Silver Age Collapse

Artificial lights reach Silverstream, if only faintly. Those urban lights illuminate her hiding place of stone like intruders briefly scouting out her home for goods to steal.

She doesn't have to look outside. Down the hill, past jagged rocks and walls that once melted like butter to an army of cannons—against a formidable wind that's raged across the slopes since the mountain had holes in it thanks to explosives—lay the land of the hippogriffs. Well, not her little slice of land. Silverstream's slice is a sanctuary, though it's a useless one beyond giving her shelter and a view of the ash that sometimes floats around her. Or that could've been a memory, a nightmare of years ago, sifted from the heat of the battle that yielded Aris to their new buggy overlords.

Everyone else's moved down there, the urban center that is the bottom of Mount Aris. Spotlights are littered across the coastal city, stabbing the sky with their all-powerful beams that say to the world, "We, too, are a metropolis!" despite the town's lack of size. She can hear echoes of warbled sounds, warped by low-quality speakers. It's the cheap, mall-sy kind, the kind that tries to keep its customers calm, more so because this is being billed as a resort to the wider world. And why shouldn't it be a resort? It has the beaches, it has the hiking trails, and there's also an entire civilization living underwater, so there's that.

She shakes her head at the fancy facade the changelings have put up. There were more important things, things that were closer to her heart, right here—a family photo, a few loved ones missing or crossed out, dimly lit by the flickering candle. It's suffered from the damp air and the ferocious winds that snuffed out entire lives—poor adventurers once tried scaling the perilous heights for post- war treasure. Their bones served as warnings to wannabe scavengers (and the changelings now police even that).

But the missing, crossed out faces—they're now bones, scattered somewhere, buried in the soil, reminders to stoke her wrath with. Her father was executed on the mere suspicion that he was a changeling—missing in the wrong places at the wrong times, perfect situations for a spy to swoop in and take his place. They'd been losing ground to the tide of bugs, they and whatever was left of Equestria, ragged ponies fighting tooth and nail, resorting to hiding in any nook and cranny they could find to fend off any threat to what used to be harmony.

Her dad was deemed such a threat. No, a probable threat. Against shapeshifters, probable could be enough to land you a death sentence.

Which doesn't matter now that Chrysalis's Tartarus-spawn are out in the open, living the high life—hippogriffs and seaponies at their beck and call to serve up the freshest sushi and the juiciest... juices. Anything that tastes tropical. Abandoned brochures fly up here on those violent winds, and a lucky few make it to her cave. High-quality images boast of infinity pools, multicolored sand, and unforgettable music. They don't brag about the slaves wiping the muck out of sewer pipes under brutal changeling watch. Why else do they wear long sleeves if it's not to hide the welts and bruises just because they've spent a minute longer during lunch break?

The words Exotic hippogriff love! Only at Mount Aris! are printed in bold, explosive font beside an artist's rendition of a jar and a vial with pink liquid bubbling within. For sale, 50% off.

Off with their heads, she fantasizes. It's a path she's worn down before in her own head, and she can't help but sigh at the obsession. Valiant freedom fighters wreaking havoc on the streets, camouflaged heroes duking it out in the dark until—with every inch of land returned to Equestria—Canterlot has its chains broken.

But it's time to shake her head again and return to what she has: a box of ammunition, bought ages ago, never used. And some pistols. Not enough to fend off an army, but enough to look like a threat, get the entire city on high alert. It's a last stand worth dying for: revenge in self-defense. While others have gone to greener pastures, embarking to build a new kingdom of the hippogriffs and seaponies in a safer place, she's still here.

Where it matters.

A rustle, clear in the wind—someone is hiding. Perhaps they've spotted her already. She raises her head. The thick, heavy flaps of feathered wings, not those of fragile and rapidly buzzing insects. Which doesn't say much about why they're here.

She rushes to the box. Gun's already loaded—had it loaded when she first woke. A changeling finally caught up to her? The entire armies of the Queen and battalions of military police in the immediate aftermath of the war—not them, but some poor soul on patrol? Still, better safe than sorry. It feels safe with the cold but firm hold of a revolver's bullets in her claw.

