Octavia in Occupied France by HunterAnon


                                            [Copied from https://pastebin.com/spxLiRf9]


                                            >A warm summer breeze blows in through the open window, awakening you slowly from sleep.

                                            >You rise from your small bed and stretch.  A large dog bed on the floor hardly counts as a bed, but you take what you can get at this point.

                                            >Rising you make your way over to the open window, rubbing sleep out of your eyes.

                                            >The street below is bustling by this hour, the grand way of the Av. des Champs-Elysees.

                                            >To the right, about two blocks distant, stands the Arc de Triomphe.

                                            >Paris France, city of love, city of light.

                                            >You glance back into the room and notice that your master was not in his bed, likely downstairs by this hour.

                                            >With a sad sigh you look back out the window and to where the sun is already high in the sky.

                                            >So begins another day in the life of Octavia the slave.

                                            >You step over to your bed and the calendar hanging above it.

                                            >The calendar is littered with marks, mostly dates of upcoming and past shows.

                                            >You grab the nearby pencil and cross off todays date from the carefully maintained page.

                                            >June 12th, 1940.


                                            >You return to the window, having nothing better to do at the moment.

                                            >The streets are choked with people this morning, all of them seeming to be trying to go south or west.  There seems to be more urgency and yelling than you have seen in awhile out there.

                                            >Behind you the door to the room bursts open and Monsieur Gaspard Dreyfuss rushes in.

                                            >You bow to your master as he rushes around the room, frantically grabbing things from various drawers and dressers and stuffing them in a suitcase.

                                            “Master, is something the matter?” You ask as he rushes about.

                                            >Gaspard flinches as you speak, obviously becoming aware of your presence in the room.

                                            >”Octavia! There you are!”  He hardly breaks from packing as he speaks “Be in the car in ten minutes.  Don’t bring anything! No time.”

                                            >Gaspard finishes his packing and rushes down the stairs once more.

                                            >You trot to the top of the stairs and begin down, wondering what was happening.

                                            >You think for a moment of following your master’s orders and heading straight down to the stairs to the garage like your master had intended.

                                            >However you just can’t bring yourself to abandon your prized cello.

                                            >You make a quick stop on the second floor, ducking into the performers dressing rooms.

                                            >Your practice room is just at the end of the hall.


                                            >As you pass one of the doors, midway down the hall, a hand reaches out and grabs you by the mane.

                                            >Wrenching you inside the room, you are about to protest when a hand clamps down on your muzzle and draws you painfully up into a standing position.

                                            >You feel cold steel press lightly into your throat.

                                            >”Move or scream and I kill you.”  A voice whispers calmly in your ear.

                                            >You nod slightly, fear welling inside you.

                                            >”You won’t believe me now, but I am saving your life.”  The voice whispers.

                                            >The two of you spend the next few moments in silence, you still fearing for your life.

                                            >Eventually a noise comes from outside the room.  Gaspard is yelling up the stairs.

                                            >”Octavia! Damn you slave! Where the hell are you!  You get your pretty ass down here this moment or I am leaving without you!”  Gaspard sounds slightly out of breath.

                                            >Two minutes later you hear the car start and pull drive out of the garage.

                                            >Once the noise of the vehicle joins the general commotion of the streets beyond, the knife falls from your throat.

                                            >The hand slowly lowers you back to the ground and releases you.

                                            >Turning around you are greeted by the somber expression of the barkeep Monsieur Anonymous.

                                            >He nods and rises from the kneeling position he was in, walking out the door of the darkened room.

                                            “Anon?! What the hell was that?!”  Disbelief making its way into your voice.

                                            >Anon pauses in the hallway.  Silence falls for a moment before the boards of the floor creak as Anon shifts his weight.


                                            >”Octavia, I likely just saved your life.  Gaspard was fleeing the city and I doubt there is anywhere good for him to go at this point.”  Anon sights as he speaks, a sad expression making its way onto his face.

