“For a colonized people the most essential value, because the most concrete, is first and foremost the land: the land which will bring them bread and, above all, dignity.”

- Franz Fanon

~A few days ago. Gaia, New Washington. 1400 hours.

The wide, open meadow stretched before the landscape, undulating in a sea of emerald green and dotted with patches of vibrant wildflowers swaying gently under the caress of the afternoon breeze. The sun, a golden orb in the sky—similar yet subtly different from the sun of Earth—cast a warm, honeyed light over the landscape. The air was crisp and fresh, untouched by the pollution that had long plagued their home planet. To the colonists, the sweeping horizon was a reminder of new beginnings, a blank slate that carried both promise and peril.

The Nissan pickup truck rumbled to a halt, its engine’s low growl fading into the gentle sounds of the alien world: the hum of insects with wings that shimmered like stained glass, the rustle of tall grasses whispering secrets, and the distant call of a bird with a song that mimicked a trill and a hum. The trio stepped out of the vehicle, boots crunching against the unfamiliar terrain, eyes squinting against the brilliance of the afternoon sun.

Peter Evans, a broad-shouldered man with sunburned skin and an unmistakable Texan swagger, adjusted his cowboy hat and gave a toothy grin. The glint in his eyes spoke of restless ambition. Beside him, Kai Brown ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, the skeptical crease in his brow deepening as he scanned the horizon. Ricardo Romero, shorter but wiry and quick with a smile, ran his fingers over the beaded bracelet on his wrist—a small comfort from home—while looking apprehensively around.

The newly dubbed "New Niagara Falls" roared in the distance, the sound of the crashing water a thunderous backdrop that reverberated through the rolling landscape. The vast meadow stretched around them, painted in vibrant greens, and scattered with clusters of wildflowers in hues of purple, gold, and white. The air was fresh and tinged with the faint scent of wild grass and water vapor, a reminder that humanity had found a world as pristine as Earth once was.

The wind tugging at his sun-bleached hair, and laughed with a carefree ease. "Ain't this something, boys? Who'd have thought we’d be living out here, taking in the sights of a whole new world?"

Kai chuckled, pulling the brim of his cap lower to shield his eyes from the glare. “Yeah, no kidding. Beats looking at concrete walls back home.”

Ricardo, who sat in the back seat with his arms resting on the headrests of the front seats, nodded with a wistful smile. “This place reminds me of those old camping trips back in the Sierra Madre.”

They parked the truck near the riverbank, stepping out and stretching their tired limbs as the sound of the falls roared in their ears. The mist hung in the air, tiny droplets catching the sunlight and creating a faint rainbow that danced in the breeze. They took turns snapping photos, trying to capture the beauty of the moment and the novelty of their new world.

“Hey, check this out,” Peter said, leaning over Kai's shoulder as he reviewed the photos on his phone. The laughter in their eyes faded into stillness as Kai’s gaze darted past the camera lens and out across the meadow.

“Wait… what is that?” Kai muttered, narrowing his eyes at a cluster of figures partially hidden in the tall grass.

Ricardo followed his line of sight, the smile slipping from his face. His heart quickened as he saw the movement—four creatures, their bodies lithe yet sturdy, with bright, impossibly colorful fur that glistened under the afternoon sun. Their eyes were larger than any animal’s should be, expressive and filled with an intelligence that made Ricardo’s throat tighten. One was a deep red with a shock of brown mane, while another was a pale peach with a golden, almost glowing mane.

“Are… are those aliens?” Ricardo whispered, his accent thickening with anxiety.

Peter snorted, trying to mask the sudden tension in the air. “You guys have been watching way too many movies. If we found E.T. out here, I’d just blow its head off.” He patted the holster at his hip, the heavy .44 Remington Magnum gleaming in the sun.

The trio exchanged a look before Kai lifted his phone, hitting the record button with a shaking finger. The creatures seemed to pause, ears swiveling as if they had heard the slight click. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, the only sound the rushing of the falls and the rustle of the grass.

Peter took a step forward, hands open as if approaching a skittish dog. “Easy there,” he whispered, half-amused by his own nerves. “Ain’t gonna hurt you…”

But before he could close the distance, the creatures’ eyes widened with a startlingly human-like terror. Their mouths opened, and what came next made the blood in Kai’s veins freeze—a scream, shrill and piercing, like a cry of warning mixed with the desperate wail of a sentient being.

The creatures bolted, hooves pounding against the ground in a rapid escape. Ricardo felt his pulse thunder in his ears as he instinctively backed up. “Dios mío… they sounded human!”

