Death sat uncomfortably in his chair. The Final Passage of the Soul was uncomfortable both because the chair was designed with bipeds in mind rather than the alicorn form he inhabited, and also because he hated performance reviews.

On a wall behind him, a blue pegasus was depicted smashing head first into a wall. Her wings were spread at the moment of impact, desperately fighting to regain control of a dive that had passed the point of recovery.

“Rainbow Dash, crashed at over 200 mph,” read the voice of the indistinct figure that controlled his fate, “her entire spine was impacted into her skull and she was legally brain dead for four hours during surgery. Was scheduled to die at 0627 on Tuesday. Status? Alive.” The figure spat the last word out as if he were the vilest swear word it could imagine.

With a slight clicking sound, the film rolled over to depict another image. A purple Unicorn was just barely visible under the pile of books that had buried her. Blood pooled around the prone form, soaking into the pages as the librarian blotted numerous ledgers simultaneous to her own.

“Twilight Sparkle, accident while reorganizing her library. Was supposed to suffer multiple fractures and a concussion that would result in a coma and eventual death by 1300 on Thursday. Status? Alive.”

Another click, and the image shifted to display a purple dragon laying in the snow. He had pulled a limp rag around him for protection. A single tear had frozen at the corner of his wasted face.

“Spike “the Dragon” von Spikesburg, would have been left homeless without his owner and surrogate mother. So distressed that he forgot he literally can eat rocks, he would have starved to death on the street. Status? Alive and not homeless,” the figure looked back down at its notes with vacant eye sockets, “and adorably ... pudgy? Who the fuck wrote that?”

With a long, slow sigh of disgust he clicked over to the next image, displaying a yellow pegasus with an orange cord clutched between her fore hooves.

“Fluttershy, chewed on an extension cord. Was scheduled to die at 0858 on Monday. Status?” the humanoid shadow shifted slightly in it’s chair, allowing its long, black locks to drift across bony shoulders as it dragged out the non-existent suspense, “Alive.”

The next image displayed the blue pegasus again, her body partially lodged through a tree. Her hind legs were stretched out in an agony and her face and rainbow-hued mane resembled a plate of mashed potatoes covered in strawberry sauce.

“Rainbow Dash,” there was a moment of consternation as skeletal fingers sorted through the binder in front of them, “I thought we already did this one?”

“She crashed twice this week,” Death said and attempted a feeble wheezing laugh that did nothing to lighten the oppressive atmosphere.

“Well, no need to go over that again.”

The next image displayed a white unicorn with most of the skin on the left half of her face missing. Her eye dangled out of its socket, and a particularly clever and pornographic photographer has caught the slightest sliver of her dislodged brains with his film.

“Rarity, accidentally sewed her head to the curtains, then rashly tore off her face trying to escape. Was supposed to bleed to death by 1400 on Thursday. Status? Alive and in possession of a complete face.”

The next image, more peculiar, depicted a wizened form slouching in its loose hide. All pigment had been lost from the creature’s fur, allowing her skin, which had turned a gangrenous green, to show through.

“Granny Smith, currently 139 years old. Her heart stopped for one hour during her nap last week. Was scheduled to die just about everyday for the past 40 years. Status? Alive.”

The next image, perhaps the most horrific any being had ever seen, depicted a white coated filly with a frizzy red mane and enormous, purple granny glasses.

“Twist is worst pony. Scheduled to die from the entirely justified hatred directed at her from all corners. Status? Alive and a horrible abomination against man, pony and god alike.”

Another click, and the blue pegasus was on screen again, this time spreadeagled on a window in a manner that would have been almost pornographic had her body not been outlined by shed blood.

“Rainbow- Dammit. Again?” the figure turned its hollow eyes to the bare face of finality.

“Windex leaves a very dangerous streak free shine,” Death said with confidence, “I’ve got some cases of it-”

“Just how many times was this pegasus scheduled to die this week?” interrupted the Eternal Overseer.

“Five.”

“Well, I think the court can understand the point I am making here,” the biped stood to his feet, limp white skin flapping against his bony jowls as he gestured to the seats behind him. To mortal eyes, these chairs would seem empty, but Death could sense the forces resting their, and he could sense their agitation.

“You, Death, have been severely delinquent in the sacred responsibility you accepted by completing your four week correspondence course," Death's supervisor rested a ragged claw on the front lapel of his leather jacket as he spoke, "and the consequences are evident.”

“Ponies who are happy because they’re alive?”

“No!" The creature lost all semblance of propriety in a moment, slamming his claws on the table before him. "The behavior of this Rainbow Dash demonstrates the very worst excesses of recklessness. These mortals behave in a flippant and calloused manner because they no longer fear death, and why should they? When is the last time any of them encountered it?”

“I’m still collecting,” Death protested.

“Oh, how could I forget. Let me see your acquisitions for this week?” the skeletal figure picked up a manila folder and flipped it open, turning through the audit, “one house cat, two goldfish, and seven hundred ninety-four pigeons. When was the last time you collected a pony’s soul?”

“Well, you see, what happened was ...”

“According to your records, it was almost a decade ago,” the biped continued, running over the prepared spiel with the indifference of a car crushing a squirrel, “seven years since the last collection of a changeling, five years since the last collection of a cow. Five years in which not a single speaking creature has expired.”

“That’s not true! Last year I harvested a parrot.”

“If we counted parrots, then we would have done something about the return of Furby to the human world. I am interested in the curtailing of sentient beings."

“But, as Death, I’m allowed to use my own discretion, according to Paragraph F, Clause 87 of the Rights and Responsibilities Pertaining to the Final Office," Death flapped his wings as he spoke, rising into the air on a tide of excuses. "Many of these individuals are national heroes, and their expiration could have a catastrophic ripple effect. The pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy were both supposed to expire in a catastrophic flying accident that would have removed them from the timeline as fillies, resulting in-”

“Very well. Very well,” it waved a skeletal claw through the air, dismissing the complaint, “very, very well. I will concede the point on this Rainbow Dash. Her file certainly is ... interesting."

"Thank you."

"Fortunately," Death's supervisor would have smiled if the ragged scraps of his skin reached low enough on his face. He picked up the black-bound day planner in which Death's appointments were listed, flipping it open, "there is one remaining name on your list for this week. I will give you a second chance, provided you harvest this one soul by sunrise tomorrow. You must take the soul of ... Applejack.”

Author's Note

The chapter titles are taken from the chorus to "The River and the Ocean" by Mia Doi Todd.