                                            >”I am sure you heard that there is a war on.”

                                            >You nod.

                                            >”What Gaspard did not tell you is that France is losing badly.”  Anon sighs again.

                                            >”Gaspard had to flee the city, it would not be safe for him much longer.  For you, I doubt the road would be safe.”  With that Anon turns and heads back downstairs.

                                            >You stand in shock for a moment, not sure how to handle this information.

                                            >Following Anon downstairs you find him having taken his place behind the bar, cleaning it idly with a rag.

                                            “Anon! What do we do then? If master Gaspard is gone what shall become of us and the bar?”  Fear still edging your voice.

                                            >”We carry on.  With Gaspard gone I will take up ownership.  Better I do it than the Germans when they get here.”  Anon shifts to cleaning glasses.

                                            >You retreat upstairs to your bed to try and process this information.

                                            >There is no performance that night.


                                            >Two days pass after Gaspard left.  On the second day, June 14th, a deathly silence befalls the city.

                                            >You sit on your bed, not knowing what to do with yourself.  Anon lies on the bed he took over from Gaspard reading a book.

                                            >The silence of the lazy morning is broken by the far off sounds of footsteps.  The noise grows ever closer and louder.

                                            >Anon and you both rise at almost the same time and make your way over to the open window.  The fourth floor provides and excellent view both ways down the street.

                                            >As you glance down the road you see a parade of men approaching.  There must be hundreds of them, all marching in step.

                                            >They are wearing grey uniforms and carrying weapons at their shoulders.  There is no mistaking, the Germans have arrived in Paris.

                                            >After the soldiers come men mounted on horses, followed by a number of rumbling tanks.

                                            >Soon after the tanks comes a rather interesting sight.

                                            >A group of soldiers pass by, each of them holding a leash.  Attached to the leashes are Unicorns, interestingly their heads held high.

                                            >When the parade ends another silence falls upon the city, a sense of dread at the days to come sinking into its occupants.


                                            >The next morning you and Anon are cleaning up the bar area, Anon washing the floors while you tidy up the stage.

                                            >A knock at the door startles both of you, though you cannot see who is knocking on account of the curtains on the front of the establishment being drawn.

                                            >”Octavia, see who that is would you.”  Anon reaches down behind the bar and you hear the telltale click of a shotgun being cocked.

                                            >You nod and make your way over to the door and slide the curtain aside.

                                            >Outside is a man in a German uniform with a number of medals hanging from his breast.

                                            >You crack the door slightly.

                                            “Who is it? We are closed” You state timidly.

                                            >”Madame open the door please.  I am here on the authority of the German occupation force.  I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment.”  The man’s french is nearly as broken and accented as yours.

                                            >You glance back at Anon, who nods once, a hand still under the bar.

                                            >Pulling the door aside reveals the man beyond.  Tall and well built, his uniform is spotlessly clean with shining medals.

                                            >He steps inside and nods down at you.  “Thank you slave, now run along.”

                                            >The German confidently strides up to the bar while you retreat to the stage.

                                            >”May I help you sir.”  Anon asks, tone carefully neutral.

                                            >”Yes.  Are you the owner of this fine establishment?” The German reaches the bar, removing his hat and placing it on the counter.

                                            >”I am.”  Anon nods and starts wiping the counter in front of him.

                                            >”Good! I am here to perhaps partake in some of your finest drink and inquire to your ownership of this establishment.”  The German smiles.

                                            >”Ah, but where are my manners.  I am Oberst Reiner Heinrich Braune, and your name?”  Braune takes a seat on a stool across from Anon.

                                            >”I am Monsieur Anonymous.”  Anon nods once.  “And I own this establishment”

                                            >Braune nods once in return.


                                            >”Then Monsieur Anonymous, one glass of your finest vintage if you would.”  Braune smiles.

                                            >Anon slowly collects a bottle of wine from behind the bar.

                                            >As anon pours a glass of wine for Braune, the tension in the room is palpable.