Peter’s smirk faded as he watched them disappear into the brush, their colorful forms melting into the greenery. The silence that followed was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos of moments before.

Kai let out a shuddering breath and glanced at his phone. “I… I got it. The whole thing.”

Peter shook his head, forcing a laugh to chase away the tremor in his chest. “No one’s gonna believe that. A video of goofy-lookin’ rainbow horses screaming? They’ll think we’re off our rockers.”

Ricardo’s brows knitted, a sense of foreboding settling over him. “Maybe they won’t. But at least Kai will get some internet clout.”

As they clambered back into the truck, the meadow fell silent once more, its beauty marred by a strange, unsettling tension. The sun continued its slow descent, casting long, golden rays over the horizon as if heralding the quiet before an approaching storm.

And in that moment, humanity’s first encounter with Equestria’s denizens was etched into their minds—a forewarning of a future where both species would learn just how far they were willing to go to defend their homes.

Gaia, Novosibirsk ("New Siberia"). June 21st, 2038. 2000 hours.

The sky above New Siberia was a perpetual canvas of storm and shadow, heavy with thick, roiling clouds that never parted. It was as if the sun had abandoned the world, leaving only an endless, howling blizzard in its place. Snow lashed against anything that dared to move, driven by merciless gales that shrieked like banshees through the skeletal remains of long-dead trees. The ground was a vast expanse of whiteness, undisturbed except for the occasional jagged outcropping of black, ice-slicked rock jutting defiantly into the biting wind.

Yeva trudged onward, the snow crunching beneath her boots as if protesting her passage. Her double-layer snowsuit, lined with fur and synthetic insulation, felt like paper against the cold, and her ushanka, tied snugly over her head, did little to stop the wind from clawing at her ears. Every step was a battle; each breath was a cloud of condensation that froze the moment it left her mouth, frosting her scarf with tiny crystals. Her eyes, narrowed against the wind, stung with the cold, and she could barely feel her fingers inside her thick gloves.

She turned to look at her husband, Mikhailovich, who stood a few paces away with a drone controller cradled in his numbed hands. One with clutching the remote control of the Autel Dragonfish Pro Recon Drone and the other shielding the screen of his tablet from the stinging snow. The drone hummed above, its propellers slicing through the air as it sent back a live feed of the landscape.

His face, windburned and covered with a fine frost, was set in hard lines as he squinted at the footage on the tablet screen. His breath came in ragged puffs as he scanned the terrain, eyes darting over the endless sea of white, searching for any sign of life—or more importantly, food.

“Anything?” Yeva called, her voice muffled by her scarf and nearly swept away by the wind.

Mikhailovich sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Nothing yet. Only snow and ice.” He clenched his jaw, a flicker of frustration crossing his frost-bitten face. “But we’ll find something. We have to.” His jaw set in a line of hard determination, though his hunched shoulders spoke of the same weariness Yeva felt. The snow clung to his thick, dark beard, turning him into a ghostly figure as he scanned the drone’s footage. The footage showed an unending sea of white, broken only by the occasional rocky outcropping.

The landscape around them, known officially as "New Siberia", this place was harsher than anything they had known, even by Russian standards.

But they had no choice but to be out here. The hydroponics in their settlement had been their lifeline, a precious source of food that kept the small, scattered communities of Novosibirsk from succumbing to the land’s inhospitable embrace. But the failure of their water supply system had changed everything. Repair parts and emergency rations would take days to arrive, days they could not afford with their daughter, Douyasha, waiting back at the settlement. Her thin and pale face haunted Yeva's mind, how they would face her if they returned empty handed. The worry itself made her stomach churn.

With a groan, Yeva sank down onto a rock that protruded from the snow like the tip of an iceberg. It was cold and unyielding beneath her, but she hardly cared. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, gnawed at her. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of escape, a fleeting return to the life she had left behind.

The memory of their small, warm apartment in Russia unfurled in her mind. It had been simple, yet cozy: the creak of old wooden floors beneath their feet, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen, and the warmth of the radiator that clanked and hissed in the corner. She remembered the glow of the samovar on the table, always ready to pour steaming tea, and the way Douyasha would play with her dolls by the window, giggling as snow fell outside. The muffled laughter, the smell of spiced tea, and the steady beat of their old clock were now things of another world, as distant as the sun that had abandoned them to this frozen hell.

Her reverie was interrupted by Mikhailovich’s sudden intake of breath. His fingers, white with cold, trembled as he pointed to the screen. “Yeva, look at this.”

