"The more we learn, the more we realize how much we don't know."

- Albert Einstein

Gaia, Southwestern "New Pangaea" Continent. July 3rd 2038. 0800 Hours

The village lay silent under a gray, overcast sky. The morning sun struggled to pierce through the dense clouds, casting faint light over the rustic wooden structures and cobbled pathways. Éric Lavigne, one of the scientists from the UN First Contact team, walked carefully through the muddy streets, his boots leaving imprints in the damp earth. The air smelled of rain and woodsmoke, and faint traces of ash from the recent conflict still lingered.

This village, whose name he had learned was 'Whi-neighy-pool', was unlike anything Éric had ever seen. It felt as though he had stepped into a time machine to Europe’s medieval past—a place untouched by time. Thatched roofs, timber-framed houses, stone chimneys, and wooden fences lined the narrow roads. He passed empty market stalls, their wooden counters still covered in scraps of rotting vegetables and cracked pottery.

The silence was eerie. The once-bustling village now stood abandoned, with most of its inhabitants relocated to temporary UNHCR tents set up on the village's outskirts. The few remaining ponies—mostly elderly or injured—huddled under the beige tarpaulins, their wide eyes watching the human visitors with a mix of fear and curiosity.

Éric adjusted his glasses and jotted down a few observations in his leather-bound notebook. His eyes scanned every building he passed—a pottery shop, where half-finished clay bowls and vases sat cracked and dry; a blacksmith's forge, where rusting swords and horseshoes lay scattered across soot-stained tables; and even a tavern, its windows smashed and wooden furniture overturned, no doubt used as improvised barricades during the skirmish.

"This is like walking through a scene from The Canterbury Tales," Éric muttered to himself. "Their society seems to have plateaued somewhere around the 14th century…"

His next stop was the village hall—a large wooden structure with ornate carvings on its support beams. The building had seen better days. Its roof was partially caved in from stray shrapnel, and scorch marks marred the exterior walls. Inside, the hall was in disarray. Broken furniture was piled against doorways, windows were shattered, and the faint smell of dried blood still clung to the air.

Despite the damage, the hall retained a sense of solemn authority. Éric stepped carefully over splintered wood and shards of glass as he made his way toward the far end of the hall, where several paintings hung on the walls. Most were simple landscapes—rolling hills, peaceful forests, serene rivers. Others depicted ponies in various activities—farming, dancing, or crafting tools.

But one painting caught his attention.

It was larger than the others and far more detailed. The canvas depicted an equine figure unlike any Éric had encountered so far. Standing majestically against a golden sunrise, the creature had both a spiraled horn and a pair of expansive, feathered wings. Its coat shimmered in soft white tones, and its ethereal mane flowed in hues of pink, blue, and green, as if caught in an eternal breeze. Upon its head sat a golden crown, adorned with sparkling gems, and around its neck hung a radiant necklace.

"Mon Dieu…" Éric whispered in awe. "Who… or what are you?"

The figure in the painting radiated authority, grace, and power. Its eyes, though mere brushstrokes on canvas, seemed to hold wisdom beyond mortal comprehension. Éric leaned closer, inspecting the fine details of the painting—the intricate patterns on the crown, the lifelike texture of the mane, and the way light and shadow played across the creature's wings.

He took out his notebook and began scribbling furiously. 'This figure appears to represent royalty—possibly divine royalty. The crown and necklace indicate a position of supreme authority, perhaps even godhood in their culture. Its physical features—wings and a horn—suggest it might belong to an unknown fourth sub-species of this race.'

This discovery was monumental. The implications were enormous.

'If their society operates under a monarchy, this changes everything. Medieval monarchies were notoriously hierarchical. Diplomacy wasn't just about sending an ambassador—it was about status. A civilian or even a high-ranking representative wouldn't get an audience with a king or queen. They would expect someone of equal stature—a royal, a noble, or a high-ranking religious figure.'