                                            >”Now Anonymous, I have it on good authority that a gentleman by the name of Gaspard was the owner of this establishment.”  Braune stares pointedly at Anon, his hand shifting ever so slightly off his knee and towards his hip.

                                            >Anon freezes, wine glass in hand.

                                            “Sir, he left a few days ago.  Got in the car and drove off.”  You interject, trying to calm the situation.

                                            >”Ah, did he now.  And why would he leave town so quickly?”  Braune does not let his eyes leave Anon as he speaks to you.

                                            >”He was fleeing you lot.”  Anon supplies, passing the glass of wine over the counter.  “His last name was not exactly agreeable with the current German government.

                                            >Braune nods slowly, taking the glass.

                                            >”Well, now that we have that out of the way.”  Braune smiles a genuine, and slightly creepy, smile.  “What say we discuss your plans for this establishment.”

                                            >”It is in a prime location and the facilities look to be in prime shape.”  Braune rises and walks over to one of the tables facing the stage.  “What are the chances you will be opening up soon, I have a lot of weary soldiers who could use a relaxing night in a place like this.”

                                            >”Might open up soon.”  Anon replaces the wine glass on the rack behind the bar “Only have one performer right now though.”

                                            >”And who might that be?”  Braune settles down into one of the tables, glancing between Anon and the stage.

                                            >To your horror Anon indicates you with a hand.


                                            >”Ah! And what is it you do my dear.”  Braune’s gaze lands on you once more.

                                            “Uhh... I play the cello”  You stammer out.

                                            >”Really! Excellent! Would it be too much to ask if you could play for me right now?”  Braune leans forward in his chair.

                                            >You nod once, glancing at Anon who shrugs.

                                            >You bow to Braune and take the excuse to be out of the room as you run to get your instrument.


                                            >As you ascend the stairs to the second floor you let out a breath you did not know you were holding.

                                            >Walking down the empty hallway to your practice room takes way less time than you would have liked.

                                            >As you retrieve your instrument from its resting place a realization dawns on you, this will certainly not be the last encounter with the Germans.

                                            >Balancing the cello case on your back you slowly head back to the first floor.

                                            >Braune is still talking when you return, much apparently to Anon’s distaste.

                                            >You enter the room via the stage entrance, so neither of them see you until you step out onto the stage.

                                            >As you do both their eyes lock onto you, you shiver uncomfortably at the sudden attention.

                                            >Walking down stage you settle into your usual spot center stage, half way down the runway like protrusion.

                                            >In silence you work at opening the cello case and removing the instrument.

                                            >Setting the instrument up you begin to play.  No song in particular, you just let the music flow.

                                            >For the better part of five minutes you just play.  Allowing yourself to get lost in the music the room fades away into nothingness.

                                            >Nothing else matters at this moment except you and your cello.

                                            >When you finish playing a sharp clapping wrenches you back to reality.

                                            >Braune is clapping from his seat near the front of the stage.

                                            >You take a small awkward bow and begin packing the cello back into its case.

                                            >Braune rises from his seat and walks back over to the bar, his wine glass now empty.

                                            >”Well, Monsieur Anonymous, this has been a wonderful diversion but I must be on my way.”  Braune places a bank note on the counter then his empty glass on top of it.

                                            >”I do hope you find it possible to reopen this fine establishment soon.”  Braune’s smile still creeps you out.


                                            >Braune turns to leave, returning his hat to its place on his head.

                                            >”Now I do hope you are telling the truth about Monsieur Gaspard.”  Braune’s hand is on the doorknob as he glances over his shoulder at Anon.

                                            >”It is not my personal job to look into this matter, but I would hate to see a place like this go without a proper owner.”  Anon grows more tense as Braune speaks.

                                            >”And should he return I do hope you will alert the SS at once to his presence.”  Braune smiles at Anon.

                                            >He then turns to you, tipping his hat slightly and giving you an almost imperceptible wink.  The wink plus his wolfish grin sends a cold shiver running down your spine.

