Mysterious. Incredibly handsome. Tall.

Apt words to describe The Courier. He is elite, indomitable, five out of five. This is his fifth mission of the evening.

Vehicle checks?

Tyre pressure - perfect. Judged not by a machine but by The Courier’s experience.

Oil level - low, but what can you do? Shit’s expensive.

He pumps the brakes. A loud squeak etches itself into the night atmosphere, no doubt drawing the ire of residents around. The Courier rises to his full height and flips back the hood of his specialist Winter Protection Gear. It is now that the connection is made.

He’s not tall.

Nor is he particularly handsome.

The ‘Winter Protection Gear’ has a massive picture of Donald Duck on it. He got it from Primark. It was 50% off.

The Courier’s long jet-black hair cascades from its prison and into his eyes. With a dramatic huff, he blows it out of his brown eyes as he examines his latest mission briefing. Deliver one Mighty Kebab PizzaTM from Doner and Dusted. The Courier makes a mental note to check out Doner and Dusted if he’s ever drunk and in the area. Returning his dossier (phone) to its specialist holding cell (selfie stick taped to his bike’s handlebar), The Courier prepares to deliver. The Courier always delivers.

Well, except for the time he misjudged the friction in his tyres and face planted, unceremoniously painting the pavement with blood and tikka masala.

-15 dosh, +1 zero star review, +1 banged up phone.

The Courier’s keen eyes glance once more upon his decrepit phone, making out the text on the spiderwebbed cracks. Chinese curses sail through The Courier’s teeth and into the night air: “哇擦！这什么鬼 [What! The fuck is this]!?”

Before him a mission of impossible proportions was displayed. He would need to deliver a Mighty Kebab PizzaTM from Doner and Dusted (Bermondsey) all the way to Nell Gwyn House (Chelsea). A grueling 45 minute bike ride. And those rich fucks wanted express delivery.

“Who the fuck in Chelsea eats kebab. I thought they only ate baby deer the boujie fucks. And why the fuck are they ordering from Bermondsey!?” The Courier mutters to himself while hoisting all 70 kg of his short stack frame onto his electric bike. The Courier is slightly overweight according to the National Health Service but it didn't really bother him.

Okay maybe it bothered him a little, but what can you do when your diet consists of energy drinks, booze, and instant noodles.

The Courier pushes off into the veil of night, worn calves and thighs giving protest to his strict money making schedule. He is determined to complete his mission.

Nothing more satisfying than +6 quid and a five star review that I’m not going to get… Fuck off Deliveroo, taking the fucking piss. Six bloody quid! The Courier thought, an expression one would see after exiting the toilet at KFC displayed on his face. At least I’m one step closer to that sweet, beautiful Steinway. Speaking of… The Courier haphazardly flips around on his phone while screaming through the streets of London at speeds way faster than he should be going.

Yes, he is the reason people in London hate bikers. However, like a true Londoner, The Courier does not ‘give a fuck’ about ‘all that shit’. After 5 seconds fumbling around with his phone and not paying attention to where he was going, Beethoven’s 5th piano concerto roars to life in his headphones.

Here we go, just a few more nights of this, The Courier thinks to himself as he settles into his biweekly routine of delivering food to the lazy denizens of London. The grand and triumphant opening of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto invigorates his body, egging him on toward his goal.

Another night being the one and only Cyrus. So amazing. Very cool. Cyrus brooded, Beethoven’s music doing nothing to soothe the melancholy invading his headspace. Shutting his brain off, The Courier faithfully allowed his phone to lead him onward.

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That pattern is damn infuriating, Princess Luna, Diarch of Equestria, former Grand General of Equestria, Immortal Manifestation of Night, thought as she stared up at her (very new) ‘avant garde’ ceiling. Her old room was redone upon her return, courtesy of her sister. Something about a change of scenery.

Change. Do away with the old sordid memories and welcome in the new sordid memories.

No! Steel thou emotions! Luna chastised herself. To her, bitterness was the norm. Screwing her sleepless eyes shut, Luna let loose an explosive sigh as if to expel her grim feelings across the room. Sleep often evaded her as it had evaded her tonight and every night for the past three months. Gingerly, she opens her eyelids, allowing her teal eyes return to the illogical and unending pattern. Luna’s attempts to trace an origin and end point are completely futile.

