things shiny and extravagant. It looked like a young noble had just inherited a tidy sum and gone about doing just about everything to look their wealth.

Gaudy? Maybe. Light certainly seemed to think so. He had chastised Gander, saying he was spending probably just as much money on his own plethora of little creative pursuits as their military received. It was hyperbole, obviously, but he was the fourth biggest spender of national funds outside of the industrial and military sector. The third if you included his own private spending.

This was the only place Light ever saw him, and that was probably a good thing. His department, or, more aptly, his little personal fiefdom, had the largest number of soldiers patrolling around other than the rare occasions when Walkie Talkie was present. He had the second largest number of personal bodyguards, only second to Light himself who had his own personal battalion that had swelled in size since he had taken over.

The offices of the Education and Enlightenment department had a completely different type of pony running about it. They all had an air of superiority around them, and it was certainly the most diverse of the departments. They were a different class of bureaucrat. They dressed the smartest, read the most, and were colloquially referred to as the bleeding hearts of the party. Backgrounds be damned, Gander hired and promoted based on personal liking, and so the offices had become a playground of whoever could curry the most favour from him; an army of little suck-ups.

Pushing through the maze of creatives, the ponies whose jobs were to keep books, organise propaganda and deal with press, Light made his way to a large oak double door, and knocked quadrice as per usual – any more would be begging, any less would be unbecoming of his status and the urgency of his presence. The doors swung open, and in invited Gander, a stack of papers clenched tightly in his hooves and a knackered but pleasantly surprised look on his face.

His office was the largest and most well-furnished in the whole of the headquarters, and, for whatever reason, had a ridiculous amount of books, papers, and maps, stacked in shelves, across walls and in piles. It was almost a library in its own right, and the shelves were piled high for display.

As a foal, Gander was a lover of the arts. Poetry, prose, painting, music, dance, he’d always had an affinity for it, but all except his writing had never come naturally to him. And so he was, the mastermind behind all the party’s propaganda, new and old. Every poster, book, speech and slogan had been created in his offices, and whilst a lot of it was now handled via delegation, his work had still remained the most impactful.

A lot of these books were from before the Great War, and whilst Light had painted many of them as un-Equestrian, unbecoming of the new ideology of post-friendship, it had served him as a treasure trove of information and inspiration. It was what really cemented Gander as his own type of genius in Light’s mind; not many had bothered to collect them up since the occupation, with many of them being burnt by the changelings. Even still, Light had been taught, and still taught, that friendship was dead, and that the information that these books held was irrelevant, and, frankly, useless. Despite this, a lot of these books had helped him greatly, and had even led to a number of key ideas and policies being formed, just that many of them had been the opposite of what these books told.

Gander was an interesting character, Light always thought. He had a penchant for being a little odd, a peculiar mix of pony that could either be immensely helpful or a huge hindrance, but, at the end of the day, Light enjoyed his company and found him strangely pleasant to be around. Over the years, Gander had proved himself as being more helpful than nuisance, and so he had stayed.

He had a knack for poeticisms and a natural ability to string words together beautifully in a way not even Light could. It was why he’d had him write his speeches for half a decade, his speeches were the best in the country, and likely anywhere. His way of making even the policy that would’ve been outrageous only ten years ago seem entirely necessary, exciting and new. Gander just seemed to enjoy the attention it brought him, stating drunkenly numerous times that he’d never expected his work to ever be so prevalent. On one occasion, he’d even compared himself to Marks. That statement was quickly withdrawn.

They sat opposite to each other, Gander on his throne-like desk chair and Light on a much more humble wooden seat.

Gander looked a little worse for wear. His mane was dishevelled in a way he never usually let it reach, and the bags under his eyes were deeper than usual.

“Afternoon, Gander,” Light finally greeted. “Everything alright?”

He looked a little confused for just a moment, looking at Light as if the question was bizarre, before quickly fixing his mane in realisation and answering.

“Yes, I think so, yes. I’ve had a busier night than usual, you see, but nothing outside the ordinary. Nothing a glass of wine won’t fix.”

Light chuckled, able to tell he meant it. Gander had a problem, and that problem was alcohol. But not the same sort of problem Light had, where once he started drinking he simply wouldn’t stop until he was slumped over a railing vomiting; Gander just always seemed to drink. Not excessively, no, he was never tipsy at work, but he would constantly drink throughout the day, sometimes even a glass an hour. His drinking was simply a necessity, in the same way one had to drink water. He had excellent discipline over how inebriated he would get, something Light lacked, but unlike Light, it was constant.

Light had a flask full of spirits that he saved for a rainy day, Gander had a glass bottle filled with a dark red liquid, or maybe two, that he would get through in a day.

“Well,” Light continued, pouring them both a glass from the crystal decanter, taking a sip and letting that warm thrill hit the back of his throat.

“Ooh,” he knocked his head to the side, grimacing from the bitter sting of alcohol coating his tongue. “Strong today, Gander. Anyway, you’re in luck, cause I have an hour or so to kill.”

Gander looked delighted, eagerly taking a sip for himself.

They talked about just about everything, and simultaneously nothing of substance. The conversation flowed through a myriad of topics, their current work, jumping to their personal lives, and then reminiscing about the past. Gander had the rare privilege of knowing a lot about Light, even before the occupation, and so they found any opportunity to reminisce. It was the one time Light felt at ease.

He felt a warmth in his chest, one that wasn’t down to the alcohol, one that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. It wasn’t love, per se, nor was it happiness, or joy. It was just a sense of belonging, a sense that, for a few moments out of his day, he could relax, and the weight of responsibility would lift ever so slightly. The clock on the wall moved more swiftly than usual, and in a blink of an eye, thirty minutes had passed, and the clock behind him read 3:23, ever so rudely reminding him of his speech at five.

Shifting the conversation away from its previous topic of wherever they thought Walkie got the view that changelings descended from unicorns, he moved it along to more useful matters.

“I’m assuming that new speech is ready?” he inquired. “And did you make sure to include everything on my list? You know, the whole unity thing. We have to make sacrifices for our friends, we’re the real Equestria, blah, blah, blah, unity. You have all that nonsense?”

Gander nodded, taking a long sip.

Light waited for his response, but when it became clear that no elaboration was coming, he rolled his eyes, smiling.

He took another sip, placing the empty glass down, the sound of glass clinking against wood sounding through the room. He leant forwards, crossing his forelegs on the table. He spoke with a lower, more sinister tone. He didn’t want to scare him, but he needed that authoritarian tone, and it registered.

“You are aware of the casualties at the Hoofhills, I imagine?”

It was an uncomfortable question, one they both knew the answer to. It was an open secret at this point. Gander went quiet, his expression shifting slightly. It wasn’t the sort of thing they usually talked about.

“I want you to address it, please. In some way, shape or form, I need it to be addressed, and I need it to be made known that we understand these costs, and we will honour every last pony that gives their lives for Equestria, but there will be costs.”

Light took a moment to let his words sink in, letting the words linger in the air for just a moment longer like they’d soak through the mind. Gander was a good writer, but Light knew who he wrote for. These were the ponies that read his newspapers and tuned into his radio shows. They were the party faithful, the ones that already believed everything. He didn’t need to convince these ponies; he needed to convince the faithless, the hopeless, the ponies that wavered, that could believe but didn’t or were simply apathetic to their cause.

“We need to inspire some change. I want everypony to know that this is the most absolute of necessities, and this war can only be won through struggle. We need to start winning hearts. They need to understand what they’re fighting for. We need to make it clear that this isn’t a war for power, or ideology, but that this is a war for survival, and that we are the force that will keep them or their friends alive. I know this is very late to start making adjustments, but I need you to—”

Gander’s eyes seemed to light up, grinning and reaching down for his notepad, scribbling down a few notes.

“We’re winning this war, Gander. Manehattan will be ours in a few days. We just need to make sure they join us, and not some weird unicorn group that’ll promise everypony everything just as it was.”

