The Realistic Applications of the Magic of Friendship

Canterlot, the capital, where the highest of unicorns and the princesses themselves reside with the working class, in a sort of utopia; each can pursue their natural talent and dreams, without the worries of lesser civilizations, such as how many bits they could afford to lose this month, how much happiness they needed to forsake for survival and if their pitiful life was truly worth living. Indeed, most wouldn’t give up their life for the world; Calligraphy was not one of those ponies.

We join you in a dank, desolate, run-down house in the slums of Canterlot; while many would speak of a utopia, no such ideas have come to your mind, too preoccupied by hunger, the consistent chases of the Royal Guards, your briefly lived colthood or your parents.

Crack! The wall shakes, almost threatening to tumble before it balances. The once quiet, serene night is graced with broken, raspy breaths, more worthy of being called sobs, while your hoof finally relays the register of pain to your disillusioned mind. Smart, Calligraphy, like you really need one more thing to worry about right now. Perhaps the sole advantage of being an anti-social pony was that it was never required to speak of such matters, of tearing open old wounds, long since devoid of blood, or attempting to repair what had been shattered a thousand times before. The past was not the foundation of your being, it was merely the reason for your pathetic predicament; thinking of it held no solutions, nor did it help your poor morale. The thoughts try to worm their way inside your core, but you've dealt with them before, and with a quick shove, they return to the depths of your mind, to be heard from again when your mind is weak, when your belly is hungry and your eyes are tired once more. For now, at least, they seem to be banished.

Your hoofs beat softly against the ground, carefully making your way to the window; one can never be too careful in the slums, with the Royal Guard patrolling and the less than savory inhabitants roaming around, picking from the scraps that were left by the guards. You’re not sure which you’d rather catch you; the guards, who would probably toss you in prison for your pick pocketing ways, despite lack of proof, or any other pony lurking around at this hour. The latter group certainly had more varied ways of breaking your spirit; slavery was certainly the worst, although being shipped off as ‘goods’ to some foreign land was not far behind. Perhaps the only fortunate thing about them was that both camps had yet to come close to capturing you to date, as they were more preoccupied with larger, more important or more profitable groups.

The moon was obscured by a thick veil of dark, sobering clouds; rainfall was almost a sure thing. An impatient growl erupts from your stomach, causing you to duck down and slowly crawl away from the window; a heavy silence replaced the room, your breath coming in long, quiet intakes. Was anypony out there? Did they hear you? Who were they? If there’s one thing being alone taught you, it was that caution was the key to safety; slowly, quietly, you work your way to the back of the dark room, towards your familiar resting place. Pushing a forehoof against the door, it fortunately refuses to creak, and your meager form slinks inside, closing it delicately behind you with a hoof in the same cautious fashion.

Paranoia may be a thought no other ponies have on a consistent basis, but it’s better to be safe than sorry; the only sound that travels to your ears, that of labored breathing, is none but your own. Tense seconds pass, and no alien sounds bounce around in the former closet you've hidden yourself inside; allowing a small sigh of release to pass your lips, albeit slightly restrained. Your barrel presses itself against the newspaper covered floor, the Canterlot Times retaining only slightly more heat than the floor; various issues of irrelevant topics form a makeshift bed, which takes up the majority of the small, cramped closet you have the pleasure of calling your bedroom.

There’s a few more seconds of completely tense silence, before a small, insignificant drop of rain patters down the patchy roof, falling through the unkempt shingles. The familiar pitter-patter of raindrops, following their stalwart, brave commander, begin to cascade down upon Canterlot; many roofs were well protected from such a pathetic onslaught, but for you, there’s little that can be done. Fortunately, there are no leaks directly above you, but you push a few of the more humid scraps of paper underneath the door, hopefully plugging any leaks that could happen; you know that sooner or later, the small, watery soldiers will break down the barrier and flood into your abode, soaking the already cold bed. An icy chill to match the night once it happens, but at the very least, the small amount of sleep you may be able to award yourself should be taken sooner rather than later, which means that if the improvised barrier can hold against the slow, persistent assault for the next few hours, the next few hours should be a blissful, dreamless sleep, an escape from the reality of a desolate existence into a void of nothingness; a pathetic version of bliss, but rather fitting for your sad predicament...

