[Copied from https://pastebin.com/DLJ8ydgA]

>A loose piece of paper tumbles across the pavement.
>For one second, it is the sole thing you focus on.
>Not the oppressively dense fog.
>Not the line of filthy people, yourself included, waiting for the line to move, if only just a tiny bit.
>Not the heavily-armed, armored police keeping watch of the crowd gathered in front of the ration depot.
>It's cold, being late fall, and your shabby jacket has no chance of keeping out the wind.
>The surgical mask over your face has no chance of keeping out the sickness, either.
>You try to quell a shiver, and burrow your hands a little deeper into your pockets.
>You take a deep breath, and attempt to keep your thoughts away from the fact that they might run out of food before you even reach the entrance.
>They have before.
>You feel a tap on your shoulder.
>"The line is moving ahead, keep going,"
>The guard to your left addresses you in an irritated tone.
>You don't need to see the expression behind his gas mask know that he's losing his patience.
>You begin to take the few steps that mark the advancement of the line.
>Then things start to go fuzzy.
>"Hey!"
>"Come on, wake up!"
>Wait what?
>"Wake up, we're here!"
>Your eyes snap open as your dream of a time long past dissolves around you.
>The plagues are over, and there's enough food that everyone can get by.
>What more concerns you now is getting yourself a slave.
>"Fell asleep on the bus, now did ya?"
>That you did.
"Great. Are we at the auction house already?"
>You rub your eyes and step into the aisle.
>"Yep,"
>The guy sitting next to you hands you your coat, which you left on the seat.
>The bus door squeaks open and you exit the vehicle.
>You enter the local civic center where the auction is taking place.
>Most towns host them like this, they're a decent source of funding.
>With the war over, and so much of the population lost, enslavement of the ponies actually got enough support to pass through congress.
>With a little bit of corporate nudging, mind you.
>The man at the desk approves your papers, and you enter into the correct room.
>You eye the ponies on display.
>They all look kind of scared, but you have to suppress a chuckle at how terrified that yellow one looks.
>Blue, rainbow-hair one looks like a bitch.
>Mint-green unicorn? Maybe...
>The big red earth pony doesn't look like he'd be good for anything other than farmwork.
>Hmm...
>You take a look at the others, too, but can't seem to make up your mind.
>More people file in as the bidding begins.
>First up is some earth pony mare, fetching an alright price.
>You decide not to bid that time, and instead examine the ones in line to be sold.
>Still don't have much of an idea as to which one you want.
>They pull out the yellow pegasus you saw earlier.
>You'd bid, but she seems timid as fuck.
>Not the type of slave that belongs with you.
>"Going once... Going twice... Sold to the man in the back corner!"
>She's dragged away in tears.
>Next up is a purple unicorn.
>You bid twice, but stop after the price gets to be more than $1500.
>It's a shame, telekinesis would have been handy for the job were looking to fill.
>Looking back to the ponies in line, a light blue pegasus stallion with a darker mane catches your attention.
>Might just be who you're looking for.
>You're sure he's strong enough to move equipment around the boat.
>Doesn't look too fucking dense, either.
>You'll go for him.
>He is led up after a couple more purchases, giving a weary look into the crowd with his green eyes.
>You've got just about $3000 in your wallet, and you'll damn well spend it all to get the pone you want.
>Bids start at $500.
>One clueless fuck dooms himself to losing by wanting the same thing that you do.
>"I'll go 500!"
>Some other shitwad raises it to 600.
>The first guy retorts:
>"Six-fifty!"
>You watch as they slowly raise the bid.
>"Seven-eighty-five!"
>"Eight hundred!"
>"830!"
>You decide to butt in.
"One thousand!"
>One of the two guys gives up, probably out of money.
>But this other motherfucker...
>"Fifteen-hundred!"
>Oh no you don't.
"Seventeen-fifty!"
>He hesitates for a second.
>"$2000,"
>He looks desperate, $2000 must be close to all he has.
"Twenty-two-fifty,"
>"Going once..."
>You smirk.
>"Going twice..."
>You're getting your pony.
>That's right.
>"$2500, that's all I can offer,"
>Then he isn't getting the goddamn pegasus.
"Three thousand!"
>The auctioneer says his thing, this time uninterrupted.
>"Sold to the guy in the third row, left side, in the black coat!"
>Fuck yes.
>You walk up to the side of the room where a desk is set up.
>You receive his registration, miscellaneous documents you don't care about, and a shock collar.
>One of the guys brings the pony over while the next, the big red guy, is dragged into place.
>The stallion stares at the ground dejectedly as the man hands you his lead.
>"Good choice sir, have a nice day,"
>You look at the pegasus you've just purchased.
>Depressed-looking, but overall not bad for the price you paid.
>You're sure he'll be fine after a while.
"Thank you,"
>You leave the auction house, the pony only lagging slightly behind you.
>He must be just about as tired as you are.
>Stepping onto the curb, you find the bus idling a short distance away.
"So..."
>He slowly raises his head, his eyes dull.
>Damn, he looks sad.
>You forgot what you were going to say.
>Instead, you take a look at one of the sheets of paper the auctioneer gave you.
>It's a basic profile.
>Name: Soarin'
>At least you know his name, now.
>Former Occupation: EUP reservist/show flier
>Interesting...
>Capture: Trottingham, eastern Equestria, by Senegalese Army.
>You never really worked with them, you were on the other front.
>You didn't really get why they put you, partially fluent in French, on the other side of the continent, with a bunch of Brazilians.
>Anyway...
>You continue reading.
>Notes: Slight depression issue.
>Fucking seriously?
>*Slight* depression issue?
>They think they can downplay *that*?
>You look over at Soarin, who is staring sadly at the ground.
>You also realize you've been standing out in the cold for five minutes.
"Hey, you wanna wait on the bus? It's actually got a heater,"
>He glances at you with a weary expression.
>"I guess so,"
>He replies in a gravelly, apathetic voice.
>Yeah, put depression on your list of things you need taken care of.
 