Gander waved his hoof, shuffling the stack of papers and beginning to jot something down. “I’ll get it done in fifteen minutes. Stay with me for a moment, I’ll be done in no time.”

The next few minutes were spent in relative silence, only the occasional hum or sigh of discontentment with his writing, or scribble of a pen scratching out a line as Light waited for Gander to finish his writing. It was the first time Light had, in many years of doing this, fully spectated his creative process. He watched, not a word exchanged between them, as Light watched Gander build up a speech line by line. It was miraculous seeing how he just seemed to have the innate ability to tie each point together so quickly and fluidly, the way it just seemed to build up on each point, weaving them together seamlessly.

Light was, if he had to admit, just a little jealous. If only he could put words together like this. Sure, he could strike up a brilliant conversation, or once-upon-a-time make a song, but this was different. It wasn’t the same at all. This was true talent he was witnessing, one that he couldn’t help but let himself feel a little envy for. This was his cutie mark. This was how it tied in with his life. Light’s was nothing but a useless traffic light.

It didn’t take much longer, Gander passing back the paper in less time than he’d asked for. Light quietly read it through aloud, nodding silently as his eyes flickered from line to line, finally giving a nod as he finished it.

“This is—”

“Great, I know right?” Gander beamed, a smile of self-satisfaction and a twinkle of pride in his eyes.

For a second, those cutie mark related jealousies almost forced him to try and knock him off his pedestal. He resisted the urge. He had to be better than that.

He let a smirk creep across his face, chuckling warmly and standing up. “Right, come ‘ere, idiot.”

He extended his forelegs, wrapping the now standing Gander in a rare hug. They stayed for a moment like this, wordless. It was an affection Light rarely gave, and one that Gander had certainly not expected. When separated, Gander looked at him with a mixed sense of confusion and pride.

Light backed off, seeming to realise what he’d done. Still, he couldn’t help himself from smiling. He wasn’t sure where that all came from – he usually thought about his actions a lot more than that. He sighed, straightening his tie and giving Ganger a nod.

“‘It’s perfect’, is what I meant. Thank you.”

“That was nice, Light,” he smiled, warmly. “I appreciated that.”

He could tell he wasn’t referring to the compliment. It had been nice, actually.

He turned back, making his way for the exit. Just before he left, Gander shouted ove—

“Light! Light, don’t forget the rally you have tomorrow! Make sure you have something to wear, okay? A proper outfit. You have a reputation I need you to keep, remember? It can be the same one as last time, if you can find it, but just—just make it look new, okay? It can be the same, I don’t mind, but I mean, it does smell a bit, and there’s blood on the sleeve. Oh! Oh, and—and don’t forget your sunglasses, okay? And smile a little, ponies love a smile—but not like a big smile, like a cocky half-smile sort of thing, I don’t mean your ‘three ciders in’ smile, I mean your ‘they don’t know what’s about to him them’ smile. That one. Yeah, yeah, that one. Oh, and have you been drinking before? I mean, we had a glass, but it’s affecting your eyes, and—hey, where are you going? Light, you aren’t even listening, are you? Hey! Come back! You haven’t even shown me what suit you’re wearing, Light. Light, I’m not finished. Light, you haven’t even shown me what you’re wearing yet? I need to make sure it works well with the sunglasses! Liiiight!”

“IT MATCHES!” he called back from out of the corridor. The two soldiers assigned to his guard shut the door behind him.

That was enough social interaction for a while, he reckoned.

Back into the maze they went, following a new path, a minute added on to avoid the extra social confrontations, a stack of papers folded in his inner jacket pocket. As he approached the exit, he heard a shout from further down the staircase. He knew who it was, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood to speak to them.

“Sir Light!”

He groaned, trying his hardest to ignore the nagging voice. He’d gotten quite used to it after all this time. After all, it had practically become a constant whilst working here. He kept going, nodding to the two soldiers to open the door.

“Commander! I need to speak to y—”

“WHAT?!” he shouted, exasperated. “What is it, Gemstone?! I’m not dealing with you right now!”

Gemstone finally came reeling to a halt, practically having to slide across the floor to stop in his hurry. His wings folded in, head dropping to catch his breath. “Commander… whew.”

“I told you. You’re not allowed to fly in there, Gemstone. You have a lot of nerve—”

“Sweet Celestia, Light! I don’t care! I don’t… whew… I don’t care what you think about me or my department, but I need you to bucking work with me, damn it.”

Gemstone was a hard-working pegasus, he had no doubts he had been working all night. He’d heard from Roly that his whole department, few as they may be, were barely sleeping, and the bags under his eyes said the same thing. His voice was ragged, his body slouched.

“Light, we need more guns. We need more explosives, and tanks, and ammo, and just about everything under Celes—sorry, the sun. And you’re not bucking helping me,” He prodded him with his hoof, speaking in a frantic panic. “I can’t fund your army through sheer bucking willpower, Light. I’m not even getting a quarter of the material I’ve been promised. Light, I have other industrialists breathing down my neck. I have the military breathing down my neck. And everypony needs more and more and more and I can’t bucking give them anything BECAUSE I’M NOT GETTING ANY STEEL!” he cried, hitting the ground with his hoof with every word, as if he was trying to hammer the words into the concrete.

Light sighed, throwing up his hooves in an exaggerated shrug. “What do you want me to do about it, huh? You’re the one in charge of all that. Fix it,” he responded, curtly.

“Fix it?” he repeated, shakily. “Bucking… fix it?! You think I haven’t been trying?! Stars, fine. I had a proposal, please.”

Light started to walk off, rolling his eyes. Gemstone quickly trotted to his side, following him closely.

“Hey, hey, no, come on, listen. I had a great idea. So, you know all these industrialists east, right? I say nationalise everything. I mean everything. I can run it. I might need some new hires, but by Celestia, or whoever I should be praying to now, I’ll get it all sorted. But I need bucking quarries, and I need factories, and I need raw bucking materials, because I cannot make rifles out of revolutionary fervour. And I need funds. I need a lot of bucking cash infusions, because some of these factories are death traps. I just need—”

“Send the pegasi to the mines," he blurted.

Gemstone blinked. “Wait. Light, what?”

He shrugged. “Party doctrine, is it not? Make them pay reparation for the dominion they held over us?”

“Light… hah… I’m a pegasus," he laughed, nervously.

“Perfect. Then you’ll know just how to get them to the mines. Buck off.”

Gemstone stood still, blubbering and making a strange, whiny noise. Light looked back, confused. He looked like a foal being chastised by their mother, in full nervous breakdown. It was almost shocking, but no, this was Gemstone. Light rolled his eyes and continued to walk towards the black car prepared to take him away.

Gemstone, after a few moments, seemed to realise this wasn’t a cruel joke, running back and calling over. “Wait, Commander. Light, wait!”

“Oh, what now, Gemstone?” He checked his watch with a long groan, eager to end the conversation as soon as possible. It was enough being pestered by Gander earlier about suits. It seemed like everypony always wanted something only whenever he was busy.

“Light, we’ve talked about this, we can’t just—” He gulped. “We can’t just send ponies off to mines, Light.”

“Of course you can!” He threw his hooves up. “It’s an issue of willpower, get Roly and fix it with her.”

“Light, please, come on,” he whined, running back up to his side.

Light sighed, stopping. “I am waiting, go on, what is it? Spit it out already.”

“Light, I can’t just send a group of ponies to the mines. I mean, yes, I could, but not without huge backlash, or a damn revolt. You can’t just—I can’t just make them mine without their consent, or a lot of convincing, we’re not the changelings, Light.”

Light let out a long exhale, hardly even considering his words beyond how much it was annoying him. “Fine. Get the unicorns to do it.”