Your eyes drift open slowly; as predicted, your wall has fallen, and the freezing water has pooled around the closet, sticking the pieces of newspaper to your coat. The few you’ve used as a blanket remain relatively unscathed from combat, but unfortunately, the bulk of your troops have been lost; replacements are always difficult to acquire. A soft groan escapes your dry lips, untouched by the rain; thinking back, you should probably have kept a, relatively, clean bucket somewhere; lack of indoor plumbing was a rather serious issue you were unable to rectify at the moment, considering the distinct lack of bits in your nonexistence pockets.

You lift your stiff hooves, slowly trying to rise; at least the time has to be checked before sleep can be attempted, but not had, once again. There’s a distinct lack of finesse in your movements, although you choose to pin the blame on the lack of sleep, rust-like limbs and terrible night, even by the usual rating standards you assign to terrible. The door slowly opens, pushed by your weak hoof, creaking in the dank humidity left by the rainfall; at least it stopped at some point, but the plink of the cascading droplets of water is still heard, indicating that it probably ceased relatively close to the time you awoke.

Casting a wayward glance outside the broken window, it seems as if the clouds had cleared, allowing the sun to cast warming rays upon the chill, damp ground. Hmph. The sun was a detestable entity, serving only to make the life of her subjects more difficult by her lazy, leeching presence; after all, did Equestria truly need two princesses to control the astral array? A single princess would do, and they certainly didn’t need to benefit from such an extravagant palace when ponies like you, among the other riff-rafts of society, were practically homeless, sheltered only by the very scraps that the high class chose to let drift away from their influence. You’d heard the very high-class ponies who kept you entombed in this wretched life say that you had somehow earned your place through misdeeds, that karma had been a fickle mistress who had done her job well by segregating you from the working class, and more importantly, keeping the high-class safe from wretched, putrid and uncouth trash, such as yourself.

Well, the daily rant and self-loathing had probably been accomplished for today; it’s pointless to enrage yourself even further without some rich stallion to demolish. Judging from the position of the sun, the markets were just beginning to set up, and would thus be devoid of potential targets for you. Might as well let the sun dry you off a little, and allow it to serve some other purpose for you, other than obstructing your potential for further sleep. There are a few patches of untouched ground scattered around the pitiful room, few of them happen to be basking in a glow of sunlight, while even less of them are relatively dry, and thus suitable for a limited bout of relaxation. Treading carefully around the haphazardly placed puddles, you locate yourself to one of the few safe zones, folding your forelegs before carefully setting down your flank, making sure you don’t dampen your body needlessly any more than it needs to; considering how your main goal at the moment is to dry yourself off, it’s probably a good idea to be cautious, especially with the lack of towels in the environs.

It’s a slow, boring process, but it’s better than being frozen once the night sky rises; even the cool evening would be unpleasantly cold. With the day you have planned, you’d rather not worry about freezing to death after your potential success. Pick-pocketing is a difficult task, and there’s no point in making it even more difficult, especially when the stakes are so high; a few days have passed since your last decent meal and your reserve of ill-gotten bits is depleted to the point of extinction. You’ll need to be flawless, since if the guards are alerted before you’re a safe distance away, it will certainly be a challenging escape; even worse if you were dripping wet, as they’d easily be tracking you down.

Time passes slowly, one of the few things that doesn’t change between you and the upper class. By the time your limbs are dry and filled with a warm feeling, the market has certainly opened their stalls, although it never truly buzzes until the afternoon; some ponies are lazy, even in the applications that ensure their survival. With a groan, you roll over, rising onto your four hooves and stretching out your tired, stiff body. Taking a few cautionary steps, avoiding the now shrunken, uncommon puddles of water, you grab your nearly demolished saddle-bags from the counter, proceeding to carefully nudge open the door to your abode. Caution is the key to safety, after all.