                                            >Thankfully Braune finally opens the door and leaves the bar.


                                            >Anon breathes a sigh of relief when the door closes.

                                            >Grabbing the wine glass he starts cleaning it before placing the German currency in the register at the end of the bar.

                                            >After a long silence Anon continues “He's right you know.  We have to get this place up and running again.  Gaspard took most of his personal fortune with him.  We have the businesses money, but that won't last forever.”

                                            >You nod sadly back at anon.  Reopening would mean you get to play again, but you weren't sure for who this time.

                                            >In days past the Cafe à l'arc catered to Paris’ social elite. Now who knows.

                                            >Carefully you repack your cello and return it upstairs.

                                            >When you return Anon is stocking the bar and looking through some papers.

                                            >You take up a broom resting near the stage and start sweeping.

                                            >An hour later you finish the main room and are about to start on the stage when Anon calls you over.

                                            >”Octavia, I need you to run some errands for me.  If we are to re-open there is a lot to be done.”

                                            >Hesitantly you nod as you arrive at the bar.

                                            >”First, get the cart from out back.  I need you to head over to the warehouse that sells to us, pick up our last order.  It never got picked up on account of the invasion.”  Anon is shuffling papers on the bar.

                                            “I will most certainly not!” You are appalled at the request.  “I am a musician, not a…”

                                            >”You certainly will.  Look miss musician, if things get tight around here you can bet your shoes that the first thing I will be cutting is your food budget.  Do you have any idea how expensive fresh produce is these days, and likely to only get worse.”  Anon cuts you off.

                                            >”Here’s the address, get that order picked up”  Anon hands you a slip of paper with an address.


                                            >”Now.  Task two, head over to the bank and deliver this letter.  Tell the banker who it is from and they should handle the rest.”  Anon hands you a closed manilla envelope.

                                            >”After that I need you back here quickly.  I plan on opening at least minimally tonight.  I need you here playing, so get a set ready.”  Anon returns his gaze to the papers in front of him.

                                            >Shocked by his words you manage only to nod.

                                            >Turning to leave in disbelief you make your way to the back door.

                                            >The pony sized cart is sitting in the garage waiting for you.  It takes you a few minutes to get hooked into the straps properly but finally you turn out onto the sidewalks.

                                            >The streets are quiet, with only an occasional walker or car passing by.  Twice you pass German patrols, both pay you little mind.

                                            >You are three blocks away from the warehouse when you turn a corner and come face to face with a Panzer.

                                            >It is parked on the side of the road, one track resting up on the sidewalk.

                                            >For an instant you freeze.  This is not the first time you have come this close to a German tank.  >The first time was when you watched the terrible engines racing across Equestria.

                                            >Years ago now, but still fresh in your mind.

                                            >A voice breaks you out of your remembrance.

                                            >”Guten tag fraulein”  The man sitting in the top hatch of the tank removes his hat, setting it on the turret roof.  “Möchten Sie einen fahren?”

                                            >All Equestrian slaves knew passable German, considering who had conquered the land, so you knew that the man had just asked if you would like a ride.

                                            >You blush like mad, putting your head down and continuing along your way towards your destination.

                                            >You hear laughter issuing from inside the tank as you walk away, audible even over the roar of the idling engine.


                                            >You hurry away from that particular street corner as quickly as you dare.

                                            >The image of a panzer like that rolling through the streets of Ponyville burned into your mind.  Now you got to see them drive through the streets of your new home town.

                                            >A few more minutes of walking gets you to the warehouse.

                                            >A door near the front of the warehouse stands slightly ajar.

                                            >Peering inside you see a man sitting on a stool inside, the warehouse itself looks to be barely half full.

                                            “Excuse me sir.  I am here to pick up an order.” You timidly call into the building.

                                            >He looks up with a start.  Rising from his seat he walks over to you.