Gemstone let out a long, stressed, cry of despair. “You can’t be serious, Light! You can’t seriously expect me to start shipping off groups of ponies to do whatever work we need, it’ll be a damn PR nightmare! It’ll completely ruin our public image! No, no, it’ll do more than that. It’ll be a disaster, it’ll be catastrophic! It’ll be—”

“Yes, Gemstone, I understand the concept of revolt,” he snapped, interrupting him. “This is ideological. You’re a businesspony, right? You understand the concept of debts, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, but—”

“No, no, no, no, no, no. Stop, Gemstone, no. Listen, they made themselves wealthy off of our backs. The entire system of old Equestria was built off of earth pony backs. If it wasn’t for our kind, their entire system would’ve failed. They’d have had no industry, no economy, no roads, no bridges. They owe us. This isn’t asking for much in a time like this, and it’s a fair repayment. It’s not bucking permanent. They’re already going to repay us, this’ll just expedite that whole process. Understand?”

“But, but, but, but… Light,” he tried to interject.

“And, and, and…” Light mocked. “Figure it out. I’m busy,” he said, opening the door to the car.

Gemstone let out another panicked cry, looking as if he was about to pull his mane out. Light ignored the pathetic display, getting into the back seat of the car.

“Light!” he yelled, sticking his hoof in front of the door to keep it from closing. “Listen, listen. I’ll work it out. I’ll talk to Walkie, I’ll get him to focus on the resource zone during this eastwards push. Just… I can’t do this whole unicorn thing.”

Light took off his sunglasses, making sure he was obscured from public view and the few ponies that walked the streets. “Then find out how you’ll get that steel, or you’ll find your economic committee a lot more diluted. We made a deal. That fancy bucking mansion of yours is paid out of my pocket,” he pushed his hoof out of the door’s way, shooing him away. “Good day. I have a speech to go to.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gemstone outside cursing frantically, making another winged sprint back to the bunker. He’d have to reprimand him for that again, sometime. It was privilege enough that he was allowing pegasi to work in senior party leadership, given their heavy collaboration with the unicorn system.

He rubbed his temples, a mild headache starting to set in. Three soldiers from his personal guard already sat in the vehicle with him, sitting on the seats facing him in the back of the car.

As it finally set off, he enjoyed a well-deserved break from all the nagging he’d had today. The ride wasn’t a long one, it only took him to the centre of Bales for the venue of his speech. It was to be a heavily guarded service, hence the thick, tinted glass in the car. The soldiers were all silent, with unmoving faces and blank stares at nothing, but it was vaguely comforting to be in their presence. Not only did it make him feel very important, he trusted his life with these ponies. They were the best of the worst. All veterans, but mostly the ones that had gone into more shady careers following the Great War. Union busters, military collaborationists, private security forces.

It was a welcome peace, a momentary respite. As he watched the bland scenery pass him by through the almost blackened windows, buildings all blending together into one grey blob, it was oddly cathartic. These were his streets, his ponies, and soon enough, his country. Everything would fall into place, just as it always had for him.

His mind went quiet for once, the sounds of the road and the hum of the engine providing a pleasant ambiance. He didn’t dare close his eyes, knowing that if he did, he would almost certainly drift to sleep.

He blinked, and then…

The next time he opened his eyes, the car had come to a halt, and his time to think alone would be over. It was slightly daunting getting out of the car, mentally preparing himself for the sudden onslaught of thousands and thousands of ponies’ cheers and applause. It was a big ask of him, especially after a day like this. He took a moment to actually check to see if Gander was being truthful, if the alcohol really had gotten to him, but no. It was likely just Gander being paranoid again. He got that way pretty often over matters of presentation like that.

A small, speckled stallion was the first to greet him, excitedly gesturing for him to follow, pen and clipboard in hand. Light followed along silently, already straightening out his uniform. It meant nothing, he’d be getting changed into something new and even more dazzlingly intimidating for the show.

A new maze of brick awaited him, a large closed theatre. He was ushered into a changing room in the back, where a small group of ponies awaited him, already getting ready to prep him for the speech. He sat in a large, comfortable chair fit for an A-list actor, and a colourful pony with an equally colourful name held a pair of scissors and a comb almost immediately got to work in tandem with the makeup team. His mane was styled, as per usual; brushed out, straightened, and the ends given a slight trim to maintain a perfectly kept appearance all whilst his eye bags were covered and a few more imperfections hidden. A few outfits were all shown to him, mostly the same other than a few minute details, and he finally settled on the third, the ponies on his team all funnelling out the exit as he made his choice.

He wasn’t about to let them stay whilst he dressed. For most, they would stay, but Light had made it perfectly clear that he was not keen on letting five or six ponies stay, mostly out of the notion of showing them all his cutie mark. It disgusted himself enough. It was a ridiculous notion, really, and one that made him feel quite vulnerable. He’d spent far too long trying to hide it just to suddenly flaunt it for everypony to see.

The outfit he’d picked, like the last one, and the ones before, was a long black jacket with an even darker lining, matched with a long pair of trousers. The buttons were all polished silver, and the cuffs and collars were a fine black fabric, soft and smooth to the touch. Two long pairs of sheen polished black boots were on his hooves, and a black strap with a dazzling buckle rested over his chest.

He looked at himself in the mirror, putting his sunglasses back on. He felt a swell of pride coming over him, staring back at the handsome figure in the mirror. It all made him look very tall and broad, very important. A king in his own right, as much as he hated the comparison.

Satisfied with the amount of admiration given for the pony in the mirror, he stepped back towards the door, entering back into the corridor. It was not cleared, to his dismay. Ponies still scurried about, doing their final checks. He noticed a quiet young mare, barely out of her teens, staring at him. He turned to look back at her, noticing she wasn’t staring in quite the same way as everypony else did. It was an obvious stare, a hard stare, not a hidden one like most. She didn’t smile, brow furrowing, not quite in anger, but not in fear either. It was just a stare.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, am I in your way, miss?”

She looked a little surprised, eyes widening a fraction, but her expression didn’t change. She had a certain hollowness in her eyes. She didn’t look tired, not physically anyway, but there was something that just wasn’t there.

The pony lurched, reaching into a pocket. His eyes widened, body freezing. He saw the faintest glimmer of metal. And then—

POP.
Thud.

The mare fell to the floor, a green magic glimmering across the wound. She yelped, clearly not expecting the violent force that sent her downwards, all wind stolen gracelessly from her lungs.

Two guards swiftly stepped over, barging through the crowd of panicked stagehands, and in a swift, violent move, both barrelled over, kicking the wounded mare, lacking the air to yell. He didn’t even register the horrible sound it made, or any specific detail of the gladiatorial choreograph they were performing. It was just a horrible sight. Thuggish, senseless, vengeful. Blood just for the sake of it.

For him.

The gun fell to the floor, clinking as it hit the tile.

“Are you hurt, Commander?” a toneless voice spoke, its speaker indiscernible.

He never even heard it. He looked to the mare, eyes widening as the yellow fur began flashing into black carapace. Her face distorted, the muzzle shortened, the mane disappeared, two wings appearing at its side. The magic dissipated, large blue eyes losing their light in the puddle of green blood they lay in.

He didn’t even get time to process. He didn’t have the time to feel horror, or sympathy, or anything. There was just a cold stare as the body was dragged away, out of sight and out of mind.

An attempt against his life had just been made. They actually wanted him dead. Of course, this was obvious, but the looming omnipresence of mortality shocked him to his core.

He was not a god. He was alive only because some other pony had thought faster than him.

No time to think. Ponies rushed around him, some soldiers, some not. They all melded together in a technicolour haze, featureless and dim. He twisted his head, only seeing the same thing, mouth slightly ajar and eyes heavy.

He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t even frightened, just dazed. His brain moved as if his thoughts were clouded by a thick smog, waiting a long few seconds before forcing himself to turn away, stumbling slightly over his own hooves before marching off to the only place his mind beckoned him to go. The guards, those that weren’t occupied with a corpse, followed in rank, marching along with him, hoofsteps all in sync as they moved towards the stage, shouts and panicked screams fading into music, the sounding of the drums and horns that signalled his entrance, into the array of banners, flags and ponies; just another, different shade of haze he had to walk through.