The flaps disappear. She raises her head again. No sign of them anymore, at least none fighting to rise above the roar of the forever hurricane outside.

A little whistle, high-pitched, pierces her ears, stabs at her heart. Someone out there in the noisy dark, crying out in pain.

She jolts down, her wings rushing and struggling against the mini hurricane. Stray branches flying down from above force her to lower her head, sweeping past a flood of floating, fallen leaves. The flight down is a struggle, like being a beach ball pressed deeper into the water, aching to resurface.

One wrong move, she'll be shot out into the sky or splattered against some firm tree trunk.

Even with the threat of localized storms on a supernatural level, she keeps her eyes peeled, her claws gripped on her gun, scanning old signs of wars past: rocks and bricks of hastily made forts and castles, now piles of rubble, a scavenger's fading paradise. Any shadow may be someone's, not something's It's worth pulling the trigger down just a little, just to be ready.

Then one creature-sized shadow writhes and screams.

Silverstream hovers closer until a glimmer, a glint, shines through the gray fog that's blanketed everything here: a sharpened stick, metal arrow, pinning the creature down, bloodied. Dedication from a changeling on the job. She grips the gun tighter. Her claws are on the way to becoming numb or prickly, watching the suffering for a few seconds more to see if it's real.

The ensuring scream curdles her blood, raises the tips of her feathers, further tightens that gun grip. She grits her beak, bites her tongue. That scream crunched her sensibilities—too visceral. Her eyes remain trained on the suspect for any sudden movement.

Seeing nothing, she lowers herself further with a single wingflap.

In another world, the leaves over the trees would've provided some cover, some resistance against the brutish wind. Instead, in their place, yet more wind, and she has to grab a hold of the trunk, mere inches away from the stranger. Within stabbing range, but her revolver is good enough insurance.

It's another hippogriff, much younger. Not yet an adult, too, but his rugged jacket, torn-up beanie, and broken bag—not a bad choice for a changeling's disguise. Looking all vulnerable is part of their strategy, and for many, there lies a sick joy in playing with one's prey.

Still, questions can be asked. How deep does the cover go? What's your name, she asks. He offers his name: Bird House. Why are you up so high? Didn't your parents tell you it's forbidden? Hide and seek, he says rebelliously. Your parents must be wondering where you've been. His bandaged-up look does little to hide the damage—the beatings—he must've gotten certainly from the changeling officers. Or hunger pangs.

The question of the arrow, though, moves Silverstream to suspicion. Who pinned you there? He fesses up: saw something to hunt. He is hungry. A few rabbits in his clutches for a quick hot meal. Don't they serve you some decent food down there? Has things gotten very bad down there? Then he sees a strange sight, shoots up, against the gale, so it shoots itself back at him.

His pained scream—the arrow having moved—brings her back to reality. The suspicions follow one after the other: a body to be found here, a missing persons investigation. Silverstream, the prime suspect. A hippogriff-hunt later, and she should be out of here.

She takes him by the wing, caressing the wounded body in her fight and flight against the wind. Against his choked sobs, she remembers his crying out in agony. His disguise could've gone very deep... self-harming to keep the illusion up as a changeling. The scant medical supplies (gauze is something of use here) at least keep him stabilized under the light of a sputtering candle. That injured wing, his casts, the bandages—Bird House asking if he can go home now and what's all this stuff and who are the creatures in the photos and when can he go home?

Silence rules Silverstream's mind and home. The wind's white noise howls meters away, trying to claw its way into the cave, but things can only erode so fast, and so Bird House sits while Silverstream wonders. And observes. His clothes are sooty, industrial. Doesn't match the arrow and hunting for game unless times are indeed that tough.

The bag he's brought along provides an answer: smaller prey. Rats, mice. Small skins and pelts, some things to sell. Praise the hippogriffs' predatory nature, however suppressed it may be, she recalls overhearing a changeling saying behind closed doors. She can't deny that, should things go horribly wrong, they may as well be delights to her, too, for her starving belly.