>Your squad and the Brazilians you are attached with are sitting around a bonfire, getting drunk as fuck.
>Suspended over the fire by a spit is the skinned, sizzling corpse of a royal guard, a unicorn mare.
>You don't care how immoral what you're about to do is, you haven't eaten anything other than meager, heavily processed rations for four years.
>Just the thought of something fresh makes you salivate.
>People saw meat off its body with combat knives in a fashion as orderly as 35 wasted soldiers can muster.
>You get some leg meat and stumble back to the log you were sitting on, taking a bite of the morsel.
>Tastes decent...
>The 20-odd POWs, guarded by a few sober group members, are completely mortified, some crying or retching at what they see.
>The leader of the Brazilian platoon removes the roasted guard's horn with his machete, and gives it to your sergeant.
>A fine souvenir from your time in the Amazon, if you do say so yourself.
 
>When you open your eyes, you are no longer in the rainforest.
>Nope, you're in bed, at home, and you've put those times behind you.
>People did crazy shit during the war...
>You pull on some decent clothes while thinking about what to make for breakfast.
>Wonder what Soarin would eat?
>You'll just go with cereal.
>Hard to go wrong with that.
>Before you make breakfast, though, you take the tarnished royal guard helmet off your mantle and hide it.
>Don't need Soarin seeing that.
>You also put another picture in front of the one that shows you and your buddies dancing on the ashes of Canterlot.
>You go over to the guest room, now occupied by your pony.
>You locked the door last night, but in his state, you don't think he'll try anything.
>Still, just to be safe, you unlock it as silently as possible, stand to the side of the door, and quickly pry it open.
>He's just sitting there, casually flipping through a magazine.
>No, not *that* kind of magazine, Anons.
>You guys really do have dirty minds.
"Good morning, Soarin,"
>He looks like he's wondering how you know his name, but he rolls with it.
>"Uh, good morning?"
>Yes, he actually says it like there's a question mark at the end of the sentence.
"Feel free to make yourself at home or something. What'd you like for breakfast?"
>He looks at you unsurely and scratches his unkempt mane idly with a hoof.
>"Uh... Well, I guess- uh... What do you have?"
>What do you have?
>Hmm...
>"Let's see... Oatmeal, cereal, toast, maybe some fruit, yogurt, or bagels, if you want,"
>His eyes brighten up slightly at the prospect of real, good-quality food.
>"Toast sounds fine,"
>He does a bad job hiding the slight smile forming on his face.
"Alright, find something to keep yourself occupied, I'll go make breakfast,"
>"Thank you, uh..."
"Anon. My name's Anon,"
>"Yeah, well thanks,"
>He's genuinely happy.
>You walk into your small kitchen.
>It is time for master chef Anon to shine.
>There's a loaf of bread in that drawer... Or so you thought.
>You spend a solid minute searching for the goddamned bread, finally finding it behind the microwave.
>How the fuck it got there, you haven't the slightest clue.
>With your culinary prowess, you burn the toast like it's Ponyville after the firebombings, then manage to completely mangle it while trying to scrape off the burnt parts.
>Comme un artiste.
>While putting it on a plate, you realize you forgot to ask Soarin what he wanted on his toast.
>Ah, fuck it. You're too lazy to ask, so you just go with butter.
>Who doesn't like butter on toast?
>You find Soarin in the living room.
>He doesn't notice you, he's just kind of standing around, looking at the photos on the far wall.
>There are a few ones with family that he glances at, but what catches his attention is one of you in a dress uniform, walking off the ramp of a C-130.
>You still remember that day, finally returning home was nice.
>He turns back to look at you.
"Well, I've got breakfast. Go ahead, take a seat,"
>"Alright,"
>Good to distract him from that subject, you're sure he has bad memories of the war.
>You can talk to him about those later.
>Soarin complies and plops himself down in an armchair.
>You hand him the plate, and he wastes no time digging in.
>Shit, was this pony starved or something?
>Yep, probably.
>He finishes the first piece, and attacks the second one with zeal.
>When he's done, he still looks hungry.
"Yeesh, want something more? I've got more food,"
>He looks up at you, eyes wide.
>"I can have more food?"
>Yep, those slavers sure do a shit job of feeding their ponies.
>You nod.
"Yeah. Want more toast, or something else?"
>He takes a second, absorbing what he's hearing.
>"M-more toast... Would be nice,"
>The way he's tearing up about the prospect of getting a third piece of toast reminds you of when you first were drafted into the army:
>After almost dying of starvation, your mind was fucking blown when you realized the military had enough MREs to provide *two* meals a day, not just one.
>Shit, you felt guilty for being a damn glutton because of those two measly packs of shit-tier food you received daily.
>Same thing is happening with Soarin here.
>He looks like everything he's ever known was blown away just because you said he could have a second serving.
>Tears well in his eyes as he embraces you with his forehooves.
>"Thank you, Anon. Thank you,"
>Even though the pegasus is weak with starvation, his hug still forces air out of you.
>You have some understanding of where he's coming from, but you still can't help but pity him.
>Those papers said he was, what? 19 years old?
>You were only a bit older than that when you were drafted, but, I mean, you did win the war (and get a decent therapist afterwards).
>And even though awful shit happened, you were the one doing it, not having it happen to you.
>Soarin here has seen his entire adult life ruined by a conflict he probably never knew would start.
>Sucks for him.
>Either way, you should probably go make more food, Soarin wanted some and you haven't eaten yet.
>And this whole hug thing is getting awkward, fast.
"Okay, Soarin, uh, I get this 'undying gratitude' stuff, but if you want more food, I kinda have to go make it,"
>He lets go finally, a sheepish grin on his face.
>"Y-yeah, sorry..."
>He sucks at hiding the flush on his cheeks.
>You laugh it off and enter the kitchen.
>This time, the toast isn't half as badly butchered, and you make some for yourself, too.
>You head back into the living room with two heaping plates of toast.
>Courtesy of Master Chef Anon.
>You both begin to eat your food.
>Neither of you talk, consumed by eating.
>You look up at the photo on the wall, chastising yourself for not hiding it.
>You don't care if he finds out you were in the army.
>So many people served, it's only natural that there was a chance you fought in the war.
>What you really cared about was little filly that was in your backpack at the time.
>You wanted to make sure he'd never hear about her.
 