Tens of hooves extended to him, reaching out, a large crowd of his more devoted members of the party all backstage, trying to meet their Commander. He shook a couple, even crouched down a little to greet a young foal and her father that were present. The facade of regality and graciousness was the only one he could maintain. It was practised, it felt him, or at least, who he thought he was.

The party-logo-adorned curtains opened. He stepped up.

He heard a flood of applause from the colossal gathering, his mind moving on autopilot, soldiers peeling off to the side as he reached the raised podium, now going by only what was rehearsed, crossing his forelegs into another ‘X’ as the horns reached the intro’s climax. He'd done it so many times, but this didn't feel the same.

There were so many ponies. So many armbands. So much joy. So much hate.

10 – A Little Help From My Friends

I think it’s June. I think it’s June 1023.

Is it vain to think of myself as the centre of Equestria, when I simply am? I don’t think so, personally.

It’s been getting warmer, I think. I don’t really know, it's just what I’ve heard. I’ve sort of lost track of days as of recent. Night and day really have no distinction underground. It’s unhealthy, no doubt, but ironically it is the most safety I can promise myself.

I have a physician now; a personal one, which is rather grand. They’ve kept me on a good diet, I get lots of exercise, and they’ve put me on these little tablets that are supposed to give me vitamins, or something along those lines. It’s all well and good for me. My health has never been better, actually.

Still, something feels amiss. I feel like I’m under attack, even still. I hate to admit it, but that changeling made me realise how much they want me dead. How much all of my enemies want me dead. All those rallies I’ve cancelled recently just didn’t make me feel quite safe. I wish there was something to do about infiltrators.

I realised over this time that the cruelest part of being a leader of my calibre is the sudden, profound realisation that, no matter what it is you do, there will always be an opposition. Especially me. I’m new and scary, and I can’t blame them for thinking that. Still, I have all the support I need.

I cannot help the feeling that any moment now, a bomb will break through the ceiling. Or an infiltrator. Or a team of jaegers, or a unicorn insurrection, or a disgruntled general. I have so many possible traitors threats that I simply cannot deal with, but I have to stay alive, because Equestria dies with me. Stars forbid whatever happens if Walkie takes over. When I am gone, this country will fall to absolute ruin. It will be my will that determines whether I care for that or not.

Honestly, though, I do believe that everything is going alright, for now. Gander’s been especially pleasant with me recently. He procured me this new kind of tobacco called cannabale. What a rare joy it has been! All the fun of drinking with none of the hangovers, and the hangovers have been crippling recently. Maybe I’m getting old.

Gander put me on it, so at least I have someone to blame if this stuff ends up getting me killed. He assures me it can’t kill me, but you know how these things are. They’ll have once said that about cocaine.

Excuse me, dear reader, for being mistrustful, but I’ve lost the serenity of the palace of my mind before to substances like this. It’s strange, though. This just gives me calm. It slows me down. It helps me to… think, and doing it has made me realise just how little I really do think. Properly think, that is. It also makes me cry every now and then, which is actually damn good stress relief. Completely unbecoming though.

[There’s a messy, free-hoof line break and a few crossed out words. The words ‘Review hazard later’ are faintly present amongst the scribbles.]

It has become my evening treat. Doing it during the day, whilst the compulsion does come over me fairly frequently, would put me in a state that’d make work almost impossible, and would embarrass me terribly in a meeting. I suppose it’d also affect my decision making, maybe.

Gander says he’s scared I’ll go back onto harder shit, but I know I won’t. Still, I don’t mind him bringing me this stuff. I do important work all of the time, I need a lot of rest – anypony would be a fool to see it otherwise. Apparently, this is the lower risk solution for that.

But things are going well, I suppose. Gander visits quite frequently. We smoke together a lot. It makes him very giggly, amongst other things. It does make me a little sad, though. We never drink together anymore. Not properly, anyway. He’ll usually have a small glass of whatever’s available beforehand, but I have to avoid it so I don’t start raiding cupboards for any liquor available. Besides, drinking before smoking makes me quite queasy in a way I can’t describe well.

Usually, Gander appears around nine. He always knocks seven times, or until interrupted, which is a strange number of times to knock. Comes across to me as more pleading than asking to be invited in. Then he sits around on the carpet, makes some small talk (usually a great deal of nothing), and asks to smoke.

What perplexes me is that it’s been quite saddening lately, which I find odd because I’m never usually the sort to decline these sorts of offers. Of course, I do always smoke with him, if I’ve not already asked first, but it’s gotten to a point where, outside of vital work-related one-on-ones, I see him more when we’re high than I see him sober. I wouldn’t say it properly upsets me, it just makes me feel like he can only tolerate me when he’s high. Or maybe he can only stomach me when I’m off my head on whatever’s in my lungs. Not sure. It’s a question that doesn’t need answering, because I don’t care, actually.

It’s funny, though. I picked up journaling from Gander, and all this as well. It makes me realise how much influence he’s had on my life. Sometimes I even catch myself using words I’ve taken from his vocabulary, and that’s always a strange realisation.

At first it was every Wednesday that I indulged in the green tobacco. Then it was Wednesdays and weekends, and now it’s grown to every day. No issue if everypony is actually being truthful to me for once, but fat chance.

One thing about this shit is that it makes time a wildly unpredictable force. I’m not referring to whether it’s seven or eight o’clock, either, because when I'm hay it tends to move slower. Somehow, however, I never seem to be able to get the day right. I’ll check once and it’ll be Wednesday, and the next it’s Monday. Then it’s Saturday. It just feels like I’m drifting completely, in a way I really don’t like all too much. It won’t stop me, it’s better than whatever I was doing before all this, but it’s puzzling. It’s not the same as alcohol, because alcohol just sort of forwards you ahead a few hours until you wake up slumped across some surface with a foul taste in your mouth. This just sort of leaves you in a warm, oblivious haze.

For the sake of my health, my physician has implored me to write about how I’m doing in this. I am doing fine. I am sleeping incredibly, in fact. I wake up as fresh as a daisy, most of the time. I hardly touch alcohol anymore, especially not during the day, and I’ve really just not been craving it at all. That’s a lie, I have, but I just do other things when it comes over me now. Usually I call Gander over and we lie about, smoking and reading and doing absolute rubbish. Turns out there’s a lot of things he hasn’t done before, so we’ve got onto that as best we can.

I think it’s a good thing, for the most part. Good health, good fortune. Safe and secure behind my four walls.

[There’s an ink spill. The words ‘Bucking buck buck’ are crossed out hastily in an evidently frustrated manner. There were a few, faded scribbles where the ink was fading. The ink following was from a notably different pen.]

I am so tired of everypony always asking me for everything. It's always just complain, complain, complain, complain. When do I get to have something nice? What makes them worthy of it? They've done nothing for nopony, and I've done everything for everypony. They don't even realise how good they have it. If I was the pony leading when I was young, everything would have been okay. Worms is accurate. Everypony is disgusted by us even though we're doing nothing but good.

No. I'm feeling angry, I think. Gander isn't here. Good riddance, to be honest. At least I can do whatever I feel like doing, uninterrupted by any random sappiness.

I’m not a bad pony. I just need control. I need things to be in order, like they should’ve always been. Everything has fallen so far out of order, and sometimes measures have to be taken to put things where they need to be. Times like this require it. The state will be the apparatus for this. Everypony must give it their love as it deserves.

What I hate the most about the unicorns is their utter lack of respect, to be honest. I don't really know why they do the things that they do. I do not know why they feel entitled to complain. Everypony is going through the same thing. Buck buck buckedy buck buck. Bucking traitors, the lot of them. I am giving Him direct control. I cannot be bothered with them.

[There's a pen illustration of a sad-looking pony that could be a self-portrait, but the lack of detail makes it near impossible to discern.]

