Imaginerian

Tall Fescue looks down from his airplane seat one more time, and he's rewarded with the sight of what should've been his home from the start: the precious, bustling, oversized city of Fragrance, port city and capital of the Administration of North Kiria.

North Kiria has wielded meanings of untold wealth and innovation, a wild west of kirin ingenuity. Most other countries tolerated corporations as a whole, trading meccas like Manehattan and Skyfall—Fescue's real birthplace, though smack-dab in the middle of an ethnically separate Kirintown district—but North Kiria has made its fame and fortune from inviting anyone with sufficient funds to invest and innovate. The results are clear enough even without looking outside: this very airplane bears the logo of a paper crane, the callsign of one Crane Heavy Industries.

Yet Tall's mind wanders away from promises of coin and gold. The name in his head: Walkover's.... The pony at the receptionist counter in a well-swept office back in Skyfall told him about their deal. He was smart enough to see through the legalese of "security consulting services." Mercenary was a bad word, so the kind mare assured him that, no, they weren't swashbuckling sellswords who'd put their souls on sale to the highest bidder. This is a creaturetarian organization, yes, sir, and she reminded him that it's for his homeland, the land of his kind.

Just like so many fellow kirin that had gone ahead, who no longer wanted to be part of a diaspora, who had generations of skills and wealth to give back to a realm that was opening up to the world.

"Every creature!" booms the attendant's voice through the speakers. "Please fasten your seat belts! We will be descending shortly into Current-Cypress International! Thank you!"

After seeing that he's kept his own seat belt on, Tall gazes beyond the window once more to take a better look: against the sunset shines a rainbow of hazy neon, their colors scattered everywhere, tinting every window from row house to skyscraper. Peeking out from the metal and glass, however, are the slanted rooftops of temples and pagodas, surrounded by faint lanterns that sway in the coastal wind.

This is home.

"Hey, are you daydreaming?" says Eckhard Vorbeak when the plane lands, a griffon from the Herzland, the core of the Griffonian Empire—the thick accent that sounds jagged tells Tall that. Fellow signees for Walkover's, to be part of the same squad along with Nascente, the Kasan zebra to Eckhard's left. The dossiers and the conversations after they first met left two impressions on Tall: Eckhard's the war-weary veteran, while Nascente's the potion specialist. And unlike Eckhard, Nascente has slept through the whole flight, his snores having earned the ire of those across the aisle (the closest anyone's gotten to stopping the sleeping menace was a diamond dog posing as security before he was hauled off by actual security for being a nuisance himself).

Squeezing past every other creature making a beeline to the terminal, Fescue smells the air in that foggy, smoky outside. The tarmac reeks of progress, of oil and smog, permeating even the inside of the airport. Then it hits him: He is on another continent.

"You're gonna gawk everywhere, kirie?" Eckhard eggs on. "Liking what you see and all?" The accent only irritates Tall further, but the records say he's a good shot. The receptionist mare told tales of Eckhard from a decade ago—one time, he beat back a full armored battalion with nothing but his tank and a few others hiding behind a barn, heaving a torn-off machine gun with his bare claws until the experience got him into shock. The scarred eye is some confirmation.

Deeper inside, now into customs, the smell becomes dank with the stench of creatures crowded together, pooling into duty-free shops and overflowing cafés and teahouses. The ostentatious touch of ancient Kirian culture slides its way into the vermilion carpets and jade walls, now reeking of incense instead of perfume or cologne or home-cleaning liquids. Signs are held up in both Kirian and foreign languages—Immigration! Tickets! Duty free! Departure!

"Guess somepony's lovin' the view, huh?" cuts in a voice with an unmistakably country twang. An Earth pony whose oversized mane bow comes off as childish compared to the denim jacket and jeans she wears.

"Miss Apple Bloom?" Fescue asks just to confirm.

"Sure am." She turns to Tall's would-be squadmates. "Were you expectin' some fancy get-up and all that? Sorry, but we're tryin' to be... what's the word they use 'round here? Economical. Yeah, that. Anyway, this is y'all's first time in the country, so I might as well give ya the crash course."

So she goes off, speaking to various kirin all in her southern-like Ponish tongue, which Tall can tell from having met many Equestrians passing through Skyfall's markets and stores, with their unfortunate reputation of being too naive for the "real world". "Now, give me y'all your IDs, passports, and the like. 'S a precaution like we talked 'bout before."

Nascente, trotting around with a slung bag over his withers, bursting with papers and herbs, shoots his head up. "Ma'am, taking your guest's IDs away at an airport was the opening move of a gambling scam they uncovered in Sen Kinh—"

"—where they got some bright come-uppers with not a lick of street smarts and they couldn't come home?" Apple Bloom completes. "This ain't it. At least you could fight back with some of that CQC I've heard ya like doin'." Leaving the airport proper and entering an unmarked van, she continues, "Now, here's the MO: you'll get a real briefing on what we've got for our first job, then later tonight, the boss of Kiria's gonna meet y'all. Don't be flattered—he does this to tons of other creatures. He'll thank ya' for comin' along and helping Kiria out of the goodness of our hearts and all that. Also likes to see his investments before they hit it big."

Fescue nods all the way through her explanation and the van trip out into the rest of Fragrance. The boss of Kiria, the Chief Executive of North Kiria—Fickle Current is his name, and that name has run on Tall's lips for a long time. He isn't a war hero, but the old stallion was once a middle-aged businesskirin, having grown up in Skyfall like Tall would decades later. Fickle and his crew did what they could away from the homeland, back when Kiria was united yet under the Silence: divine decrees to abolish nearly all forms of hierarchy as well as all currency.

