—so days later, when the weary leader Spotless Light drank his own brew in the cavernous dark of a makeshift prefab home—cut apart by police blue-red lights that wailed at his village—the energy within shifted his body back to what was true (to be like them), done by the last act these hands would ever commit.
Though smoke and gunshots littered his little community, the herd he'd hoarded would leave this cursed world behind with him.
Music equipment clashed against each other, being packed up by Spotless's other band members. Hard alcohol's stench marked the seedy, wood-flavored Amareican bar. His eyes scanned the tables for where his bassist Arcray had planted himself, fingers nursing beer and a few folders. Those documents always looked out of this place in this not-so-fine establishment; they heralded good or bad news, nothing in between.
"What does Her Majesty need?" Spotless asked once he sat down with him. The righteous sun alicorn Daybreaker ruled from yet another world, her realm embroiled in conflict for the better part of his life. Rifling griffons and changelings, drawing blood and ichor, would've been cheap fantasy novel material here where both creatures and warfare were relegated to modern-day myths.
"She requires your members immediately," said Arcray. "Not too long from now. Within the week."
It was bone-shivering material. To call this community a cult was ridiculous: it was a fully integrated community, set aside for a higher purpose in the cosmos, a theology crafted precisely to induce loyalty to the Empress.
Spotless tightened the grip on his glass; the phantom sensation of a would-be horn lingering on his forehead. "That's fast."
"The Nightmarists are resilient." Arcray barely touched his own drink. He'd always been the second-hoof man, the first disciple, the one who tolerated Spotless's hare-brained idea of Come join our fastest-growing religion because I just turned Arcray to Daybreaker: That's why we have a 100% conversion rate! "Do you want to leave it that way?"
The mugs of beer everywhere tried to woo Spotless from his ascetic ways. He wouldn't welcome a scandal, not this close to the finish line. "They will have to learn much faster. Do we still have...?"
"Yes, and hey, Spotless?" A hand reached across the table, massaging him gently on the shoulders. "They love you. You've got this. Let me handle Daybreaker's representatives if they start asking questions. You've got a good thing going."
Their drummer, Back Beat, hollered at them to get up and go, time to head back home.
In his hand lay a gem. He'd steeled himself for the bumpy 4x4 ride.
The small settlement of Empress lay not far from town, and it graced the royal carriage he rode: a second-hand pick-up truck caked in weeks-old mud. Forests swayed in the evening chill, where, months ago, strange runes appeared (ones Spotless had written) to lure away the kind of people not yet sophisticated enough to move past "DO NOT CALL THESE SYMBOLS AT 3 AM (GONE WRONG)" challenges. That, and the robes he wore, pristine clear by holiness and liquid detergent. The expressions his people had upon those eventful first meetings had always gone the same: fear, optionally a strong desire to leave, then curiosity.
Why are you here, mister? Why come all this way, miss? For views? What happens after you get famous? And what happens after that?
Do you know where you will go when you die? That tipped the scales for many here, many of Empress's entire population which waited at the outskirts, their religious attire consisting of random tank-tops or shirts and a few guns slung around their shoulders. He held up a closed fist to cease all the good pleasantries he was receiving.
They had to look at his open palm and see what it could do, this shiny sign of things to come. For Daybreaker's sake. He lowered his voice to boom, "The Solar One has saw fit to take us ahead of schedule." A slight infusion of magic drawn from the stone made it glow and float, literal foal's play, but humans here were eons behind in that department.
Still, the stares affixed at him, the wonder shown in their eyes... they were distant opposites from their routine just days ago. Coffee and tea, divining for fresh revelation, nights where beer and bullets whisked everyone away in recreation.
They were still his. Soon, no more hiding from them.
"We must leave soon, brothers and sisters. Before then, let's prepare ourselves."
The crack of cartridges spent at the firing range never got old. Spotless's drill sergeants would've been proud to see him continue the discipline for a society never meant to be at war. To be fair, the country had much military surplus; a stockpile was easy enough to accrue by just sending the right people for the job and not making any funny looks at weapons agencies itching for some unholy grand assault.