The streets are desolate, mostly abandoned; all the homes run down, broken, serving as a testament to how unfair Canterlot truly is. Some ponies get a home, some ponies live in the palace and some, unfortunate souls like you, enjoy the run down areas that you’re certain the princess herself couldn’t care less for. How long had the inaction been? How many days had the ignorance of your tyrannical rulers, unable to please anypony but the highest, greedy unicorns and a few, the ‘elite’, of pegasus and earth pony form? The passing of days means little without a way to catalogue them; all you know is that your situation has only become more dire over the years.

The scenery gradually changes, from a series of inhabitable, paltry homes, to smaller, more acceptable, although still sub-par houses. Every house blurs together as you walk, having been in the same degenerating pattern in your oldest memory; the only change was how more and more houses would simply fall into disrepair, ended up either condemned for legitimate reasons, or, as the Canterlot elite would say, the effects of progress were finally coming to fruition. Progress, of course, being the bits that, originally, were given to the ponies who could barely afford paying the rich for their housing, which had been funnelled into the pockets of those already wealthy mares and stallions for the morally just and important cause of hosting a dinner party whenever they pleased, but of course, they could already do that, and could merely do so much more frequently.

The market district was vibrant, filled with ponies from all walks of life, outdoor restaurants and, in particular, a posh, vibrant ensemble of elitist, rich snobs; a perfect facade for such a horrid system. The merchants, in general, were the middle class of Canterlot; fortunate enough to have a well-lit home, with built in magical heating crystals, but not fortunate enough to use their wealth as leverage to obtain more serious benefits, such as a house next to the palace or invitations to every ball in town. The rich, more eloquent visitors of the market were your primary target; although you’d end up buying produce with stolen bits, they were originally stolen from the middle and poor classes. A thief who steals from a thief is not as much of a thief as the latter; once goods are dirty, they never truly become clean again.

Scanning the market, it’s rather easy to see who’s been favoured by the mare referred to as luck; stallions who wear a suit for a leisurely stroll with their mare, wearing a dress that has more gems than you’ve had meals which illuminate a vibrant path through the street. With all their wealth, they tend to be a little, shall we say, lacking in perception. Another uncouth, filthy, ragged pony bumping into a posh, highly-groomed stallion never really resulted in anything other than a slur of insults; that is, assuming they would have the luck to avoid you, since they’d certainly end up feeling a little lighter once they were home.

Your eyes float around, jumping from stallion to stallion, sizing up how fat the wallets you could potentially pluck were; the richer stallions never were the brightest, in general. Even dumber were the ones who insisted on doing their own shopping, or going for a stroll with pockets that just bulged with ripe, delicious bits. Mmm, but you’re getting ahead of yourself; first, a target...

Your pupils lock onto a pair of fancy unicorns, the stallion wearing a prim suit, walking alongside an overly thin, ‘beautiful’ mare with a delicately styled mane; she’s clearly spent too much time dieting, which is quite ironic to you. Paying so called experts ludicrous amounts, only to be told that she should eat less, whilst you’re left starving; perfect revenge. You can only hope that you’ll end up ruining whatever little plans they have, since it’s not particularly difficult to mess up a rich couple’s plans by forcing them to return home, possibly even missing an important appointment they had planned. Your once more growling stomach, however, reminds you that all such thoughts are icing on the cake, and your original goal is much more important: food.

You weave through the crowd, slowly moving towards them; although it’s rather easy to steal a bag full of bits while careening into somepony, it’s much more effective, not to mention a whole lot less suspicious, to stealthily remove it from their suit pocket while they aren’t looking. There’s a plethora of ponies that’re around, but they aren’t of much concern. After all, most of them are too busy indulging in their wealth or trying to earn their day’s keep to notice a single unicorn pretentiously pilfering somepony’s pocket. Especially when this somepony just so happens to turn the corner into a regularly deserted section of the market, reserved for knick-knacks and fancy bobbles from far off lands; things that entice those who are too preoccupied in the visual cultures of others to be bothered with actual problems.

It doesn’t take too long to get to the corner, despite how crowded the market is, and fortune seems to favour you: they are still within sight. Oh, and they’re actually perusing a small, floor bound assortment of some foreign objects, how perfect! You might even be drooling a bit at this point; you wipe your mouth with a forehoof, just to be sure. It’d be a shame to be hauled in by the guards to some mental asylum because you’re supposedly crazy and unfit to be among the public. Now, time to execute this pick-pocketing; your stomach is growing even more restless with each passing thought.