I’ve sent that letter out. It was full of typos and, on reflection, was likely the most foolish decision I’ve ever made. I trust him to do the right thing, I suppose. Not sure how much trust I have in that though.

Sometimes my mind drifts. It drifts a lot, actually. I think a lot about how things used to be, before all the nasties. I think I was a sweeter pony back then.

But in the same fashion, without all of this, I would be living a quiet life, resigned to absolute obscurity, drifting through life with nothing and no say over anything. I might’ve eventually settled down somewhere. I’d like to think that my ambition would always have taken me further.

I don’t like these thoughts. I don’t want to think I’m a bad pony. I’m not. I really don’t think I am, I’m just a little prickly. Everything I do has to be done, but I’m the only pony willing to do it. Of course it paints me bad. I’m not evil though, I’m not. I carry so much love in my heart for everything that’s gone, and now there’s nowhere to put it. Nothing will ever be the same, bucking excuse me for saying it’s not yet over to all these ponies.

They think they’ve suffered like I have. They haven’t. They don’t even know the half of it. I work so foals don’t grow up like I did. That is noble! That is brave! If I had just made the damn decision to paint my party pink and call it harmonist, with the exact same ideals, everypony would love me! But no! It’s always Trixie, it’s always Starlight. Bucking boohoo. Go let some more unicorns save you. Deepen the debt! Bucking sorry that I’m not an idealist! I’m sorry I don’t think that once this is all said and done, they won’t throw us exactly back to how we used to be so we can go through even more years of foreign invasion and humiliation!

[There's more scribbling. Not to cover any words, this time, just for the sake of scribbling.]

Maybe one day I’ll get the Element of Honesty to join us. That would be nice. I think she was my hero once. I heard she was a collaborator. Maybe she’ll be sympathetic. I hope, anyway. I really do hope. I need somepony to put their faith in me for once. Somepony important.

I guess it all just ties back to that post-war dream things had turned out the way they were supposed to. It can’t go back, though. Walkie was right.

Doing a lot of dreaming at the moment. Actual dreaming, the sleep kind of dream. It’s disturbing, because I never dream, but all of a sudden, it’s a nightly thing now. All sorts, but it always seems to tie back to that damned Summer Breeze. Stars, I miss them.

It feels like I’m the only pony to remember them. Oh, Summer. What has become of you?

I hate it. I hate it so much, I hate that it still hurts me. I hate feeling vulnerable. It’s not right, it’s not me. I’m not like this, and yet every night I seem to miss them. For about seven years I’ve never even dedicated any more than a thought to her, and now all of a sudden it feels like I’m grieving her all over again. There was just no warning. She just faded, stopped writing back after sending me letters of all the bombs over in Manehattan. It’s much too cruel. I should’ve never been exposed to that at the age I was back then.

I’m just so scared. I want her to be alive, out there somewhere. I honestly really do. I miss my friend. But at the same time, I really, really hope she’s dead. At least, in all its cruelty, that puts it to rest at last. I’m so scared that she’s out there, maybe in the Riverlands, or New Mareland, or stars forbid, North Zebrica. I mean, she had some ideals that were fairly left-wing, but didn’t we all back in those days? We were young! We didn’t know about all this cruelty. I’m scared about it because if she is she would’ve known about me by now. She would’ve seen me. I’m not a pony one can miss now, and sometimes I can’t tell if that was my goal all along.

For anypony reading this that shouldn’t be: everything I have done – all the work against the changelings, and the unicorns, and the griffons, and whoever else – I do it all in dedication to my best friend Summer Breeze, whom I miss dearly.

That is perhaps a callous thing to pen. It’s not true, either. I chose all of this by my own volition, I will see it all through.

She still doesn’t write to me, though. And if she’s still alive, that means she’s chosen not to, and that’s crushing. I still hold out hope, I suppose. Maybe it hasn’t arrived yet from the far off continent she fled to. Maybe the mail accidentally sorted wrong, and never got to me. I hope so. I really do hope so.

To be sincere, these dreams discomfort me greatly. I hardly ever dreamt, nevermind of that pony, and now I’m in charge of Equestria, it just happens to come to me like that? It scares me so, but sometimes I can’t help but believe that Princess Luna is out there, somewhere. She’s trying to kill me. Or weaken me, or bring me to a mental break. She’s trying to sabotage me, I know it. These things cannot just be coincidence. It would make all too much sense, too. I’m a threat to unicorn rule, of course they’d do that.

These dreams have to be sent. It’s their only way of getting at me, striking me even from my sleep. I have no way to protect myself from these mental attacks. I need to stop the noise. The first time it happened, I woke up and I immediately knew something was wrong. I woke up and I felt guilty for everything. Why would I feel guilty? I don’t believe I have anything to feel guilty over, I’ve done nothing but spread a new type of kindness.

It felt like I was really there. She was judging me, I know it. I know those looks. The same ones those unicorns always give me when I’m parading around their streets.

I’m not the disgrace. She and Celestia abandoned Equestria. It’s not wrong to pick up from the wreckage. What was I supposed to do?

I’ve done a lot of good. My physicians tell me to avoid these lines of thinking, and focus on all the good I’ve done, and I have done a lot of good. So many ponies seem to love me, and my party all loves me. I have good friends in the party, even, ones that don’t abandon me when things go sour. I should be more content, but it never really feels like I am; even with Gander, I never feel all that content sometimes, especially when we’re smoking. It just feels like I’m filling holes in myself.

I’ve given more authority to some of the other leaders in my party. Walkie, chiefly, because Walkie’s always been there and I can trust him to stay, which is more than can be said for most.

I am so sad, I don’t know why. I wanna go home. Sometimes I just want to take off this uniform and disappear completely.

I can’t anymore. This is the precipice.

I think I dreamed I had a nice life.

“Light said what?” He put down the envelope, creasing it neatly and placing it on the table before him. He put his jacket on, motioning for the pony to follow along with him as he stepped outside the tent.

“I’m not your courier, Walkie,” she sighed, checking the watch face on her right foreleg. “You read the letter yourself. Discern it as you must.”

“Bah. You’re full of nonsense, Roly,” he fastened his helmet, looking back at her. “He’s given me full control over Old Bales?”

“That is what the letter would suggest, yes. Do you need reading comprehension classes?”

Walkie rolled his eyes, re-lighting his old pipe and taking a few long puffs from it. “I’ve read Marks’s accursed literature, I should be fine. Doesn’t seem much like Light, if I’m being perfectly honest. He’s not one to relinquish power on a whim, eh?”

Roly shrugged. “He’s prone to changes in heart. It wouldn't be anything particularly out of the ordinary for him."

“You reckon he’s on something again? No doubts it’s that damned Gander. I did always tell him, that colt would be his doom. It’s tragic the sort of things he’s doing to him. He’s ‘Proper’-ly lucky I’m not in charge.”

He let out a long laugh at his own joke, the sound dying as it was carried out into the wind.

Roly snatched the pipe from his hooves whilst he was still petting his own ego, taking a few puffs of her own before giving it back, ignoring the steely glance she got from Walkie. “Gander’s a good writer, Walkie. You need to recognise that. You two have your disagreements, but we’re all the same party. I reckon you ought to internalise that, Walkie.”

He groaned, nodding his head and staring out across the surroundings, a line of trees obscuring all but what was ahead. Old Bales was an ancient city, the library was still very much visible from the hill they temporarily resided on. It’d almost be beautiful to Walkie, were it not for its inhabitants. “Right as always, Roly, I’ve got to give you that. I’m not unreasonable, you know that. I’m just pragmatic. The colt’s going to corrupt him. Poor Light – always was a bit too much of a lovercolt. I always worry for him. It’s not wise to have that sort of external stress, especially in his position.”

Roly took a moment to consider the words, before rolling her eyes and sarcastically remarking. “Have you ever actually been in love, Walkie?”

“Once upon a time, believe it or not.” He grinned, puffing his chest out.