With his hands on the trigger, he generated a little glow to help pick up another cartridge. They would report of his visage sparkling brighter at target practice. "Kinda looks anointed with the sun," Lamplight had said, a local engineer conscripted into the belief.
The trees masked the gunshots. The licenses seemed fine. Mostly. The legal system in more freedom-loving places would never have reason to cross-reference the names of missing children from decades ago, a list he'd once conveniently borrowed from for his own documents. A new face, a new place, new names to recruit, new peoples to sing songs with on the guitar until their campfire disintegrates.
The hands and arms that surrounded him by the end like a rockstar's fans—he shot the guitar up high, dreams of everypony on the other side waiting for him by his bed.
Late night, opening boxes of foodstuffs and ammunition, left open, trigger guards wildly different, many too large for mere hands: he and Arcray were cleaning and loading each rifle and pistol. Harsh incandescent light complemented the click of every bullet and shell inserted.
"A fraction of the power," Spotless said. "To slowly grant them that blessing... I never thought I'd make it this far, so soon. Why me?"
"You can't be this naive. They trust you like putty!"
"Yes, they love me and trust me, but I've built that organically, and I don't want them to get hurt. They'd still be there for us. It's reciprocal, right?" He reached into his own pocket, took out a vial of potion. The liquid shone, fizzy like the cola that'd been rationed into nothing on the other side. "I'll make sure of it, at least."
"Don't you quake in fear," he recited, raising the vial within under the light. "In here, we have enough to be together in her light, but understand that the world we shall wake up in will be a torrent of purpose finally fulfilled."
Penne's lips quivered for the first time since she'd been delivered here in his private quarters. Befitting her name, she did wonders with pasta. Her hair framed her beauty like... pasta theoretically would (he internally cursed the lack of a love life). Particulars aside, she lived as a unique one among a unique many: Lens Flare had shown him so much nature photography in the tiny natural world beyond Empress, Post Haste the miracle of so many alarm clocks...
"It will be beautiful," he said as he'd said to a dozen different ones. "And this will only be the beginning. You are the first, but you will not be the only one."
She didn't have to go. They'd still come through.
Of the potion, Penne would partake.
"I know it is a difficult choice," Spotless half-pleaded to the last one on the list, "but we've made it this far. Do you love her?"
Back Beat had only a few weeks of residence here. Only a few weeks of blubbering and of questioning and of sitting by a pond, searching for answers. His testimony was that of an escapee from an abusive prayerful group of self-righteous loonies, only to stumble upon something much truer. "I... I, of course, I do. But... I kn-know this song and dance..."
"Do you love Daybreaker?" Spotless asked again. The utmost devotion was required or else (he'd shirk from battle the moment artillery thundered).
"Y-yes... I'm not sure. Everyone here, though... if I go away, I-I'll miss it all, but this... we're not going to die, right?"
"You will not die, I promise. We'll be together. Now... do you love her?"
The tears flowed, but the door opened. A silent whisper/agreement, they agreed to: never to return here on pain of being shot on sight. Arcray's words of assurance wouldn't make a dent on Spotless's resolve that he'd die alone.
The sunset painted him in bloody orange, lurking among the ever-growing shadows.
His informal congregation talked and talked, pontificating on theories about what was to come, about the nature of the potion. Conversation would drift into trinkets, knickknacks to remind them of what they used to be. Humble beginnings as lost souls, alone and searching: an isolating array of online servers, an insular collection of houses, an irredeemable row of no-job/no-home losers.
Come as you are.
Time alone would never wash away an aimless foalhood, stuck between brick walls and happy-go-lucky caretakers who knew not what to do with a truly abandoned swaddled foal. This was here.
Something floated without a touch of his horn. And Arcray was asleep. Penne moving her hand too much; without her knowing, it did glow.
Heavenly choirs and the crackling of fire reached his room all muffled, missing casual worship night. By a feeble flame, Spotless held onto the list of names joined (not much else beyond old contact info and guesses of what forms they'd take on the other side). He crossed out the one that left. His hands hugged it tight until the candle burned out.
Every name to be crossed out, marked by an unmarked grave.
Every name preserved, back home, together forever, a slice of Elysium.