Where doth it begin and where doth it end! Infuriating! Against aesthetic and common sense! She thought, anger creeping into her head-commentary. She wasn’t actually angry, it was just something to distract herself with before-

*RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING-CLUNK*

‘Alarm clock’. Useless if one is as disciplined as I. It barely rings for a second before Luna’s magic shuts it off. Rolling to the edge of her bed she flops to the floor, four hooves landing in practiced fashion.

*Plomp*

She blinks. A familiar memory sinks its grotty claws into her mind. Wrenching it from the present, leading her down and down and down……

*Plomp*

Luna lands on her balcony. Her mane whipped and billowed in an invisible gale of her unconscious conjuring. She knew she needed to cool down, so she decided it would be prudent to fly three laps around the perimeter of the Everfree.

Cold. Bitter. Scorned. Hated.

Her emotions refuse to subside, leading her to snort in indignation. The cover of her night shrouded the land. Feared. Peppering the sky hung her painstakingly crafted tapestry of stars. Ignored. She marches into her room.

Cold. Bitter. Scorned. Hated.

Peasants! Daring to sully my name as scolding for children! Luna screams internally, her practiced stoicism creaking and groaning against the tides of her emotions. Details of the latest dream she had soothed rose to the forefront of her memory. An unsavory affair for the lunar diarch. The child, having received one too many ‘Princess Luna shalt eat thee if thou don't finish thine oats’ scoldings, had let out a monstrous shriek the moment Luna appeared to conduct her duty.

Cold. Bitter. Scorned. Hated.

My country knows NOTHING of my sacrifice, liquid anger spilt forth onto Luna’s cheeks, dropping to the marble below. The victories I hath won, comrades I hath buried! They see me as inept?! The angry thoughts grow like a hellish choir, ripping into the mind of Luna and tearing joy and pride away.

Forgotten. Useless. Inept. Unable.

I shall remind them of the bones upon which they stand! I AM my sister’s equal. In many ways, I am her better. Who was it that marched upon Old Cravenmore? Who was it that shattered the hippogriff-griffin alliance, delivering them defeat after defeat? Who was it that saw Sombra’s treach-

*WHAM-CRACK*

The bedpost never stood a chance.

Wounds on my body. All for peace. Some things never change, Luna bitterly brooded, nursing the new bruise forming on her tear stained cheek. Luna’s ears swivel, straining for evidence that somepony had heard her smashing her muzzle against the bedpost. Her keen and practiced eye sweeps the room, looking for other signs of damage.

Said room is quite sparse, Luna yearned not for the grandiose. Simply the essentials: bed, bathroom, liquor cabinet (loooooooooooooots of liquor), wardrobe with a mirror, and a small balcony. Of course, who could forget, a mare of her stature would also have an armor stand (chainmail and plate), sword and shield stand (her favorite), tail-blades (her invention, she's very proud), spear and halberd stand (she dabbles) mace stand (she dabbles less), and the latest in military technology: a repeating crossbow (she’s learning, she enjoys the challenge).

Yep. Nothing grandiose or superfluous. She’s a simple mare.

Convinced nopony heard, Luna’s ears fold back to equilibrium. She slinks toward the wardrobe to assess the damage. On her way she bumps against her easel, rattling the empty and neglected canvas that stood upon it. Courtesy of you-know-who.

“A time and happiness I no longer deserve,” Luna spat toward the paints standing dutifully to the right of her easel. Reaching the mirror, she inspects her wound with trained expertise.

A simple fix, I hath suffered far worse. Luna mused, the beginnings of a healing spell reaching out of her mind. A flash of her horn and the blemish is erased. Promptly, Luna marches to her bathroom to prepare herself for the night ahead.

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Cyrus hates coffee, but he has no other choice. Coming home after completing his nightly duty as The Courier, he had (unfortunately) spied that his laptop was on. Even worse, as he was promising himself that he would go to bed at a ‘human’ time tonight, he noticed that a certain Discord channel was populated with four familiar usernames. In Cyrus’ culture 四 [four] meant 死 [death] but that had never stopped him before. The grim decree was displayed in yellow: ‘@ELCHINO445 @torbfromoverwatch flex? need one, on smurfs, free wins’, the irrefutable call. Duty and honor bound, Cyrus had no choice but to boot up League of Legends. This was mistake number one.