                                            >”Uhh, sure miss.  If the order is from before the Germans rolled in I likely still have it around.  Do you have the slip?” The man scratches his head and looks around the half empty room.

                                            >You hand him the slip that Anon gave you and he takes a moment to inspect it.

                                            >”Hmm, yea I still have these boxes around.  But you tell your master that I won’t be able to give him the same price next time.  I will honor it this time, but supplies are about to get scarce.”  The man starts picking out boxes from the remaining stock.

                                            >You nod at his statement and pull the carts, following him around as he loads boxes into the cart.

                                            >Eight boxes in total make the cart fairly heavy, but once you get it moving it gets easier.

                                            >”Anything else I can help you with miss?”  The man says with a sigh.  “Sorry it took so long to load you up.  All my help ran off when they heard how close the Germans were.”

                                            >You shake your head and make for the exit, glad to have one chore done.


                                            >In hindsight it may have been best to get the warehouse order handled second.  The walk to the bank is far slower with the cart weighing you down.

                                            >The streets are still mostly empty, the few who are out and about pay you no mind.

                                            >The bank is entirely empty of patrons when you arrive.  You park the cart outside and step into the front of the building.

                                            >You are glad to have the cart off of you, even for a short time.  Looking around the empty room, you see a single teller at his station, his nose buried in a book.

                                            >Your hooves make a echoing clacking as you cross the large open vaulted room of the bank lobby.

                                            >When you arrive at the felt roped queue channels you just walk under them all.  Not like anyone else is here.

                                            >Stepping up to the teller booth you rear up onto your hind legs to get your front legs onto the high counter.

                                            >After staring at the back of the teller’s book for a moment you decide to clear your throat pointedly.

                                            >He lowers the book and looks you up and down for a moment.

                                            >”May I help you?”  Mild interest plays across his face for a moment.

                                            “Yes, I have a note for the bank from A...My master.”  You hesitate for a moment.

                                            >You pass the note across the counter.  The teller takes the letter and examines it for a moment.

                                            >”I will make sure a Banker gets a hold of this.  Thank you.” He lifts his book again after placing the note into a tray next to him.

                                            >Slightly taken aback you drop down to the floor with a solid echoing clop.

                                            >Such is the attention a Slave gets you guess however.

                                            >Stepping back outside and shouldering into the cart’s harness you start the trek home.


                                            >When you are four blocks from home you round a corner to find a pair of grey uniformed soldiers walking along the sidewalk in your direction.

                                            >You dip your head and try not to draw their attention.

                                            >You nearly make it past them when one of them calls out.

                                            >”Miss, halt a moment”  One says, holding out his hand.

                                            >You freeze in place, seeing the rifles slung over their shoulders.

                                            >”Where’s a girl like you going with those boxes?” The second asks, his french considerably worse than his comrade’s.

                                            “Just heading home sir.  Down by the Arc.”  You shiver slightly as they draw closer, now within arms distance from you.

                                            >The first crouches down to his knees, bringing him to eye level with you.

                                            >”What do you have in those crates miss?” He asks with a knowing grin.

                                            “Supplies for the Bar I work at.”  You do your best to not meet his eyes, but he puts a finger under your chin and forces you to look at him.

                                            >The second soldier steps up to the cart and examines the cargo.

                                            >”Wine and spirits”  He remarks to his comrade in German.

                                            >”Why don’t you come and party with me and my friends instead.”  The first soldier

                                            “Please leave me alone.  I don’t want any trouble.”  You press your eyes shut and wish that they would go away.

                                            >”Now now, that’s no fun.  What is your name little slave?” The first soldier begins stroking your face gently.

                                            “Please leave me be.  I want no trouble” You speak in German this time, hoping to make them understand.

                                            >”Answer the question.  And look at me when you speak.”  Steel makes its way into the first soldiers voice.

                                            >”Come on, don’t be that way miss.  We can all go have some fun.”  The second soldier rests a hand on your flank, you squirm at the touch but can go nowhere due to the cart.