“Tch. You surprise me with every passing day,” she jabbed. “Doesn’t seem much to your taste.”

“It wasn’t, in all honesty. I just have hopes beyond myself.”

“How very generous of you, Mr. Talkie.” She snatched the pipe back.

"I know, I know," he laughed, giving the pipe away without resistance. "But it's true. I imagine so much better for this place than whatever it is now. I hope, one day, ponies will finally come to terms with the fact that we're not that bad, actually. Some things just have to change out of necessity. We've woken up from a long dream."

"I suppose," she quietly responded, not as convinced. "I just don't understand what it is about this city that gets you so angry. This isn't the war you need to be fighting, if you ask me." She cleared her throat. "Look, I'll be the first to admit that unicorns are often prissy know-it-alls, but this isn't exactly an army. You're trying to fight a bunch of librarians and students."

Walkie gave her a smug look, the sort of look he gave when he was about to dive head first into a speech. “Pah, look at this city. This is the most absolute testament to unicorn hedonism outside Canterlot. If Light wants me to direct it, then direct it I shall. I'm not trying to fight them, I'm just putting them in their place. They can whinge all they want, but this is the love we bring, as Light says.” He spoke to nothing in particular, saying it like a line well-rehearsed. “Tough love. The sooner they realise the suffering they put Equestria through, the better. Then we can move towards getting them to pay up and live without the entitlement they’re used to.”

Roly glanced at him, then back to the library. “I hate to get into… intra-party politics, honestly,” She spoke in that usual sharp tone she was known for, but slower, more delayed and measured. She cleared her throat. “But the idea of you being in charge of a place like this—it makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“How so?” He turned to her, an inquisitive look on his face.

“You’ve got much too heavy a hoof sometimes. They’re still ponies. You don’t speak of them like that sometimes.”

“What, after they caused the death of however many after they lost us the war?” he said, like it was a cheesy catch phrase.

“Not all of them are a part of that, Walkie. Surely you can recognise that.”

He followed her eyes, turning to look at the library she was fixated on. “They were complicit in it.”

Roly sighed, taking a long drag from the pipe. A wince momentarily appeared on her face. “If you choose to see it like that. I can’t change your mind, you’re very set in stone about these things,” she coughed. “A bit of compassion goes a long way though, even if it’s purely from a pragmatic perspective. Like you say you choose to see it from.” She pointed the pipe in a playfully accusatory fashion.

Walkie laughed, straight from the chest, but not exactly with a lot of joy. He took the pipe back into his grasp, putting it back in his mouth and letting it dangle precariously.

Roly spoke up again, silence clearly not her comfort with the pony before her. “What is it that gets you about them, Walkie?”

He watched the smoke spiral from his mouth. He undid his top three buttons, showing what was clearly a scar from a particularly nasty thaumshot wound.

She beckoned him to continue, cocking an eyebrow in slight surprise. It wasn't that surprising, knowing his background, but seeing it was a different matter. It was clearly from an Equestrian gun.

He did up his buttons again, coughing a few puffs of grey smoke that had been kept in his lungs past when it’s due. “That’s what took me out of combat. Field doctors said it was almost completely singed. Nothing critical, it had cauterised itself, but it was a blighty wound, was no way I was going to be running around lugging ammunition.” A look of what could almost be described as despair spread across his face. “I couldn’t even perform my duties to Equestria. Nothing ever happened to the unicorn responsible, it was just considered an accident. I know better, though. I saw that look in their eyes… they hated me.”

Roly nodded her head, giving another pensive look at the library ahead of them. It was a gallows look, a sombre awareness of the doom those ponies must feel.

Walkie looked back, a sadness in his eyes. It was almost apologetic, but clearly not for the same issue that plagued her.

“I couldn’t do the one thing Equestria needed from me. For the rest of the war, I sat around, waiting for the Changelings to come. And none of the unicorns ever did anything. Life continued for them like usual. I hate to say it, but it almost made me appreciate the Changelings. Just a little.”

“That’s not something I want to hear you repeat.” Roly glared.

“It’s just the truth as I see it. You wanted to hear why I resent the unicorns, so I told you,” he responded, getting a little defensive.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand your views, Walkie. I just hope you aren’t too cruel.”

Roly Poly was the one pony he’d accept this sort of defiance from. Even from Light, he was sometimes prone to snap back. Roly, however, made him contemplate. She didn’t often speak on issues, and he knew she didn’t take sides. She was a pony of nothing but business, and it made her criticisms have value.

“You know, Roly,” he began, pointing a hoof at the library. “There’s a Celestial cell in there. Somewhere. Not entirely sure of the nature of it, nor the size. Could be a book club, for all I care. What matters is that they’re against us; they’re against proper order. In the army, those ponies were called deserters, bleeding hearts, the like,” he trailed off.

“They’re just foals. They’re running around being stupid. It’s what foals do.” She frowned. “You’re the face of conformity, and so you get all the rebellious teens that come along sticking their hooves up, daring to show that they’re their own pony. It’s just a process of growing up.”

“In my day, if you were a young colt with something to prove, you joined the army.”

“But it’s not your day, is it?” she snapped.

“It could be,” he murmured. “What’s on your mind, Roly? You’re holding something you need to say.”

“I think you’re a cruel pony, Walkie, and I don’t think you’ll change.” She sighed, underwhelmed with the conversation. She was brutally honest sometimes, something she just had to be in this line of work.

“I don’t need to change,” he scoffed.

“So say they all, Walkie.” She took a few longing puffs. “So say they all.”

He screwed his face up, not bearing to look at her. “So what do you suggest I do?”

In her eyes, she wasn't the pony to be speaking about all this with. Her job in the party was to keep things running as smoothly as possible, and pointing out flaws in reasoning, however common a problem it had become, was the least of her concerns – she was just the one that swept up afterwards.

A long exhale. “You know I prefer not to get into this. How you rule isn’t a choice for me to make,” She looked at him despite his insistence not to look back, even if it meant staring more or less at the sun. “But I don’t want it to be you. I don’t mean that as an insult, but you’re not fit for it.”

“Why? Why shouldn’t I?” he blurted, taking it as an insult regardless.

“It’s just…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Walkie. Again, I don’t mean it as an insult, it’s just coming from the heart. We can do so much better than all this. Yes, I know, some of this cruelty is a necessity, by your words. So much of it is just… needless, though. Your soldiers march around down there, smashing windows and kicking down doors just for the fun of it. I'm not going to get into that whole mess of whether or not it's 'morally' correct, it's just a lot of mess where there needn't be."

Walkie took his pipe back from her hooves, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. Everypony wants to comment on what my soldiers are doing. Blah, blah. It’s tired news.”

“But it’s apt! There’s no rhyme or reason to some of this. I mean, Walkie, you call yourself a pragmatist, come on. Your soldiers dress in all black and carry machine guns, for crying out loud. You’re not inspiring much hope with your symbolism.”

Walkie was too busy smoking to respond.

“You’re not even listening, are you? Walkie, you need to get your head straight," she chided, throwing away the formalities for the faint chance she might get a few words through. "You’re a good staff chief, that’s for sure, but this isn’t five years ago. We don’t need to act by swinging a rifle around to prove we mean business."

“So why don’t you go tell Light that, eh? Light agrees with a lot of what I’m saying. This party was built off of my back,” he finally responded, taking the pipe from his mouth and pointing it at her.

Her heart dropped at the mention of Commander Light. It was his trump card, the way to deflect all critiques. 'I helped start this party, I get to choose what I do', as he always seemed to suggest. Walkie just wasn’t going to listen, but some part of her nagged. She had to at least say it – she had to prove she wasn’t as bad as the rest of them, even if it was just for her own sake. Pragmatism be damned.

“Just think about what you’re doing some more, would you? These ponies are actually suffering because of some strange grudge you’ve had for a decade.”