Stealth is only part of the key to this operation; the rest is simply appearing normal enough to be cleared of suspicion. Once you manage to waltz away without alerting anypony, there’s virtually nothing that any guard can do to stop you; tracking you is out of the question and they won’t be in pursuit until you’re long gone.

Carefully, you move next to them, the stallion feigning a smile as you get into position. No Canterlot stallion worth his salt would ever do something like that legitimately; in any case, your eyes wander around the blanked full of haphazardly placed objects you couldn’t care less about. No, you’re entranced by a much more valuable prize that’s just inching out of that posh fool’s clothing by a hair. The merchant of this excuse for a stall even seems to be ignorant of her surroundings, a large hood obscuring her view from everything but her own merchandise.

“How much is that magnificent vase?” There’s your chance. You don’t pay attention to the rest of their pointlessly pointless conversation, but their attention is averted in the opposite direction of his coin purse. Although you’ll need to quickly scamper off after this one, you have a feeling this haul is going to be abnormally large... Slowly, cautiously, your muzzle finds the stallion’s pocket, worming around the loop of that precious, precious bag, and then slowly retracting, taking great care to avoid nudging him in any way; it’d be a shame to inform him now, with sweet victory within reach. With one final, gentle tug, the purse comes loose from its prison, and tastes the fresh air for mere moments, before...

Clank! What was...?

“My watch!” Oh no. You’ve got to be kidding... Your eyes drift down to the source of the loud, metallic sound; a golden pocket watch, slowly ticking away in the tense setting. Your eyes readjust themselves skyward, meeting a rather angry pair of eyes, looking at his delicate, fine silk coin purse between your cracked lips. Your body shifts into overdrive, shoving your loot into your saddlebags before turning around and high-tailing it out of there. You’ve botched some thievery before, but never during broad daylight, and especially not with so many ponies around.

“Thief! Guards, guards!” Oh, simply perfect... You look ahead of you and, fortunately, the guards don’t seem to be stationed there; casting a gaze behind you, however, reveals a duo of golden armoured law-enforcers, probably ready to beat your skull in once they catch you. There are only two earth ponies, so that’s a relief...

“Halt! You can’t outrun us!” The grizzled voice booms in your ears, amplified by the blood rushing through your heated veins. Risking another look behind you as you duck into an alley, there’s a pegasus with them. Oh fanbuckingtastic. Now he’s certain to outpace you, even with that heavy armour occupying his upper body. Not good, especially since there’s bound to be more guards roaming around.

You can hear him make a swift turn around the alley, his comrades probably a bit behind; you did get a few seconds of a head-start, but nowhere near enough. Think. Slow them down. There’s not enough time to think! You fling a trash can behind you without any sort of regard, hoping it’s filled with something that could slow them down; anything really... Turning around to view your luck, a relieved smile spreads across your lips: glass. Sharp, pointy glass. Never have you been so happy somepony was so careless with tossing away their trash.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t really stop that pegasus who’s trailing your flank, but you do another sharp turn after exiting the alley; the main market. Bowling through whatever stupid ponies chose to stand in your way, you push through to another dank alley; at least you’re getting closer to home, where you can safely hide. You turn around, gazing back at nothingness. That silly guard must be tending to those snobby-

Your train of thought is unceremoniously interrupted by that same guard, or so you assume, tackling you from above. Your face meets the cold dirt as you tumble along with him, beginning a vicious struggle to see who ends up on top. Minor scrapes and bruises form during your battle, all for naught; with a final, powerful flip, he ends up holding your barrel under his forehooves. Blast. He’s even giving you a cocky smile, although you’re thankful he’s not beating you unconscious yet.

Pure panic begins surging through your core; what can you do? You try to push him off, getting met with a harsh shove, further imprinting your form into the ground. Wiggling away won’t work either; his grip is too strong, and what after? He’ll just catch up. Your mind keeps racing, trying to find some sort of escape. You look around, a sharp knife coming under your gaze. You don’t think; your body moves without approval as you grab the knife in a flash, slashing it across the exposed soldier’s chest.