Gotta chug at least half this shit down before Waterloo. Otherwise I’ll be dead tired for this lesson, Curys thought, his face contored in the classic ‘fuck off’ London look. I wonder if she’s practiced at all or if I’ll have to suffer through another hour of dogshit Bach. Cyrus pondered, ‘fuck off’ face teetering toward ‘I will kill anyone who speaks to me’. He was listening to Mahler’s 5th, not the best choice for a grumpy, sleep deprived half-breed.

He sat in carriage six, the toilet carriage. It was the carriage closest to the ticket gates. He could sit in the less smelly and toilet free carriage five but that would mean like +5 seconds to his commute - an unforgivable sin. He gingerly blows on his coffee while ruminating on a lesson plan.

She’s bloody screwed if she doesn’t shape up. You can pass grade 5 without much practice, but grade 6 is different. If she doesn’t pass, it’ll be somehow my fault, Cyrus bemoaned, melancholy permeating his mindscape. Work had evaded Cyrus out of university, positions had went to people with more 关系 [relations, in this context: nepotism]. He had to teach to eat.

It’s not like I don’t like doing it, it’s just that the students do not fucking care, Cyrus brooded. Seriously, why bother learning if you don’t care? Cyrus mirthlessly chuckled to himself. Being half Chinese, he knew full well the answer to his question. Tipping the cup to his lips, Cyrus bravely gulped the bitter liquid, not noticing the trio of buildings whizzing by that signaled the slowing down of the train. This was mistake number two.

“哎，哇擦 [Ah shit]!”

Well there goes that coat, Cyrus thought, cursing his slowness. Jerking upright from his languid lounging position, Cyrus got to futility wiping at the offending brown stains. When did my life become like this, man. Wish I could go back to uni, those days were fun. Too long gone. And it’s only been a bloody year since graduation…

No, don’t moan. 笑一笑，十年少 [smile and you’ll be 10 years younger]. I’m going to depress myself into an early grave. Cyrus chastised himself, violently shaking his head as if to rid himself of his negative thoughts. The doors slid open accompanied by the shriek of the door alarm, jarring Cyrus into the present. Swiftly, he collected his bag and stepped onto the platform. Resolving not to let himself fall into the vices of grim reminiscence and depression, he finished his revolting drink. Muscle memory took over, deftly guiding him to his destination.

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Luna loves coffee. To her, it was the perfect drink: concentrated energy. Perfect if she had a short time to refuel before marching to the next battle. Luna downs her third night court espresso, her seventh of the evening. Night court, following the trend of the past two months, was empty. It wasn’t always this way, the first resumed sessions of night court were abuzz with sinister activity. Nobles, in a bid to get away with some shady requests, had come pandering to the Princess of the Night to exploit her thousand year gap in knowledge.

Confuse her with modern linguistics and ideas, make a big pile of cash, thought every noble in the waiting room. They came, like mosquitoes to water, armed with graphics that were designed to confuse rather than enlighten. Of course, with all the tact gained through her long life, Luna had handled the situation with tact and finesse as expected of a princess……

“Tis thievery! Thou wish to cut HOW MUCH tax upon thy properties and revenue?! What say you to our hospitals? Our military? Our schools? Thou calls thyself a noble, yet act peasantly! Pray tell, dost thou think us inept?! ‘Trickle down’ economics? Blithering idiocy!” Luna shouted in her Royal Canterlot Voice, shaking the room with her (incredibly) poorly veiled contempt. Fortunately for the slumbering citizens of Canterlot, a magical sound barrier was erected before the processions began.

By whom? Guess.

Golden Coin, who’s confidence upon entering the room had all but faded, was shitting bricks.

“Y–your highness, if you’ll just look at the d-diagram,” Golden Coin bleated, gesturing a meek hoof toward the incredibly verbose bar graph. Her mind was too terrified to do anything except parrot her script. “L-less tax for The Golden Corporation m-means more money for development p-projects. T-the wealth will be r-r-regained by the crown when m-more workers work-” Luna interrupts her by blasting a sigh across the room.

“Thou speak like a brigand. Begone,” Luna declares, her royal raised hoof signaling the end of the meeting. Golden Coin beats a hasty retreat, legs shaking as she sprints for the door.