Walkie crossed his forelegs, looking over at her. “So, just tell me, what have I actually done? What makes you think I can’t do this, hm?”

“Because you only know military, Walkie! I mean, stars, I don’t know what to tell you. Your whole life has been dedicated to it, it’s just what you see in everything. This country isn’t that, and you’ll keep trying to flay it into shape until you’re happy. This isn’t about you, Walkie, it never was. You can’t keep being shitty and coming to me saying it’s because everypony just isn’t right in the head. It’s you, Walkie.” Her voice hardly wavered, despite the fear she felt speaking to him like this. That wasn't an illusion she was going to break. She put a hoof to her face, brushing her mane out of the way. “Stars. What’s there even to say?”

“We’re doing what we have to do.” He sighed.

She glared, almost like she was waiting for a comment she knew wasn’t going to come. “This is exactly what I mean! What part of this is what we have to do?!”

“Because what did all those ponies die for if not?” he said, dismissively.

“Why don’t you go to Acornage and ask all those unmarked graves if they dream of all this like you do?”

He went wide-eyed, those eight years of never having been talked back to ill-preparing him for this. The shock turned briefly to anger, and then to quiet reflection. He swallowed, hard.

“They wouldn’t,” he said, solemnly, letting the jacket he wore hang heavy on his slumped shoulders. "B-but that's irrelevant—"

“Oh, poor you! That’s not the point! They don’t dream! You’re building, or trying to build, a state for a hoofful of dead ponies! What about the rest of us?! What about the ones that actually live? Why do you care less about them?!” She stamped her hoof.

“What do you want from me?! To just feel bad for everything? To sit around and do nothing just because it makes a few ponies sad? I’m beyond that! I don’t mean to be callous, but everypony’s suffering, so what if a few more do?! At least we’ll finally have a state where we mean something!” Walkie let out a quiet ‘hmph’, turning around and walking back to his tent. “Waste of my time. Talking like a bucking traitor. Absolute traitors to a stallion. Get out of my face.”

Roly shook her head, eyes following the Staff Chief as he disappeared from view into the safety of his own temporary dwelling. She sighed, turning back to the library, looking at the golden detailing that glinted in the sun, a few warplanes flying off in the background. It had become a place of refuge for many ponies after her own party’s takeover, a place anypony was allowed to stay. It wasn’t safe, not by any means. The fact it hadn’t already been blown up was a miracle in itself.

She couldn’t even bear to imagine what it would be like to actually shelter there. She took a few more solitary inhales off his pipe. It was a shame. He was probably once a decent pony, and he did a lot of good work if you isolated it from everything else. But she didn’t feel shame for what she said. He’d get over it in a few days’ time.

She had a lot to do. It was off to Canterlot from here to celebrate yet another glorious victory, taking back another piece of Equestria. She placed the pipe on a table just outside his tent, making her way down the hill. She'd contemplated taking it with her, but decided it wouldn't make for the smartest of decisions with a pony as furious as he.

She knew it was futile, but she took solace in the thought that she was one of the few ponies that were able to have a conversation like that. It was an odd position to take, she mused. She was responsible for half the things that had gotten them this far – that had allowed ponies like Walkie to do what they were doing – but she enjoyed the life she had been given, she enjoyed the ballroom, she enjoyed the wine and the friendly faces and the pleasant chatter. Her face scrunched contemplatively as she made her way down the hill. At least she’d taken the moral high ground.

After all, the deck was already stacked. What was wrong with raising when the cards are in your favour?

4 – Lights, Cameras…

April 6th, 1023

Spectral Line gathered by the window, clutching the blinds with her hooves. She’d never seen anything like it – not since she moved here, anyway. She was supposed to get away from it all. She was supposed to be able to work in peace here.

But now the sounds echoed through the walls. It reverberated through the very building. Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.

It was just like the changelings all over again. Somehow worse.

She peered out her thin pane of glass, the only outside view within her study.

There must have been a thousand. At least.

The noise was only getting louder as it grew closer, and the source of the noise finally revealed itself as it drew near, into the small stretch of street she could view from her first-floor window.

There were banners, flags for… something. She had heard of things like this happening around Bales, but her neighbourhood was out of the way. When she’d first moved in, she was told it was a very quiet area, that there was no trouble.

That wasn’t what she was seeing outside.

Rows of ponies, eight in each line, passed through the street. Changeling police stood to the side, and now it was clear what for. She saw a few of her neighbours out there, some curious about the commotion, others jeering loudly. She could swear she heard Book Smart across the street, a usually timid and scholarly unicorn whom she’d worked with a fair bit, yelling for them to ‘rot in Tartarus’.

But obviously, the marching ponies did not care for any jeers. They marched right through, more and more black-clad ponies appearing as the columns slowly spread across her street.

She’d heard of the group before. As a mare of science, she wasn’t too up-to-date with the political scene – not that there had been much of one since the occupation, more just an attitude of ‘you get what you’re given’ that the changelings enforced wherever they went. This group had come up in a few newspapers she read, and every time they had been referred to as madponies, just another miserable band of the angry. They weren’t the first like it, and she highly doubted they would be the last.

So why were they here, in such numbers?

She rushed over to turn off all the lights she had left on in her house, before finally returning to the window, noticing just how fast they seemed to be progressing. Her hooves clung uncomfortably to the blinds, morbid curiosity battling with a sense of self-preservation in her mind for whether or not she’d continue to watch.

These were reprehensible ponies – that was one thing she knew about them. She saw windows opening across the street, neighbours leaning out the window to check out the noise. Nervously, she opened her own window as well, listening in to the booming voice out in the distance that was rallying them.

“We’ll be meeting up at around twelve o’clock, where it’s quite possible that we may encounter some resistance by the way that we go!”

A figure in a car, holding onto a loudspeaker, was shouting in the midst of the columns. They were dressed differently from the rest, seemingly more important. Another stallion sat aside from them, in similar attire but notably less dressed than his apparent superior. Both of them had to be little more than early thirties earth ponies. It was jarring to see such strange imagery by a pony’s own will.

A small crowd of unicorns had formed across the pavements that changeling police officers eyed suspiciously, seemingly waiting for something to happen. They were joined by more ponies – her own neighbours – that held onto their door frames in abject concern.

She closed her window, sighing heavily. She wasn’t going to let them stomp across her neighbourhood without showing her inhospitality.

She made her way to her door, opening it slightly – just enough to stand outside of, but little enough that she could slip back inside. She could almost taste the tension in the air. As the first of these rows of ponies marched on, she could see the eyes some of them were giving her. Violent, hateful looks. A few of her neighbours had already disappeared inside, drawing their curtains.

She was startled by a sudden commotion to her left. A unicorn was shouting. She closed her door behind her, slowly trotting out onto the street to get a better look for what was going on.

“GO HOME! WE HAVE NO LOVE FOR FASCISTS HERE!” They screamed at the march, to no effect other than some turned heads. A changeling officer had walked over, pushing them away from the march and standing in between.

“Spectral!” A voice shouted. She turned, seeing her next-door neighbour approaching with a look of horror on her face, sifting through the small crowd.

“What’s going on?” She asked, hurrying over to meet her.

“Spectral, dear, what are you doing?! Get back inside!” Easy Bake shooed her along, and she instinctively backed up.

“What’s going on? Isn’t this just a regular march? Aren’t these just collaborators?” She asked, trying to get at least some answers out of this whole situation.

She heard more shouting, then the rattle of papers across the floor. The unicorn from before had confronted one of the members of the march, scattering their campaign posters across the floor. She’d only watched a tiny bit of the situation unfold, but she saw an earth pony reeling their hoof back, knocking the unicorn to the floor. More of the fascists seemed to break off, kicking the unicorn whilst they were down, some of her neighbours trying to help save the poor pony from a beating. A changeling blew their whistle, running over and dragging the unicorn away. She felt her blood run cold as one of the posters blew over to her.