It doesn't escape her notice that his curious eyes turn to even more suspicion. Why are you here? Are you a spy? Prisoner of war? Highly trained assassin? A real rebel from before the war? How do you survive out here? Her answer is to keep her beak shut or to ask back, Shouldn't you be focused on recovering? Yet he persists in asking—did you build this cave? Why are you staying out here when it's not safe and you're all alone?

It's a cave for cowards, she might've said. Just like with the seaponies?, he asks. He snaps, asks her to snap out of it, and she sees him just sitting there, rugged as he's always been. What he spills is his job—works as a cook in one of these fancy resorts down on the shore. The clientele is diverse: tons of changelings, several griffons, and a few horses, even a few mercenaries with their guns.

Like the guns in her crate.

The threats race in her head. Of course, it's not a good alibi, it's not even any kind of alibi. Placed here at the scene of a potential rebellion. She's dreamed of last stands, suicide by army. His sweet summer face can't understand, surely, since he's already talking about how the changelings have mellowed down. Don't you see that Chrysalis feels sorry about what she's done? The love tax has gone sharply down, the princesses have been gone for a long time, and now is the time for the world to heal, and now he wants to go and be back home with his family and friends down on Basalt Beach please.

The fleeting thought comes and goes about killing him. It's never worth it.

Although, he can't hide forever.

Against every instinct of self-preservation screaming at her that it will pop her stony bubble of protection, she lets him go. Nothing else but bandages and medical supplies to send him off with. If the changelings come, please tell them that you healed yourself, got yourself out of a tricky situation, that the arrow misfired, which is the truth.

So he flits away.

Why don't you go down and help him?, she asks herself. The idea gnaws at her, the idea of help.

So she snuffs out the candle.

The changeling commander of the hunting party is Vitas who watches from afar in the bushes whose twigs scratch at him under the unrelenting breeze of the Harmonizing Heights.

A hippogriff teen came down just a while ago, then spouted a full confession. His bugged-out adrenaline-fueled eyes can't hide the lies that Vitas can tell. Certain emotions taste funny that way to his species' diet. That, and the bag of medicines, vitamins, gauze, and potions. He says it's from the hotel he serves at, but a quick visit later and a review of the inventory says otherwise.

In their hunt to find out why a youngster's traveled so far into a place he has no authorization for, he and his squad have weathered these conditions where every step and every flap must be purchased with strain and effort. Their cold jackets and hard helmets don't stop one of their number from having his fragile insect wings dissolve in the wind, leaving his body tumbling down at near-lethal speeds. This serves to sharpen his senses, find any trace of struggle or blood.

Blood which Vitas does find at the next tree he inspects.

He raises a hoof, a silent gesture to his members just in case hostiles are listening. Their sweep of the area invades the privacy of every bush, every tree, every nook and cranny and hint of an abandoned settlement.

Then, darkness where there used to be stone. A cave. Vitas takes caution in his approach. It's lived in—the smell of love, no matter how faint, lingers still, and so does the smell of wax or a wick—so they ransack the tiny abode. Bare and empty save for a strangely smooth surface of stone that could've been the base for a makeshift bed.

It's evidence enough for him to pick up his radio. Signs of rebel activity, over.

Neon signs stand behind her, their faint glows heralding the bottom of Mount Aris. A hood she's stolen covers her identity—all she has to do is look down, trot, and wish that the glowing banners promoting surf-and-turf buffets above her are much more interesting than a random native stranger.

Not-so-exotic restaurants, she realizes. It's the smell of home, dampened by city smoke. From the pierside wafts the more attractive scent of cold raw fish, uninviting sights for the constant stream of well-off visitors from across the continent-sized Changeling Hives. Mount Aris, made open to the world, if with kicking and screaming.

She shakes her head at the thought before seeing a little boat. Fishercreatures, most of them griffons. Another kind of safety beyond these shores, as long as there's a compartment she can stow herself away in.

Silverstream glides down the shore, disappearing into the sea.