>You are private first class Anon Y. Mous.
>And you've found what was making the noises.
>A small white filly, sprawled on the ground, a shattered horn poking through her pink-and-purple hair.
>Where one of her back legs should be, there is only a ragged, gory stump that ends before the first joint.
>Blood and ash are spattered all over her coat.
>In between sobs, she cries, with labored breaths, for help.
>She looks up to you, her tear-moistened green eyes desperate, almost pleading.
>"P-please... It hurts, h-help,"
>She begs in a voice laden with pain.
>"I-it hurts s-so much,"
>Does she care that you're the enemy?
>"P-please,"
>Of course not, she's a scared, hurt child who just wants comfort.
>A corporal from your squad, who is going by, nudges you on the shoulder.
>"She's yours, 'Mous, get it done and get moving,"
>You sigh.
"Yes, sir,"
>Two conflicted, staccato words.
>He runs off to catch the rest of the group.
>You know very well what a "She's yours" means.
>You ask for forgiveness.
>You remove your pistol from the holster on your vest.
>And pause.
>Distant screams can be heard over the thunder of artillery and the pops of rifle fire.
>The burning buildings can be seen, even through the thick cloud of smoke forming over the village.
>And at your feet lies a terrified, broken filly, now fervently begging for her life at the sight of your weapon.
>What a night.
>You line up the sights on her head.
>At least you'll make it quick.
>You switch off the safety.
>She's only a child...
>The child of an enemy.
>You move your finger to the trigger...
 
>The hoof shaking your back brings you back to awareness.
>You're breathing raggedly, cold sweat stinging your skin.
>Your eyes begin to refocus, bringing the living room back into view.
>Fuck...
>Reminiscing a little too vividly on the old war days, now were you?
>You look down to your right, where you're pretty sure Soarin must be.
>The concerned look wipes off his face as he shrinks back from your gaze.
>Does he really think you're enough of a dick to hit a pony because they were concerned about you?
>Are you?
>Dick enough to mess with the poor guy, that's for sure.
"DID I ASK YOU TO CHECK ON ME?!"
>You yell with unnecessary volume.
>Soarin looks fucking mortified. He quickly tries to stutter out a response:
>"Uh, well, n-no... B-but you w-weren't responding, I wanted to-"
"BUT DID I ASK?! HUH?!"
>He's looking like he's regretting his life choices at this point.
>He shrinks away even further, clenching his eyes shut.
>"Please! I j-just wanted to help!"
>Too far, Anon, too far.
>The joke is over.
"Shit, man, calm down! I was just fuckin' with you!"
>Soarin whimpers from the corner he's backed into.
>"Huh?"
>You sigh.
"It was supposed to be a joke,"
>He looks up at you and visibly calms down.
>"A joke?"
>Mmhm.
"Yeah. I will say I was glad to see you were actually concerned for my wellbeing,"
>The look of confusion still evident on his face, he responds.
>"Uh, thanks,"
>While you were spaced out, he could have easily left you there, broken a window, and made a run for it.
>Hell, he could have even killed you.
>But he didn't.
>This pony is actually starting to gain your respect.