If only the Nightmare and her forces would have mercy on them in whatever siege they'd be thrown under.
Notebook paper would be splotched in unwanted tears.
He'd wiped his eyes free from puffiness, from signs of weakness. Screams of joy heralded a miracle he'd expected. How lovely it was to open Penne's bedroom door and see she'd transformed into something greater, her confused cry of "Why am I a unicorn?!" from her muzzle notwithstanding.
"Conduits of the arcane, what we often call magic," his mouth brimmed, all eyes on him, unable to behold the creature they saw. "Some among you have already taken on these greater forms. The rest? The day is not over." A hand is lifted high for another impromptu chant that would pursue other doors, other sleeping horses. Post Haste's wings was cause for kneeling down, in awestruck humility (in imitation of the forms all else would take).
Every pony that he made trot out of their room and into Daybreaker's sun, applause broke into sobbing for the day he'd long expected.
In the chaos, he sneaked back into his room. Held a crate into his hands. "A gun for our new forms," he'd reveal later once he got outside, got curious looks. "The world beyond is a great deal better, but it is still plagued with the darkness that undercuts the evils of our own world."
The first pony he'd seen in so long, Penne, lifted a hoof. "You're... you're an expert at all this, then? You knew this would happen?"
"Yes, I knew." The reminiscence made real, of a fellow pony like he once had been, overpowered his throat, making way for a greater joy that had to be said: "For I have been there."
"Some are still afraid, Spotless," Arcray said against the dying sunlight, with shotgun slung. The few that'd remained human this late into the afternoon had taken up patrol duty. Everypony else had taken a vow of secrecy until further notice. "You don't have much."
Another folder had been given. Pictures and diagrams showcased photos and numbers and propaganda posters. Frontlines, stagnant. Strongholds, compromised. The Nightmare wouldn't budge, even with this world's futuristic guns being smuggled in for reverse-engineering. Captured Canterlot wouldn't budge, wouldn't be drawn out. Even with them, the meat grinder that was to follow... his neighbors for how long, given to be gobbled up by the alicorn that must not be named on a silver platter...
"We can send most of them over, have a few stay and wait here," Arcray suggested. He squeezed a whole hand through the equine trigger guard. "They'll do maintenance while we bring in more designs, blueprints... we can cut our losses, trust that they'll make it look a mass hallucination and dupe everyone else. A good alibi—"
A knock on the door, there was. Past it, Back Beat made himself known, a wayward prodigal worthy of nothing but guns aimed at him. Hands raised—"Hey, hey! Don't shoot the messenger!"
Arcray flipped off the safety. "He told you that you'd be shot on sight if you returned."
"I've informed the county sheriff," Back Beat spat out, "told him what's going on." His shivering teeth baptized him with crazy; his feet tapped out an arrhythmia. "I've seen what's happening. I took a look, I just couldn't resist. .. and do you know what my I've concluded? You're the real deal, much more genuine than a bunch of lunatics. I don't know if that's any better!"
Spotless stepped forward. His rifle closed the distance. "You could've made your merry way out of here, a pathway to paradise we've built, without telling any of us this. Why now? Why give us a head start?"
Sweat had stained much of Beat's jacket and jeans. Eye bags and dirt muddied his visage. "Because I want to. You're insane... b-but you're real. The real deal. You loved them all, didn't you?"
The picnics, the dinners, the many "world tours" that encompassed the breadth of the neighboring town. Confession and shared depression, in a quiet room or by a bubbling pond...
There was the phantom sensation of a list of names in his hands.
A final stand against the police if the portal couldn't open, but a final stand they'd make together. A twisted brand of harmony.
"Now, please, if you just let me go—"
He slumped to the floor. The bells-y tinkle of magic indicated a pony, this one standing behind the fallen snitch, bedecked in pristine white robes. "He's... he's the one, isn't he? He called on us?"
Past her, into the wooded darkness, red and blue lights wailed sirens across the leaves. Hoof- and footsteps raced ahead of their dazed dear leader, imaginations addled by a shootout to come.
Nothing a potion and joining with everyone outside couldn't fix.