Yeva’s heart clenched as she moved closer to peer over his shoulder. At first, the drone’s footage showed nothing but the same, monotonous expanse. But then, as the camera zoomed in, she saw it—a small creature moving across the tundra. It walked on four legs, its light blue coat gleaming with an almost ethereal sheen that contrasted sharply against the snow. Its mane and tail were cyan, and as it moved, they caught the scant light and shimmered with an unnatural brilliance. The creature’s build was sleek and delicate, its eyes large, round, and filled with a haunting luminescence.

“Bozhe moi,” Yeva whispered, her breath catching. “What is it?”

Mikhailovich’s brows furrowed, his expression mirroring her shock and confusion. “I don’t know. It looks like a small horse, but… not like any I’ve ever seen.”

Yeva's mind raced with questions and fears. What was this creature doing out here, alone in the snow? How could it survive in this bleak, frozen land?. She felt a deep unease wash over her. “What do we do?” she asked, voice trembling.

Mikhailovich was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the small, shimmering figure as it moved toward a large, jagged cave at the base of a nearby mountain. The entrance yawned like the mouth of a great beast, half-hidden by curtains of blowing snow. He lowered the drone, letting it hover above the cave for a few minutes before pulling it back up. He turned to Yeva, a grim determination in his eyes. “We need to decide, Yeva,” he said, his voice flat and resolute. “We could kill it and take it back. It’s food, whatever it is.”

Yeva’s eyes widened in horror. “Mikhailovich, we don’t know what that is. What if it’s dangerous? What if there are viruses or bacteria—”

“We don’t have a choice,” he cut in, his voice sharp but not unkind. “We can’t wait for supplies. You’ve heard the reports from other settlements—people have fished from the frozen rivers and lakes, eaten the local fish. They’re fine.”

“But this…” She gestured at the fading image on the tablet. “This isn’t fish.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes hardening with resolve. “But would you rather go back to Douyasha with nothing? To see her hungry, knowing we didn’t even try?”

Yeva looked away, the wind stinging her eyes, though she wasn’t sure if the tears that blurred her vision were from the cold or from the torment in her heart. There was no taboo against eating horse meat in Russia, though most considered it poor fare, a last resort. But what else could they do? Her mind drifted back to the stories her grandparents had told her—the "good old days" before the fall of the Soviet Union, when Russia was a mighty nation that ruled most of the Eurasian steppe, fierce and proud, not scattered like now, clinging to life in frozen colonies.

They were far from those days, she thought bitterly. Now, they were no more than remnants, survivors eking out an existence in a new and unyielding world. With a heavy sigh that felt like it came from the very core of her soul, Yeva nodded. “All right.”

Mikhailovich didn’t waste a second. He adjusted the straps of his pack and began moving, with Yeva falling into step behind him. The drone’s coordinates guided them as they trudged through the deep snow, each step bringing them closer to the cave and the strange creature that might be their only hope.

Yeva handed Mikhailovich the machete from her bag, its steel blade gleaming dully in the dim light. He took it with a solemn nod, his eyes meeting hers in silent agreement.

The storm raged on around them, shrieking like a living thing, but it did not matter now. They had made their choice. They would return to their daughter with food, no matter the cost.

Gaia, "New Johannesburg". June 22nd, 2038.

The sky above New Johannesburg was an unblemished expanse of deep blue, stretching endlessly as the fierce sun loomed overhead, searing the rocky, golden earth with its relentless heat. The settlement buzzed with the steady hum of human endeavor, sweat glistening on every brow, muscles taut under the burden of labor. It was the kind of dry season weather that Neville Moagi knew well from his days in Limpopo—clear, bright, and so hot that the air itself seemed to shimmer like a mirage.

Neville’s work shirt clung to his back, soaked with perspiration as he and the other workers lifted the steel-reinforced base of a prefabricated house and carefully placed it on the leveled ground. The foundation, a seamless composite slab, was set first, its edges aligned with laser levels to ensure perfect balance. Once the base was secure, Neville and his team started slotting the modular wall panels into place, each one clicking firmly into pre-made grooves with metallic clangs. These panels, reinforced with insulation to guard against both the oppressive heat and the potential cold of Gaia's erratic climate, were layered in quick succession as the skeleton of the house took form.