                                            “No.  Please no.  I just want to go home.”  Tears leak out of your eyes as you open them to look at your assailants.


                                            >The soldier in front of you raises his hand into the air.  “You will answer questions when asked salve.”  He brings his hand down hard across your face.

                                            >”Typical inferior race.  You would never see a Unicorn disobey such a direct order, or pull a cart like a beast of burden for that matter.”  The second says.

                                            >There is a noise of clapping hands and yelling from down the street.

                                            >”You two! Step away from the slave before I write you up for dereliction of duty.”  A harsh voice barks.

                                            >The two soldiers immediately rise to their feet and take a step back.

                                            >From down the street behind you three sets of footsteps approach at a fast walk.

                                            >”Now then, about your patrol! You certainly have somewhere you are needed.” The harsh voice speaks again.

                                            >Three more grey clad soldiers step into view, these with the distinctive markings of German military police.

                                            >The first two soldiers salute and head off down the sidewalk at a fast clip.

                                            >”Miss, please be on your way.”  The lead MP says.

                                            >You nod and start to walk away when a second of the MPs calls out.

                                            >”Wait just one moment miss.”  He steps up to the cart behind you and examines the crates.

                                            >”I think we will need to confiscate one of these crates to make sure there is no contraband in them.”  He lifts the topmost crate out of the cart.

                                            >”Now then.  Shoo slave.  Be off to your master.”  The first MP waves at you dismissively.

                                            >Not having to be told twice you make your way quickly away from there, tears still trickling down your face.


                                            >Anon is gone when you return to the bar.  You busy yourself by making sure your instrument is ready for the evening.

                                            >You spend a few hours practicing you set for the evening before Anon comes upstairs to check on you.

                                            >”Octavia, thanks for making the supply run.  Might be the last we get in a while.”  Relief evident in his voice.

                                            >You only nod in reply and keep playing, not bothering to look at him.

                                            >”I ordered eight cases, not seven.  Did the warehouse stiff us?”  Anon steps into the room and into your peripheral vision.

                                            “No.  Military Police took it.”  You stop playing and give him a deadpan look.

                                            >Anon nods.

                                            >”Be ready for seven.  It’s when I plan on opening.”  Anon heads back downstairs.

                                            >You try to resume practice but you just can’t bring yourself to play.

                                            >Seven arrives far too quickly and you make your way to the stage.

                                            >Taking your place at a stool set in the center of the stage, you wait.

                                            >Anon unlocks the main door and props it open, a warm summer wind blows into the bar.

                                            >For the first hour the bar is empty.  You sit patiently on the stage as Anon cleans down the bar area.

                                            >At eight PM the PA speakers outside blare to life.

                                            >”All citizens of Paris, the curfew is now in effect.  Please return to your homes.”

                                            >The speakers repeat twice more before falling silent.

                                            >No normal customers tonight.  Everything past here will be Germans, you sigh at this realization.

                                            >True to your prediction a group of Germans, officers by the look of them come striding into the bar not five minutes later.

                                            >Worse yet Braune seems to be at their lead.

                                            >”And this men, is the establishment I was talking about”  You catch the tail of what Braune was saying as they enter.


                                            >There are ten of them in total, all wearing the garb of German officers.

                                            >You dutifully start playing as they enter and the noise of the cello fills the room.

                                            >”Monsieur Anonymous!”  Braune breaks into a huge smile as he sees Anon behind the bar.

                                            >”Good to see you open.  Me and my men would like to requisition your fine establishment for the evening.  Turn it into an officer’s club of sorts.”  Braune takes a look around the bar and for a moment his eyes settle on you.

                                            >You shudder at the attention but the moment passes quickly.

                                            >”I do trust your other patrons will not mind.”  Braune grins at Anon who just shrugs and nods slightly.

                                            >”Wunderbar!  Men grab us some seats I will be right over.”  Braune exclaims.

                                            >The Germans push a couple tabled together at the foot of the stage as Braune walks over to the bar.