"National suicide," Fickle claimed three decades ago when Tall encountered him by chance at a noodle shop in the Kirintown district back in Skyfall. "That's what this 'holy' madness is." Suicide and madness were certainly strong words to use before a foal that hadn't reached ten years of age. "But tell me," he then said, his tone softening, ruffling Tall's mane, "why should you care about me going away? I'm certainly not part of your family. You barely know me."

"Because you're gonna help fellow kirin back home!" Tall shouted so the whole shop would hear.

"Yes, yes," and he took a long slurp of his food, and Tall followed his gaze outside—into the streets where griffons barely roamed, where kirin had their little corner in the continent. Diaspora, strangers, remnants—and Fickle went on about their homeland being revived by the daughters of patriots. A National Association of Kirin Patriots—so goes the party's name.

A family of tourists then entered. Or, rather, they were native Skyfallians, but in a place so ungriffon-like, they may as well be foreigners on their own soil. The father spoke first in horrible Kirian before the cook spoke in his accented Griffonian that, no worries, the local language was fine.

Fickle pointed that way. "That's how we adapted. We learned and were not afraid to expand our language! The priests probably don't understand what our Goddess really wants. Is She not full of power? She made the world, right? That's what your parents taught you and what my parents taught me because it's true. And if it's true, why do we hold ourselves back?"

Now the windows are down as the van creeps along an alley brimming with food vendors under many orange lanterns. The sky went dark a while ago, leaving behind lights illuminating frying vats and pans, woks launching noodle clumps into the air, dumplings taken with magic-held tongs serving a deluge of hungry locals and excited tourists—and the scents are heavenly, fatty with so much oil. The orange of these cramped food lights clash with the blues and pinks and reds of more neon signs along with lit up billboards high up as if crowning this alley with the blessing of business, with an airplane coming in and out of view—from one side of the alley to the other.

Towering, that's what everything is here in Fragrance.

The books and tourist brochures about Kiria, Tall did read. After Fickle left Skyfall and headed to the homeland here, pamphlets soon spread across Kirintown. From across the sea, Fickle was praised as a great patriot, the one who'd bring sense to Kiria. A real revolutionary, and not the funny, foalish kind that the communists were having a fuss about. This revolution didn't need a war—as Fickle joked, quoted from another pamphlet, war wasn't good for the economy.

The economy does seem to be booming despite the constant war in North Kiria's borders. Far from the nirik-ridden frontlines, a whole mass of kirinkind rush from stall to stall, buying and selling fish, sometimes stepping onto hoofbridges over the many rivers here to bargain with moving boat shops boasting the freshest catches.

Nascente resists the urge to puke. "I thought you trained for this," Apple Bloom says from the passenger seat, having heard his stomach's growl.

Outside, the beautiful buildings meant for tourists disappear, giving way to alleys and tunnels, showing off temples and shrines with lines of devotees, the scents turning heavenly once more before smog and oil takes over again, this time guarded by helmeted figures in pitch-black armor.

The van slows to a crawl in another set of market corridors where shouting is commonplace over weighing scales and hissing fritters. The earthy colors of kirin coats drown out the pavement's gray, a writhing mass of hungry stomachs and worriers over grocery. A hawker knocks at a window, proudly begging that the van's passengers try out his latest mini-cakes. "Get a few of these coins for five, and get out," Apple Bloom yells with authority.

Miffed, the hawker slinks away, but not before loudly whispering, "I bet that pretty face you've got in the back of your vehicle thinks he's a local just because he's born a kirin."

Tall throws his head out the van window. "Hey, I heard that! Instead of wasting your life away like that, why don't you risk your life for something great?!"

Apple Bloom yanks him back inside, spouts out, "My apologies to you all—he is a very feisty creature, do you not agree?" in awkward Kirian, then to Tall in the international language that is Ponish, "What did I tell you about keeping quiet?"

"They don't know what it's like to fight!"

"Oh, they do, just not in the army. Either way, I can tell yer' patience is wearin' thin. Driver, let's step it up a notch."

A dozen aggressive honks from the steering wheel later, and down one more little alley, sandwiched between two steel-glass-concrete high-rises, they park in front of a comedically small office. The name glows on a rusty neon sign in rainbow colors: Walkover's. The little brochures and the mare by the counter back in Skyfall talked up big game about this world-class international organization. It is international, though Tall wonders about the world-class part.

"Just like what I imagined," says Eckhard, slapping the holster around his barrel. "Out of sight, right? Or what, Feskie? You thought you were going to serve in a real big army?"

Tall doesn't say anything. He tries to save face.

"Yeah, no, it's not gonna be like that, but that's fine! You're moving up in the world, so cheer up. We're gonna plop our flanks on some power station dam and hope some poor little nirik's gonna come over and make our wages worth it. That's private security for you. Or the start of it, yes!"

Even after Apple Bloom says "Hup!" and orders the squad to move inside and get settled, the griffon's words swirl in his head. Or, at least, that's clear enough to Apple Bloom herself once Eckhard and Nascente move up and she finds Tall sitting and pondering at the front where, across the street, a few abandoned storefronts sit and gather dust—a few lights in the upper floors are their only signs of life. "Look, yer' the best we've got for now. Yer the best wecan get.I trust ya'. You and all of ya."

Tall replies with a half-nasty, half-sincere smile. "Harmony and friendship is really sponsoring this intervention with a bunch of crazies, huh?"

Before they head inside for briefing in a dank, secluded second-floor room, Apple Bloom says, "Like I said, yer' the best we can get."