Around them, other crews worked with relentless focus, erecting electric poles and weaving thick cables into the infrastructure grid. Diesel-powered construction vehicles roared, churning up clouds of dust, while a mechanized road-paver laid down asphalt under the watchful eyes of engineers. The rhythmic pounding of jackhammers and the whirring of cement mixers filled the air, blending with the shouts of foremen coordinating tasks in a mixture of Afrikaans, Zulu, and English. The sight of cranes hoisting beams and mechanical arms positioning prefabricated rooftops marked the symphony of creation in this alien land.

For once, no one noticed the differences between black and white skin, or spoke of class or history. Here, everyone worked side by side, bound by the singular need for survival. The homes of New Johannesburg were being built as sanctuaries, spaces free of the racial divides of old. The colony was determined to be a model for unity, a final renunciation of apartheid’s bitter legacy. It was a promise that Neville, and those around him, intended to uphold no matter the cost.

Sweat stung Neville’s eyes as he secured the window frames with his drill. His hands, calloused and aching, moved with mechanical precision as he fixed the ventilation covers in place. Each piece was a step towards safety and comfort for his wife and children. His wages here were meager, less than what he once earned as a carpenter back home, but in the face of Earth’s impending doom, money had lost its value. He had pledged his life to this, and if it meant his family could live to see another sunrise, he would endure.

The metallic thud of tools and muted chatter was interrupted by a sudden shout from the far end of the site. Neville’s head jerked up, his eyes narrowing in the glare as he saw a commotion brewing near the eastern boundary of the construction zone. Other workers, equally confused, paused in their tasks and turned to watch. What they saw stole the breath from their lungs—a throng of strange, diminutive creatures stood at the edge of the clearing, their black and white striped coats rippling under the midday sun.

Neville blinked, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. These weren’t the zebras of his childhood safaris. They were smaller, their faces more expressive, almost humanoid. Their markings twisted into complex, artistic patterns, some extending into the garments they wore—cloth wraps and tunics adorned with vibrant beaded necklaces, and bone and metal jewelry glistening like relics of the past. It reminded him of the ancient Zulu regalia, a fusion of nature and craftsmanship. The leader among them stepped forward, towering over the others with his imposing frame and layers of ornamental necklaces strung with polished shells and carved stones.

The construction supervisor arrived, urging the workers to step back. “Everyone, stay calm,” he said firmly, putting on a mask and gloves as a precaution. The crowd of workers rippled backward, giving the man space as he approached the zebra chieftain. Neville exchanged uneasy glances with his colleagues, a strange mix of fear and fascination mirrored in every face. Some reached for their cellphones, fingers trembling as they snapped photos and recorded the moment.

A tense silence settled as the supervisor and the zebra stood face-to-face. The creature’s eyes, large and dark as polished obsidian, seemed to reflect the vastness of a story untold. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the chieftain reached into a small woven satchel and drew out three items: a shell, glossy and smooth like the waters of an ancient sea; a bundle of dried grass and stems wrapped in leaves, the scent of earth and herbs wafting in the heat; and a wooden carving, expertly shaped into the form of a zebra, lifelike and etched with intricate lines.

The supervisor took a deep breath, clearly improvising for this unprecedented exchange. He reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling, and brought out a few Rand coins, a piece of hard candy that glistened in the light, and a photograph of a young boy with a wide smile—his son.

The two leaders exchanged gifts in a gesture that was both solemn and hopeful. They spoke, though their words were lost to each other, and soon resorted to hesitant gestures and tentative sign language, both sides trying to bridge the chasm of understanding.

Neville watched, a thousand thoughts and questions swirling in his mind. Was this a trick? A test? Or a genuine first contact with aliens? But as he gazed at the small herd of zebras, with their eyes full of curiosity and apprehension, he felt something stir within him—a spark of hope. For the first time in months, he felt that maybe, just maybe, humanity had a chance to get this right. To rewrite the pages of history and stand alongside these beings as equals.

This time, there would be no conquest, no subjugation. The people of South Africa and their leaders would ensure that the mistakes of colonialism, the scars left by division and greed, were never repeated here.

Author's Note

Before you ask why I gave more extra detail to the Russian couple than the American trio, and accuse me of being a Russian fanboy.

NO, I don't like the Russian government, but i like their people, i have some russian friends and they are really friendly, they share with me how their life in Siberia, and i am interested in that.

I wanted to make a contrast between the two countries, how the American colonists had a somewhat comfortable life while the Russian struggled.

About the South Africans and the Zebras,...I just wanted to make this story not just about the war only, but also about the effects of colonialism of Gaia and how to do it right without ending in genocide and oppression.
We gonna end racism with this one
🗣️ 🔥 🔥 🔥

And yes, I get the name Yeva from a character in the Murder Drones series.