                                            >You barely make out the conversation over the noisy officers but you do manage to hear Braune and Anon speak.

                                            >”Anon, may I call you Anon? Gut, I would like a round of beer for me and my men.”  Braune leans on the bar near where Anon is cleaning a glass.

                                            >”Also I do believe I forgot to ask for the name of your fine musician over there.” Braune gives you another glance.

                                            >”Her name is Octavia.”  Anon starts pouring beer into glasses.

                                            >Braune nods and carries the first set of glasses over to the table.

                                            >As he approaches the stage Braune catches your eye with a nod.

                                            >”Octavia my dear, could you play us something up-beat.  We are celebrating victory tonight!”  Braune cracks a huge predatory smile.

                                            >Nodding you throw out most of your set for the night and do your best to accommodate his request.

                                            >Anon brings over the remainder of the beer and the Germans begin toasting and chatting.


                                            >An hour passes, you playing, the Germans drinking and getting ever louder.

                                            >As you reach the end of a song and pause for a breath one of the officers gets your attention with a wave.

                                            >”M’am I just wanted to say that you are very good with your instrument”  His french is broken and barely understandable.

                                            “Deutsch please.”  You respond without emotion.

                                            >”Ah, right.  You play very well.  I think it is a great feat that one such as you learned such a hard skill.”  The officer switches to German and continues.

                                            “Thank you.”  You do your best to ignore him and go back to playing, but he continues.

                                            >”If only there were others in the inferior breeds had your drive to improve themselves.”  The officer smiles and raises his glass to you.

                                            >The compliment disgusts you and you resume playing as quickly as you can.

                                            >This does not stop you overhearing the officer voice his opinions to his comrades.

                                            >This puts all the attention squarely on you as they start discussing how fascinating it is how you hold the cello.

                                            >Eventually the conversation moves on and the night wears on.

                                            >Finally around midnight the Germans start making for the exit.  Each stops at the bar and pays their tab before stepping out into the summer night.

                                            >Braune tips his hat at you once more, his trademark wolfish smile firmly in place.  Shivering you try not to think too hard about him.

                                            >You pack up your instrument and head to bed once they are safely out the door.


                                            >The next two weeks are fairly similar.  Traffic picks up as the Germans hear that the bar is one of the only ones open late in town.

                                            >Anon hires two waitresses to keep up with the traffic, but was having trouble finding any entertainers to augment your act.

                                            >For now the waitresses are having to sleep in the spare rooms on the second floor to avoid the curfew, returning home in the morning when the streets are walkable again.

                                            >The morning of the twenty-Eighth begins like any other.

                                            >Throwing the window open you look onto the streets below.  Today, however, unlike the weeks past the road is being patrolled heavily by soldiers.

                                            >Having nothing better to do in the mornings you watch the patrols go by for some time.

                                            >At around eleven in the morning the reason for the patrols becomes evident.  A series of military motorcycles drive by, followed by a pair of cars.

                                            >A third, larger car trails behind the convoy.  This third car is open-topped with six individuals sitting inside.

                                            >Most are dressed in standard German garb, but a flash of multicolored mane catches your eye.

                                            >As the car drives slowly by, headed for the Arc, you see two individuals you recognize.

                                            >The first is Adolf Hitler, his picture you had seen on newspapers for the past several years.

                                            >The other was Equestrias former Princess Celestia.

                                            >Hitler’s eyes were up and scanning the scenery, a pleased smile rested on his face.

                                            >Celestia however, was seated behind him and was staring blankly down at the back of Hitler’s seat.

                                            >Her mane was far less radiant than the last time Octavia had seen it, it also lacked its signature waving in the wind effect.

                                            >A ring rested near the base of her horn, Octavia did not need to guess its purpose.

                                            >When Equestria fell, there was news that the Fuhrer had taken Celestia as a prisoner.  But you never guessed he took her as a pet too.

                                            >Disgusted you push away from the window, unable to watch more.