Éric listed possible candidates from Earth—King Charles III of Britain, King Philippe of Belgium, Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah of Brunei, and others. Whoever would be chosen would represent humanity not just politically, but symbolically.

He let out a long sigh. "This complicates things significantly."

As Éric left the hall, he was greeted by Trevor Glover, one of his colleagues on the First Contact team. Trevor had a wild look in his eyes, and his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his khaki jacket.

"Éric! You’ve got to see this," Trevor said, gesturing for him to follow.

"See what?" Éric asked, falling into step beside him.

"You’ll see. Just… prepare to be confused."

Trevor led him through the muddy streets to a modest-looking building near the village outskirts. It resembled an old-fashioned bus stop—wooden benches, a small overhang, and a ticket counter.

Éric was unimpressed—until he looked down.

Railroad tracks.

Steel and wooden tracks ran straight through the muddy ground, extending into the distance on both sides of the village. Éric froze, his mouth slightly agape.

"This… This isn’t possible," he stammered. "This technology doesn’t match anything else we’ve seen here. Tracks like these belong to the Industrial Revolution, not a medieval society!"

Trevor nodded grimly. "That’s why I brought you here. None of this makes sense."

"How can they have access to railroads and yet still fight with swords and shields?" Éric asked, bewildered. "How do we explain this gap? Are these tracks imported from another civilization? Did they trade for them?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Trevor replied. "But this isn't the only paradox we’ve found. There’s more."

Over the next two hours, Éric and Trevor uncovered additional anomalies. In the village library, they discovered pristine sheets of modern white paper—produced with techniques far beyond anything a medieval society could achieve. At the local boutique, they found a sewing machine that looked suspiciously like a Singer Featherweight model from the 20th century.

'How can they have paper and sewing machines but not firearms or steam engines?' Éric thought to himself.

The deeper they dug, the more confusing the village became. This society was not the simple agrarian civilization they had initially assumed. There were layers—anomalies that defied logical explanation.

As the clouds began to clear and rays of sunlight illuminated the village once more, Éric couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something fundamental about these Equine's and their society.

Whinnypool, Southwestern Equestria. July 4th 2038. 2100 Hours.

The night air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of blood. Clouds drifted lazily across the night sky, allowing small clusters of stars to peek through their veil. Lanterns and battery-powered floodlights cast uneven pools of light across the makeshift hospital tents erected at the edge of Whinnypool village. The once-vibrant settlement was now reduced to a patchwork of broken homes and smoldering ruins.

Inside one of the larger medical tents, Elder Maple Sunleaf lay propped against thin, sterile pillows on a foldable hospital cot. Her once-pristine light amber coat was marred with streaks of dried blood and smudges of dirt. Her silvery mane, usually kept in a neat braid, hung loose over her shoulders in tangled strands. The bandages wrapped tightly around her injured foreleg were still damp with crimson, despite the creatures’—no, the 'Hu-mans’—best efforts to stop the bleeding.

The faint hum of strange machines and distant murmurs of medical staff punctuated the silence. Outside, 'hu-man' doctors and medics moved methodically between tents, carrying medical kits and plastic containers filled with supplies. Ponies—villagers and captured Royal Guards alike—lay scattered on cots, their wide eyes staring into nothingness.

Maple closed her eyes briefly, exhaling a shaky breath. Her mind replayed the chaotic final hours of Whinnypool's defense.

The Royal Guard had fought valiantly, positioning themselves at chokepoints throughout the village. The village hall became the last bastion of resistance, its wide doors barricaded with overturned tables, chairs, and barrels. She and the remaining council members gave orders to evacuate every stallion, mare, and foal to the northern forests.

But it wasn’t enough.

The invaders—'hu-mans'—advanced with impossible precision and speed. Their weapons spat fire and thunder, cutting down armored guards as if their steel plating were paper. Magic shields, usually impervious to conventional weapons, shattered upon impact from their explosive projectiles. Ponies screamed as bullets tore through flesh and shattered bones. Pools of blood stained the cobblestone floor, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.