You weren’t ready for this. You weren’t thinking. It just.... It just happened. Everything happens so slowly, each detail being burned into your permanent memory. The blood... It’s all across your barrel, a tainted crimson hue on your soiled white coat. His coat is tarnished as well, the fresh wound pouring out that red liquid... Your jaw opens, the knife dropping with a sharp clang, bouncing along the battlefield before coming to rest, covered in that... Stuff...

Oh Celestia this is bad... Your hooves scramble pathetically, scraping you against the rough dirt as you move away from the... The body? He’s still alive, since heavy panting and a few low gurgles reaching your ears, which choose to twitch in disgust at each sound. It mixes in with your laboured breaths, your blood-red barrel rising and falling with each desperate gulp.

“I... I never meant for this to happen...” Your eyes lock with his as you murmur that singular phrase over, and over, and over. They pleaded with you, his breaths becoming more ragged. You can hear his fellow soldiers crying for him, but you can’t stay. You’re as good as dead if they catch you.

Your hooves barely listen to commands, staggering and shacking like a foal fresh out of the womb without a warm mother to press itself against. Inch by inch, your hooves begin to pick up the pace, striving to match your beating heart. If you can turn into the street and get to the slums, they’ll never find you. You’ll have wanted posters all over Canterlot, asking for you dead or alive, but it’s better than actually being dead. Your vision is shaky and blurred, but you keep pressing onward; you can’t turn back. You’ve come this far. That’s your only motivation now. Now, just turn the co-

Slam! It’s not really clear as to what hit you, but you weren’t expecting something like that. A stoic figure towers above you, hoof raised; they must’ve clobbered your something fierce, with the way your head is pounding even harder than before. Your eyes start to focus on the pony, his blue mane in particular, horn poking out of that ragged tuft of hair. He sure could pack a punch, but there’s no blade to even the odds this time; turning your beating head to the alley, you can see a few more guards, certainly more than before, starting to help that battered pegasus up. You almost feel sick, partially from the inevitability of your cruel fate, but particularly because you’ve come this far, as far as assaulting a guard, only to be caught by this... This...

“Captain Shining Armor, sir!” A few of the guardsmen salute, and the pony towering above you gives a mere nod; both his hooves were currently occupied with subduing you.

“At ease!” His voice is filled with a practiced authority, but you can tell from the tone that it’s forced; the ringing in your ears, however, doesn’t help in confirming your hypothesis. “Private, chain him. I do not want another wounded here today.” The guard he addressed took out a length of steel chains, each end encompassed by a long, thick circle. Probably one for each hoof, considering how he’s already slapping them on; they’re tight around your quivering limbs, but you aren’t going to risk complaining.

That captain turned to another guard, donning an unusual red coat of armour. “How’s the recruit doing?” Ah, apparently you were right; his voice is dripping with compassion. Brothers in arms, after all... “He’s lost a lot of blood, but I think he’ll make it.” He glances over you, eyes stopping in disgust at the drying stain on your coat. A final clink echoes in your ears as the chains are firmly cuffed to each leg, sealing any possibility of escape with the locking of tumblers. The captain’s gaze follows the queer stallion’s, pausing on your stain, before addressing his kin.

“I’ll take this one in myself; I’m sure Celestia will give him a nice, dirty cell to live out the rest of his days... Shield.” The odd, lone stallion salutes. “I want you to make sure our recruit makes it. Keep him company.” There’s that same shift, from stalwart commander to passionate friend, or at the very least, considerate superior. “The rest of you are dismissed; return to your posts!” Another flip, each stallion responding with a heart filled “Yes, sir!” before dispersing.

He turns to you, finally removing his heavy hoofed foreleg from your barrel. “On your feet.” Filled with contempt, and rightfully so, you suppose. There’s no choice but to obey him, and so you slowly rise. “To the palace. Try anything funny like you did with Slicer, and I’ll make sure to put you down with excruciatingly painful prejudice.” Your body shivers, he certainly doesn’t play around. Your chains rattle pathetically as you set off to the distant palace, to be paraded through the streets like some sort of sick trophy; you didn’t even notice that they stripped you of your saddlebags. Hopefully your existence will be short lived; it can only go downhill from here...