“Perhaps we shall ‘trickle down’ upon thee,” Luna snarks across the room. Golden Coin squeaks in fear as she skids out the room and round the corner.

“I shan't ‘trickle down’ upon her. She would derive pleasure!” A chuckle rising out of her chest and into the open air. Her guards have no fucking clue what to do with the illustrious, prim and elegant (so they are used to) Diarch of Equestria making piss jokes, so they stand in default: ‘uncomfortable silence’. Once upon a time, they would join her in laughter. Fear of status and station washed away by the friends they had buried and battles they had faced. Prudes, Luna thought, her joy soured as she sat in silence, yearning for days of old……

After that incident, nopony would bother to come. It was clear Luna was still pretty sharp despite her extended vacation and hotheaded nature. Straight back to the far more soft spoken Sun Sister who wouldn’t kick your shit in for saying stupid shit.

Of course, Luna received the scolding of a lifetime from her sister the next night……

“Tia, she was an idiot.”

“Yes, I understand that Lu, but you can't go calling ponies idiots or peasants in this day and age.”

“Why? If she so chooses to act peasant-like, I shall say it so. And I did not call her an idiot. I called her idea blithering idiocy.”

“Lu, calling somepony’s idea ‘blithering idiocy’ is the same as calling the pony stupid. Besides, you just called her an idiot like 4 seconds ago.”

“... Fine, I shall try to stow my temper”

“Okay… Last thing. What’s this I'm hearing about you threatening to pee on her?”

“Bah! A joke! I was simply trying to lighten the mood. Break the ice with the statues thou call the guard.”

“I… Ugh! Luna, you can’t joke about that stuff! Especially not in that context. I… know it’s hard adjusting, but- Oh Luna, it’s okay… shh… it’s okay……”

Celestia, leveraging her boundless influence, had tried to contain the fallout. Gossip, being the unstoppable force that it is, would not heel. Word of Luna’s temper and alleged proclivity for urinating on ponies had spread across the land like locusts.

On the bright side, Luna had a better understanding of what pissed off meant.

Truly, how doth Tia stand the incessant badgering, Golden Coin had me at my wit’s end, Luna pondered, gazing upon the empty throne room. Perhaps I should count my blessings. Tis not an easy task… Grahhh! Infernal boredom! Luna restlessly bounced her foreleg, hoof rhythmically bouncing on the floor. Her expression contorts to a bored, helpless frustration.

It has always been this way. Luna thought. A mistake.

The memories burst forth like a tsunami, dragging her into the depths. Suffocating……

Control slipping. 82 percent.

“It has ALWAYS been this way!” Luna screamed at her sister, angry globs of spittle flying from her mouth. Her illustrious sister wore an expression of abject shock, as did the guard. “Thou languish in the light, while I am cast toward scorn and darkness! The useless one! The tactless one! The bringer of death and misery! Thou hast surely heard the scorn thrown toward me, yet thou turn a blind eye! Lest thine image be harmed!” Accusations flying across the room like arrows, aimed directly at Celestia’s heart.

“Sister! Please, lower thy tone. Do not bring distress to my little ponies.” Celestia reasoned, annoyance made plain on her muzzle.

Control slipping further. 67 percent.

“Ha! Tone or not, I bring them distress regardless. I, the vile blood-drinker. I, who shall eat every misbehaving colt and filly in the land. I, the inept ambassador, with no tact or kindness!” Luna hissed, mane flying wildly as her emotions ran unbridled. Her tears flowed like angry currents, reflecting the torrent of her insecurities.

“Luna! Nopony calls you that. Nopony says-” Celestia’s counterargument is cut short by a howling scream from Luna.

Control diving. 23 percent.

“NOPONY CALLS ME THAT?!” Luna shrieked, “Sister. Thou forget I am privy to ALL secrets in the dreamscape. They TARNISH my name! I, who have BLED and toiled on the battlefields of old?!” The last statement said with such sweeping vitriol the guards were knocked to the floor.

“Luna, I did not mean to cause offense! See reason,” Celestia ordered, brow furrowing in plain frustration, “I am busy now, we can discuss this later.”

Control plummeting. 8 percent.