She remembered one guard—a brave unicorn mare named Silver Gleam—who tried to hold the doorway with a reinforced magic shield. But one of the hu-mans threw a cylindrical object that exploded with a deafening roar, sending Silver's lifeless body crashing against the far wall.

In the chaos, Maple had been struck in the leg by one of the hu-mans’ weapons. The pain had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced—a searing, burning agony. The last thing she remembered before darkness took her was the sound of heavy boots marching over the splintered remains of the village hall’s door.

She sighed deeply, staring blankly at the canvas roof of the tent. The villagers had expected slaughter or enslavement. But instead, the hu-mans had stabilized their wounds, set up food stations, and provided shelter. The juxtaposition of brutal conquerors turned caretakers left everypony confused and fearful.

Rumors ran rampant among the ponies.

Astral Thunder, one of the younger stallions, was vocal about his suspicions. He whispered theories in the corners of the tents, his gravelly voice barely audible over the hum of medical equipment.
“They’re tricking us,” he’d hiss. “They want us docile. They want us grateful before they unleash whatever nightmare they’ve planned for us!”

Some villagers agreed, refusing to touch the strange, packaged food the hu-mans provided. But the hu-mans had been prepared for such defiance. They administered nutrition through syringes, carefully injecting a liquid into the mouths of stubborn prisoners, ensuring that nopony starved.

One truth became undeniable: these creatures wanted them alive. But why?

Maple’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the tent flap being pulled back. Two tall humans entered, their forms backlit by the cold glow of floodlights outside. Their angular faces were shadowed under helmets, their strange uniforms adorned with patches and insignias.

Her breath hitched. Despite their gentle movements, there was an undeniable sense of power about them—an aura of dominance that sent a chill down her spine.

They unfolded a peculiar chair with wheels—an alien yet oddly practical device. Carefully, they helped her into it, mindful of her injured leg.

She whispered a prayer to Celestia and Luna as they wheeled her out into the cold night air. Stars glittered faintly above, their faint glow partially obscured by the tent city and scattered lights.

The hu-mans brought her to a larger tent, its entrance flanked by two soldiers holding long, metal sticks that Maple now knew were weapons. Inside, dozens of ponies from Whinnypool were seated on rows of chairs facing a black canvas stretched tightly across a wooden frame. The tension in the air was palpable—fear, curiosity, and distrust mingled in every gaze.

Before Maple could ask what was happening, the lights went out. Gasps rippled through the tent. The ponies froze, ears twitching at every sound.

Then, light erupted from a device placed on a table—a strange contraption with four spinning lens and a bright glass eye. A beam of soft, flickering light projected onto the black canvas, and shapes began to form.

(Author's notes : The images shown here are the 116 original images on the Voyager 1 probe Golden Record.)

The first image appeared: a circle surrounded by celestial bodies—planets, stars, and a brilliant yellow sun.

Maple’s jaw dropped. Was this… their world? Were these creatures showing them the stars?

The images shifted—two hu-mans, they don't wear the strange garments that those here wear, just bare skin, just like the prisoners they held in the village jail a few days ago, standing side by side. One of them is male and the other is female, their hands clasped together in a sign of love.

More images followed. Mathematical symbols. Strange, arcane patterns that felt ancient and powerful. Then, breathtaking landscapes—vast deserts, rolling oceans, mighty rivers snaking across fertile valleys.

Images of mountains and deep oceans, of creatures climbing snow-covered peaks and diving into crystal-clear waters filled with strange fish.

Architecture followed—the 'Great Wall of China', the 'Taj Mahal', skyscrapers reaching into the heavens, and a building labeled 'UN Headquarters'.

The ponies watched, captivated, as the images continued—dancers spinning in vibrant costumes, craftsmen shaping delicate objects, people laughing and sharing food together.