The palace itself was luxurious, finely decorated columns built by the most skilled masons Equestria had to offer; a beautiful, serene feel radiated off of the massive marble marvels. Instead of being a serene, calming aura, however, they end up increasing that nervous, hopeless feeling that brews in your stomach. You’ve never been to the palace before, but you’re certain that normal ponies would feel out of place in such a towering, pristine display of needless wealth. How many bits had gone into the creation of this sumptuous room alone? The only answer is a haunting silence, broken only by the occasional scraping of armour upon itself when one of the numerous guards readjusts himself from his stony position, and the soft clops on the cold palace floor.

The double-doors to Celestia’s own throne room slowly open, Shining Armor pushing you through like some sort of object. The vast room shows an expansive amount of wealth, from multicoloured patchworks of some silly art to gold trimmed curtains, but the largest display of such unneeded richness is beneath her posterior; a golden throne. Below it, three of her undoubtedly closest advisors sat, one of each race; two of them resting on posh, gilded pillows, while the earth pony had but a single such untrimmed object. It figures that the earth pony would be shafted; at least royalty didn’t disappoint in reality. There also seems to be somepony hiding behind that elegant throne, although you can’t really get a clear view; probably some innocent maid, startled by the sight of such a madpony.

Although the shocked gasps from all but the princess herself was the icing on the cake. At this point, you’ve resigned yourself to your fate; there might as well be some senseless, perverse pleasure before you bid this world farewell. Two of the advisors exchange hushed whispers, while the guards mumble to each other under their breath. Your satisfaction is cut short as your captor forces your head down, the only way in tartarus you’d end up bowing to such an unworthy ruler. As she addressed him, it served as a further way to kill your short-lived joy.

“Shining Armor, my most loyal Captain, what have you drug before me?” Condescending, although she manages to keep that sort of calm, soothing tone that she so gleefully uses to fool and manipulate the most gullible subjects.

“This... pony has robbed one of Canterlot’s most contributing citizens.” His voice is calm and collected, but there’s certainly a fair bit of blind rage building up. Oh, this should be a fun little stunt, since you’re already going to be imprisoned for life either way.

“I ended up stabbing one of your oppressive servants, you tyrannical wench!” Your voice echoes around the now silent throne room, devoid of all sounds but your rasping breath. You think the princess even raised an eyebrow, which is a rather fine compliment. You continue. “I was starving, and since your utopia wasn't willing to give me what I deserved, I took it. When you tried to stop me from taking what was rightfully mine, I fought back against your dictatorship. Is that truly so wrong, your highness?” The last word was practically spit, tossing away all the prestige that it was normally given.

For a minute, you actually think the princess is going to lose her cool; the whole room is still, as if time had frozen itself in that prestigious moment. She cast a glance behind her prestigious throne, whispering a few words you couldn't hope to hear, and then turned to gaze at her beloved, trusted captain.

“Dungeon. Now.” Ooh, so you did crack a little bit of that calm, collective spirit off of her. “Of course, your highness.” His quick reply, almost sickly sincere, but you imagine he was trying to undo the taint you had attached to such a precious term. A hard shove later, and you’re walking towards the side of the throne room, towards an old, wooden door that seemed out of place; the only opening was a barred window. You cast a glace towards the princess, pure hatred burning behind your eyes.

“If you ever want to admit to your wrongdoings, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me, Celestia.” Once again, her once prestigious term was said with such utter hatred and contempt you could only hope it soiled it for her in the future. She had a long future to mull over it, after all. Her dutiful captain, however, sees it fit to punish you; before the door opens, a shove just a tad too hard, and your body impacts against the wall rather forcibly. You thought that a sarcastically muttered apology was said, but you can’t be too sure with the old, creaking door opening; the cool air invaded the throne room, as had the sound mere moments ago.