“Too busy?! For thou kin? Reason!? Do NOT accuse me of madness sister!” Luna spat, chewing each syllable like a disagreeable mouthful of oats. “Perhaps your little ponies require reminding of thou failures? Sombra?! Allowing the Griffins and Hippogriffs to amass troops near our borders?” Luna’s attention snaps to one of the recovering guards. Before she is able to stand she is wrenched in front of Luna, a blue glow of magic enveloping her body.

“Tell me, doth thou remember the war?” Luna coldly interrogates, the temperature of the room rapidly dropping. The winds pound against the windows, aided by supernatural forces. The guard can only manage a gurgle of pain as the full weight of Luna’s mana-field is brought upon her. Roaring at the unsatisfactory answer, the guard is violently smashed to the floor, tile parting to make room for its new guest. Luna lets loose a cold and loveless scoff. Her form shimmers, eyes becoming slitlike, fangs protruding from her mouth. Celestia’s mouth hangs open in shock.

“Proud to have it, selfish as not to share with thou ONLY kin. Perhaps a demonstration of my might is long overdue. A reminder of why”- she gestures to the guards -“they exist. Why thou EMPIRE exist!” Luna declares, all traces of warmth erased from her soul. Her coat blackened in the candle light as she grew.

“Sister! Thou has shed the blood of our guard! Our fellow countryponies! Do away with this form immediately! This show of violence is unnecessary, do not embarrass us further!” Celestia orders, stamping her hoof as if to end the conversation.

Control critical. 1 percent.

“EMBARRASS?! Thou art the embarrassment! Thou find me repulsive in this form? The form that won Equestria her wealth and peace!? UNNECESSARY!! I. SHALT. SHOW. THEE. UNNECESSARY!!!” Luna howls across the throne room, shaking the castle to its core. Last vestiges of self control shattered to pieces like ice thrown on pavement.

The tiling shatters with the force of her pounce, eyes glued on her sister with enough hatred and malice to fill the oceans. Her silver blade, glinting like a sea of stars, arced toward Celestia, grasped tightly in Nightmare Moon’s magic. The guards act quickly, forming a tight defensive barrier around their sovereign. Nightmare Moon changes her trajectory with practiced ease, left wing abusing the air currents generated from her magic as she deftly avoids the guard’s jabbing halberd. Twisting her body, she rockets out her hind leg directly at the guard’s head. The impact lets out a massive-

*CRRRRRRAAAACK*

The tiles stood no chance.

Panting like a madmare she shoots onto all fours, startling the guard in the process.

“We shall be in our training range. Alert us if we are needed.” Luna barks with a bit too much bite, her vision narrowing as her body vibrates with adrenaline. Her horn flashes to mend the tile, ridding the evidence of her sorrow. Her guards call out a resounding and confused ‘Yes, your highness’ as she rounds the corner and out of sight.

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“Any luck on the job search?” Cyrus questioned, shooting a weary glance to his friend. The smell of sweat and booze permeate the air.

“Nah, nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Pigs will fly before I find work related to my degree. I’ll be working in a bloody Tesco for the rest of my life.” Cyrus’ friend flatly replies before taking a long drag of his Guinness.

“Bruh. Jake, don’t tell me it’s THAT fucking bad. You graduated with a First!”

“Listen, man. I just can’t win. Even with my degree it’s just fucking impossible to crack into psychology without contacts. Network is net worth and all that shit.”

“Faaaaaaaaaking ‘ell”

Jake lets out a dejected sigh, putting his glass down on the windowsill he was perched upon. Manchester City was playing Arsenal at 8:00 and it was 7:45. Naturally, this meant that The Wellington was packed wall to wall with rowdy football geezers, all joking, jeering, and letting out the occasional chant. Normally it would be impossible to find any space to occupy that wasn’t part of the churning human sea. However, unlike the sweaty hordes of jersey wearing chappies, Cyrus and Jake were professionals. On matches as important as these, they always made sure to get to the pub early and sit on the second windowsill down from the women’s toilets. It gave them unparalleled access to the tv and the bar was only a (literal) hop away.

Matchday aside, this was a ritual for Cyrus and Jake. Each friend was always sure to block out time to sit and bitch about life in The Wellington every Monday. It is a sacred ritual and both friends observed it like religious fanatics.