He stood in the dark on all fours, back to who he was. Megaphoned distractions came in... then lights flashed out to kill the sirens, and to stop the gunshots. Flashlights coming in: human guards on the front, ponies hoof-fumbling with triggers, cartridges, and magazines at the back. Gasps alerted everyone to his presence, accompanied by reverent mutters of "The prophet's revealed himself!" and "He shall conquer; let's follow him!"
Face to face with what looked to be a sergeant, a pathetic shades-wearing little being if put up against the aces in the sky that bore the cursed Moon (he'd know nothing about this 'mythical' campaign). Child-like fascination flickered on the leader's face.
Spotless strode forward. "What did Back Beat tell you about us?"
A blink of recognition. From nights ago, a spectator listening to the latest hit tunes from none other than Spotless and his musical band of brothers.
"He said you were going to kill yourselves for a god or something," said Sergeant. "Couldn't do nothing but respond. Now that we got here, some of our men are dead. Thanks to you." Furrowed brows of confusion were no cause for him to let go of his service weapon. "Why are you a unicorn? Why are there unicorns at all? What's going on here?"
"Portal's ready!" a shrill voice, Arcray, sounded.
Just that one look of Sergeant at a new source of sound—magic instinctively shot to his horn, charging up. "I'm sorry." Another slumped body later, to the human's surviving squad, he cried, "Please, tell them to stand down! We've got mares and foals here!"
A silhouette had scrambled behind him, shadow cast sharp by flashlights under gun barrels. "Penne, no! What spells do you even know?!"
Serenity blessed her features, some hypnotic acceptance capturing his attention. "Send them to Daybreaker alive! I'll see her in the life to come!"
"I love you Penne!" Everything was a frenzy. He galloped backwards, facing her, never leaving his sight. Speech fired automatic from the hip of his tongue: "I've always loved you!"
The rocky path ahead, a steep climb, he rolled through. Stumbling, blood snotting out of scars, escaping the meat grinder of what trashed below.
The meat grinder. The Nightmare. The never-ending invasion.
Ahead danced the rainbow rays and embers of a portal open, smelling of other dimensions. The chorus of hoofsteps, marching to the beat of his gait—"No... no, why do you persist?"
"Because you were there," Post Haste fired off. His words were honey.
"You're the real thing, and we've got no one else to turn to," Lens Flare added.
"Are you not more than a prophet, and will Daybreaker not lead us?" said another.
A cascade, a community, in the dark wilderness of the woods. The chopping of a helicopter and its picky spotlight ran overhead, signature blue-red burning their untouched territory. These organized squads were nothing to the power of his solidarity, these bundles of wheat (or chaff, he feared) he'd gathered.
"I have something to say."
They arrested him with their ever-obedient gaze.
"Will you still love Daybreaker... and me... for what you will see there?"
They nodded. You know we do.
"Over there is indeed a higher world, more real than you could ever imagine... but the forces of Elysium and Tartarus are realer than us, too... and yet there is a higher world still then that. You are still mortal there, but your bodies now... are sturdier—"
"The guns are for a war, aren't they? Is that... why...?"
He gulped.
And they hugged him, overpowering, washing over his guilty soul.
"Daybreaker is as firm as she is kind," Post said. "You've said it yourself. And the miracles you've given us... it's more than enough. What is a fight if they cannot kill our souls?"
A dumbfounded stare was the only thing left he could give. Enemy radio chatter faded, and all sense of urgency died. The stain in his soul, chained to them, ever-loving them—the blind leading the blind, blinded by her mercy, by her determination, by her deserving of worship.
By her will translated through him.
Words of adoration, appreciation, blubbered out of his muzzle. His forehooves yanked them into a tight group hug. The shotgun-wielding thugs could come here now, and they'd die together in a glorious happy ending.
The air rippled with parting shots and Arcray's shouts to get everyone in. Into her hooves.
A small part of him smiled.
Not just Daybreaker's.
They'd been his. Her divine herd had been his.
The grieving tears were lost in the limbo between worlds.
"...oh, Spotless Light, almost forgot: they'll be part of the 51st to distract the bats with against Canterlot. They'll hold out for as long as possible.
"Thank you for your sacrifice! The Empress Protects!"