But then came an image that made Maple’s blood freeze—a hu-man holding a cooked fish, others gathered at a feast eating meat.

Ponies recoiled, hooves covering their mouths. Whispers of horror filled the tent.

Yet, the most astonishing image came last—a hu-man in a pristine white suit floating in the vast void of space, tethered to a gleaming metal vessel. Stars burned brightly behind him, endless and eternal.

A stunned silence fell over the tent.

As the projection ended and the lights flickered back on, Maple sat frozen in her chair. The other ponies shifted uncomfortably, some trembling, others staring blankly at the black screen.

These creatures—hu-mans—were not ordinary species. They were not mere barbarians with fire-spitting weapons.

They were explorers of the stars. Builders of cities that kissed the clouds. Masters of knowledge beyond imagination.

But they were also predators, a species that consumed flesh and wielded destruction like an artist wielded a brush.

For the first time, she realized the truth: Equestria was not prepared for this.

And whatever came next… would change their world forever.

Gaia, ????, ????. July 8th 2038. 2000 Hours.

The night was cold, biting into exposed skin with cruel precision as Nuñez and Karliana trudged through the uneven forest path. The distant hoot of an owl echoed somewhere in the darkness, and the faint glow of a half-hidden moon provided little comfort. Every step they took was accompanied by the clinking of chains—metal scraping against metal—as their wrists, ankles, and necks were bound tightly. The rough iron left deep marks, raw and red against their skin, and every tug of the chain around their necks felt like a cruel reminder of their helplessness.

Karliana stumbled yet again, her bare feet catching on a jagged rock. She gasped sharply, her knees buckling beneath her. The chain snapped tight against her neck, yanking her upright with a strangled choke. Behind her, one of the armed equine guards—a grim-faced with a tarnished golden helmet—grunted and gave the chain a sharp pull.

"⍜⋏ ⊬⍜⎍⍀ ⊑⍜⍜⎐⟒⌇, ☊⍀⟒⏃⏁⎍⍀⟒!" ("On your hooves, creature!") he barked in a alien language.

Karliana whimpered but obeyed, her body trembling as exhaustion gnawed at her every muscle. Her pale, exposed skin was marred with dirt, small cuts, and bruises, and her once vibrant eyes now carried the glassy sheen of exhaustion. Nuñez, walking just behind her, clenched his jaw in silence. His gaze flickered to Karliana bottom before he turned back to the guards. His body ached, and the chill of the night made every movement feel like dragging weights through icy water.

It had been six days of this—six days of ceaseless walking, chained like animals, stopping only briefly for minimal rest, water, and food that barely qualified as sustenance. The Equines had been in such haste during their evacuation from village that they’d barely had time to gather supplies. What little food they had brought was prioritized for the escaping civilians, leaving the prisoners with the barest scraps—handfuls of dry hay, sharp and rough against their throats, and sips of stale water from dented tin canteens. The consequences of this meager diet had quickly made themselves apparent. Both Karliana and Nuñez suffered from constant stomach pains, sharp cramps twisting their insides, and humiliating moments of uncontrolled diarrhea.

Karliana had wept bitter tears the first time it happened, forced to endure the embarrassment under the cold stares of her captors. Nuñez had gritted his teeth and tried to maintain some semblance of dignity, but the experience left them both humiliated and weak.

The equines themselves fared little better. Their once-pristine golden armor was tarnished and dented, their fur matted with sweat and mud, and their eyes hollow with exhaustion and trauma. Many of them still flinched at sudden noises—a twig snapping or the distant howl of wind through the trees—reminders of the chaos and violence they had barely escaped when the military overran the vllage. And yet, despite their shared suffering, the guards held the chains tightly, their expressions grim and unyielding.