Cyrus had just finished his Monday teaching circuit and was feeling particularly moody, a fact reflected in his slouched spine and sagged shoulders. None of his students practiced because of course they didn't. They’re up to their necks in tutoring and clubs, who has time to practice the piano? They must win the rat race! And that meant being able to cram your university application with five billion accolades so you can go to university, then you can cram your CV with five billion more once you graduate!

A blanket of silence envelops the duo, both silently chewing on the state of the world like a bit of rind. Daringly, Cyrus breaks the silence: “Fucking grim, eh? Us povvos never stood a chance.” This gets a chortle out of Jake.

“Hah, yeah. Should have listened to our parents and become doctors or lawyers or whatever,” Jake shoots back, dimpled cheeks evidencing a small smile forming on his face. “Well, guess we all can’t be as subservient as him.” Cyrus barks out a laugh at the mention of him. A most unsavory classmate, a walking example of perfect filial piety. He was a douchebag, through and through.

“Yeah man, I think he deserves to be a doctor actually,” Cyrus says, raising his voice to a tone of exaggerated incredulity. “Oh, you’re sick? And I suppose that's somehow my fault.” Cyrus imitates his unique speech pattern. Jake bursts out in laughter.

“Hm, you say you have a lump? Yeah it’s cancer mate, unlucky. Now fuck off I’m too busy supplying the sperm bank.” Jake imitates in turn, earning a string of laughter from his friend.

“Mate, you’re so much better at imitating Yang than me,” Cyrus chokes out through his residual chuckles. Jake lets out a big sigh, swiftly killing the shared mirth.

“Yet he’s the one with job prospects. Maybe we shouldn’t slag him off too much…” Jake points out dejectedly, giving Cyrus a defeated look. Cyrus puffs out his chest and cheeks, letting out a massive raspberry in response.

“Listen man, I don’t care if that fucker is the god damn CEO of Amazon. He’s a fucking prick. Spent his life bouncing on dick perma tryna social climb or whatever. Then he went home and glazed his parents so they’d bail him out of trouble at school,” Cyrus says with faux frustration. He takes a break to drain the last of his Guinness before continuing.

“He may be the G.O.A.T. of bringing honor to the family but at least we had the backbone to do what we wanted. Even if it did end up with you working at Tesco and me having to endure ear cancer every time I listen to my students. And because I do what I want, I’m going to slag his bony arse off till the day I die.” Cyrus finished, dramatically bringing his glass to the windowsill with a loud thump. Laughter breaks through Jake’s pensive features at his friend's dramatics.

“Ear cancer eh? Nobody practiced again?” Jake asks, quirking an eyebrow at Cyrus. Cyrus can only respond with an exaggerated facepalm. Then, dragging his hand down his face as if to rip off his skin, Cyrus lets out the mother of all groans.

“Mate, don’t even get me started on those kids. They all bloody hate it. Bless them. Already got so much on their plates ‘cause their parents- '' drunken singing erupts from the pub, cutting Cyrus’ bitching short.

“NOOOOOOOOOORTH LOOOOODON FOREVER!” The rowdy pub crowd sings, unbelievably out of tune. Jake and Cyrus can’t help but smile. In sync, they straighten their backs as they raise their glasses. It was their national anthem after all.

Whatever the weather,

These streets are our own.

And my heart,

Will leave you never.

My blood will forever,

Run through the stone.

A loud cheer and residual blasts of ‘Arsenal, Arsenal, Arsenalllllll’ echoes across the pub as kick off begins.

“If we win this we win the prem right? What are the chances Arsenal take it?” Jake asks hopefully. Cyrus turns to his friend with a giant shit eating grin.

“Zero! We fucking stink man! But we can always hope.”

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Her movements are swift and precise, like a falcon diving for prey. Her expression is that of pure focus as she tugs the invisible tether between her mind and blade. Her sword wobbles in response. Satisfied, she flicks her thoughts upward, twisting her blade through the air while whipping her tail around with deadly speed. Attached to the end of her tail a thin and sharp blade glints like water under moonlight. Poised to deal death, it is headed for one destination: her enemy. Luna’s deft and careful eyes track her tail-blade’s flight path. Synchronizing her strike, she brings her blade downward in one swift thought. An inescapable combo. A shattering crack echoes across the training room.