What could inspire such cruelty? She looked again to her neighbour, who was beginning to push her back inside. Now she had a lot more reason to follow along, inviting her neighbour in as well. Reluctantly, she had agreed, and the two stood by the window again.

Their street was a quiet one. A few shops lined the road, but for the most part, it was just the same stretch of terraced stone brick housing. It didn’t lead onto any busy roads, didn’t have a town hall, nothing. She couldn’t fathom why such a group would come down here.

“Damn thugs!” Easy spat. “Always looking for a fight! Bet they’re here since we’re all unicorns. Pathetic. It’s like every one of them forgot everything the princesses did for them.”

But she had no words. All across her window sprawled a march of hundreds of ponies, all in perfect organisation. A car was slowly trundling across their view, giving them a better view of the orchestrator of it all. A pale, weedy stallion dressed in black, cold eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He wasn’t shouting anymore, just clearly spectating his clockwork-like army. He held a few papers in his hands, and the stallion beside him passed more as they went, clearly more than he had any care for.

She noticed him drop a couple of sheets, turning and trying to grab at them before they were carried away in a showy swirl by the wind.

She could’ve sworn he looked straight at her. She could’ve sworn she really saw that hollowness in his gaze. Only for a brief moment, but it felt like eternity. She could feel his glare burn into her, like he was somehow disgusted by her, a pony he had never met.

Another fight broke out. Book Smart, a pony Spectral had only praises to sing about, had clearly antagonised their guests a little too much. A few broke out of line. It looked more like they were jumping on him than any fight – at least in a brawl he’d have a chance. Just like before, the same thing ”justice” was dealt by the police’s hand again. Another changeling broke it up, and dragged away the unicorn. More spectators had involved themselves, throwing hooves, rocks, or whatever at the people responsible. It was horrific. It just kept snowballing.

“Oh! Oh, what have they done to him?!” She could see her neighbour briefly from her window. The fight lasted no more than thirty seconds – enough delay from the officer for it to be fairly severe. They were beaten, bruised and blood ran down their nose, their left eye shut tight in pain. From her brief glimpse between marching ponies, she could see a leg twisted unnaturally, a clear product of those heavy boots they stomped around in. Frightened ponies still lined the sides of the street, watching it all unfold before their eyes.

But by the end of these columns, she saw a strange sight. Whilst those at the front had been carrying drums and banners, these at the back seemed to be enforcers of sorts. They carried weapons – real weapons. They had better uniforms, they had sterner looks on their faces. They were only a little bit further than Spectral’s door before suddenly they just… broke from the march.

There were about twenty of them. Each followed the most senior of the group, pushing past any in the crowds that had accumulated, into a shop. Chips of painted wood flew into the street as they forced their entry, and they all seemed to pile into what she had only known as her local grocer’s.

She didn’t see the rest. She just heard the crowds. The two of them cowered behind the blinds, absolutely terrified for what was about to come. There was maybe five minutes of quiet, the marching more distant now. It wasn’t long before the shouting picked up. Then screaming.

It felt like it had all gone mad again.

Spectral finally mustered the courage to look through the blinds, seeing ponies galloping full speed away from the scene. She wasn’t sure what was going on. She opened the window. She smelled smoke.

It was on fire. It was actually on fire. They’d set it on fire.

She spotted a unicorn dashing away, in a mad sprint away from the grocers. They looked horrified. Sheer terror was written all over their face. But nopony helped. They carried a satchel with them, clearly stuffed full in a hurry.

She didn’t get much more time to consider who they were.

CRACK.

I think I heard a shot. I think I heard a shot.

The unicorn’s legs buckled. They fell face-first onto the cold macadam street.

Spectral didn’t see the shooter. She knew the changelings had guns, but it could’ve just as easily been one of these fascists. She didn’t care.

She screamed, the only thing she could do, drawing the blinds and getting down. The window was open, but she wasn’t taking the chance. There were shouts coming from outside. It all melded together in some horrific cacophony, getting louder and louder.

She just needed it to stop.

Easy sat herself down on a sofa, sobbing quietly. Spectral only shivered, cowered in her corner. Terrified, and yet surrounded by everything she ever knew. She’d just seen a pony gunned down right outside her home. She let out a rattled breath. Right outside her home.

She could’ve known them.

“I’m… I’m so sorry about this, Spectral. Thank you for inviting me in.” She whimpered, speaking between choked sobs.

“...it’s alright, Easy.” She tried her best to muster her most understanding voice, embracing a pillow just to try to put her mind off her shaking hooves. It could’ve been her house. It could’ve been her.

Oh, that poor soul. That poor, poor soul.

“Stars…” She mumbled, sniffling. “Everything’s gone right to hell. And when you finally think things couldn’t get any worse…” She covered her face with her hooves. Spectral offered her the pillow she’d clung onto, the only kindness she was able to do at this moment.

“It’s us now! We’re the ones killing each other for them! Damn it all, damn it all… the changelings have won. The changelings have won again, Spectral...” She mumbled weakly, her pillow already wet with tears. It was crushing to see Easy like this. Her neighbour had always been a rock in the community. She always had hopes, always had a smile.

And now she was here sobbing on her sofa. Finally admitting defeat, after ten long years of resisting it with everything.

Spectral was quiet, reflecting on everything that had been. It had all gone by a long time ago now. When she was a filly, the world seemed so much brighter. The grass was greener, the tastes were sweeter then. But she’d lived almost half her life under the changelings now.

The worst of times.

Of all the times she could have been born, it was now.

Easy Bake sniffled again, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. She apologised profusely under her breath, finally finding the air to speak.

“They’ve taught us to hate each other.”

Spectral slept poorly. Her dreams were constantly invaded by shadowy figures marching. Whether it was the changelings, these new ponies, or both, she was unsure. They talked like ponies, but burnt things down just like the Heer. She usually took solace in the fact that, maybe, somewhere out there, Luna was watching over her in her subconscious, patrolling her dreams even from so very far away. There would be no relief tonight.

This morning, she woke knowing that there was no Princess to shepherd her anymore. There were no messiahs waiting for just the moment to finally bring the better days back.

They were in utter darkness.

Nearly ten years of occupation, but it had never truly set in until now. Things weren’t getting better. Easy’s words struck deep within her, unsettling her to no end.

They’d taught us to hate each other.

Despair was the only word to describe it. Nothing would ever be the same, and it had dawned on her just as she ate her breakfast. Nothing would ever be the same. Forever onwards, they would only live in a post-war world. She, her foals – if she even wanted to have any in this bitter world – would never know Equestria. Even if it somehow returned, it would only be a post-occupation Equestria.

Her home. Wounded beyond healing.

But time was not kind to her. It did not give her time to grieve a world she lost. She went about her day like usual. She simply couldn’t afford to let something like this uproot her life, after all. But, as she left her house for her usual walk to work, she saw glass across the floor, smashed out of the panel that once held it in jagged pieces. A changeling stood by the smashed-up doorway of the burnt-out building, smoking a cigarette casually. Like nothing had even happened. She wondered if she could ask about it – what a grocer had done to deserve such a fate. The thought was resigned to the back of her mind, as she gave one sad glance to the changeling at the door. Maybe it wasn’t worth asking. Maybe they had done something bad. She could only hope for it, anyway – but hope ran dry for her these days.

She felt something against her hooves. Looking down, there was a small piece of paper swirling in the wind down the quiet street, ending up by her. It was fairly fresh. She picked the paper up and examined it. It wasn’t like the other posters they’d put up around here. It seemed to be one-of-a-kind, as far as she could tell. As her eyes trailed down the page, they opened wide.

She looked to the changeling smoking. His wings fluttered idly, his Heer cap resting on top of his head lazily.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE EQUESTRIA RULE AGAIN?

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEND THE CHANGELING MENACE HOME AGAIN?

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS FOLLOW THE WORMS.

Author's Note

apologies if it’s a little messy. been very tired and i’ve got exams going on :ajsleepy:
hope you all enjoy regardless :D