Karliana’s thoughts kept drifting back to the moment she almost escaped. Just a few days ago, back in the class chamber where purple Equine had been painstakingly attempting to teach them their language, the sound of distant gunfire had erupted. It was unmistakable—the sharp cracks of rifles and the booming roars of explosions. Outside the small wooden window, she had seen the faint outlines of armored fighting vehicles pushing through the village barricades, muzzle flashes illuminating the night sky like distant fireworks.

"They’re here," Karliana had whispered, her voice trembling with hope. "Die Verstärkungen are here!"

In a surge of adrenaline, Karliana had slammed her chair backward, the fragile wood splintering as it struck the floor. The chain wrapped around her ankle had loosened just enough for her to break free. With wild determination, she had staggered towards the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

But purple Equine had acted faster. Her horn had glowed with a fierce, brilliant light, and before Karliana could take another step, her entire body froze. It was as if invisible ropes had wrapped around her limbs, holding her in place with unyielding strength. She had screamed, tears streaming down her face as guards stormed into the room, restraining her and slapping the iron collar around her neck. Nuñez, equally helpless, had been dragged alongside her as they were forced from the village and into the wilderness beyond.

Karliana’s fists clenched tightly as she remembered Twilight’s cold, determined expression in that moment. 'That purple witch... she’ll pay for this.'

The forest trail stretched endlessly ahead, lit only by the faint glow of lanterns carried by the guards. Karliana, despite her exhaustion, kept glancing at the weapons holstered by their captors—curved blades tucked into leather sheaths, wooden spears tipped with iron. If she could just get close enough… if she could just grab one…

But Nuñez had other ideas. He had spent the last few days inspecting his chains whenever the group stopped to rest. The rusted iron links, corroded by time and exposure to the elements, were weaker than they looked. Sweat, he realized, was slowly eating away at the metal. It reminded him of something he had once read—a story about Yoshie Shiratori, a man who had escaped four maximum-security prisons during World War II. In one escape, Shiratori had used miso soup to corrode the iron bars of his cell.

'If soup could do it', Nuñez had muttered to himself one night, 'then maybe sweat—or something else—can do the same here.'

The plan would take time. It would require patience and careful manipulation of the chain links. Nuñez had no tools, no miso soup, but he had his determination. And besides, every night he spent walking alongside Karliana, watching the sight of her exposed body ensured that he would always be physically and mentally entertained.

His thoughts turned bitter as he glanced toward the equine guards. They had thick coats of fur to shield them from the cold, sturdy hooves that didn’t feel the sharp stones of the trail, and they weren’t bound in chains like animals. Yet, despite their advantages, their exhaustion was apparent.

Nuñez smirked faintly. 'If they’re this worn down now, it’s only a matter of time before they slip up.'

The group eventually halted at a clearing surrounded by towering pine trees. The guards dropped their bags unceremoniously, and a small fire was quickly kindled. Karliana collapsed onto the ground, her body trembling from fatigue. Nuñez sat beside her, leaning against a fallen log as he subtly inspected his chains once more.

Above them, the night sky stretched infinitely, dotted with stars. Wisps of clouds floated lazily past the moon, casting fleeting shadows over the clearing. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Karliana curled into herself, trying in vain to conserve body heat.

One of the guards approached and tossed a few handfuls of hay onto the ground between them. The crude offering was met with glares from both prisoners. The guard snorted before walking away, leaving them to their meager meal.

Nuñez leaned closer to Karliana and whispered under his breath, his voice low and steady. "We’ll get out of this, Serge."

Karliana didn’t reply immediately. Her blue eyes stared blankly into the fire, flickering with both exhaustion and a glimmer of hope. After a long silence, she nodded faintly.

For now, they could only endure. But deep within Nuñez’s mind, a spark had been lit—a plan was forming. One day, when the time was right, they would break free. And when they did, the Equines would bear witness to their escape. Specialize Wikipedia page and documentary will be dedicated to the two of them, chronicling their journey behind enemy lines.

Author's Note

Here are some images from the Voyager 1 probe Golden record.
Don't zoom to the bottom left!

*BONK*