Staring directly into the eyes of her enemy, Luna admires her handiwork. The tail-blade was lodged firmly in her enemy's throat while her sword had split its skull. Wrapping a hindleg around her tail, she yanks her tail-blade out of her victim while urging her mind to dislodge her sword.

Right. I shall practice my sword forms next, then perhaps I shall play a bit with my new ‘crossbow’ thing. Luna mused, her plate armor clanking as she arched her back in a catlike stretch.

I miss sparring with the gladiators. Twas fun, even if I won every time. Focusing her magic on the battered dummy, Luna casts a mending spell. She takes the opportunity to give herself some reprieve, sitting on her haunches while staring at the reconstructing dummy. It was then she realized.

She smelled revolting.

It was only natural. Having stormed out of the throne room 3 hours ago in a state of distress, Luna had defaulted to her regular wind down routine.

1. 50 laps on the ground
2. 50 laps in the air
3. Twenty wing pushups
4. Repeat 1-3 wearing chainmail. Then half plate. Then full plate.

Once her short warmup was complete, Luna had made her way to the middle of the track where her dummies awaited their nightly punishment.

The offending stench reintroduces itself to Luna, her muzzle contorts to a grimace at the foul smell.

Stars above, I stink! Luna thought, turning her muzzle upward in disgust.

“Stars above, Lu, you stink!” A familiar and teasing voice snarked from across the training ground. Panting, Luna lazily flaps a wing in greeting.

“Salutations… Tia…” Luna managed through her steady panting, heart rate steadily receding toward rest. Levitating a cup of water to her side, Luna asks: “Pray tell, why art thou awake at this hour?”

“I thought I’d check on you. Heard from the guard that you… Well…” Celestia says, awkwardness settling around the room at her statement. Luna turns to give her sister an unimpressed eye roll.

“Twas a small hitch, I am fine. To borrow a phrase from modern vernacular: ‘I am as fit as the fiddle’” Luna retorts, a bitter edge creeping into her voice.

“Lu, I know you’re going to say that I am foaling you… but that’s exactly what the problem was. Lu, I…” Celestia trails off, her vocal chords paralyzed by her swirling emotions. Luna snorts.

“Tia, I am not a foal. Do not make me feel more useless than-” Luna’s sharp reply is cut short by a curt stamp of Celestia’s hoof.

“Lulu, you are not useless!”

“Thou seem to act as if I am.”

“I… Just…” Tentatively, Celestia raises her head, her mind churning with all the ways she could say sorry. Her eyes, brimming with yearning and pain, lock with Luna for a moment.

Familiar eyes.

Thousands of slimy appendages burst forth, abducting Luna’s mind into the waiting void.

“Too slow.” Nightmare Moon boasts, lazily flicking her blade to deflect Celestia’s desperate strike. Nightmare Moon throws a taunting hoof across the room, drawing attention to the corpses lying on the floor. The crimson blood of the guard pools into the cracks between the tiles. Nightmare Moon lets out a ghastly laugh.

“Look at how thee failed them,” Nightmare Moon jeers, sneer of utter contempt on her muzzle. “Thou art truly weak.”

I am truly weak.

Without warning, Nightmare Moon bolts forward like a flash of lightning, arcing her sword toward her sister’s head. Celestia’s mind is barely able to complete the logistics of a teleportation before the blade reaches her. Gasping, she collapses in exhaustion, last fragments of strength spent. Nightmare Moon saunters toward her prone sister, angry sparks flying as she drags her sword across the floor.

“Thou art pathetic” Nightmare Moon taunts, fangs spread in a sinister grin.

I-I am pathetic

Nightmare Moon reaches her prey, her lips curled in a predatory smirk. Pressing Celestia's face into the floor with her forehoof, she leans down to her ear.

“Thou could have prevented this.” Nightmare Moon sweetly whispers like a mother to their child.

I c-could have prevented t-this.

“If only thou were stronger…” Nightmare moon whispers as Celestia weakly thrashes underneath her. With a sudden motion, Nightmare Moon relinquishes her hold. Desperation and fear tainting her magenta eyes, Celestia turns to plead with her sister. A silver flash greets her.

Not a strike designed to kill. A strike to wound and maim. Celestia howls in pain.