You step on the first cold, damp stone, gazing down the darkness; there’s only torchlight for illumination. With another push to urge you forward, nearly causing you to stumble down the long flight of stairs, you begin marching into an abyss, with nothing to look forward to but a cold, dank cell, and nothing to remember but a few precious days of your short-lived colthood...

If reality was looming over you before, it’s now crashing down, drowning you in a torrential flurry of pure despair. Each step echoes around you, bouncing further into the endless depths of your prison. The torches almost seem to be imbued with a sort of permanent magic, as each handle was not singed in the slightest, nor were they of different length. A shame, that such forethought had been put into them, but not the empire itself; the prison itself was primed and prepped, but the actual help for those who risked to fall in them remained absent.

Time almost seems to slow as the descent halts, each cell becoming visible in the flickering light; each one empty, with a rusted, metal excuse for a bed, although that’s the only figure you can properly make out. The ever silent captain continues to force you ahead, putting that much more distance between you and the outside world; crushing your nonexistent hope that much further. After all, what pony could fight their way through squadrons of the Royal Guard, let alone Celestia herself? Certainly not a starving, deprived stallion like you, and there’s certainly not a rescue party coming for you; criminals are never truly adored by the public, especially those who attack their ‘perfect’ land, or targeting those who try and protect it.

Eventually, there’s a sudden, unexpected tug on your shackles; losing balance, your back legs give way, followed by your forelegs, with a sandstorm of dust rising above the point of impact for a few moments, before settling back into their previous, calm state. You turn around, being greeted by a faint hum of magic and a cell door slowly grinding open, with his unspoken command floating in the air: enter.

Swallowing a gulp of air, filled with the invisible specks of dust, you rise; slowly, knees weak and stomach ill, you take your last few, free steps. Standing in front of the door, you survey the inside of the cell itself; other than the pathetic ‘bed’, there’s nothing noteworthy inside. The same stone pattern surrounds the cell, cold, uncaring, with no signs of decay, despite the obvious age of the dungeon. Probably some sort of preservation magic, among the same branch as the torches themselves; marvelous, although why they didn’t cast this spell on the slums before they begun their perpetual decay, you’ll probably never know. It’s not as if Celestia had a full dungeon that needed vitally needed preservation; to your knowledge, you’re the only ‘criminal’ entombed in this solemn cavern.

Apparently, your Shining-jail keeper seems to think you’ve had enough day dreaming; another shove, this time much more powerful, as there’s nopony around to observe him, and you’re sent sprawling on the floor, the impact stirring up another noticeable amount of dust, which gets drawn into your lungs by a gasp of pain. The following coughs bounce off the walls, and when you gaze up at your tormentor, he’s already locking the cage, a sick, satisfied grin plastered on his face. He probably gets hit kicks from moments like this, with absolute power over the fate of another pony; he doesn’t speak, and simply turns around, carrying the keys in a glowing aura away from your cell.

You suppose that’s it. Assuming that you’re fed and given water, which at this point is a relatively questionable action, this is what you’re reduced to; pointless imprisonment for attempting to sustain yourself. You walk to the metal platform on the side, the cold steel sending frissons throughout your body. Your eyes stare at the blank wall, before they begin to close; the silence is haunting, but at the very least, you can sleep safely. A loud rumbling, however, reminds you that you won’t be sleeping happily, as your stomach is still empty, and at this point, probably trying to digest itself.

Hopefully, the sweet embrace of death isn’t too far away; while starvation or dehydration may be pathetic ways to ago, unless Celestia has the mercy to sentence you to death, which you sincerely doubt, they both seem to be the only escape from this torment. A sunrise execution is looking rather... Nice, at this point. With nothing left to do, your mind simply wanders among the few, highly cherished moments of happiness you had been able to garner through life; in particular, a small, distant memory of a purple filly, who had always ignored you.

Too enraptured in her books to notice your infatuation with her, perhaps it was for the best; she’s probably somewhere far off, studiously working at whatever her talent was, and much better without you, but you still can’t help thinking about her. Perhaps she’d never even known of your existence, but memories and fantasy are all you have left; with a lack of memories, that just leaves fantasy to occupy your last sad days.