“L-Luna… Lu-”

“-na? Luna?!” Celestia’s worried shouts rescue Luna from the dark recesses of her mind. The sound of plate armor clattering against each other fills the training range as Luna violently shakes, her breath coming in short ragged bursts. Doubling over, Luna unceremoniously retches the contents of her stomach onto the floor. Celestia rushes over, her wings wrapping her sister in a tight hug.

“Luna, it was my fault. I’m so sorry. I should have listened… I should have…” Sobs choke Celestia’s throat, cutting her apology short. Both sisters weep, past sins spilling forth from clenched eyelids and laid bare against the night.

.

.

.

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Man, this has to be the last time I do this shit, 哇擦 [in this context: bruh], Cyrus promised himself, legs working double overtime to ferry him over Blackfriars bridge. Today was Friday and it was 8:23 PM A.K.A. The Goldmine A.K.A. The Grim Affair of Turbo Doom. Tonight’s artist in residence would be Tchaikovsky because The Grim Affair of Turbo Doom requires a balm of beautiful romantic expressionism.

Lurching and leering, Cyrus winds his bike onto the A3200. A straight shot down then a few side streets and Cyrus would be done for tonight. +32 quid would become +36 and ordinarily Cyrus would not give a shit.

This time, however, it was different. Today that +36 meant something special. Finally, after eight months of toil and sweat (and eating of incredibly cheap meals), Cyrus would be able to purchase a Steinway and Sons Essex Upright: Model EUP116E with an Ebonized High Gloss finish.

He was fucking drooling over that shit. He had been drooling over that shit ever since he sat down in Steinway Hall on Marylebone Lane and played on it for the first time. Gone are the days of renting out practice rooms or playing on his shitty pre owned electric keyboard at home. Soon, Cyrus would be a real pianist! He could invite all his friends around and play Chopin, Bach, Liszt, Beethoven, all the greats! Maybe his career would take off, he’d finally have a call returned!

Okay! Next right past Lavington street and I’m there! Oh! Beautiful white piano, you will finally be mine, Cyrus thought to himself, spirit soaring with giddiness and gleeful delight. Fanatical fantasizing egging him on, Cyrus increases his speed. Great Guildford Street comes into sight and Cyrus wasted no time, shooting toward it like an arrow. Shifting his weight to the left, he tilts his bike rightward and whips around the corner.

What awaited him was definitely not Great Guildford Street.

The first thing he noticed was how clean everything looked. London is a shithole, wherever the fuck he is right now isn’t. Pristine floor, pristine walls, pristine pots of lavender sitting on the pristine walls, pristine stained glass windows.

Wait, what the fuck? Stained glass windows? I’m… inside? Cyrus thought, absolutely befuddled and bewildered. His confusion is probably why he didn’t notice the giant open set of double doors, leading to a lavish and pristine throne room.

“Halt! Who goes there!” Comes a very authoritative female voice. Cyrus’ eyes immediately snap to the source. What greets him makes him do a mental backflip.

That’s a horse?! Uhhhh… with a… Horn? Wait what the fuck, wings too?! Cyrus thought as his poor mind raced at a mile a minute to make sense of his new situation.

Suddenly, he noticed the set of stairs growing in his field of view. And the other horses who were pointing very sharp objects in his general vicinity.

“FuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” Cyrus screamed, his fingers locking around the breakhandle. The loud squeak, akin to nails on a chalkboard, blasted around the room, causing the big blue horse’s ears to fold against her skull in protest.

Cyrus’ logical mind flew through all the possible explanations for what exactly was going on. Much like how Cyrus was flying through the air right now, courtesy of the friction in his bike tyres.

With all the grace of a walrus, Cyrus belly flops with an unceremonious plomp at the foot of the stairs. Adrenaline fueling his fried brain, he flips onto his back and bolts upright, only to find a silver blade nary an inch from his face. Cyrus lets loose a scream that would have him taking shit from his friends for the next year.

“什么鬼 [What the hell]!?”

Author's Note

Ello. This is my first story. Hope you enjoy.

Just kinda fleshing out characters this chapter nothing crazy yk.

Please lmk if my writing is passable, I've been told my imagery is a bit strange/odd. I like a bit of goofy and I like a bit of serious. Hope the moods don't crash too heavily.

Ch2 will come soon, I'm still depressed over Arsenal bottling the league.